Crow

You didn’t even recognize the fact that you were in nothing but Jason’s old sweatpants and one of his hoodies that had been lying on the dresser as you threw open your apartment door, only to come face to face with Tim.

The boy had been leaning against the wall across from your place, face paler than usual as he bit on his thumbnail, a nervous habit you had noticed he more often than not picked up whenever he was overly stressed.

On the way to the hospital in one of the many cars that were in the Wayne Manor garage, you vaguely remember Tim explaining that he hadn’t been with the others during the mission that had landed your boyfriend in the hospital. He had been on research duty in the Batcave that night and had taken it upon himself to come and get you as soon as the words ‘Jason in the hospital’ had so much as been uttered over the comms.

None of them had wanted you going out alone this late at night, let alone in the state of complete disarray they had guessed you would be in.

And they had guessed right. Your hair was no doubt sticking up every which way, you wore nothing but Jason’s old clothes, and if you looked down at your feet tapping nervously against the vehicle's floor, you were 90% sure you would find you had mismatched shoes on.

The others must’ve texted Tim to let them know what room his older brother was in, because when you got to the hospital the boy simply put a hand on your back and steered you towards the elevator as calmly as possible.

Even though you were with the Tim Drake at 3:30 in the morning in Gotham’s most busy hospital, no nurses or doctors spared the pair of you a glance.

You supposed you could thank Bruce’s hush money for that. A lot of hush money, you would bet because and entire wing on the eighth floor had been cleared to give the family privacy.

Not just that, but the man that was currently being treated was still legally dead in the eyes of everyone outside of his hospital floor, so you could make the bold assumption that Bruce wanted no questions asked whatsoever. Let alone tip-off’s to whatever paparazzi seemed to always be lurking around the family at the most inconvenient of times.

As soon as the elevator doors slid open with a soft ‘ding’ you threw yourself from them and bolted towards a nearby door that currently had familiar figures huddled around it, talking amongst themselves in hushed voices.

Dick and Bruce, ceased their speaking the moment your frantic footsteps fell upon their ears, and they turned to you with tight expressions. They both wore casual clothes, having smartly rid themselves of their vigilante suits- which you could only hope for Jason’s sake they had done for the man as well before bringing him here.

“What happened?” You all but panted out, gasping for breath as your head whipped back and forth between the two, “Where’s Jason? Is he okay?” Your voice was coming out pleading- complete and utterly scared- but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care in the slightest.

From the moment Jason’s elder brother's name had flashed across your phone screen, your heart had dropped in your chest and it still had yet to be picked back up. Fear clawed at every fiber of your being embedding itself into every thought you had and breath you took.

Dick caught you with ease as you practically stumbled to a stop in front of them, a gentle grip on your forearms being used to pull you closer into a hug.

Your heart pounded frantically against your ribcage, but you allowed your shaking form to burrow itself into the man’s chest for a moment. Wrapped in the familiar, and comforting embrace, your tremors finally ceased just the tiniest bit.

In the years since you had been in a relationship with Jason Todd, you had found yourself growing close with his family. When he had finally allowed them ‘the privilege’ - as he called it- to meet you. You oftentimes joined them for monthly family dinners, having to practically drag Jason there with you, and always had what you liked to call ‘an open window policy’ for any of his family members.

Whether it be they need some company during the day, or some hot coco after a long night of patrol, they were always welcomed in your shared apartment.

Much to Jason’s pretended dismay, of course.

When you finally peeled yourself from Grayson’s hold, you stared up at him with tears in your eyes, “What happened?” You asked again, but your voice shook even as you spoke the simple two words.

You watched as the man’s blue eyes shot behind you to where his father and brother stood, silently watching the exchange, and you can only assume Bruce gave a small nod as a go-ahead before Dick sighed and looked at you gently once more.

“There was… an explosion.” He explained softly, his hand finding your shoulder to rub comfortingly, “Jason had been getting some last minute civilians out of the way, and was standing too close to the blast.” You could tell that him talking about the accident his little brother had pained him, but he still took a deep breath and shouldered on for your sake, “He’s in surgery now, but he was knocked unconscious. Multiple broken bones from what we could tell. And what we couldn’t…” He swallowed thickly, “It was bad.”

He released a shaky breath as a lone tear streaked its way down your cheek.

You whipped around to face Bruce, who watched you with a soft expression that he often didn’t let show under his tough exterior, “But he’s gonna be okay, right?” You demanded, not caring how harsh or demanding you sounded at the moment, “You’re going to make sure he’s okay.” The second part wasn’t a question.

Bruce sighed gently, reaching up to tenderly wipe the tear off your face in a rare show of soft affection, “He’s going to be okay.” He promised in that deep, sure voice of his.

And in that moment, all four of you knew that he had no way of knowing for sure. That even he, the great Batman, could not say such things with complete certainty.

Another tear slipped down your face.

—

You couldn’t tell exactly how long had passed since you and Tim wound up at the hospital during the witching hours of the morning.

All you knew was that hours had to have gone by, and that was only determined by the fact that the sun had long since risen in the sky.

Jason had come back from surgery, and according to the singular doctor that came to speak with Bruce- again, must’ve been the hush money to have a limited, yet highly capable, staff taking care of his son- he would be alright. He was currently stable.

The man had been wheeled into what you could only assume to be the largest and nicest room in all of the hospital a while ago. And while he had yet to wake up, you had yet to leave his side from the moment you eyes locked onto his unconscious form.

Currently, you sat in a chair pulled all the way to the side of Jason’s bed, hunched over as you delicately held his hand, as though even squeezing it slightly would break it. But you also couldn’t bring yourself to lose this skin-to-skin contact. It was the only thing grounding you in the moment. The only thing keeping you sane by telling you that the man you loved was in fact there, and would make a full- albeit slow- recovery.

Up until a few moments ago, the room hadn’t been completely empty other than for you two, but Bruce, Dick, and Tim had stepped out to let the rest of the family know what was going on.

Still, even when Dick told you softly what they were doing, all you could manage was a nod. You hadn’t even looked his way, too absorbed in staring at every inch of Jason’s face.

You had long since memorized the faint scars that littered every inch of his skin, had come to love them through soft traces and late night kisses pressed against them. Now, however, more scrapes adorned his features, the skin under his eyes were sunken in, and bruises blossomed on unfairly pale skin.

The only time your gaze faltered was when it drifted to his chest, which had a stark white blanket pulled up to it, and rose and fell with his steady breathing. Every once and a while you had to make sure it was still moving rhythmically.

God, you would do anything to go back in time. To the night before, when you had given him a soft kiss and a lingering hug before he slipped out of the window for patrol that night.

You should’ve held on longer. You should’ve insisted that he stay and have a movie night with you, god knows it was long overdue.

But, no. You had simply smiled up at him, had told him to be careful, and let him be on his merry way.

And now? Now he was in a hospital bed that he was far too large for, yet looked unnecessarily small in.

If you had any tears left in you, you were sure that they would’ve escaped once more. But you didn’t, your glistening face full of dried tears said all it needed to.

The hospital room door opened with a slight creak, a quiet but firm footsteps shuffled over to where you were. It was only when you felt a presence directly at your side did you tear your eyes away from Jason’s face.

“Hi, Dami.” You croaked, voice coming out scratchy as though you hadn’t used it in hours. And maybe you hadn’t, how would you know?

The young boy gave you a nod, holding out a styrofoam hospital to-go cup that had steam rising from the top of it to you.

You took it without question, and when you glanced down at it, the first small smile in a long time broke its way onto your face. It was a hot chocolate with four marshmallows and some whipped cream. The same as you always made for Damian whenever he stopped by your apartment after a particularly grueling night of patrol.

“Thank you.” You told the boy sincerely, reaching out with your free hand that you had finally slipped from Jason, and grasped his, giving it a singular squeeze as you did so.

“You have not had any form of nourishment since you’ve been here.” The youngest Wayne’s usual clipped tone was present, but was softened slightly around the edges in ways that it normally wasn’t, “I believe father and Grayson have called Pennyworth for some food and have collected you some as well.”

A small shake of your head was all you could give, “I appreciate the hot coco, Dami, but I don’t think I could stomach anything to eat right now.”

Alarmed eyes shot to you, “But… you always eat.” The boy said slowly, as if assessing the armed robbery situation.

That almost made you laugh a little, but you were able to at least smirk softly, knowing that had Jason been awake, he would’ve reached over and attempted to strangle the boy for the implications. Of course, it wasn’t what Damian meant, but your boyfriend would have attempted to defend your honor nonetheless.

“I’m too worried about Jason to eat,” You admitted lightly, having known the dark haired boy well enough by this point to know that sometimes he needed things like this explained out for him to understand, “If I eat right now, I might vomit all over this pristine room.” You added the second part teasingly, hoping to ease some of the concern from his tight features.

It didn’t appear to help, however, as the frown on Jason’s youngest brother deepened, “Well, that is unacceptable. I shall call father and tell him to get you something lighter so it will not upset your stomach.”

Your heart practically melted at the young boys worrying over you. It was sweet in ways you knew he would die before admitting, and as he stood like a guard at your side, you reached up and squeezed his hand once more, “Thank you, Dami.” You repeated, knowing that it was the only sentiment he would accept at the moment without the tips of his ears turning red.

The boy lingered a moment longer, his green eyes sweeping over you, then one last time to his elder brother, before nodding curtly and exiting the room to no doubt give Alfred and Bruce his new orders.

While sipping gingerly on the warm drink, you took Jason’s hand in yours once more and swept your thumb over the back of his rough and cracked knuckles that the doctors had cleaned up.

Slowly, you lifted your intertwined fingers and placed a delicate kiss to the back of his, “I love you.” You whispered into the space between you, “Take your time healing, Jay, I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

—

“You look like shit.”

After eating your plain rice- which had been specifically requested for you personally by Damian- under the young boy's watchful eye, as well as Dick, Tim, and Bruce’s, you had once more been left alone in the hospital room.

You could only assume that another couple of hours had passed since they had gone back to the manor to shower off the horrors of the night and change into fresh clothes. And though they had tried to insist you do the same, you had not budged from your seat, you refused to leave Jason alone.

What if you weren’t there when he woke up? What if he looked for you? What if he needed you?

So, no thank you. You would stay right where you were until you could leave the hospital hand in hand with your beloved boyfriend.

Your eyes shot up to the door, where Stephanie, Cass, and Babs and just entered through.

Cass sent a sharp jab of her elbow into the blonde haired girl's side, who doubled over slightly with wide eyes, “What?” She cried dramatically, “I’m just stating the obvious!”

The corner of your lips ticked up at the girl's bluntness that you had long since not only grown used to, but grown to love.

“Thanks, Steph.” You chuckled quietly, leaning back slightly in your chair but keeping your ginger grip on your boyfriend's hand.

“We just came to check up on you and Jay.” Barbara explained, wheeling over to where you sat with a soft smile. You accepted her quick hug by wrapping one arm around her in return.

You gave the same to Stephanie, who shot you and apologetic smile before bending down at the waist to embrace you, closely followed by Cass who also dropped a quick kiss to the side of your head.

“How is he?” Gordon asked, shooting a worried look to the man who still lay unmoving and unconscious.

A hand was run down your face as you heaved a small sigh, “The doctor just came to check on him a few minutes ago and he’s still stable. Might just take a while longer for him to wake up.” You informed the girls, who hummed in acknowledgment.

“We can take over from here.” Stephanie offered, dropping sideways into a chair previously occupied by Dick with her legs kicked up over the side, “You should go home and get some rest. We’ll watch out for him.”

You had no doubt in your mind that they would do so, but you still gently shook your head, “No, I’m good where I am.” You promised them, ignoring the skeptical looks that they shit between one another.

Babs sighed long and heavy, “There’s nothing we can say to convince you otherwise?” And when you shook your head once more, she grumbled, “You’re just as stubborn as he is.”

That elicited another small smile out of you as your gaze found Jason’s steadily rising chest once more before floating up to his gentle features, “Yeah, I guess I am.”

—

Jason’s family members continued to filter in and out of the hospital room, sometimes lingering in silence, sometimes trying to convince you to go home and take care of yourself. But through it all, you remained unmoving.

Nothing in the universe could’ve gotten you to leave your boyfriend's side, and though you’re sure the others had figured that out long ago, that hadn’t deterred them from attempting to help you.

You appreciated their efforts, truly you did, but what you needed more than anything in the world was to be there for Jason. You owed him at least that much.

It wasn’t until much later when you were once more all alone that the man finally stirred, that his eyes fluttered open and effectively stopped your heart from beating all together and air from entering your lungs.

“S-sweetheart?” Jason’s voice was gravely as he attempted to squint up at you, those beautiful green orbs that you loved so much flashing with confusion.

“Oh, Jason,” You all but sobbed, falling from the edge of your chair where you and been perched to your knees beside his bed, “You’re awake.”

With a gentleness you never thought yourself capable of, you reached up and brushed his beloved white streak from the center of his forehead, tears you had thought long gone filling your eyes.

The man’s eyebrows furrowed as a tear streaked down the side of your face, and he lifted a shaky hand to gently brush it away, “W-why are you-“ He cut himself off with a series of harsh coughs, and it immediately snapped you out of whatever trance of happiness you had been transported into.

Your eyes flew wide in a panic and you stumbled to your feet, accidentally tearing your hand out of his in the process, “Wait, Jay, don’t try to talk.” You hurriedly looked around, “I need to get you some water. And, god, you’re probably hungry to. Oh, Bruce and the others will want to hear you’re awake. And, oh my god, I have to get the doctor-“

“Baby.” Jason had pushed himself into a sitting position with a slight wince, and reaching out to lock your fingers together once more, effectively cutting your ramblings off, “I’m- I’m okay, sweetheart.” When he tipped his lips upwards in a soft smile, everything inside of you short circuited, just as it always did, even after all this time together.

“Oh, Jay,” You practically fell into his arms, though you were extremely careful to keep the entirety of your bodyweight off of him even as you snuggled into his chest, “I was so worried about you. I got a call saying to come to the hospital- and I assumed the worst and I-“ Another sob wracked through your body.

Jason shushed you soothingly, one arm secured around your waist while his other hand ran gently through your hair, “I’m alright, baby, I promise I am.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face through blurry vision, “Don’t you dare ever-“ You cut yourself off with a small hiccup, “Ever do that to me again, Jason Peter Todd, you hear me?”

Dick Grayson

You two often send stupid selfies to each other as a one time view.

So he inst surprised when he gets one at a random time during the day. He opens it, not expecting to see your tits on full display.

He immediately turns off his phone.

Takes a second to breath, and excuses himself from wherever he is at the moment.

When he finds a private space somewhere, he sends you a pic of his shirt rolled up, abs showing and part of his grin showing in the corner of the photo.

Jason Todd

When he gets a text from you, asking if he´s alone, he´s imediatly on high alert, thinking something happened to you.

So when he answers with "yes" and you send him a pic as one time view, hes confused.

He opens it, obviously, and is really thankful that hes not driving right now. Hes literally gawking at how your naked body is positioned in the picture.

He texts you a quick "be there in ten" before swinging back onto his bike and making his, very uncomfortable, way back home.

Tim Drake

You've been sitting inside your apartment the whole day, trying to avoid the burning sun.

At some point, Tim had been convinced by you to go out to get you some ice cream. He´d been out for all of five minutes, before he gets a notification on his phone.

He opens the photo and almost chokes on nothing at you tits out on the sofa.

The message after the photo reads: "don´t forget the ice cream"

Wally West

Before leaving to hang out with his friends, he promised you he wouldn't come home late.

Well, now it was past midnight already.

While talking to a friend, Wally gets a notification.

Without thinking to much about it, he opens it and immediately fezzes. It was a pic of you touching yourself. He almost drops the phone, his ears turning bright red.

He hears snickering behind him.

"Uh... I gotta go."

Those beautiful green eyes that you fawned over every single day were blown wide and were stuck on your form and all the color had drained from his face.

Genuine fear began gripping your heart as you hurriedly flew to your feet, crossing the distance until you stood right in front of your boyfriend, hands reaching up to gently cup his face, “Baby? What is it? You’re scaring me.”

That admission seemed to be enough to finally snap Jason out of whatever trance he had been sent into the second he breached the entrance of your bedroom. The horror that had been written all over his features seeped into his tone when he sputtered out the question, “What is that?”

You paused, tearing your eyes away from his just to quickly glance around the room to see if anything was askew. It wasn’t. In fact, you had barely moved from the bed since Jason left you with a lingering kiss and the promise to return soon a few hours prior. You had been too wrapped up in your reading to do much else.

“What’s… what, Jay?” You hadn’t a single clue as to what he was referring to, but you knew that you wanted to soothe whatever it was that was bothering him. You wanted to fix it even though you didn’t know what it was.

“That!” He spit out the word with such disgust that you would have recoiled had you not known that the exclamation wasn’t directed towards you- not really. His outbursts never were.

He reached out and gently, but firmly, tugged at the sweatshirt that practically drowned your form.

You glanced down, and understanding finally overtook your expression, and you had to swiftly press your lips into a thin line to keep yourself from smiling- or worse, laughing.

In this specific situation, you highly doubted that your boyfriend would appreciate the gesture.

A Nightwing hoodie about two sizes too big clad your form alongside old sweatpants that belonged to Jason once upon a time, but you had long since claimed as your own. And because you doubted he was acting personally offended by the pants he had accepted months ago he was never getting back, you had to desperately fight off the laughter that threatened to bubble up to the surface.

“Oh! I forgot to tell you,” That much was clear, “Dick dropped it off for me yesterday.”

Jason physically stiffened at the mention of his older brother, eyes narrowing in immediate suspicion as to what the man was playing at. If there was one thing Grayson was known for, it was for finding any way possible to mess with his Little Wing.

“And, what? He paid you to wear it and record my reaction?” He immediately began whipping his head from side to side, practically seething by this point, “Where are the camera’s, sweetheart?”

The tone in which he asked informed you that he was already plotting to break any recording device he found, smash it up into little pieces, and deliver them to Dick in a box with a bow and deliver a fist to the face for the man.

This time, you couldn’t stop the laughter from slipping out, shaking your body slightly. Jason’s eyes snapped to you at the sound, forever a moth to the flame when it came to your joy.

It was only then that his eyes softened around the edges, your giggles had that effect on him.

“Baby,” He whined, stretching out the pet name as he did so, “Why are you wearing a stupid Nightwing hoodie?”

Another round of soft laughter escaped from your lips as you raised your hands to his face once more, thumb brushing gently against his cheek. He leaned into your touch, eyes involuntarily fluttering as they always did.

“Dick felt bad about missing my birthday last week because he was away on a mission, so I think he picked this up off a street vendor and it was the only size they had left and he dropped it off at the apartment yesterday while you were gone. It completely slipped my mind, which is why I didn’t mention it. I washed it last night and it was so warm after I threw it into the dryer this morning that I put it on without thinking about it, so I could be comfy while I read.” You explained calmly, heart rate returned to its normal pace now that you discovered that nothing was truly the matter.

Jason’s tense muscles finally loosened- though only slightly- and he now took to glaring at the fabric again like it was a threat to him and his standing as your sweet, lovable boyfriend.

Before you could open your mouth to say anything more, the man began grumbling incoherently under his breath, though you swore you could catch words such as ‘kick his ass’ and ‘Dickhead is in for a surprise’. You really did pity whoever was in the same vicinity as the vigilante brothers on patrol tonight.

Without warning, the hoodie was tugged over your head, and you let out a gasp when you were left standing in nothing but a sports bra and Jason’s sweats, “Hey-” You exclaimed, only for every other word to escape your vocabulary as your boyfriend tossed the clothing into the nearest trash bin you had.

A soft frown overtook your features, “That was a gift-” You tried to protest, but once more cut yourself off when you watched with wide eyes as your boyfriend tugged his own hoodie over his head without any thought.

It wasn’t anything special, just an old, plain black one that he wore around every once and a while, and he quickly slipped it over your head before you could blink.

“There,” He took a small step backwards and planted his hands on his hips, eyes sweeping up and down your body appreciatively, “Much better.”

Your lips parted as you looked down at yourself, now dressed head to toe in your boyfriend's clothing. After a moment you closed your eyes and shook your head, chuckling softly to yourself before pointing to your boyfriend teasingly, “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously in love with you,” He spoke with the cheesiest smile on his face, stepping forwards and dropping his hands to your hips and a kiss to your forehead, eyes alight, “You look so hot like this, sweetheart.”

That prompted yet another laugh and grin from you, reaching up to wrap your arms loosely around his neck, “I’m in oversized clothes.” You deadpanned, “And my hair is a complete mess.”

“Sexiest woman I’ve ever seen.” Jason confirmed with complete seriousness, capturing your lips softly against his own and smiling against them.

After a moment, you pulled away and smiled adoringly up at him, “I’m not going to let you throw that away, you know.”

He nodded, “That’s why I’m planning on burning it.”

You threw your head back with a laugh, gently hitting your boyfriend's chest, “Jason!”

This wasn’t what the two of you did. Ever since… that night… and the night after that, and the night after that… it’d been different. You didn’t wingman each other, in person or on dating apps. You didn’t try to set each other up. Sure, before you’d started sleeping together it wasn’t unheard of for you to talk about your relationships, or random dates you went on, but neither of you asked further than the polite, cursory questions. Even for the first few weeks of this new relationship, each of you made the odd comment about a guy you were texting or a girl that Dick had met at a gala, but those had slowly fizzled out, too. The only thing you had to share with each other was if you hooked up with someone else–to be safe, at the beginning–but the situation had, blissfully, not presented itself.

Recently, Dick had barely even opened his Tinder. He hadn’t wanted to. He’d been thinking about deleting the thing entirely, honestly.

He’s not even sure why he’s so adamantly against you seeing his dating apps right now. It’s not like he’s got anything to hide. He hadn’t had a match in months. Maybe that’s what he didn’t want you to see. The lack of notifications, the empty messaging tab, the few chats he left unanswered past a hey. The fact that the only girl he was currently interested in was you. 

“Baby, stop,” he sighs as he relaxes back into the couch. His sudden change in demeanor has you stalling, too. Your hands drop down, your body collapsing into his side. 

His breath catches in his throat, looking at the way you’ve almost curled up under his arm now that you’re done fighting him. His gaze snags on your lips, but he manages to snap it back up to your eyes before he thinks you catch him. 

“What? You’re still seeing other people, aren’t you?” you ask quietly. Ice crawls up his neck. Why? Does he need to be? 

“I mean…” Dick says, tongue darting out to wet his lips. 

You seem to take that answer the wrong way, pulling away from Dick slowly and planting yourself back into your original spot on the couch. You keep your eyes on him, but your face is a lot less smiley than it had been a minute ago, much to his dismay.

“Is it serious?” you ask as you tuck your knees up to your chest. His heart stutters a bit, resisting his initial urge to just pull you right back into him. “What?” he asks with a furrowed brow.

“The girl you’re seeing. It’s serious, isn’t it? That’s why you don’t want me to see,” you say. 

“I’m not- What?” he parrots. 

“It’s fine,” you say, even though it says like you’re barely managing the words out. “I mean, I wish you would’ve told me, so that we could stop doing… y’know, but-”

Panic floods through him. He can’t handle it anymore. In the span of a second, he’s bridged the gap between you and locked his lips over yours. You’re seconds away from melting into him the way he knows you will, when you start to push at his chest with the heels of your hands.

“Dick, wait-”

“I’m not seeing anyone else,” he pants out, pained. He needs you to stop talking. To stop thinking and spiraling and throwing this away before he has a chance to explain himself. He needs you to stop your mind from wandering to the idea that he could want anyone but you. 

“You’re not?” you ask, trying to pull back further when Dick drops his forehead against yours. You need to see his eyes right now.

“I’m not,” he exhales. You can see the words forming, but it takes him a while longer to ask, “Are you?”

When you shake your head, Dick shifts. He gently begins to pull your legs down and out to give him space to slot himself better between your thighs. His head ducks down, nose bumping against yours.

“Why wouldn’t you let me see your Tinder?” you ask quietly, bringing a hand up and running your fingers though his hair as he kisses along your cheeks.

“I dunno,” he mumbles into your skin. “We haven’t really talked about this in a while. I didn’t want you to see that I wasn’t, you know… putting myself out there if you were.”

“That’s stupid,” you scoff lightly. 

“I know,” he says, raising up to slant his mouth over yours again. “I don’t exactly think straight when you’re around.”

You let him kiss you for a while. You let him lick along your bottom lip, and eventually part them to slide his tongue into your mouth. Even though his response should’ve eased the pit in your stomach, it hadn’t. It lingered, gnawing at you like it had been for the last couple of weeks. 

You think you wanted to see his Tinder for another reason entirely. No matter what you’d tried telling yourself in the moment, no matter how playful and giggly you’d been, you knew you’d been fighting for his phone to try and quell the thoughts that had been nagging at you. You wanted to see the competition, more or less. You wanted to see who else Dick’s attention was lingering on, see if you were able to compete with them. 

That voice is nagging at you, now, despite the fact that Dick’s attempting to shove his tongue down your throat in a way that would typically have your eyes rolling into the back of your head.

“Why aren’t you seeing other people?” you ask, in spite of yourself. You bite down on your tongue to try and stop any more damning words from spilling out of you. 

He seems to glitch for a moment before exhaling. Reluctantly, he pulls away. Not for long, though, as he’s subsequently pulling you up and bracketing your knees around his hips. Once he’s seated and you’re settled on his lap, he speaks.

“Okay,” he sighs. “I don’t think we can keep dancing around this.”

You chew on the inside of your cheek as he begins to slide his hands down your sides. Slowly up around your hips, around your waist, down your thighs, and back up again. It does little to calm your nerves. 

“You don’t want me dating anyone else, hm?” he asks, brows raised in a way that might’ve looked condescending if you didn’t know him as well as you do. You think the question over for a beat before slowly starting to shake your head.

“No,” you admit solemnly. “I know when we started… fooling around we said we weren’t going to do the whole labels thing.”

“I know what we said,” he hums. 

“And we said that we were free to still… you know, go out and stuff,” you manage out.

“And stuff,” he mimics. “I’m not asking about before. I’m asking about now.”

“But, what we agreed on before matters,” you say.

He shrugs, “Sure, it mattered before.”

He looks down at where your hands are resting on his stomach before grabbing them both in one of his. He brings them up to his chest, maneuvering them so that your palms are flat against him.

“I agreed to all of this because I thought that’s what you wanted,” he says before his eyes flick back up to meet yours. 

“Isn’t that what you wanted, too?” you ask

“I wanted whatever you were willing to give me. I didn’t push for more because I thought you… you know… didn’t want that,” he says. The world stops spinning for a solid minute. Suddenly, every appliance in the apartment has gone inexplicably silent and all you can hear is your own breathing–or, lack thereof–and the blood rushing through your eardrums. He’s calmer than he was a minute ago. Less frantic, now, that he seems to have clicked a few pieces into place.

“What?” you croak out.

“Is it that hard to believe, sweetheart?” he asks. “You think I treat every girl the way I treat you? Talk to any girl that way I talk to you?”

He brings your hands up until they’re just under his jaw.

“Fuck any girl the way I fuck you?”

“You want more?” you ask. You have to blink about twenty times in a row to focus down on him again.

“Yes, I want more,” he says. “But I think the real question is if you want more.”

Your mouth opens and closes with a thousand different ways of saying yes, yes, of course I do dying on your tongue. When you finally decide that words are just apparently not going to work right now, you lean in and slant your lips over his. He meets your mouth eagerly, still holding your hands against him, but lifting his head to match your vigor. 

“You’re so stupid,” you huff once you’ve parted.

“That– okay,” he chuckles, brows furrowed, “Why am I stupid?”

“Because I’m in love with you,” you say. 

“Yeah?” he asks. The smile on his face could rival the sun. He uses the lack of space between you to his advantage and smacks a couple of kisses against your lips. “Why does that make me stupid?”

“Because!” you say, like that’s reason enough.

“Because I’m in love with you, too?” he asks. A comment you’re, unfortunately, quick to breeze past. 

“Because we wasted so much time!” you whine with a weak smack to his chest. The air around you is thick with his confession. 

“We’ll have so much time,” he says as he brings both palms up to the sides of your face. Slowly, he pulls you down until you’re chest to chest with him, but he doesn’t make a move to kiss you again. He seems content to just look at you, now. To let his gaze move over the dips and lines of your face, the slope of your nose. 

“We could’ve had more,” you murmur. 

Dick shrugs, thumbs swiping over your cheeks. “I’ve always been yours.”

“Yeah, but…” you start.

“We’ve basically been dating for months already,” he says. “This doesn’t change anything other than what we call each other.”

Huh. You hadn’t thought of it that way.

“There we go,” he hums. His index finger taps against the center of your forehead. “I can see those gears shutting down.”

You sit there for a while, just letting the weight of it all sink into you. You love Dick, you knew that already, and he loves you. He loves you. You didn’t have to settle for–admittedly, amazing–sex, you could have him. You could have everything. 

“Will you let me fuck you now, baby?” he asks, hands moving back down to hold your hips.

Your lips pull into a thin line. “That feels a little crude after what we just admitted to each other.”

“Oh my-” he laughs, those dimples of his peeking out. “Can I make love to you? Is that better?”

“I could so say no right now- oh,” your giggle sharply turns into a gasp when Dick rolls his hips up into yours. Just once. Just enough to feel his hardening cock pressing against your pussy and punching the breath out of you. His lips find the edge of your jaw.

“Baby?” he prompts.

“Yeah, yes,” you exhale, already melting into his touch. “Please.”

And it’s like a band snaps. The thinly veiled restraint he’d been exerting before is gone when his lips find yours again. He’s inching the hem of your shirt up, the warmth of his hands heating your skin. 

“You’re so pretty,” he whispers, parting from you long enough to slide the shirt up and over your head. “My girl.”

“Dick,” you whine. You roll your hips down against his, trying to ease the building pressure building up between your legs. 

“Hold on, pretty,” he laughs in spite of the way his hips jut up to meet yours instantly. “I wanna do this right.”

“We’ve fucked before,” you huff, pushing down harder against his cock until you feel the head of him catch against your clit. Ah, fuck. 

“So we’re calling it that again?” he teases. He licks along the edge of your bra, down the center of your chest, and for a second you think he’s going to make out with the foam padding but then he unclips the back of it with the dexterous accuracy you’re used to. He latches onto one of your nipples, sucking and swirling his tongue in a way that sends a tingle down your spine. 

“Come on,” you hiss, back arching and pushing your chest further into his mouth. He pops off with a grin. His thumbs swipes over your nipple, breaking the string of spit still connecting him to you.

“So impatient,” he says. “I get you worked up that fast, huh?”

“Shut up. You know you do,” you bite, still trying to grind down on his cock but not getting the relief you need through the layers between you. 

“‘Cause you love me?” he asks. One of his fingers hooks into the waistband of your shorts. The elastic snaps against your skin. 

“Stop teasing.”

“‘M not teasing, baby. Promise,” he says before his hand slips into your shorts. His fingers swipe through the slick building there. One taps your clit with just enough pressure to pull a gasp out of you. He tilts his head as he watches you grind against his hand. He seems entirely too pleased with himself. 

You fist your hands into his shirt in a clumsy attempt to get him to take it off. That request, at least, he concedes to. He grabs it by the back of the neckline, tugging it up and tossing it elsewhere on the floor of his living room. When you think he’s going to go back to his heavy petting, though, he doesn’t. He grabs you back the backs of your thighs before standing, leaving you to flail for a second and grab onto his shoulders with a squeak.

“Dick!” you huff, face scrunched up in mock annoyance. “What the hell?”

He makes sure you’re situated in his arms and not going to fall before starting to walk towards his room. The fact that he can pick you up and carry you around without care like this still heats you up inside, despite the fact that he’d done it countless times before. You think he knows. You think that’s why he keeps doing it.

“It’ll be better in bed,” he murmurs, pecking your lips. “Want you to be comfortable.”

Every part of you feels like it's buzzing. Warm static from the top of your head to the tips of your toes. If Dick set you down, you don’t think you would be standing.

If sex with Dick before was good, this was nirvana. And he had barely started touching you.

He kicks the door closed with his heel then gently lays you out at the end of the bed. You’d told him before how grateful you were for his money, only if for the fact that it meant that his bed felt like heaven. A fluffy comforter and egyptian cotton sheets for you to ease down into as Dick starts shimmying your shorts down your thighs. He groans at the sight of your, admittedly, unsexy panties. 

He kneels down and spreads your legs wide, pinning them open with his shoulders. His arms wrap around your thighs and he tugs you the last couple inches so that your ass is at the edge. 

“So beautiful,” he grins, biting the inside of your thigh. His thumb flicks over the tiny bow on the front of your old cotton panties. Your legs attempt to close, but the conspicuously Dick Grayson shaped object in front of you prevents that from happening. 

“Please,” you whisper as you lean up your forearms to get a better look at him. His eyes flick up to yours as his head dips to press delicate kisses to your still clothed cunt. It’s not nearly enough to alleviate the ache building in you, but it raises the hair at the back of your neck all the same. You dig your heels into his shoulders in an attempt to drive him in closer. “I need you.”

“I know. Poor baby,” he hums, tongue coming out to flick your clit through the cotton. He uses his thumb to push the fabric aside before licking a flat stripe up your heat. 

You wobble a bit, falling back into the sheets as your fingers find purchase in his curls. “Ah, Jesus, Dick.”

He laughs against you, the vibration causing you to clench around nothing. 

“So fucking good,” he groans. The lewd sound of him slurping and sucking mixed with the feel of his tongue prodding at your entrance has to embarrassingly close already. 

“I’m gonna cum,” you moan.

“My girl’s gonna cum for me already?” he hums. “C’mon, baby.”

When he sucks on your clit, the band snaps. Dick hisses when you yank on his hair, nearly pulling him off of you, but he manages to stay put. He eases you through your orgasm with gentle kisses against your pussy, nose bumping your clit every so often. Once he’s satisfied with how twitchy you’ve become, he detaches himself.

Gently, lips following his fingers, he pulls your underwear off to drop them at the end of the bed. He stands up to his full height soon after, pushing his own shorts and boxers down his legs before he leans over your body. You reach out to grab his waist and tug him back between your legs. His head drops to slant his mouth over yours. He’s quick to part your lips with his tongue, the taste of you still lingering as he licks into your mouth.

“Pretty girl,” he grins once he pulls back. “Feel good?”

Nodding, you reach between you to wrap a hand around his cock. Your thumb swipes over the head, smearing the precum down his shaft. He groans, thrusting a bit into your grip. 

“Shit,” he whines when you squeeze the base of him. You lock your ankles around his back and pull him in closer. “Wait, sweetheart. I gotta get a condom.”

“No,” you whine. “I want to feel you.”

“Baby,” he laughs when you squeeze him in tighter. The heat of his bare cock nudging against your pussy has your mouth watering. “Are you sure?”

He may be smiling, but his eyes are serious as they search yours. 

“I’m on birth control,” you say, your cheeks heating at your next admission. “And I haven’t slept with anyone other than you since we started hooking up.”

“Yeah?” he asks, suddenly alight with something new. “You only let me make you feel good?”

He smooths his palms down your sides before wrapping a hand around where yours is gripping his cock. His bottom lip tucks between his teeth.

“I haven’t slept with anyone else, either,” he says as he lines up with your entrance. “If that wasn’t obvious.”

He slides into you slowly, jaw clenched and eyes locked on yours. He doesn’t breathe until his pelvic bone brushes yours, and the exhale he lets out is pitchy and broken. 

“Hah- Holy- f-fuck,” he whines as he drops down over you. His weight is braced on one hand resting beside your head. The first roll of his hips is experimental, but you can see the way he short circuits. His balance wobbles and for a split second you worry that he might headbutt you. Or, you would’ve if the feel of him bare inside you didn’t already have you seeing stars. The second he starts to really move, he can’t help the broken pleas of your name that begin to spill from his lips.

“I love you,” you moan as you link your arms around his shoulders to hold him closer. You manage to get him to focus enough to drop a messy kiss to your lips, but it doesn’t last for long. It quickly devolves into a mix of teeth and spit as you both lose yourselves in the new sensation.

“I love you so much, baby,” he whispers. “God, this is a dream. You’re a dream.”

His thrusts start to get sloppy, a mix of jerky pumps and deep grinding. The way you’re clenching around him has his balls tightening at maddening speed.

“Cum in me,” you hum before he can ask when you feel his dick twitching.

“Ah, fuck,” he hisses. He uses the hand not bracing the brunt of his weight to reach between you to start rolling over your clit in tight circles. “Cum with me, sweetheart.”

Your nails dig into his shoulders as the pressure builds tighter in your gut. Your brain goes a little fuzzy once your orgasm hits, a tingle traveling all the way down to your fingertips. Dick follows soon after. He manages to thrust a couple more times before his pace stalls at the hilt. 

“There we go,” he pants. “Jesus, you’re gonna kill me.”

His forehead comes down to rest against yours. The both of you are breathing heavily with sweat beading along your temples, but you don’t think you’ve ever felt better. You’re beneath the man you love–full of him, actually–after having probably the best sex you’d had with him, and he loves you back. He loves you back.

“Are you okay?” he murmurs, gently petting the side of your head. You lean into the touch, face tilting to kiss his thumb. 

“I’m perfect,” you reply. He stays put, only moving to glide his lips along your hairlines, until your breathing goes back to normal. 

Pulling out with a wince, he murmurs, “I know, I know. ‘M sorry.”

You almost want to trap him there, dig your heels into his ass and keep him inside you for the foreseeable future, but you let him pull out with minimal whining.

Dick leaves you for a minute, but returns with a washcloth in one hand and his phone in the other.

“What’re you doing?” you ask as you scoot up a bit on the bed.

“Cleaning you up,” he says easily

“No, why’d you go get your phone?” you chuckle.

“I’m deleting Tinder.”

“You had to do that right now?”

“I don’t need it anymore,” he shrugs before setting his phone down on the side table, apparently already finished with his task, and spreading your legs again to wipe you down with the warm cloth. Once he feels he’s cleaned you up to the best of his ability, he tosses the rag into his hamper and grabs a clean pair of boxers from the drawer. You half-expect him to leave you naked once he’s got the boxers pulled up, but are pleasantly surprised when he grabs another pair and a t-shirt for you to wear. 

He crosses back over to you, sitting you up and lifting your arms up to slide the clean shirt over your head. The underwear is a bit more of a challenge to get on without forcing you to stand, but he does it with surprising grace.

“Hi,” you grin after you’ve both slid under the covers. You’re facing him, now, allowing your eyes to wander over his features.

You pictured the toothbrush in their bathroom, the shampoo you had bought once and never had to replace yourself because Dick noticed when the bottle ran low. You pictured the drawer in Dick’s dresser that had started as a place for an emergency shirt after a rainstorm and somehow become home to leggings, socks, sleep shorts, bras, and enough underwear that Wally had once texted you from the laundry room in a panic to ask if the black lace thing could go in the dryer.

He had followed the message with seven question marks, three sweating emojis, and a separate apology that only said: I’M BEING RESPECTFUL BUT ALSO I AM CONFUSED BY FABRIC.

You had laughed so hard you had almost dropped your phone in the sink.

You lived nearby. You slept over often enough that the doorman barely blinked when you came in. You had your own apartment, your own bills, your own life, but the gravity of Dick and Wally’s place had become familiar. Safe. There were two bedrooms, technically. Wally’s room existed, even if it held more laundry baskets and half-disassembled equipment than any reasonable adult man should own. Dick’s room had the biggest bed, which had become everyone’s argument for ending up there whenever a movie ran late or one of you had a bad day and did not want to sleep alone.

Nothing had ever happened in that bed.

That was not for lack of wanting.

You were not stupid. You knew what attraction felt like when it sat under your ribs and refused to behave. You knew what it meant when Dick came out of the shower with a towel low on his hips and your brain forgot the English language for three to five business days. You knew what it meant when Wally sprawled across the couch in sweatpants and an old Keystone State shirt, hair still damp, one ankle hooked over yours like casual contact was a form of breathing.

You also knew what it meant to be careful.

They were your best friends. They were Nightwing and the Flash. They trusted you with their identities, their schedules, their emergency contacts, and the strange civilian pieces of a life built around impossible work. You knew why Dick disappeared during galas, what comm chatter sounded like through a half-open bedroom door, and which cabinet held the protein bars Wally claimed tasted fine because his standards were a public health crisis.

You were not part of the fight, but you were part of the aftermath. You knew how to leave lights on without making it look like waiting. You knew how to ask if a night had gone badly without using the word dangerous. You knew how to sit beside them afterward and let the room be quiet until one of them came back to himself enough to make a joke.

It made lines strange.

Evan laughed at something on his phone, then remembered you existed and put it face down with a look that was probably meant to seem apologetic. “Sorry. Work.”

“You said that,” you said.

“Yeah. Big project. Everyone wants a piece of me right now.” He smiled as if inviting you to be impressed. “You know how it is.”

You did, unfortunately. You knew exactly how it was to sit across from someone who liked the idea of being observed but had very little interest in looking back. Evan had been charming for the first twenty minutes. He had asked about your job, your favorite restaurants, the neighborhood. Then he had asked about your friends.

Not all your friends.

Just the two men whose names came up too easily because you were too used to mentioning them.

Dick had picked you up from work after your car battery died. Wally had helped you build the shelves in your living room, which mostly meant taking over halfway through and then making you pretend to be impressed when one of them leaned left. Dick knew a place with the best soup dumplings. Wally had an opinion about every ice cream shop within a five-mile radius. Dick said this. Wally did that. Dick and Wally, Wally and Dick, their names folded into your life with the intimacy of muscle memory.

Evan had noticed.

At first, he had teased. Then he had probed. Then he had made a joke about you keeping “two guys on retainer,” and your smile had gone stiff enough that a better man would have noticed.

Evan was not a better man.

“So these friends of yours,” he said, reaching for his drink. “They always this involved?”

“They’re my best friends.”

“Sure.” His mouth curved. “Just sounds intense.”

You looked at him for a long moment. There were a hundred things you could have said, and most of them would have been true enough to hurt. You could have said that intensity was not always a red flag. Sometimes it was two men who carried cities on their backs and still remembered to text you when the sidewalks froze. Sometimes it was remembering to leave your balcony unlocked, because Dick and Wally had both taught you that emergencies rarely cared about front doors. Sometimes it was a hand on the small of your back in a crowd, not to claim you, but to make sure you could leave if you needed to.

Instead, you said, “I don’t think this is working.”

Evan blinked. “What?”

“This.” You reached for your bag and stood before politeness could talk you into another twenty minutes of disappointment. “It was nice meeting you.”

His chair scraped as he stood too. “Wait, seriously? Because I asked about your friends?”

Because you asked like they were a problem, you thought. Because you said my name three times and made it sound less personal each time. Because I have spent years being known by men who notice everything and still pretend not to see the way they look at me, and somehow this is the loneliest I’ve felt all week.

“Take care, Evan.”

“You’re really just leaving?”

“Yes.”

Outside, the night had gone damp and silver with the threat of rain. Gotham did not do gentle weather. Even drizzle felt like it had a grudge. You stood beneath the restaurant awning long enough to order a car, then canceled it when the app told you the driver was twelve minutes away and the walk to Dick and Wally’s was eight.

Your phone buzzed before you reached the end of the block.

Dick: Date going okay?

You looked at the message and snorted despite yourself.

Wally, immediately after: DON’T ANSWER THAT IF YOU’RE MAKING OUT.

A pause, and then instantly another message: Actually answer with a thumbs-up so I know you’re alive but emotionally unavailable.

Dick: Please don’t listen to him.

Wally: Please listen to me specifically.

You typed with one hand as you walked.

You: Date ended. Heading to yours unless you’re both busy saving the world.

Dick answered almost immediately.

Dick: We’re home. Door’s unlocked.

Wally: Which means you are legally obligated to come in, eat something, and not touch the dumplings marked WALLY.

Dick: They’re not marked.

Wally: Emotionally they are.

You smiled down at your phone, and the ache of the evening shifted into something more familiar, which was not the same as easy. That was another problem. They could make you feel less alone from across the city with three stupid texts and a threat about dumplings.

The doorman let you in with a nod. Upstairs, the apartment glowed in the low, warm way it always did when they knew you were coming. The lamp near the couch was on, the kitchen light was dimmed, and the television had been muted on some nature documentary Wally watched with the intense investment of someone who had opinions about whether cheetahs were “respectably fast” or “coasting on branding.”

To anyone else, the apartment probably looked chaotic; to you, it was a map of old landings, bad nights, shared blankets, and quiet recoveries.

The faint scuff near the balcony door was from months ago, when Dick had landed badly enough to pretend the floor had offended him. The patched spot on the wall near the hall was from Wally accidentally vibrating through it after sneezing at superspeed. The blanket over the back of the couch was yours, bought during a cold snap because their apartment ran chilly and both of them had tried to offer you their hoodies at the same time.

Wally was upside down on the couch when you came in, one leg hooked over the back cushions, a takeout container balanced on his stomach with criminal confidence. Dick sat at the far end with his laptop open and one ankle crossed over his knee, looking less like Nightwing than he ever did in public and more like the man who sent you grocery reminders because he knew you forgot to eat when work got bad.

They both looked up.

Wally’s eyes moved over your face and softened at once. “Oh, I hate him.”

You paused with your hand still on the door. “You don’t know what happened.”

“I know your face.”

“You’re upside down.”

“That gives me a fresh perspective.”

Dick closed his laptop but did not ask anything immediately. That was his tell. He watched you lock the door behind yourself, watched you toe off your shoes into the little space beside theirs, watched your hand linger near your coat as if you had forgotten what came next. He knew when to step forward and when to let silence do the gentler work.

“Tea?” he asked.

Your throat tightened. “Please.”

“Drawer clothes first?” Wally offered, still upside down. “Or dumpling first? Choose wisely. One path has elastic waistbands. The other has delicious filling.”

You looked at the takeout container on his stomach. “Those are the emotionally marked dumplings?”

“Emotionally, yes. Legally, they belong to the household.”

“You are the one who threatened me over them five minutes ago.”

“I was a different man five minutes ago.”

Dick stood, taking your coat before you could decide where to put it. “Go change. I’ll make the tea.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

That was the thing about them. They were always making room for you without turning it into a debt.

You went to the bathroom first, because the evening still clung to your skin in the form of expensive restaurant air and Evan’s cologne from when he had leaned too close to show you a photo you had not asked to see. Their bathroom looked less like a bachelor apartment than it had any right to. That was partly because Dick liked order and partly because you had slowly bullied both of them into owning more than one towel. Your toothbrush sat in the cup between theirs. Your cleanser was on the sink. Your hair ties lived in a small ceramic dish Wally had once knocked over, caught, and then bowed to like he had rescued a civilian from certain death.

You washed your face, breathed until your chest stopped feeling tight, and went to Dick’s room because that was where your drawer was.

It should have felt strange. Sometimes it did, but only in moments like this, when you were already raw and tired and too aware of the fact that your underwear sat folded beside one of Dick’s old Gotham Academy shirts.

You peeled yourself out of your date clothes, piece by piece, bra included, and dropped everything into the hamper, as if shedding the evening might make it stop clinging to your skin. Then you dug through the drawer until you found one of Dick’s shirts, soft from too many washes and big enough on you that you didn’t bother with shorts.

It smelled like him in a way that made your chest ache a little: clean citrus, worn leather, cedar cologne, warm skin, and city air after rain. The hem fell halfway down your thighs, familiar enough to loosen something behind your ribs.

Ownership had become a loose concept among the three of you anyway. Half the clothes in this apartment had passed between hands so many times that claiming anything outright felt pointless.

You told yourself not to think about that.

It worked for almost forty seconds.

When you came back out, Dick had made your tea exactly how you liked it and set your mug on the coffee table. Your mug, because of course he knew which one was yours without asking. It sat warm beside the dumplings, filled exactly the way you liked it, and something about that hurt more than the date had.

Wally had righted himself by then, though his hair looked ridiculous from hanging upside down. He patted the cushion between himself and Dick. “Designated recovery spot is open.”

“You’re making it sound dramatic.”

“I’m emotionally preparing to commit crimes against Evan’s router. Let me have my process.”

You picked up your tea instead of sitting. “You don’t even know his last name.”

“I can work with a first name and vibes.”

“That is not reassuring.”

Dick’s mouth curved faintly. “It shouldn’t be.”

You took one of the dumplings.

Wally gasped with theatrical betrayal, then nudged the container closer because he was incapable of committing to the bit if you were actually hungry. Dick shifted on the couch so there was space beside him too, casual enough that it did not look like an invitation you had to accept.

You ate the dumpling standing up because sitting down felt too much like admitting the date had gotten to you. Wally watched you chew with the concerned intensity of someone waiting for a bomb squad report. Dick said nothing at all, which was worse, because Dick knew when silence would get more out of you than pressure.

Eventually, you sighed. “It was just disappointing.”

Wally’s face softened. “That’s worse than hateable.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah. Hateable gives me something to do. Disappointing just makes me want to feed you and maybe commit a small act of Wi-Fi sabotage.”

“That is not a proportionate response.”

“I said small.”

Dick leaned back against the couch, one arm stretched along the back cushions. He was in an old T-shirt and sweatpants, hair still damp from a shower, bare feet tucked beneath the coffee table, already folded into the quiet rhythm of the apartment. He looked warm and human and untouchably handsome in a way that made you want to be irritated with him on principle.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Nothing dramatic.”

“That’s not an answer.”

You looked at him over the rim of your mug. “He was fine. He asked questions. He laughed at appropriate moments. He checked his phone every time I spoke for more than thirty seconds.”

Wally grimaced. “Immediate jail.”

“He was nice enough.”

“Jail.”

You huffed, but the laugh did not last. “Then he started asking about you two.”

Dick’s expression changed first, not dramatically, but enough for you to notice. Wally sat up straighter, the dumpling container tilting until you steadied it with your knee.

“What kind of asking?” Dick said.

“The kind where curiosity turns into suspicion because I mentioned you too much.”

Wally blinked. “You mentioned us?”

“You built my bookshelf, Wally. It came up.”

“I built it beautifully.”

“One shelf leans.”

“That shelf has character.”

Dick’s gaze stayed on you. “What did he say?”

You shrugged, but it felt thin even to you. “He said it sounded intense.”

Wally’s humor faded.

Dick did not move, but the room seemed to shift around his stillness. “And?”

“And I realized I didn’t want to explain you guys to someone who had already decided you were a problem.”

For a moment, neither of them answered.

The silence was not awkward. It was just full. Full of every late-night call they had answered, every time one of them had walked you home, every takeout order split three ways, every old fear you had swallowed when they were out and the news was bad. Full of your toothbrush in their bathroom and your clothes in Dick’s dresser and the fact that Wally knew your favorite cereal changed its recipe six months ago because you had complained about it once and he had treated it like a civic emergency.

You moved to the couch because standing suddenly felt ridiculous.

Wally shifted at once, making space for you between them. Dick did the same from the other side, both of them adjusting without speaking until your usual place was waiting. You sat down with your tea balanced between your hands and tried not to think about how familiar it felt to have Wally’s knee against yours and Dick’s arm stretched along the cushion behind you.

“Did he make you feel unsafe?” Dick asked.

“No.”

“Good,” Wally said, too quickly.

You glanced at him.

He held up both hands. “Emotionally disappointing men are still on thin ice, but I’m glad he didn’t make it worse.”

“He didn’t make me feel unsafe,” you said. “He just made me feel…observed badly.”

Dick’s brows drew together.

“You and Dick observe people professionally,” Wally said, because of course he knew exactly where your mind had gone. “That’s different.”

“It should be creepy that you know that.”

“I contain multitudes.”

Dick’s thumb moved once against the back of the couch, close enough that you felt the motion near your shoulder. “What do you mean by observed badly?”

“I mean he looked at me like he was trying to figure out what role I could play. Good listener. Pretty enough. Convenient. Available.” You stared into your tea. “And I kept thinking that maybe that’s what dating is now. Figuring out which version of yourself someone wants and deciding if you can tolerate being her for a dinner.”

Wally made a quiet sound under his breath, almost angry.

Dick said your name softly.

You hated that. Not because he had done anything wrong, but because he said it like he knew you. Like there was nothing you had to perform for him to care.

You wrapped both hands around the mug before they could give you away. “Can I ask you something?”

Wally’s knee pressed more firmly against yours. “Always.”

Dick’s attention sharpened. “Of course.”

You should have asked something else. You should have asked whether they wanted to watch a movie, whether Wally had eaten anything other than dumplings, or whether Dick’s laptop meant casework or Wayne Foundation work. There were safer questions in the world. You knew plenty of them.

Instead, you held your mug a little tighter and asked, “How do you know if a man really wants you?”

The apartment went quiet.

It was not the ordinary quiet of late night, when the city hummed beyond the windows and the refrigerator clicked on in the kitchen. It was not even the dangerous quiet you knew from them when a case followed them home and sat heavy in the room. 

This was different. This was the kind of silence that came from two men who had both reached for an answer and found it lodged somewhere too close to the heart.

Wally stopped moving first. That was how you knew you had done something terrible. Wally was motion even when he was still, all restless fingers and bouncing knees and little shifts of energy that made the air around him feel alive. Now he sat frozen, his eyes fixed on you like you had said his name in a language he had not expected you to know.

Dick’s stillness was less obvious but more frightening. His hand paused on the back of the couch, fingers curled loosely into the cushion. His face did not change much. Dick had been trained by too many people, hurt by too many people, loved by too many people he had lost. His control was a beautiful, terrible thing. But you were close enough to notice the small things: the slight dip of his chin, the inhale he did not finish, the way his gaze flicked to Wally before returning to you.

You looked between them.

Then, because your mouth had apparently decided to ruin your life, you said, “Wow. I may have asked the wrong men.”

Wally laughed once, breathless and strange. “Yeah.”

Dick’s voice was quieter. “Maybe not.”

The words landed softly. That made them worse.

You stared at him.

Dick looked away first, which he almost never did. He looked toward the window, toward the city beyond it, toward the version of himself that could leap off rooftops and still not know how to answer one honest question in his own living room.

“What do you mean by wants you?” he asked.

It was such a Dick question. Careful. Precise. A way to create structure when the floor had begun to tilt. You could have let him have it. You could have narrowed the conversation into something clinical and survivable.

You did not.

“I mean me,” you said. “Not just sex. Not just attention. Not someone who likes that I’m available or convenient, or that I listen well. How do you know when he actually wants you?”

Wally dragged a hand down his face. “That is a dangerously sincere question for a room where I was just upside down with dumplings.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He looked at you then, really looked, and the humor in him had gone soft around the edges. “He remembers things.”

You blinked. “What?”

“A man who really wants you remembers things he doesn’t get credit for remembering.” Wally’s fingers flexed against his thigh. “The little stuff. The song you skipped three seconds in because it made your face do that thing. The restaurant you said was overrated even though everyone else likes it. The way your voice changes when you’re about to say you’re fine and you absolutely aren’t.”

Your throat tightened.

Wally shrugged like he could make the answer casual if he moved enough. He could not. “He pays attention when there’s nothing in it for him. That’s a big one, I think.”

You looked at Dick because you had to look away from Wally.

Dick’s expression had changed. Something careful had cracked in it, enough for you to see the want beneath. Not lust, though that was there too, impossible to miss now that you were looking directly at it. This was older. Quieter. It had roots.

“He becomes more careful,” Dick said.

Your chest hurt.

“Careful how?”

“With you.” Dick’s gaze held yours. “With what he asks for. With what he takes for granted. Wanting someone is easy. Most people can do that part. But if he really wants you, he cares what his wanting costs you.”

Wally was watching him now too.

Dick’s mouth tightened, like he had already said more than he meant to and still could not stop. “He doesn’t make you responsible for managing his desire. He doesn’t punish you for not returning it the way he hoped. He doesn’t turn your kindness into permission.”

The room felt too small around you.

You thought of all the times Dick had walked you home without making you feel like you were being escorted. The way he always matched your pace, whether you were in heels after an event or slippers on a late-night corner store run. The way his hand hovered near your back in crowded places but never settled unless you leaned into it first. The way he noticed when men looked at you too long and somehow placed himself between you and them without making a scene.

You thought of Wally texting you pictures of six different cereal boxes from the grocery store because you had mentioned once, weeks earlier, that your childhood favorite had changed its recipe and tasted wrong now. You thought of him showing up with soup before you admitted you were sick. You thought of him lying on your living room floor, assembling your bookshelf at human speed because you had accused him of cheating, laughing every time you handed him the wrong screw.

He remembers things.

He becomes more careful.

You had asked for a hypothetical answer.

They had handed you a mirror.

Your laugh came out too soft. “You both got very serious.”

Wally swallowed. “Yeah. Occupational hazard.”

“Is it?”

“No,” Dick said.

Wally shot him a look, half warning and half relief. Dick ignored him, because of course he did. Courage was easier for him when it looked like stepping off a ledge.

“No?” you asked.

Dick leaned forward, forearms braced loosely on his knees. “It’s not an occupational hazard. It’s you.”

The silence after that was different.

Wally closed his eyes briefly. “Well. Okay. We’re doing this.”

Dick did not look away from you. “Only if she wants to.”

Your heart was beating too hard. You wondered if Wally could hear it. Of course he could hear it. He could probably hear your pulse trying to kick its way out of your throat.

“You’re doing what?” you asked, though you knew.

Wally opened his eyes. There was fear in them, which seemed impossible and then immediately made too much sense. Wally West could run faster than light. He could cross cities between heartbeats. He could laugh in the face of gods and monsters and still sit in front of you terrified because this mattered.

“Answering honestly,” he said.

Dick’s gaze flicked over your face with agonizing care. “We didn’t want to put this on you.”

“This?”

“You know what he means,” Wally said, softer than his usual voice. “Us. How we feel. How long we’ve felt it.”

“How long?”

Dick exhaled. “Long enough that I don’t know how to answer that without incriminating myself.”

Despite everything, a laugh escaped you.

Wally looked almost offended. “Oh, he’s being conservative. I can incriminate us both in detail.”

“Wally.”

“What? She asked.”

“I asked how long,” you said.

Wally looked at you, and for once, he did not rush. “For me, it crept up. One day you were asleep on the couch wearing Dick’s sweatshirt and my socks, and you woke up just enough to tell me I had to stop eating chips directly over your head or you were going to haunt me after death. And I thought, oh. This is probably permanent.”

Your heart did something foolish.

Dick looked down, his thumb moving over his knuckles. “For me, it was after the bridge incident.”

You frowned. “That was two years ago.”

“I know.”

Wally’s expression softened, but he let Dick speak.

Dick’s voice remained steady, though not untouched. “You were furious with us.”

“You both disappeared for eighteen hours.”

“We had comms trouble.”

“There was a collapsed building.”

“Also that.” His mouth curved faintly, then faded. “When we got back, you yelled for fifteen minutes. You had three different news feeds open, a first aid kit on the table, and you were shaking so hard you had to put the kettle down because you almost dropped it.”

“I remember.”

“You told me I didn’t get to treat my life like collateral damage just because I was good at surviving.” Dick looked up. “Most people are relieved when we come back. You were relieved too, but you were angry before you were grateful. You loved us enough to be angry.”

You could not breathe properly.

“Dick.”

“I know.” He gave you a small, helpless smile. “Bad timing.”

“Historically, our brand,” Wally said, but his voice was too gentle to turn it into a joke.

You looked between them. The question you had not asked sat in the room with the rest of you, breathing steadily. It should have been the difficult part, maybe. Two men. Two best friends. Two confessions. But there was something in the way they sat, angled not only toward you but toward each other, that made the answer less impossible than it should have been.

“Both of you?” you asked.

Dick nodded.

“We know,” Wally said.

“And you’re…okay with that?”

Wally’s eyebrows rose. “With Dick having taste? Occasionally.”

Dick huffed despite himself.

You stared at them until Wally’s smile softened.

“We talked about it,” he said. “Badly at first. Then better.”

“When?”

“After the bridge,” Dick said.

“Before that,” Wally corrected.

Dick glanced at him.

Wally lifted a shoulder. “You talked after the bridge. I started talking before that. You just did your emotionally constipated Bat thing and pretended my point had been theoretical.”

“There was nothing theoretical about you eating an entire pizza on my fire escape while telling me I was in love with our best friend.”

“Our best friend was inside making tea and wearing your hoodie.”

“You weren’t subtle.”

“Neither were you. You kept looking at her like she was an answer.”

Something in your chest split cleanly open.

Dick’s expression shifted, embarrassment and affection crossing it too quickly to hide. You realized, suddenly, that they had loved you in the same rooms where you had loved them, all of you careful in different directions, all of you pretending the shape of your life was normal because naming it would change everything.

“What about you two?” you asked.

Their silence lasted half a second too long.

Then Wally said, “Also complicated.”

Dick gave him a look. “It doesn’t have to be.”

“You say that now, but wait until I explain it using a metaphor about nachos.”

“Do not.”

You looked from one to the other. The pieces rearranged themselves with quiet, devastating clarity. The closeness that had always seemed natural because it was Dick and Wally. The way Wally’s hand lingered at Dick’s neck when he thought you were not looking. The way Dick knew Wally’s moods before Wally had done anything louder than breathe. The fact that Wally could steal food off Dick’s plate without losing fingers. The mornings you had walked into their kitchen and found them standing too close, both turning toward you with the same guilty-casual energy that had made you roll your eyes and reach for cereal.

“Oh,” you said.

Wally winced. “Good oh or bad oh?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Fair.”

Dick leaned back carefully, giving you space without leaving. That was the worst part. The best part. The impossible part. Even now, with confession lying open between you, his first instinct was to make sure you did not feel trapped in a room where you had always felt safe.

“You don’t have to know tonight,” he said. “You came here after a bad date, and we are all sitting on a couch pretending this hasn’t been years in the making. This is not exactly a neutral environment for a life-changing conversation.”

Wally nodded solemnly. “Also, I’m still upside-down spiritually from the dumpling betrayal.”

“You offered me one.”

“I contain contradictions.”

You laughed again, and this time it broke something loose. Not the tension, exactly. That remained, but it warmed, softened at the edges by how deeply, absurdly yours they were.

“You were both just going to keep this to yourselves?” you asked.

Dick’s eyes returned to yours. “If that was what kept you comfortable.”

“That’s stupid.”

Wally pointed at Dick. “I said that.”

“Repeatedly,” Dick said.

“Because it’s true.” Wally looked at you with a fragile kind of hope. “But we also weren’t going to make you feel like this place came with strings. You sleep here. You have a key. You know the vigilante stuff. You know where we hide the good bandages and the terrible protein bars. That’s a lot of trust to mess with.”

You understood. That was the terrible thing. You understood too well. This apartment was your soft landing. It was where you came when the world had teeth. If they had said the wrong thing at the wrong time, if they had made you feel observed instead of known, the loss would have been enormous.

But they had not done that.

They had waited until you asked a question they could no longer answer without handing you the truth.

“Wally,” you said.

He sat up straighter. “Yeah?”

“Come here.”

Wally was already close, but he still moved like the distance mattered. His knee shifted against yours, his body turning toward you on the couch, and then he stopped with enough space left between you that it made your chest hurt. He was letting you close the last of it. He smelled like detergent, mint gum, and the clean, electric warmth that always seemed to cling to him.

“You’re shaking,” you said.

Wally huffed a laugh, almost embarrassed. “Yeah.”

“That’s unusual.”

“Lots of things are unusual right now.” His eyes searched yours. “But I’m here.”

You reached up and touched the side of his face. Wally went very still. He had leaned into you a thousand times before, his head in your lap during movie nights, his shoulder bumping yours in grocery aisles, his legs tangled with yours under Dick’s comforter after long days and worse dreams. This was different because you let it be different. You watched the realization move through him, bright and startled and almost painful.

“Can I kiss you?” you asked.

Wally’s breath caught. “Yes. Please. Very yes.”

You smiled despite the shake in your chest and kissed him.

For a man who could outrun almost everything, Wally did not rush you. His mouth met yours carefully, warmly, a little unsteady at first, like he had imagined this enough times to be shocked by the reality of it. Then your fingers slid into his hair, and he made a sound against you that turned the entire room molten. His hand came to your waist, stopped there, asked without words. When you leaned closer, his grip tightened just enough to make you feel the restraint in it.

He tasted faintly of mint and soy sauce.

He kissed like he had been waiting so long that patience had become its own kind of hunger.

When you pulled back, his eyes stayed closed for a second.

“Okay,” he said faintly. “That happened. I’m normal about it.”

“You are visibly not normal about it.”

“I’m experiencing multiple emotions at speeds previously unknown to science.”

Dick laughed softly from your other side, but when you looked at him, the humor in his face did not disguise the want. It made it worse, actually. Wally was bright with it, nearly vibrating under your hand. Dick was still, but his stillness had become charged, every line of him drawn tight around the effort not to reach for you before you asked.

You turned toward him.

Dick watched you come closer by inches, your knee shifting against his thigh, your hand settling carefully on the couch beside him. He did not move until you were facing him fully. Then his hands lifted, not touching yet, hovering near your hips. There he was again, careful even while looking at you like restraint was costing him something.

“Can I?” he asked.

You nodded.

His hands settled on you, warm through the borrowed shirt. Your breath left you unevenly.

“You’re sure?” Dick asked.

Your mouth curved before you could stop it. “Do you ask everyone that after they kiss someone you’re in love with?”

Wally made an incoherent sound behind you.

Dick’s mouth curved. “No.”

“Then yes.”

The first brush of his lips was soft enough to undo you. Dick kissed differently than Wally. He kissed like falling with control, like every angle mattered, like he could make gentleness as devastating as force if he paid enough attention. One hand slid to your back, the other staying at your hip. He did not pull. He invited, and somehow that was worse. You shifted closer on the couch until your thigh pressed against his, and his fingers flexed against your spine.

The second kiss was deeper.

Dick made a low sound when your hand found his jaw, and you felt it through his chest because you were close enough now, finally, to know what his wanting sounded like. Wally shifted behind you, and Dick’s hand tightened just slightly, as if the reminder that Wally was watching did not cool the heat but changed its direction.

You pulled away only enough to breathe.

Dick’s eyes were dark. “This can stop here.”

“It can,” you said.

Wally’s voice came from behind your shoulder, quieter now. “Does it?”

You looked over your shoulder at him. He was still on the couch, hair messy from your hand, one knee angled toward yours like he had started to move closer and stopped himself from asking for too much. His eyes stayed fixed on you with an openness that made the choice feel less like stepping into the unknown and more like coming home to a room you had somehow never entered.

You thought of your toothbrush in the bathroom. Your mug on the coffee table. Your clothes in Dick’s drawer. Wally’s texts. Dick’s hands. The bed you had slept in between them so many times, waking warm and safe and pretending your heart did not break a little every morning you had to climb out of it.

“No,” you said. “I don’t think it does.”

Wally inhaled so sharply that it was almost a laugh.

Dick’s hands tightened at your hips, and then he kissed you again, catching the small sound that slipped out of you before you could pretend it had not happened. You let yourself lean into him, let yourself feel the steadiness of his body and the warmth of Wally coming up behind you. Wally did not press in immediately. He waited until you reached back, found his wrist, and drew his arm around your waist.

His breath hit your hair.

“Oh,” he said softly.

You smiled against Dick’s mouth. “You keep saying that.”

“I keep learning things.”

Dick’s mouth brushed the corner of yours. “He’s a very committed student.”

“Top of my class,” Wally said.

“You once put Pop-Tarts in a panini press.”

“They were incredible.”

“They caught fire.”

“Briefly.”

You laughed, and Dick kissed the sound from your mouth.

🐦🗝️⚡

The walk to his bedroom should not have felt like crossing a border, but it did. You had walked that hall half-asleep, tipsy, sick, laughing, furious, worried. You had stumbled through it with a blanket around your shoulders after nightmares you blamed on bad movies and they pretended to believe you. You had leaned against the doorframe watching Dick fold laundry while Wally sprawled across the bed claiming moral support. You knew the creak of the floor, the shape of the room in the dark, the side of the mattress that dipped because Wally threw himself onto it with no respect for furniture.

Tonight, when Dick opened the door, you hesitated.

Both of them noticed.

“Hey,” Wally said immediately. “We can go back to the couch. Or stop. Or make tea. Or I can run to Canada and bring back those maple cookies you like, although I feel like that might be an overcorrection.”

You looked at him over your shoulder. “Canada?”

“Panic suggestion.”

Dick’s hand touched your back gently. “Talk to us.”

The words settled you. Not because they fixed the nerves, but because they made room for them.

“I’ve slept in this bed with you both a thousand times,” you said. “It feels strange that this is the first time I’m nervous.”

Dick’s expression softened. “It’s allowed to feel strange.”

“Good strange,” Wally added. “Hopefully. Eventually. Maybe right now it’s weird strange. We can work with weird strange.”

You smiled. “You are so bad at being reassuring.”

“I’m actually fantastic at it. You’re just seeing me under extreme conditions.”

Dick’s thumb moved once against your back. “Nothing happens unless all three of us want it.”

You looked at him. “All three?”

His gaze moved briefly to Wally, and something passed between them that was so familiar and intimate you wondered how you had ever missed it. “All three.”

Wally came closer, slower this time. “For the record, I want it. You. This. Him. Us. But wanting doesn’t mean I need to have it tonight.”

Your heart twisted. “That was almost smooth.”

“I have hidden depths.”

“You just brought up Canada.”

“Some of my depths are geographical.”

Dick’s laugh was quiet, fond, and beautiful. It loosened the last of the fear sitting beneath your ribs.

You stepped into the bedroom.

The room was exactly as you knew it. Dick’s bed stood against the far wall, too large for one person and too often occupied by three. The comforter was rumpled from the morning, because Dick made his bed only when stress turned him into a machine and Wally took personal offense at tucked corners. Your book sat on the nightstand beside Dick’s, a bookmark halfway through the chapter you had been reading three nights ago while Wally slept sideways across the foot of the bed.

There were pieces of you everywhere.

You turned to face them.

“I want you,” you said, and watched the words land. “Both of you. I don’t know exactly how this works yet, but I want to find out.”

Dick’s eyes closed briefly.

Wally’s smile trembled at the edges. “We can do finding out.”

“Slowly,” Dick said.

“Sure,” Wally said quickly. “Slow is great. Love slow. Big fan.”

You gave him a look.

“I can be slow,” he insisted.

Dick’s mouth tilted. “He can.”

The fact that Dick knew that should not have sent heat down your spine, but it did. Both of them saw it happen. Of course they did. Dick’s gaze sharpened; Wally’s breath hitched.

“Oh,” Wally said.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” you said, though your own voice had changed.

“I’m not surprised. I’m delighted. There’s a difference.”

Dick stepped closer, his hand finding your waist again. “Tell us what you want first.”

You swallowed. “I want you to stop looking like you’re waiting for me to vanish.”

That hurt them. You saw it.

Dick touched your cheek. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Wally came up behind you, close enough that his warmth reached your back without trapping you. “Say that again in like five minutes. My brain needs repetition.”

You leaned back into him. His hands settled at your hips, then paused. You covered one with your own and drew it more securely around you.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said.

Wally exhaled against your hair, and Dick kissed you again.

There was nothing uncertain in it this time. Dick kissed you like he had been given an answer and intended to honor it thoroughly. Wally’s mouth found your shoulder through the thin shirt, his breath warm, his hands careful at your waist. You were suddenly, dizzyingly aware of being between them. Dick in front of you, steady and beautiful, one hand at your jaw and the other at your hip. Wally behind you, restless energy banked into trembling restraint, his lips moving against the side of your neck as if he was learning what made you sigh.

You had been touched before. Wanted, even. But you understood the difference now with brutal clarity. Wanting, from them, did not feel like being consumed. It felt like being attended to. It felt like every breath you took mattered.

Dick drew back first, his fingers catching lightly at the hem of his shirt where it rested against your hips. “Can I take this off?”

It took you a second to understand.

Then you laughed, a little breathless. “It’s yours, I think.”

“It is,” Dick said, and there was something in his voice that made your stomach dip.

Wally’s mouth brushed your neck. “For the record, I fully support its current use.”

Dick’s gaze stayed on you. “And its removal?”

Wally hummed. “Also that.”

You started to lift your arms, but Wally’s hands tightened just slightly at your waist.

“Wait,” he said, then seemed to regret saying it when both you and Dick went still.

You turned your head enough to look at him. “Wait?”

“Not stop,” Wally said quickly. “Definitely not stop. I just—” He huffed a laugh against your shoulder, embarrassed and helpless. “I need to say something before my brain stops working.”

Dick’s expression softened. “That bad?”

“That bad,” Wally said.

You waited.

Wally’s thumb moved once against your hip, brushing the bare skin beneath the hem of Dick’s shirt. “You know we love how comfortable you are here, right?”

Your breath caught at the sudden softness in his voice.

“This is your place too,” he said. “Not officially, maybe, but in all the ways that count. Your mug is in the kitchen. Your toothbrush is in the bathroom. Your clothes are in Dick’s dresser. You come over and change into one of our shirts like it’s nothing, like you trust us so much you don’t even think about it anymore.”

Dick’s hand stilled at your waist.

Wally swallowed. “And we love that. We really, really love that.” His voice dipped, turning rougher. “But sometimes you walk around in one of our shirts and those little sleep shorts, or no shorts, or you reach up for something and we see the edge of your panties, and I swear to God, I have almost died in this apartment more times than I have in the field.”

Your face went hot.

“Wally,” Dick said, but the warning was ruined by the strain in his voice.

“What? We’re being honest tonight.” Wally’s mouth brushed the corner of your jaw. “You bend over to look for something in the fridge. You fall asleep with the shirt riding up your thighs. You sit on the counter in socks and underwear and one of Dick’s old shirts, drinking tea out of that chipped mug, and we both have to stand there acting like our souls didn’t just leave our bodies.”

You looked at Dick. “Both of you?”

Dick’s eyes met yours, dark and steady and helplessly warm. “Both of us.”

Something inside you tightened.

“It was never just the shirt,” Dick said, his fingers smoothing over the hem as if he had wanted to touch it like this for years. “It was that you trusted us enough to stop guarding yourself here.”

That undid you more than Wally’s words had.

“Oh,” you said softly.

Wally let out a shaky breath. “Yeah. That too. I was getting there.”

Dick’s mouth curved, but his gaze stayed on you. “Can I take it off?”

This time, when you lifted your arms, neither of them stopped you.

Dick pulled the shirt over your head slowly, careful not to let the fabric catch. The air touched your skin, and both men went quiet again. Not silent in that fearful way from the living room, but quiet with attention. Wally’s hand spread over your stomach, warm and reverent. Dick’s gaze moved over you with visible effort, not lingering anywhere you had not invited yet and somehow making that restraint feel more intimate than staring would have been.

“You’re beautiful,” Dick said.

It was simple. It should not have undone you.

Wally kissed your shoulder. “So beautiful.”

Your instinct was to deflect. Make a joke. Tell Wally his taste had been damaged by eating cereal out of a saucepan. Tell Dick he was legally obligated to say nice things because he had known you too long. You had a dozen exits ready, all of them familiar.

Dick seemed to know. His thumb touched your lower lip before the joke could leave it.

“Let us say it,” he murmured.

Your chest ached. “Okay.”

Wally’s arms tightened around you for half a second. “Good. Because I’ve got years of material.”

“Wally.”

“What? I’m pacing myself.”

Dick looked at him over your shoulder, and the warmth in his expression made your pulse skip. “Are you?”

“Badly.”

You turned your head and kissed Wally before he could say anything else. He made a pleased sound, hands flexing at your waist, and Dick’s fingers drifted down your side with aching care. The kiss turned messy faster than the first one. Maybe because there was so little between you already. Maybe because Wally’s self-control had limits, and one of them was apparently you turning in his arms to lick into his mouth while wearing only your panties, with Dick close enough to touch you both.

Dick’s hand slid over your ribs and stopped just below your breast, asking without words.

You broke the kiss with Wally, breath unsteady. “You can.”

Dick lifted his eyes to yours. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His hands covered you, palms warm beneath your breasts, thumbs brushing softly until your breath caught. Wally watched over your shoulder, eyes dark and bright at once, then lowered his mouth to yours again as Dick touched you. It was too much and exactly enough. Wally kissed like he wanted to swallow every sound you made; Dick touched like he wanted to discover them one by one.

Your hands found Dick’s chest. He was warm under your palms, solid and familiar in a way that made the moment feel more dangerous than if he had been a stranger. You knew this body in a dozen almost-innocent ways. You knew the weight of his arm thrown across your waist in sleep, the pressure of his shoulder against yours in a crowded booth, the warmth of him behind you when he reached over your head for a cabinet because he enjoyed being obnoxiously tall.

Now your hand slid over his heartbeat, and he went still beneath your touch.

“You okay?” you asked.

Dick caught your wrist and brought your hand to his mouth. “Yes.”

“Will you tell me if that changes?”

That made him pause.

Wally, to his credit, did not make a joke.

Dick’s expression changed, and you saw him understand what you were really asking. You had spent too long loving men who treated their limits like suggestions. You were not asking as someone about to sleep with him. You were asking as the person who knew that care had to go both ways, or it would become another kind of burden.

“I will,” he said. “Tonight, I will.”

You searched his face. Then you nodded.

Wally touched your waist. “Me too. For anything. I know I can be a lot.”

“You are a lot.”

“True.” His mouth curved, but his eyes stayed serious. “I’ll tell you.”

“Good.”

“Hot when you boss us around,” he said, then immediately looked like he had startled himself.

Dick’s eyebrows rose. “Is it?”

Wally pointed at him. “Do not psychoanalyze me while she’s topless.”

You laughed, and the sound turned into a gasp when Dick dipped his head and kissed the curve of your breast. Wally’s humor dissolved at once. His mouth parted against your temple, and his hand slid up your ribs, stopping just below where Dick’s mouth moved. Dick looked up at you through his lashes, checking. You nodded, and then his tongue touched your nipple.

Your knees nearly failed you.

Wally caught you with a soft, reverent curse. “Okay. Bed. Bed is good.”

Dick smiled against your skin. “Slow?”

“Slow can happen horizontally.”

That made you laugh again, but your laugh broke when Dick did it again, warmer this time, lips closing around you before Wally guided you carefully back toward the bed. Dick moved with you, one hand steady at your hip, unwilling to let the contact break until the mattress touched the backs of your legs.

You had climbed into Dick’s bed in every state except this one.

That thought followed you down onto the mattress. It was familiar beneath your back, the comforter soft against your skin, the pillows smelling like Dick’s shampoo and Wally’s habit of stealing them. How many nights had you lain here between them, your body relaxed in sleep while your heart carried secrets your waking self refused to name? How many mornings had you woken with Wally’s arm thrown over your waist and Dick’s hand near yours, all of you pretending it was only comfort?

Now Dick knelt beside you with want written plainly across his face, and Wally settled near your other side, vibrating with the effort to give you time.

You looked at them and felt something in you steady.

“Pants,” you said.

Wally looked down at himself. “Mine?”

“Both.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Dick shook his head, smiling as Wally nearly tripped getting out of his sweatpants. Dick moved more deliberately, his gaze never leaving yours as he hooked his fingers in the waistband of his own. He stopped before pushing anything down.

“Still okay?”

“Very okay.”

Wally had his pants off already because of course he did, all lean muscle and restless heat, his confidence lasting approximately one second before he noticed you looking and flushed. “Assessment received.”

Dick laughed, and you smiled despite the heat crawling up your neck.

“You’re both ridiculous,” you said.

“You knew that before you invited us to take our clothes off,” Wally said.

“Some mistakes deserve commitment.”

Dick’s mouth curved. “Is that what this is?”

You looked at him, at the softness under the teasing. “No.”

The answer changed the room again.

Dick pushed his sweatpants down. His underwear followed a moment later, and your breath caught despite yourself.

Dick noticed. Of course he noticed.

His eyes darkened, but he did not touch you. “Still very okay?”

“Yes.”

Wally popped up beside him, naked now and visibly trying to look patient. “Can I also get an assessment? For fairness.”

You looked at him.

Then lower.

Wally’s confidence abandoned him completely. “I am never going to survive this.”

“You run faster than light.”

“Emotionally, I am a Victorian maiden.”

Dick climbed onto the bed and kissed him, slow and familiar enough that your pulse kicked hard. Wally melted into it with a sound that told you more than any explanation could have. They kissed like people who had already crossed some lines privately and were now learning how it felt to let you see. When Dick drew back, Wally’s mouth stayed parted for half a second, his eyes opening slowly.

You stared.

Dick looked at you. “Good oh?”

You realized you had made a sound. “Very good oh.”

Wally beamed. “Excellent. Love to contribute.”

You reached out and touched Wally’s knee. “Come here.”

He came immediately, but the joking faded as soon as your hand slid up his thigh. His skin was warm, almost feverish, muscles tense beneath your touch. He watched you like he could not decide whether to move closer or hold himself perfectly still.

Dick shifted behind you, gathering you with him as he settled back against the headboard and drew you gently between his legs. You leaned against his chest and felt his breath shift near your ear. His hands came to your waist, then lower, stopping at the edge of your panties like even now he was giving you time to change your mind.

“Can I take these off?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Wally’s gaze followed the movement as Dick slid them down your legs. The room went quiet again, not with hesitation this time, but with the weight of both of them finally seeing what they had been careful not to want too openly for years.

You started to close your thighs on instinct.

Wally’s hand touched your knee, not forcing, just there. “Hey. You don’t have to hide from us.”

The words went through you with embarrassing force.

Dick kissed the side of your neck. “He’s right.”

“This is new,” you whispered.

“I know.” Wally’s thumb moved gently over your knee. “We’ll earn it.”

Your eyes stung. You wanted to blame the long night, the bad date, the adrenaline crash, the way Dick’s mouth felt against your skin and Wally’s hand felt warm on your leg. But it was not only that. It was the tenderness. The promise beneath it. The sense that they had already decided your comfort was not a pause before desire but part of it.

You let your thighs relax.

Wally’s eyes dropped, and the breath he took was unsteady enough to make Dick’s hands tighten on you.

“Beautiful,” Wally said, softer this time. “God, sweetheart.”

The pet name slipped out like an accident.

You felt Dick go still behind you.

Wally’s eyes snapped to yours. “Too much?”

“No,” you said quickly, then softer, “No. I liked it.”

His smile came back slowly. “Yeah?”

Dick’s mouth brushed your ear. “She liked it.”

The words sent heat rolling through you.

Wally noticed that too. His pupils widened, and some of the carefulness in him sharpened into hunger. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

“Wally,” Dick warned, but there was no real reprimand in it.

“What? I’m observing.”

“You can observe closer,” you said.

Wally’s gaze flew to your face.

Your pulse pounded. “If you want.”

His laugh was almost disbelieving. “If I want.”

Then he was between your thighs.

Still slow. Still careful. He settled on his stomach with his arms hooked beneath your legs, but he did not put his mouth on you right away. He kissed your inner thigh first, warm and lingering, then the other. His stubble grazed your skin. Your fingers twisted in the comforter, and Dick’s hands slid up to cover yours, lacing your fingers together.

“You can touch him,” Dick murmured. “He likes it.”

Wally’s eyes flicked up. “I like it a lot.”

Your hand found Wally’s hair.

His lashes fluttered.

“Oh,” you whispered.

Wally’s smile turned wicked and soft at once. “Yeah. That.”

Then his mouth touched you.

The first stroke of his tongue made your back arch against Dick’s chest. Dick held you through it, not pinning you, just anchoring you as Wally groaned like he had been the one given pleasure. His mouth was warm and wet, the pace unhurried in a way that made you think of his earlier insistence that he could be slow. Apparently he could, when it mattered. He learned you with devastating focus, licking gently at first, then firmer when your hand tightened in his hair and your breath broke around his name.

Dick’s mouth moved along your throat. “Tell him what feels good.”

“Keep doing that.”

Wally made a muffled sound of approval.

“More specific,” Dick said, and you could feel his smile against your skin.

You would have elbowed him if you had been capable of coordination. “You’re annoying.”

“You’ve said.”

Wally lifted his head just enough to speak, lips wet, eyes bright. “You can pull my hair. For specificity.”

You did.

His eyes closed, and the sound he made was obscene enough that your entire body clenched. Dick inhaled sharply behind you.

“Wally.”

“I’m good,” Wally said, already lowering his mouth again. “I’m so good.”

He proved it.

There was no room left for embarrassment after that. Wally ate you out like attention was devotion, like every reaction mattered, like he had all the time in the world and intended to spend it between your thighs. Dick held your hands and whispered praise against your neck, his voice low and rougher than usual. Good. Like that. You’re doing so well. He loves that sound. We both do.

We.

The word sent you over the edge.

You came with Wally’s name in your mouth and Dick’s hands holding yours. Pleasure rolled through you in bright waves, your thighs trembling around Wally’s shoulders as he worked you through it with gentler strokes until you tugged at his hair because it was too much. He stopped immediately, pressing one last kiss to your thigh before lifting his head.

His mouth was shiny. His expression was wrecked.

“Okay,” he said, voice hoarse. “So. That’s my new favorite thing.”

Dick laughed against your shoulder. “You look proud of yourself.”

“I am proud of myself. Did you see that?”

“I was here.”

“You should compliment me.”

“You did very well.”

Wally looked delighted. “Thanks, babe.”

The casual endearment between them hit you almost as hard as the orgasm had. Dick seemed to feel you react, because his fingers stroked over your knuckles.

“Still with us?” he asked.

You nodded, breathing unevenly. “Very much.”

Wally crawled up your body, stopping when his face was near yours. He hesitated, suddenly uncertain. You understood a second later and pulled him down into a kiss. You tasted yourself on his mouth, and the intimacy of it made him shudder.

Dick’s hand slid into Wally’s hair from behind you, drawing him closer. Wally broke from your mouth only to turn toward him, and then they were kissing over your shoulder.

You stopped breathing.

You had seen them touch before. You had seen Wally throw himself onto Dick’s back, Dick catch Wally by the wrist, the two of them lean into each other with the exhausted ease of men who trusted each other down to the bone. But this was not that. This was Wally kissing Dick with your taste on his tongue, Dick’s hand firm at the back of his neck, both of them making quiet sounds they had never let you hear before.

It should have made you feel like an outsider.

It did not.

Dick’s free hand found your waist, drawing you more securely against him even as he kissed Wally. Wally’s hand spread over your thigh. The circle held. The desire moved through all three of you, not divided but multiplied.

When they separated, Wally rested his forehead against Dick’s for a moment.

“Still okay?” Dick asked him.

Wally smiled. “Yeah. You?”

Dick nodded.

Then both of them looked at you.

You swallowed. “I need a second.”

“Of course,” Dick said immediately.

Wally started to move back, but you caught his wrist.

“Not away. Just a second.”

His face softened. “Okay.”

Dick reached for the water bottle on his nightstand and handed it to you. It was yours, actually, one you had left there after a movie night and never taken home. That fact nearly made you laugh. Even during sex, this room kept offering evidence of how long you had belonged here.

You drank, then passed it to Wally. He drank too, then offered it to Dick, who took it with a grateful nod.

The domesticity of it settled your nerves more than anything else could have.

Wally wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then seemed to realize what he had done and reached for the tissues. “Sorry. Not my most suave moment.”

“You had your mouth between my legs thirty seconds ago.”

“Great point. I’m suave again.”

Dick shook his head, but his smile was affectionate enough to make Wally glow.

You shifted carefully and turned between them. “We should talk before anything else.”

Both of them sobered at once.

“Okay,” Dick said.

Wally nodded. “Talking is good. Love informed consent. Big supporter.”

You took a breath. “Birth control is current. You both know that.”

They did. Not because it was erotic. Because they were part of your life in all the inconvenient, practical ways that made intimacy possible long before anyone got naked. Dick had driven you home after an appointment when a medication change made you nauseous. Wally had picked up your pharmacy order once when work trapped you late and then called from the aisle to ask if you wanted the good chocolate or the emergency chocolate, because apparently those were separate categories. They knew because you told them things. They knew because they listened.

Dick’s expression remained careful. “We know.”

“And you both get tested.”

“Regularly,” Dick said. “Last panel was clean.”

“Same,” Wally said. “Two weeks ago. I can show you the results if you want.”

“I trust you.”

Wally looked touched, then immediately tried to hide it. “I mean, I have a very trustworthy face.”

“You have a ridiculous face.”

“And yet.”

Dick’s hand covered yours. “We have condoms. We can use them, or not. Your choice. That choice can change at any point.”

Your throat went tight again. “I don’t want to use them.”

Wally inhaled.

Dick’s hand stilled.

“I want to feel you,” you said, and somehow that was more exposing than being naked between them. “Both of you. But if either of you wants barriers, that’s okay too.”

Wally’s voice was rough. “I don’t. I want what you want.”

Dick’s gaze stayed locked on yours. “Same.”

The word carried weight because Dick never gave agreement he did not mean.

You nodded, heat rising again now that the practicalities had been named. “Okay.”

Wally’s mouth curved. “Okay.”

Dick touched your chin, turning you gently back toward him. “One more thing.”

You smiled a little. “That sounded ominous.”

“It isn’t.” His thumb brushed your lower lip. “If we do this, tomorrow matters.”

Your chest softened.

Wally shifted closer, his hand warm on your thigh. “And the day after. And the day after that.”

“We don’t have to figure out every detail tonight,” Dick said. “But this isn’t just sex for us.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

You looked at him, then at Wally. Their faces were open in different ways, Dick’s fear disciplined into tenderness, Wally’s hope bright enough to hurt.

“Yes,” you said. “I know.”

Dick kissed you then, and the conversation ended because the answer had been given.

You moved with him until he was propped against the pillows and you were straddling his lap. Wally sat beside you, one hand on your back, the other low on Dick’s thigh. The sight of them together beneath you nearly stole your nerve. Dick naked, hard against your stomach, his hair mussed and his mouth soft from kissing you. Wally close enough to touch you both, his mouth still swollen, his body tense with want he was trying very hard not to let run away with him.

You reached between you and wrapped your hand around Dick.

His head tipped back against the headboard.

Wally swore softly. “That’s unfairly pretty.”

Dick’s laugh broke into a groan when your thumb moved over the head of him. He was hot and heavy in your hand, controlled until he was not, hips twitching up before he caught himself.

“You’re going to let me do the work,” you said.

His eyes opened. “Bossy.”

“You like it.”

Wally made a strangled sound. “He does.”

Dick looked at him. “Wally.”

“What? We’re being honest tonight.”

You smiled and lifted your hips.

Dick’s hands came to your waist. “Slow.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean—” His breath caught when you rubbed him against you, both of you slick from Wally’s mouth and your own arousal. “God.”

Wally’s hand slid to your hip beside Dick’s, not guiding, just feeling the moment with you. “You okay?”

You nodded, lowering yourself just enough for the head of Dick’s cock to press into you. The stretch made your mouth fall open.

Dick’s hands tightened. “Breathe.”

You did, forehead dropping to his. He kissed you softly, again and again, until your body eased enough to take more of him. Wally’s mouth found your shoulder, his praise spilling warm against your skin.

“That’s it. Take your time. God, you look—fuck, you look so good.”

Dick made a sound like Wally’s words had gone through him too.

You sank down slowly, inch by inch, until Dick was fully inside you.

For a moment, nobody moved.

There were things you had imagined. Late at night, alone in your own bed. In their shower, feeling guilty and helpless and hungry. Half-asleep between them, Wally’s hand accidentally under your shirt and Dick’s thigh warm against yours. You had imagined Dick’s body over yours, Wally’s mouth at your neck, both their hands, both their voices. You had imagined enough to know desire.

Reality was different.

Reality was Dick trembling beneath you because you were wrapped around him and he was trying not to take more than you were giving. Reality was Wally pressing his forehead to your shoulder, breathing hard, as if watching was its own kind of contact. Reality was your own body clenching around Dick while your heart struggled to hold the impossible tenderness of having both of them here, wanting you, waiting for you.

Dick’s voice was nearly gone when he said your name.

You lifted your head. “Yeah?”

His eyes met yours. “I love you.”

The words struck all the air from the room.

Wally went still.

Dick looked like he had not meant to say it there, like the truth had slipped past every careful defense because his body was full of you and his heart had finally stopped obeying orders. For half a second, panic flashed across his face.

You kissed it away.

“I love you too,” you whispered against his mouth.

Dick’s hands shook on your waist.

Behind you, Wally made a small sound.

You reached back for him without looking. He caught your hand immediately, fingers threading through yours with almost painful force.

“You too,” you said, turning your head enough to see him. “I love you too.”

Wally’s face changed.

He had always been expressive, always bright, always too alive to hide much for long. But you had never seen this expression before. It was relief and hunger and disbelief and joy so raw it looked almost wounded.

“You can’t just say that while Dick is inside you,” he said, voice wrecked.

A laugh broke out of you, wet at the edges. “Why not?”

“Because now I’m going to cry while this hard, and I don’t know what to do with that emotionally.”

Dick’s laugh turned into a groan as your body clenched around him.

“Don’t laugh,” he said, strained.

“You started this.”

“I did.”

Wally kissed your hand, then your shoulder. “I love you. Obviously. Embarrassingly. To a degree that has made me annoying at multiple gatherings.”

Dick’s mouth brushed yours. “He was already annoying.”

“True, but love gave me range.”

You rolled your hips experimentally.

The joking shattered.

Dick’s head dropped back, throat exposed, a sound leaving him that you felt everywhere. Wally’s hand slid to your stomach, fingers splayed low as if he could feel where Dick was inside you. The pressure made you gasp.

“Okay?” Wally asked quickly.

“Yes. Don’t stop.”

His eyes darkened.

You moved again, slow because the stretch was still intense, because the softness of the moment had turned every sensation sharp. Dick’s hands helped you find a rhythm, careful but firm, his mouth moving over yours whenever you leaned close enough. Wally touched everywhere you let him. Your breasts, your thighs, your hips, the place where your body took Dick again and again. He watched with awe so naked it made you feel worshipped.

“Wally,” you breathed.

“I’m here.”

“Touch me.”

His fingers found your clit, slick and careful.

You cried out, folding forward into Dick. Dick caught you, one arm around your back, his mouth at your throat. Wally adjusted immediately, reading your body with the same attention he brought to everything that mattered. He touched you in slow circles while Dick moved beneath you in shallow thrusts, all three of you caught in a rhythm that felt less like performance and more like discovery.

Pleasure built differently this time. Deeper. Slower. Dick filled you, Wally’s fingers worked you higher, and both of them kept talking to you in broken, reverent fragments that made heat gather low in your belly.

So good.

There you are.

Beautiful.

We’ve got you.

That last one did it.

Your orgasm tore through you hard enough that your vision blurred. Dick held you while you shook, his own control breaking a second later as you clenched around him. He buried his face against your neck with a low, helpless sound and came inside you, his hands gripping your waist like you were the only solid thing in the world.

Wally’s hand slowed but did not leave you until you stopped trembling.

For several seconds, the room was nothing but breath.

Then Wally said, very quietly, “I think my soul left my body, and I wasn’t even the one inside you.”

You laughed into Dick’s shoulder. “You are such an idiot.”

“An emotionally supportive idiot.”

Dick’s laugh was quiet and wrecked. “He’s right.”

You lifted your head and looked at Wally. He was flushed, painfully hard, and trying very earnestly to look patient. It made your heart ache.

“Come here,” you said.

Wally blinked. “You need a minute.”

“I need you.”

His composure did not stand a chance.

Dick’s hands stroked your sides as you lifted off him carefully, both of you shivering at the loss. Wally vanished and was back almost immediately with tissues and a warm cloth, so fast you barely registered the absence before he was kneeling beside you again. The gesture was so tender, so practiced in its thoughtfulness, that you nearly dragged him down and cried into his shoulder.

He cleaned you gently, checking your face the whole time.

“Too much?” he asked.

“No.” Your voice came out soft. “Thank you.”

Wally kissed your knee. “Anytime. I mean, hopefully many times. But also anytime.”

Dick rested back against the pillows, watching you both with an expression that made you want to crawl back to him and never leave. “Wally.”

“Yeah?”

“Slow.”

Wally looked at him, then at you. His throat moved. “Yeah. I know.”

You reached for him. “I trust you.”

His eyes closed for half a second.

When he opened them, some of the frantic brightness had settled into something steadier. He kissed you as he moved over you, and for all his speed, for all his energy, he lowered you back against the mattress like you were something precious. Dick shifted beside you, one hand coming to your hair, his body warm along your side. He was not removed from this, not watching from a distance. He was with you, with Wally, kissing your temple while Wally settled between your thighs.

Wally pressed into you slowly.

Your breath caught at the new stretch, your body sensitive from Dick and still slick with him. Wally froze instantly.

“Okay?”

“Yes.” You touched his face. “Just slow.”

His laugh shook. “I can do slow.”

“I know.”

He eased in with visible effort, inch by careful inch, jaw clenched, arms trembling beside your shoulders. Dick’s fingers stroked through your hair, grounding you as Wally filled you. He was different from Dick, his body hotter, his restraint more visibly fragile. When he was fully inside, Wally dropped his forehead to yours and shuddered.

“Holy shit,” he whispered.

You smiled. “Romantic.”

“I’m sorry. My brain just left my body.”

Dick’s hand slid to the back of Wally’s neck. “Breathe.”

Wally obeyed. The sight of it, the trust in that single word, made you clench around him.

Wally groaned. “That was mean.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“Do it again on purpose later.”

Dick laughed, then pressed his mouth to your shoulder. “Move when you’re ready.”

It took a moment. Not because you were unsure, but because you wanted to feel it. Wally inside you, Dick beside you, both of them close enough that every movement belonged to all three of you. Then you lifted your hips.

Wally’s restraint nearly cracked at once.

He moved slowly because he had promised, but slow did not mean gentle in the way you had expected. It meant controlled. It meant every drag of him inside you was deliberate, every thrust measured by your breathing, every kiss pressed to your mouth like he was trying to keep himself tethered. His hand found yours and pinned it loosely to the mattress, fingers intertwined. Dick’s mouth moved over your neck, your shoulder, the curve of your breast, his hand returning to your clit when you started to whine with the need for more.

“You can take it,” Dick murmured. “We’ve got you.”

Wally’s rhythm faltered. “You can’t say things like that.”

“She likes it.”

“I know she likes it. I like it. That’s the problem.”

You laughed, but it turned into a moan when Dick’s fingers circled faster. Wally lowered himself more fully over you, careful not to crush you, his breath hot against your mouth.

“I’ve wanted this so long,” he said, the words rough and unguarded. “Wanted you. Wanted us. God, sweetheart, you have no idea.”

“I have some idea now.”

“Not enough.”

His hips snapped forward a little harder, and your eyes rolled shut.

Dick’s hand paused. “Good?”

“Yes. More. Wally, please.”

Wally made a sound that was almost pained. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ve got you.”

He gave you more.

Not too much. Never that. But enough that the bed creaked beneath you, enough that Dick’s hand tightened in Wally’s hair and your nails dug into Wally’s shoulder. Enough that the careful, domestic room turned hot and damp and filled with the sounds of skin, breath, praise, the headboard tapping lightly against the wall with each controlled thrust.

Your third orgasm built too quickly. You tried to warn them, but the words dissolved. Dick understood anyway, because of course he did. Wally did too, because his mouth found yours and he swallowed the broken sound you made when you came around him.

He lasted maybe four seconds after that.

Wally buried himself deep and came with your name on his lips, shaking hard enough that Dick had to steady him with a hand at his back. You held him through it, legs wrapped around his hips, one hand in his hair and the other reaching blindly for Dick.

Dick caught it.

For a while, none of you moved.

Then Wally said into your neck, “I think I saw another dimension.”

Dick, exhausted and fond, said, “That was sex.”

“Agree to disagree.”

You laughed weakly. “Get off me before you crush me, speedster.”

Wally moved so fast he almost fell off the bed. “Sorry. Sorry. Are you okay? Did I—”

You caught his hand. “I’m okay.”

Dick looked at you, checking anyway.

You gave him a tired smile. “I’m okay.”

Only then did both of them relax.

🐦🗝️⚡

Aftercare, you discovered, was where their existing habits became almost unbearable.

Wally vanished and returned with warm cloths, water, one of Dick’s soft shirts, your sleep shorts, and a granola bar he seemed to have grabbed in a panic. Dick sat up enough to help you clean up, his touch careful and unselfconscious. There was nothing awkward in it. Or rather, there was awkwardness, but it did not come from shame. It came from the enormity of the change and the fact that Wally kept trying to do six helpful things at once.

“Stop vibrating,” Dick said.

“I’m not vibrating.”

“You’re making the lamp buzz.”

Wally looked at the lamp. It was, in fact, buzzing faintly.

He put both hands on his knees and inhaled. The buzzing stopped.

“Sorry.”

You reached for him. “Come here.”

He came.

Dick opened the shirt and helped you into it. It was one of Wally’s this time, old and soft, the collar stretched from years of use. Wally tucked the blanket around your legs with the solemn concentration of a man disarming a bomb.

“I can do that,” you said.

“I know.”

“You don’t have to fuss.”

Wally looked at you, startled. “Of course I do.”

Dick’s smile was small and helpless.

You looked between them and felt the truth of the night settle over you, quieter now but no less real. They loved you. They had loved you through laundry and takeout and bad dates and grocery lists. They had loved you in all the ordinary spaces where people usually missed the extraordinary. Sex had not created that. It had only opened the door.

Wally handed you the granola bar.

You stared at it. “Why?”

“Blood sugar.”

“I’m not the speedster.”

“No, but you did just have a very athletic evening.”

Dick closed his eyes. “Wally.”

“What? Accurate.”

You took the granola bar and threw it lightly at his chest. He caught it, grinning.

“Fine,” he said. “Water first.”

You drank because he looked like he needed you to. Then Dick drank. Then Wally finished the bottle and zipped out to refill it before either of you could object.

When he came back, you had settled under the blanket with Wally’s shirt falling soft against your thighs.

Wally paused at the edge of the bed, holding the full water bottle like an offering. “I’m still allowed back in, right?”

Your heart squeezed.

Dick’s expression changed too, something tender and pained moving across his face before he reached out and caught Wally by the wrist.

“You’re ridiculous,” Dick said softly. “Come here.”

Wally came.

He climbed into the bed with exaggerated care, like one wrong movement might disturb whatever fragile new thing had settled between you. You pulled him down by the shoulder until he was stretched out on your other side, warm and solid, his face tucked near your neck. Dick shifted closer behind you, his chest against your back, his hand settling over your waist.

The bed that had always fit three people now seemed to understand the difference before you did. Your body recognized them. The warmth, the weight, the steady presence of them on either side.

Tomorrow would require talking. Not the soft, breathless kind between kisses, but the real kind. Logistics. Boundaries. What changed in public, what stayed private, how to handle the fact that your best friends were also heroes with enemies and you were still the civilian with a key. There would be complications. Jealousy, maybe. Fear, certainly. Dick had enough trauma around love to fill a city. Wally felt things with his whole body and then tried to outrun the consequences. You had your own habits, your own defenses, your own fear of needing too much.

But tonight, you were in the bed you had already come home to a hundred times.

Tonight, Wally’s thumb moved slowly over your hip. Dick’s fingers threaded through yours. The rain finally started outside, tapping softly against the windows.

“I have a question,” Wally said.

You opened one eye. “If it’s about nachos, I’m leaving.”

“It’s not about nachos.”

Dick’s voice was dry. “That’s new.”

Wally ignored him. “What happens with the drawer?”

You frowned sleepily. “What?”

“Your drawer. In Dick’s dresser.” Wally’s expression was earnest enough that you almost believed this was a serious concern. “Does it remain your drawer? Does it expand? Do I get partial drawer custody? Because I would like to formally offer space in my dresser, but full disclosure, one drawer is mostly chargers and mystery cables, and one might have Halloween candy from last year.”

“Last year?” Dick asked.

“It’s sealed.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“I’m prepared.”

You laughed into the pillow. “My drawer stays where it is.”

Wally clutched his chest. “Favoritism.”

“You can have sock custody.”

His eyes lit up. “I do love your socks.”

“You stretch them out.”

“I have long feet.”

“You have normal feet at high velocity.”

Dick looked at you with a warmth so deep it almost hurt. “You know this is our life now.”

You smiled. “Arguing about drawer custody?”

“Among other things.”

Wally’s joking faded just enough. “Good?”

You looked at him, then at Dick. “Good.”

Dick squeezed your hand.

Wally pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “Say the staying thing again.”

Your chest softened.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Wally exhaled against you like the words had given him somewhere to rest.

Dick’s eyes met yours over the top of your shoulder. In the dim light, with rain on the windows and love finally unhidden between you, he looked younger and older than usual. Less like Nightwing. More like the man who had left the lamp on for you. The man who had given you a drawer before he could give himself permission to say why.

Wally’s arm tightened gently around your waist, his thumb still moving in slow circles against your hip. He looked less like the Flash too, less like motion and lightning and impossible speed. More like the man who remembered your cereal, stole your socks, marked dumplings emotionally instead of legally, and asked you to say you were staying because he needed somewhere safe to put the hope.

Your chest ached with it.

You reached for Dick, and he came willingly, easing down until he could kiss you. Wally shifted with you instead of letting go, his hand staying linked with yours as Dick’s settled over both of them, fingers interlocking there against you.

Three bodies. One bed. The city beyond the glass.

For the first time all night, the silence did not ask anything of you.

It only held.

🐦🗝️⚡

With a wicked grin, you lean over to grab your backpack from beneath the short table in front of you. In the side pocket is where you stashed the treasure, you fish around past other miscellaneous items until you feel a paper cylinder beneath the pads of your fingers. 

“Woah,” Leon says, drawing out the word as he adjusts his hips, bowing forward to watch you pull the prize from your bag. The sofa cushions are a dingy gray color, the fabric practically coming apart at the seams, the piping fraying. You try not to stare too long lest you imagine what sorts of ills they might have seen. “Where did you get that?” 

“Get what?” You coo, feigning ignorance through a wide, toothy smile as you lean back, letting your shoulders and spine slouch against the sofa.

He chuckles darkly, pointing to the joint you’re rolling back and forth between your fingertips. “That.” 

“Found it in a drawer while we were sweeping the warehouse.” 

You can feel Chris’s attention turn to you, and when you clance over at him, his eyes have grown wide, his hand has stopped writing. He abandons the notebook and pen altogether, leaving them to balance on the armrest. 

“Have you ever smoked, Chris? Weed,” you clarify, hinting that you know about the little habit he tries to hide unsuccessfully, failing every time. No midday shower or quick change of clothes can eclipse the scent of tobacco on his skin. 

He laughs, a huffy, breathy sound, amused toeing the line of nervousness, and your eyes fall to his palms as he wipes them on his pant legs. 

“In high school,” he reveals. “Once or twice. Not a lot since then.” 

“And you?” 

“In high school, once or twice,” he repeats, leaning in an inch. “And a lot since then.” 

Your lips curl upward into a smile, once reflected in Leon’s own face. Chris adjusts behind you, leaning in to join the conversation. 

“Didn’t take you for a weed guy,” he says to Leon through a smirk. Leon rolls his eyes, always annoyed when his reputation as a drinker is brought up in conversation, as though not everyone knows it’s his favorite pastime. Chris snickers.

“Either of you boys have a light?” You ask, your voice breaking through the tension between them, leaning once more against the back of the sofa. The two men fumble as they make quick work searching the pockets of their bags. Chris wins, pulling out a lighter from his sack, flickering it on, beckoning you to ignite the joint held taut between your lips. 

As he holds the flame to the tip of the joint, you glance up at him through thick lashes, meeting his gaze. The look you give him makes his shoulders shudder slightly, and he gulps hard, brows cinched. 

“There you go,” Chris says quietly as you take the first inhale. The earthy, petrichor scent of the drug fills the air almost immediately as you pass the roll to Leon. He pinches it between his thumb and pointer finger, guiding it to his parted lips, taking in a deep breath, filling his lungs to max capacity. 

Chris waits patiently, and you sink back to watch Leon pass him the joint, staring intently at the man as he stares intently at the paper in his fingers. As a smoker, he should feel comfortable with the act, yet he hesitates. That is, until he looks over at you, meeting your eyes, and he carries out the decision to take a hit. His eyes close in almost instant euphoria, and you take a moment to study–unwatched–the veins crawling up his forearms, the freckles that dot the skin there, the bulging balls of his biceps and triceps. 

Leon is a beautiful man. A blind ass bat could see that. He’s pale and lean, with a face carved by Pygmalion himself. A straight nose, full lips, and eyes that have men and women alike tripping over themselves at the sight. 

Chris’s beauty, however, comes from the innate masculinity that surges through each nerve and vein, and seeps through every pore. His shoulders are broad and staggering, his arms boulderous. Even the details of his face drip with rugged handsomeness. 

Such thoughts race through the marrow in your bones, searing your skin like the singed tip of the join in your fingers. You banish them immediately, not so high as to relinquish all professionalism. Though, how professional can it be to share a joint with your superiors, who you were just sweeping an abandoned umbrella facility with just a mere five hours ago. 

Professionalism be damned. You have one thing, and one thing only, on your mind tonight. 

Minutes, though it feels like an eternity, pass as the three of you take turns sucking and puffing, some choked coughs here and there, giggles strewn about in the mix. 

“Fuck, it’s been a while,” Chris gasps, beating his heart once with the butt of his fist. He coughs lightly before falling back against the sofa. Leon, beside you, chuckles, taking another hit. 

“It’s good, huh?” He asks, the question pointed to no one in particular. Neither of you answer. You can feel yourself melting into the sofa, your body melding to the fibers of the cushion. 

Grosssssss.

It feels sticky, and yet like nothing at all. You feel like nothing at all. 

The corners of your eyes go blurry, and it’s as if a weight has been lifted off your shoulders, the weight that keeps you tethered to earth. And now, as you contest the laws of nature, gravity be damned, you begin to float. Like a cirrus of mist and humidity just hovering in the atmosphere among the stars. 

“Are you guys friends?” You ask, voice as sweet as cherry syrup in a chilled shirley temple, the kind your grandmother used to serve up on a balmy summer evening. 

Chris and Leon sit up in unison, both on the edges of their cushions, both looking down at you from beneath furrowed brows. 

They exchange a glance, eyes quickly cutting back to you. 

“Sure,” Leon says. 

“Sort of,” Chris spits at the same time. 

“You ever done this before? Together?” 

Another glance between them. 

“Get high?” Leon asks in confirmation. 

“Make love to the same girl,” you correct. 

Chris’s almond eyes shoot open, the golden flakes in his chocolate brown irises catching in the low light filtering through the fixture above your heads. 

Leon chokes on his own saliva, palm coming to his sternum. “Come again?” 

You giggle, shaking your head at the double entendre. “You heard me.” 

“Like a…” Chris’s voice trails off as he musters up the courage to say the word flashing like a neon sign in all of your cotton-stuffed heads. “Threesome.” 

Ding, ding, ding.

All you give is a cheeky nod, and it’s the only permission Leon needs to race down to your neck and begin planting sloppy, open-mouthed kisses there. You mewl at the sensation of his teeth kneading your flesh, and when you cut your eyes to Chris, he’s watching with something intelligible written across his face. The whites of his eyes are glossy, mottled with tiny red lines, and his brows are knit together, leaving two deep creases in the skin between them.

Frustrated with how long it is taking him to react, you grab his hand and place it in between your thighs. As Leon continues his ministrations at your neck, Chris glances down at his fingers splayed across the soft, supple flesh stretching out from your pajama bottoms. He bites down on his lower lip in an attempt to garner some of that soldieresque restraint. 

His lids screw shut, and he whispers a little prayer to whichever deity watches over those who struggle with self-control in the presence of a beautiful woman. A woman who wants him. 

They don’t answer, so Chris is left to his own devices. Fuzzy-brained, and loose-handed, he begins to palm at the meat of your thighs, taking a moment to appreciate your skin before he presses them apart. One of your knees goes to recline across Leon’s lap, the other opens toward Chris. 

Before he can do anything about it, however, you grab his jaw, bringing his lips to yours. They’re softer than you expected, though the stubble that frames them is scratchy against your skin. Leon plants kisses up and down the length of your neck, working his way up your jaw, to your cheek. 

“Holy shit,” Leon curses against your face. 

“Fuck,” Chris swears at your ear. 

Their voices are hot, melting your innards, and you feel an all-too-familiar gush of arousal begin to pool at your seam, spreading across the cotton gusset of your panties. 

You lean up to wrap one arm around each of their necks, bringing the three of you closer than you’ve ever been before. Both Chris and Leon have their eyes slammed shut in pleasure, in the anticipation of ecstasy, and all you have to do is remove yourself from them and lean back, and with absence of a third set of lips, their mouths meet each other’s. 

You watch with thumping hearts in your eyes as the two men attack each other’s faces, their lips meeting in a volcanic union of teeth and tongue. Chris’s hands wrap around Leon’s neck, fingers weaving through his cropped, blonde strands. In turn, Leon grabs his arms, his digits struggling to wrap themselves around Chris’s bulging girth.

Perhaps it’s Chris who first realizes that your hair has suddenly changed length, or that your shoulders have grown wider past their feminine delicacy. Or maybe Leon feels the prickly pang of stubble on his chin, big biceps beneath his calloused palms. 

Whatever tips them off, it happens too soon for your liking, and their eyes shoot open in an almost cartoonish simultaneity. Once the image of the other man before them ventures through the thick fog of their high, they retreat from the other’s grasp, blinking heavily before turning to look down at you. 

two figures enmeshed with one another, kissing and clinging to each other with the kind of passion you only ever see in the movies; and then the screen fades to black and the credits start rolling. reaching over to grab the remote, you click off the historical romance, sighing to yourself.

now, the only sound that floats through the air is the faint snoring of your best friend passed out next to you. for as long as you’ve known her, claire cannot help falling asleep during movies. over time, you learned that this could be an advantage, giving you leverage to choose every movie night.

you lay back down on the cot next to her bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to force your mind to quiet itself and let sleep find you. eyes fluttering closed, images from the movie float through your mind; the dancing scenes, beautiful gowns, mr. darcy confessing to elizabeth and their breathtaking kiss.

if only real life was like that

your eyes snap open, your brain’s attempt at finding enough peace to slumber unsuccessful. you glance over at claire’s alarm clock:

1:13AM

head hitting the pillow with a thump, your fingers come up to massage your brow; fuck, you’re still so awake.

frustrated, you sit up and lean back on your palms; nibbling at your lips, you feel how dry they are. the popcorn you and claire gorged yourselves on earlier had left you feeling parched. pushing up from your cot with a creak, you exit claire’s bedroom, softly turning the knob shut behind you.

you head down the short hallway, fluffy slippers shuffling quietly across wooden floor planks. a framed picture catches your eye, one of the only decorative items in their home. it was a photo of a young boy and younger girl; claire and her older brother, chris.

you’d known the redfields since elementary school, quickly becoming best friends with claire after you moved to raccoon city in 4th grade. over the years, you and her had gotten into your fair share of trouble and adventures, always remaining close.

you’d known her older brother, chris, for just as long. the thought of him made your mouth run even dryer, heart skipping a beat; it was a not-so-secret that you’d had a fat crush on him since forever. countless times claire would tease you about how awkward you got around chris.

“it’s just soo funny, cuz he's actually the grossest person in the world.”

you couldn’t help it, the heart wants what the heart wants. besides, who wouldn’t have a crush on chris? he was strikingly handsome, able to melt you instantly with his blue gaze and wicked smirk; you also knew the tender side of him, seeing how he basically raised claire and himself since childhood.

you reach the kitchen and flick on one of the dimmer lights, trying to be as imperceptible as possible. grabbing a glass from the cupboard, you pour yourself some much needed water. as the crisp drinks hits your tongue, you give a small sigh of relief.

“damn, thirsty much?”

startled, you choke on the water, sputtering droplets you desperately try to hide with your hand. glancing over at you from across the kitchen with a well natured tease in his eyes was a hulking, brunette form: chris.

“jeez, sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.” he apologizes with a grin.

he strides across the kitchen, tearing off a paper towel and handing it to you.

“…thanks.”

you dab it at your mouth, feeling a hot blush spread across your face; chris had an annoying way of always catching you in your most pathetic moments.

“you didn’t scare me, just wasn’t expecting anyone else to be awake.”

leaning back against the kitchen counter, you try to compose yourself a bit. chris moved towards the pantry, pulling an amber bottle of whiskey from the top shelf.

“want a glass?” he offers, turning towards you.

remembering the last time you’d drank brown liquor, you shake your head at him, grimacing slightly.

“i shouldn’t, but thanks for the offer.”

chris shrugs, moving to pour himself a glass at the island in the middle of the kitchen.

“suit yourself.”

after the glass is half full, he takes the bottle back to the pantry and comes to sit at the island. he gestures with a nod to the chair next to his. heart pounding, you slide into the seat, clutching your water glass as if it were a stress ball; you turn towards the muscular man.

“what are you doing back? claire said you’d be gone for a while.”

sitting back in his seat, chris brings his cup up to take a deep sip.

“finished the job early, got to come home early.”

knowing you won’t get a clearer answer from him, you nod dimly.

chris’s job was shrouded in secret; originally a member of a specialized police force, he’d been promoted a couple of years ago and now worked exclusively in vague assignments. he’d be gone for weeks, then would pop back up with cool souvenirs for claire, and always some trinket for you.

“well, i’m glad you’re home safe. it’s kind of weird when you’re gone, claire worries about you a lot.” you tell him, twisting your hands in your lap nervously.

you weren’t used to talking to chris one on one, claire usually being the buffer between you two. it was thrilling, cold shivers coursing through your veins. fuck, he was so hot.

“hmm… what about you, you worry about me?”

your eyes snap up, meeting his stormy, blue gaze. he’s looking at you with that damn smirk, whiskey swirling in his glass. he’s trying to get a rise out of you, using your obvious crush to tease you. you take a deep breath.

“of course i do, wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to you.”

the brunette man chuckles under his breath.

“well thanks for caring so much, sweetheart. cheers.”

he raises his whiskey towards you and takes a swig, nearly finished with the glass.

cheeks burning at the casual way he calls you the pet name, you take a sip of your water to steel your nerves, glass slick with condensation.

“don’t be stupid, you’re like my brother, chris.” you tease back at him.

he shifts back in his chair, turning so his lap is facing you, glass now empty. damn, he drinks fast. his gaze has turned darker, glazed over with an emotion you couldn’t identify.

“but i’m not your brother, y/n.” he states gruffly.

chris’s eyes rake over you, and a trickle of knowing sneaks into your brain; no, it couldn’t be. you’re clutching the edges of the island with white knuckles, tethering yourself through the coil of nervousness that churns in your stomach.

“no, you’re not. but i do really care for you, chris.” you respond breathlessly.

the hulking man moves himself closer to you, enclosing your smaller legs with his own. you try to hide how you’re trembling in front of him, not wanting to reveal just how shaky he’s got you.

his hand reaches out to rest on your thigh, leaning into your space.

“i care about you too. i think about you when i’m gone, your pretty face and how nervous you get around me.” chris breathes out lowly.

this felt like something out of your daydreams; head spinning, your ice cold glass is the only thing tethering you to reality. chris’s thumb starts making circles into your plush thighs and you breathe out shakily.

“you think i don’t notice how you clam up around me? it’s adorable.” the older man smiles down at you.

you’re still speechless, brain stalling while trying to comprehend the unreal situation in front of you. chris shakes his head to himself, still grinning.

“there it is, so cute. come here...”

he closes the distance between you two, his other hand coming up to cradle the back of your head. chris’s lips meet yours in a gentle kiss, kneading his against yours tenderly.

you’re frozen at first, locked into place with disbelief. after the initial shock wears off, you tilt your chin to deepen the kiss, hungry to taste more of him. his tongue slips out, smoothing over your bottom lip before taking it into his mouth, suckling on it softly.

you moan into his mouth, unable to contain the elation that feels like it could burst from your chest. a tinge of worry sneaks into your brain, suddenly reminding you of the impossibility of your situation. you pull back from chris, heart stinging at the sudden absence.

“chris, we can’t, claire will be so mad at me…” you trail off breathlessly.

chris doesn’t pull back, staring intensely at you with his hypnotizing gaze.

“claire’s not here, sweetheart. she’s probably been passed out for a while, right?”

you swallow and nod, not able to lie to him. he cracks a smile, and pulls you in closer with his hand still resting on the nape of your neck.

“c’mon, let’s take this to the bedroom. don’t wanna wake her up.” chris rumbles to you lowly.

˚.⋆꒰১ ໒꒱⋆.˚

“fuck, baby, you feel amazing.” chris groans to you under his breath, careful not to raise his voice.

your brain is turning to mush, pinned underneath him in a prone bone position as he buries his thick cock deep inside of your fluttering pussy. the weight of him presses flush against you, muscles tensing as he plows into you with a force that makes your eyes roll into your head.

a whimper slips out of your throat, high and needy, and you instantly regret the noise. exhaling heavily, chris wraps his arm around to cover your mouth, a silent command to stay quiet.

your hands come up to grasp at his strong forearms, scrabbling for anything that can help you remain in reality. with each thrust, chris splits you in two, his cock bullying it’s shape into you over and over. it’s literally breaking your mind, all you can do is arch your back up to meet his thrusts and take it.

the soft plap plap of chris’s balls slapping your wet pussy and steady creak from his bed break the silence in the room as he stretches you out.

“such a good fucking girl, been waiting to feel this pussy for so long.” he growls, right above your ear.

a part of your cockdrunk mind registers his words, sending a gush of slickness to your messy cunt as you can only breathe out in desperate spurts. a bit of drool has collected at the sides of your mouth, coating chris’s palm.

keeping his hand clamped around your mouth, chris uses his other arm to flip you over onto your back, pushing your thighs apart and driving back into you effortlessly. you pant against his hand, unable to control yourself, not when his cock is glancing off of your cervix with every thrust.

as he pounds into you, chris reaches over your head to grab a lacy scrap of fabric; your panties, a damp spot at the gusset. balling them with his fist, you feel a sudden absence at your mouth. before you understand what’s coming, chris gently shoves the panties into your mouth, fingers resting on your bottom lip as he pushes them in.

your eyes are wide and glazed over with desire as you peer up at chris, spit already coating your underwear. it’s so indecent, so dirty, and so fucking hot. you were being pounded by your best friend’s brother, drooling on your own panties, trying to hide the noises that are being ripped from your throat as your orgasm mounts.

chris shifts his position, both hands free now. he presses your thighs back as far as they go, pushing your sopping wet pussy higher up and allowing him an even deeper angle to rut into you.

it doesn’t take much longer for chris’s strokes against your sensitive spot to send you into a spiral. your fingers scratch at his firm arms, searching for any purchase as he fucks you through your climax. a white hot wave uncoils from your stomach and you cum around his dumbly huge cock.

you clench around him, muscles feeling weak as they meet the resistance of his rock-hard cock. his strokes start getting erratic, chris barely taking his member out of your overstimulated pussy as he thrusts in and out. unable to take any more of your tight, wet walls, chris suddenly rips his cock free from your entrance with a wet pop, and his cum shoots onto your stomach, hot ropes hitting your trembling pelvis.

he pumps himself through climax, a deep groan emanating from his throat, barely audible in the dim bedroom. when he finally stills, he sits back on his knees, gazing over you with a lazy lust.

“that was even better than i imagined.” he admits to you, voice barely above a whisper.

you nod back at him weakly, feeling like a broken doll as you slowly come back to your senses. chris plops down next to you, taking you into his arms and pressing you close to his chest. you nuzzle into him, inhaling his delicious, musky scent.

he holds you close, rubbing his wide palms up and down your arms, and places a kiss on your forehead. you sigh with contentment, but a thought clouds your mind after a moment. pushing up your elbows you look at the brunette man worriedly.

“shit, i have to go, what if claire woke up, she’s probably wondering where the hell i am.” you stutter out, fear flooding your heart where desire had just been residing.

chris rubs the back of his head, eyebrows furrowed.

“i’m sure she’s still passed out, relax, baby.”

you push out of the bed, quickly grabbing your clothing tossed haphazardly onto the floor. as you dress, thoughts of claire’s reaction if she ever found out about this flood your mind.

chris sighs on the bed, shifting himself to sit on the edge. he watches you dress, appreciating the fleeting glimpse of your body as you shimmy back into your sleep t-shirt.

he stands up, reaching out to catch your wrist in his strong grip.

“sweetheart, if keeping a secret means this can happen again, you have my word. don’t worry, claire won’t find out.”

you gulp; part of you wants to accept his words without further thought, but another part of you knows just how messy this could get.

turning to face his door, your hand rests on the knob, twisting it open silently. you glance back at chris, feeling your heart soar as you remember how long you’ve waited for something like this to happen. your eyes meet his, finally able to stand under his gaze without melting into a nervous wreck.

“okay, it’s our little secret. goodnight, chris.” you whisper the last part to him and give him a small smile as you close the door behind you.

breathing in deeply, you tiptoe back towards claire’s bedroom, passing through the kitchen. you flick off the dim light as you think to yourself, emotions running rampant.

what did i get myself into…

𖥔. ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ 𖥔

The bell above Moretti’s Candy Shop jingles sharp and bright when Bucky shoulders his way inside, carrying the cold autumn air in with him.

“Trouble,” Mrs. Moretti sighs immediately from behind the counter.

Bucky grins, easy as breathing. “You say that like you ain’t happy to see me.”

“I’d be happier seein’ the ten cents you still owe me, Barnes.”

“That was one time.”

“It was three times.”

The shop smells like chocolate and sugar and roasted nuts warming beneath glass lamps. Outside, Brooklyn groans along in its usual rhythm, trolley bells, men hollering across sidewalks, kids sprinting through puddles but in here everything feels softened somehow. Golden. Like the world’s been wrapped in wax paper and tied shut with string.

Bucky leans against the counter, halfway through another smart remark when he notices you.

And just like that, the rest of the room disappears.

You’re standing near the chocolate display case with your gloves folded neatly in your hands, staring through the glass with such genuine wonder it almost knocks the grin off his face.

Not overwhelmed or indecisive, you seem almost enchanted.

Your eyes drift slowly over every row like each candy’s worth considering properly. Caramels. Peppermints. Chocolate turtles. Then your attention catches on the Whoppers display, and stays there.

He almost laughs when he follows your gaze to them.

Cute, he thinks immediately.

Girls usually notice him first. Usually there’s lipstick smiles and fluttering lashes before he’s even crossed the room. He knows what he looks like, knows how his grin lands, knows exactly how long to hold eye contact before women start leaning toward him without realizing it.

But you don’t notice him at all. You’re still staring at the candy like it might hold the secrets of the universe.

Something about that hooks into him immediately as he steps over.

“Those your favorite?”

You blink hard, startled from your thoughts, then turn toward him.

And there it is.

That little pause that every girl gives him, but this one seems different. Not because you recognize him as handsome or because you’re flustered, you just hadn’t realized anyone was speaking to you.

“Oh,” you say softly. “Yes.”

Your voice is gentler than he expected, careful around the edges.

Bucky pushes off the counter and steps closer. “Want a box?”

Your eyes widen instantly. “No, it’s quite alright, I couldn’t possibly.”

“C’mon, doll.” He flashes the smile that usually works without fail. “How could I deny such a sweet girl a sweet treat?”

He expects blushing, maybe a nervous laugh. Instead, you look genuinely conflicted over the idea of him spending money on you.

“Well that’s very kind,” you tell him honestly, “but you really don’t have to.”

Bucky stares at you for half a second, then another.

Well. That’s new.

“Mrs. Moretti,” he calls, unable to stop grinning now, “gimme a box of Whoppers before this sweetheart talks herself outta it.”

Mrs. Moretti snorts loudly but slides the candy across the counter anyway.

“And a cannoli,” Bucky adds quickly.

Your head turns toward him. “Oh, no, truly—”

“Too late.”

He pays before you can protest again, then holds the small paper bag out toward you with exaggerated politeness.

“You really got this for me?” you ask.

“Nah,” he deadpans. “Bought it for the guy behind you.”

You laugh and that sound lands somewhere directly under his ribs. Not loud or practiced. Just soft and surprised, like you hadn’t expected him to be funny.

Bucky suddenly wants to hear it again.

Outside, Brooklyn glows amber beneath the sun. Laundry lines sway overhead between brick buildings. Somewhere down the block, someone’s radio crackles out jazz muffled by static.

You take a careful bite of the cannoli as the two of you step onto the sidewalk, then immediately freeze as cream spills out the other side onto your glove.

“Oh goodness—sorry,” you murmur, horrified. “I made a mess.”

Bucky looks at you.

At the powdered sugar dusting your mouth, the cream threatening to drip onto your sleeve, the embarrassment blooming across your face over something so small.

His brain stops functioning.

“Don’t apologize,” he says immediately, a little too seriously for someone he just met ten minutes ago.

“I just—”

“It’s a cannoli,” he says, clearing his throat. “They’re uh, they're structurally unsound.”

That earns another laugh. And there it is again, that strange feeling settling low in his chest, not lust exactly but something softer than that.

You wipe at your glove carefully, still embarrassed. “I’m making quite the first impression, aren't I.”

“Oh, believe me,” Bucky mutters before he can stop himself, “you are.”

But you don’t seem to catch it. Instead, you just smile politely and continue walking beside him down the sidewalk like this is all perfectly ordinary. Like handsome men buy you candy and pastries every day.

Bucky decides almost immediately that he doesn’t want the conversation to end, so he keeps finding reasons for it not to. He points out the bakery on the corner because “their cheesecake could start a war.” He walks slower whenever you stop to admire storefronts. He offers you his arm when an old woman barrels past with a grocery cart and nearly clips your shoulder.

You take it without hesitation.

“Oh,” you say softly, looping your arm through his. “Thank you.”

Bucky glances down at your hand resting against his sleeve and his heartbeat stumbles oddly.

Usually this part’s easy. Usually flirting feels like muscle memory. Lean closer, smirk a little, call her doll in that lower voice that always works. But you accept every bit of it with such innocent sincerity that it keeps throwing him off balance.

“You always this sweet?” he asks after a while.

You nod thoughtfully. “I do like sugar, yes. But I don't get to eat to very often.”

Bucky chokes on air.

“…Jesus Christ.”

Your brows pull together. “What?”

“Nothin’, doll.”

Because clearly you think he means literal sweetness, and somehow that’s even worse, or better. He can’t tell anymore.

The afternoon stretches unexpectedly around the two of you. You wander through Brooklyn side streets while the sun lowers warm and lazy across the buildings. You stop outside record stores and flower stands and little grocers with apples stacked in wooden crates out front.

And all the while, Bucky keeps trying.

He leans too close while talking and you just look up at him attentively. He calls you doll every other sentence and you smile like you think it’s genuinely affectionate. He flashes smirks sharp enough to cut glass and you return them with polite warmth, entirely unaffected.

“You’re very nice, Mr. Barnes,” you tell him eventually.

Bucky nearly trips over the curb.

“Nice?”

“Well yes.” You glance at him earnestly. “Handsome too, but mostly nice.”

Handsome too. Mostly nice.

Bucky stares at you outright now. Your voice held no teasing lilt, no coyness, you said it like you’re discussing the weather and something inside him short-circuits completely.

Because by now he knows for a fact you have no idea what he’s doing.

“Doll,” he says slowly, “you know I’m layin’ it on thick, right?”

You blink.

“…Laying it on?”

Silence.

Then Bucky laughs so suddenly and loudly a passing couple turns to stare, not in a mocking sense but genuinely delighted. You look confused enough that it only makes him laugh harder.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, shaking his head, “you really don’t know I've been flirting you?”

“I assumed you were being friendly.”

“I am bein’ friendly.”

“That seems normal.”

“Normal?” He stares at you. “I bought you candy fifteen minutes after meetin’ you.”

“Well… yes.”

“And?”

“You seemed very determined about it.”

Bucky rubs a hand down his jaw, trying unsuccessfully to hide another grin.

This should annoy him. It should. But instead he feels strangely fascinated, like he’s spent his whole life learning one language only to discover you speak something entirely different.

“So no fella’s ever taken you out before?” he asks carefully.

“Not really.”

The answer comes without self-pity, just honesty and Bucky’s chest tightens unexpectedly.

“What d’you mean not really?”

You shrug lightly. “I suppose men don’t usually notice me that way.”

Bucky stops walking altogether, making you turn toward him curiously as he just looks at you in complete disbelief. At your soft mouth faintly lined with your lipstick, at your bright eyes, at the way strangers glance at you as they pass without you ever seeming aware of it.

“That oughta be illegal,” he mutters.

You laugh again, warm and startled and sweet enough to ruin him slowly.

Somewhere between the candy shop and the golden Brooklyn sidewalks and the way your hand still rests trustingly against his arm, Bucky realizes something unsettling, he stopped flirting for sport an hour ago. Now he’s doing it because he genuinely likes the way you smile when he speaks. Because he wants to keep hearing your laugh mingle with the evening traffic. Because watching you move through the world feels a little like standing near candlelight, soft and gentle and impossible not to lean toward.

And Bucky Barnes is not known for leaning toward things gently.

Which is how, sometime after you’ve finished your cannoli and the Whoppers box is tucked safely under your arm like it’s something fragile, you both turn a corner and run straight into trouble in the form of Steve Rogers and the rest of the Commandos.

They’re all there—loud, sprawling across the sidewalk like they own it.

“Barnes!” one of them calls immediately. “Where’ve you been?”

Then Steve sees you and something in his expression shifts instantly into knowing.

“Oh,” Steve says slowly. “Oh, that’s where.”

Bucky groans under his breath. “Don’t start.”

Another one of them whistles low. “Barnes buying candy for a girl? End times.”

Bucky, of course, straightens immediately, protective without thinking.

“Leave him alone,” you add gently, glancing between them. “He’s just being kind to me.”

The group goes quiet for half a beat, then someone mutters, “Kind?”

Steve’s mouth twitches like he’s trying very hard not to laugh. Bucky, meanwhile, stops breathing properly, because you said it so simply. Like there was no other explanation, like the idea that he might be doing anything else never even crossed your mind.

He looks at you then and it’s unfair how easy it is to forget everyone else exists when you’re standing that close.

The Commandos keep talking behind him as they walk by, but Bucky doesn’t hear a word of it anymore.

All he hears is the soft cadence of your voice still echoing in his head.

Just being kind to me.

That word lands heavier than anything else today. Kinder than flirtation, kinder than charm, kinder than every practiced thing he’s ever used to get someone to look at him twice. He realizes, with faint shock, that he wants to be that to you. Not some impressive or smooth flirt, just kind.

Eventually Steve clears his throat loudly from behind you. “You walkin’ her home, Barnes, or standin’ there makin’ heart eyes in the middle of the sidewalk?”

“I am absolutely not makin’ heart eyes,” Bucky says automatically.

You glance up at him and his words die immediately.

“…We’re walkin’,” he finishes weakly.

“Good,” Steve says, already grinning. “Try not to break anything on the way.”

Bucky flips him off without looking away from you.

You don’t seem to notice the tension at all. Just adjust your grip on the candy box and smile faintly like this is still just a normal afternoon walk, and somehow that makes everything worse.

The walk to your building takes longer than it should.

Bucky slows down without meaning to and you match him perfectly.

Brooklyn shifts around you in its usual evening rhythm, windows glowing warm, radios humming behind curtains, the smell of dinner drifting out of open doors but between the two of you everything feels strangely contained.

“I had a very nice time today,” you say eventually, glancing up at him.

Bucky swallows. “Yeah?”

“You’re very kind.”

That word again.

It hits him harder this time, right in the center of his chest. He looks away for half a second, jaw tightening slightly like he’s trying to figure out how to respond to something he’s never been called before in a way that mattered.

“Kind,” he repeats quietly, like he's testing whether he deserves it.

You stop in front of your apartment building steps as the streetlamp above flickers softly, casting gold light over your face. For a moment neither of you moves, then Bucky shifts, suddenly more uncertain than he’s been all day.

“Can I ask you somethin’?”

“Of course,” you answer immediately.

He hesitates, this is the part where he usually knows exactly what to say, instead, he feels seventeen different versions of himself arguing at once. He steps closer without thinking, seemingly too close, making your breath catch faintly.

He notices it immediately, the tiny shift in your posture, the nervousness flickering across your face. You’re not used to this part. The closeness, the intention that comes with it.

“Sorry,” he says softer, almost immediately stepping back half an inch like he’s correcting a mistake he didn’t want to make, “I uh—.”

You exhale quietly, watching as Bucky drags a hand through his hair, looking away for a second like he’s regrouping. Then, carefully he speaks up.

“Can I do this properly?”

You blink. “Properly?”

He looks back at you then, all teasing gone for a moment.

“Can I take you out tomorrow night?”

Your eyes widen slightly.

“…Like a date?”

“Yeah,” he says, a little quieter now. “Like a date.”

You look at him for a long moment, then your smile returns—small, but real.

“I think I’d like that very much.”

Something in Bucky’s chest loosens all at once, like a knot he didn’t know he was holding.

“Yeah?” he asks, almost stupidly.

You nod and that’s it, that’s all it takes. Bucky steps back, already grinning like he’s lost all sense of self-preservation.

“Tomorrow,” he says, pointing at you like he’s making a promise he fully intends to keep, “I’m pickin’ you up at seven.”

“I’ll be ready,” you reply softly.

He turns to leave, walking backwards for a second because he can’t quite make himself stop looking at you. Then he finally turns around properly after you give him a soft wave goodbye, and immediately starts grinning wider.

The Commandos are still waiting down the street when he finds them. Steve takes one look at his face and sighs.

“Oh no.”

Bucky doesn’t even try to hide it. He shoves his hands in his pockets, still smiling like an idiot.

“Fellas,” he says lightly, “I’m in serious trouble.”

Bucky doesn’t sleep much that night, at least not properly.

He lies on his back staring at the ceiling, replaying the day in fragments he can’t seem to organize into anything sensible. Your voice, your laugh. The way you looked at candy like it was something magical. And worse than all of it, powdered sugar on your mouth, cannoli cream on your lips and the way you’d apologized for it like it was a crime.

He turns onto his side, groans into his pillow, then sits up like the bed has personally betrayed him.

“Get it together,” he mutters to himself.

But the problem is… he is together.

That’s the issue. He just isn’t used to what it feels like when someone looks at him like he’s safe instead of interesting. So in the morning, Bucky Barnes does the only thing he can think to do, be a man of his word.

He decides to do it properly.

No shortcuts, no charm tricks, no easy grin and leaned-in confidence.

A real date.

Which is how Steve finds him hunched over a small, slightly chaotic pile of wildflowers behind a Brooklyn fence line.

“Are you pickin’ flowers now?” Steve asks flatly.

Bucky doesn’t look up. “Shut up.”

Steve leans against the fence post, arms crossed. “That for the girl?”

“Yes.”

“You know you could just buy ‘em like a normal person.”

“I don’t have money right now for fancy bouquets.”

“That’s not the point.”

Bucky finally straightens, holding the uneven bundle like it might fall apart if he breathes wrong. “It is to me.”

Steve studies him for a long moment, something softer flickering beneath the teasing.

Then he sighs. “You’re in trouble, pal.”

Bucky huffs. “Yeah. I said that already.”

But he doesn’t feel like running from it, not even a little.

By the time evening rolls around, he’s checked his reflection in every shop window he passes twice. He fixes his tie, adjusts his jacket, runs a hand through his hair, then immediately second-guesses it and smooths it back down again. The flowers are wrapped in paper he stole, respectfully stole, from a corner stand. They’re not perfect, a few stems are uneven, one bloom is slightly bent.

He hopes they’re enough.

Outside your building, Bucky pauses as he exhales once. Then knocks.

When the door opens, everything inside him stops. You’re standing there in soft light, hair pinned back neatly, expression shifting the moment you see him. And you light up like it’s involuntary.

Bucky forgets how to breathe for a second.

“Hi,” you say, smiling.

“Hi,” he manages back.

Then he lifts the flowers slightly, suddenly unsure of everything in the universe.

“Those are for me?” you ask, voice soft with surprise.

“Unless your neighbor’s awful pretty,” he says automatically.

You laugh, stepping forward immediately to take them.

“They’re beautiful,” you murmur, already burying your nose in them gently. “Oh… and they smell wonderful.”

Bucky watches you like he’s forgotten how to look anywhere else.

“I, uh,” he starts, then clears his throat. “Yeah. Picked ‘em myself.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

Your smile softens in a way that makes him feel strangely proud.

“I’ll find a jar,” you say quickly. “Wait just a moment.”

You disappear inside, flowers clutched carefully to your chest like they’re something priceless. Bucky stays standing there in the doorway slightly stunned. He hears movement inside, cabinet doors opening, water running, your quiet little hum as you arrange them.

He doesn’t realize he’s smiling until his cheeks start to hurt.

Before you leave, your sister appears briefly in the hallway. Older, sharper-eyed. The kind of woman who looks like she’s already decided what kind of trouble someone is before they speak.

Her gaze lands on Bucky immediately.

“Bucky Barnes?” she asks.

He straightens instinctively. “Yes, ma’am.”

She looks him over once then turns to you.

“Can I talk to you for a second?”

You hesitate. “Of course.”

She pulls you aside just enough that Bucky can’t hear everything, but not enough that he doesn’t feel it. Her voice is lower when she speaks.

“Be careful." She says.

You blink. “What?”

“Boys like him don't settle down. Sure he’s charming and handsome, but he's just a sweet talker.” Her mouth tightens. “He just wants a good time, so don’t go getting your hopes up.”

Bucky can’t hear the exact words, but he sees your expression shift slightly and something in his stomach turns uneasy.

When you return, you’re still smiling—but quieter now, careful in a way you weren’t before.

“Ready?” you ask him.

“Yeah,” he says, though his voice comes out softer than he means it to.

Dinner settles into something Bucky doesn’t recognize at first.

It’s quiet.

Not empty, but softened around the edges like the whole world has decided to behave itself for once. Soft jazz drifts from somewhere near the ceiling, curling through candlelight and clinking silverware. The room hums with conversation that never quite reaches your table.

And for the first time all day, Bucky Barnes isn’t scanning anything. His eyes aren't darting around the room looking for exits or other women, something quick to catch his attention.

Just you.

You, sitting across from him with your hands wrapped around a glass of water like it’s something grounding. You, talking in that gentle, thoughtful way of yours that keeps catching him off guard. He realizes halfway through your story about your aunt’s ridiculous attempt at baking bread that he hasn’t looked away once.

Not once. And maybe worse, he doesn’t want to.

You laugh at your own memory, shaking your head slightly. “It was practically a brick. We had to slice it with a knife meant for meat.”

Bucky smiles without thinking. “Sounds dangerous.”

“It was emotionally damaging.”

That makes him laugh for real.

And then you smile back at him, that small, bright, effortless smile and something in his chest shifts again. Because he likes this, not the performance of him, not the usual rhythm of charm and response and winning someone over. He likes this.

You talking, rambling softly when you get comfortable, pausing like you’re thinking too hard before continuing anyway. And every time you say his name, Bucky, like it’s just another word instead of something that usually comes wrapped in attention and expectation he feels it settle somewhere warm and unfamiliar.

Bucky Barnes, who usually knows exactly what he’s doing with people, finds himself doing something far more dangerous, imagining. Not in a loud way. In quiet flashes between bites of food and sips of coffee, a small bouquet of flowers on a table that isn’t a restaurant, you at a kitchen counter, hair slightly messy, laughing at something he said. A door opening at the end of a long day and you looking up like it matters that he came home.

He shifts slightly in his seat, almost like the thought physically disorients him.

Impossible things.

And yet they come anyway.

After dinner, the night pulls the two of you deeper into Brooklyn’s glow. Neon signs flicker awake, streetlamps paint everything gold and blue. Somewhere down the block, music spills out of a club like a living thing.

“You seen the new picture show over on Fulton?” Bucky asks as you walk.

You shake your head. “No.”

“Then you’re goin’.”

You glance up at him. “Is that an order?”

“Absolutely.”

You laugh softly, like you’re still not used to how easily he says things like that. The theater is older with slightly worn velvet seats, the faint smell of popcorn and wood polish, flickering light that makes everything feel softer than it should. Bucky buys the tickets without hesitation, you try to argue but he ignores you in the best way possible.

Inside, you sit close but not touching. Close enough that he’s aware of you constantly, that every small movement you make registers like it matters.

Halfway through the film, something changes on screen, the lights dim all soft and emotional, the kind of scene that doesn’t need words. He feels you go still beside him and when he glances over, your eyes are glossy in the dim light.

You’re trying to be subtle about it. You are not succeeding.

Bucky doesn’t say anything, just reaches into his pocket slowly and pulls out his handkerchief and without a word, gently offers it toward you.

You turn toward him and for a moment, neither of you moves. Then you take it carefully, fingers brushing his and in the dark, you smile at him softly. Like he did something important without realizing it. Bucky looks back at the screen, but he doesn’t see it anymore, he just feels the moment settle between you like something fragile and real. And he never wants it to end.

The picture ends on a cliffhanger that has the whole theater groaning as the lights flick back on. Outside, the city opens up again. Cool night air, bright lights reflecting off wet pavement. The distant echo of music from clubs and cafés and street corners all blending into one living rhythm.

You walk beside him slowly, a little quieter now that the night has come to its end.

Bucky notices.

He glances down at you. “You alright?”

You nod. “Yes. It was… very nice.”

“Yeah?”

You smile faintly. “You’re very kind.”

That word again.

Kind.

It lands differently now. He doesn’t know why, maybe it’s the way you say it like it still surprises you, like it still feels new. Bucky opens his mouth to respond, but you stop walking. You've tried to fight it all night, tried to push the words far back into your head. But everything feels like a double edged sword, and if you don't do something now, you'll both get cut.

“I just…” you start softly, then hesitate.

He turns toward you fully.

You look down at your hands. “You really don’t have to pretend with me.”

Bucky blinks. “Pretend?”

You glance up, nervous now. “I know boys like you don’t mean anything by this sort of thing.”

Silence. It drops so fast it almost feels physical.

Bucky stares at you and for the first time all day, his expression isn’t teasing or amused or carefully controlled. It’s hurt, deep, immediate and unmistakably hurt.

“Boys like me?” he repeats slowly.

You realize instantly something is wrong.

“I didn’t mean— I just meant—”

He gestures vaguely between the flowers, the dinner, the theater still glowing behind you both.

“You think I do this with every girl?”

Your mouth opens, then closes again. Because you don’t know, you just assumed, because your sister said he’s Bucky Barnes and people talk about him like they know him before he even speaks.

“Sweetheart,” he says quieter now, but sharper in a different way, “I picked those flowers myself.”

You freeze and he exhales through his nose, looking away for a second like he’s trying to steady something in himself.

“I ain’t ever done this before,” he admits. “Not like this.”

That hits harder than anything else tonight, you stare at him now, like you’re recalibrating something you thought you understood.

“But everyone says—” you start.

“Yeah. I know what everyone says.” Bucky cuts in immediately, voice low. "But I only do this unless I mean it."

The street hums around you both, cars pass by, music drifts on the wind, lights flicker in the distance. But between the two of you, everything feels suddenly suspended. The silence doesn’t leave right away, it just changes shape. It stretches between you and Bucky in the middle of the sidewalk, softened only by passing headlights and the distant laugh of strangers who don’t know they’re walking through something fragile.

Bucky doesn’t look away from you.

I don’t do this unless I mean it.

It should’ve sounded smooth and confident. Instead it just sounds… exposed. Because the truth of it sits heavier now that it’s out in the open. He watches your face carefully, like he’s waiting for you to decide something about him, and for the first time all day, he realizes that matters. Not casually, not in the way flirting usually matters, but in a way that sits deep under his ribs and doesn’t move.

Your expression is quiet, thoughtful in that way you get when you’re trying to understand something honestly. He swallows once, then looks away briefly like the night air might help him think straighter, but it doesn’t.

It only makes everything quieter.

“I don’t like that,” he says finally.

You blink. “What?”

He gestures vaguely, frustration threading through his voice now—not at you, but at something older.

“What they say. About me.”

You don’t interrupt, you just listen and that alone is enough to make his chest tighten. Bucky exhales slowly, because this is new for him too. Saying it, not laughing it off, not playing it into something charming.

“People think they’ve got me figured out,” he says. “Think I just—” he huffs a short laugh without humor, “—go around Brooklyn collecting girls like it’s nothin’.”

His jaw tightens slightly.

“And maybe I used to let ‘em think that.”

That lands differently in the air between you.

“But I’m tired of it,” he says quietly.

Bucky continues before he can talk himself out of it.

“Tired of it all blurring together,” he admits. “Tired of it not meaning anything.”

His eyes flick over your face again, more careful now, more intentional.

“And I think…” He hesitates, like the next part is the hardest thing he’s said all night. “I think I’m tired of not being taken seriously.”

That one settles heavier. You don’t speak yet. So he keeps going, because stopping now feels impossible.

“Maybe I don’t wanna be that guy anymore.” His voice drops slightly.

That guy. The one people assume things about, the one who never stays, the one who never gets understood correctly because no one bothers to look twice. The words hang there, raw and unpolished.

You shift slightly on your feet and when you finally speak, your voice is soft.

“What kind of guy do you want to be then?”

Bucky stills.

That question shouldn’t hit as hard as it does, but it does, the way you asked him like you really want to know, the way your eyes never leave his as he looks at you. The city lights catch your face in soft gold and shadow, painting the curve of your cheekbones, the faint red of your lips still slightly brighter from the theater lights, the way you stand there holding his honesty like it’s something you’re willing to carry for a moment without dropping it.

And something inside him clicks. Like a door deciding it’s been open long enough to let something new inside. Bucky takes a slow breath, then another and when he speaks again, his voice is quieter than before.

“The guy,” he says, nodding faintly toward you like the answer has been standing in front of him all night, “that gets to do this with you every night for the rest of my life.”

Silence falls again, but this one is different. It isn’t heavy or tense. It feels like something settling into place that neither of you fully understands yet, but neither of you wants to move away from.

Bucky doesn’t smile, not yet. He just watches you carefully, like he’s waiting to see if he’s gone too far. If he’s said too much, if the version of him he’s choosing now is one you can stand to look at. And for the first time since he met you in that candy shop, James Buchanan Barnes isn’t trying to win anything.

He’s just waiting.

For you.

"I think I'd like that."

Two months don’t feel like two months to Bucky Barnes.

They feel like a rhythm he accidentally fell into and never bothered climbing out of. Mornings start with the same thought: What time can I see her? Evenings end with the same realization: Not long enough. And everything in between just becomes space he has to get through.

He shows up at your apartment more often than he means to. Not in a dramatic way, just like he happened to be nearby. Which is a lie, he crosses half of Brooklyn for it.

“Bucky,” you’d say sometimes, opening the door already smiling, “you live nowhere near here.”

He’d shrug like it doesn’t matter. “Was in the neighborhood.”

“You were in the neighborhood three days in a row?”

“Brooklyn’s a big place, doll.”

You’d just laugh and let him in.

And that’s the problem. You always let him in.

Diners become routine. Milkshakes split between two straws that you pretend not to notice he always lets you have the first sip of. Walks that start with him offering his arm and end with your hand still resting there long after it’s necessary. Movie nights where you lean slightly closer each time you get nervous during a scene, and Bucky pretends he doesn’t notice how carefully you do it. Flowers every week. Sometimes wild. Sometimes bought if he could pinch it. Sometimes just picked from somewhere he absolutely shouldn’t have been picking flowers.

You always put them in a jar immediately. Always smile like they matter. And Bucky changes without noticing, he stops looking at other women entirely, not because he’s forcing himself not to.

Because he just… doesn’t see them the same way anymore. Not when you exist in his world now, softening all the edges.

Steve notices first, then the Commandos, then basically anyone who’s ever known him longer than five minutes.

“You’re smiling more,” Steve says once, watching him across a table.

“I always smile.”

“No,” Steve says, “you don’t.”

Bucky just shrugs. Because what’s he supposed to say? That he likes the way you say his name like it’s something you trust? That he’s started thinking about ridiculous things like whether you’d like a porch someday, or a kitchen with too much sunlight, or a life where he doesn’t leave as often as he does?

He doesn’t say any of it, but it’s there anyway.

Tonight, he’s early.

Which is stupid, because he’s always early now. He’s at the bar having a drink and smoke with the Commandos, but he’s not really with them.

He’s angled toward the door, elbow on the counter, sleeves already adjusted three times, hair smoothed back once, then twice, then abandoned entirely because it keeps falling anyway as Steve watches him with growing disbelief.

“You’re worse than a kid waiting for Christmas,” Steve mutters.

Bucky doesn’t look away from the door. “Shut up.”

“You’ve checked that door eight times in five minutes.”

“It might’ve changed since the last time I looked.”

“Bucky.”

“I’m busy.”

The door opens and he straightens instantly. Not you. His shoulders drop a fraction as he sits back down.

The teasing starts almost immediately.

“Two months huh?” one of them says, grinning. “This one’s got it bad.”

“Must be real good if Barnes is still around.”

“You finally settle down?”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but there’s a stupid softness to his mouth that gives him away immediately.

“Knock it off.”

The laughter builds.

“What’s the catch, Barnes?”

“C’mon, what are you gettin’ out of this?”

“Ain’t no way you’re behaving this long without somethin’ in return.”

Bucky exhales, finally turning fully toward them and for once, he doesn’t joke. Not even a little.

“Nothing’s happened between us yet.”

The table goes quiet. A beat. Then howling ensures.

“You’re kiddin’.”

“Celibate Bucky Barnes?”

“I never thought I’d live to see the day.”

Someone nearly chokes on their drink.

Bucky shrugs slightly, like it’s not a big deal, but his voice goes quieter when he adds on.

“I like her.”

That shuts them up for half a second longer.

“I don’t wanna mess it up,” he says, “by goin’ in headfirst.”

And just like that, the teasing explodes again.

“Look at him.”

“He’s gone.”

“Man’s fighting for his life.”

“You hear this? Barnes is soft.”

Bucky laughs under his breath despite himself, shaking his head.

“Yeah, yeah—laugh it up.”

And that’s when it happens, the door opens again, Bucky doesn’t look right away still half-laughing, still mid-protest, then he hears the sound of the room shifting slightly.

Someone going quiet and he turns. You’re standing just inside holding your bag, still in your coat and completely still. Not smiling, not walking toward him. Just listening. For a second, Bucky doesn’t understand then he sees it. Your expression. Something flickering there, uncertainty, confusion, something tightening at the edges of your face like you’ve just heard something you weren’t meant to.

His smile fades immediately.

“Hey,” he starts, already pushing his chair back.

But you don’t come closer. You take one step back instead, then another, quiet and careful.

“Doll—” Bucky stands fully now.

But you’re already turning to leave, the door swings open, and you’re gone. He’s out of the bar so fast it barely feels like a decision. Brooklyn air hits him like a slap, cold, sharp, and real and for a second he just stands there, scanning the sidewalk like the world might give you back if he looks hard enough.

“Doll?” he calls.

Nothing.

“Hi.”

He turns.

You’re a few steps down the sidewalk, hugging your coat tightly around yourself like you’re trying to hold yourself together with it. Streetlight catches your face in soft gold, but it doesn’t soften the expression there.

Not really.

Bucky’s chest tightens immediately.

He crosses the space between you in a few quick steps. “Hey—no, hey, listen to me,” he says, already shaking his head like he can undo whatever just happened inside by sheer force of will. “Don’t listen to those idiots in there. They don’t know when to shut up.”

Your gaze flickers up to him, then away again just as fast.

“It’s alright,” you say softly. “Really.”

But it isn’t alright, not in the way he knows you mean.

Because your arms are wrapped around yourself too tightly. Because your smile is there, but it doesn’t reach anything. Because you look like you’re already somewhere farther away than the sidewalk you’re standing on.

And Bucky notices everything, too much, sometimes.

“Hey,” he says again, quieter now. “You ready to go?”

A pause.

“…Yeah.”

That’s it.

No teasing, no warmth, no easy rhythm. Just agreement, and it scares him more than anything else tonight.

It's all wrong.

That’s the only way Bucky can think to describe it. Brooklyn is still alive around you, windows glowing, distant laughter, the low hum of traffic, but between you and him there’s a silence that feels heavy instead of soft. He walks slower than usual without realizing it. You don’t take his arm, but your hand finds his anyway just barely. Just fingers brushing, then settling.

Bucky holds it like it’s something fragile.

He keeps glancing at you, waiting for you to look back, you don’t. You’re staring down at your joined hands instead, like you’re trying to figure something out in them. And your thoughts, if he could hear them, would be too loud.

Maybe your sister was right.

Maybe this was always going somewhere you don’t belong.

Maybe he’s just being patient because eventually he’ll expect more.

And maybe you’re already disappointing him.

Bucky doesn’t say anything. Because something about your silence tells him words might break whatever thread is holding you upright right now. So he just walks you home, step by step, closer than usual and quieter than ever.

By the time your building comes into view, something in you has tightened so much it feels like it might snap.

You stop walking, Bucky stops immediately with you.

“Buck…” your voice is barely above the street noise.

“Yeah?” He turns toward you fully.

You swallow hard. “Maybe… we shouldn’t do this anymore.”

Everything stops. Bucky freezes completely, like the words physically catch him mid-step.

“What?” he says, but it’s not sharp, more confused than anything.

You look down, finally letting go of his hand so slowly, like it costs you something.

“I don’t think I’m good for you,” you say.

That lands harder than anything else tonight. Bucky stares at you like he’s trying to understand a language he thought he already knew.

“Sweetheart,” he says slowly, “where is this comin’ from?”

You shake your head slightly, still not meeting his eyes.

“You deserve someone who can make you happy,” you say. “Someone better.”

Bucky lets out a short breath like he can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“That’s not—no,” he says immediately, stepping half a step closer before stopping himself. “No, that’s not how this works.”

You finally look up at him and whatever he sees there makes his voice soften instantly. Because you look scared. Not of him but of yourself.

“You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he says, like it should be obvious.

You blink, once, then again. And then it spills out of you before you can stop it.

“I can’t make you happy, Buck,” you say, voice cracking slightly. “I can’t give you what you want, I can’t—I can’t… make you feel good.”

Silence hits again, but this time, Bucky understands exactly where it came from. His expression changes all at once, his frustration disappears, his confusion sharpens into something quieter. Something knowing as the pieces fall into place.

The Commandos. The bar. The teasing.

“Oh,” he says softly. “Babydoll…”

The way he says it now is different.

“I want you,” he says gently. “I’m happy with you just like this. None of that matters to me anymore, okay?”

Your breath shakes slightly but you don’t look convinced. Instead, something inside you finally breaks open.

“Well it matters to me!” you burst out, voice suddenly raw. “I want to, I just—I don’t know how. And I'm scared you're going to leave just because I’ve never—”

You stop but it's too late. Bucky goes completely still and everything clicks into place so fast it almost hurts. Why you flinch sometimes when he gets too close. Why you always hesitate before a kiss even when you want them. Why you look like you’re bracing for something you think you’re supposed to be able to give.

Why you’re standing here right now looking ashamed of something you never should’ve had to explain.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “You’re okay.”

Your eyes are glossy now, but you’re still trying to hold it together. Bucky doesn’t move closer doesn’t rush you. Just stays right where he is so you don’t feel cornered.

“Your parents home?” he asks softly.

You blink, thrown slightly by the question.

“What? Oh… no. They went to my sister’s ballet recital. They won’t be back until later.”

Bucky nods once then gives you a small, warm smile and gently threads his fingers through yours.

“C’mon,” he says quietly, squeezing your hand just once, just enough to ground you. “Let’s go talk inside.”

Inside your apartment, everything feels quieter in a different way.

Not the heavy silence from outside but something softer, contained with warmth between you. You close the door behind Bucky like you’re sealing the world out, then immediately seem to remember yourself again, nervous energy flickering back in.

“Okay,” you say quickly, brushing a hand over your sleeve. “Um—this is the living room. Obviously. And that’s the kitchen, and—”

Bucky just watches you, following your voice like it’s something grounding. You move a little faster now, pointing things out like you need the space filled with words so you don’t have to think too hard about anything else.

“This is my mother’s glass cabinet, don’t touch that one, she’ll know, and—oh.”

You stop because Bucky is already in the kitchen holding two small glasses, and the apple brandy bottle.

He glances over his shoulder innocently. “What?”

You blink. “Bucky.”

He raises a brow. “What?”

“That’s my mother’s.”

“I know.”

“You can’t just—”

“I can,” he says simply, already pouring.

You let out a sound of disbelief. “You are unbelievable.”

He slides one glass toward you. “Relax, doll. I’ll replace it.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It is tonight.”

You stare at him for a second longer, then sigh, like you’ve decided arguing with him is pointless.

“Fine,” you say. “But you’re explaining this to her if she notices.”

“Deal.”

You hesitate, then take the glass anyway. That alone makes something in his chest ease.

You lead him toward your bedroom after that, slower now, more uncertain at the edges. Not running anymore, just settling. The room is small. Warm and lived in. A book on your bedside table, a folded sweater on the chair, soft lamplight that makes everything feel like it belongs only to you.

Bucky doesn’t sit right away. He just leans against the dresser, watching as you set your glass down carefully like you’re still trying to figure out what this moment is supposed to be.

You take a sip, then another. Waiting until your chest grows warm.

“I'm sorry about earlier,” you say quietly.

Bucky’s expression softens immediately. “What?”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the glass.

“I’ve… never done any of this before.” You glance up at him, cheeks warm now. “I mean—anything like this. Dating. Being… like this with someone.”

Silence stretches gently. Then, more spills out, almost like you need to get it out before you lose courage.

“And you were my first kiss.”

Bucky goes still in a way that isn’t shock, it’s something gentler and more careful. You rush on quickly, as if afraid of what the truth might do in the open air.

“I just thought you should know. In case I’m—awkward. Or—”

“Hey,” he cuts in softly as he pushes off the dresser and steps closer, slow enough that you can stop him if you want to.

You don’t.

“Look at me,” he says gently.

You do and his expression is steady now. No teasing anywhere in it.

"You don't ever have to apologize to me. For anything."

“I like you a lot, Bucky,” you say suddenly, like it’s been sitting in you too long to hold back anymore.

Something in his face shifts immediately, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“I like you too, babydoll,” he says quietly.

Your breath catches.

You swallow. “I can’t promise it’ll be any good but—”

Bucky doesn’t let you finish, he leans in and kisses you. It's not rushed or demanding, just soft and gentle. Like he’s waiting for you the entire time, making sure you’re still there with him, still okay, still choosing this. When he pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you, your eyes are wide.

“Don’t…” he whispers, “don’t say that.”

You pause, slightly stunned by the kiss. “Okay.”

A beat, then, softer:

“Can I kiss you again?”

You hesitate only a second then nod.

This time, when he kisses you, it’s a little less uncertain, still gentle and patient. But warmer now, like something between you is finally starting to trust the moment instead of question it. He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t push for anything more he just stays close enough that you can decide how much you want.

And eventually, you do loosen up slowly. Like your shoulders finally remember they don’t have to stay tight. You laugh a little under your breath at something he mumbles against your lips, and he smiles against you in response. When you pull back again slightly, breath uneven, he rests his forehead briefly against yours.

“That okay?” he asks softly.

You nod again, then your voice goes quieter.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“I do,” he says gently.

You huff a soft laugh. “That’s not really comforting.”

“It should be,” he replies, a hint of warmth returning. “I’m real good at not rushin’ things.”

And he is, he stays exactly where you need him to, no pressure behind his precense. Eventually, you end up sitting on the edge of your bed together, close enough that your shoulders brush. Your glass is forgotten somewhere on the nightstand and Bucky’s hand finds yours again without thinking.

"I want to try…" you can't make the words out with a deep red blush crossing your face. "And I trust you."

"Good." Bucky hums, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek. "We'll go slow."

When you shift slightly closer, he lets you guide the space between you, like learning something new together instead of taking anything from you. When your nose brushes his, you tug lightly at your sleeve, suddenly self-conscious.

“I feel like I should be… more dressed for this,” you admit quietly. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be wearing.”

Bucky looks at you like the question itself doesn’t make sense then he shakes his head slightly.

“Doll,” he says softly, “you could be wearing a potato sack and it wouldn’t matter.”

You blink at him as he leans in just a little, brushing a gentle kiss to your knuckles.

“Just you,” he says quietly. “That’s all I need.”

You nod as he kisses you again. The kiss started slow, almost hesitant, but the moment Bucky’s hand cupped your jaw, tilting your head just so, it deepened into something more. You'd heard of desire in life, how it can warp the thoughts and actions of even the most resilient. But this, this burning ebb and flow deep within you was something else entirely. It had to be. It was as if a switch flipped inside you, your body felt magnetized to his, pushing closer and closer until there wasn't an inch of space between you.

His lips were warm, insistent, and when he pulled back just enough to murmur against your mouth. "Can I touch you?" 

You could only nod as his fingers traced a slow path down your thigh, the fabric of your dress bunching under his palm as he slid higher, his thumb brushing bare skin. You shivered, arching into him, your hands clutching at his shirt yearning for more.

Bucky smirked, catching your wrist. "Go ahead," he murmurs, guiding your hand down his chest.

Your thumb slipped beneath his shirt, your breath hitching at the hard planes of muscle beneath your fingertips. He was lean but solid, every ridge of his abdomen making your pulse jump.

His lips were still on yours when his fingers returned, teasing the damp fabric of your panties again. “Already this wet for me?” he mutters, voice rough against your mouth. “God, I can feel how hot you are through these.”

You whimper, arching into his touch. “Please, just—”

“Just what, sweetheart?” His thumb presses harder, circling your clit through the silk. “Tell me what you want.”

You gasp, fingers tightening in his hair. “Touch me properly—God, Bucky—”

“That’s it,” he growls, hooking his fingers under the waistband, dragging them aside. The first slow stroke of his fingers through your slickness drew a choked moan from your throat.

“Fuck, you’re dripping.” He drags his fingers up, pressing them to your lips. “Taste.”

You sucked them into your mouth, eyes locked on his as you licked them clean, and the groan that ripped from his chest was filthy.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, sliding two fingers back inside you, curling them just right. “Love how tight you are, how you squeeze me.” His thumb circles you clit faster. “Gonna cum already? That quick?”

You couldn’t answer, nails biting into his shoulder as pleasure coiled tighter, sharper.

“That’s it,” he urges, voice dark with praise. “Cum on my fingers, let me feel it babydoll.”

Your hips jerk as you shatter, his name a broken moan on your lips. He didn’t stop, fingers still working you through it until you were gasping, oversensitive and trembling.

He didn’t let you catch your breath just yet, licking his fingers clean before hauling you to the edge of the bed. One leg hooked over his shoulder, his mouth hot and relentless between your thighs, tongue lapping at your oversensitive clit.

“One more,” he murmurs, lips brushing your thigh. “Bet you can take it.”

Bucky wraps an arm around you, splaying his wide hand across your stomach, sinking his tongue into the slit of your cunt, curling it before going back to flick your clit. He groans against you, muffled by your skin as his free hand comes up, the pads of his fingers pressing into you.

"So fucking good babydoll," he groans as he feels you rock against his lips and fingers. "Bein' such a good girl for me."

The pressure coils tight inside you, your chest rapidly rising as your words are reduced into nothing but messy mumbles of 'Bucky' and 'Please'. He doubles down on his efforts, closing his lips around your clit as he arches and scissors his fingers inside you, his eyes locked up on you as he watches you crest over your high. Back arching off the bed as your thighs clench on the sides of his head, trapping him right where he wants to be. He brings you down with a gentle kiss to your pulsing clit, easing his fingers out and licking them clean.

"That was so much better... than I ever thought," you pant, still trembling from the aftershocks of your orgasm. Bucky hums against your inner thigh, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses along your skin. His tongue flicks lightly over your oversensitive clit, just enough to make your hips jerk.

"Mm, you thought about this?" His voice is low, rough with amusement. "My sweet girl thinking dirty thoughts? Thinking about what it’s like to be touched, licked, 'nd fucked?"

You whimper as he teases you again, the words alone sending another shudder through you. His fingers stroke slow circles on your thighs, gentle but possessive.

"Tell me," he murmurs. "Tell me what else you imagined."

You barely have time to answer before his mouth is on you again, licking and sucking just right, his fingers curling inside you with practiced ease. The pleasure builds too fast, too much at once and you're cumming all over again, rolling through you in deep, relentless waves.

When it finally eases, you’re boneless, breathless, but still aching for more. A deep and burning need simmering just under the surface of your skin. "Bucky," you plead, voice raw. "Please."

He kisses his way up your body, slow and deliberate, before finally pulling back just enough to strip off the rest of his clothes. The sight of him, all hard muscle and dark hunger makes your pulse jump.

"Condom?" he murmured, fingers tracing the soft curve of your stomach.

You still, then hum to yourself. "Oh. I don’t have any."

"Shit," he breathes, biting his lip. "Do you think your sister has any hidden, or maybe your—"

"We don’t…" Your voice drops, gentle now. "I mean, if you’re okay with it… we don’t have to."

He goes utterly still above you, his pulse hammering under your fingertips. "You sure, doll? Docs say I'm clean as a whistle," he murmurs, brushing a thumb over your cheek.

"But I don’t wanna rush you into anything."

Your thighs press together instinctively, already aching again, needing more. "I’m sure, Buck. I trust you." You hesitate, then whisper, "And you can… pull out. If you want to."

A slow grin spreads across his face at your shyness, even as the hunger in his eyes burns hotter. "Okay, babydoll."

He kisses you again, deep and slow, one hand cradling your jaw like you’re something precious while the other guides himself between your legs. There’s no rush, just the thick press of him stretching you open inch by inch, his lips never leaving yours until he’s fully sheathed inside.

"Good?" he rasps against your mouth.

You can only nod, nails digging into his shoulders as he starts moving in long, unhurried thrusts that make your back arch off the bed. He licks into your mouth as his hips roll into yours, one hand sliding down to rub tight circles on your clit until you’re gasping, teetering on the edge. Every stroke hitting something deep within you that you didn't even know existed. A quick addiction began inside of you, something you wanted to never end.

Obscene sounds filled the room, the air thick with something sweet and warm and needy. Your hands never left his back, digging half crescents into his skin as you pleaded for more.

Then he stops.

You whimper in protest, but he’s already shifting, pulling out just enough to drag you onto your side. One of your legs hooks over his shoulder as he leans back, changing the angle completely. The first thrust punches a moan from your throat, it's all so much deeper now, his grip tightening on your thigh as he fucks into you with slow, deliberate rolls of his hips.

"Fuck," he grits out. "You take me so damn good."

Your hips rise to meet his thrusts, desperate for more, and the way your body clenches around him nearly makes Bucky lose it. His rhythm falters, a groan ripping from his throat. 

"Fuck—you get so tight when I fuck you like this." He leans back just enough to let his gaze drop between you, his cock glistening with your slick as he drives into you again.  "Go on, baby, look at it. You see that? Not a virgin anymore. Now you're all mine—you and this sweet pussy."

You're drowning in pleasure, barely coherent, but one word claws its way out of your throat.

"Harder."

Bucky obliges immediately, his thrusts snapping into you, the slap of skin echoing in the room. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to bruise, his breath coming in ragged bursts. 

"Mm, wonder how I should give you your first load," he growls, voice thick with lust. "Should I pull out and paint that soft tummy? Or maybe these tits?" 

He palms your breast roughly, thumb flicking over your nipple. "Maybe I should put you on your knees and cum all over your pretty face—"

"No!" You tighten your legs around him, pulling him deeper with a frantic whimper. "Please—"

He chuckles darkly, sinking into you fully with a satisfied groan. "What, you want it inside?" 

His next thrust is punishing, forcing a broken moan from your lips. "Sweet little pussy’s never been fucked before, and now she wants to be filled too?" His hand slides down to grip your ass, tilting your hips just right. "Greedy little thing."

You can only nod helplessly, your body wound tight around him, clenching and begging as Bucky fucks you toward over edge all over again. Even after he spills inside you, Bucky can't stop, won't stop, his hips grinding slow and filthy, milking every last drop deep into your fluttering cunt. His hands slide under your knees, folding you nearly in half, pressing your thighs toward her chest until you're spread obscenely open.

"Fuck, still so tight," he growls, watching where you're joined—his cock still buried to the hilt, your pussy dripping around him. "Touch yourself. Wanna feel you come again while I'm still inside you."

Your fingers shake as you rub frantic circles over your clit, oversensitive and whimpering, but you don't stop, can't stop. Bucky groans at the way your walls ripple around him, his thrusts turning shallow and possessive, forcing his cum to seep even deeper.

"That's it," he rasps, biting the side of your leg. "Make a mess for me."

You practially sob as you cum again, tears rolling down the sides of your face, cream mixing with his spend, leaking down to your ass as your body is overcome with wave after wave of pleasure. Bucky curses when he feels it, hot pulses of you squeezing him and suddenly he's hard again, slamming into you with a snarl as another orgasm rips through him.

Your legs tremble in his grip. Neither of you can move anymore, just wrecked and sticky and full, but Bucky still rocks into you lazily, refusing to pull out just yet.

"Fuckin' perfect," he mutters against your lips as he gently sets your legs down, your mixed spend leaking from your thighs.

The room soon goes quiet in a soft, yet heavy way. You feel your chest loosen with something new, something warm and gooey.

The lamp is still on. It turns everything gentle around the edges—the rumpled sheets, the scattered clothes on the floor, the faint sheen of warmth still clinging to both of you like the night hasn’t fully let go yet.

Bucky moves first, carefully untangling himself from the sticky warmth of your bodies pressed together. He leans over the side of the bed, rummaging blindly until he finds his pants on the floor, tugging them closer with a quiet huff.

“You stay right there,” he murmurs without looking back at you.

You’re already curled slightly into the sheets, watching him with tired eyes that still look soft around the edges, calm in a way that feels new.

He finds his shirt and brings it over to you, then pauses, thinking.

“Water,” he says to himself like it’s a mission.

He disappears into the small kitchen. You hear cabinets open, the faint clink of a glass, water running. When he comes back, he’s got a glass in one hand and something folded in the other.

He sets the water beside you first.

“Here,” he says gently.

You take it without protest, sipping carefully. Then he unfolds the cloth—damp, warm from the sink.

You blink at him. “What’s that?”

“For you,” he says simply.

And then, softer, “Just… stay still a second.”

He cleans your skin with careful hands, unhurried, like it’s the most normal thing in the world for him to be this gentle after everything. Like there’s no rush anywhere. Like the whole night has slowed down just for this.

You watch him instead of the ceiling now, he notices.

“Stop lookin’ at me like that,” he mutters.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m doin’ something impressive.”

You smile faintly. “You are.”

That makes him pause for half a second, just long enough to look at you properly again. Then he shakes it off, like he doesn’t trust himself to sit in that feeling too long.

“Stay,” he says again, softer, and gets up.

This time he’s gone longer. When he comes back, there’s a cigarette tucked between his fingers and a lighter in his pocket. He pauses at the edge of the bed like he suddenly remembers something.

“…Can I smoke in here?” he asks, already sounding like he knows the answer.

You tilt your head slightly, thinking. “Probably not.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “That a no?”

“A probably no.”

He nods like he respects that, then immediately does it anyway but not in a careless way. He walks to the window, opens it wide, letting in the cool night air. The city noise spills in—distant traffic, laughter somewhere far below.

He leans out slightly, lights the cigarette, and inhales once before exhaling into the open air. You watch him from the bed, curious despite yourself.

“That smells… strong,” you say.

Bucky glances over his shoulder. “Yeah. That’s the point.”

A pause, then you sit up a little. “Can I try?”

That makes him turn fully now.

“Doll,” he says slowly, like he’s deciding whether to be responsible or curious.

You just look at him expectantly.

He exhales through his nose. “Alright. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He crosses back to the bed, hands it over carefully. You take it like it’s something delicate as he watches you.

“Just… small inhale,” he instructs gently. “Not like you’re drinkin’ air.”

You try and immediately cough. Bucky laughs softly, not teasing, just amused and leans in quickly, patting your back once.

“Easy,” he says. “Easy, sweetheart.”

You glare at him between coughs. “That’s awful.”

“Yeah,” he agrees easily. “It is.”

But you still try again, more carefully this time, and he guides you with quiet patience until you manage it without immediately dissolving into another fit of coughing.

“There you go,” he murmurs, almost proud.

You hand it back to him, shaking your head slightly. He takes another drag, then leans back against the windowsill while you curl into the sheets again, watching him instead of the ceiling now.

After a moment, you let out a small laugh to yourself.

Bucky notices immediately. “What?”

You shake your head, still smiling. “Nothing.”

“That’s never true.”

You glance up at him, amused. “I was just thinking… I’ve had brandy, cigarettes, and lost my virginity all in one night.”

Bucky freezes for half a second, then exhales a laugh, low and disbelieving.

“…Yeah?” he says. “Well. How d'ya feel?”

You nod, still smiling like you can’t quite believe it yourself. “I think I’ve been corrupted by Bucky Barnes.”

That gets him fully now, he turns toward you properly, cigarette forgotten for a moment in his hand.

“Oh yeah?” he asks, a little softer now. “What’s the verdict?”

You look at him for a long beat, not a hint of shyness glinted in your eyes.

“I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

Bucky’s expression softens in a way that has nothing to do with charm and everything to do with something deeper settling into place.

He puts the cigarette out and tosses it out the window, crawling across the bed to you, and leans down just enough to catch your face in his hand.

“You’re trouble,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your lips.

You smile against him. “You were trouble first. I was sweet as can be."

Pink, blue, black…

You huffed as you rummaged through the same drawer for the third time, hoping what you were looking for would magically appear between the mess of cotton, polyester, and lace.

The bedroom was a complete mess; drawers drawn open, half-empty because you’d carelessly thrown their contents out trying to find the piece, some bras landed on the floor, some shirts on your velvet vanity stool, and there was a pile of skirts and dresses forming atop of the bed.

Your eyes scanned the room again, trying to catch even the slightest glimpse of the intense, scarlet red you were desperately trying to find.

Your reflection stared back at you from the mirror—hair styled to perfection, black dress hugging your figure, and your lips painted a deep red color that was supposed to match the lingerie you’re wearing under the dress.

You had the bra, the only thing missing were the panties.

It was a special night, your two-year anniversary with your boyfriend, and Jason—who always makes it clear he’s not a fan of lavish and over-the-top dates—had surprised you with a reservation at this fancy steakhouse in downtown Gotham with a rooftop lounge that overlooks the city and has live jazz music playing the whole night.

You wanted to surprise him back, wearing the delicate, red, lacy lingerie set you know is his favorite, so that at the end of the night—in the backseat of the car, on the couch in the living room, or wherever he decided he wanted to take you—, you could feel his breath hitch and watch him lick his lips as he undressed you.

Besides, as stupid as it sounds, that set holds some type of sentimental value.

You bought it over a year ago, it’s a high-end designer piece that caught your eye the moment you stepped into that luxurious, ridiculously expensive boutique. It cost you an arm and a leg—you remember contemplating if it really was worth going broke for as the saleswoman talked about the quality of the materials.

You decided to buy it before you could think too much about it, swiping your card through the terminal and almost wincing when you saw the money deducted from your bank account.

It was more for Jason than for you anyway, and that’s what convinced you. It was a few days until his birthday, and you wanted to wear it as one of the many gifts you planned on giving him.

That night, straddling his lap as he laid on the couch, you saw his pupils dilate, watched him suck in a deep breath and pull his bottom lip between his teeth as he took off your dress. You decided that it had been completely worth the money.

It’s also the only set that’s made it through more than three wears—since Jason seems to have a kink for ripping fabric off of you, but apparently he’s decided he likes this one so much that he can be a little more careful with it. He almost always asks you to keep it on as he fucks you.

You really didn’t want to—it was supposed to be a surprise—but after checking the clock and seeing it was almost time to leave the apartment, you stepped out of the bedroom and into the living room to ask the only other person who could have any idea where your panties were.

“Jason, have you seen—”

Well…

There was your answer.

Jason sat on the couch, legs spread as they always are—no matter how much you scold him for his manspreading—, wearing a burgundy dress shirt that had you impatient thinking about the moment when you finally get to unbutton it.

His gaze was focused on the book perched on his lap, and in the gutter of said book—between thin, black ink-stained pages—were your panties, their red color bright against the yellowed paper.

You simply sighed, it was your fault honestly.

You started it a few months ago, Jason had taken a night off patrol and vigilante duty, and Cass had kindly offered to cover for him—watching over Crime Alley and the other places he usually took care of so he could spend time with you.

It was almost 2:00 a.m., your cheek was pressed against his bicep—because there’s nothing you love more than resting your head on your boyfriend’s muscles—, your legs shifted beneath the sheets to tangle with his, the soft cotton felt cool against your flushed skin.

Jason’s left hand was busy playing with your hair, twirling the strands around his scarred fingers while his right held the book he was reading.

He’d made you orgasm more times than you could count in a single night and you were convinced that you were completely satisfied.

Until you teared your eyes away from the ceiling to look at him, and he looked so cute and hot and sexy with his drugstore glasses perched on his crooked nose, and his brows had that furrow of concentration, and his thick lashes fluttered as he read through whatever greek tragedy he was so focused on, and his pretty lips formed the cutest pout you’ve ever seen on someone.

The sight made you feel that familiar heat between your legs—the one that appears whenever you see Jason doing practically anything.

You peppered kisses on his naked, glistening chest—still covered with a thin layer of sweat—, your fingers tracing down the lines of his abs and his prominent V-line until they reached the hem of the sheet—the only thing covering his lower body.

Jason breathed out your name, his heartbeat sped up under the touch of your lips, and he tried telling you about how he was in a really interesting part of the book, attempting to convince you to wait—but he didn’t make any real effort to stop you.

You looked up at him through your lashes, tongue darting out to trace one of the scars on his chest. You told him you couldn’t wait—and that it was his fault for making you so horny.

Picking up the pair of baby pink panties he’d tossed somewhere on the floor when he slipped them off of you, you took the book from his hand and placed the lacy garment on the page he was reading before closing it and handing it back to him. Your eyes never left his as you did so, and you had to bite your lip to hold back your giggles.

Jason’s eyes were wide as he took the book from you, his expression completely dumbfounded, and you swear that’s the most adorable he’s ever looked.

For you, Jason’s a weak, weak man. He could never deny you anything—trust, he’s tried.

And after that, you didn’t need to do anything else to convince him. He simply placed the book back on the nightstand beside the bed and rolled his eyes.

“You’re insane,” he scoffed, “and insatiable.”

You didn’t bother trying to defend yourself, it was true after all. You simply smiled in victory as your hand slid under the sheets.

Since that night, you never saw that pair of panties again—a shame, truly, it was a beautiful pink—and a few more disappeared from your underwear drawer to be found in the bookshelves.

“Jason,” you sighed. “I’ve been looking for those panties for like an hour!”

Jason looked up from his book—a dystopian novel you forgot the name of—, smirking when he caught sight of you with your arms crossed, wearing the dress he’d bought you specifically for your anniversary date.

“You look nice,” he whistled, looking you up and down shamelessly.

“Can you please give me my panties back?” You walked up to him and extended your hand out, expecting him to return your underwear.

“No,” he almost laughed, “I need my bookmarks.”

That made you roll your eyes, and before you could process it, Jason wrapped his hand around your wrist and pulled you into him so you were sitting on his lap.

“Besides,” he whispered into your ear, his voice carrying that teasing, smug tone you would never admit turns you on, “why do you need panties?”

“You know what would be a nice anniversary gift?” He continued, fingers teasing the skin of your thighs through the glossy fabric of your dress. “You not wearing anything under that dress.”

short n sexy mini fic for my baby jason todd while i work on my beach date with dick grayson one-shot 🤭

sorry if this was kinda ass, the idea was better in my head, still hope you enjoyed!!

thanks for reading!! likes, comments, follows, and reblogs are always appreciated!!

please do not copy, translate, repost, or feed my work to ai (especially this!!)

images from pinterest

He turned sideways to look at your sleeping frame. Your hair sprawled all over your pillow with a small pout prominent on your lips as you stayed cocooned in the warm blankets.

Dick smiled gently and pressed a chaste kiss to your forehead before getting out of bed. He turned his alarm off to let you sleep in for a bit because yours was set thirty minutes after his.

He stretched his body and cracked a few joints before making his way towards the bathroom. He splashed cold water on his face to wake him up before grabbing his electric toothbrush from the little Batman and Robin holder you had gotten as a joke.

He smiled at the memory as he mindlessly brushed his teeth, mind drifting back to you like it always did. Dick’s wildest fantasy involved you two quitting your jobs so you could stay in bed forever cuddling and having endless sex. He pictured your giggly face last night as he moved inside you, a matching look of giddiness on his face due to the wine you two had.

His eyes landed on the single love bite you had left just below his collarbone as payback for the twenty he left littered across your chest.

He had half a mind to cancel on Bruce but he was a man of his word so he spit the toothpaste out and hopped into the shower.

Twenty minutes later as Dick was standing in front of the sink in just a towel wrapped around his waist, he heard the bathroom door open as you strolled inside in one of his t shirts.

He gave you a quick peck on the forehead and you nudged him aside to grab your toothbrush. Dick had just been applying hair gel in his hair when your eyes met his through the mirror.

You began lazily brushing your teeth when Dick chuckled fondly at your puffy face. He picked up the hairdryer next and began styling his hair like he usually did each morning.

“You still had fifteen more minutes baby, why are you up?” Dick asked gently, afraid to disrupt the morning quiet.

You spit your toothpaste out before glaring at him through the mirror. “Someone left the bed and I was cold.”

“Oh you were cold?” Dick challenged and poked the side of your stomach, causing you to yelp. “You stole all the blankets you little thief.”

“I did not!” You protested.

“Yes you did and you rolled away from me I couldn’t even hold you,” he huffed dramatically as he continued fixing his hair.

“I’m sorry,” you apologised through mouthful of toothpaste, suddenly feeling bad for your boyfriend who was probably cold the whole night.

“It’s fine pretty. No need to apologise,” Dick smiled and wrapped his left arm around your stomach, resting his chin on your head.

You gave him a crooked smile before leaning down to spit the toothpaste out and rinse your mouth before finally turning around to look at your boyfriend.

“Hi,” you smiled, grabbing his face.

“Hello,” Dick chirped.

“Don’t you look dashing,” you commented, rubbing your palms over the coarse hair on his face.

“Well thank you m’lady,” he grinned and finally connected your lips.

“Dick that tickles!” You giggled, pushing him away. “Shave your beard.”

“I’ll do it tomorrow, I’m not going to work today,” Dick simply shrugged and grabbed the hair dryer again.

“You are going to Wayne Enterprises though,” you frowned, rubbing your palms over his face again.

“Baby it’s fine, Tim the CEO has to worry about that not me,” he gave you a quick peck on the cheek.

“You’re Bruce’s son too, you should look put together not like a rockstar who doesn’t know what a shower is.”

“What?” Dick snickered.

“I’m serious!”

“Just say you hate it.”

“I don’t hate it,” you replied. “I just don’t like it a lot.”

“Wow,” Dick muttered.

“Let me do it,” you offered, hopping on the counter.

“Yeah right,” Dick scoffed.

“Please!” You protested. “I shave my legs I know how to do it.”

“I think my face is a bit different than your legs angel, I do love them a lot don’t get me wrong,” as if to prove his point, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your bare thigh before resting his hand there.

“Dick!” You whined.

“No,” he said firmly.

You huffed and grabbed the shaving can from the sink along with his razor before spraying the shaving cream onto your fingers. You grabbed his wrist next and rubbed the cream over the hairy skin and before he could say anything, you swiped the razor across it.

“See?” You beamed up at him as you continued shaving the cream off his wrist.

Dick chewed on his bottom lip for a couple of seconds before finally rolling his eyes.

“Fine,” he sighed, slotting his hips between your thighs.

“Yay!” You cheered and clapped your hands, momentarily forgetting that the razor was in your hand with the plastic cap off and you were waving it in front of Dick’s eye.

“Yeah nevermind,” he said and began pulling away but you tightened your thighs around his waist.

“Sorry!” You said quickly.

“If I die, just know that I loved you dearly and I leave my motorcycle to Jason.”

“And nothing for me?” You dramatically gasped.

“I’m not dying alone am I? In life and death and all that?”

“Thats in sickness and in health you dork and we’re not married,” you pointed out.

“Yet,” Dick reiterated, planting a kiss on your nose.

“Enough stalling Nightwing,” you narrowed your eyes at him before grabbing the shaving can.

You shook it for a second before spraying a good amount on your palm before rubbing it across Dick’s bearded face. He closed his eyes and hummed lowly as he felt your soft hands rub against his coarse skin.

You put your thumb on his chin to tilt his head back carefully as you began gliding the razor across his skin. You worked in silence for a good few minutes in complete concentration with your eyebrows furrowed and your tongue peeking out from between your lips.

Dick smiled at the sight as his hands came to rest on your waist. He earned a harsh “shh! don’t move” from you when you felt his cheeks move due to his smile.

You worked your way up his throat towards the easier part of the face which were his cheeks. When you finally got to his cupid’s bow, you sat up straight and grabbed his face in your hands almost knocking your forehead against his with how close you were but you managed to gently glide the razor against his moustache.

Dick had to tap your waist once to make you stop long enough for him to press a kiss to your forehead, causing some shaving cream to linger before he asked you to continue.

You shook your head lightly at him but the smile breaking out on your face was enough to show him that you weren’t actually irritated by his antics.

Few more quick yet careful swipes of razor across his face and he was done, looking fresh with a clean shaven face.

He tapped your thigh to get out of the grip you had on his hips and washed his face with water to get rid of any remaining cream on his face. You watched him intently as he grabbed the razor from your hand and made a quick swipe across the corner of his mouth to get the patch of hair you had missed.

He washed the razor under the sink and wiped his face with a towel and before he even had the chance to put the towel back, you pulled him back between your thighs with your elbows resting on his shoulders.

“Hello handsome,” you grinned and touched your cheek to his.

“Wow,” Dick mused. “You really hate my beard huh?”

“I just like seeing your whole face,” you replied and before he could utter another word, you cupped his face in your hands and began pecking his face, causing him to let out a laugh.

“Okay!” Dick protested but you didn’t relent as your lips reached his adam’s apple. “If you keep this up I’ll cancel my meeting and you’ll have to miss work because I’ll keep you in bed all day.”

“Sorry,” you apologised, planting one last kiss on his nose. “I forgot it’s a crime to love on your boyfriend. You should punish me Nightwing,” you finished, giving him a playful smirk.

Dick closed his eyes for a beat and sucked in a harsh breath before he leaned forward to connect your lips in a searing kiss that lasted only for a beat.

“I’m calling Bruce, he doesn’t need me that bad,” he murmured against your lips.

You giggled and tugged at his styled hair to push him off you. “Go, I made coffee.”

“M’kay,” Dick hummed, pressing another kiss to your mouth before he helped you hop off the counter. “I’ll make you some toast before leaving and don’t forget your vitamins.”

“Yes daddy!” You said with a dramatic salute.

“Oh you’re done now,” Dick warned before lunging towards you.

You yelped as he scooped you up in his arms and turned around to go to the bedroom. He fell backwards on the bed with you still in his hold.

“Dick!” You giggled as you tried to wiggle out of his iron grip.

He flipped you two over with practiced ease, causing you to lie flat on your back under him. You smiled up at him when his fingers came down to your face to brush your hair away so he could see your face.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured.

“You say that every day,” you scrunched your nose as a wave of shyness washed over you.

“You look pretty every day,” he simply shrugged.

“Stop!” You whined playfully before covering your face with your hands. “I haven’t even washed my face yet it’s puffy and dry.”

“Look at me,” Dick urged and pried your fingers away from your face, pinning both of your hands in his over your head.

You pouted in response when he managed to make you look at him.

“I love you and your puffy face,” he smiled and leaned down enough so your noses were touching but he didn’t kiss you yet. “And your perfect tits,” he murmured and finally kissed you.

You giggled against his mouth as he brought his free hand to your chest to really send his message.

No matter how many years you and Dick spent together and how many ways he fucked you, he still managed to make you blush with one simple look. His blue eyes always looked at you with so much love and relief especially in mornings when he could just be Dick Grayson and stay in bed with you. When he didn’t have to put on a mask.

His tongue glided against your bottom lip before let his teeth bite lightly at your mouth, causing you to moan and squirm in his hold. His hips came down to hold you still and you realised your panties and Dick’s towel were the only things separating you both.

He pulled away and trailed his lips down to your jaw, slowly kissing over the marks he left last night as if to revisit them. Your shirt was swiftly pulled over your head by the hem as Dick sat back on his knees to admire your bare body and when a smirk appeared on his lips, you knew he was feeling proud of the love bites and hickeys he left all over and below your chest.

Before Dick could attach his mouth to your breasts, his phone began ringing but he didn’t budge as he began planting hot open mouthed kisses between the valley of your breasts.

“Dick your phone,” you panted.

“Leave it,” he mumbled.

“It could be important,” you reasoned but your fingers tangled themselves in his silky black hair.

“It’s not,” he replied.

A few seconds later his phone finally stopped ringing but Dick’s movements didn’t relent. He kissed a path down to the waistband of your flimsy panties and when he pulled them up by his teeth, the ringing came again.

“Dick!” You said, louder this time and pushed him away to grab his phone from the nightstand. “It’s Jason,” you informed him but he shook his head and continued planting kisses on your thighs.

You rolled your eyes and picked up the call, bringing the phone to your ear. “Hey Jason.”

“Oh hey,” Jason said your name so casually like you picking up Dick’s phone was normal for him. “Just wanted to check in and see Dick is coming to the meeting right?”

“Yeah he is,” you said the same time Dick yelled “No he’s not!”

“Ignore him, he is,” you huffed and tried pushing Dick away again but he didn’t move, still holding on to your calves as he planted stray kisses to your thighs and knees.

“Dude,” Jason said and you put the phone on speaker.

“What?” Dick sighed.

“You’re coming or I’m not going either and then Tim won’t go,” Jason added.

“Fine,” Dick groaned. “I’m leaving in a bit.”

“Good,” Jason replied.

“You just cockblocked me by the way.”

Jason snickered in response before hanging up.

Dick reached for you again but this time you were quicker than him. You stood up from the bed and ran towards the bathroom, locking the door behind you.

“Seriously?” Dick groaned. “Not even a bye kiss?”

You ducked your head out of the bathroom door and gestured for him to come closer with your finger which he obliged and within seconds, he was in front of you.

You quickly gave him a peck and before he could deepen the kiss, you pulled away.

“Bye! Good luck!” You beamed, shutting the door again.

one of my favs ive written so far which was also inspired by a harry fic i read back in like 2019 soo if i find it again i’ll tag it!