Pink Hair Justice

Gotham. Sweet old Gotham.

A city loved dearly by some… and despised just as fiercely by others.

A city where the rain never seemed to stop, where slick streets reflected the glow of streetlamps and neon signs late into the night. The kind of rain that soaked through coats and hats, the kind that made a man linger beneath an awning just a little longer than he meant to.

It was a city where people fell in love beneath that rain.

A city where lovers whispered their confessions on dimly lit sidewalks and outside smoky jazz clubs long after the music had faded. Where a young man might hold a woman’s hand a little tighter before walking her home, promising things he wasn’t quite sure the future would allow him to keep.

Gotham was also a city of goodbyes.

Every morning at the train station, husbands kissed their wives and sweethearts farewell before boarding crowded trains bound for military bases and distant shores. Promises were exchanged between hurried breaths, letters promised, prayers whispered.

Some returned.

Some didn’t.

And still the city carried on.

Women gathered on stoops and in beauty parlors, trading gossip like currency—talking of neighbors, scandals, and the latest headlines printed fresh in the morning papers.

About the war.

About the mayor.

About the Waynes.

Yes, the Waynes.

In Gotham, that name traveled quickly.

Bruce Wayne heir to one of the city’s oldest fortunes, a man whose face seemed to appear in newspapers nearly as often as the weather forecast. The kind of man society women whispered about behind gloved hands and mothers warned their daughters to be cautious around.

In a city as restless and unpredictable as Gotham…

Stories about men like Bruce Wayne never stayed quiet for long.

“Y/N, I don’t want to see you around that man anymore. Do you hear me?”

Your father’s voice filled the small room, firm and unyielding.

You sat quietly at the edge of your bed, your hands folded neatly in your lap as though you had been taught to do it since you were a little girl. The worn leather of your pumps tapped softly against one another every few seconds, the small clicking sound echoing faintly against the wooden floor.

You could say you were listening.

At least… that’s what it might have looked like.

Your father paced slowly across the room as he spoke, his voice rising and falling with frustration as he continued on about the same subject he had brought up nearly every night that week.

Bruce Wayne.

You kept your eyes lowered, watching the faint scuffs along the toes of your shoes rather than meeting your father’s gaze. His words drifted through the room, but your thoughts wandered somewhere else entirely.

Somewhere across the city.

Somewhere where a certain man with dark hair and an easy smile might be standing beneath a streetlamp, waiting.

You nodded every so often, just enough to show you were paying attention.

You weren’t a disrespectful daughter. Your father had raised you better than that.

Even if your mind had already left the room.

Your father, however, had never tried to hide his opinion of men like Bruce Wayne.

Men born into wealth.

Men who appeared in newspapers and society columns while the rest of Gotham worked themselves tired just to keep the lights on.

He hated them.

All of them.

But Bruce Wayne…

Bruce Wayne seemed to offend him more than the others.

Perhaps it was the way the city spoke about him. The admiration. The praise. The endless photographs printed in the morning papers.

Your father could never understand how a city struggling as much as Gotham could look at a man like Bruce Wayne and see something worth admiring.

Your father stopped pacing then, turning to face you.

“He’s dangerous, Y/N,” he said firmly. “Do you understand that?”

At that, you finally lifted your gaze.

Your father stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed over his chest, watching you carefully as if trying to determine whether his words had truly reached you this time.

You held his stare for a moment before lowering your eyes again.

“Yes, Papa,” you replied quietly.

Your voice was soft. Respectful.

Exactly the kind of answer he expected.

But even as the words left your lips…

Your thoughts were still somewhere else entirely.

With Bruce Wayne.

Your father’s expression softened then, the sharp edge in his voice easing just enough for you to notice.

For a moment he simply looked at you — not as the stubborn young woman who had begun testing his patience, but as the same little girl he had spent years protecting from the hard corners of Gotham.

He gave a small, tired smile before leaning forward and pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

You glanced briefly toward the window beside your bed, the rain outside tapping softly against the glass as the dim streetlight cast faint shadows across the room.

Your father straightened his posture, adjusting his suspenders as if gathering his thoughts before speaking again.

“I care about you, my daughter… more than you know,” he said quietly.

His voice carried none of the anger from before — only a firm certainty.

“I’m not doing this to control you.”

He paused.

“I’m doing it because I know these people better than you think.”

There was something heavy in the way he said it, something shaped by years of watching how Gotham worked how men with money moved through the world while others struggled to keep up.

He turned then, walking slowly toward the bedroom door.

Before leaving, he stopped and looked around your room.

At the neatly made bed.

The small dresser by the wall.

The worn rug on the floor.

The little space that had always been yours.

For a moment it seemed as though he wanted to say something more.

But instead he simply nodded to himself and stepped into the hallway.

The door closed behind him with a quiet click.

Silence settled over the room.

You waited a moment.

Then another.

And slowly… a small smile crept across your face.

You leaned back against the bed, the mattress dipping softly beneath your weight as you reached up and toyed with the necklace resting at your collarbone.

Bruce had given it to you only a few days ago.

A simple thing, nothing flashy or extravagant like the jewelry wealthy women wore in the society pages but delicate and beautiful all the same.

Your fingers traced the small pendant absentmindedly, remembering the way he had smiled when he placed it in your hand.

“It’s beautiful, Bruce.”

The words leave you almost in a whisper as the small necklace catches the light between your fingers. The pendant glimmers softly beneath the warm glow of the lamp above you, delicate and far more elegant than anything you’ve ever owned.

Bruce smiles at the sight of your reaction.

Without saying a word, he gently takes the necklace from your hands and steps a little closer. His fingers brush lightly against the back of your neck as he fastens the clasp, the cool metal settling just beneath your collarbone.

“There,” he says quietly. “It suits you.”

You reach up to touch it, still admiring the way it shines against the fabric of your dress.

Bruce Wayne had a way about him.

Charming. Polished. The sort of man who knew exactly how to make a woman feel special without even appearing to try. It was a quality the newspapers adored writing about Gotham’s golden heir, handsome and generous, the city’s most eligible bachelor.

And Bruce made sure you never forgot it.

He did everything for you. Small things, thoughtful things — the kind of gestures that made your heart swell every time you thought about them.

Even if it meant upsetting your father.

But if you were honest with yourself, there was still one thing you wanted more than anything else.

You wanted Bruce Wayne to let the world know he was already taken.

Every morning when the newspapers arrived, you couldn’t help but notice his name somewhere among the pages.

Bruce Wayne donates to hospital funds.

Bruce Wayne hosts charity gala.

Bruce Wayne seen dining with Gotham socialites.

Sometimes there were photographs too.

Bruce standing tall in his perfectly tailored suits, smiling easily beside some politician or society woman who had managed to claim his attention for the evening.

And every time you saw it…

Your heart sank just a little.

“Bruce Wayne is such a charmer, I tell you,” one of the girls in your class once said, fanning herself dramatically as she held up the newest magazine.

Bruce’s photograph stretched across the front cover — handsome as ever, that same confident smile resting on his face.

The other girls leaned closer, giggling and whispering among themselves as they admired the picture.

You sat quietly in your seat.

Watching.

Listening.

And wishing — more than anything — that you could say something.

That you could lean forward and tell them the truth.

That the man they were all sighing over was the same man who waited outside your window at night. The same man who knelt beside you just to clasp a necklace around your neck. The same man who would cross half of Gotham just to see you smile.

You wished you could tell them that Bruce Wayne already belonged to someone.

To you.

But you couldn’t.

Because Bruce wouldn’t allow it.

Whenever you tried to press Bruce for an answer, he had a way of putting the matter to rest before it could truly begin.

You would ask him why the two of you had to remain such a careful secret — why the world could speak endlessly about Bruce Wayne while you were expected to remain quietly out of sight.

But Bruce would only smile in that easy, charming way of his.

“There’s nothing your pretty little head needs to trouble itself with,” he would say, brushing a stray curl from your face as though that were explanation enough.

And if you tried to insist…

He would simply lean down and kiss you.

After that, it became terribly difficult to remember what you had been asking in the first place.

Still, the question lingered in the back of your mind.

As your father liked to remind you from time to time, you were one curious cat.

You had tried to reason it out yourself.

At first you wondered if it was because you were still a schoolgirl while Bruce was very much a grown man. Perhaps he believed you too young to understand the complications of his life.

But that couldn’t be it.

You were old enough now — well past the age of making your own decisions. Your father might pretend otherwise, but you knew your own mind well enough.

Then you thought perhaps it was the difference between your worlds.

Bruce Wayne belonged to Gotham’s highest society — a man whose name appeared in the newspapers nearly every week, praised for his contributions to the city and followed endlessly by admiring women.

You, on the other hand…

You were simply you.

But even that explanation felt foolish.

Bruce never behaved as though such things mattered.

And then there was your father.

He made no secret of his feelings toward Bruce Wayne.

Your father hated him — or at least hated everything he believed Bruce Wayne represented.

But why should Bruce Wayne care about what your father thought?

The question remained unanswered.

With a quiet sigh you push yourself off the bed and walk over to the window.

Pulling the curtain aside slightly, you glance out toward the street.

And there he is.

Across the road, beneath the faint glow of a streetlamp and the steady drizzle of rain, stands Bruce Wayne.

A pipe rests between his fingers as he glances casually up and down the street, the smoke drifting lazily into the cool night air.

Your eyes immediately flick toward the driveway.

Your father’s car is gone.

Relief spreads across your face.

When your attention returns to Bruce, he’s already begun crossing the street toward your house.

You can’t help it — a delighted squeal escapes you.

You hurry toward your bedroom door, nearly tripping over your own feet in your excitement.

Just as you reach the staircase, a knock sounds from the front door.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” you call out, unable to stop the giggle in your voice.

You rush down the steps and reach the door, but just before opening it you pause.

Taking a quick breath, you smooth your dress and fix your hair as best you can.

Only then do you open the door.

Bruce is leaning casually against the frame, his pipe still between his lips as a small cloud of smoke curls into the night air. Several small bags hang from one of his hands.

The moment he sees you, the corner of his mouth lifts into a smile.

“Well now,” he says, removing the pipe and glancing down at you with amused eyes. “Someone looks awfully pleased to see little old me.”

You don’t bother answering.

Instead you launch forward, throwing your arms around him.

Bruce chuckles softly before pulling you into a warm kiss.

When he pulls back, he raises an eyebrow.

“You going to let me in?” he asks lightly.

You nod quickly and step aside, allowing him into the house.

This had become something of a routine.

Nearly every night your father left for work, Bruce would appear at your door to keep you company.

You knew very well what your father would say if he ever discovered the truth.

But you also knew he never would.

Bruce steps into your room and closes the door quietly behind him.

The faint scent of rain follows him inside, along with the familiar trace of tobacco from his pipe. In one hand he carries several small paper bags, their tops neatly folded.

He crosses the room and sets them gently on the floor beside your bed before taking a seat on the edge of the mattress.

You remain standing in front of him, watching.

Bruce leans back slightly, resting his elbows on his knees as he studies you with an amused expression.

Your eyes, however, have already drifted toward the bags.

You can’t help it.

Bruce Wayne had a habit of bringing something with him whenever he visited — a small gift, a pastry from a bakery, sometimes flowers, sometimes something far more extravagant than anything you’d ever think to buy for yourself.

And you loved it every time.

“You’re very popular, Mr. Wayne,” you say suddenly, a teasing smile spreading across your face.

Bruce arches an eyebrow slightly as he removes the pipe from his mouth, tapping the bowl gently against his palm before glancing back up at you.

“Oh?” he says lightly. “Am I now?”

You nod.

Without answering right away, you turn and walk toward your dresser where the morning’s newspaper and a freshly purchased magazine rest neatly beside your mirror.

Bruce watches you curiously.

You pick up the magazine before quickly hiding it behind your back and turning around again.

“You wouldn’t believe what the girls at school say about you,” you continue, adopting a dramatic tone as you begin pacing slowly across the room.

Bruce leans back on his hands now, watching you with clear amusement.

“Women at my school absolutely swoon over Mr. Bruce Wayne,” you declare in a playful imitation, lifting your chin in exaggerated admiration.

Bruce lets out a quiet laugh.

“Oh, I hear it all day,” you continue, pressing your lips together to keep from laughing yourself. “It’s simply dreadful.”

Bruce shakes his head with a smile, clearly entertained.

“Well,” he replies casually, “what can I say? I seem to be rather popular with the ladies.”

At that, you finally reveal what you’ve been hiding behind your back.

You hold up the magazine you picked up earlier from the stand downtown.

Bruce’s photograph stretches across the front cover.

There he is — standing in one of his perfectly tailored suits, looking every bit the polished Gotham gentleman the newspapers adore writing about.

You walk closer and hand it to him.

“This one was at the magazine stand today,” you say.

Bruce glances down at the cover, studying his own photograph with mild interest.

But when he looks back up at you, he notices something else in your expression.

Something quieter.

Something a little more serious than the teasing tone you had just moments ago.

Bruce studies your face for a moment, the magazine still resting loosely in his hands.

The playful mood that had filled the room only a moment ago seems to quiet just slightly.

“You look as though that photograph has personally offended you,” he says lightly.

You shrug your shoulders, trying to make the feeling seem smaller than it actually is.

“It hasn’t,” you say quickly.

But Bruce knows you well enough now to recognize when something is bothering you.

He sets the magazine down on the bed beside him.

“What is it?” he asks.

You hesitate.

Your eyes drift toward the photograph again — the perfectly posed image of Bruce Wayne smiling at a crowd of reporters, women standing nearby, all of them clearly delighted simply to be in his presence.

“That’s what they see,” you say quietly.

Bruce follows your gaze to the magazine.

“The city’s golden boy,” you continue softly. “The man every woman in Gotham wishes she could have.”

Bruce chuckles faintly.

“You make it sound rather dramatic.”

“It is dramatic,” you reply, turning back toward him. “You should hear the way they talk about you.”

You move closer, folding your arms lightly.

“One girl said if she ever met you, she’d faint right there on the spot.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow at that.

“Well,” he says thoughtfully, “I do hope she’s in good health.”

Despite yourself, you laugh.

But the feeling in your chest doesn’t disappear completely.

Bruce notices.

He reaches out gently and takes your hand, tugging you a little closer until you’re standing between his knees.

“What’s troubling you?” he asks again, his voice softer this time.

You glance down at him.

For a moment you debate whether you should say anything at all.

But the thought has been sitting in your chest for too long.

“They don’t know,” you say finally.

“Know what?”

“That you come here,” you answer quietly. “That you sit in my room and bring me gifts and kiss me goodnight.”

Bruce says nothing.

“They think you belong to all of Gotham,” you continue, your voice barely above a whisper. “And sometimes…”

You hesitate.

Bruce gently lifts your chin so you’re looking at him.

“Sometimes what?” he asks.

You swallow softly.

“Sometimes I wish they knew you were already taken.”

For a moment Bruce simply looks at you.

The faintest smile touches his lips — warm, affectionate — but there’s something else in his expression too.

Something thoughtful.

Careful.

His thumb brushes lightly over the back of your hand.

“You shouldn’t trouble yourself with what the papers say,” he says quietly.

You sigh a little.

“That’s not really the point.”

Bruce tilts his head slightly.

“Then what is the point?”

You glance toward the magazine again before meeting his eyes.

“The point,” you say softly, “is that they all think they have a chance with you.”

Bruce lets out a quiet laugh at that.

“And do they?” he asks.

You narrow your eyes at him slightly.

“That’s not funny.”

Bruce smiles.

“No,” he agrees gently.

Then his hand slides to the side of your face, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“They don’t have a chance,” he says.

His voice is calm.

Certain.

But even as he says it…

You notice he still hasn’t answered the one thing you really wanted to hear.

You study his face carefully. Bruce still holds your hand, his thumb moving gently across your knuckles as if the small motion might calm whatever thoughts are running through your head. But it doesn’t. Because the one thing you wanted him to say still hangs quietly between the two of you.

You draw a small breath. “Then why,” you ask softly, “can’t anyone know about me?” The question settles heavily in the room. For the first time since he arrived that evening, Bruce doesn’t answer right away. His hand pauses slightly against yours.

The playful smile that had rested so easily on his face earlier fades into something more thoughtful. He leans back just a little on the bed, looking up at you as though carefully considering his next words. “It isn’t that simple,” he says finally.

You pull your hand gently from his grasp. “Why not?” Bruce watches you as you take a small step away from him. “Because the world I live in…” he begins slowly, “it isn’t very kind to people who don’t belong to it.” You cross your arms lightly, your brows pulling together.

“That’s not fair.”

“No,” Bruce agrees quietly. “It isn’t.”

The rain taps steadily against the window behind you, the soft sound filling the silence between your words. You glance toward the magazine still resting on the bed beside him.

“Those women in the papers,” you say, nodding toward the photograph. “They belong to that world.” Bruce follows your gaze.

“They’re the daughters of businessmen and politicians,” you continue. “Women who go to charity dinners and society balls and know which fork to use at the table.”

You look back at him.

“I could learn all of that.”

Bruce’s expression softens.

“I know you could.”

“But that’s not the problem, is it?” you press.

Bruce sighs quietly, leaning forward again as his elbows rest on his knees.

“No,” he admits.

You wait.

But he doesn’t continue.

The frustration in your chest begins to grow.

“Then what is the problem?” you ask.

Bruce looks up at you again.

This time his voice is quieter.

You look at him for a moment longer, the worry still sitting quietly behind your eyes before a small sigh slips past your lips.

Bruce notices it immediately.

Before you can pull away again, he reaches forward and gently takes hold of your waist, lifting you easily and settling you down in his lap. One of his hands comes up beneath your chin, guiding your face so you have no choice but to look at him.

“I came here to see you,” he says softly.

His voice isn’t sharp or impatient — just steady, warm.

“Can we talk about all of that another time?”

You study his face.

Deep down, you know the truth.

You know there probably won’t be another time.

But the last thing you want tonight is another argument.

So after a moment, you nod.

Bruce smiles faintly at that before leaning forward and kissing you again, softer this time.

The rest of the evening passes in a quiet effort on his part to pull your mind away from the conversation that nearly spoiled the night. He opens the small bags he brought, showing you pastries from a bakery downtown and a few small things he had picked out during the day.

He makes you laugh.

He tells stories.

He teases you the way he always does.

And for a while it works.

But no matter how many times you try to focus on him instead, your thoughts keep drifting back to the same question that still hasn’t been answered.

Eventually the night grows quieter.

The rain outside slows to a gentle patter against the window as the room darkens.

Bruce lies beside you beneath the covers, still dressed, his back resting against the headboard while you curl against him. Your head rests comfortably on his chest as his arm circles around you, his fingers moving slowly up and down your arm in a calm, absentminded rhythm.

Your hands play quietly with his fingers.

Bruce glances down at you before pressing a soft kiss against the top of your head.

“I need to go soon,” he murmurs.

Your head lifts immediately.

“No,” you say quickly, shaking your head as panic flickers across your face. Your arms tighten around him as though you might physically keep him there.

“Please stay. Don’t go.”

Bruce smiles gently at the desperation in your voice and presses another kiss against your forehead.

“You have school tomorrow,” he reminds you quietly. “And what if your father comes home early and finds me here?”

You don’t care.

Not right now.

Tears begin forming in your eyes before you can stop them.

“Please stay,” you whisper again, your voice smaller this time.

Bruce studies your face, watching the tears gather at the corners of your eyes. His thumb reaches up to brush them away before they can fall.

He pulls you closer against his chest, letting out a long breath.

“Alright,” he says finally.

“I’ll stay… for as long as you want.”

Your face immediately brightens as the tension melts from your body. You relax back against him, settling comfortably into the warmth of his arms.

Bruce reaches over and switches off the small desk lamp beside your bed.

The room falls into soft darkness.

He stays there with you, speaking quietly in the dark — his voice low and gentle as he tells you small stories from his day, letting the steady rhythm of his words slowly lull you toward sleep.

Your fingers grow looser around his hand.

Your breathing deepens.

And before long, soft little snores escape you.

Bruce looks down at you with a quiet smile.

He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead before carefully easing himself out from beneath you.

He moves slowly so he won’t wake you.

Before leaving, he reaches over and takes one of the stuffed animals resting near your pillow and tucks it carefully into his place beside you.

For a moment he just watches you sleep.

Then he lets out a quiet sigh.

“What am I going to do with you?” he murmurs to himself.

Bruce walks toward the window and opens it carefully, glancing back at you one last time before climbing out into the cool night air.

The window closes softly behind him.

And soon the room is quiet again.

When you wake the next morning, sunlight spills gently across the room.

For a brief moment, you smile.

You expect to feel his arms still around you.

But when you sit up and look beside you…

He isn’t there.

The space next to you is empty.

And though you know he had to leave…

Something inside your chest aches just the same.

Because every time he goes…

You wish he had stayed.

“…And he’s doing this photograph with that movie star from California,” one of the girls says excitedly, holding up the magazine so the others can see.

The glossy pages catch the light from the classroom windows, and there he is — Bruce Wayne — smiling confidently from the cover.

It’s the same magazine you saw earlier that morning at the stand.

The same one you almost didn’t buy.

You sit quietly at your desk a few rows away, pretending to focus on your homework as the girls gather around another desk near the front of the room.

Your professor sits behind his own desk with a newspaper spread open before him, glasses resting low on his nose as he scans the morning headlines, completely uninterested in the small storm of gossip building across the classroom.

A handful of girls crowd around the magazine now, leaning over each other’s shoulders to get a better look.

You don’t join them.

You simply listen.

“He looks even better in this picture,” one girl sighs dramatically.

Another girl presses a hand to her chest.

“If Bruce Wayne ever kissed me,” she says dreamily, “I think I might die right there on the spot.”

The others giggle.

You can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips.

Your foot bounces lightly beneath your desk, the heel of your shoe tapping against the floor as you lower your gaze back to your notebook.

You try to focus on the assignment in front of you.

You really do.

But every word the girls say drifts straight into your ears.

“I swear every woman in this city is sweet on him,” another girl adds, fanning herself with the magazine.

Then another voice chimes in, more certain than the rest.

“If Bruce Wayne ever gets married,” she says, “it’ll be to some society girl.”

She flips her hair slightly.

“You know… one of those fancy ones.”

At that, your pencil stops moving.

Slowly, you lift your head.

Your eyes settle on the girl who said it.

“What do you mean by that?” you ask.

The group of girls turns toward you.

For a moment they seem surprised you’ve been paying attention at all.

Then one of them smiles politely.

“Oh, you know,” she says lightly. “He’s worth millions.”

She gestures toward the magazine.

“There’s no way a man like that would ever marry someone like us.”

You open your mouth slightly, but no words come out.

Another girl glances at you curiously.

“Why?” she asks, tilting her head. “Do you think he would?”

You don’t answer right away.

For a moment you simply sit there, your fingers resting lightly on your notebook as you search for something—anything—to say.

But the truth is, you don’t quite know what to say.

Because part of you knows the girls aren’t trying to be cruel.

They’re simply talking about the Bruce Wayne they see in magazines and newspapers.

Not the man who waits across the street at night.

Still, something inside you pushes the words out before you can stop them.

“I think he would.”

The sentence leaves your mouth quietly, almost uncertainly.

The girls look at you.

And then they giggle.

Not loudly. Not maliciously.

But enough that your chest tightens a little.

One of them lifts the magazine again, holding it up so the photograph on the cover catches the light streaming through the classroom windows.

Bruce Wayne stands there in the picture—perfectly dressed, perfectly composed, every bit the handsome heir the newspapers love to write about.

The girl tilts the magazine slightly toward you.

“Please,” she says with a small laugh.

“You really think this man—”

She gestures toward the photograph.

“—the handsomest, richest man in all of Gotham…”

Her eyes flick briefly over you before she finishes.

“…would marry someone like us?”

Then, after a beat, she adds a little more pointedly.

“Like you?”

The words are said lightly, almost carelessly.

But they land harder than she probably meant them to.

You freeze.

For a second your heart seems to stumble in your chest.

Your gaze drops from the magazine back to your desk, your fingers tightening slightly around the pencil in your hand as the girls continue whispering among themselves.

And suddenly the room feels just a little quieter around you.

The classroom grows quiet again as the professor clears his throat and begins the morning’s lesson.

Books open.

Pencils scratch across paper.

But you aren’t really listening.

Your eyes drift toward the window beside your desk, where the gray Gotham sky hangs heavy above the city streets.

The girls’ voices echo faintly in your mind.

Men like Bruce Wayne don’t marry girls like us.

Your fingers tighten slightly around your pencil.

Maybe they were right.

Maybe the world only saw Bruce Wayne as the charming millionaire printed across newspaper pages and magazine covers.

But they didn’t know the man who stood beneath your window at night.

They didn’t know the man who crossed the street in the rain just to see you smile.

You lower your gaze back to your notebook, a small smile touching your lips.

Because the truth is…

Bruce Wayne notices you.

And tonight—

just like every other night—

he will come knocking at your door.

The Tower was quiet. Too quiet. Which was never good when Wally West was around.

You were sitting on the couch, scrolling through your phone, when a rush of wind blew past and the snack you’d just picked up vanished from your hand. You didn’t even have to look up.

“Wally.”

A ginger head popped into view upside down from behind the couch, cheeks full like a chipmunk. “What? You weren’t even eating it yet.”

You rolled your eyes, swatting at him, but his reflexes were too quick. His hand caught your wrist, grip warm, and suddenly you were tugged across his lap before you could blink.

“You gotta be faster than that,” he teased, lips brushing your ear. “C’mon, Y/N, where’s that cheer captain energy now?”

You tried to twist free, but the movement had your skirt riding up, and the second Wally noticed, his cocky grin softened into something filthier. His hands god, those fast hands were everywhere at once. Thighs, waist, squeezing your ass, tugging you flush against the hard bulge in his sweats.

“W-Wally—”

“Yeah, baby?” His voice dropped, teasing. “Say the word and I’ll stop… but you’re grinding on me like you want the Flash pass.”

Your laugh cut off into a moan when he slipped a hand under your skirt, thumbing at your clit through your panties, fast circles that had your head tipping back against his shoulder. He whispered, cocky as ever, “Bet I can make you cum in under a minute. Wanna test me?”

You turned your head, breathless, meeting his green eyes, and smirked back. “Prove it, West.”

And oh, he did. His fingers moved like lightning, circling your clit so fast your hips bucked up against him before you could even think. Wally laughed softly in your ear, cocky but low, like he was savoring every sound you made.

“See? Told you. You don’t stand a chance against me.”

You tried to glare at him, but the moan that spilled out ruined it. He smirked, proud, watching your face twist with pleasure as he slid two fingers inside you with no warning. His speed made it worse—he fucked his fingers into you so fast you had to grab his wrist just to ground yourself.

“W-Wally, fuck—”

“That’s it, say my name,” he murmured against your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. “Bet you’re already close, aren’t you? Bet I can make you cum before I count to ten.”

“Don’t—” Your breath hitched when he curled his fingers just right. “Don’t you dare.”

But the smug bastard started counting anyway, whispering against your skin between sloppy kisses.

“One.” His thumb pressed harder on your clit.

“Two.” His pace doubled, impossible to keep up with.

“Three.” Your legs shook around his hips.

“Four.” His free hand slid under your shirt, tugging at your bra.

“Five—”

You came with a sharp cry, clenching so tight around his fingers he groaned. He pulled them out only to shove them into his mouth, licking them clean with a filthy grin.

“Didn’t even make it to ten,” he teased, bouncing you on his lap like you were nothing more than weightless in his arms. “Kinda disappointing, Y/N. Thought you were tougher than that.”

You smacked his chest weakly, still catching your breath. “You’re an asshole.”

“And you’re dripping all over my sweats.” He tugged at your panties, snapping the elastic before yanking them down and off in a blur. His cock strained against his waistband, and when he freed himself, your eyes widened. Thick, flushed, already leaking.

“Yeah,” Wally grinned at your reaction, kissing you quick and dirty. “That’s all for you, baby.”

He lifted you like you weighed nothing, lining himself up before slamming you down on his cock in one fast thrust. The stretch had you choking on a scream, and Wally groaned, head dropping into your shoulder.

“Fuck, Y/N. So tight—fuck, I might actually lose it.”

You dug your nails into his shoulders as he started moving, fast, relentless, the kind of pace no normal guy could ever keep. The desk rattled under you both, papers scattering to the floor with every thrust. His cock bullied into you over and over until you were gasping into his neck.

“F-fuck, Wally, slow down!” you begged, half crying from how good it felt.

He laughed, sweat dripping down his temple. “Slow down? That’s not really my thing.” His hand snaked down, thumbing your clit again. “C’mon, princess, give me another. Bet I can get at least three out of you before I’m done.”

Your thighs shook violently as the second orgasm tore through you, clenching around him so tight he cursed, biting down on your shoulder to keep from screaming. But he didn’t stop. Not even close. He pulled almost all the way out, then slammed back in with enough force to knock the breath from your lungs.

By the time he pushed you over the edge a third time, tears blurred your vision, your body trembling in his arms. He finally groaned, hips stuttering, and spilled inside you with a strangled moan of your name.

When it was over, he collapsed against you, chest heaving. Then, of course, he had the nerve to laugh.

“Told you I’d win.”

You smacked him again, weakly this time, head falling onto his shoulder as he held you close. “I hate you.”

“Yeah?” He kissed your temple, smug as ever. “Funny way of showing it.”

Your body felt like it had been run over by a train or maybe just a speedster who didn’t know how to slow the hell down. Wally shifted you in his arms, still inside you for a moment longer before finally pulling out with a hiss. He winced at the mess between your thighs but still grinned like he’d just set a world record.

“Not bad, huh?” he said, grabbing a half-crumpled article from the floor and fanning you both dramatically. “I think that might’ve been a personal best. Pretty sure I broke the sound barrier at least twice.”

You groaned, shoving his shoulder weakly. “You’re disgusting.”

“Disgustingly good, maybe.” He wiggled his eyebrows and reached for a tissue box, moving at regular speed this time, which almost made it funnier. He carefully cleaned you up, surprisingly gentle for someone who had just been pounding into you like a jackhammer.

You caught his hand, smirking despite yourself. “If you brag about your ‘speed record’ in bed to anyone, I swear to God, Wally West, I’ll kill you.”

He feigned offense, placing his hand over his chest. “What? You don’t want the world to know your boyfriend’s got the fastest fingers in the Midwest?”

“Wally!” you whined, smacking him with a pillow.

He laughed so hard he nearly fell off the bed, then pulled you against him, peppering sloppy kisses across your face until you were giggling through your exhaustion. His hand stroked slow circles along your spine, grounding you in that easy warmth only he carried.

“Okay, okay,” he murmured softer, pressing his forehead to yours. “No bragging. Our secret.”

You raised a brow. “Promise?”

“Scout’s honor,” he said, holding up two fingers before kissing you again. “Besides… if I tell anyone, they’ll just ask me to prove it. And I only perform for you.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart still flipped. Typical Wally equal parts menace and sweetheart.

𑣲 ◞ You’ve known Tim and Conner since you were little. Your mother is one of Gotham’s most respected corporate lawyers, your father a world-renowned doctor. Through Wayne Enterprises legal work and hospital philanthropy, your parents earned Bruce Wayne’s quiet trust. Over time, that trust extended to Clark Kent, too. Their worlds overlapped and so did yours.

𑣲 ◞ You warmed up to Tim and Conner almost immediately. There was no awkward adjustment period. Being around them felt natural, like you were always meant to grow up together. You were always at the Manor. Always included. Always part of whatever chaos followed them around.

𑣲 ◞ It didn’t take long for you to notice things that didn’t add up Tim disappearing too often, Conner reacting to sounds no one else could hear, the way Bruce would give Tim that look. You never confronted them. You just paid attention.

𑣲 ◞ You officially found out one afternoon when you arrived at Wayne Manor and saw Conner hovering behind the west wing and Tim in full Robin gear below him. You stood there for a moment before quietly saying, “No way.” The silence that followed told you everything.

𑣲 ◞ After that, they stopped hiding things from you. They sat you down, explained everything, and promised they wouldn’t keep secrets from you again. Lying to you felt wrong. You mattered too much for that.

𑣲 ◞ When they told you they were dating, you supported them immediately. You hugged them. You smiled. You meant it when you said you were happy for them. Later, alone, you admitted to yourself that you’d been in love with both of them for years and had never said a word out of fear of ruining what you already had.

𑣲 ◞ They knew. There’s no way they didn’t. The lines between friendship and something more had been blurry for a long time too close on couches, limbs tangled, boundaries crossed and ignored. You convinced yourself that maybe this was just how intense friendships worked.

𑣲 ◞ You tried to move on. You dated someone else, hoping something normal would quiet your feelings. Instead, it made everything heavier. He didn’t like how close you were to Tim and Conner. He questioned your loyalty. Tried to create distance. Tried to control more than he had the right to.

𑣲 ◞ When you showed up one day with an explanation that didn’t quite make sense, Tim and Conner didn’t believe you. They’d known you too long. They recognized every nervous tell. Whatever happened after school, it never happened again.

𑣲 ◞ After that, something shifted. The protectiveness deepened. The tension grew heavier. The feelings none of you wanted to name became impossible to ignore.

𑣲 ◞ When they finally asked you out, you hesitated—not because you didn’t want them, but because you were afraid of losing what you already had. Then you realized they had built their relationship with you in it from the very beginning.

𑣲 ◞ Being with them feels easy. Safe. Right. Sometimes you wonder why you were ever afraid at all.

𑣲 ◞ Tim and Conner are gentlemen in a way that feels deliberate, not performative. Not because they think you need it but because they want to take care of you.

𑣲 ◞ Conner holds doors open without thinking about it. Car doors. Building doors. Any door between you and the outside world. He’ll step aside, hand resting lightly against the frame, eyes already on you like this is just how things are supposed to be.

𑣲 ◞ He carries your bags automatically. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t comment. Just takes them from you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Even when you protest, he only smiles and says, “I got it.”

𑣲 ◞ Tim is quieter about it. More subtle. He notices when your hands are full before you do. Takes things from you mid-sentence. Keeps track of what you’re holding, what you’ve forgotten, what you’ll probably need later.

𑣲 ◞ Conner walks on the outside of the sidewalk without ever pointing it out. Opens doors with a hand on the small of your back gentle, guiding, respectful.

𑣲 ◞ Neither of them rush you. Ever. They match your pace instinctively, slowing without making it obvious, adjusting themselves to you instead of the other way around.

𑣲 ◞ They listen when you speak. Not just politely—actively. Tim remembers details you forgot you mentioned. Conner remembers how you felt when you said them.

𑣲 ◞ Compliments from them don’t feel like lines. They’re specific. Thoughtful. Earned. The kind that linger.

𑣲 ◞ You’ve never been with men like them before. Men who make space for you without trying to own it. Men who protect without controlling. Men who treat care like a choice, not an obligation.

𑣲 ◞ Tim grew up the son of a billionaire, and it shows—not in how he talks about money, but in how quietly he uses it. He never announces it. Never flexes. He just… handles things.

𑣲 ◞ Dates are paid for before you even realize there’s a check. Tim excuses himself “to the bathroom,” comes back, and the waiter suddenly thanks you both and disappears. When you ask, he shrugs like it’s nothing. Like it didn’t even register as a decision.

𑣲 ◞ If you and Conner pause too long in front of something clothes, records, books Tim notices. He doesn’t comment. He just files it away.

𑣲 ◞ You mentioned wanting a pair of Jimmy Choo heels in passing a few days ago. Not seriously. Just a thought. The next time you open your closet, the box is already there. Tissue paper folded neatly. Your size. No receipt. No explanation.

𑣲 ◞ When you confront him, Tim looks genuinely confused like he doesn’t understand why you’re upset. “You liked them,” he says simply. As if that’s the end of the conversation.

𑣲 ◞ It’s never just you. That hair gel Conner ran out of? Replaced. The album from Conner’s favorite punk band—the one he said was impossible to find? Sitting on the table the next time you all hang out, still sealed.

𑣲 ◞ Conner goes quiet every time. Tries to refuse. Tries to argue. Tim waves it off immediately, a little flustered. “It’s not a big deal,” he insists. “Seriously. Please don’t make it one.”

𑣲 ◞ Tim hates when either of you try to spend money on him. Actively refuses. Slips cash back into your bag. Cancels orders you try to place. He insists that just being there is enough.

𑣲 ◞ It’s not about control. It’s not about keeping score. For Tim, money has always been easiest thing he can give and the hardest thing for him to let anyone give back.

𑣲 ◞ He shows love through preparation. Through foresight. Through making sure you never have to worry about small things when the rest of life already asks so much.

𑣲 ◞ And sometimes, when you catch him watching you wear those shoes or see Conner light up over something he bought, Tim looks almost shy. Like this this is the only way he knows how to say I care without saying it out loud.

𑣲 ◞ Tim usually pays for your hair and nails without even asking. Appointments are booked ahead of time. Tips are already factored in. He treats it like maintenance, not a luxury like something you deserve to have handled.

𑣲 ◞ He loves sitting near you while you flip through hair magazines, watching the way you focus. You’ll circle a style with a pen, fold the corner of the page, tilt the magazine toward the light like you’re already imagining yourself in it.

𑣲 ◞ Conner hovers when you do it. Leaning over your shoulder. Pointing at pictures. Giving very sincere opinions he definitely doesn’t realize are endearing. “That one,” he’ll say immediately. “You’d look insane in that one.”

𑣲 ◞ Tim is quieter about it, but just as invested. He’ll study the page like it’s data asking questions about length, texture, upkeep. He likes when you ask for his input. Likes knowing his opinion matters in spaces that are yours.

𑣲 ◞ They both love your growing collection of hair magazines. Stacked on your nightstand. Tucked into drawers. Some bent and worn from being flipped through too many times.

𑣲 ◞ Anytime they see a new issue with a celebrity you like on the cover, they grab it without hesitation. No discussion. No second guessing. It just shows up later in your hands.

𑣲 ◞ Tim will hand it to you casually, like it’s nothing.“I saw Beyoncé on the cover and thought you might want it,” he says, almost shy about it.

𑣲 ◞ Conner grins every time you light up. He loves that it’s something so small that makes you happy. Loves that they get to be part of it.

𑣲 ◞ With them, care shows up quietly in booked appointments, circled pages, and magazines bought on sight because someone thought of you.

𑣲 ◞ You’re particular about who touches your hair—and that boundary has always been non-negotiable. It isn’t casual. It isn’t a curiosity. It’s trust. The kind that’s earned slowly and protected carefully.

𑣲 ◞ Your parents were the first people you trusted with your hair. Gentle hands. Patience. Teaching you that care and intimacy can exist quietly, without spectacle. That lesson stuck.

𑣲 ◞ Tim and Conner understand that instinctively. They never reach without asking. Never treat your hair like something to comment on before listening. They know access to it means something deeper than touch.

𑣲 ◞ Conner loves doing protective styles on you when you let him. Braids. Twists. Simple things but he takes it seriously. He learned by watching you first. Sitting nearby. Asking questions once. Then practicing carefully, over and over, until he got it right.

𑣲 ◞ His hands are warm and steady, movements slow and deliberate. He concentrates hard, tongue caught slightly between his teeth, proud every time you tell him it looks good.

𑣲 ◞ Tim’s care looks different. He loves oil treatments. Loves the quiet ritual of it. You sit between his legs while he works oil gently into your scalp, thumbs moving in slow circles, patient and precise.

𑣲 ◞ He takes his time. Reads labels. Warms the oil properly. Makes sure you’re comfortable before he starts. When you relax into him, he knows he’s doing it right.

𑣲 ◞ Those moments feel intimate in a way that has nothing to do with performance. Just trust. Stillness. Being cared for without explanation.

𑣲 ◞ Getting matching nails with them is a given. You never have to convince them or beg. It’s not a big discussion, it’s just something that happens.

𑣲 ◞ Both Tim and Conner already paint their nails, so when you casually ask, it’s an automatic yes. No hesitation. No weird looks. Just, “What color?”

𑣲 ◞ Conner is bold about it. Dark colors. Chips them within a day and doesn’t care. Holds your hand anyway like it’s part of the look.

𑣲 ◞ Tim is meticulous. Lets you pick the shade. Sits still longer than anyone expects. Makes sure they dry properly before touching anything.

𑣲 ◞ You line your hands up together afterward, comparing. Laughing. Admiring. Someone always messes one up at the last second.

𑣲 ◞ It becomes a quiet ritual something small that belongs to just the three of you. Matching nails like a shared secret. Like proof that you’re on the same team.

𑣲 ◞ Seeing their hands match yours never stops feeling a little surreal. A little soft. A reminder that you don’t have to ask to be included you already are.

𑣲 ◞ Date nights rarely start with a real plan. Someone calls someone else’s flip phone and says, “You busy?” and suddenly you’re all piling into a car ten minutes later.

𑣲 ◞ Movie rental stores are a frequent stop. You wander the aisles way longer than necessary, judging movies by the cover art and reading the backs out loud.

𑣲 ◞ Conner always wants something loud or stupid. Tim wants something “critically interesting.” You usually end up picking the final movie.

𑣲 ◞ Late-night diners become a tradition. Sticky booths, neon lights in the windows, fries shared between all three of you.

𑣲 ◞ Tim is the one who pays most of the time, but Conner insists on grabbing milkshakes or snacks like it balances out.

𑣲 ◞ Sometimes the night ends back at Wayne Manor with the three of you half-asleep on the couch while a DVD menu loops endlessly on the screen.

𑣲 ◞ Photo booths are one of your favorite date-night traditions. You’ll see one tucked in the corner of a mall or arcade and immediately drag both of them over before they can protest.

𑣲 ◞ Conner pretends he doesn’t care at first. “It’s just pictures,” he says, arms crossed but he’s the first one squeezing inside the booth.

𑣲 ◞ The space is tiny. Three people crammed together on that little plastic seat, knees bumping, shoulders pressed together.

𑣲 ◞ The curtain slides closed and suddenly it feels like your own little world.

𑣲 ◞ Tim is the one feeding the machine the crumpled dollar bills while you and Conner argue about poses.

𑣲 ◞ The countdown flashes on the screen.

𑣲 ◞ First photo everyone tries to look normal.

𑣲 ◞ Second photo Conner pulls you both closer, one arm around each of you like he’s trying to fit you into the frame

𑣲 ◞ Third photo Tim pushes his glasses up and kisses your cheek at the last second.

𑣲 ◞ Fourth photo total chaos. Someone laughing, someone mid-blink, someone leaning too far forward.

𑣲 ◞ The machine whirs loudly while the photos print.

𑣲 ◞ You always wait right there for them, impatient, leaning against the booth while the strip slowly slides out.

𑣲 ◞ The pictures are never perfect. Someone always looks ridiculous in at least one frame.

𑣲 ◞ Conner loves the messy ones the most.

𑣲 ◞ Tim keeps the extra copies tucked in places you’ll find later between books, inside his laptop bag, sometimes even in the Batcomputer console.

𑣲 ◞ Your favorite strip ends up taped to the mirror in your room.

𑣲 ◞ Over time you collect a whole stack of them. Different outfits. Different moods. Same three people every time.

𑣲 ◞ It becomes a quiet tradition every time you pass a photo booth, you stop.

𑣲 ◞ Conner always says the same thing when the curtain closes. “Alright, everybody squeeze in.”

𑣲 ◞ Conner has been in a punk rock band since middle school. He started it with a couple of friends who had more passion than skill at first and somehow made it work anyway. Clark and Lois believed in him from the beginning. Showed up to early shows. Drove him to practice. Treated his music like it mattered, because to him, it did.

𑣲 ◞ The band grows with him. Slowly at first, then all at once. Small venues. Loud crowds. Sweat, feedback, and broken strings. Conner thrives in it. The stage gives him a place to be loud without being questioned.

𑣲 ◞ He’s written songs about you and Tim. He never announces which ones they are but you can tell. Certain lyrics land too close. Certain lines make his eyes flick toward you without meaning to.

𑣲 ◞ You and Tim are his biggest fans. Always in the crowd. Always there, even when the venues are cramped, sticky, and nothing like your usual aesthetic. It doesn’t matter. You show up every time. Tim does too earplugs in his pocket, eyes never leaving the stage.

𑣲 ◞ Conner is talented in a way that feels almost unfair. He picks up instruments easily guitar, bass, drums and makes them sound like extensions of himself. Music comes naturally to him, the way breathing does.

𑣲 ◞ He got a new electric guitar for his birthday and barely puts it down. Plays it constantly. Adjusting strings. Testing sounds. Letting riffs spill out whenever inspiration hits.

𑣲 ◞ He loves playing for the two of you most. Sitting on the floor. On the edge of the bed. Leaning against the couch while Tim listens quietly and you watch his hands move.

𑣲 ◞ Sometimes he brings the guitar everywhere. No warning. No explanation. You’ll be out on a date, mid-conversation, and suddenly Conner is playing softly beside you like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

𑣲 ◞ When you tease him about it, he just shrugs and says, “What if I forget how to play?” like that’s a real possibility. You don’t have the heart to tell him it isn’t. Music is stitched too deeply into him for that.

𑣲 ◞ Tim is the complete opposite of you and Conner in almost every way. He’s tech-savvy to an almost alarming degree able to get into systems most people don’t even know exist yet. Early-2000s computers, clunky desktops, humming towers, tangled cords it’s all second nature to him.

𑣲 ◞ He stays up all night because of it. Not on purpose. It just happens. You and Conner could call him at any hour 2am, 4am, right before sunrise and he’d answer immediately, already awake, already focused. Espresso shots, iced coffee, or an energy drink within arm’s reach while he fixes whatever’s broken like it’s nothing.

𑣲 ◞ Tim skates too but not in a skater-boy way. It’s not an aesthetic, it’s a habit. Something he does to think. To move. He has a few boards he takes meticulous care of some passed down from Duke and Jason, scuffed and worn but never replaced. Others he bought himself and keeps in near-perfect condition.

𑣲 ◞ He prefers skating alone at night, when the streets are quiet and his thoughts finally slow down. Headphones in. Mind half elsewhere. If you and Conner come with him, he doesn’t mind but he never expects it.

𑣲 ◞ When you mention wanting to try skating, Tim hesitates immediately. Not because he doubts you but because he doesn’t want you hurt. Still, he gives in. Always does. He places you on the board carefully, hands steady around your waist, guiding you slowly forward like it’s something precious he’s responsible for.

𑣲 ◞ Conner sits nearby in the grass, a cigarette resting between his fingers, guitar balanced on his knee. He strums absentmindedly while watching the two of you, the little picnic you brought spread out beside him like a scene he doesn’t want to forget.

𑣲 ◞ Tim’s sleep schedule is wrecked beyond repair. He shows up to hangouts half-awake, hair messy, brain running on fumes. Sometimes he oversleeps completely. So you and Conner started buying him iced coffee with an extra shot of espresso always ready, always waiting for him.

𑣲 ◞ When you hand it to him as he walks in, he exhales softly, like his whole body relaxes. “I don’t know what I’d do without you guys,” he says quietly and for once, he really means it.

𑣲 ◞ Conner and Tim smoke together often, but they approach it very differently. Conner smokes like it’s second nature there’s almost always a cigarette on him. It’s part habit, part environment, part comfort.

𑣲 ◞ Tim is more on the quitting side of things. He keeps nicotine gum on him and uses it more often than not. He only smokes when he’s alone, stressed, or when his thoughts won’t slow down enough for anything else to work.

𑣲 ◞ Conner smokes everything regular cigarettes, clove cigarettes, and weed. It fits his scene, his music, his restlessness. Afterward, he always puts on cologne, something strong and familiar that mixes with smoke in a way you’ve come to love.

𑣲 ◞ You love sitting close to him after a smoke session, curled comfortably in his lap, breathing him in. He doesn’t comment on it. Just keeps one hand steady at your waist, grounding, while he goes back to whatever he was doing like this is normal because it is.

𑣲 ◞ You only smoke weed with Tim and Conner. It’s not an everyday thing, and it’s never casual. They don’t trust just anyone’s supply, and they trust you even less to be high around people who don’t know you the way they do.

𑣲 ◞ When you’re high, you get softer. Clingier. Too honest with your affection. Tim notices immediately. Conner just pulls you closer like it’s his job.

𑣲 ◞ Kissing them after they’ve smoked is something you secretly love the faint taste of nicotine mixed with mint toothpaste, familiar and oddly comforting. It’s intimate in a quiet way, like a shared habit rather than a spectacle.

𑣲 ◞ Conner always keeps a pack of cigarettes on him. If he runs out, he’s already halfway to the nearest corner store before anyone can say anything. It’s routine. Predictable. Part of the rhythm of his life.

𑣲 ◞ Conner takes up space wherever he is, completely unapologetic about it. It doesn’t matter whose place you’re at especially not Tim’s. If there’s a bed, a couch, or even just floor space, Conner will sprawl out like it belongs to him.

𑣲 ◞ At Tim’s place, he has a habit of flopping onto the bed first. Long limbs everywhere. Taking up space you and Tim were definitely about to use. He just lays there on his back, arms stretched out, watching the two of you like he’s waiting for something obvious. “Come cuddle me,” he says, like it’s a fact, not a request.

𑣲 ◞ And he’s right because Conner loves cuddling. Loves it openly. Loves it without embarrassment. He’s big enough that both you and Tim fit easily in his arms, like you were meant to.

𑣲 ◞ One of you tucked against his chest. The other curled into his side. Conner adjusts without complaint, shifting just enough to make sure you’re both comfortable.

𑣲 ◞ His hold is warm and grounding. Protective without being restrictive. Like he’s anchoring the room just by being there.

𑣲 ◞ Tim pretends to be annoyed at first, muttering something about personal space, but he settles in anyway. Conner always notices and his grip tightens just a little, satisfied.

𑣲 ◞ Being wrapped up in Conner feels inevitable. Like gravity. Like no matter how busy or tense things get, you always end up right back there safe, warm, and exactly where you’re supposed to be.

𑣲 ◞ Tim wears glasses. He knows he wears glasses. He just forgets about them constantly.

𑣲 ◞ Nine times out of ten, they’re sitting somewhere nearby on a desk, pushed up on his head, tucked into a hoodie pocket anywhere except where they’re supposed to be.

𑣲 ◞ He gets so focused on whatever he’s doing that he doesn’t notice when he starts squinting at screens or leaning way too close to books. To him, it’s normal. To you and Conner, it’s a dead giveaway.

𑣲 ◞ You’re usually the one who notices first. “Babe,” you’ll say casually, already looking around the room, “where are your glasses?” Conner always backs you up. “Yeah, dude,” he adds, half-laughing. “You’re doing the thing.”

𑣲 ◞ Tim blinks like he’s just been pulled out of another dimension. Pauses. Reaches up automatically. Realizes they’re not there. “Oh,” he says, like this information is brand new.

𑣲 ◞ He never argues. Just sighs softly and lets one of you hand them to him or watches as Conner plucks them off a nearby surface and slides them back onto his face.

𑣲 ◞ The second they’re on, his shoulders relax. His focus sharpens. Like the world snaps back into place.

𑣲 ◞ You tease him about it constantly, but you also love how easily he trusts you both to notice things he forgets about himself.

𑣲 ◞ Being reminded to wear his glasses isn’t annoying to him it’s grounding. Another quiet reminder that he doesn’t have to hold everything together on his own anymore.

𑣲 ◞ I believe in Wasian Tim Drake I’m sorry to anybody else who doesn’t but I do

𑣲 ◞ Dating superheroes is strange in ways that are both comforting and slightly surreal. They don’t track you like you’re a problem to solve. They just… know you. Your habits. Your favorite late-night spots. The places you go when you need space.

𑣲 ◞ You can be out somewhere diner, bookstore, sidewalk curb after a long walk and your phone will ring. Flip phone vibrating in your bag. Tim’s name. Or Conner’s.

𑣲 ◞ If you answer, it’s casual. “You good?” “Still there?” “Need a ride?”They never interrogate. They just check in.

𑣲 ◞ If you don’t answer, they give it a few minutes. Five. Maybe ten. Long enough to respect your space. Not long enough to ignore instinct. And then somehow, they show up.

𑣲 ◞ Conner usually arrives first. Like he followed a feeling more than a map. Tim isn’t far behind already assessing, already calm.

𑣲 ◞ You’ve tried to figure out how they do it. Maybe Conner’s enhanced senses. Maybe Tim memorizing your patterns. Maybe both. You never really press for the details. You trust the intention behind it more than the method. It never feels like surveillance. It feels like backup.

𑣲 ◞ And on the rare times when neither of them can get to you immediately, you learn something else you are never actually without them.

𑣲 ◞ Sometimes it’s one of Tim’s brothers who “happens” to walk past where you are. Dick offering a ride with that easy grin. Jason leaning against a wall like he’s been there the whole time. Or Duke who was surprisingly in the area.

𑣲 ◞ They don’t make it dramatic. They don’t make it a scene. They just make sure you’re not alone.

𑣲 ◞ Loving superheroes doesn’t mean living under a spotlight. It means knowing that if you ever need someone even if you don’t say it out loud someone is already on their way.

𑣲 ◞ Conner has a habit of biting. Not hard enough to hurt just enough to surprise you. It started as a joke once, a quick nip at your shoulder when you teased him too much, and somehow it stuck.

𑣲 ◞ Now it’s just something he does. Sitting next to you on the couch? Bite. Leaning over Tim’s shoulder while he’s working? Bite. Wrapped around one of you during a lazy cuddle session? Absolutely a bite coming at some point.

𑣲 ◞ You and Tim both complain about it constantly, but neither of you actually stop him. It’s become one of those strange little quirks that just belongs to Conner.

𑣲 ◞ Conner swears it’s not a “thing.” If you accuse him of having a biting problem, he rolls his eyes and insists he’s just being affectionate.

𑣲 ◞ Tim calls it exactly what it is. “You bite people like a weird dog,” he says flatly, not even looking up from whatever he’s doing.

𑣲 ◞ That never stops Conner. If anything, the reaction encourages him. He loves when one of you jumps or turns around to glare at him.

𑣲 ◞ The bites are never random, though. They’re always playful shoulders, arms, the side of your hand if you’re sitting close enough.

𑣲 ◞ Sometimes it’s his way of getting attention without interrupting. If Tim is too focused on a screen or you’re distracted by something else, Conner will just lean over and bite lightly until one of you finally looks at him.

𑣲 ◞ “What?” he’ll say innocently when you both stare at him. “I was just saying hi.”

𑣲 ◞ Tim pretends it annoys him, but he’s learned to expect it. Every once in a while he’ll shove Conner’s face away with a tired, “Kent, stop biting me.”And Conner will laugh like that was exactly the reaction he wanted.

𑣲 ◞ Conner is the most physically affectionate out of the three of you. He’s always touching someone an arm around your shoulders, a hand resting on Tim’s knee, fingers tracing patterns on your back when you’re sitting close.

𑣲 ◞ Tim shows affection more subtly. He adjusts your necklace without thinking, pushes your hair behind your ear while you’re talking, or rests his hand over yours when he wants you to know he’s listening.

𑣲 ◞ The three of you have a habit of sitting too close to each other without noticing. Someone always ends up half in someone else’s lap.

𑣲 ◞ Late nights are when the quiet affection shows the most. Music playing low, the room dim, someone leaning against someone else.

𑣲 ◞ Conner loves pulling both of you into his arms when he’s lying down. He says it’s easier that way one arm around you, the other around Tim.

𑣲 ◞ Tim pretends he needs personal space, but he’s the first one to relax into the pile once everyone settles.

𑣲 ◞ Sometimes you’ll catch Tim watching the two of you when he thinks nobody notices. Not in a jealous way more like he’s quietly appreciating the moment.

𑣲 ◞ Conner likes kissing you both randomly. Mid-conversation, mid-laugh, whenever the feeling hits.

𑣲 ◞ Tim is softer about it. His kisses are usually quieter moments when you’re saying goodbye, when you’re tired, when you’re sitting close enough that it feels natural.

𑣲 ◞ When one of you has had a rough day, the other two immediately close ranks. Someone brings snacks, someone offers a shoulder, someone pulls the other into a hug without asking questions.

𑣲 ◞ There’s a comfort in knowing that affection is always available you never have to ask for it.

𑣲 ◞ Sometimes the three of you just lie there together talking about nothing important. Those moments end up feeling like the most important ones.

“You drinking tonight?”

Those words were the very beginning of your downfall. One simple question, tossed out casually, and suddenly you found yourself in the middle of a restaurant, sandwiched between Clark Kent and Jimmy Olsen, wondering just how many glasses it would take before you completely lost control.

The Daily Planet had gone all out for Perry White’s birthday. Lois had picked the place a lively Korean restaurant famous for its fried chicken and Perry, naturally, had insisted everyone come. The smells were incredible, the chatter was loud, and the tables were already crowded with bottles, pitchers, and neon-bright cocktails.

You hadn’t realized everyone would be drinking. Not just sipping drinking.

It wasn’t that you were afraid of alcohol. No, the fear came after. The fear of what happened when you got too drunk. You weren’t a regular drinker, not really. You saved it for birthdays, holidays, the rare night out with friends. But when you did drink? You went too far, every single time.

Now, you were staring down at your own mistake a glowing blue drink of some unknown mix you’d ordered on impulse. The name on the menu had been written in Hangul you couldn’t read, and though you could’ve asked, you hadn’t wanted to burden the overworked server.

Your fault for not knowing Korean.

“Are you gonna drink that?”

Clark’s voice snapped you out of your spiral. You turned to your left, finding him smiling softly, hands folded on the table around a glass of water.

“Y–yeah,” you said quickly. “Just waiting for the food.”

He nodded, easy and unbothered. You tilted your head toward his glass. “You didn’t get anything? Just water?”

“I don’t really drink alcohol,” Clark explained, lifting his second glass a pale pink mocktail into the light. “I stick to water. Maybe something sweet like this if I want to blend in.”

Smart. Sensible. Everything you weren’t. You gave him a small nod and turned back to your glass, watching the liquid swirl under the lights.

Across the table, Perry laughed with a coworker, the birthday hat Lois had jammed on his head sitting crooked but proud. Everyone was lively, glasses clinking, voices raising. When the food arrived, you smiled, ready to distract yourself. But then one of the guys from the office a face you barely recognized stood up, wine glass in hand.

“A toast,” he announced loudly. “To the most ass-kicking boss I’ve ever had!”

Laughter erupted around the table as everyone lifted their glasses. You hesitated, then sighed and picked yours up, holding it high with the rest.

“To Perry!”

The chorus rang out, glasses clinked, and you finally took a sip. Sweet, strong, sharp. You set the glass down, half empty already, and let out a quiet breath.

“I take it you’re not a drinker,” came a voice from your right. Jimmy Olsen, grinning at you with that mischievous glint in his eyes.

You flushed under his stare. “Uh—no. I mean, I am,” you stammered. “I just… don’t like myself when I’m drunk.”

“Don’t we all?” Jimmy laughed, lifting his own glass. “Come on. Live a little.”

He tapped his drink against yours, coaxing you to sip again. And you did. One sip turned into two, and before long your glass was empty. Jimmy set his down with a satisfied thud. “See? Not so bad.”

You smiled weakly. “Maybe. But I’m not drunk yet.”

Jimmy’s grin widened. He reached for one of the bottles in the center of the table, poured a shot into a small glass, and slid it toward you. “Then we should fix that, shouldn’t we?”

You looked from the glass to him, uncertain. “I don’t know…”

He nudged it closer. “Live a little. In fact Clark. Here.”

Before you could stop him, Jimmy filled another shot and shoved it toward Clark.

Clark gave the smallest sigh. “I told you I don’t drink.”

“Exactly!” Jimmy said, still grinning as he pushed the glass into Clark’s hand. “Which is why you should. Just one. Live a little.”

Clark studied it for a long moment, then finally tipped his head back and downed it in one smooth motion. The liquor burned its way down his throat, a few drops catching at the corner of his mouth before he set the glass back on the table.

“There. Happy?” he muttered.

Jimmy only smirked, already pouring three fresh shots one for himself, one for you, one for Clark.

You stared at yours, the liquid catching the light, before finally picking it up and taking a sip. Heat bloomed in your chest, spreading out in a slow burn that made your face flush. You set the glass down, suddenly aware of how loud the restaurant was, how close the bodies felt around you, how your own hands trembled slightly as you picked at the food in front of you.

When you dared a glance left, Clark was already tipping back another shot Jimmy had poured for him. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, the line of his throat slick under the low lights.

You caught yourself staring. He caught you staring too.

“What?” he asked, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, his dimples making an appearance.

“Nothing,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “It’s just… for someone who says they’re not a drinker, you’re taking those like a pro.”

Clark’s smirk deepened, and your stomach flipped. Clark’s smirk deepened, the dimples settling in like they belonged there. Your stomach flipped again, that warmth spreading lower, and you turned away too quickly, pretending to focus on the food being passed down the table.

Jimmy caught the exchange though. Of course he did. His grin was sharp when you glanced his way, like he’d just seen straight through you. He tipped his glass toward you in a mock toast before knocking it back, his throat working in a mirror of Clark’s.

“Don’t let him fool you,” Jimmy said, setting the glass down with a thud. “Farm boy can hold his liquor. Just doesn’t like to admit it.”

Clark shot him a look over the rim of his fresh glass but didn’t deny it. He only sipped, slow this time, like he was pacing himself or maybe like he wanted you to watch.

The table around you erupted with laughter at some joke Perry made, waiters weaving between chairs with trays of steaming food. The smell of garlic, soy, and frying oil clung thick in the air. But between you, Clark, and Jimmy, the noise faded into background static.

You could feel the shift the way Clark leaned a little closer when he set his glass down, the way Jimmy’s knee brushed yours under the table and didn’t move away.

“Careful,” Jimmy murmured, low enough for only you to hear. His hand ghosted across the back of your chair, fingers brushing your shoulder. “If you keep looking at him like that, I’m gonna get jealous.”

Heat shot to your cheeks. You opened your mouth, fumbling for a response, but Clark’s quiet chuckle cut in. He’d heard. Of course he had.

“Jealous?” Clark said softly, turning that smirk on Jimmy now. “I thought you were the one telling her to live a little.”

Jimmy didn’t back down. His grin only widened, teeth flashing in the dim light. “Oh, I am. I just don’t share well.”

The tension snapped taut between the three of you, something unspoken but unmistakable. The alcohol burned warm in your veins, loosening the edges of your nerves, making the air feel heavy and electric.

You shifted in your seat, heart racing, suddenly unsure what would come next or if you even wanted to stop it.

The table was loud too loud. Laughter boomed, glasses clinked, waiters shouted orders across the room. But here, sandwiched between Clark and Jimmy, the noise blurred, leaving only the heat prickling over your skin.

Jimmy’s knee pressed against yours again, deliberate this time. Clark leaned in close enough that his shoulder brushed yours when he set his glass down. Between the liquor in your veins and the weight of their eyes, your pulse thudded like a drum.

You reached for another piece of chicken just to do something with your hands, but before you could, Jimmy’s palm landed heavy on your thigh beneath the table. Your breath hitched. His fingers flexed once, lazy, casual enough to pass as nothing if anyone happened to glance. But his grin told a different story.

“Relax,” he murmured, his voice pitched low, meant only for you.

You didn’t relax. Your thighs tensed, but you didn’t move away either.

Clark noticed. Of course he noticed. His eyes tracked Jimmy’s hand for a fraction of a second before flicking up to meet yours. Something simmered there heat, curiosity, maybe even approval.

Jimmy’s fingers inched higher, pushing the hem of your dress up with them. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he whispered, his lips barely moving. “Nobody’s watching.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs, nerves sparking, but the burn of alcohol made you bold. You shifted just slightly, parting your thighs. Invitation enough.

Jimmy’s grin widened. He slid lower in his seat, posture slouched like he was just another drunk reporter winding down after work. But his hand was anything but lazy now it crept between your legs, cupping you through your panties.

You bit your lip hard, eyes darting to Clark in a panic.

He was watching. He hadn’t looked away once. His jaw was tight, glass abandoned, and when he finally leaned toward you, his voice was a low rumble in your ear.

“Careful,” he murmured. “You’re gonna give us away.”

The warning only made Jimmy bolder. He hooked his fingers under the edge of your panties and slipped inside. The first brush of his knuckles against your folds had you gripping the edge of the table.

You tried to swallow a gasp, but Clark caught it. His hand landed heavy over yours on the table, grounding you or pinning you down, you couldn’t tell. His thumb traced circles against your skin, steady, deliberate, as if daring you to fall apart while everyone else laughed around you.

Jimmy worked you open with two fingers, slow at first, then quicker when he felt how wet you already were. His grin pressed against your shoulder, his breath hot at your ear. “Fuck, you’re soaked already…”

You clenched your thighs around his wrist, desperate for friction, but he pulled back just long enough to tug your panties aside. And then hot, wet his mouth replaced his fingers.

Your entire body jolted. Under the cover of the tablecloth, Jimmy Olsen was on his knees, tongue buried in your cunt.

“Jesus Christ,” you hissed under your breath, gripping Clark’s hand so hard your nails bit into his skin.

Clark only smirked, his free hand sliding under the table too curling over the back of your neck, steadying you as your body arched. He leaned in close enough that only you could hear.

“Don’t make a scene,” he murmured.

As if you could help it. Jimmy’s tongue lapped at you with greedy precision, messy and relentless. The vibrations of his muffled groans traveled straight through you, and it took everything not to rock against his face.

You choked back a moan, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. Clark’s eyes flicked to your mouth, his hand pressing harder against your nape. “Quiet,” he said, voice rough. “Good girl.”

The words shot straight through you.

Jimmy’s tongue circled your clit, then pressed harder, faster, and the table around you seemed to dissolve. You were seconds from giving yourself away seconds from moaning loud enough for the whole damn Planet to hear when Clark’s hand clamped over your thigh, grounding you.

Your orgasm tore through you anyway. Silent, shuddering, your nails clawed into Clark’s forearm as you came against Jimmy’s mouth. He groaned into you, lapping every drop like he couldn’t get enough.

By the time he pulled back, breathless and flushed, the table was still roaring with laughter, oblivious. He slid back into his seat like nothing happened, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His grin was downright sinful.

“Ready for round two?” he whispered.

Clark’s smirk returned, sharp and deliberate. He pushed back from the table, his hand brushing against your knee beneath the tablecloth.

“Not here,” he murmured, tone low and commanding. There was no room for argument, only obedience.

Jimmy was already on his feet, shrugging into his jacket like nothing unusual was happening. He bent down, close enough that only you and Clark could hear. His breath ghosted your ear.

“Meet us in the bathroom,” he whispered, punctuating it with a quick wink before tugging Clark by the wrist and steering him away.

Your heart raced. You watched them disappear through the crowded restaurant, slipping casually toward the hallway, unnoticed by anyone else. Around you, your coworkers were still laughing, eating, clinking glasses completely oblivious to the storm building inside you.

You swallowed hard, staring at your drink for a moment before pushing your chair back.

The walk to the bathroom felt endless. Your heels clicked softly against the tile floor as you slipped into the quieter hallway. The low thrum of music from the dining room faded, replaced by the pounding of your own heartbeat.

The bathroom door stood just ahead, unmarked, quiet. You hesitated only a second before reaching for the handle.

But before you could push it open, it flew outward.

Strong hands grabbed you, spinning you, pressing you hard against the door with a thud that stole your breath. Warm lips crashed against yours, kissing you like you were the only thing left in the world. Desperate. Demanding.

The door slammed shut again behind you, the sharp click of the lock sealing you inside.

The kiss deepened, rough and hungry. You gasped against his mouth as hands roamed your body, sliding from your waist up to your throat, tilting your chin higher. A low moan slipped from you, unrestrained, when teeth grazed your lower lip.

“F-fuck,” you whimpered, clutching at his hair.

The man pulled back just enough to smirk down at you, lips swollen from the kiss. Jimmy. His eyes gleamed with mischief, his chest heaving like he’d been waiting all night for this.

Before you could say anything, he scooped you up effortlessly, setting you down on the cool porcelain of the sink. The mirror rattled behind you, your dress riding high on your thighs as he stepped between your knees.

From the corner of your eye, you finally caught movement Clark, leaning against the opposite wall. Calm. Collected. Watching.

You lunged forward to kiss him, craving him, but Clark caught your chin with his fingers and pulled just out of reach. His smile was maddening, patient and sharp.

“Not yet, angel,” he drawled, voice like velvet. “Patience.”

The sound of his zipper filled the small space, echoing over your ragged breaths. He pushed his pants low enough to free himself, thick and heavy in his hand as he sat down on the closed toilet lid like a king on a throne. He spread his thighs, motioning you closer with a crook of his finger.

“Come here,” he ordered softly.

Your body obeyed before your mind caught up. Sliding off the sink, you dropped to your knees between his legs. Your hand wrapped around his cock, hot and pulsing, and you leaned forward, licking the bead of precum at the tip before taking him into your mouth.

Clark’s jaw tensed. His hand settled heavy on the back of your head, guiding you as you bobbed, hollowing your cheeks to take more of him in.

You were so focused on Clark that you didn’t notice Jimmy moving until you heard the sound of his zipper. A shuffle of fabric. Then heat.

A hand on your hip.

Your panties tugged to the side.

And the blunt press of him nudging at your entrance.

You moaned around Clark’s cock, the vibrations pulling a groan from his chest. The stretch burned sweet as Jimmy pushed inside, slow at first, savoring the way your body clenched around him.

“Fuck, she’s so tight,” Jimmy gritted out, his fingers digging into your hips.

Clark looked down at you, smug despite the way his thighs trembled under your touch. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth where spit was starting to gather.

“Messy little thing,” he murmured, watching you choke on him while Jimmy filled you from behind. “Taking us both so well…”

Pinned between the two of them your throat stuffed with Clark, your cunt stretched around Jimmy you could only moan, body trembling, overwhelmed and consumed.

Jimmy’s hips pressed flush to yours, the sink counter biting into your thighs as he buried himself inside you. The first thrust made you gasp around Clark’s cock, your throat tightening, eyes watering from the dual stretch.

Clark groaned low in his chest, his hand tightening at the back of your head. “Easy, angel. Breathe through it.” His tone was maddeningly calm, like he wasn’t unraveling at the sight of spit sliding down his length as you gagged around him.

Jimmy wasn’t nearly as patient. He set a rhythm right away, rough and deep, his hips slamming into you with a pace that made the mirror behind the sink rattle. The wet slap of his thrusts echoed in the tiled room, mixing with the lewd suck of your mouth around Clark.

“Fuck, look at her,” Jimmy panted, his eyes fixed on where his cock disappeared into your dripping pussy. “Taking both of us like she was made for it.”

Clark tilted his head back, a sharp breath leaving him as he forced you lower, the tip of his cock hitting the back of your throat. “Messy little angel,” he murmured, his voice rougher now. “So greedy…”

Tears pricked your eyes, saliva slicking your chin as you struggled to keep pace. Every time Jimmy slammed forward, your body jolted, forcing you deeper onto Clark. It was overwhelming—the heat of Jimmy’s cock stretching you open, the salty weight of Clark filling your mouth, their voices above you.

The bathroom was small, the sounds amplified moans, grunts, skin slapping, the squelch of your pussy dripping around Jimmy’s cock. Anyone walking past could probably hear.

And that only made your body tremble harder.

“Look at you,” Jimmy groaned, one hand leaving your hip to spank your ass, the crack sharp in the echoing room. “Already soaked. You like this, huh? Getting fucked in the boss’s birthday dinner bathroom?”

You whined, muffled around Clark’s cock, your thighs shaking.

Clark’s smirk returned, though his jaw was tight with restraint. He brushed his thumb along your damp cheek, lifting your face slightly so your teary eyes met his. “Answer him, angel,” he ordered, his voice soft but firm. “Or I’ll tell him to stop.”

Jimmy stilled inside you, grinding deep instead of thrusting. The sudden halt had you twitching, desperate.

You pulled off Clark’s cock with a gasp, spit connecting your lips to his tip in a slick string. “Y-yes,” you panted, voice shaking. “I like it—I love it—”

Jimmy growled in approval, slamming back into you so hard your knees almost buckled. You choked on your own moan as Clark grabbed your chin and shoved his cock back past your lips, claiming your throat again.

“Good girl,” Clark muttered, his composure cracking as his hips began to move, shallow thrusts timed with the pace Jimmy set behind you.

It was brutal each thrust forcing you to take both deeper, your body caught between them, used and worshipped all at once. The mirror fogged with your breath, the sink counter slick under your thighs where your wetness spilled down.

Jimmy’s hand tangled in your hair, tugging your head back so you had no choice but to look up at Clark while your lips stretched around him. “God, she’s perfect like this,” Jimmy rasped, his thrusts harder, faster, the sound of your ass clapping against his thighs obscene.

Clark looked down at you through half-lidded eyes, sweat beading at his temple. “She is,” he agreed softly, his thumb stroking your spit-slick lower lip. “Our messy little angel.”

Your walls clenched hard around Jimmy at the praise, a broken moan vibrating around Clark’s cock.

They both felt it.

“Fuck, she’s close,” Jimmy hissed, snapping his hips faster, his thrusts wild now.

Clark’s thighs tensed under your hands, his cock twitching in your mouth as he fought to hold back. “So are we,” he muttered, teeth clenched.

The bathroom filled with the sound of it your gagging gasps, Jimmy’s groans, Clark’s ragged breathing, the slap of skin on skin, the wet squelch of your dripping cunt.

Jimmy’s thrusts lost rhythm, his head falling against your shoulder as he growled through his release, hot spurts spilling deep inside you. The sudden warmth tipped you over the edge you cried out around Clark’s cock, convulsing as your orgasm ripped through you, wetness gushing down your thighs.

Clark cursed low, his grip in your hair tightening as he finally gave in, spilling down your throat in thick waves. You swallowed desperately, choking, tears streaming as he held you there until he was emptied.

When you pulled back, gasping for air, your face was a mess spit, tears, and his cum smeared across your chin. Jimmy was still pressed against your back, breathing hard, his cock slipping out of you with a wet sound.

Clark reached down, cupping your cheek, tilting your head up so he could look at you. His smile was soft this time, almost tender, though his eyes still burned. “Good girl,” he whispered.

Jimmy smirked behind you, zipping his pants back up. “Think we should get back before they start wondering?”

Clark’s thumb dragged slowly across your swollen bottom lip. “Not until she’s cleaned up,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

And the way his gaze lingered on you told you this wasn’t over. Not even close.

Jimmy’s smirk lingered as he finished tucking himself in, his voice low and teasing. “Guess Perry’s birthday party just got a little more memorable.”

Clark rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth curved upward. He stood, adjusting his shirt, then leaned down to press one last kiss to your damp, swollen lips gentler this time, grounding. “You did so well, angel,” he murmured, thumb brushing away the smear of spit at your chin.

Your thighs still trembled against the cool sink, body thrumming from the aftershocks. You swallowed hard, catching your breath, your reflection in the mirror a ruined mess hair mussed, lipstick gone, eyes glazed.

Clark helped you down, steadying you on shaky legs. Jimmy slipped an arm around your waist for a beat, keeping you upright. “Don’t worry,” he teased, pressing a quick kiss to your temple. “We’ll make sure no one suspects a thing.”

The three of you shared one last look equal parts wicked and conspiratorial before Clark unlocked the bathroom door.

The hum of the restaurant rushed back in, laughter and clinking glasses covering the echo of what had just happened. You smoothed your dress, Jimmy straightened his tie, and Clark simply adjusted his glasses like nothing at all was out of place.

By the time you slid back into your seats, Perry was laughing at another joke Lois had told, everyone’s attention fixed elsewhere. No one looked twice at the three of you just coworkers returning from the bathroom.

But under the table, Clark’s warm hand found your knee again, squeezing once in quiet promise.

And when you glanced sideways, Jimmy caught your eye and winked.

Whatever this was it wasn’t over.

The club was alive in a haze of sound and sin bass rattling the floorboards, bodies pressed tight together in a frenzy of sweat and perfume. Strobe lights flashed across half-naked strangers grinding on each other, while in the darker corners, people tipped their heads back in booths, snorting lines of white powder between gulps of liquor. Glasses clinked, laughter cracked, and every movement pulsed to the music’s relentless beat.

Your girlfriend had dragged you here tonight under the excuse of fun, though she hadn’t been able to keep her hands off you all day. From the second she picked out the sluttiest dress in your closet, to the way her lips ghosted down your neck as you zipped it up, Kori had been insatiable. She wasn’t usually clingy, but on the rare days she was, she was impossible to shake off.

Now she was pressed against you, twerking shamelessly to the rhythm, one hand tugging her dress down every time it threatened to ride up. Your hand steadied her waist, while the other nursed a glass of whiskey. You lifted it to your lips, savoring the burn until she stopped moving and turned to face you.

Kori leaned in close, her eyes locked on your mouth as you drank. You tilted the glass back one last time, then lowered it, lips glistening. She smiled before biting your bottom lip, coaxing a quiet moan out of you as she pressed her mouth over yours. The whiskey pooled hot between you until she stole it from your lips with a swallow, pulling back with a triumphant glint in her eye.

You stared at her, breathless, not even sure how to react before she took your hand and pulled you through the crowd. Past the dancers, past the booths, deeper into the noise until the two of you stood at the front of a stage. You blinked, stunned male strippers. You’d heard about places like this, sure, usually in the context of bachelorette parties or wild girls’ nights, but you never imagined Kori would bring you here on a random weekend.

She slid behind you, her chin resting on your shoulder, arms wrapping around your waist as if she were bracing you for impact. “You like?” she whispered against your ear, her teeth grazing the curve of it. You bit your lip to keep from moaning in the middle of the crowd.

“S-strippers? Really, Kori?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she grabbed your face and tilted it toward hers, smiling like she knew exactly what she was doing to you. “You’ll have fun. Trust me.” She kissed you quickly, light as a promise, before handing you a stack of bills.

“What’s this?” you asked, staring at the cash in your hand.

“It’s for them,” she said matter-of-factly. “When you see someone you like, you tip them. Simple.”

You gave her a look, suspicious, and she only smirked.

“Don’t tell me you’ve done this before?”

She raised both hands in mock surrender, laughing. “Guilty. What can I say? I was a whore before I met you.” And with that, she tucked a couple of dollars into the waistband of the nearest dancer’s thong like it was second nature.

Your jaw dropped, but before you could retort, the crowd parted just enough for another dancer to catch your eye. He was tall, lean muscle stacked over an athletic frame, his black hair slick with sweat. His smile was cocky, predatory and it was aimed directly at you.

You froze under his gaze as he prowled closer, the stage lights outlining every sharp angle of his chest, every hard line of muscle disappearing into the tiny pair of shorts clinging to his hips. He crouched low in front of you, close enough that his v-line and happy trail hovered right at eye level.

Heat rushed through you. You glanced down at the bills Kori shoved into your hand, then up at her. She was busy sliding money into another dancer’s shorts but caught your hesitation, nodding at you with encouragement.

Heart hammering, you fumbled a couple of bills between your fingers. The dancer smirked, watching every movement. You leaned forward, sliding the money into the front of his shorts, but before you could pull away, he caught your wrist.

You gasped as he guided your hand lower, pressing it against the thick outline of his bulge. The breath hitched in your throat as his cock twitched beneath your palm, heavy even through the fabric. He held your gaze, unbothered, as if daring you to go further.

With shaking fingers, you inched your hand upward, teasing along the waistband. You tugged it open just enough to slip the bills inside. For one fleeting second, you caught a glimpse of flushed skin, the thick base of his cock barely hidden by the fabric.

Your breath stuttered, panic and arousal knotting together in your chest as you yanked your hand back like you’d touched fire. The dancer only chuckled, a low, satisfied sound. He leaned close, his breath brushing your ear.

“Thank you, pretty,” he whispered.

Heat rushed to your face, and you offered a small, shaky smile before looking away. He didn’t let you escape his hand cupped your jaw, forcing your gaze back to his. His eyes glinted under the stage lights, dark and intent.

“Do I scare you?” he asked, voice edged with a smirk.

You shook your head quickly, the answer caught in your throat. His brow arched, skeptical, before he hummed softly and released you. Without another word, he slid off the stage, weaving through the crowd until he stood in front of you and Kori.

Kori smirked, her arm brushing yours. “Looks like someone’s got their eye on you,” she teased, her tone dripping with satisfaction.

The dancer stood there, expectant, cocky, and Kori stepped closer, her smile sharp. With deliberate slowness, she pulled a folded stash of cash from her bra. She pressed it against his waistband, her long acrylic nail tracing the thick outline of his cock through the fabric. He groaned under her touch, and she smirked, snapping the band of his shorts after tucking the bills inside.

He caught her hand before she could pull away, dragging it back to his bulge. She stroked along the outline of his cock, casual, confident, while you stood frozen, watching.

“Let’s take this somewhere private,” he said, stepping back.

Your stomach flipped as he turned, leading the two of you toward the velvet ropes at the side of the stage. The VIP section was tucked away, dimmer and quieter, though no less decadent. He sank into a leather chair with a glass already in hand, spreading his legs wide, looking up at you both like he was already owed something.

Kori caught on instantly. She grabbed your face and kissed you deep, stealing your breath. Her tongue teased against your lips until you opened for her, and then she pulled you closer, her hand squeezing your ass hard before smacking it. The sharp sting made you moan into her mouth, and she pushed her tongue deeper, biting, sucking, until you were gasping for air. A strand of saliva clung between your mouths when she finally pulled back.

She didn’t waste time, slipping your thin dress over your head in one smooth motion. You weren’t wearing a bra her grin widened as she lowered her mouth to your chest, lips latching onto your nipple. She flicked her tongue, nibbled, sucked until you were trembling, moaning softly. Red smudges of her ruined lipstick bloomed across your skin, marking you.

A sharp throat-clearing cut through the moment. The dancer. He sat forward in the chair, drink in one hand, impatience in his eyes.

“Come.”

The command was simple, and it left no room for argument. You and Kori walked closer, standing in front of him, nearly bare. His gaze slid over both of you like he was memorizing the sight.

“Ain’t this something,” he said, voice low and hungry. “Putting on a whole show.”

Kori smirked, proud, while you pressed your thighs together, embarrassment curling in your stomach at being nearly nude in front of a stranger.

He patted his thighs, motioning. You both sat, perched on either side of his legs.

“I never caught your names,” he drawled.

You swallowed hard before stammering out your own. Kori followed, smoother, more confident.

He grinned, sharp and smug. “Dick Grayson.“ The name hit you like a punch unexpected, unforgettable.

He leaned back, spreading himself wider. “On your knees.”

The command came again, and you obeyed without thinking, sliding down onto the plush carpet beside Kori. She grabbed your neck, pulling you into another heated kiss, moaning against your mouth like she wanted to drown in you.

“Fuck…” Dick groaned. His voice was strained now, rougher. You glanced up just as he shoved his shorts down, his cock thick and flushed in his hand as he began stroking himself slowly, eyes locked on you both.

Beside you, Kori peeled the rest of her clothes away without shame. Her fingers slipped between her thighs, spreading herself open as she fingered her dripping cunt, moaning into the kiss she held you captive in.

The sight of her fingers glistening, lips swollen from kissing you, and Dick stroking himself just a few feet away was dizzying. Every nerve in your body felt alive.

Kori pulled away from your mouth with a smirk, sliding her slick fingers free from her cunt. Without hesitation, she pressed them to your lips. You parted instantly, sucking them in deep, tasting her salty, sweet, and utterly intoxicating. A moan spilled from your throat, vibrating against her fingertips.

“Good girl,” she purred, pulling her hand free.

Your attention snapped back to Dick. He was leaned back on the couch, chest heaving, his cock thick and slick in his fist as he worked himself over to the sight of the two of you. You shifted closer, laying your head against his thigh, watching intently as he stroked his length.

Kori’s lips curled. She slid her hand across his thigh, nails dragging lightly against his skin. He hissed, his hand faltering for a second. She smirked wider, then pushed his hand away entirely.

“Hands off,” she murmured, and surprisingly, he obeyed dropping them to his sides.

Sliding between his spread thighs, Kori hooked her fingers in the waistband of his shorts and tugged them down. When the fabric pooled at his ankles, she lifted it delicately, almost reverent, before bringing it to her face. She inhaled deeply, savoring the musky scent, her eyes locked on his the entire time. Then, with a soft laugh, she tossed them aside.

You climbed onto the couch beside him, leaning over until your face hovered above his cock. Your ass arched high in the air, your hair falling forward, lips parting as you stuck your tongue out.

Kori’s hand wrapped around his base, pumping him slowly. You leaned in, lapping at the bead of precum on his tip before closing your lips around him. The taste was hot, bitter, and addictive.

You sank down, bobbing your head steadily, sucking him deep into your throat. His groan was sharp, rough, filling the space.

Smack.

His palm landed on your ass.

Smack. Smack.

Each hit made your body jolt, a muffled moan spilling around his cock.

“F-fuck… you girls are dangerous,” he groaned, head tipping back against the couch.

You pulled off with a wet pop, spit dripping from your lips as you spat on his cock, stroking it messily. Kori leaned in, spitting on it too, smearing the slick along his shaft before guiding you back down.

This time, you took him deeper, gagging around the thick stretch as Kori’s hand pressed firm at the back of your head, setting the pace. She angled herself lower, tongue dragging along the side of his shaft where your mouth couldn’t reach, her lips latching onto his balls, sucking softly.

The sounds were obscene wet slurps, choked gasps, your gagging, his groaning. Spit coated your chin, his cock, her hand filthy, messy, perfect.

Kori tightened her grip and shoved you down until your nose brushed his pelvis. You gagged hard, throat convulsing around him.

“That’s it,” she breathed, controlling your head with practiced steadiness. “Take him. You can do it.”

Your eyes watered, but you let her guide you, bobbing you up and down while her tongue stayed busy at his base. Your hand reached up, cupping his balls, rolling them in your palm as your throat worked around him.

“F-fuck- oh, fuck!” Dick’s voice cracked as his hips bucked. His cock twitched hard in your throat before he spilled, thick and hot.

Kori held you down, forcing you to swallow every drop as he groaned, hand gripping the armrest for dear life. Only when he sagged back into the couch did she let you pull off, his cock slipping free from your lips with another lewd pop.

Your chin was wet, your mouth full, your chest heaving. Kori grabbed your face and kissed you hard, lips crashing against yours as you opened up. You spat some of his cum into her mouth, messy and hot, and she moaned shamelessly, swallowing it down before licking the stray dribble from her lips.

Dick’s hand stuttered on his cock, his voice low and ragged. “Holy…fuck.”

You and Kori exchanged a glance, a wicked smile tugging at your lips before you pushed her gently onto the floor. Sliding off the couch, you hooked your thumbs into your panties, peeling the thin fabric down your thighs and tossing it carelessly across the room.

Kori spread her legs for you without hesitation, like her body already knew what you wanted. Her pussy glistened under the low, hazy light, slick catching against her thighs. You crawled between them slowly, the heat of her skin against yours making your stomach twist with need. When you pressed your soaked cunt to hers and rolled your hips, the sound alone made you both gasp—the wet drag, the sharp slap of flesh meeting flesh, obscene and irresistible.

Her hands flew to your waist, nails biting into your skin as she pulled you harder against her. “Oh—fuck, Y/N—” she whined, head tipping back, hair spilling across the floor like fire. You ground against her, messy and desperate, your clits catching with every thrust, the friction making your thighs tremble.

To get deeper, you hooked one of her long legs over your shoulder, forcing her open. The new angle sent a shock through you both, and you bit down on her calf as you fucked down against her, breasts bouncing with every slam of your hips.

Kori’s voice cracked, her back arching so sharply it lifted her chest into yours. “Y/N—baby—f-fuck—” she stuttered, tugging at your hair, at your ass, at your tits, like she couldn’t decide which part of you she needed more.

But you didn’t slow. You couldn’t. The squelch of your slicks mixing was intoxicating, your ass clapping against her thighs as your rhythm grew rougher, more reckless. Her nails left angry red trails down your back as her legs shook, her body straining under yours.

“B-baby—s-slow down, please—” she begged, voice breaking. Instead you ground harder, rolling your hips until your clits crushed together. Her breath hitched, her eyes rolled back, and her whole body trembled.

From the couch, Dick groaned. The sound of him stroking his cock filled the room, heavy breaths catching in his throat as he watched you and Kori writhe together on the floor. The sight of you grinding messy, sweat-slick and moaning into Kori’s mouth, had him palming his length like he couldn’t stand another second without it.

Kori shattered first. Her back bowed off the floor, a scream tearing from her throat as her orgasm ripped through her. Her thighs trembled violently, slick pouring out against your cunt. But you chased your own release mercilessly, grinding through hers until the heat, the mess, the taste of her lips finally tipped you over. You collapsed against her, body shaking violently as your orgasm wracked through you, soaking her thighs.

You kissed her lazily, still trembling, before sliding down her body. Her pussy was soaked, sticky, glistening in the dim light. You buried your face between her thighs, licking her clean, swallowing every drop while she whined your name like a prayer.

But she barely had time to breathe. Dick dragged her up onto the couch, hands rough on her hips. He spread her wide beneath him and sank into her with a deep, hungry thrust that had her gasping. “Ah—fuck!” Kori cried, tits bouncing as he pounded into her, sweat dripping down his chest. His hips snapped forward hard enough to make the couch shake, his balls slapping against her ass with every stroke.

You climbed onto the couch too, straddling her head. Kori didn’t hesitate—she wrapped her arms tight around your waist and buried her mouth into your pussy, tongue lapping at you like she was starving. You moaned loudly, your hands tangling in her hair as Dick fucked her harder.

The scene was filthy, overwhelming—the heat of Kori’s tongue dragging against your cunt, Dick’s cock slamming into her over and over, the rhythm of moans filling the air. Sweat slicked Dick’s chest as he leaned forward, kissing you rough and wet, swallowing your cries.

Kori’s muffled moans vibrated against your pussy, sending sparks down your spine. Lipstick smeared across your thighs, her hair sticking damp to her flushed skin. But none of you cared—not with Dick driving into her like he couldn’t stop, and you riding her mouth like your life depended on it.

The room reeked of sex and sweat, the sounds of wet skin and broken moans echoing around you. It was messy, greedy, intoxicating. Exactly what you wanted.

Your thighs quivered as Kori’s tongue worked you over, sloppy and desperate, her moans muffled against your cunt while Dick fucked her deeper. You clawed at his shoulders when he kissed you again, his mouth hot and insistent, his cock dragging hard into Kori until she screamed into you. The vibrations made your hips buck, slick running down her chin as you rode her mouth.

“Fuck—you both feel so good,” Dick groaned, pulling back just enough to watch you fall apart. Sweat dripped from his temple, his abs tightening with every thrust. His pace grew ruthless, hips snapping against Kori’s soaked pussy as her legs trembled around him.

Your girlfriend was falling apart beneath the both of you, but she never let up—her arms wrapped tight around your thighs, tongue flicking and plunging, sucking your clit until you gasped her name.

You couldn’t take it anymore. You slid down off her face, chest heaving, and kissed her mess-smeared mouth. The taste of yourself on her tongue made you whimper, and Dick groaned like he might lose it right then.

“Switch,” he rasped, voice gravelly, grabbing your waist. He guided you down onto his cock before you had time to think. The stretch made you cry out, your nails dragging over his chest as he bottomed out inside you.

“Holy shit—you’re tight,” he gasped, head falling back for a moment before he slammed his hips up into you.

Kori smirked, still catching her breath, but her hands slid up your body, tugging at your tits as she pressed kisses to your throat. Then she shifted, climbing higher on the couch until her slick cunt hovered over your mouth.

“Eat,” she whispered, and you obeyed instantly, latching onto her with a needy moan.

The rhythm turned brutal Dick pounding into you from below, Kori grinding against your face, your cries muffled under her cunt. Her taste coated your tongue, slick dripping down your chin, while Dick’s cock dragged perfectly against your walls with every thrust.

“Look at you,” he groaned, fucking up into you harder, “sandwiched between us, dripping, greedy little thing—” His hand tangled in your hair, pulling you back just enough to see your lips wrapped around Kori’s clit. The sight alone made his hips stutter.

Kori’s moans filled the room, her thighs shaking as she rode your tongue. “F-fuck, baby, just like that, don’t stop—” she gasped, gripping the back of the couch for leverage.

You were lost in it, in the mess, the heat, the taste of her and the feel of him splitting you open. Every nerve was lit up, your body caught between their pleasure, their hands, their voices.

Dick’s thrusts grew ragged, his head tipping back as his cock twitched deep inside you. “I’m close—fuck, I’m close,” he gritted out.

Kori’s thighs squeezed tight around your head, her moans spiraling higher as her slick flooded your tongue. She collapsed against the back of the couch, shaking, her release spilling across your mouth and chin as you licked her through it.

Your own climax hit seconds later, ripped from you as Dick slammed you down onto him one last time. Your body convulsed, pussy clenching hard around his cock as you screamed into Kori’s cunt.

He groaned, pulling you flush to him, his cock jerking as he spilled inside you. The warmth filled you, dripping down your thighs as he kept thrusting, wringing every last drop of pleasure from your bodies.

When it was over, the three of you collapsed together in a sticky, trembling mess. Kori curled into your side, still kissing your skin lazily, while Dick’s hand rubbed circles into your hip as he tried to catch his breath.

“You two…” he panted, still smiling even through exhaustion. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Kori chuckled softly, pressing her forehead against yours. “Or make you stronger.”

You just laughed weakly, tangled between them, your body still buzzing, knowing you’d never forget the sight, the sounds, or the way the three of you had burned together.

You collapsed against Kori’s chest, your body still trembling, thighs sticky with slick. Her hands didn’t let go, even as she struggled for air, nails dragging soothing lines over your spine. Dick’s cock slipped free with a wet sound, and he let out a shaky laugh, sweat dripping down his temple.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice rough, “you two are gonna kill me.”

You giggled weakly, more a breath than a sound, and tried to shift off Kori’s face—but she kept her arms locked around your waist. She pressed a kiss to your thigh, lips swollen, lipstick smeared all over your skin. Mine, the gesture said, even without words.

Dick leaned forward, grabbing a handful of cocktail napkins off the side table, wiping carefully at the mess smeared on your inner thighs. His touch was gentle, nothing like the hungry grip he’d had moments ago. “Easy, baby,” he murmured, eyes meeting yours. “Still shaking.”

Kori finally loosened her hold, cupping your jaw with her damp fingers, pulling you down for a kiss. It was soft, lazy, nothing like the frantic, teeth-clashing heat from before. “You okay?” she whispered against your lips.

You nodded, breath catching. “Yeah. Just… fuck.”

She smiled, brushing damp hair out of your face. Dick smirked, tucking himself back into his shorts, then tugging your discarded panties off the floor. Instead of handing them over, he bent and slid them gently up your legs himself, smoothing them into place like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The bass from the club pulsed through the floor, pulling you back to reality. All three of you looked at each other sweaty, wrecked, glowing under the low lights and burst out laughing.

“Drinks?” Dick asked, voice still hoarse.

Kori grinned, tugging your dress back over your head before planting one last kiss to your shoulder. “Drinks. Then maybe round two… somewhere less public.”

One thing you’ve learned about Dick Grayson and Wally West isn’t just that they’re best friends, it's that they can’t get enough of you.

It’s almost laughable, the way they orbit you like you’re some irresistible gravity neither can escape. To them, you’re not just a girl they treat you like a high they can’t quit, a secret indulgence they’d both die before admitting out loud. And honestly? You can’t complain. Not when they make you feel so wanted. Not when they fuck you like their lives depend on it. Sometimes you think they’d kiss the ground you walk on if you asked.

The catch? Neither of them has a clue about the other.

To Wally, you’re his little secret, the late-night texts lighting up your phone, the stolen kisses behind the bleachers, the reason he sprints across campus just to see you smile. He plays it cocky, but you know the way his eyes soften when it’s just the two of you.

To Dick, you’re something else entirely. He never talks about you to his friends, never risks letting anyone in on what the two of you do. He’s the one who sneaks out of practice just to meet you, who trades his perfect composure for ragged breath and whispered curses when your hands are on him. You’re the one who makes him lose control, and he hates how much he loves it.

And the funniest part? They’re always watching you.

It doesn’t matter if you’re on the sidelines in your cheer uniform, pom poms flashing under the stadium lights, or strutting down the hallway like you own the place they notice. Wally with that cocky, boyish grin that makes your heart race. Dick with his quiet, broody charm, eyes lingering on you like you’re the only thing worth his attention.

Golden boys. Best friends. Star athletes. Every girl on campus wants them, and yet somehow both of them keep coming back to you.

And you?

Well… it’s not your fault they’re both too fine to resist.

With your pom poms still in hand, you slipped out of the gymnasium, the faint tang of sweat still clinging to your skin after practice. The hallway was quieter now, just the echo of your sneakers against the polished floor. You headed straight for your locker, twisting the dial and pulling it open with a small groan of the metal hinges.

Something fluttered loose.

A folded piece of paper slipped out and landed at your feet. You blinked, glanced down the hallway empty and bent to pick it up. The corners were smudged, the paper wrinkled like it had been shoved into your locker in a rush. When you unfolded it, the first thing that hit you was the handwriting: sloppy, rushed, and almost impossible to read.

Meet me under the bleachers at lunch. I need to see you.

—Wally

A smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. Of course it was him. You crumpled the note in your hand, tucking it into your bag with a small shake of your head. Typical Wally.

Shutting it, you pulled out your lip gloss from your bag, popping the cap and smoothing the shiny coat over your lips. The reflection in the small mirror inside your locker made you pause you tugged at your uniform top just enough to make your chest sit higher, pushing your breasts forward under the clingy fabric. Perfect.

By the time you stepped outside, the fall air was warm against your flushed skin. Your eyes immediately found him. Wally stood half-hidden behind the bleachers, his football jersey loose across his broad frame. His ginger head kept poking out, scanning the crowd, looking equal parts restless and eager.

You couldn’t stop your smile.

As soon as he spotted you, his lips curved into that cocky, boyish grin that always made you roll your eyes and bite your lip. You walked toward him, and before you were fully within reach, his hands were already on you. He grabbed your waist, pulling you flush against him, his face burying into the curve of your neck.

“Missed you,” he muttered between kisses, his mouth dragging across your skin. His hands slid lower, gripping your ass and squeezing hard like he’d been starving for it all day.

The suddenness of it made you gasp, your breath stuttering at the greedy way he touched you. You tangled your fingers into his curls, tugging his head back until his lips puckered in protest.

“Wally- wait,” you whispered, though the smile tugging at your mouth betrayed you.

He gave you that mock-innocent look, like he wasn’t already hard against you.

You slid out of his arms, moving under the shadow of the bleachers, and lowered yourself to sit on the cold chair. He followed instantly, like he had no choice but to trail after you. Instead of sitting beside you, though, Wally dropped down to his knees between your legs, tilting his head back to look at you with hungry eyes.

It wasn’t just the position. It was the way he stared at you like you were the game he was determined to win.

“You wanted to see me this badly?” you teased, your voice soft but edged with amusement as you remembered the note he’d stuffed into your locker.

Wally didn’t answer. Instead, he dropped his head onto your thigh, looking up at you with those wide, pleading eyes. He looked pathetic in the best way like a boy who’d do anything for a taste of you.

Your fingers moved on their own, brushing through his curls before sliding down to cup his jaw. You leaned in, lips hovering dangerously close to his, letting him feel your breath ghost across his mouth. “You look so hot in your football uniform, baby,” you whispered.

That earned you a crooked little grin before he tugged you in for a quick, hungry kiss.

The next thing you knew, his strong hands were on your thighs, dragging you forward until you were perched right at the edge of the seat. A gasp slipped from your lips at the sudden motion, but Wally was already nosing against you, his voice breaking with desperation.

“Please, baby- please let me eat you out,” he begged, mouthing at the damp heat of your cheer skirt where it covered you. His kisses were sloppy, frantic, spreading warmth through the thin fabric of your panties.

“Wally…” you breathed, hesitating, heat creeping up your neck. “I don’t know- I’m all sweaty, and I didn’t shave down there…”

Like that mattered to him. He groaned against you, whining as if your words were cruel. Then, with a defiant little grin, he pressed a slow, wet lick right up your clothed slit.

“I never gave a fuck about that shit, baby,” he murmured against the fabric, looking up at you like he’d just proved his point.

You rolled your eyes, fighting a smile at how pitifully eager he was.

“Please,” he whispered again, voice breaking on the word like he was in pain.

Your smirk gave you away before your body did you slid one hand down, trailing over your stomach until it rested over the warmth of your cunt. You rubbed yourself languidly through your panties, just to watch him squirm. His eyes nearly rolled back when you tugged your skirt and underwear aside, baring yourself to him.

Wally moaned, actually moaned at the sight. He swatted your hand away with a whine, immediately replacing it with his mouth.

The first drag of his tongue made your thighs twitch, a sharp moan spilling out of you before you could stop it. He groaned like he’d been waiting all day, pulling you closer to his face, burying himself between your thighs as if he’d suffocate happily there.

With Wally, eating you out wasn’t just foreplay. It was worship. He’d once called himself a munch with a cocky grin, but the way he devoured you now, messy and relentless, spit and slick dripping down his chin made you believe he’d die between your legs if you let him.

Wally’s mouth was relentless, tongue lapping at your cunt like he was starved. You gasped when he slipped a finger inside you, your body arching off the seat. Your hands flew to his hair, tugging hard at his curls. The little bastard smirked against you before closing his lips around your clit and biting just enough to make your thighs twitch.

“W–Wally…” you moaned, your voice breaking as his lips trailed down to kiss your thigh, leaving it sticky with spit and your slick. You glanced down at him, your pussy shining across his chin, his mouth glistening as he looked up at you with a grin that was equal parts cocky and filthy.

Then he dove back in.

The only sounds were your breathless cries and the wet, obscene slurping of his tongue working you over. The rest of the world melted into static.

When he pushed a second finger inside, stretching and scissoring you open, your moan tore out of you like a prayer. “Wally- oh fuck, I’m gonna-” You couldn’t finish, not with the way he curled his fingers just right, not with his tongue flicking fast against your clit.

“Wally!” You cried out, your head tipping back, eyes rolling as heat coiled tight in your belly.

That’s when a voice cut through the air.

“Wally, where are you?”

You froze. Your heart leapt to your throat as you shoved at his head, pulling him away from between your legs. Your panties were shoved back in place, skirt tugged down. He looked up at you, dazed, confused, your slick smeared across his mouth.

The voice came again, closer now. “Coach needs you.”

Wally groaned, dragging a hand across his chin to wipe at the mess. He pushed himself up, annoyed, just as one of his teammates rounded the corner of the bleachers. The guy’s eyes landed on the two of you, narrowing as he slowed his pace.

“What are you guys doing back here?” he asked, suspicion dripping from his voice.

“None of your business,” Wally shot back immediately, wiping his mouth one last time. The guy looked between the two of you, clearly putting two and two together, but only gave a short nod before turning away.

As soon as he was gone, you collapsed back against the bench, still trembling, a moan of frustration slipping from your lips. “I fucking hate you,” you breathed.

Wally only smirked, running a hand along your back before catching your chin in his palm. “I’m sorry, babygirl. I know you were so close.” His tone was mock-guilty, like he wasn’t secretly proud of himself.

You rolled your eyes and leaned up to kiss him anyway, tasting yourself on his lips. “I hate you,” you muttered again when you pulled back.

“Careful,” he warned with a raised brow and that infuriating smirk. “Keep talking like that and I’ll drill you into this chair right now.”

You laughed, brushing your thumb along his jaw before kissing him once more. When you pulled away, your gaze dropped to your sneakers.

“What are you doing later?” he asked, tilting your face back up so you had to look at him.

You only shrugged.

“There’s a party tonight- for the team. You should come.” He tugged at the hem of your skirt, eyes flicking back up to yours. “I want you there.”

You smiled faintly, fingers tracing the edge of his jersey. “I’ll think about it.”

Wally rolled his eyes, groaning. “C’mon, Y/N. Everyone’s gonna be there. Besides—” he smirked, cocky again, “I want you at my side. Let everyone see my hot, sexy girlfriend.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of you. Girlfriend? Yeah, right.

“You just want me there so you can flaunt me?” you teased.

He froze for a second, lips parting like he’d been caught. “N-no. Of course not,” he stammered.

You snorted, kissing him quickly before pulling back with a wicked grin. “Relax, Walls. I was joking.”

“Yeah,” he said, a little too fast, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, of course you were.”

You giggled as you turned to leave, your pom poms swinging at your side. But before you stepped out from under the bleachers, you glanced back at him over your shoulder.

“And I’ll come.”

His grin lit up like you’d just handed him the win of the season.

You left the field, but not before your eyes lingered on Wally as he sprinted back out toward his teammates. They clapped him on the back, ruffled his ginger curls, their laughter echoing across the field. He looked like he belonged there, cocky and golden under the sun.

With a small sigh, you turned away and slipped back inside the school. Your legs carried you straight to the bathroom you hadn’t exactly had time to fix yourself up before, not with the way Wally had you trembling under the bleachers.

In front of the mirror, you smoothed your uniform, reapplied gloss to your lips, and tried to tame your hair. Your reflection looked composed enough, but the heat still clung to your cheeks. That’s when your phone buzzed.

A handful of notifications lit up your screen.

From Dick.

Your lips curled into a smirk as you tapped the messages open. “They seriously can’t get enough,” you murmured to yourself, a laugh slipping past before you spun on your heel and pushed out of the bathroom.

The gymnasium wasn’t far, and when you slipped inside, the sound of basketballs echoed across the polished floor. Dick was there, jersey clinging to his chest with sweat, his movements sharp and fluid as he sank shot after shot. His teammates cheered when he nailed a three-pointer, and he high-fived without even looking effortless, natural, the golden boy everyone admired.

You didn’t announce yourself. Didn’t need to. You just took a seat on the bench, crossing your legs and watching.

It didn’t take long before someone pointed in your direction. Dick followed their gaze, spotted you, and that grin spread across his face instantly. He jogged over, sweat dampening the dark strands of his hair, and dropped onto the bench just below yours. He leaned back casually, looking up at you with that boyish smirk.

“You came,” he said.

You tilted forward, smiling softly as your fingers trailed along his jaw before pressing light kisses across his cheek, his temple, finally landing on his lips.

“What did you want to talk about?” you asked against his mouth.

He caught your lips again before answering, low and easy: “Wanted to know if you’re going to that party tonight.”

Your smirk widened. The second time today someone’s asked me that. Wally’s words echoed in your head, and you couldn’t help but let the corner of your mouth twitch.

“Hmm. I don’t know. Maybe.” You leaned back slightly, deliberately giving him a different answer than you’d given Wally.

Dick glanced ahead, his brows pinching slightly as if he were thinking. Then he turned back to you, eyes sharper now. “You should.”

Before you could respond, his hand was cupping your face, pulling you down into another kiss. His mouth was hotter, needier than Wally’s—licking, nipping at your bottom lip like he wanted to devour you whole.

You pulled back with a soft gasp, your lips tingling. “Why should I?”

He tilted his head, pretending to search for the words, though you caught the smile tugging at his lips before he said it: “Because I’ll be there. And I want everyone to see my girl.”

A giggle escaped you, and you straightened up, hiding your face for a second. “Hmm. Doesn’t sound as bad as I thought.”

He sat up straighter too, his eyes locked on yours now. “Sooo?”

You hummed, like you were weighing your options, then let the smile tug free. “Fine. I’ll go.”

That answer lit him up. He smiled so wide you almost forgot he was supposed to be the broody one. His hand slid back to your cheek, guiding you down into one last kiss—slower this time, sweeter.

When you pulled apart, his thumb brushed over your cheekbone. “Want me to pick you up?”

You met his gaze, a little smirk on your lips, and gave a small nod.

His grin widened as he stood, running a hand through his damp hair. “Okay. I’ll call you then.”

And just like that, he jogged back to the court, leaving you sitting on the bench with your heart thudding and a smirk tugging at your lips.

You sat there for a moment, your gloss still tingling from his kiss. Two invitations. Two “girlfriends.” Same party.

And not a clue between them.

Once you get home, you fling open your closet and stare hard at your options. You could say you’re just picking something nice to look good for the party. You could say it has nothing to do with the fact that both Dick and Wally will be there. You could keep lying to yourself.

But the truth is—it’s about both of them.

You settle on a skin-tight dress, short and unforgiving, one you’ve worn a couple times but never fails to make heads turn. With a sigh, you step into your thong, clip on your bra, and shimmy into the dress. The fabric hugs your curves, pushes your breasts up, and carves out your waist so sharply you almost do a double take. In the mirror, you look like trouble. The kind of trouble they won’t be able to resist.

A buzz from your phone pulls you back down to earth. A text from Dick.

You smile to yourself, spritz perfume over your neck and wrists, grab your purse, and head out the door.

The night air cools your flushed skin—until your heart plummets.

Dick’s car is parked at the curb, headlights soft against the pavement. He’s in the driver’s seat. And sitting in the passenger side, laughing at something he’s just said, is Wally West.

You blink once. Twice. Like maybe it’s your imagination. But no, he’s there. Red hair catching in the glow of the dashboard lights, head tilted back in laughter.

For a split second, you consider turning right back around. Pretend you forgot something. Pretend you’re sick. Anything. But then they notice you. Dick’s honk breaks the spell, and your chance to run evaporates.

You inhale, force a smile, and walk toward the car. Wally hops out before you can reach for the handle, flashing that smug grin as he opens the back door for you.

“Ladies first,” he teases softly, holding it open until you slide in. You give him the faintest smile, pretending your pulse isn’t racing. He shuts the door and drops back into his seat like nothing’s wrong.

Dick leans over the console, flashing you that easy, devastating grin. “Hey, gorgeous. Ready?” His tone is so casual, so warm, like he doesn’t realize your world just tilted on its axis.

You force your lips into a smile. “Always.”

Wally twists in his seat, eyes finding yours instantly. The look he gives you is brief but loaded—his smirk is small, private, enough to pull heat up your neck. Your chest tightens, remembering his mouth under the bleachers, the mess he made of you earlier. Your thighs squeeze together on instinct, as if that might shield the memory.

“You look good, Y/N,” Wally drawls, his voice smooth as silk. He throws in a wink that makes your pulse jump. You can’t help the smile tugging at your lips, though you press your legs tighter together.

Dick laughs, oblivious, eyes never leaving the road. “Don’t let him get in your head. He says that to every girl.”

You roll your eyes, gaze shifting to your phone, then out the window. Anything to keep your cool. Anything to keep from combusting.

But it’s impossible to ignore the way the air feels charged, heavy with everything unsaid. Dick is talking about the party, about the win, about how he wants you there by his side—but his words blur into noise. Because all you can think about is Wally’s sideways glances, the way his eyes drag over your thighs where your dress rides up. And Dick, his hand gripping the wheel, calling you his girl.

One boy in the driver’s seat, one boy in the passenger’s. Both yours. Neither knowing. And you, burning alive in the backseat.

The drive isn’t long, but it feels like forever. Every time you glance to the front, Wally’s eyes are there—dragging over your bare thighs, the hem of your dress, his smirk daring you to react. Dick, on the other hand, keeps flashing those quick grins at you in the rearview mirror, the kind that say he knows exactly what he has sitting in the backseat. The push and pull of their attention has your pulse jumping before you’ve even arrived.

When Dick finally parks, the party is already spilling out into the night. The bass rattles the car windows, laughter echoes from the porch, and the glow of pulsing lights paints the street in shifting colors.

Dick hops out first, stretching his arms like he owns the place. Wally trails after him, but instead of heading straight in, he circles around to your side of the car. He swings the door open with exaggerated courtesy, offering you his hand like a gentleman. But the wink he slips in as you take it ruins any pretense of innocence.

Heat coils in your stomach, but you force yourself to play it cool, slipping your fingers into his just long enough to step out.

Inside, the house is a storm. Music crashes through the walls, sweat and perfume mix in the air, and the living room is a mess of grinding bodies and shouted conversations. People move around you in waves—athletes celebrating their win, cheerleaders with drinks sloshing dangerously close to their uniforms, classmates pressed against walls with wandering hands.

Both boys keep close, one on either side of you like you’re the prize they’re determined to guard.

That’s when Wally leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Careful, baby,” he teases, voice nearly swallowed by the music. “That dress is gonna get you in trouble.”

Before you can even process the words, his fingers graze the hem of your dress—so quick you’re not even sure if you imagined it. But then you catch his smirk and know better.

You roll your eyes, but your heart skips all the same.

Dick doesn’t notice. He’s too busy tugging you toward the kitchen. He grabs a drink, presses the icy cup into your hand, and leans close enough that his breath warms your cheek. “Stay by me tonight, alright?” His gaze is sharp, possessive. “I don’t want anyone else touching you.”

The words dig into you. Part of you wants to melt, to let him stake that claim. But another part laughs at the irony.

Because right behind him, Wally is watching. His beer is lifted casually to his lips, but his eyes—dark, deliberate—don’t leave yours. And the smile curving his mouth is almost mocking, like he knows a secret you’re trying desperately to keep.

The night blurs after that. Music, drinks, too many faces. You laugh too loud with your friends, sway your hips on the dance floor, let yourself be pulled into the chaos. But through it all, you feel it—two pairs of eyes, never leaving you.

Eventually you find yourself sinking into the couch, a red solo cup dangling from your fingers. You don’t even know what’s in it anymore, just that it burns on the way down. And then, like it’s planned, Wally and Dick drop down on either side of you.

For a moment, no one speaks. Then Wally tilts his head, his grin sharp as he breaks the silence. “So,” he drawls, “how do you guys know each other?”

Your stomach lurches.

Dick doesn’t hesitate—he smirks, puffing his chest just a little, and says, “She’s my girlfri—”

“I’m just a friend!” The words burst out of you before you even think. “Yeah, I’m his friend. Just… a friend.” You repeat it too quickly, like the more you say it the more it’ll be true.

But your voice wavers, and you can’t bring yourself to look at Dick. You don’t want to see the look on his face, don’t want to know what’s written there—hurt, confusion, anger.

Your lungs feel tight. You grab your cup, stand up fast, and force a laugh that doesn’t sound like you. “Can you excuse me? I need some fresh air.”

Before either of them can stop you, you weave through the crowd, push up the stairs, and slip into the first empty room you find. You close the door behind you and lean against it, chest heaving, trying to breathe.

Alone at last. But your heart still pounds like the bass outside, and the image of both their faces burns behind your eyes.

You sit at the edge of the bed, palms slick against your thighs, heart hammering so loud it fills the quiet. “Y/N, what are you doing?” you whisper to yourself, voice barely audible. A shaky laugh slips past your lips and you shake your head. “This is why I don’t mess with best friends,” you mutter, almost bitterly.

The door creaks, slow and deliberate. Your stomach drops. When you glance up, Dick and Wally are standing in the doorway, shoulders squared, blocking your only escape.

Dick’s voice slices through the air—sharp, low, full of betrayal. “So the whole time you’ve been lying to us both? Fucking us behind each other’s backs like we wouldn’t figure it out?”

Wally steps in next to him, jaw clenched, his eyes hot and furious. “That why you didn’t wanna come tonight? ‘Cause you knew we’d both be here?”

The silence stretches, heavy. You stare down at your hands, willing yourself to breathe. But when you lift your head, the smirk curving your lips isn’t nervous—it’s lethal. “You say it like you weren’t loving every second,” you shoot back, voice cool and measured. “What? Y’all mad I played the game better than you?”

Dick’s brows furrow. Wally’s fists tighten at his sides. But you don’t stop. You lean back on your hands, crossing one leg over the other like you’re completely unbothered.

“You ain’t shit, Y/N,” Wally snaps.

You smirk. “You’re acting brand new, and for what?” Your shrug is slow, dismissive. “Let’s be real—you were lying, too. Both of you. So if I ‘ain’t shit’…” You laugh, low and sharp. “Guess that makes three of us.”

Dick’s smirk is gone now, jaw flexing as his eyes darken. “Don’t flip this on us. You’ve been stringing us along like it’s a damn game.”

You push yourself off the bed with a sharp laugh, standing toe-to-toe with him. “Oh, so now I’m the villain? Please. You think I was the only one sneaking around? The only one telling half-truths?” You poke your finger into his chest. “At least I didn’t pretend I was some perfect golden boy while I was doing it.”

Wally throws his hands up. “This isn’t about us, it’s about you lying!”

“Oh, spare me.” You roll your eyes, turning to him. “You really think I didn’t notice the way you talk to other girls when I’m not around? You sprint across campus for me, then turn around and flirt like I don’t exist. So don’t act brand new now, West.”

His face flushes red. “That’s not the same—”

“It’s exactly the same,” you cut in, smirking as your voice drops to a purr. “You just don’t like that I’m better at it.”

The room vibrates with tension, air too thick to breathe. Dick steps closer, crowding your space until you can smell his cologne, his eyes narrowed. “So what? We’re just your little toys to play with until you get bored?”

You tilt your chin up, refusing to back down. “Don’t act like you didn’t love it. Both of you. You knew damn well I wasn’t choosing, and you didn’t care—until now.”

Wally’s laugh is bitter, humorless. “Unbelievable. You walk around here like you own us.”

“Maybe I do,” you snap back, eyes blazing.

Silence drops like a bomb. Both of them are staring at you now, their breathing sharp, eyes dark—not just with fury, but something else simmering underneath it.

Dick’s tongue clicks, his smirk returning but darker this time. “You really think you can play us like that? Like we’re just gonna roll over and let you?”

You step in closer, lips brushing his ear as you whisper, “You already did.”

His hand snaps up, gripping your jaw, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Careful, Y/N. You’re real close to finding out how dangerous it is to push me.”

Wally scoffs but steps in too, his hand clamping down on your hip. “She’s not scared of you, Grayson. Look at her—she loves this shit.” His nails graze down your thigh, slow and deliberate. “She wants us pissed off. Gets her wet.”

You tilt your head back and laugh low, sharp. “And what if I do?”

That’s when it snaps.

Dick’s mouth crashes against yours, rough and bruising, his hands gripping your face while Wally shoves you back onto the bed. The fight hasn’t ended—it’s just morphed. Dick bites your lip like he wants to prove a point while Wally rips your dress up your thighs, muttering, “You wanna play games? Fine. But we play harder.”

You moan into Dick’s mouth, defiant even as you arch into Wally’s touch. “Thought you said I wasn’t shit?” you gasp when Dick drags his teeth along your throat.

“That’s the problem,” Dick growls, pinning your wrists above your head. “You talk too damn much.”

Wally kneels between your legs, smirking up at you, messy curls falling in his eyes. “Guess we’ll have to remind you who you belong to.”

The tension that started as an argument ignites into something filthy, possessive, inevitable.

Wally spreads your thighs with his hands, settling between them like he owns the space. “You’ve been running your mouth too much, baby. Time to see what else that mouth is good for.”

Dick doesn’t let go of your wrists. His weight pins you to the mattress, his breath hot against your ear. “Don’t let her off easy, West. She thinks she can lie to both of us and just get away with it.” His grip tightens until you whimper. “Nah. Tonight, she learns.”

The words hit you like fire, sending a rush of heat straight to your core. Wally notices—his thumb drags over your damp panties and he laughs low. “She’s dripping already.” He leans in, licking a stripe over the fabric, making you buck. “Knew it.”

Dick yanks your head to the side, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Answer me, Y/N. You like us mad at you?”

Your lips part, shaky but defiant. “Y-yeah…”

That’s all they need.

Wally hooks his fingers under your panties, tugging them down and tossing them somewhere into the dark. “Fuck, look at her,” he mutters, before burying his face between your thighs. His tongue is messy, greedy, like he’s starving for you, and your back arches off the bed instantly.

You gasp, but Dick swallows it with a kiss—rough, punishing. His tongue tangles with yours while Wally’s licks have your legs trembling. You moan into Dick’s mouth and he growls, breaking away just to watch your face. “Don’t you dare cum until I say so.”

Wally hums against you, sliding two fingers inside as his tongue flicks your clit. “She won’t last. Not with me down here.”

Your moans spill out uncontrollably, slick dripping down Wally’s chin, your body squirming under Dick’s hold. Every nerve is on fire, every sound torn out of you like confession.

“Good girl,” Dick mutters, kissing the corner of your mouth, his free hand moving down to tug his belt open. “Now, let’s see if you can take both of us without falling apart.”

Wally glances up, face glistening, lips swollen. He smirks, fingers still working inside you. “She’ll take it. Won’t you, baby?”

Your answer is a cry—half moan, half plea. “Yes… please.”

Wally doesn’t wait for another word. His mouth is already back on you, tongue dragging hot and filthy over your clit while his fingers curl inside you, hitting that spot that makes your thighs shake.

Your hands twitch in Dick’s grip, desperate to grab something, anything, but he pins you harder into the mattress, smirking down at your helpless squirming. “Look at her,” he mutters to Wally, voice low with pride. “Already falling apart, and we haven’t even started.”

Wally hums against your pussy, the vibration sending shocks through your body. “She’s fucking soaked,” he groans, pulling his mouth away just long enough to lick his lips, your taste glistening on them. “Bet she’s dying to choke on one of us too.”

Dick’s smirk sharpens. He releases your wrists, only to grab a fistful of your hair and tilt your head back. “On me,” he orders, tugging his belt free with one hand. “Get on your knees.”

You obey, breathless, dress already pushed up and panties discarded on the floor. Dick steps back just enough to free his cock, thick and flushed, his hand guiding it against your lips. “Open.”

The command snaps through you, and you part your lips. He slides in slow, the weight of him pressing heavy on your tongue before he groans low. “Fuck… always knew this mouth was too good to waste on lies.”

Wally doesn’t stop—he’s shifted behind you on the bed, yanking your hips back so your ass is in the air. His hands spread you open, no patience left, and then his tongue is back at your slit, teasing your folds, tasting everything dripping down your thighs.

You choke slightly around Dick, the stretch of him filling your throat, but he doesn’t ease up. His fingers stay tangled in your hair, pulling your head down further. “Take it, Y/N,” he growls, hips rolling slow but firm. “You wanted both of us? Then take it.”

Wally’s fingers slide inside you again, thrusting fast, and his laugh is muffled against your pussy when you moan around Dick’s cock. “God, she squeezes like she’s begging already.” He pulls back just long enough to mutter, “Bet she’ll cum as soon as I fuck her.”

You try to answer but Dick pushes deeper, forcing your throat to relax. Your eyes water, spit trailing down your chin, but his groan tells you he loves it. “That’s it,” he praises, rough and breathless. “Such a messy little slut for us.”

Wally shifts, the bed dipping as he kneels behind you, lining himself up. His cock presses hot and hard against your entrance before he slams into you in one sharp thrust. You cry out around Dick, body jolting forward, but Dick just fists your hair tighter and keeps your mouth stuffed full.

The sound of skin slapping fills the room, Wally pounding into you with no mercy, his hands gripping your waist like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. “Fuck, she’s perfect,” he groans, thrusts sharp and punishing. “She’s clenching so tight—like she knows she’s ours.”

Dick thrusts deep into your throat, groaning when you gag around him, his eyes dark with something close to obsession. “Ours, huh?” His smirk returns, sweat dripping down his temple. “Not until she says it.”

Wally fucks you harder, each thrust making your scream vibrate around Dick’s cock. “Say it, baby,” Wally pants, voice breaking. “Tell us who you belong to.”

Tears streak your cheeks, saliva dripping messily down your chin as you choke on Dick. He pulls out suddenly, letting you gasp for air, only to slap his cock against your lips. “Say it.”

Your voice cracks, desperate and breathless. “I—I belong to you.”

Wally groans, snapping his hips harder. “Both of us,” he growls against your back, teeth sinking into your shoulder. “Say it right.”

Dick smirks, tapping his cock against your swollen lips until you look up at him. “Both of us, Y/N.”

Your body trembles, pleasure ripping through you as Wally fucks into you relentlessly. “Both—fuck—both of you!” you scream, your voice breaking into moans.

That’s all it takes. Dick shoves his cock back into your mouth, thrusting rough, while Wally slams into you from behind, their rhythm brutal and consuming. Every nerve in your body burns, every sound spilling out of you filthy and raw.

Wally grips your hips tighter, his pace stuttering as he groans, “Gonna fill you up—fuck, you’re mine.”

Dick pulls your head down until your nose is buried against his stomach, his moan sharp as he spills down your throat. “Swallow. Every drop.”

The taste of him fills you as Wally’s thrusts grow erratic, his groans louder, until he buries himself deep inside you, heat spilling into your core. Your body clenches around him, orgasm ripping through you so hard your vision whites out.

They hold you there—wrecked, trembling between them—as if they’ve finally proven their point.

Dick wipes your chin with his thumb, smearing spit across your lips before kissing you rough. “Guess you learned your lesson.”

But Wally just smirks, still buried inside you. “Nah,” he mutters, biting at your shoulder. “She’s not done learning yet.”

Your body is still trembling when Wally finally pulls out, his cum dripping down your thighs. Dick collapses back on the bed for a second, chest heaving, but neither of them look done. Not even close.

Wally runs a hand through his messy curls, eyes dragging down your ruined body, his smirk wicked. “She thought one round was enough.” He scoffs, grabbing your hips and flipping you onto your back like you weigh nothing. “Not even close, baby.”

You try to catch your breath, your voice breaking. “I—I can’t—”

“You can.” Dick’s voice cuts through, dark and sharp. He’s already stripping his shirt off, muscles tense, his cock still hardening again despite just finishing down your throat. He leans down until his lips graze your ear. “You don’t get to tap out after lying to us. We’re not letting you off that easy.”

Your whimper only spurs them on. Wally spreads your legs wide again, climbing between them, but instead of slamming back inside, his fingers spread your folds, showing off just how wrecked and wet you still are. “Look at her,” he mutters to Dick, his voice thick with hunger. “She’s begging for it, even when she says she can’t.”

Dick kneels beside you, grabbing your jaw and forcing you to look at him. His thumb drags over your spit-smeared lips, then shoves into your mouth. “Open. Suck.”

You obey, tongue swirling around his thumb, and he smirks. “That’s my girl. Now, let’s see if you can handle both of us.”

Your eyes widen, but Wally’s already lining himself up, pushing into your dripping pussy again in one smooth thrust. The stretch makes you cry out, back arching. Before you can process it, Dick shifts lower, his cock rubbing against Wally’s, pressing at your other hole.

“Wait—Dick—” you gasp, panic and arousal crashing together.

“Shh,” he soothes, even as his tone stays firm, dominant. “Relax. We’ll take care of you.” He spits in his hand, stroking himself before pressing at your tight rim, working himself in slowly, inch by inch.

The burn makes tears prick your eyes, but the sensation—full, overwhelming, impossible—is addictive. Wally groans at the pressure of Dick sliding in alongside him, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. “Holy fuck… she’s so tight like this. Gonna lose it.”

When they’re both buried inside you—one in your pussy, the other in your ass—you can’t hold back the scream that rips from your throat. Your whole body shakes, pinned between them, stretched so full you can barely think.

“Look at you,” Dick grits out, snapping his hips forward, his cock sliding in tandem with Wally’s. “Our perfect little slut, taking both of us at once.”

Wally’s thrusts grow rougher, their rhythm almost brutal as they fuck into you from both ends, every movement making you clench tighter around them. “This what you wanted, baby?” he pants, sweat dripping down his temple. “Wanted to play with both of us? Then take it. Take every fucking inch.”

Your screams turn to sobs of pleasure, your nails clawing at the sheets, your vision blurring from tears. The sound of their groans, their skin slapping against yours, the filthy wet noises between your thighs—it’s too much.

“Say it,” Dick orders, hand wrapping around your throat as he pounds into you harder. “Tell us you’re ours.”

“I—I’m yours,” you cry, your voice wrecked. “Both of yours—fuck—please, I’m yours!”

That admission snaps something in them. Wally slams harder, his pace wild, his moans echoing against your skin as his thumb rubs your clit mercilessly. “Cum for us, Y/N,” he growls. “Now.”

Your orgasm hits like lightning, tearing through you so violently your entire body seizes. You sob their names, convulsing under them, but they don’t stop. They use your climax, thrusting harder, chasing their own.

Dick groans first, hips stuttering before he spills into you, the heat filling your ass making you moan helplessly. Wally follows seconds later, his thrusts sharp until he buries himself deep, groaning your name as he fills your pussy again.

The sensation of both of them finishing inside you, the mess dripping out as they pull back, leaves you shaking, ruined, your body collapsing against the mattress.

Dick strokes your cheek with surprising gentleness, though his smirk is still dark. “Lesson learned?”You try to nod, words failing you, but Wally laughs low, his hand smacking your thigh. “Don’t believe her. She’s already thinking about round three.”

The look in your eyes says he’s right.

Your body is a wreck, trembling and sweaty, every muscle screaming from how hard they’ve used you. The sheets under you are damp, twisted, and your thighs are sticky with cum—Wally’s dripping from your pussy, Dick’s leaking from your ass. You feel hollowed out and yet so unbearably full.

Dick collapses beside you, chest heaving, his skin glowing with sweat. He doesn’t say anything at first—just drags the back of his hand across his mouth, then tilts his head toward you with a smug little grin. “Messy, aren’t you?”

You flinch when his fingers slip between your thighs and scoop up the combined mess spilling out of you. Without hesitation, he brings it to your lips. “Open.”

Your cheeks burn, but you obey, letting his fingers slide into your mouth. The taste of both of them hits your tongue, salty and sharp, and Dick watches you with heavy-lidded satisfaction as you suck his fingers clean. “Good girl.”

Meanwhile, Wally isn’t resting. He’s propped up on his knees, eyes glued to the way your body is still twitching and dripping. His grin is wicked. “She’s not done. Look at her. Still clenching like she’s begging for more.”

“I’m not—” your protest dies in your throat as Wally slides two fingers inside your ruined pussy without warning. You gasp, arching off the bed, your body oversensitive and raw.

“Not what?” he taunts, pumping his fingers mercilessly, curling them just right until your legs kick against the sheets. “Not ready? Not hungry for it? Don’t lie, baby. Your body doesn’t know how to quit.”

You sob, half from overstimulation, half from need, your hips bucking helplessly into his touch.

Dick sits up again, brushing his thumb across your swollen bottom lip, eyes dark. “You’re ours tonight. That means we decide when it’s over.”

Wally pulls his fingers out of you, soaked and dripping, and wipes them across your tongue before leaning down to whisper in your ear. “Round three, princess. You’re gonna take both of us again—but this time, you’re gonna ride.”

Your head shakes weakly, but Dick grabs your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. “You wanted to play both sides? Then you’d better be ready to keep up with us.”

Between the two of them, they haul you up, your body weak but pliant. Wally lies back on the bed, cock already hard again, his hand lazily stroking himself. “Come on,” he urges, patting his stomach. “Sit pretty for me.”

They guide you onto him, your pussy swallowing him in one slow, agonizing slide. You cry out at the stretch, nails digging into his chest, but Wally just grips your hips tight, holding you down until you’re seated fully on him. “Fuck, look at that. Taking me so good, even after everything.”

Before you can catch your breath, Dick’s behind you, hand on the back of your neck, lining himself up with your ass again. “You know what comes next,” he murmurs darkly, pressing in with brutal patience.

When both of them are inside you again, you’re shaking, sobbing from how unbearably full you are. Wally strokes your thighs, soothing and mocking all at once. “That’s it, baby. Take us both. Show us you can do it.”

Dick’s lips brush your ear, his breath hot. “And this time, you’re going to ride us until we’re satisfied. No excuses. No breaks.”

Your whole body is screaming for mercy, but your moans betray you. They’ve got you exactly where they want you—broken open, desperate, and theirs to use for as many rounds as they damn well please.

Your body collapses into the mattress, skin flushed, hair damp and sticking to your face. Every inch of you feels ruined—pussy sore, throat raw, thighs trembling from how many times they pulled you apart.

You can barely move, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts, when Wally finally rolls off you with a satisfied groan. “Damn,” he mutters, dragging his hand through his sweaty curls, “she really let us do all that.”

Dick laughs low, breathless but smug, reaching for his discarded shirt to wipe the sweat from his chest. “Let us? She begged for it.” His eyes flick to you, sprawled out and wrecked, then back to Wally. “Kinda wild we were fighting over her.”

You manage a weak glare, voice hoarse. “You two are assholes.”

Wally just grins, leaning over to smack a playful kiss against your cheek. “Yeah, but you love it.”

Before you can retort, Dick sits up and stretches, then casually holds his hand out toward Wally. Without missing a beat, Wally smirks and slaps his palm against Dick’s—sharp, cocky, and full of unspoken pride.

“Best damn team-up we’ve had,” Wally jokes, still a little breathless.

Dick chuckles, shaking his head. “And she thought she was the one playing us.” His gaze drops to you, lips curving in a cruel little smirk. “Looks like the game played her.”

The two of them laugh—low, satisfied, like they’ve just won something you never stood a chance at. And as you lie there, wrecked and speechless, they fist-bump over your limp body like it’s nothing.

Like you were just the prize in a game they knew they’d both already won.

The Lineup

October 1st: B.A.S → Dick Grayson x Wally West x Reader

October 3rd: One Of The Girls → Starfire x Dick Grayson x Reader

October 7th: How Many Drinks → Jimmy Olsen x Clark Kent x Reader

October 9th: Kiss and Tell → Selina Kyle x Bruce Wayne x Reader

October 10th: Spookie Coochie → Clark Kent x Lois Lane x Reader

October 12th: 2 Baddies → Harley Quinn x Poison Ivy x Reader

October 14th: Guilty → Clark Kent x Diana Prince x Bruce Wayne x Reader

Note: This isn’t the full roster more characters and pairings may be added after the first week depending on how things go!