Moni

The room was illuminated by a lamp on the side, casting a golden glow across the little room that Clark had made his makeshift office.

His pen glided across the note pad, scratching down against the paper as he scribed the words of his latest interview.

Y/n sat on the edge of the bed in the tank and shorts she slept in, a half pour across her face as she watched him work.

“Clark,”

“Almost done,”

She knew that tone. It was the one he had when he wasn’t listening to what she was saying, too absorbed in his own element. She hated that tone.

“You’ve been ‘almost done’ for the past hour, Clarkie,” the girl whined, pushing herself off the bed and peeking over his shoulder.

“I’ve just got to get this last article done, babe,” he sighed, leaning back in his chair as she read through the messy scrawl of quotes and potential titles.

“I know, but I wanna cuddle,” Y/n protested, her hands coming to his shoulders as he picked up the pen.

“Look, ten more minutes, and I promise I’m all yours, yeah?” Clark looked to her, a smile cracking across his features as she sighed.

“Ten more minutes. That’s it,”

And once again, she was sat on the edge of the bed, watching her boyfriend work.

There was something almost entrancing about it.

The way his pen glided with such precision, moving quicker than his mind, his eyes flickering between pieces of loose paper.

And his hands, dwarfing the pen with his fingers, long, thick-

“Y/n?” Clark called for the fourth time, spun round in his chair, looking to her face, half-concerned, half-amused.

“Hm? Yeah, I’m listening, I’m okay,” she blinked, snapping from her trance.

“You sure? You’ve been staring at my hands an awfully long time,” Clark noted.

Fuck. She could recognise that tone from anywhere.

“It’s morning,” Y/n muttered, “my mind was elsewhere, it doesn’t matter,”

“Oh? It matters to me,” Clark pressed, now standing directly in front of her, his arms folded across his chest, staring down at her with greedy eyes, “what were you thinking about, hm?”

She stayed silent for a second.

“Come on, you can tell me, baby,” he almost cooed, “did my hands make you think things?”

“Clark…” a light flush filled her cheeks at his words, his fingers sliding beneath her chin, tilting her face up so their eyes met.

“You can tell me. Were my hands making you think things?”

Y/n nodded.

“How sweet,” Clark hummed, his eyes travelling over every feature across her face, as his hands dipped lower, ghosting over the soft flesh of her breasts.

She inhaled sharply, his fingertips drawing closer and closer to where her core burned.

“Thought you had an article to finish,” Y/n mumbled as he leaned down, his lips hovering over hers as he paused. “That can wait,”

His lips smushed against hers, as he pulled her onto his lap, his hands squeezing at the softness of her waist, guiding her into a pattern to follow.

“Keep going,” Clark groaned, his hands burying down to the hem of her shorts, her thighs spread over his lap as she grinded down against him.

Y/n could feel him getting harder against her core, pushing and prodding against her.

Clark cupped her boobs through her shirt, ghosting his thumbs over her perky nipples through the shirt, no bra underneath.

Her palms pressed onto his biceps, holding them for support as he lifts the hem of her tank top over her body, dropping it to the floor beside them, cupping her boobs in his palms.

She could feel the sweet ache, the desperation, all flooding in.

Clark’s hand dropped to top of her shorts, dragging down her hot skin to the slick forming between her thighs, pressing the pad of his thumb to her sensitive clit.

Y/n gasped, her head falling back.

When she opened her eyes, she could see he had his shirt discarded, her hips still grinding down against the hard line of his dick beneath his joggers.

With both hands, Clark pulled her shorts off, dropping to the floor do she was naked, a thin sheen of sweat across her gorgeous body.

“C’mere,” he helps her sit on his lap, her bare pussy hovering over his covered dick.

Her legs are thrown over his shoulders, his lips dragging down her ankles, peppering gentle kisses along her skin.

“Clark, please,” Y/n whined, her voice cracking as he stared down at her pussy, burning with need, his fingers creeping up her legs.

“Hm? Please what?”

“Touch me, please,” she whispered, her eyes pleading with him.

Her head fell back against the mass of soft pillows behind her as he finally touched her, the pad of his finger pushing into her soft folds.

And then, he slid into her, his finger stretching through her folds as she hissed, the slight pain melting into pleasure as he settled knuckle-deep inside of her, curling his finger against her.

“Like that, baby? This how you want me to touch you?” Clark teased, leaning forward to gauge her reaction.

Her eyes were closed, lashes fluttering, and her face contorted into an expression of pleasure. Perfect.

Clark’s hand twisted, his thumb pressing against her clit, rubbing delicate circles against it as he pushed his middle finger against her entrance.

“Clark- fuck,” Y/n moaned, rolling her hips against his hand.

“That’s it baby, ride my fingers,” he leaned forwards, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth as she whimpered.

His second finger inched into her, stretching her tight opening as she whimpered, head falling back.

The all too familiar sensation of hot tears pricking at the corners of her eyes snapped into her, her mouth falling open in a silent ‘o’ as he slid into her.

Even as long as her and Clark had been together, she’d never quite gotten used to his size - hands included.

They were a ‘hidden’ kinks of hers.

Y/n was snapped out of her half-daze as he cupped her cheek with his free hand, gently wiping a tear that had slid down her face from her cheek.

“It’s okay, love, you can take it, yeah?” he nodded, pecking her lips as she nodded, slowly, moving to ride his fingers, her clit dragging along his hand.

“Clark,” Y/n whimpered as he pushed his digits apart, stretching her along his fingers, “it hurts,”

“I know sweetie, I don’t want it to hurt when I put it in, yeah?”

She nodded, half sniffling as he gently pumped his fingers in and out of her, collecting her slick along them.

“So sweet f’me,” Clark hummed, brushing a strand of hair from her face, “been staring at my hands so long, always knew you had a thing for them,”

“I don’t,” Y/n mumbled, still half trying to keep her dignity together.

“Really?” he paused his movements as she gasped, desperately trying to create some friction, “I’m knuckle deep inside you, and you still have the guts to try and deny it?”

She groaned, covering her face.

“Okay, okay! I have a thing for your hands, just…please?”

“That’s more like it,” Clark nodded.

Y/n moaned as he started moving again, his fingers sliding in and out of her burning pussy quicker than before, her wet folds squelching round them.

“Think you’re ready for my dick?”

“Please,”

All her words had come down to broken hums and whines, his fingers fucking into her before he pulled out, her pussy clenching round nothing.

But the emptiness wasn’t felt for long.

They both groaned as the tip of his dick stretched into her opening, her body sat up enough for her to guide him in her.

Clark almost lost it at that, his dick twitching inside of her as she enveloped him in her warm slick.

He stilled for a second.

“You can move,”

He took her words like a command, slowly pushing himself more into her, watching her face contort into a mix of pain and pleasure.

Even now, she wasn’t quite used to the size.

Y/n looked up, her eyes on his face. He was trying his best to take it slow, to resist the urge to fuck here senseless.

She could tell by his expression.

Her vision is blurry at the edges, a tear she didn’t even know was there sliding down her cheek.

They both moaned together as Clark moved, his dick sliding almost all the way out of her with a filthy squelch, before he settled right back into her, a bulge in her lower stomach.

Y/n’s hands slid up his chest, tugging in the pendant of his necklace as he cupped her boobs once more, squeezing at the supple flesh.

Clark rocked his hips, as she moaned, her head on his shoulder.

She rolled her hips slightly to test the waters, her clit dragging along his lower abdomen as he groaned, pumping into her.

“Yeah like that baby,” he hissed, “just like that, feels so good,”

He took the mass of her boobs in both his hands as he snapped his hips into her, the pace picking up as she half-sobbed, half-moaned, clinging at him.

“C’mon sweetie, look,” he tilted her head down, making her look at the bulge inside of her as he pummelled in and out of her, the pleasure moving from one body to another.

Clark’s hands dragged down to her thighs, holding her legs apart as he watched himself disappear into her, before pulling back out again.

Each time he pushed into her, she squelched round him.

And then, fuck, his hands.

She’d never been this obsessed with someone’s hands before, but the way they took the whole entirety of her boobs, the way they looked is big, fingers splayed across her thighs.

“Thats my girl,” Clark whispered, “taking me so well,”

Y/n grinded down in response, as her clit dragged across him once more.

“I’m close,” she whispered, her eyes fluttering.

“I know baby, I’m here,” Clark looked down to where their bodies connected, his dick sliding in and out of her like he was made for her.

The rhythm is messy, Y/n’s body moving forwards when his is pulled back, a rhythm that shouldn’t work but does.

The sounds are obscene, downright filthy in some aspects as he guided himself back into her, fucking her hard.

“Clark,”

The way she said it, whimpered it, it was a warning, a heads up that she was seconds away from cumming.

“I know sweetie, I’m right here with you,”

One deep stroke, another, a high pitched moan and she writhed in his arms, his hands large in her back, rubbing up and down as her legs spasmed over his shoulders.

“Hey,” his voice was softer, still moving in and out of her, “look at me, I wanna see that pretty face,”

Y/n lifted her head, her expression tired and worn.

“Needa see my pretty thing when I cum,” he mumbled, as she whimpered.

Clark was close. His cheeks were flushed red, lips swollen from biting them, his chest rising and falling quickly as he dug into her, snapping into her.

Once more, twice more-

He groaned as he came, his head falling back as his hips twitch, cum pooling into her sweet pussy before when stilled.

And for a moment, they just sit there.

Her head is on his chest, his cheek on her head, the faint thump-thump of his heartbeat slowing.

“I love you so much,” she mumbled, her voice still shaky as she came down from her high.

“You love my hands too,”

Y/n groaned, smacking him on the chest as he gently laid her down, immune to her hits. “The phrase you’re looking for,” she huffed sarcastically, “is ‘I love you too’, actually,”

Clark, well, he just laughed.

Dick Grayson:

Dick is home early, which can only mean two things: patrol went exceptionally well, or patrol when incredibly poor. 

Judging by the faraway look in his eyes, you’re thinking the latter. He’s hardly through the door when he’s ripping off his mask and carding his fingers through his hair.

“Hey,” you greet him from the couch. “Everything okay?”

He nods, but the tension in his jaw and shoulders tells you everything you need to know: he’s lying. A frown falls over your face. Classic Dick.

You force yourself to your feet, the sleep you’ve been staving off all night leaving your body at the sight of your disheveled boyfriend. The minute you step towards him, he’s sucking in a breath, tugging at the collar of his costume to get some airflowing.

“Patrol went perfectly fine then?”

He dodges you, slipping into the kitchen before you can approach him any further. “I wouldn’t say that,” he admits. “But it’s okay. Don’t you worry your pretty head about it.”

You watch as he fills an entire glass of water and chugs the whole thing, water soaking the outsides of his mouth. It drips down his chin, down the more prominent than usual veins on his neck. 

He wipes it lazily on the back of his hand and flashes you a smile when he sees you staring. “It’s rude to stare, you know.”

“Hard not to when you’re putting on such a good show.”

His joking demeanour disappears—only for a moment—replaced by pain-stricken eyes and clenched fists. His cheeks flush, his eyes fluttering shut while he takes what appears to be a strained breath.

“Okay, what aren’t you telling me?”

You expect him to brush you off, the usual lies about his time spent as Nightwing that will surely be contradicted in a news report later this week. Yet, Dick surprises you.

“I got dosed with something, but you don’t need to—” He trails off, freezing in his tracks at the way your lips purse and eyes flood with concern for him. “Fuck, baby don’t look at me like that.”

It’s the shift in his voice that you notice first. The carefully threaded restraint he’d been using up until now has disappeared, replaced instead with a hoarseness you’ve only ever heard from Nightwing.

You’re rushing to his side, then. Your hands grasp at his shoulders, trail down his biceps, rest over his forearms. You look up at him, blinking slowly while you closely—maybe too closely—examine him. 

“Dosed with what?”

Having you so close is like torture to him, the breath stilling in his body. He can’t help but wrap his arms around you, shoving your face into his chest so you don’t have to see the downright predatory look on his face right now.

“Don’t worry about it.”

A sigh blows past your lips, both hands bracing against his abs to shove yourself away from him. “Stop saying…”

You trail off, eyes focused on the bulge pressing into the fabric of his costume. And suddenly you feel silly for missing all of the cues, for not realizing you’ve been accidentally torturing him this entire time.

“Don’t worry.”

He says it at the same time you say, “let me help.”

He blinks, blue eyes swallowed by the darkness of his pupils. His hand runs to your jaw, tracing the skin with the tips of his fingers. “We really shouldn’t…”

“Now is not the time to get modest, Grayson.”

He scoffs at your use of his last name. You keep your eyes locked on his while you slowly fall to your knees, resting your head against the side of his thigh. He gets the message, stripping out of the restraining fabric of his costume, leaving him in just his underwear.

His underwear are wet, every inch of his skin flooded with boiling warmth. You palm at him through the fabric, Dick sucking in a breath and clenching the edge of the counter. Now’s not the time to tease him, you realize, and waste no time stripping him completely.

The minute the cold air hits his aching cock, Dick gasps. The cold air offers the sweet relief he’s been craving, only to be immediately swallowed up by the warmth of your mouth. His eyes stay on you the entire time, his mouth falling open with pleasure.

You bob your head up and down, hollowing your cheeks and sucking like your life depends on it. The taste of him floods your mouth, all salty pre and the bodywash he’d used before patrol, and something new and sweet you don’t quite recognize. 

Dick presses a hand on the back of your head, shoving you down on his length until you gag. Your eyes tear up, lashes wet with the strain, and the sight alone has Dick whining.

His tip reaches the back of your throat and then his hips are stuttering, bodies shaking as his orgasm rips through him. Hot ropes of cum run down your throat, coat your mouth, rest against your tongue. 

You don’t even think before you swallow, sticking out your tongue after to show him. His face is entirely flushed now, sweat sticking to every inch of his skin, muscles shaking with restraint.

“Get up,” he says and it leaves no room for argument. 

The second you’re on your feet, he’s pulling you into a dizzying kiss, his tongue dipping into your mouth. His hands roam your body, his still hard cock poking you where he presses against your body. 

And then he’s stripping you of your clothes and bending you over the counter to fuck you silly.

-

It’s four rounds before Dick is able to regain his composure, pulling his sweat-slicked body away from you. 

In the chaos, he’s moved the two of you to the couch, with you splayed out on your back. Your legs shake, your head spins, spots cloud your vision. Your pussy hurts from the beating you just took, splotches of his cum drying on your thighs, your stomach, your chest.

“I’m gonna be so tired tomorrow,” you mumble, wiping a hand across your forehead.

Dick kisses at your cheeks, eyes sweeping down your ravished body. You’re just as sweaty as he is, your skin feverish from the aftermath of your orgasms. Teeth marks linger on your thighs, your neck—anywhere Dick could access, apparently. His fingers idly trace the outline of his teeth on your skin while he frowns.

“I’ll take care of you.” It’s a promise. “Since you always take such good care of me.”

Jason Todd:

The last thing you’re expecting when you come home is Jason Todd naked and jerking off in your bed, but here he is.

When you first opened the door, back from your midnight gas station snack run, you’d expected at least a couple more hours alone. Jason wasn’t due to be home until at least five in the morning, so when you heard the distinct squeaks of your bedframe, your first thought was intruder.

And then you heard him moaning your name and all of the fear went out the window, replaced with confusion.

That’s how you got here, staring at him from the doorframe, listening to the sticky sounds of him fisting his cock and whining your name. You knock softly, “shirking your duties tonight, Red?”

He looks up at you, not even bothering to stop touching himself. “Needed a quick break,” he groans. 

He’s stripped out of his helmet and pants but the dark compression shirt he usually sports with his costume remains glued to his abs. He’s soaked in sweat, his cheeks are flushed—Jesus, how long has he been at this?”

You laugh incredulously. “And how long is this break going to last?”

“Woulda been quicker but I came home to find my girlfriend abandoned me,” he looks at you seriously, “where were you?”

Your heart speeds up. It’s already strange for him to ditch his pursuit of crime, but for his tone to shift so drastically, for him to be staring at you like you did something wrong? Something’s off.

You shuffle your way into the room, hovering hesitantly just beside the bed. You can’t help but watch as he jerks himself off. You risk a glance, meeting his eyes only to notice that dark look behind them.

“Are you high?”

He stops, hand lazily resting on his cock. “Are you serious?”

You nod.

“Not on drugs.” At the incredulous look on your face, he sighs, “ran into Ivy tonight.”

That’s all he has to say for you to connect the dots. His flushed skin, the way he’s grabbing himself, the downright needy tone of his voice. It all makes sense.

“Jay…” You find yourself climbing into bed next to him, keeping a respectful distance, “are you okay?”

He clenches his cock. “I’m working on it.”

“Do you need anything?”

“You,” he admits. “I needed you but you weren’t here—maybe that’s for the best.”

You rest a hand on his shoulder and he gasps, squeezing his eyes shut. Even through the fabric of his shirt, you can feel the warmth of his skin. 

“Do you still need me?”

He groans and furiously nods his head. You brace a hand on his thigh and you swear goosebumps raise across his skin. Your fingers wrap around the ones he keeps on his cock, taking over the motion for him.

Your other hand dips beneath your waistband, stroking at your clit. You’re already wet from the sight of him naked, from the way he’s been talking. You rub him in sync with yourself, your fingers wrapped tight around his cock.

Jason finally lets himself relax into the mattress, head rolling back while you work on him. You spit, giving yourself some lube to help with the friction and coat his cock. You dip a finger into your pussy, trying to work yourself open for what’s to come.

When you feel good and ready, you’re lazily tugging your pants down to your ankles and straddling his waist. The tip of his cock brushes between your folds, collecting your slick.

You press one hand against his chest, the other one dipping between your legs to align his tip with your entrance. The minute it slips inside of you, you whine. It’s big and he’s so hard and it’s such a stretch but God, it feels so good.

Jason whines, too. His eyes are still clenched shut, his hands finding their way to your waist to help brace you on his length. You start off slow, trying to get yourself in the rhythm of it before speeding up.

It’s not fast enough for Jason, though, not hard enough. He slams you down on his cock, his tip brushing your cervix. The two of you thrust together, his hips snapping up to meet yours before you can even bring them back down.

All of his movements—from his hands to his hips—are punctuated with pulsing need, lurid sounds leaving his lips. It’s a rare occasion you can hear him whine like this, a rare occasion he’s so brazen with his need for you, but you love it.

Your thighs slam against his hard enough that the sounds echo through the room, his cock inside of you bullying its way through your walls. And then he’s twitching, thighs shaking.

He pushes you all the way down, holding you against him while he finishes deep inside of you. You squirm, squishing a hand into your stomach as if you could feel him from the outside.

Jason’s left gasping, sweaty and still rock hard. He thrusts up into you lazily, eyes flicking open to meet yours, “need more. You can take more, yeah? For me?”

Your walls clench around him and you nod. His cock has his cum sloshing around inside of you, pushing it deeper with every needy thrust. His eyes are completely darkened with pleasure, his fingers digging into your skin so harshly it’s going to bruise.

-

It’s a long night for you, ending with you collapsed on Jason’s chest, his cum pouring out of you. He’s panting beneath you but still manages to draw slow circles on your back, your feverish skin twitching beneath his touch.

Every inch of you is sore, the muscles in your thighs aching from having them parted for so long. Your pussy hurts, too. From the stretch or the friction or the absolute beating you just took, you’re not sure.

Jason plants a kiss against your temple. “I need water,” he cups your jaw, tilting up your head to look at him, “you need anything?”

“Water sounds good.”

He nods and then he’s shifting your body away, which isn’t easy given the way you’re clinging to him. Your skin sticks to his from where you’ve been laying and even after he gets out of the bed, even though you’re utterly exhausted and fucked out, you still ache for him.

It feels like forever until he’s coming back with water and settling back onto the mattress next to you. Automatically, your body slots into his, your head resting on his chest.

“So what did you do to piss off Poison Ivy so bad?”

He laughs, “fuck if I know. All I know is I’ve hit my pussy quota for the week.”

“Oh?” You risk a glance at him, “does that mean I’m off the hook?”

He kisses you. “Not a chance, doll.”

Tim Drake:

You wake up to Tim kissing the side of your neck, his wet hair tickling your skin. You scrunch up your nose, trying to squirm out of his grasp but his arms are locked tightly around you.

“Tim,” you whine. 

It’s not uncommon for him to wake you up like this. In the ungodly hours, when he’s finally stripped out of his suit and finished up whatever it is he’s been up to, he always seeks you out. 

He climbs beneath your sheets, his hair still wet from his shower. He feels your skin on his, basks in the heat of your body, traces shapes up your body. It’s more than a routine—it’s a ritual.

You can feel something’s off before you finish opening your eyes. His breaths are faster, shallower. His hair lacks the distinct smell of his shampoo—instead, it’s matted with sweat. 

“Tim.” You finally open your eyes, blinking groggily at your boyfriend. “You’re being needy.”

He looks up at you through his lashes, shadows cast across his skin from the moonlight streaming through the window. His eyes are half-lidded, the steely blue of his irises almost entirely drowned out.

“Not my fault,” he rasps, grinding his hips against your thigh. “Just need you.”

You prop yourself up on your elbows, pushing away his sweaty hair from his forehead. You wince at the sight of a pretty sizable wound in the corner of his forehead, dried blood crusted to his skin. Your blood runs cold.

“Did something happen?”

He grinds against you again, the hard length of his cock teasing your side. “Nothing important.”

He trails a hand down the length of your pyjama pants, stopping at your knee and dipping his hand into your inner thigh. You gasp, a hot trail of lighting running up your spine. Swallowing, you part your knees, watching with bated breath as his travels higher and higher.

Your open knee falls right between his own legs. A whimper slips past his lips, his hips grinding into you harder. You swear you can feel a new wetness from where he touches you.

His fingers ghost over your heat, staying just shy of where you really need him, before he shoves his hand into your waistband. On a normal night, he might be more gentle, more patient. Tonight is not a normal night.

His lips find their way to your neck again, teeth nipping at your skin. His hand travels downward simultaneously, slipping past your panties and to the wetness of your core. You gasp, eyes falling shut.

He dips his fingers into your heat, coating them in your slick while he rubs at your clit. A new heat grows in your stomach, radiating through you, seeping into every pore.

He slips a finger inside of you, sliding it up to the hilt in a matter of seconds. You bite your lip, trying to keep quiet in the dead of night.

He curls his finger inside of you, grumbling at the way your walls clench around him. “Fuck.”

You open your eyes at that. “Tim—“ You clear your throat. “Tim, are you sure everything’s okay?”

He thrusts his hips slowly in time with the finger inside of you, rutting against you like a man starved. His teeth sink further into your neck, eliciting a moan from you.

“I need—fuck, I need you.” His eyes meet yours, pure desperation behind them. “I need to have you. Please let me have you.”

A small shake of your head is all he needs, tugging your pyjama pants down to your knees and climbing on top of you. His own pants follow suit, his hard cock springing free. It looks painfully hard, the tip wet and glistening in the moonlight. 

He pushes your legs apart—a little aggressively—and settles between them. He lays over you, one hand keeping himself up and the other guiding his cock to your needy entrance. You gasp when the tip slips inside of you, your walls stretching to accommodate him.

Tim lets his weight fall on top of you, his chest pressed against yours, his head nuzzled into your neck. His thrusts are fast, hard and desperate—each one punctuated with a plea and the sound of his skin on yours. Your hands trail up the nape of his neck, tangling in his sweat soaked hair.

His hips roll into yours, his cock barely moving out of you before he shoves it back in. His breathing is laboured, panting in your ear while he fucks the life out of you. 

“Feels so good.” He gasps. “S-so good. Fuck, I need more.”

Tim fucks you like a man starved. Every thrust, every slam of his hips into yours has your eyes rolling back in your head, that pressure inside of you building. It’s too much and not enough—everything you needed and everything you didn’t.

You tug hard on his hair, bringing his face to yours and slamming your lips against his. You come undone, throwing yourself into the kiss, all of your muscles locking up. He tastes sickly sweet—so strange, so unlike him.

Tim fucks you through your orgasm, and even after you come to, he keeps going. Sweat drips from his temples, his face flushed all the way down to his neck. His hips stutter, and then he’s pushing himself deeper, burying himself deep while he finishes inside of you.

Even after he comes, he keeps going, fucking it further inside of you.

-

It’s hours later before Tim finally lets up. Every inch of his skin is flushed and feverish and coated in sweat, his muscles shaking from exhaustion. Despite all that, he’s still better off than you.

You’re half-conscious, panting for breath that won’t come. Your legs shake, your limbs long since numbed. Tim’s cum drips out of you, staining the skin of your thighs and the silk of your sheets. You feel so full of him that it hurts, your pussy aching from the friction of the night.

He finally rolls off of you, his heart rate having finally returned to normal. “You doing okay?”

You offer him a weak thumbs up, your throat dry and sore from both dehydration and exertion. He wipes the sweat off of your forehead, pressing a chaste kiss to your overly warm skin. 

“I’m gonna grab you some water.” He forces himself to his feet despite his aching muscles, “then we can sleep, okay?”

You nod slowly, already starting to drift off when he leaves the room.

Wally West:

You’re just waking up to get water when you’re caught in a blur of blue lightning. 

You were in the kitchen, fingers outstretched to the cabinet, oversized tee riding up over your bare thighs, when the door clicked open. You didn’t even have time to react before his arms were around you and you were being sped away to the bedroom.

Wally’s arms stay around you, one hand on the back of your head to keep you pressed into his chest. His breaths are heavy, the hammering of his heart beating in your ears.

Still in a sleepy daze, you let yourself fall against him, embracing his touch. “Hiya,” you murmur.

“Hey, doll.” His voice comes out as a rasp, all breathy and uneven. “What’re you awake for?”

You try to pull away so you can meet his eyes while he speaks but his grip tightens. You blink, “was grabbing water. Are you—is everything okay? You’re home early.”

He rests his chin on the top of your head, trailing his other hand down your back and into the arch of your spine. He rubs up and down, gentle pressures trying to keep himself grounded.

You grab at his hips, fingers tracing the bones that jut out through his costume. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.”

He’s hesitant to let you go, loosening his hold on you little by little. You let yourself step back—only a few inches, but to Wally, it may as well feel like a multiverse away—and finally get a good look at him.

He’s pulled his cowl off, showing off his flushed cheeks and sweaty temples. His pupils are blown, almost swallowing the green entirely. His sights are fixed on you, eyes burning you where they land on your skin.

“What’s wrong?”

He takes a breath, “should be outta my system soon.”

“What should be?”

As if he can’t help himself, he’s gripping your hips and pulling you back into him. ”Got dosed with something,” he’s quiet, words almost too quick for you to catch. “Tried to run it off but—”

He slams your body into his, ducking his head into the crook of your shoulder so he can whisper into your ear. “I need you.”

A shiver crawls up your spine. Oh. You grab at his forearms, looking up at him through your lashes. “You need me, hm?”

He nods, desperation written across his features. His hands dip away from your hips, hiking up your shirt and rubbing on your bare thighs.

“Please.”

And how could you resist when he’s whining, pleading, begging for you to help him? The microsecond you nod your head, he’s walking you back onto the bed and laying you down against the sleep-ruffled sheets.

His head falls against your neck, hands tugging needily at the collar of your shirt. His lips brush over your collarbone, over the side of your neck, planting wet kisses across your skin.

His hips roll over one of your thighs and it’s now that you feel the hardness in his pants through the fabric of his suit. He grinds against you and cries out into your neck like just touching you has him close to finishing.

You stroke the top of his head, tugging at the unruly mess of red. A gasp leaves him, the air cold against the warmth he’s left across your skin. His hips rock into you, bulge digging into you in a way that has him whimpering against you.

“N-need more.” He gasps, “need to be closer.”

And then he’s shedding the suit, not even bothering to kick it off the bed before his underwear follows. He props himself up on his knees, squeezing his cock in anticipation.

Wally doesn’t even bother to take off your underwear. Your legs are folded into your chest, Wally inserting himself between them. He tugs your panties to the side, slipping his cock into your wetness. 

The two of you sigh in sync as Wally pushes himself further inside. He’s rougher tonight, faster, wasting no time bottoming out. The sudden stretch stings a little, sure to leave your insides aching tomorrow, but you don’t mind.

Anything to make him feel better.

His thrusts are sloppy and quick and punctuated with whines. His face is pressed into your chest, inhaling the scent of your shirt like a drug. You’re soft and you’re warm and you smell fucking divine and Wally cannot get enough.

Your thighs shake from the way he’s holding them into your chest, an ache building in your tummy with every thrust. You dig your nails into his shoulders, raking them down his back. 

Wally finishes quicker than usual, every cell in his body vibrating against you. He gasps, choked whines slipping from his lips. You grab onto his biceps in an attempt to ground him, keep him from slipping through your fingers.

It takes almost a minute for him to stop buzzing. Sweat slicks his brow bone, soaks into his hairline, glistens across every muscle.

“How’re you feeling, baby?”

His hips roll into yours once more, cock brushing your cervix. “N-need more. Please—god, please, doll, let me keep fucking you? Please?”

You kiss at his temple, “anything for you.”

-

It’s incredibly lucky that Wally’s metabolism has whatever he was drugged with out of his system within a couple hours. It’s incredibly unlucky for you that he has the most insane stamina out of any man you’ve ever been with.

When Wally’s finally done, when the ache in his cock fades and the heat in his chest cools, you’re left entirely fucked out. You’re sweaty and sore and exhausted, with cum dripping down your thighs and staining the sheets.

Wally’s exhausted too, collapsing onto the mattress next to you. He plants kisses down your temple and across your cheek, “you’re the best ever. You know that, right?”

“You’re just saying that to get more pussy.”

He laughs. “I’m saying that because I love you.”

“Enough to get me water?”

Wally kisses you one last time before he’s on his feet, returning only seconds later with a glass of ice water. “As you wish, princess.”

Hal Jordan:

Hal Jordan bursts through the door, tripping over his own feet on his way through the threshold. He gasps for air, his costume dissolves around him, leaving him in his street clothes. 

You’re on your feet in an instant, discarding your phone on the couch and rushing to his side. You manage to catch him—barely—and drape him over your shoulder. 

He leans on you, tentatively, and allows you to guide him to the couch. You’re gentle to roll him off of your shoulders and onto the soft cushions. 

Crouching in front of him, you gently tap his flushed cheek. “Hal, baby, look at me.”

His eyes are droopy and bloodshot, the brown darker than you’ve ever seen it. Still, he manages to look up at you through his lashes. 

“What happened out there?”

He swallows, shuddering beneath your gaze. “I got dosed.”

You scrunch up your face, rubbing your thumb over his feverish skin. His chest rises and falls rapidly, his pupils blown out. 

“With what?” You frown, “the ring didn’t protect you?”

“Not if I—“ He grunts, shifting uncomfortably in his jeans, the fabric suddenly too tight. “Not if I drank it willingly.”

Your eyes widen. No, no, no—how could this happen? “Do you know what you were dosed with?”

His cheeks burn a brighter shade of red—a silent yes. 

“Well, what was it?”

Hal tilts his head back, looking up at the ceiling and trying to catch his breath. Just the way you’re looking at him, the sound of your voice, is enough to have his blood rushing to his groin. It’s torture. 

“Hal?”

He can’t take it anymore. The heat, the pressure in his groin, the scent of your perfume. It’s too much for him.

He snatches your hands from his face, pulling you into him so he can catch your lips in a hungry kiss. It’s hot, the taste of whiskey, Coke and something unusually sweet lingering on his mouth.

Hal’s a man starved, his teeth digging into your bottom lip, his tongue begging for access. You go to pull away—whether to catch your breath or get your bearings, you’re not sure—but Hal’s grip on your hands is ironclad.

“Hal,” you mumble into his lips.

Either he doesn’t hear you or doesn’t care. He collects your wrists into one hand, keeping you captive with a fraction of his strength. 

“Hal.”

Finally, his grip loosens and you’re allowed to pull away, blinking at him with wide eyes. He’s smiling, and it would almost be reassuring if it wasn’t for the edginess behind his eyes, the desperation in his touch.

You rest your hands on his thighs, rubbing at the rough fabric of his blue jeans. “How can I help you, baby?”

“I need you.” His voice is breathy, raspy. “Please, sweetheart—please let me have you.”

It’s a rare occasion you can get Hal Jordan of all people to beg. Despite your concern, the clench of your heart just by looking at the state of him, you slowly nod your head.

He captures your hands in his grasp once more, a flash of green light wrapping around them. You watch as the light moulds, sculpts itself into something hard and real—and then you’re sitting in front of him in a pair of glowing green shackles.

Hal is eager to guide you down to your knees, your face perfectly aligned with the zipper of his jeans. You look up at him through your lashes, blinking in innocent anticipation.

On a better night, you would fall victim to his usual games. The teasing, the painfully slow way he strips, the way he doesn’t let you touch him until he’s fully satisfied that you need it. 

Tonight, he’s quick to strip out of his jeans and underwear. His cock springs free, the already-hard length slapping your face. You open your mouth, sticking out your tongue and letting him slap it onto your tastebuds. 

His familiar taste floods your mouth, his cock pushing all the way to the back of your throat. You gasp, his tip brushing your gag reflex and ripping the breath from your body. You wrap your lips around his length, hollowing your cheeks.

You pause, closing your eyes and taking a breath through your nose. Hal pushes on the back of your head, driving himself past the back of your throat. You gag, tears flooding your eyes. 

“S-so fucking good at this, baby.” He groans, “mouth feels like heaven.”

You struggle in your bindings for only a few seconds before he catches on and releases you, giving you some time to catch your breath. 

You fall into an easy routine after that. Hal guides you up and down his length, whining about how nice it feels and how good you’re doing. Heat rushes to your pussy with every moment you spend with your mouth around his cock, your panties soaking in anticipation.

Hal pulls you off his cock before he can finish, grabbing you by your shackles and hauling you up to your feet. He manhandles you onto the couch, a hand rubbing at the crotch of your pants.

“Always get so wet from sucking me off,” he groans. There’s a rip and suddenly the cool air is hitting your bare pussy. “So hungry for cock.”

“H-hal!”

Before you can berate him about your ruined pants and underwear, his fingers find their way between your folds, rubbing at your clit. You bite down on the front of your shirt, only managing to muffle half the desperate sounds that leave your lips.

When he’s satisfied you’re ready, he’s pushing himself inside you, greedily bottoming out before you can adjust. You squirm in your restraints, Hal’s hand on the small of your back keeping you down against the couch.

He pulls all the way out, slamming his hips back into yours in a way that has your knees shaking. He bullies his cock inside of you repeatedly, pushing you further and further into the couch with each harsh thrust.

“F-fuck,” his hips stutter. “Need to be deeper, fuck.”

Hal does his best to last but with the heat washing over him, it’s hard. He’s insatiable but overstimulated, needy but never satisfied. He needs you, he needs more, but if he goes any harder, he is going to break you.

Hal’s cock twitches inside of you, heat flooding your walls. You gasp, your body spasming as you finish with him. The clenching of your walls milks his cock, pulling every drop out of his needy length.

-

By the end of the night, you’re tied spreadeagle to his bedframe, green restraints bind you with barely-maintained willpower. 

When Hal finishes for the fifth time, you’re utterly exhausted. The smell of sex is heavy in the air, all of your senses numbed from the way you’ve just been ravished.

Hal pulls his face away from your chest, his eyes soft, that light having finally returned. He plants a gentle kiss to your temple, “thank you, sweetheart.”

“Just—” You raise a shaking hand to your forehead and offer him a lazy salute, “just doing my part, sir.”

He laughs at that. “I think you’ve done your part for the entire year, if I’m being honest.”

“Does that mean no more sex for a year?”

“W-what?” His eyes practically bulge out of his head, “that’s not—I didn’t mean—”

You fall into a fit of weak giggles, letting your eyes flutter shut. Hal brushes the sweat and hair from your face, kissing your lips to interrupt your laughter.

“I love you.”

You tangle a strand of his hair around your finger, “I love you too.”

Roy Harper:

Roy’s naked when you come home. Abs coated in sweat, hair disheveled, thighs shaking and hand lazily fisting his cock.

Your shopping bags hit the floor, startling the naked man on your couch. His eyes flick up, meeting yours and suddenly you’re feeling shy.

There’s a harsh bruise on his chest, radiating down to his ribs in streaks of ugly purple and yellow. Your face draws into a frown and without thinking, you’re rushing to his side.

“What happened?” You settle yourself right next to him on the couch, fingertips tracing the length of his chest.

He shivers, gritting his teeth. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

You lean in, gently kissing your way down the span of his bruise. You don’t notice the way he shifts uncomfortably next to you, the way every muscle in his body is clenched in barely-withheld lust.

Your lips brush dangerously close to his hip bone and suddenly he’s grabbing your hair, harshly tugging your face up to meet his. 

Sweat glistens his temples, his jaw clenched. Slowly, he lets you go, but his eyes are fixed on you in a way that says ‘don’t you fucking move.’

“Are you okay?” You breathe.

Only inches away from him, the scent of smoke and sweat fill your nostrils, something sickly sweet burning behind it. He tugs at his own hair but the pressure does nothing to relieve the heat burning beneath his skin.

His mask starts to slip with you so close, his composure melting away. He shakes his head, slowly, subtly, and the way your lips purse in concern has him whining.

Between the three rounds he’d gone before you’d gotten home, and the heat pulsing in his groin, it’s too much. He reaches for you, fingertips tentatively hanging in the air just above your jawline.

“What do you need, baby?”

“You,” he confesses, and then his lips are on yours.

The kiss is needy and wet, every second you spend connected is pulsating in desire. His calloused fingers are rough on your skin, beckoning you closer, begging for your touch.

He twists the two of you around, slamming your back into the couch cushions. He’s mumbling your name against your skin, trailing his hand down to the crotch of your jeans while he grinds himself into your thigh. 

His fingers dip into your waistband, trailing further and further down. You part your legs on instinct, giving him better access to you. He groans into your neck, teeth grazing at the sensitive skin.

“So needy,” you tease, and your words have him whining. 

His thumb draws lazy circles around your clit while you tug at his hair, the strands as unruly as they are sweaty. On a normal day, Roy loves nothing more than having his hair pulled. But today? It has him shaking, his cock twitching in anticipation.

When you’ve had enough of his fingers, you’re grabbing his wrist and pulling his hand away. Roy looks at you with utter devastation, eyes pleading silently for you to not stop. 

You slip out from under him, shimmying out of your pants. Roy watches with his mouth wide open, eyes glistening. You push at his bare chest, laying him down on the couch and setting a knee on either side of him.

The minute you sink down on his cock, Roy’s head is rolling back, a guttural cry leaving his lips. Sure, he’s already come three times, but the feeling of your walls clenching around him has him ready for a fourth.

You brace yourself against his chest, bouncing up and down on his cock, letting him split you open. He’s an utter mess beneath you, whines and whimpers and the sound of skin on skin filling the room.

You lean into him, lips finding their way to his chest, kissing dark marks down his skin. Your teeth graze at his collarbone and it’s all too much for him, and then he’s bucking his hips into you so harshly it has the air leaving your chest.

“R-roy, babe—”

His hands grasp at your hips and without thinking, he’s rolling the two of you over—both of you tumbling over the side of the couch. You’re lucky the carpet is soft and that Roy still has the good sense to cover the back of your head.

He drives himself deeper inside of you, his head dipping into your chest to muffle his own lurid sounds. It’s not long before he’s finishing again, hips stuttering against yours.

His warmth fills you but it’s not enough, his motions turning lazy but never stopping. It’s not enough, it’s never enough, he can never get enough of you.

“Roy—”

“More,” he gasps, “more, I need more, I need—”

You silence him with a kiss. “Shh, I know what you need, baby, it’s okay.”

-

Somehow, the two of you end up in the kitchen with you bent over the counter and Roy pounding into you.

By the time the two of you are done, you’re dehydrated and feverish with pleasure, your skin hot to the touch. It takes all the strength you have left to get back onto your feet and stretch your aching muscles.

Roy’s almost equally as exhausted, the veins in his muscles bulging from the strain. “How are you—” He clears his throat, “how are you feeling?”

Your voice is almost as raspy as his when you answer with a simple, “good.”

You stumble on your way to the sink to refill your water but Roy manages to catch you, bracing your body against his. He offers you a disapproving look, making you sit down on one of the stools you’d shoved aside during the hours that’d preceded this.

His hands shake around the cup when he hands it to you, a testament to the strain he’s just put on himself.

“Do you,” you say between sips of water, “do you want to talk about what happened? Before, I mean.”

He kisses the side of your head, “can we take a nap first?”

You can’t help but laugh at that.

dc masterlist | navigation

You were there from the beginning. Not as shining, iconic, or universally adored as Superman, Batman, or Wonder Woman, but you never minded. Let them be the faces of the League, the gods walking among mortals. Your place had always been steadier, quieter. And with that came something they rarely had: time.

It started with Robin. The first one. Richard Grayson.

The League needed to fly off-world to face whatever galactic tyrant was threatening Earth that week, and Bruce couldn’t exactly bring a thirteen-year-old into deep space. You volunteered without hesitation. “I’ll take him. He’ll be fine with me.”

That was how you ended up driving Richard Grayson—Robin, in all his excitable glory—to school in your little blue car, the radio cranked up and both of you butchering whatever pop song was popular that month. He sang off-key, you exaggerated the harmony, and by the time you dropped him off, he was grinning ear to ear. The karaoke tradition was born that morning, entirely by accident.

Sleepovers followed. At first, because Bruce needed someone to watch the kid when missions ran long, then simply because Dick liked it that way. Alfred would set up the guest room for you without asking, and by dawn, you were in the kitchen, apron tied, teaching Dick how to flip pancakes without dropping the batter all over the stove.

Unlike Bruce, you let music play. Loudly. You sang into a spatula, spun Dick across the tiles, and even coaxed Alfred into joining the chorus when he thought no one was watching. The manor felt alive in those mornings, full of laughter and dancing instead of the usual sharp silence. And one morning, Bruce walked in on it.

You didn’t hear the faint hum of the Batcave’s boomtube as he returned, nor did you notice him shedding the cowl at the cave’s edge before stepping into the hall. What you did notice was the figure leaning against the doorway, arms folded, exhaustion written into the corners of his mouth as he watched. But in his eyes was a spark of joy that didn’t appear often, yet made Bruce look younger every time it did. 

He hadn’t expected to see his son doubled over with laughter, flour dusting his hair. Or Alfred, straight-backed and dignified as always, holding a mixing bowl like it was a microphone. Or you, spatula in hand, hips swaying with the beat on the radio like the kitchen was a stage. Upon completing your circle, you looked up to see the man of the hour stoic, just enjoying the scene.

You froze for only a second when you saw him, then grinned. “Don’t just stand there, Bruce. Come on.”

And you danced your way toward him, extending a hand. Dick immediately perked up, cheering: “C’mon, Bruce! Just once!”

Bruce started shaking his head, “No, I’m too tired. Just wanted to see what all the noise was when I came in.”

But you didn’t let him get away with it, and started dancing around him, slowly herding him into the kitchen, into the positive energy there. Excited by the turn of events, Dick eagerly starts teasing Bruce and showing him some sample moves he could “borrow if he didn’t have any”. And wasn’t that embarrassing? He’s Bruce Wayne, of course he knew how to dance. 

Even Alfred arched a brow, lips twitching. “Master Wayne. It wouldn’t kill you.”

“Couldn’t possibly deny you, Alfred.” Bruce said smoothly before rolling his sleeves.

“We both know that’s not true at all, Master Wayne.” Alfred calmly replied, pulling Dick to the side with him as Bruce approached you.

You tilted your head with a small smile, and it made him pause slightly to admire you. Even in the morning, with your slight bed head and pajamas that are well-loved, you were a sight to behold. He extended his hand towards you, waiting for you to place your hand in his, before leading you through a waltz. Yes, Bruce Wayne knew how to dance, just not the dancing you or Dick expected this morning. A loud, joyous laugh ripped from you while Bruce led you through a turn, his eyes lighter than you’ve seen from him in a while. 

Dick whooped. Alfred allowed himself the smallest chuckle. For one fleeting second, the walls of Wayne Manor held something softer than duty and shadow.

That was the morning the sleepover breakfast ritual began.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

It wasn’t long before the table grew larger.

Conner was one of the first additions. In those early, uncertain days, Lois Lane wasn’t ready to meet the boy who carried half of Clark’s DNA, and Clark himself… he was still learning what it meant to be responsible for someone who looked at him like a father. It was you who stepped forward again, without hesitation.

Conner joined the sleepovers as if it were the most natural thing in the world. A little rough around the edges, unsure of where he fit, but you saw the goodness in him immediately. You paired him with Dick, nudging them into friendship until they found their own rhythm, trading secrets about capes and fathers over late-night snacks in the Manor kitchen.

Sometimes those breakfasts included Bruce, still in the corner pretending he wasn’t watching, and sometimes Clark, who would arrive bleary-eyed from Metropolis with his cape shoved hastily under a jacket. He always looked a little disheveled, tie half-done, hair mussed by wind instead of gel, and once, memorably, with powdered sugar stuck to his sleeve because he’d grabbed donuts in a rush.

You’d laughed so hard you nearly dropped the spatula. “God, you look like a dad who overslept carpool duty.”

Clark froze for a beat, then laughed too, the sound soft and sheepish. “You’re not wrong. I’m still… figuring this whole thing out.” His gaze drifted to Conner at the table, head bent as Dick showed him how to draw a smiley face in pancake batter. Something uncertain flickered in Clark’s expression — guilt, wonder, fear, love, all tangled together.

You nudged him lightly with your elbow as you flipped a pancake. “That’s all anyone’s doing, Clark. Figuring it out as we go.”

His shoulders eased a little at that, the weight lifting if only for a moment. He reached out, ruffling Conner’s hair, and the boy wrinkled his nose but didn’t pull away.

“See?” you teased, sliding another pancake onto the stack. “You’ve already got the embarrassing dad move down. Give it a year, and you’ll be threatening to wear socks with sandals.”

Clark rolled his eyes, chuckling as he pulled up a chair. “Lois would never let me live it down.” Then, quieter, almost to himself: “But… thank you. For doing this. For giving him… something normal.”

You met his gaze across the counter, spatula in hand. “He’s not the only one who needs normal, Clark.”

And for just a second, it wasn’t Clark but Superman who looked at you like you were holding up the sky for him.

For a time, the mornings belonged to all of you: pancakes, off-key singing, two boys finding their place together, Bruce lurking in the corner until you dragged him into the dance, Clark slowly learning what it meant to be more than just a symbol.

And you. Always you, steady at the stove, making sure they were fed and laughing and cared for.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Not every memory was bright.

Jason came next, loud and brash and secretly the one who craved the sleepovers the most. He swaggered into the Manor like he owned the place, quick to mouth off and quicker to fight for his spot at the table. He claimed he was too cool for karaoke but always stole the microphone halfway through and belted the loudest, voice cracking but proud.

Dick and Conner never let the age gap keep them apart from him. If they were heading out for pizza or training in the yard, Jason was right there with them. They slowed their pace when he tried to keep up, pulled him into their circle with a brotherly arm around his neck, and made sure he knew he belonged. Sometimes it was chaotic, three boys bouncing off the walls, but it was good chaos — the kind the Manor had needed for years.

And Jason loved routines. Especially the ones that were just between the two of you. Saturday mornings, when the others were busy, you’d drive him to the library. He’d wander the aisles for hours, losing himself between shelves, asking you a million questions about every cover that caught his eye. Afterward, you’d stop by the used bookstore downtown, and you made it a point — every single time — to buy him whichever book he wanted. No conditions, no questions. His eyes would light up, and he’d hold it like treasure all the way home.

Those were your moments. Jason and you, arms full of paperbacks, laughing as you both tried to juggle too many books and cups of coffee. It was a small tradition, but it was yours. And he always, always, hugged you before racing upstairs to show Alfred his newest find.

You adored him. You adored them all.

And then he was gone.

The night Jason died shattered you in ways you didn’t think possible. You held Dick as he sobbed and raged, you held Conner as he tried to process death in a way no one should have had to. You held yourself together just enough to be strong for them. But when the nights stretched too long, when the bed stayed empty, grief turned sharp and ugly inside you.

You became reckless in the field. Violent. Too violent. You went for the kill more than once, your fury a wildfire you couldn’t always leash. The League benched you after one close call — after Martian Manhunter caught the intent in your mind, caught the image of you driving your weapon into Joker’s chest. He told Bruce. He told Clark. And you never forgave him for it.

You and Bruce clashed constantly during those months. He needed someone steady, someone who could share his silence — but you couldn’t sit still in grief the way he could. You wanted blood. You wanted justice that would never come. Sometimes you thought you hated him for being able to pull back when you couldn’t. Sometimes you thought you hated yourself more.

The only thing that anchored you was your weekly visits to Jason’s grave. You’d bring fresh flowers, sweep away the leaves, and read a new poem each week like he was sitting there listening. It was routine, ritual. A way of keeping him close when the world felt so hollow. That’s where he found you.

The night Jason returned to Gotham, older and angrier and wearing scars you didn’t understand yet, he went to his grave first. And there you were, kneeling in the dirt, brushing soil from the headstone with gentle hands. When you turned and saw him standing there, your knees nearly gave out.

“Jay?” Your voice cracked, fragile as glass.

He didn’t let you touch him, not then. He wasn’t ready. He wasn’t sure if he ever could be. But you knew him well enough to see what was left unspoken: he had come back, and he had come to you first.

It was hard after that. He wanted nothing to do with the Manor, especially when he saw Tim wearing his costume, his mantle. He spat venom and pain in every direction, and you caught most of it without flinching. You didn’t push, but you didn’t let go either.

It took time. Months. But eventually, he came back to one of the sleepovers. He hovered in the kitchen doorway, arms folded, pretending he didn’t care about the smell of pancakes or the sound of music drifting from the radio. Dick raised an eyebrow, Conner waved him in, Tim froze, and you… you simply handed him the microphone.

Jason scowled, muttered a curse under his breath — and sang anyway. Loud. Angry. Alive.

You cried quietly into the spatula you pretended was your mic.

And just like that, the tradition lived again.

Through every change, every new child, every heartbreak and return, the tradition lived on. The tradition kept evolving, the kitchen table growing fuller as the years went by.

Tim arrived while Jason was gone, sharp-eyed and shy, carrying the weight of knowing too much and trusting too little. You caught him lingering in doorways, hovering like he wasn’t sure if he belonged, until one morning you pressed a whisk into his hand and told him to beat the eggs. He did it silently, but you caught the ghost of a smile when the radio kicked on and Dick dragged him into an off-key duet. By the end of the week, Tim had stopped lingering and started sitting at the table.

Then came Cass. She didn’t need words to tell you how much the tradition mattered. She just slipped into the kitchen one morning, silent as shadow, stole the spatula from your hand, and twirled in place. You laughed, joining her, and she smiled — bright, unguarded, rare. From then on, she danced every chance she got, the radio her favorite language.

Jon arrived like a storm that broke the world.

Lois had died in childbirth, and Clark unraveled. He was a man who could move mountains, stop aliens, hold the Earth itself in orbit… but he couldn’t save her. For weeks, he drifted, hollow-eyed and guilty, clutching the baby like he was made of glass. He didn’t know how to keep going. It was then that the three of you became something more than teammates.

Bruce opened the Manor without hesitation. You moved into the guest wing, with Clark and Jon in the room next door. Suddenly, the vast, quiet house was alive with the sounds of an infant's cries at 3 a.m., soft lullabies, and little fists pounding against anyone who held him too tightly. 

Alfred adapted instantly, setting bottles beside his tea service. It reminded him of days long past of doing the same for a younger Bruce, and it brought him much joy to see Bruce be able to experience some of the same joy.

The three of you found a rhythm so quickly it felt preordained. You took the late-night feedings, humming along with the radio as Jon curled against your chest, soothed more by your heartbeat than anything else. Clark would stumble in a few hours later, bleary-eyed, sheepish, offering to take over. Half the time, he fell asleep in the rocking chair with Jon sprawled across his chest, cape draped over both of them like a blanket.

Bruce claimed he wasn’t good with babies — “I don’t do small talk, let alone small children” — but Jon had other plans. By six months old, Jon would gurgle and reach for him the moment Bruce entered the room. You’d find them in the study sometimes, Bruce working at his desk with Jon in his lap, little hands tugging at his tie while Bruce signed League reports one-handed.

And when Clark’s grief threatened to consume him, it was you and Bruce who steadied him. Bruce gave Clark structure. “Routine,” he said flatly, and forced Clark into it. Early runs at dawn, sparring sessions in the cave, and scheduled check-ins with Alfred. It anchored Clark when he might have otherwise drifted away entirely.

You gave Clark grace. You told him it was okay when he cried. That grief wasn’t weakness. That Lois would have wanted him to keep going, not drown in guilt. You slipped photos into his hands, reminded him of Jon’s smile when he doubted himself, and pressed warm coffee into his palms when words weren’t enough.

Together, the three of you carried each other. And the kids carried you, too.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Whenever missions took Bruce or Clark away, Dick, Jason, or Tim would step up. You’d walk into the kitchen to find Dick or Conner trying to feed Jon from a bottle while Alfred supervised like a hawk. Jason would read him stories in dramatic voices, turning Goodnight Moon into a Broadway performance. Tim was the calmest of the bunch, cradling Jon against his hoodie while researching League files with one hand. Even Cass — silent, graceful Cass — would sit on the floor, letting Jon tug her hair without complaint.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was seamless. Every revolving door of Wayne Manor only added more hands to hold the baby, more laughter to soften the nights. For a while, you didn’t just survive grief — you lived through it, together.

There were nights Clark would look at you and Bruce, Jon asleep in his arms, and whisper, “I don’t know what I’d do without you both.”

And you believed him. Because back then, you weren’t just teammates. You were family.

Jon was four in the summer Alfred finally bullied you into taking a holiday. “You’ll blink and he’ll be grown,” he’d said, packing enough sandwiches for an army.

So you went. A day at the beach: Bruce chasing Jon down the shoreline, his sleeves rolled up, sand clinging to his calves; you laughing as you splashed after them, scooping Jon into your arms as he shrieked with delight. Clark stood back with a camera, trying to capture everything at once, grinning so wide it softened even the grief that still haunted the corners of his eyes.

By the time the sun dipped low, Jon was worn out, asleep before his head even settled on Bruce’s chest. The three of you stretched out on the blanket, the ocean hissing against the sand, the world held still.

Bruce sat to your right, a steady weight against your shoulder. Clark lay on your left, arm stretched behind you, his fingers brushing yours in the sand. Jon’s tiny fists curled into Bruce’s shirt, anchoring you all together. It was perfect. Too perfect.

You turned your head, found Bruce already watching you, his eyes darker than the dusk around you. He didn’t look away.

Clark’s thumb began tracing soft circles over your knuckles. Slow, deliberate, tender. His gaze shifted from Jon to you, lingering, heat simmering low in his chest.

Your heart raced. The air was heavy, humming with something you’d all been dancing around for years.

Bruce’s hand slid down, brushing against yours from the other side. Two points of contact, two anchors pinning you in place — Clark warm and open, Bruce steady and intense.

No one spoke, but everything was said in the silence. Clark finally broke it, voice low, husky with something that wasn’t grief anymore: “We don’t have to keep pretending… that this isn’t what it feels like.”

Your lips parted. You wanted to say yes. You wanted to tell them both you’d been theirs for years. Bruce’s eyes softened, his hand tightening slightly on yours, a silent agreement that he felt it too.

And then the comms went off.

First Bruce’s, then Clark’s. A League emergency.

The sound shattered the moment like glass. Clark cursed under his breath — rare, raw. Bruce’s jaw clenched, the mask of Batman sliding back over his features. You tried to smile, tried to pretend it didn’t ache, but the weight in your chest was crushing.

They stood, brushing sand from their clothes, already slipping into soldier mode. Clark pressed a kiss to Jon’s forehead, lingering a second too long, and Bruce tucked the boy gently into your arms before straightening to his full height. Neither man looked back as they focused on the mission.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

They came back different. Not obvious. Subtle. They stood closer. Their words overlapped like a practiced duet. When Clark laughed, it was often at something only Bruce had said. When Bruce allowed himself to soften, it was often when Clark was at his side.

It didn’t take long for you to piece it together. Maybe you wouldn’t have been able to if not for all the time spent in each other’s company. You knew them too well and could see the truth hidden within their body language. They had each other.

And if they had each other, why would they ever need you?

The loneliness crept in like a tide. You smiled at them, smiled at Jon, kept the breakfast and sleepovers alive — but you began to pull back. Not because you stopped caring, but because it was the only way to protect your heart. Buried your feelings under duty and routines. They noticed, of course. They misread it, assumed you weren’t interested, and let you slip further from the space you’d once shared. 

The next outer space mission, you volunteered. You needed time. Time to heal. Time to grieve what could have been.

When you returned months later, you didn’t go home to Wayne Manor. You went to a small, modest apartment in Metropolis. Modest on the outside, anyway. Magic had its perks — you expanded the space to fit what you needed. A proper kitchen for the kids’ sleepovers, bookshelves for Jason, extra beds tucked away for whichever Robin or Super wandered through on any given night.

Because the kids still needed you. And you would always be there for them.

The first night back, you slipped into the Manor while Bruce and Clark were out at dinner. Alfred knew — of course, he knew — and didn’t stop you. He only gave you that soft, sympathetic look as you moved through the halls, quietly packing the things you’d left behind.

It didn’t take long. Magic made sure of that. Books floated from shelves into boxes, clothes folded themselves, framed photos wrapped in protective charm paper. By the time the boom tube hummed with the men’s return, you were gone, your room empty save for the lingering warmth of what once was.

The Manor was quiet when Bruce and Clark returned that night, their dinner still lingering as small talk in their heads. Jon was already asleep, tucked in by Alfred, who waited for them at the foot of the stairs with a single sentence that froze the blood in their veins:

“She’s gone.”

Clark was the first to move. He stormed down the hall to your room, Bruce close behind. The door opened to stillness, to shelves stripped bare, drawers empty, walls missing the small touches of you that had made them warmer. The air smelled faintly of your magic — lavender and smoke — the last traces of you fading into nothing.

Clark’s voice cracked as he gripped the doorframe. “She came back… and we missed her. We missed her, Bruce.” His fists clenched at his sides, eyes wild with guilt. “We’ve gotta go get her. Right now. We’ll explain. We’ll fix this—”

Bruce’s hand landed heavy on his shoulder, grounding him. “Clark.”

“She thinks we don’t want her. She thinks—”

“I know.” Bruce’s voice was low, even, but softer than Clark expected. He turned toward the empty room, jaw tight, eyes shadowed. “But if she made this choice… we can’t force her back. If we push too hard, we’ll lose her completely.”

Clark’s breath hitched, the weight of it settling like lead in his chest. “But she belongs with us.”

“She belongs in our lives,” Bruce corrected gently. “One way or another. It’s better to have her in some capacity than not at all.”

Clark’s shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him. He leaned against the doorframe, staring at the space where your books used to be. “That month she was gone… it was hell. I never realized how much I needed her. How much I—” He broke off, voice rough. “She makes everything turn, Bruce. She makes the world make sense.”

Bruce didn’t answer right away. His gaze lingered on the bare shelves, the hollow quiet of the room. For once, the walls of Wayne Manor felt too large, too empty. “I know,” he said finally. “She makes my earth turn, too.”

They stood there in silence, two men who could fight gods but couldn’t fight the absence you’d left behind.

And in your modest Metropolis apartment — stretched wide by magic, humming with laughter from the kids who refused to let go of you — you told yourself you were healing.  It was better this way, you told yourself. They needed space to grow together. And you needed to remember how to stand on your own feet again.

Even if a part of you still ached for the life you almost had. The loneliness followed you into your new apartment. Into the quiet nights when Jon asked if you’d still sing him to sleep. Into the mornings when you woke, reaching for a hand that wasn’t there.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

The sleepovers and breakfasts never stopped. They just moved. The kitchen was slighter, the ceilings lower, but the laughter was the same. Pancakes tasted just as sweet when eaten in a cramped apartment. The kids still sang, still fought over who got to flip the next batch. The tradition lived on.

But the trio? The three of you? That had been left at the beach, half-buried in the sand, drowned out by the sound of a League comm.

But you never left the kids. You never could.

Especially when Damian arrived, he wasn’t a result of violence, no matter what the uglier rumors whispered. He was a weapon born in a lab, Bruce’s worst nightmare made flesh — his DNA spliced with Talia’s, an attempt to craft the perfect heir. Damian entered the Manor fierce, arrogant, and prickly with mistrust. A boy engineered for war but given a family instead.

Damian entered the tradition like a cat into water: claws out, hissing, refusing to admit he wanted in. He sneered at the karaoke, insulted the pancakes, folded his arms at the table, and declared he didn’t need any of it.

And yet, you made him a plate anyway, slid it in front of him without comment. You corrected his posture when he chopped vegetables, guided his hands when he learned how to whisk. You told him stories about Jason and Dick, about how Conner used to sulk through sleepovers until he realized the fun in them. You let Jon drag him into the chaos, refusing to give him the luxury of staying on the sidelines.

It took time. Months. But the first time he sang under his breath, soft and unwilling but audible, you pretended not to notice. Jon noticed. Jon whooped, dragged him to the center of the kitchen, and you caught the tiniest flicker of a smile from Damian before he masked it with another scowl.

From then on, he was yours too.

Your relationship with Bruce and Clark shifted in those years, too. The wound of the beach and the space between you never fully healed — but it scabbed. 

Bruce was patient, quieter with you. Clark was soft, gentle, careful not to push. They never stopped loving you. If anything, their love only deepened, year after year, as they watched you guide their children with a steadiness neither of them could muster. As they watched you throw birthday parties, show up at recitals, and even parent-teacher meetings when you could. 

They never forgot how it had felt on that blanket. How close they’d come to making it real. The warmth of your bodies close together, the heat within each look. The want never left — it lingered in every look, every brush of fingers, every moment you laughed too hard at something one of them said.

At first, you couldn’t bear to stay. After dropping off one of the kids, you’d leave the Manor immediately, unable to linger in halls that echoed with memories of what almost was. Bruce and Clark never stopped you, though the way their eyes followed you to the door was its own kind of ache.

But when Damian arrived, something shifted. He was young, sharp-edged, in desperate need of patience, and you couldn’t just drop him off and walk away. So you stayed. At first, it was only for tea — a cup in Alfred’s study before heading home. Then it was breakfast, Damian stiff-backed in his chair until Jon made him snort orange juice out of his nose.

A year later, you found yourself staying for entire afternoons. Letting Jon drag you out into the garden, while Bruce lingered nearby under the guise of trimming roses. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, helping Damian with homework, while Clark “happened” to return early from Metropolis, setting his jacket neatly on the couch before joining you both.

And little by little, the walls you’d built began to crack.

You started laughing at their jokes again — Clark’s terrible puns that had Jon in stitches, Bruce’s dry one-liners that made Jason wheeze. You let Clark’s hand brush your shoulder when he leaned over you, and you didn’t flinch when Bruce’s palm steadied you by the elbow. Once, Clark smoothed an errant curl from your cheek, thumb lingering a moment longer than it should have. Once, Bruce’s hand brushed yours over a coffee mug, and you didn’t pull away, but gifted him a smile. 

It wasn’t everything. But it was something. And that something was enough to remind you how dangerous hope could be.

Bruce and Clark noticed. They talked about it — often, quietly, usually on the Watchtower between missions. 

“Now might be the time,” Clark murmured once, watching you from across the hangar as you comforted Cass after a brutal debrief. “She’s letting us in again.”

Bruce only hummed, low, but didn’t disagree. “We go slow. She has to trust this isn’t temporary. We can’t let her down again.”

They began to plan — nothing elaborate, nothing rushed. Just… chances. Dinners, quiet moments, gentle confessions, waiting for the right time.

So, of course, when they thought they had a handle on things, everything gets flipped around. 

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

The knock at your apartment door was insistent, a chorus of voices arguing outside.

You pulled it open to find them all there: Dick at the front with a bright grin, Jason juggling takeout bags, Tim holding a stack of board games, Cass tucked in quietly behind them, Conner hovering like he’d been dragged along, Jon beaming, and Damian scowling like someone owed him money.

“Surprise!” Dick announced, holding up soda bottles like a prize. “Sleepover night!”

You blinked, stunned — then laughed, ushering them in one by one, kissing Jon’s temple, hugging Cass tight, ruffling Tim’s hair, letting Jason nearly knock you over with a bear hug. “All of you? At once? My poor neighbors.”

Jason smirked. “Please, you love it.” The kids were scattered around your apartment, settling in for the night. Some were setting up the living room, while others were organizing the food. Looking around, it made your heart happy and full to have all the kids here with you. It’s been months since you’ve been able to hang out with them outside of League business. 

You understood, they were young, growing into the heroes they want to be, and having fun while being young. But the loneliness crept back again, the same that lingered after Bruce and Clark. You decided it was time to put your big girl panties on and date outside the hero world, just in case you had better luck. And it’s been going great, a little over a month since you started seeing Jackson, and tonight was another hopefully successful date. Now, to break the news to your overprotective kids. 

“I do, and of course you’re always welcome,” you admitted, smiling. “But… kids, I actually have plans tonight.”

That stopped them in their tracks. Like deer in headlights, they all turn their heads to look at you. Jon’s brows furrowed. “Plans? Like… with people?”

“Like… with a date? You’re dressed nicer than usual.” Dick guessed, eyes narrowing.

You hesitated — and that was all the confirmation they needed.

“A date?!” Jon blurted, jaw dropping. “You can date?!”

Jason smacked him upside the head. “Of course she can date, idiot.”

Tim groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “How are you surprised by this?”

Conner crossed his arms, suspicious. “Who is he? Do we know him?”

Cass said nothing, just watched you with sharp eyes and a knowing smile.

You chuckled, shaking your head as you slipped into your bedroom to keep getting ready. “I don’t owe you an interrogation, detectives. When it's time, I'll introduce you all.”

That didn’t stop them from trailing after you, peppering you with questions while you pulled on earrings and fixed your lipstick.

Jason leaned against the doorframe. “Is he taller than me?”

“Yes.”

“Does he make more money than Bruce?”

“No one makes more money than Bruce.”

Jon frowned. “Does he have powers?”

“That’s none of your business, sweetheart.”

Tim sighed. “Where did you meet him?”

“Out,” you said vaguely, slipping your feet into heels. “Now — black jacket or red?”

They all paused. “Black,” Dick and Cass said at the same time.

“Red,” Jason argued immediately.

“Black is more mysterious,” Tim muttered.

“Red shows power,” Damian countered.

You laughed, trying on both, twirling for them like it was a runway show. They shouted over one another until finally you picked the black, smoothing it over your dress as you moved toward the door.

That was when Jason spotted the small overnight bag tucked beside it.

His eyes went wide. “Wait a damn minute— is that an overnight bag?”

Chaos.

“You’re staying the night at his?!” Conner shouted, horrified.

“You cannot be serious,” Damian hissed.

Dick threw his hands up. “We’ve lost her!”

Jon looked like you’d just told him Santa wasn’t real, which is slightly alarming since you had the conversation with him last year when Damian told him so. Maybe you’ll have to have the conversation with him again. Maybe have Clark take him to the North Pole to show him how he’s not there.

You raised your hands, firm but gentle. “Enough. I love you all, you know that. But I am an adult, and I am allowed to have my own life.”

“But—” Jon started.

“No buts. I’ll be back in the morning, and we’ll have pancakes together. Just like always.”

They quieted at that, grumbling but placated. Jason muttered something under his breath about “being replaced by some guy,” but you kissed his cheek and handed Cass the spare key.

“Be good,” you warned as you grabbed your bag. “Don’t burn the place down.”

They chorused their goodbyes as you slipped out, waving. But the second the door shut, they bolted to the window, watching you climb into a sleek car none of them recognized.

The silence was heavy until Damian sniffed disdainfully. “Disrespectful. What kind of gentleman doesn’t open his date’s door?”

That earned a round of muttered agreements as they slumped back inside, half-heartedly unpacking food and setting up Mario Kart on the TV.

Normally, sleepover Mario Kart was a blood sport. Tonight, the game sputtered — no one yelling, no one throwing controllers, everyone oddly subdued.

Finally, Tim broke. “So we’re just… not gonna acknowledge that we all thought she’d end up with Dad and Clark anyway?”

The silence cracked like glass.

Jason threw his controller. “Thank you! Exactly!”

Conner groaned. “Oh my god, finally someone said it.”

Jon looked around frantically. “Wait— wait— is that allowed?”

Dick buried his face in his hands. “Unbelievable. We’re having this conversation now?”

Voices rose, overlapping, chaos spiraling again until Cass quietly stood, walked to the bookshelf, and pulled down the glittery, bedazzled tube that you had made years ago. She held up the Sparkle Talking Stick.

It was needed when you had so many... passionate loved ones in your life. So, for a bit more order and maybe 1% less chaos than normal, you created the Sparkle Talking Stick that each kid signed as an agreement to listen when someone held it.

Immediately, everyone shut up.

Cass placed it on the table. Jason reached for it first, glaring at the others. “She’s obviously happier when she’s with them. She should just say it.”

Conner took the stick next. “Then why the hell is she sneaking out on overnight dates with randos?”

Dick grabbed it after. “Because maybe she thinks they don’t want her anymore! And whose fault is that?”

The Sparkle Stick made its way around, each kid venting in turn, until Damian finally snatched it, glowering. “Enough. The conclusion is obvious: Father and Kent are cowards. Their attempts at wooing are laughable. If they had done their jobs properly, she wouldn’t be entertaining other men.”

He pulled out his phone without hesitation. “Father,” Damian said crisply when Bruce answered. “Due to your and Kent’s lukewarm efforts, she is now pursuing other men. Do with this information what you will. Goodbye.”

He hung up before anyone could stop him.

The kids stared at one another for a couple of minutes.

Jason leaned back, smirking. “Well. Guess we’ll see what they do about it.”