#batlantern x reader

You were tucked away in a corner, and even if you were arguing in your usual strange way, Hal’s hand never left your waist, keeping you as close as possible.

You step in tighter, narrowing your eyes. “Oh please. He likes it when I take my time. Maybe try that instead of sprinting to the finish line like it’s the damn Lantern Olympics.”

Hal lets out a little scoff-laugh, biting his lip as he looks you over. “You do take your time. I watched him limp for two days last week. I'm just trying to keep the man alive, sweetheart.”

You tilt your head, all mock-sweetness. “He limped because you got jealous and tried to flip me off the bed mid-thrust. Don’t pretend you’re some kind of martyr.”

Across the ballroom, Bruce catches your eye. Impeccably composed in his custom tux, fake-laughing at some board member’s joke like he isn’t very aware you and Hal are whisper-fighting about who gets to destroy him later. He throws you a brief look before slipping into another circle of donors.

Hal sighs, dramatic. “Ugh. Look at him. Smiling like that. Bastard knows exactly what he did.”

You both watch as Bruce gently places a hand on some older woman’s elbow, leading her toward the silent auction with his signature Brucie Wayne charm.

“He thinks he’s cute,” you mutter.

Hal leans into your side. “He is cute. Disgusting.”

“You wanna know what’s cuter?” you say, snagging two hors d’oeuvres and popping one straight into Hal’s mouth while he gives you a questioning look. “His ass on my strap.”

Hal rolls his eyes dramatically. The tie around his neck is already loose, you can’t tell if it’s an attempt at looking sexily disheveled or if he just sucks at formalwear. Either way, his tux fits him criminally well. Asshole.

“You topped him last time,” Hal argues, finishing his drink with a raised brow.

“And?”

“It should be me tonight! It’s only logical!”

“Ugh, quit the logistics, Jordan,” you mutter, placing a hand on the small of his back. “You’re so full of shit. Your ‘logic’ is just your dick talking.”

He gets visibly more turned on at the sound of his surname on your tongue. “False. My dick doesn’t talk. It commands.”

You snort into your glass. Every four words or so, someone turns to glance at you both, curious and terrified. You’re still keeping track of the photographers orbiting the room, trying to avoid any headlines tomorrow morning about Bruce Wayne’s lovers having a lovers’ spat at a charity gala.

You drop the topic when a few strangers try to strike up a conversation. Hal yawns in the middle of your sentence and you jab him lightly in the ribs, just enough to make him double over. The strangers eventually drift away, confirming what everyone always says in whispers and tabloids: Bruce Wayne’s lovers only care about each other, and the billionaire. At every gala you attend, you end up in a corner together, talking and teasing. Taking turns convincing Bruce to dance with you and usually ending up dancing with each other instead.

Hal slides behind you as you pretend to admire some hideous abstract sculpture up for auction, his palm warm at the base of your spine.

“You looked hot arguing with me,” he whispers in your ear. “Like, I-should-top-Bruce-tonight hot.”

You smirk without turning. “You’re confusing your boner with objectivity again.”

He hums, fingers tracing the line of your waist. “Can’t help it. You get all sharp-tongued and smug and I just want to—”

“—shut me up with your mouth?” you finish, finally turning to face him, brow cocked.

Hal’s eyes flash. “God, yes. Repeatedly. Enthusiastically.”

You laugh quietly and tilt your head, brushing your knuckles along his jaw. “You’re so obsessed with me, you weirdo.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t deny it.

You don’t say anything, just press your mouth to his cheek, soft and brief, the way you always do when you’re rewarding him for being annoyingly sweet. He turns into it like a sunflower, chasing the contact and ends up catching the edge of your lips. It’s a little clumsy. A little greedy.

You pull away slowly. “Focus, flyboy. We have a Bat to break.”

He grins, teeth showing. “Oh right. Ruining our boyfriend. You’re really good at helping me focus.”

You loop your arm through his and head back toward the main room, heels clicking against marble. “He told us to decide,” you remind him. “Which means he wants to be surprised. He just didn’t want to admit it in front of the board.”

Hal nods seriously. “He’s probably hoping we’ll settle it in bed.”

“He usually does settle it in bed,” you say, amused. “Just lies there with that smug look like he’s already picked but wants to watch us figure it out anyway.”

“That smug little—” Hal cuts off as Bruce appears at the far end of the ballroom, shaking hands with some obviously important man. Hal squints. “He’s doing the jaw thing again.”

You squint too. “Mhm. He’s trying not to look. But he wants to.”

Bruce keeps glancing your way. Once. Twice. And then a third time, lingering, like he’s sizing up the damage. Or fantasizing about what the hell you’re going to do to him.

Hal leans into your side. “He’s already hard.”

You choke on your champagne. “You can’t know that.”

“I do know that. I can sense it.”

“Because you’re horny.”

“Because I love him,” Hal corrects, mock-offended, pressing a hand to his chest like it’s sacred. “And I love you—”

“And I think we should work together tonight,” you finish, watching his eyebrows lift.

Hal straightens slightly. “What?”

You look at him over your glass. “Make him beg.”

Hal inhales like you just unveiled a masterpiece. “I love where your head’s at.”

“Let him think he’s getting out of it. Let him relax. And then, when he’s in bed, post-charity-glow, tie loosened, all smug—”

“We destroy him.”

“Ruin him.”

“Split the shift.”

“Alternate strokes.”

Hal covers his mouth like he’s scandalized. “That’s diabolical.”

“I’m inspired.”

You clink your glasses.

“Think we’ll get him to say please?” Hal asks.

You smirk. “I think he’s halfway there just from watching us.”

“I adore you.”

He squeezes your hand and doesn’t let go. Right there, in the middle of this ridiculous, over-lit gala. He’s warm and close, and it makes your chest ache a little, how familiar it is now, the comfort, the quiet certainty that wherever Hal is, he’s probably trying to be near you. You watch Bruce finally slip away from his group of social obligations and disappear toward the private lounge upstairs. He doesn’t look back.

Hal exhales slowly. “He’s making it too easy.”

“Oh yeah,” you murmur. “He wants to be followed.”

“So how do we play it?”

You smile, low and wicked. “We wait ten minutes. Pretend we’ve forgotten all about him.”

Hal groans. “That’s evil.”

You grin. “It’s foreplay.”

Even here, surrounded by strangers and money and a million things that don’t matter, Hal looks at you like you’re the only person in the room, well, the only person besides Bruce. And when you start toward the stairs, hands still linked, champagne flutes forgotten on the table behind you, you already know how the night is going to end.

You and Hal are going to eat him alive.

a/n: this is a repost of one of the first fics i've ever posted! this batlantern series (that can be read each as a standalone) is one of my favorite things but the writing was so ass, so i'm editing it a little bit and posting it again!

Bruce hasn’t twitched, not a single flinch. Not even when Hal flicked it to level three just as he was shaking the mayor’s hand. You admire his restraint. Really, you do. But Hal’s getting impatient.

“You’re staring,” you say to Hal, watching him toy with the control, which was currently off. He flicked it up several levels again.

Bruce’s jaw tightens, his nostrils flare and for the briefest second, his posture shudders. Barely noticeable. But you see it. Hal sees it.

And then Bruce lifts his glass, cool and composed and keeps talking to the CEO of Gotham Mutual like he doesn’t have a toy pulsing deep inside him in a rhythm you’ve both pre-programmed to increase slowly over the course of the evening.

You slide up beside Hal at the bar. “That’s three. His hands are shaking.”

Hal hums. “Think he’ll excuse himself before dinner?”

You grin. “Not if he wants to win.”

“Oh, he’s so stubborn.”

“That’s how he ended up in this situation.” You let Hal slide a hand around your waist and you take the remote from his hand, clicking it once.

Bruce stumbles. It’s so minor. A half-step. Maybe someone caught his heel. But you see his hand tighten on the edge of the table. You see the way his jaw clenches, his breath catches. The man across from him blinks. “Mr. Wayne?”

Bruce clears his throat, voice flawless. “Apologies. Old sports injury.”

Hal snorts.

“Should we give him a break?” you ask, sweetly.

Hal leans closer, voice low in your ear. “Do you want to?”

You glance at Bruce again, his neck flushed just barely pink, his brow damp despite the air conditioning. He’s clenching his fists at his sides now, posture military-straight, holding it all together. His pride is the only thing keeping him upright.

“No,” you say. “I don’t.”

You both dial it up again and Bruce is in hell. You can see it in the way he’s standing, shoulders too straight, spine locked, sweat beading at his temple now. He’s still talking, still giving that tight-lipped Brucie smile, but his hand is white-knuckled on the glass stem, and he hasn’t touched his food since the appetizers.

The best part?

He can’t come.

Not like this. Not from the plug alone. It’s been teasing him all night and you know the edge is eating him alive, because every step sends a shiver through him, and the pressure of the plug is relentless, just enough friction to ruin him, but not enough to push him over.

He’s trapped.

At one point, during a lull between speeches, Bruce actually dares to approach the bar. His voice is hoarse. His tie is crooked. His composure is hanging on by threads.

You smile at him sweetly. “How are you holding up, Mr. Wayne?”

Bruce glares. “I’m going to end you.”

Hal sips his drink, completely unbothered. “God, I hope so.”

You flick the remote again, one last time. Bruce’s knees buckle. You catch him before anyone sees. “Careful,” you whisper in his ear. “You wouldn’t want to make a scene.”

“Off,” he hisses.

You and Hal share a look, then you comply. Just like that the buzz cuts out. Bruce sags gutted against the bar, panting quietly, sweat glistening at his temple.

Bruce survives dinner. Barely. You and Hal are seated at either side of him. Perfectly behaved, perfectly polished and dressed to kill. You make light conversation with the tech sector execs at your table. Hal charms everyone with his disarming smile, twirling his wine glass. Bruce, in the middle, says almost nothing. Which is rich, considering he usually owns these things.

Tonight, he’s a man stretched to the edge. The plug’s been off since that brief little collapse at the bar, but you left it in. Of course you did. Pressure building with every shift of his hips, every time his thighs clench under the tablecloth. No one else could know that you have him all wrecked just with a shift of a button. 

The mayor is seated four chairs away, babbling about infrastructure. Some billionaire heir from Metropolis is bragging about his yacht. Bruce stares at his untouched entrée like it personally insulted his family legacy.

Hal leans in during dessert. His hand slides under the table, not touching Bruce yet, just resting near his thigh.

“I’m bored,” he murmurs to Bruce, voice low enough that only you hear. “Should we play a game?”

Bruce doesn’t look at him but you see the corner of his mouth twitch. His hands are white-knuckled around his napkin. You smile and lift your wine. “Level one?”

Hal shrugs, easy and wicked. “Just a little hello.”

He flicks the remote under the table. There’s a delay of maybe a second and a half.

Then Bruce inhales. Barely noticeable, except you know him too well. He doesn’t twitch, but he closes his eyes for one moment longer than necessary. 

Hal grins. “Jesus,” he mutters. “He’s really trying.”

You rest your chin in your hand. “Oh, he’ll make it through.”

Hal hums. “Maybe.” And dials it to level two. Bruce flinches, a tiny shift under the table. His leg knocks lightly against yours, involuntary and he swallows hard before reaching for his glass.

“Careful,” you whisper. “Don’t choke in front of the Wayne Foundation board.”

His eyes cut toward you, dark and murderous. Hal's hand rests lightly on his knee now. “One more?”

You feign innocence. “I mean, it’s just level three.”

Bruce shakes his head. “Don’t.”

But you do. The buzz kicks higher, smoother now, but stronger, and you see it hit him like a body blow. His chest tightens, his knuckles go white again. His spine is still so straight it’s a miracle he hasn’t snapped something. You can see the sweat beading at his temple again. And he still doesn’t stop you. He could say the word, he could grab your wrist, he could give you the look. But he doesn’t.

Hal leans in, whispering just behind Bruce’s ear. “You’re such a fucking masochist.”

Bruce exhales through his nose. “You have no idea what I'm going to do to you both.”

You trail a finger up the side of your wine glass. "You’ve been saying that for hours.”

“Empty threats are kinda pathetic for a big man like you, Brucie,” Hal adds, sipping his champagne glass.

Bruce doesn’t answer. His tongue is pressed to the roof of his mouth, jaw tight, every ounce of energy focused on not reacting. Not groaning, not twitching, not showing a single sign that he’s seconds away from falling apart. Which is, of course, what makes it so delicious.

You glance around the table. No one’s watching too closely. Bruce Wayne is always a little aloof, a little brooding, everyone assumes it's just his eccentric billionaire shtick. Not that he’s currently being edged mercilessly by his partners under a table dressed in white linen and crystal centerpieces.

Your heel grazes the side of his shoe, his hand jolts under the table, a soft twitch. But still, still, he doesn’t break.

“Four?” Hal’s voice is low, almost bored. But you know better. He’s already turning the dial with one hand, spinning it between his fingers. You don’t answer at first. You just give a slow shake of your head, lips curled at the edges.

“Not yet,” you whisper. “We’ll burn him out too fast.”

“Please.”

Bruce’s voice comes barely above a whisper. He stares straight ahead at the untouched dessert plate in front of him like if he focuses hard enough on the sugared lemon tart, he’ll survive the next sixty seconds.

“Please, not now.”

That was new tonight. You and Hal both pause. Share a glance.

“Oh?” Hal hums, cocking his head. “Begging already?”

“I said not now,” Bruce grits out. “Wait until the car.”

His hand digs harder into his thigh. A faint tremble runs up his wrist. You’re sure he doesn’t realize he’s squeezing hard enough to leave bruises.

“Why?” you ask, resting your elbow lightly on the edge of the table. “Think you’ll lose it in front of the table? You know you can’t.”

His mouth presses into a line. There’s sweat darkening the collar of his shirt now, just a hint where the silk clings to his neck.

Hal’s hand drops under the table. His thumb skims just above Bruce’s knee, light as breath, circling lazy patterns that are anything but comforting.

“We could be nice,” Hal offers. “Turn it off. Let you breathe.”

You smile, your hand slides under the tablecloth, fingertips brushing Bruce’s wrist. He jerks beneath your touch.

“Or,” you whisper, leaning close, “we could see how long you last at level four without coming.”

His eyes finally snap to yours, desperately, he’s been holding everything together for too many hours. And then, so quietly you’re not sure even Hal hears it, he says:

“Do it.”

Hal freezes. “...What?”

Bruce doesn’t repeat himself, he stares forward again with his jaw set, reading for surrender. Your fingers close gently over the dial in Hal’s hand and you turn it.

The buzz kicks in, a pulsing rumble that you know is pushing into him over and over and over. It’s the setting you designed to ruin him slowly, to keep him poised at the edge without giving him a single inch of control.

Bruce shudders, it rolls through his whole body. His eyes squeeze shut for a single heartbeat, his shoulders curl forward slightly before he snaps back up. You and Hal both go still, watching him unravel with the poise of a man trained in pain and discipline. But no combat simulation ever prepared him for this.

He’s breathing through his nose now. Hal leans a little closer, voice low. “Still with us, Bruce?”

Barely audible: “Yes.”

“Good boy,” you whisper.

Bruce’s jaw flexes as his eyes flick to yours and away again. Hal’s fingers trace slow circles above Bruce’s knee again, nothing someone across the table could notice, but you feel Bruce’s thigh jump under the touch. You can see now how close he is, the blood-flush in his cheeks, the tightness in his shoulders, he even stopped blinking as often.

The host is thanking donors now. People applaud, some stand for speeches. Bruce stands too, a split-second late, you see the tremor in his knees. 

His voice is barely a rasp when he leans in and says, “You’ll clean the mess if I lose it here.”

You grin. “You won’t.”

Hal looks like Christmas came early. “But wouldn’t that be fun?”

The tension in Bruce’s neck is a symphony, he’s gone too quiet again, his body is buzzing. He needs relief and he’s not allowed to get it. Someone approaches to say hello, some councilman with a plastic smile, Bruce responds automatically, shaking hands, nodding, murmuring pleasantries. The second the man walks away, Bruce collapses back into his seat, you kill the buzz. His exhale is ragged. A sheen of sweat clings to his skin, gleaming along his hairline. Hal reaches up to brush a damp lock back from Bruce’s forehead. The tenderness in the gesture is obscene compared to what you’re doing to him.

“You’re doing so well,” Hal murmurs.

Bruce glares, he’s trembling now, inside and out. You lean closer, whispering against his ear: “You’ll make it to the car. And you’ll thank us for waiting.”

He climbs into the back seat without a word, body stiff with tension. Hal slides in beside him. You follow last, closing the door softly behind you. 

Bruce exhales, collapsing. His body folds forward, elbows on his knees and his hands braced against his thighs. He’s panting quietly but openly now, his tie’s a mess and his shirt is sticking to him in patches. When you touch his shoulder, he flinches.

“Take it out,” he whispers.

You smile. “No.”

He lifts his head slowly, looking at you with heat and desperation. “Please,” he rasps. “I need—”

You cut him off with a kiss to the corner of his jaw. “You’re going to come like this,” you whisper. “Without us even touching you”

“You’re both ngh insane.”

Hals already turning the dial. Level five.

The reaction is immediate. Bruce bucks forward with a sound that’s not even a moan, it’s a choked sob, buried in the crook of his arm. One hand slams into the door panel, the other fists tight in Hal’s thigh. The plug vibrates deeper now, perfectly timed, relentless and invasive and cruelly precise. You know what that rhythm does to him. 

You move closer. One knee on the leather, then the other. You straddle him without waiting for permission, not that he’s in any place to stop you. His head falls back against the seat, jaw clenched and mouth parted. You cup his face in both hands. His skin is hot, damp with sweat, breath coming in ragged bursts.

He looks at you like he’s drowning.

“Come for us, Bruce,” you whisper.

His whole body tightens, a full-body collapse as the plug milks the orgasm out of him in trembling waves. His hips stutter against the seat and his hands claw at anything he can reach: your waist, Hal’s arm, the door. He buries his face in your shoulder, gasping against your skin as you hold him through it. 

When it’s over, when he’s slumped back, spent and wrecked, you press a kiss to his temple.

“There he is,” you whisper.

Hal’s fingers card gently through Bruce’s hair, he doesn’t flinch this time.

“You did so good,” Hal says, soft enough to be sacred. “Held yourself together the whole night. Like a fucking champ.”

Bruce lets out something between a laugh and a sob. It shakes through his chest but dies quickly. His throat’s too raw for sound.

You shift in closer, your hand running up under his damp shirt, tracing the slick curve of his back, grounding him. “You were perfect,” you whisper against his ear. “You took everything we gave you.”

Bruce closes his eyes. His head tips toward your shoulder again and his hand stays fisted in Hal’s jacket, but looser now. Clinging more than anchoring.

Hal brushes the sweat from his temple again, thumb slow across his hairline. “And that little ‘please’? That was new,” he teases gently, it's a reward, not a jab. “God, that was hot.”

Bruce doesn’t say anything, he’s melted into the seat now, a wrecked monument to control undone. The buzz of the plug’s long gone, powered down once his orgasm hit, but the aftershocks are still rippling through him in the smallest of ways: the flex of a thigh muscle, the twitch of a hand or the faintest tremor in his breath.

You reach between his legs now and through his pants to take out the plug, He winces, even as he exhales, some impossible blend of pain and relief that bleeds into a soft moan.

“Shh,” you murmur. “It’s out. All done, baby.”

Hal is already pulling a handkerchief from his jacket, dabbing sweat from Bruce’s face and throat with a gentleness that belies his cocky edge. “You’re gonna be sore tomorrow,” he says, smiling crookedly. “Might not be able to sit through any meetings.”

“Hah,” Bruce mutters, hoarse.

You laugh quietly and kiss his shoulder. “You earned the day off, tough guy.”

He slumps further into the seat, your hand at his chest now, just feeling the beat of his heart as it starts to slow. Hal’s still running fingers through his hair, for the first time since the gala started, Bruce doesn’t look like he’s holding anything back.

“I’m proud of you,” you whisper.

That makes him open his eyes. He looks at you. Then at Hal. “Thank you.”

You kiss him softly. Hal leans in too, his lips brushing Bruce’s jaw, trailing lower to kiss the hollow of his throat. Bruce doesn’t stop either of you, he lets you hold him.

a/n: this took SO long to edit because it was a total mess but well! i'm proud of this now

The floor is cool beneath your feet. You move quietly, grabbing the sweater draped over the nearby chair, one of Bruce’s, oversized and worn in soft at the collar, and shrug it on. The familiar scent wraps around you.

The hallway outside is drenched in shadow, long and stretching. You pass guest rooms with doors cracked open, the study door left slightly ajar and descend the sweeping staircase with the caution of a practiced ghost. Wayne Manor at night is another thing entirely, grand and echoing, but cloaked in something secret and old. The kitchen is dark, but you know where the switches are. You flip on the under-cabinet light. You pad to the fridge and open it, grabbing a bottle of water.

And then—

“You’re not who I thought you'd be.”

You start.

You hadn’t heard a sound before. Not a step. Not a breath.

You turn.

And find him already watching.

Perched on one of the stools at the kitchen island, small and unnervingly still, is a boy. Barefoot, wearing flannel pajamas too big for him, sleeves falling past his wrists. His legs swing just above the floor, one hand curls around a glass of chocolate milk, untouched. The other taps against the counter, quiet but steady.

Dick Grayson.

Ten years old. Too small for the weight he carries and too sharp for someone who still counts his age on fingers. He’s looking at you, not even afraid or curious. You study each other across the island. Why isn’t he blinking? You set your glass down slowly.

"Could say the same about you."

He shrugs one shoulder. “Yeah, but I live here.”

You nod, letting a breath slip out of you. “Fair enough.”

The silence after that isn’t really awkward, he’s observing you, trying to understand you and why are you in his house so late.

“You always up this late?” you ask, keeping your voice soft.

“Only when the dreams are weird.” He finally takes a sip of his milk. His nose wrinkles, it’s clearly gone a little warm, but he drinks anyway. “This one had fire. I wasn’t afraid, but it was loud.”

You watch him closely. “Sounds like a lot.”

He tilts his head, still studying you “Bruce doesn’t bring people home. Not like that.”

“Like what?”

He gestures, small and vague. “Like… you and Lantern. You’re not just people. You’re something else. He lets you touch him.”

His words are quiet, barely shaped, but they hit you well. It’s hard for you and Hal to realize how important you two are for Bruce, how special you should feel because he lets you sleep in his bed all together.

“He trusts us,” you say.

Dick frowns, thoughtful. Turning it over. “I don’t think he knows how.”

You nod slowly. “He’s learning.”

His legs swing once. “He gets really quiet when he’s sad. I used to think that meant he was angry. But now I think it just means he doesn’t know how to ask for help.”

You press your lips together, feeling something in your chest shift. “Maybe that’s why we’re here,” you say, voice low. “To remind him he can.”

Dick nods once, finally understanding you. “I think he likes when you make him laugh. His face changes.”

You smile. “He has a nice face when it’s not scowling.”

“Don’t tell him I said that,” Dick says quickly, mock-serious.

The corner of your mouth twitches. Then you’re interrupted by footsteps. Hal appears in the doorway, rubbing one eye, hair a chaotic mess and wearing one of Bruce’s robes he found on the floor and put on mid-yawn. He blinks at the two of you.

“Huh,” he says, voice rough with sleep. “Thought I dreamt that part.”

“You didn’t,” you reply, nodding toward Dick.

The boy lifts his hand in a casual wave. “Hi.”

“Hey, kiddo.” Hal ambles toward the fridge, moving without any grace as he pulls out another cold bottle of water. “Midnight meetings now?”

“Dream protocol,” you say, the words hanging like a secret between the three of you.

Hal cracks the cap on his drink with a quick twist. “Solid.” 

Dick watches him from his stool, head tilted slightly in that curious way only kids can pull off. “You’re the loud one.”

Hal freezes mid-sip, the bottle hovering near his lips, then slowly raises an eyebrow in a dramatic way. “Excuse me?”

“You have loud footsteps.”

Hal chuckles, setting the bottle down on the counter with a soft clink. “I have very confident feet.”

Dick stares at him a moment longer. Then nods, approving. “Makes sense.”

You hide your grin behind your glass, the cool rim pressing against your smile as warmth spreads through your chest. The way these two bounced off each other was something else.

“You are loud, tho,” you add to the conversation with a smirk.

Hal leans back against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, the fabric of his shirt pulling tight across his shoulders. “Says the one who climbed Bruce like a tree six hours ago.”

Dick sips his milk again, blank-faced. “I’m a child.”

You blink. Hal blinks.

“Do you… know what that means?” Hal asks, his eyes narrowing just a fraction.

“Nope.” Dick grins. “But it made you shut up.”

You lose it, a sharp bark of laughter that echoes off the kitchen walls and fills the space with something light and alive. Your shoulders shake as you try to keep it quiet, but it bubbles out anyway. Hal just glares up at the ceiling, his jaw tight but the corner of his mouth twitching like he might laugh too if he let himself.

Dick slides off the stool, wiping his hands on his too-long pajama pants with a little swipe. “I’m gonna go back to bed. You guys are weird, but… good weird. Bruce needs that.”

You watch him disappear down the hall, the shadows swallow him gently and his footsteps barely making a sound on the old floor. He pauses at the doorway, turning back just enough for you to catch the soft outline of his face in the low light.

“Don’t leave,” he says, voice smaller now, carrying that fragile weight that tugs right at your heart.

You and Hal both nod, the motion instinctive and full of promise.

“Promise,” you reply, your words steady even as emotion swells in your throat.

Then he’s gone. The hush returns, settling over the kitchen like a soft blanket, broken only by the faint hum of the fridge and the distant creak of the old manor settling around you. Hal exhales, runs a hand through his hair, messing it up in an effortless way that somehow makes him look even better. 

“That kid’s either going to save the world or set it on fire.”

“Probably both.”

You drain your glass, the last drops of cool liquid sliding down your throat as you set it aside. Hal leans into you gently, shoulder to shoulder, solid and warm against your side. A silent question passes between you in that touch, full of comfort and understanding.

“Ready to go back?” he whispers.

You nod. “Yeah.”

You leave the kitchen together, side by side, steps silent on the old stone floor. Past the still portraits that look with painted eyes, the long drapes swaying just a little in the night breeze, the glint of moonlight on glass casting pale silver patterns across the halls. Back up the stairs, through the sleeping hush of a house far too big and too full of ghosts, where every shadow seemed to hold a story you were only beginning to learn.

Back to the bed.

Back to Bruce.

a/n: dick grayson yay!!!! he's so cute and tiny here he only need one popcorn

The dinner was nice and cozy, Alfred prepared the perfect meal before retreating to his wing, leaving the four enough privacy. Bruce sat at the head of the table, with Clark and Hal at one side and you in the other. During the whole meal, the flirting with Clark was shameless.

You compliment his tight shirt and Hal palmed his arms a couple of times. Bruce found your hand under the table, you could feel his nervousness of making Clark just a little uncomfortable. But even though he was fumbling his glasses all the time and laughing awkwardly, it was obvious that he was loving the attention.

Once all of you finished your plates and your glasses of wine, it was Bruce who suggested to drink the last glass in the living room.

The conversation picks up where it left off at dinner, but now it’s looser, the wine and whiskey melting away the last of Clark’s initial awkwardness. He’s still clutching his glass a little too tightly, but his laugh comes easier, his broad shoulders relaxing as he leans back into the couch.

“So,” Clark says, his voice a low rumble, eyes flicking between you and Hal before settling on Bruce. “You three… you've been dating for some time, right?”

You smirk, leaning in just enough to let your shoulder bump his. “Enough to know what we’re doing,” you say, your tone teasing but confident. “But it’s not just about us, Clark. Tonight’s about you, too.”

Hal chuckles, his fingers now openly tracing lazy circles on Clark’s shoulder.

“Yeah, farm boy. We’re not here to overwhelm you, unless you want us to.” His grin is all mischief, and Clark’s cheeks flush a faint pink, though his smile doesn’t falter.

Bruce leans forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, his gaze steady but burning.

“We invited you because we want you here, Clark,” he says, voice low and deliberate. “No pressure. You set the pace.”

It’s a rare moment of vulnerability from Bruce, and you can tell it lands hard with Clark, who shifts slightly, his knee brushing yours as he processes.

“I’m… I’m not used to this,” Clark admits, his free hand rubbing the back of his neck, that boyish charm shining through despite the heat in his eyes. “Back in Smallville, things were a little more… traditional.”

You laugh softly, resting a hand on his thigh, feeling the muscle tense under your touch. “Traditional’s overrated,” you murmur, your fingers lingering just long enough to make your intent clear.

Hal leans in closer, his lips brushing the shell of Clark’s ear as he whispers, loud enough for you and Bruce to hear, “You’re doing great, big guy. And trust me, we’re all dying to see what you’ve got under that tight shirt.”

Clark laughs, a little nervous but gaining confidence, his head tilting toward Hal. “You’ve been eyeing it all night,” he shoots back, surprising everyone with the playful edge in his voice.

He sets his whiskey glass down on the coffee table, his hand brushing yours as he does, and the contact feels deliberate, electric.

Bruce’s lips curve into a rare, genuine smile, and he stands, crossing the small space to kneel in front of Clark, one hand resting lightly on Clark’s knee.

“Before we go further, Clark, you should understand how this works,” he says, his gaze steady, pinning Clark in place. “She's usually in control,” he nods toward you, a glint of deference in his eyes.

You smirk, your hand tightening on Clark’s thigh, feeling the muscle jump under your touch as you lean in, lips brushing his ear.

“I like things my way,” you murmur, voice dripping with authority. “You’ll find out just how much.”

Bruce’s eyes flick to Hal, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Hal’s a switch, gives as good as he gets, depending on the mood.” Hal grins, his fingers trailing down Clark’s neck, teasing the collar of his shirt.

“Keep things interesting,” Hal adds, his voice a low purr, his lips dangerously close to Clark’s jaw.

Clark blinks fast, clutching the armrest now, his knuckles whitening. “And you?” he asks Bruce, voice rough with curiosity and something hotter, his blue eyes wide but burning.

Bruce’s gaze doesn’t waver, but there’s a flicker of vulnerability, a rare crack in his armor.

“I’m a sub,” he admits, voice low, almost reverent. “I let go. I trust them.” The confession hangs heavy, and Clark’s breath catches, his body shifting slightly, like he’s processing the weight of it.

The admission seems to unlock something in Clark. His shoulders relax, but his eyes darken, a hunger breaking through his small-town restraint.

“I… I want more,” he says, the words raw, almost desperate, as he leans forward slightly, his knee brushing yours.

Hal’s grin turns wicked as he tilts Clark’s chin toward him, lips grazing Clark’s with a teasing edge before diving into a kiss that’s pure fire. Clark groans, low and guttural, leaning into Hal, one hand gripping Hal’s shirt like a lifeline. You feel the shift in him, the way he’s surrendering to the intensity, and you press closer, your hand sliding higher, nails scraping the seam of his jeans.

“Good boy,” you whisper against his ear, and Clark’s shudder is electric, his free hand finding your thigh, fingers digging in with surprising force.

Bruce’s hand slides up Clark’s other thigh, slow and deliberate, fingers brushing dangerously close to where Clark’s control is fraying.

“You sure about this?” Bruce asks, his voice a gravelly challenge, daring Clark to dive in completely. Clark’s eyes lock on Bruce’s, the tension between them a live wire. He nods, sharp and certain.

“I’m sure,” he says, voice steady now, laced with a need that sets your pulse racing.

Hal pulls back, lips wet and glistening, and tugs Clark’s shirt up, exposing the hard planes of his chest.

“Fuck, look at you,” Hal mutters, hands roaming, claiming every inch of skin. Clark arches into the touch, his confidence surging, inviting more.

You move in sync, lips finding his throat, teeth grazing just enough to make him gasp. Your hand slips under his shirt, fingers tracing the heat of his skin, while Hal’s mouth claims Clark’s again, hungrier, tongues clashing. Bruce rises, leaning in to press a slow, deliberate kiss to the corner of Clark’s mouth, stealing him from Hal for a moment.

Clark’s hands grow bolder, one gripping Bruce’s shoulder, pulling him closer, the other sliding up your back, fingers tangling in your hair as he turns to kiss you. It’s desperate, like he’s starved for it. Teeth catching his lower lip until he groans into your mouth. Hal’s hand slips lower, palming Clark through his jeans, and Clark’s hips buck, a choked sound breaking free as he pulls back, head tipping against the couch.

“Oh my god,” Clark breathes, voice rough with want, his control unraveling. “You’re all…” He doesn’t finish, but his body speaks for him, leaning into every touch.

When you get rid of his shirt, your hand roams the hard planes of his chest, fingers teasing the edge of his nipple as he shudders under your touch.

Hal’s on his right, lips grazing Clark’s jaw, his hand mirroring yours, pinching and rolling Clark’s other nipple with a practiced ease that pulls a low moan from deep in Clark’s throat.

Bruce is on his knees between Clark’s spread legs, his hands gripping Clark’s thighs, his mouth working with slow, deliberate precision. The obscene wet sounds of Bruce's mouth abusing Clark's cock and Hal and you marking him all over fill the room.

His jeans unbuttoned and pushed just low enough for Bruce to have full access. His head tips back, eyes half-lidded, lips parted as he struggles to keep up with the onslaught. You lean in, your lips brushing his ear, voice a low command.

“Look at you, Clark,” you murmur, your fingers circling his nipple, teasing it to a stiff peak. “Falling apart so beautifully for us.”

He groans, his hand gripping your thigh, fingers digging in as if anchoring himself to you.

Hal’s mouth moves to Clark’s neck, sucking a mark just below his collarbone, his fingers twisting Clark’s nipple with just enough pressure to make him arch.

“Fuck, you’re sensitive,” Hal mutters, his voice rough with approval, before he dips lower, his tongue flicking over the hardened bud.

Clark’s hips jerk, a choked sound escaping as Bruce takes him deeper, the wet heat of his mouth drawing a string of desperate noises from Clark.

You slide your hand down to Bruce’s head, fingers tangling in his dark hair, guiding his rhythm with a firm grip.

“That’s it, Bruce,” you say, your voice steady, commanding. “Show him how good you are.”

Bruce hums around Clark, the vibration pulling a ragged moan from him, his hands fisting the couch cushions. You watch, heat pooling in your core, as Bruce’s lips stretch around Clark, his movements controlled but eager, submitting to your guidance.

Hal’s lips find Clark’s again, kissing him hard, messy, swallowing his moans as his hand continues its relentless teasing of Clark’s nipple. You pinch Clark’s other nipple sharply, making him gasp into Hal’s mouth, his body trembling under the dual assault.

“You’re doing so good,” you whisper, your free hand sliding up his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart. “But you don’t get to finish yet.”

Clark’s eyes snap open, hazy with need, but before he can protest, you tighten your grip on Bruce’s hair, pulling him back gently but firmly.

“Stop,” you command, voice sharp. Bruce obeys instantly, pulling off with a wet pop, his lips glistening as he looks up at you, eyes dark with submission. Clark whines, his hips twitching, so close to the edge but denied, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath.

“Good boy,” you say to Bruce, stroking his hair before releasing him. You stand, brushing a kiss against Clark’s temple.

“Stay put,” you tell him, your tone leaving no room for argument. “I’ll be right back.”

Clark’s eyes follow you, wide and desperate, but he nods, his hands gripping Hal’s arm now, seeking grounding.

You slip out of the room, the air cooler in the hallway, but your pulse races as you retrieve a thick, unscented candle from a drawer in the study. When you return, the scene is electric: Hal’s mouth is on Clark’s nipple again, sucking hard, while Bruce is trailing slow kisses along Clark’s inner thigh, teasing but not crossing the line you’ve drawn. Clark’s head is thrown back, his breaths ragged, his body a live wire under their attention.

You light the candle, the flame casting a soft glow as you step back into the circle. “Look at me, Clark,” you say, your voice cutting through the haze. His eyes meet yours, dark with want, and you hold up the candle, letting the wax pool at the top. “You ready for more?”

Clark swallows hard, his gaze flicking to the candle, then back to you. “Yes,” he breathes, voice rough but certain.

Hal pulls back, grinning, his hand still teasing Clark’s chest, while Bruce shifts to the side, his hands resting on Clark’s thighs, waiting for your lead.

You tilt the candle slowly, letting the first drop of hot wax fall onto Clark's heaving chest, right above his left nipple. The molten pearl hits his skin with a soft splat, and Clark's back arches off the couch, a sharp gasp ripping from his throat. His eyes widen, locking onto yours, a mix of shock and raw pleasure flashing across his face.

"Aah—that's hot," he rasps, but there's no pulling away. His hands clench into fists at his sides, muscles rippling under the sheen of sweat and the budding red bloom where the wax cools and hardens.

You smirk, holding his gaze as you let another drop fall, this one tracing a deliberate path down to his nipple, coating the sensitive peak.

"Breathe through it, Clark," you command, your voice low and unyielding. "You're taking it so well for us."

Hal chuckles darkly from Clark's right, his fingers pinching the untouched nipple in rhythm with your drips, twisting just enough to make Clark buck.

"Look at that," Hal murmurs, leaning in to blow cool air over the fresh wax, making Clark hiss and shudder. "Farm boy's got a masochistic streak. Who knew?"

His free hand slides down to palm Clark's cock again, stroking lazily through the open fly of his jeans, keeping him hard and aching without mercy.

Bruce watches with hooded eyes from between Clark's legs, his hands kneading the thick muscles of Clark's thighs. He leans forward at your subtle nod, his tongue darting out to lap at the base of Clark's shaft, teasing the heavy sac below without fully committing.

"More?" Bruce asks you, voice muffled and reverent, his breath ghosting over Clark's skin.

You nod, tilting the candle higher now, aiming for the defined ridges of Clark's abs. Drip after drip falls in a slow trail, hot kisses that make Clark's body jerk with each one.

"Yes—god, yes," he groans, his head lolling back, but his eyes stay on you.

The wax builds in patterns across his chest and stomach, red and white against his tanned skin, marking him as yours.

"Such a good boy," you praise, setting the candle aside on a heat-safe tray Hal quickly grabs from the side table.

Your hands roam his wax-dotted chest, scraping your nails over the cooled patches, peeling just enough to send fresh jolts through him. He whimpers, hips snapping up instinctively, chasing friction.

Hal doesn't let up, his mouth replacing his fingers on Clark's right nipple, then dripping a fresh line of wax from the candle you'd passed him.

"My turn to play artist," Hal teases, his free hand fisting Clark's hair to yank his head back, exposing his throat. He drips wax there too, a thin trail down Clark's neck, and Clark's cry is desperate, his body trembling under the overload.

Bruce rises slightly, his lips brushing the wax on Clark's inner thigh now, kissing and nipping around the edges as he works his way higher.

At your signal, he takes Clark back into his mouth. Deep, swallowing around him with practiced ease.

"Don't you dare come," you warn Clark, pinching a wax spot sharply to emphasize. "Not until I say."

Clark's hands fly to your hips, gripping hard enough to bruise, his superhuman restraint fraying as he nods frantically.

"Please—oh, I can't—" His words dissolve into a moan as Bruce hums around him, Hal drips one last scalding drop onto his collarbone, and you claim his mouth in a bruising kiss, swallowing his pleas.

The room smells of wax and sex, the air thick with heat. Clark's on the edge, body a canvas of your making, and you pull back just enough to whisper against his lips, "Beg for it, big guy. Tell us what you want next."

Hal grins, candle poised. Bruce's eyes flick up, waiting. Clark's chest heaves, wax cracking with each breath, his voice a wrecked rumble: "P-please—let me come. Please, I-I just want to come."

You fake a little pout, stroking his hair softly. "You can't imagine how pretty you look when you beg, Clark." You flick your gaze to Bruce. "C'mon, honey, you heard him."

Bruce looks up at you with that quiet intensity, his hands firm on Clark’s thighs, his lips glistening from his earlier work. You give him a slight nod, and he dives back in, tongue swirling with precision. Clark’s hips buck, a choked moan spilling out, his head tipping back as the sensations overwhelm him.

You lean in, kissing along the wax trail on Clark’s neck, your teeth grazing the sensitive skin as you murmur, “You’re so close, aren’t you?”

Your hand slides down, joining Hal’s, your fingers wrapping around Clark’s length, stroking in sync with Bruce’s movements. The dual assault pushes Clark to the brink, his body shaking, muscles taut.

“P-please,” Clark gasps, his voice breaking, eyes glassy with need. “I-I can’t hold on much longer.”

You smile, wicked and warm, and lean in to kiss him deeply, your tongue claiming his mouth as he moans into you.

“You’ve been perfect,” you whisper against his lips, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze. “Come for us, Clark.”

The permission unleashes him. Clark’s body seizes, a guttural moan tearing from his throat as he comes, hips jerking hard against Bruce’s mouth, your hand, and Hal’s.

Bruce takes him deep, swallowing every pulse, while Hal’s fingers dig into Clark’s shoulder, grounding him through the waves of pleasure.

You keep stroking, milking every shudder, every broken sound, until Clark’s body goes limp, his chest heaving, wax cracking under the strain of his ragged breaths.

“Good boy,” you praise softly, brushing a kiss across his temple as you ease back, your hand slowing but not leaving him entirely. Bruce pulls off with a final, gentle lick, his eyes dark with satisfaction as he sits back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Hal kisses his wrists with tender.

Clark’s head lolls against the couch, his eyes half-lidded, a dazed smile tugging at his lips. “That was…” He trails off, voice hoarse, still catching his breath. “I didn’t know it could be like that.”

"Sex can be a lot, Clark." Hal chuckles, slinging an arm around Clark’s shoulders, pulling him close.

You laughed softly as Hal peeled off as careful as he could all the dried wax and Bruce kissed the red spots.

You stand, stretching slightly, and nod toward the hallway. “Stay here,” you say, your voice softer now, the edge of command giving way to something gentler. “I’m grabbing a few things.”

You return quickly with a soft, damp towel, a bottle of aloe vera gel, and a glass of water. Clark’s still slumped against Hal, his body relaxed but marked.

Bruce is already moving, grabbing a blanket from a nearby chair, his instincts kicking in as he drapes it over Clark’s lap, tucking it around him with quiet care.

“Drink,” you say, handing Clark the water. He takes it with a grateful nod, sipping slowly, his hands still trembling slightly from the intensity. “How’re you feeling?”

Clark’s smile is shy, that Smallville charm breaking through the haze.

“Overwhelmed,” he admits, his free hand resting on your wrist, warm and grounding. “But… good. Really good.”

Bruce’s hand finds Clark’s knee, squeezing gently. “You did great,” he says, his voice soft but firm, a rare warmth in his tone. “We’ve got you.”

Hal, still pressed against Clark’s side, runs a hand through Clark’s hair, mussing it playfully. “Yeah, you can stay the night if you want. All the rest you need to have.”

Clark just smiled slightly, as you apply some aloe vera in his burns, soothing him. Bruce just leans back in the ground, observing you as he always liked to do.

You catch Bruce's eyes, frowning a little and without lifting your hands from Clark, you ask your boyfriend with a soft tone: "You okay, baby?"

Bruce blinks before looking up at you. "Mmh? Yeah, I'm alright." He smiles at you, almost forcingly.

You pressed your lips together and shot your eyes at Hal for just a second, he said: "So, what if we take this to the bed? To rest, obviously."

Hal wiggle his eyebrows like a teenager and searched for Bruce's hand before tugging him closer. None of you say much the rest of the night, you let Clark stay at the middle and feel how Bruce snuggles closer to you until he's resting between your legs and head tucked in your neck.

You and Hal get ready together. You do your makeup, and Hal watches you trying to memorize every line of your mouth. You’re fixing your earrings when he comes up behind you and zips the dress with excruciating slowness. His knuckles drag against your spine and you shudder.

“You look…” His voice cuts off. Then, lower: “He’s not going to survive this.”

You smile, but it’s sharp. “That's the point.”

He doesn’t smile back. He just leans in and presses a kiss to the curve of your neck. “You’re going to wreck him.”

You turn in his arms. “We are.”

You kiss him once.

He buttons the last of his shirt, eyes never leaving yours. You tug his tie into place with a sharp snap. He kisses you again when you smooth his collar, hands low on your hips. By the time you both step back, your chests are heaving. The car arrives at seven sharp and inside Hal sits closer than necessary. His hand finds the inside of your thigh and you let your head rest against the seat as his thumb strokes lazy circles on your skin.

You whisper, “Think he’s nervous?”

Hal doesn’t answer right away. “I think he’s shaking.”

The drive is short. Every second stretches. And then you see it.

The restaurant. That restaurant.

Closed to the public. Candlelight behind the windows. That sign flipped to private event. You’re not sure whether your stomach flips or sinks. You’re too full of heat to tell the difference.

The car stops and both of you step out slowly, hands entwined. Bruce opens the door of the restaurant himself. He’s in black, his tie is loose and his top button is open. His hair is slightly out of place, he definitely ran his hands through it too many times trying to calm himself down and failed.

He looks at you both like he has been starving. He breathes out your name, then Hal’s. One word each. One prayer each.

Then: “You’re… fuck.”

He can’t even finish it.

Hal’s jaw clenches. You step forward and brush your fingers along Bruce’s collarbone, under the undone button. His breath hitches.

“Are you gonna let us in?” you whisper. “Or make us fuck you in the doorway?”

Bruce steps back so fast it’s almost a stumble.

Inside is warmth. Gold and soft. Empty except for your table. The same as always. You remember the laughs and touches of your first official date together. And now it’s just you three

“It’s almost our anniversary,” he finally says.

Hal smirks. “Almost?”

“Two weeks.”

Hal blinks. “You shut down an entire restaurant because our anniversary is close? What are you gonna do on the actual day, buy the moon?”

Bruce’s smile is barely there. “You’ll see.”

Dinner is decadent, but it barely matters.

Because every brush of Bruce’s hand under the table is a prayer. Every glance he steals is a confession. His hand on your thigh and his fingers grazing Hal’s. The way his eyes flick to your mouth and then away, he can’t keep looking without losing it. You feel how your stoic and terrifying Bruce is shaking under the surface.

Hal leans over and whispers something in his ear, making Bruce go still. You don’t need to ask what was said, you feel it in the way Bruce’s hand tightens in your thigh.

Dessert comes and goes, untouched. And then Bruce sets down his fork. He hovers, one hand on the collar of his shirt, the other clenching and unclenching at his side.

“I’ve been thinking about this for weeks,” he says quietly.

Hal leans in. “Oh, really?”

You hit his arm, shaking your head. “Don’t joke now, Hal, let him talk.”

Bruce smiles. “I have something to ask you.”

Hal stills. So do you.

Bruce meets both your eyes, his voice stripped down to bone.

“I want you to move in. Both of you.” Bruce continues, his voice raw and even a little bit terrified. “I want you in the manor. Not just half-living there. I want to come home and know you’re here. I want your names in the mail-box. I want you in my life, fully. No more waiting for an excuse to keep you.”

“Really” you ask softly, almost waiting for a prank-reveal.

“Yes,” Bruce's voice breaks a little. “Dick already asks if he should set extra plates without being told. You already live there. I just want it to be official.”

Hal gets there first. He slides his hand behind Bruce’s neck and kisses him, thinking that’s an answer. You kiss him next, Bruce groans into it, his body finally giving in.

When you break apart, Bruce leans his forehead against yours and whispers, “Please.”

You don’t make him beg.

“Yes,” you both say. 

He exhales like it hurts, he’s just been given permission to breathe and you feel how his whole body relaxes. You let him kiss you like he might devour you. And maybe he does.

Bruce’s mouth presses to yours like it’s the first time, scared it won’t last. His hand cradles your jaw, firm and shaking, thumb brushing beneath your cheekbone. Your fingers twist in his shirt, pulling him closer, demanding more. His tongue brushes yours; it’s messy, hot and uncoordinated with desperation. 

Your lips are still on Bruce’s when Hal presses up behind you. His hand slides around your waist and over your ribs and he mouths along your neck, letting his breath pour heat down your spine. The sensation knocks the wind out of you, one of them in front of you, grounding you, and the other behind, melting you down to your bones.

Bruce pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes glassy.

“You’re sure?” he asks, voice almost broken. “You both…?”

“We said yes,” Hal answers, and his mouth is on Bruce.

This kiss is rougher, he kisses Bruce so he feels it for hours and Bruce makes a sound in his throat that sounds like surrender. His hand slips behind you blindly, catching the back of Hal’s neck as they keep kissing, you can feel the tension in both of them, tipping into each other.

And then Bruce drags you back into it.

The three of you collapse into the corner booth, Bruce hauls you into his lap, hands possessive and wide-spread, one low on your spine and the other sliding down your thigh. You barely get your legs over his before he’s kissing you again. Hal crowds in beside you, one knee on the cushion, one hand curled behind Bruce’s head, and he kisses you while Bruce does.

It’s disorienting. Filthy. Overwhelming.

Bruce kisses down your jaw as Hal claims your mouth, then Hal shifts and mouths along your cheek so Bruce can kiss you again. Hands everywhere. Lips trading. You can’t tell whose hand is gripping your thigh anymore.

“I’ve been dreaming about this,” Bruce rasps, breath coming ragged. 

“You could’ve just said something,” Hal whispers, biting your shoulder. “You didn’t have to seduce us with five-star dining.”

“I didn’t want it like that,” Bruce says. He’s cupping Hal’s face now, dragging his thumb across his lower lip. “I didn’t want to just ask it. I wanted you to choose me.”

Your hand finds Bruce’s tie and yanks it hard.

“We did.”

And the look on his face when you say that, pure devastation. Relief and desire crashing into each other. He kisses you again, out of rhythm, you pull him deeper, let yourself fall with him.

Hal slips in behind you, trailing kisses along your shoulder, his voice low and hot in your ear.

“Let’s take him home.”