#IM LAUGHING OUT OF BITTERNESS | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

joelsrose · 2 months ago

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For the Hour

Being a hooker in Jackson isn’t glamorous, but it pays in coffee, bullets, and the good kind of winter gloves. So when your regular—Tommy—asks if you’d see his brother, you don't hesitate in saying yes.

omg this is literally 11k words im ded - warnings: literally porn with a plot, sex work (mention of terms hooker etc), explicit smut (18+), unprotected sex, age gap (Joel is in his 50s), subby!Joel energy, soft dom reader, emotional vulnerability, Joel has a bad back and feelings, praise kink.

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You caught your breath as the last wave of pleasure ebbed from your body, chest rising and falling in a slow, quiet rhythm while Tommy lingered there a moment longer, his breath warm against your neck as he let out a low groan, still half-drunk on the high you’d given him. The morning light filtered in through the tattered blinds, casting soft golden slats across the tangled mess of limbs and discarded clothes strewn across the hardwood floor. Somewhere, from the corridor or maybe the neighbors', drifted the scent of burnt coffee—bitter, familiar, grounding.

Tommy sat up with a grunt, running a hand through his damp hair as he muttered, “Shit,” under his breath, his voice still heavy with sleep and satisfaction. He glanced over at you with a lazy grin, tugging his jeans from the floor. “Remind me to come by more often.”

You laughed—quiet, genuine—watching him as he passed you a towel and leaned in to press a kiss to your cheek. It wasn’t part of the deal, not really. But then, Tommy had always blurred the lines—sweet in the way men like him weren’t meant to be, not in this town, not in your world.

“You’re already my best customer,” you murmured, eyes gleaming as you took the towel and began to clean yourself up, your voice laced with a teasing fondness, the kind reserved for people who came back again and again not just for the sex, but for something else they couldn’t name.

He stood with a quiet exhale, tugging his flannel over his broad shoulders, his belly soft where it peeked above the denim as he buttoned his jeans. His eyes lingered on you a second longer, not quite lecherous, not quite innocent either—just… watching, like he didn’t want to leave just yet, like he hadn’t quite figured out what you meant to him.

He watched you, gaze lingering over the bare slope of your chest, the way your skin caught the muted morning light spilling through the cracked blinds, casting golden lines across the sheets like something sacred.

You didn’t bother covering up—not with Tommy. The two of you had done this too many times, in too many rooms, on too many mornings like this, for there to be any shame left between you. There was something quiet in it now, a kind of unspoken understanding that had formed over time—not love, not quite friendship, but an intimacy that lived in the space between laughter and the sound of a zipper being drawn.

As he buckled his belt, fingers fumbling slightly around the worn leather, he cleared his throat like he was trying to shake something from it, something heavier than dust.

“Do you, uh…” he started, then hesitated, licking his lips like the question might taste strange coming out. “Do you have an age limit or somethin’?”

You tilted your head, brow lifting in easy amusement as you smiled faintly. “Sorry?”

He laughed, soft and awkward, and rubbed the side of his nose—a nervous little tick you’d seen before, like his body gave him away even when his voice didn’t. “I mean—with what you do,” he said, trying to sound casual but missing the mark by an inch. “With your… services. You got a limit, or...?”

“For my services?” you repeated, feigning offense, a teasing lilt in your voice as you leaned back against the headboard. “You make it sound so formal.”

“Quit,” he muttered, a laugh under his breath, but there was something beneath it—something that wasn’t quite a joke.

You smiled at him again, slower this time, more real. “Not really,” you said with a shrug, reaching for the towel more out of habit than modesty. “As long as they’re sweet... can get it up... and make sure they pay well.”

Because in Jackson, payment wasn’t green bills or cards anymore—those belonged to a world that had crumbled with the last election and the first outbreak. Now, people paid in what mattered. A tin of that good jam made from the summer’s last raspberries. A half-empty bag of coffee beans that still smelled like mornings from before. Gloves thick enough to survive the frost that rolled in from the mountains. Cans of peaches, salt for the roads, shotgun shells, antibiotics, clean socks. Favors. Names. Protection. A seat near the fire.

He chuckled at that, the tension easing from his shoulders like you’d let him off some invisible hook.

You tilted your head again, watching him as you sat forward slightly, your hair sliding over your shoulder in a loose, dark curtain. His eyes caught on it—just for a second, but enough to notice.

“So,” you said softly, the teasing edge slipping just slightly from your voice, replaced by something gentler—curiosity with a tilt of wariness, a shift in the air between you. “Why’re you askin’?”

Tommy exhaled with a quiet huff, running a hand back through his hair and catching the loose strands that had fallen from his ponytail, fingers dragging through it with a kind of frustrated carelessness.

“It’s just…” he started, voice trailing off before picking back up again with a sigh. “My brother. Joel. I think he could, you know—benefit from... all this.” He gestured vaguely in your direction, hand cutting through the air as his eyes flitted across your still-bare body, lingering but not ogling, like he was trying to make a point without being crude.

Joel.

The name landed with a quiet thud, familiar but unexpected.

Of course you’d seen him around—Jackson wasn’t big enough for anyone to stay invisible for long. He was older, that much was clear; wore the years like a weight across his shoulders and a scowl that never quite left his face. Always furrowed at the brow, jaw set like he was bracing for a blow that hadn’t come yet. Handsome in a rough-edged, quietly dangerous way—not like Tommy, whose smile came easy and whose touch always felt a little more like comfort than command.

Sometimes, when you looked at them side by side, you forgot they were cut from the same cloth. Same blood. Same broken world.

You let out a breath of laughter, amused and maybe a little intrigued, as you rose to your feet, the light catching along the soft curves of your body, bare and unashamed, each step toward him slow and fluid, the kind of motion meant to be watched. Your hips swayed with the ease of someone who knew exactly how she moved, your skin still flushed from the morning, the remnants of pleasure humming faintly in your limbs. Sensual without trying to be. Just a woman in her own skin.

“Your brother,” you said with a soft, knowing smirk, brushing your fingers gently through the messy strands of hair that had fallen across Tommy’s forehead, still damp with the sweat of sex and sleep and something in between. The gesture was easy, instinctive—your touch lingering only a moment before it drifted lower, settling at the nape of his neck where your fingers curled loosely, not to pull him close, but simply to stay connected. “Doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who’d pay a visit to a hooker.”

Your voice was teasing, light on the surface, but there was something deeper threaded beneath it—some quiet question you didn’t ask aloud.

Tommy’s hands found your waist without hesitation, as if drawn there by muscle memory more than intent. His touch was broad, familiar, grounding—palms warm against your skin, a little rough from the kind of labor this world demanded of men like him, the kind of years that wore into the bones. There was nothing hurried about the way he held you, nothing that spoke of possession in the traditional sense, but it was there nonetheless—a kind of unspoken tether, something formed not from love or lust but from routine, from comfort, from the simple ache of being human in a place that had taken too much.

Whatever this was between you and Tommy—it didn’t have a name. There’d never been promises or claims, no plans made or futures built. But the line between business and something softer had blurred a long time ago, and neither of you had ever bothered to draw it back again. It was easier this way.

He looked down at you, lips quirking into a crooked grin that didn’t quite make it to his eyes, which always seemed just a little too tired, like he hadn’t had a real night’s sleep in years. “Yeah,” he murmured, the words softer now, almost thoughtful. “He ain’t. But maybe that’s exactly why he needs it.”

You hummed quietly in response, letting your hands slide from his neck down to his chest, fingers resting lightly over his heartbeat. You tilted your face up to meet his, chin angled just slightly, and the distance between you felt at once too close and not close enough.

“He’s fifty-six,” Tommy said, the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth crooked and amused, eyes crinkling just a little as he shook his head. “Old bastard,” he added with a chuckle, like he was fond of the man but couldn’t help teasing him anyway, like it was easier to speak in jokes than admit the weight behind the thought—that time had moved on without asking, and they were all just trying to catch up.

You let out a dramatic gasp, sharp and playful, one hand flying to your chest as though genuinely scandalized, though the glint in your eyes gave you away immediately. “Tommy,” you said, drawing out his name in that mock-offended tone you knew always pulled a smile from him, “what kind of girl do you take me for?”

Your voice was honey-drenched, rich with pretend indignation, all wide, fluttering eyes and arched brows, even as you stood in front of him still completely bare, the golden morning light licking across your skin like it had been invited.

Tommy’s grin tugged crooked across his lips, slow and easy, like it had nowhere else to be. “The kind of girl who says she’s shocked,” he drawled, eyes dipping meaningfully down your body, “while standin’ butt-naked in my arms.”

And then, as if to punctuate his point, he gave your ass a firm, unapologetic slap, the sound sharp in the quiet room. “Now put some clothes on,” he added, voice light but still edged with that gravelly fondness he tried to hide. “Before I end up stayin’ another hour and missin’ patrol—again.”

You yelped, laughing as you twisted away from his touch, jumping back into the warmth of the tangled bedspread, sheets twisted like vines beneath you. His handprint still tingled on your skin, a reminder of how close things could still burn even after the fire was out.

Tommy bent to grab his jacket off the chair, slinging it over one arm as he turned toward the door, but then paused in the doorway, glancing back over his shoulder with that half-smile he always wore when he wasn’t quite sure how to say what he meant.

“So, Joel?” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck like he wasn’t trying to care too much. “You’ll see him?”

You met his gaze, all ease and softness now, letting your weight sink back into the bed as you pulled the sheet loosely over your thighs. You smiled, slow and sure.

“I’ll see him.”

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Tommy sat at the far end of the Tipsy Bison’s bar, his knee bouncing beneath the table with a restlessness that betrayed more than he meant it to, jittery and twitchy like the truth was sitting in his lap and he didn’t know where to put it. His beer sat mostly untouched in front of him, beads of condensation sliding lazily down the bottle’s neck, forgotten. Across from him, Joel nursed his second glass of whiskey with the kind of single-minded focus that suggested he was trying not to think too hard about anything else.

Joel was mid-grumble, voice low and gravelly, muttering into his glass like it had personally offended him. “These kids on patrol,” he said, shaking his head, “they’re damn near still in diapers—think they know everything, but can’t read a fuckin’ map to save their lives. I had to double back twice today. And my knees…” he trailed off with a grimace, reaching down to rub one as if the act alone could conjure youth. “Shit don’t work like it used to.”

Tommy blinked, and then—without really meaning to, like the words had slipped out before he could stop them—he blurted, “Hey, you should go see this masseuse I know.”

Joel paused mid-sip, squinting over the rim of his glass like Tommy had just spoken in tongues. “Masseuse?”

“Yeah,” Tommy said, trying to sound casual but already feeling the weight of what he wasn’t saying begin to gather in his chest. “She’s real good. Works outta her place. Kinda… therapeutic.”

It wasn’t technically a lie. You did use your hands. You did know how to relieve tension. But if Joel had even the faintest idea of the things you did inside that soft little house of yours—the same one with the blue curtains and the jasmine Tommy had planted out front in exchange for a particularly memorable morning—he would’ve spit his drink out on the floor, gotten up, and walked home on those bad knees just to scold Tommy like they were kids again.

Because Joel, bless him, would’ve done what Joel always did—squint real hard, say something like “Jesus Christ, Tommy,” then go on about morals and dignity and how the world’s gone to hell.

So no, Tommy didn’t tell him everything.

Didn’t tell him about the soft, lilting laugh you had, or the way your door was always unlocked for him. Didn’t mention the way you said his name when he showed up late, or the sweet little things you did with your mouth that had nothing to do with pressure points. And he sure as hell didn’t mention the way you made him feel—warm and wanted and like the end of the world hadn’t already come and gone.

“Why the hell would I need a massage?” Joel muttered, voice rough as gravel as he leaned back in his chair, scowl etched deep between his brows. “What I need is for people to stop assignin’ me shifts with goddamn teenagers who can’t tell north from their own ass, and a patrol route that doesn’t run me straight into a fuckin’ ravine.”

Tommy scoffed, lifting his beer but not bothering to drink from it, eyes rolling as he shook his head. “You just spent the last thirty minutes complainin’ about your back, Joel.”

Joel shot him a look—sharp, defensive—the kind that had scared men once, back when fear was still a luxury. “That don’t mean I want some stranger touchin’ it,” he said, shoulders stiffening as he reached instinctively for his glass again. “Ain’t lookin’ to have someone mess it up worse than it already is.”

Tommy flinched at the word—touching—and it landed wrong, punched straight into his gut like a sucker hit. Not because Joel meant anything by it, but because he did. And before he could shut it down, there it was again—you—bent over him, lips parted, breath hot against his neck, your hand wrapped around his cock, stroking slow like you had all the time in the world. The soft sound you made when you sank down on him, the way your tits bounced against his chest, warm and slick, and how your fingers dragged down his spine, nails scratching just enough to make his hips jerk. His cock twitched, hard and immediate, a pulse of heat shooting through him that had no place in this conversation.

He cleared his throat, forcing himself back to the present. “Come on,” Tommy urged, voice lighter now, too easy to be innocent. “She’s real good. Not just in the way you’re thinkin’, either. She’s sweet. Quiet. One of those girls you don’t really notice till you do, and then it’s like you can’t stop.”

Joel arched a brow, unimpressed, suspicion already creeping into the lines of his face. “That so.”

“Yeah,” Tommy said quickly, pushing past the moment. “Real good hands. Knows what she’s doin’. And I’m tellin’ you—first one’s on the house. She won’t even charge you.”

Joel grunted, unconvinced, but didn’t push the conversation away completely. He just shifted in his chair, bones cracking, and muttered something under his breath about not likin’ surprises.

And Tommy—well, Tommy just smiled into his beer again, trying not to think about how you’d looked the last time he left your place, tangled in sheets and flushed with sleep, calling his name like it was something soft.

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Joel stood stiffly on your porch, the wood creaking beneath his boots as he pressed his thick fingers into the knot burrowed deep in the side of his neck, muttering low, gravel-soaked profanities beneath his breath—half at the knot, half at Tommy, and half at himself for agreeing to this in the first place. The porch was too damn pretty for cursing—lined with flower boxes overflowing with jasmine and wild mint, and some old rocking chair that looked like it had actually been made for sitting, not surviving.

He knocked twice—sharp, reluctant—and already regretted whatever the hell Tommy had gotten him into.

The door swung open almost immediately, like you’d been waiting on the other side, like you’d known he’d hesitate and come anyway.

Joel failed—spectacularly—to hide his reaction.

Tommy had mentioned you were a woman, sure. He had not mentioned that you were the kind of woman who made men forget how to breathe. The morning light spilled in behind him, framing you in gold like some holy sin, soft and warm, the robe you wore cinched lazily at the waist like it wasn’t trying to hide anything, just loosely draped to suggest comfort—but his eyes caught the line of your collarbone, the way the fabric parted ever so slightly, and dropped, uninvited, to the swell of your cleavage.

He clenched his jaw, hard.

What the fuck kinda masseuse looks like this?

He’d been expecting someone else entirely—some no-nonsense, middle-aged woman with short gray hair and orthopedic sandals, maybe a raspy smoker’s laugh and a mug that said #1 Back Cracker, someone who would offer him over-steeped tea and tell him stories about her son in the army or her time stationed in Kabul. He hadn’t planned for this—for lace peeking out from under your robe, for legs bare and smooth in the glow of a Jackson sunrise, for you smiling at him like you already knew he didn’t have the guts to walk away.

“Joel, right?” you asked, your voice light, almost teasing, as you leaned a little deeper into the doorway, the name tasting curious on your tongue. “Tommy’s brother?”

“Oh—yeah,” Joel said quickly, the syllable catching on the rough edge of his throat as he blinked like he was just remembering where he was. His boots scuffed slightly against the floor as he shifted his weight, shoulders twitching with a discomfort he clearly didn’t know how to hide. “I, uh… Tommy said you do massages.”

The words came out like a question, like he wasn’t entirely convinced of the truth himself—and maybe he wasn’t.

You paused, something flickering behind your eyes as your lips parted—then closed again. A breath. A scoff. Quiet, sharp, and laced with a kind of tired amusement as your gaze flicked briefly to the floor. Of course Tommy hadn’t told him the truth. Of course Tommy had sent his older brother to your door with that same boyish grin and a half-assed lie, hoping Joel wouldn’t figure it out until it was far too late to back out gracefully.

He hadn’t told him that this wasn’t just a massage.

He hadn’t told him that he was coming over to have sex with a woman—with you—and not in some hurried, transactional way, but slow, deliberate, intimate. The kind of encounter that lingered on the skin long after the door closed behind them.

You bit your lip without thinking, the movement soft and sensual, more out of habit than seduction—but it was still enough to make Joel glance away, like he’d seen too much too quickly and didn’t know where to look anymore.

“Well,” you murmured, shifting your weight from one bare leg to the other, the silk of your robe whispering across your thigh like it, too, was trying to decide what kind of evening this was going to be. “Come on in.”

You didn’t confirm or deny his assumption—just stepped aside and let him walk into the space where everything might change.

And Joel—standing there on your pretty porch, fingers twitching at his sides, jaw locked and eyes anywhere but your mouth—hadn’t figured out how to say no.

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Joel stood stiffly in your bedroom, hands twitching uselessly at his sides, his body held like a man trying not to breathe too deeply in someone else's space—already half turned toward the door, as if he could will an exit into existence before you returned.

His eyes moved over the room like he was trying not to look at anything too closely, but there was no hiding the tension in the line of his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched and unclenched every few seconds like he was already regretting stepping foot inside.

The room wasn’t what he’d expected—and not just because it was your bedroom, though that alone had made his pulse stutter. That part could’ve been explained away, justified somehow—people did all kinds of things out of their homes in Jackson. But it was the way the space was set up that made his throat feel dry.

The bed, wide and inviting, draped in soft cream linens that looked freshly smoothed, was positioned at the center of everything, with candles flickering gently along the dresser, casting long golden shadows across the floor. There were no towels. No oils lined up neatly on a cart. No clinical sterility to hide behind. Just plush throw pillows, lace-trimmed curtains, a faint trace of perfume lingering in the air, and the undeniable hum of something not quite professional.

And you—Jesus Christ, you—had offered him coffee or water, your voice light and easy like it wasn’t a loaded question, and he, too dazed to think, had said yes. You’d disappeared into the kitchen, and he’d barely exhaled since. He wasn’t sure if he was sweating or just uncomfortable in his own damn skin, but every part of him was screaming that he didn’t belong here—that you were too pretty, too soft, too young to be touching a man like him.

You, meanwhile, were grateful for the excuse to step away, your heels silent as you moved through the house, trying to get your own heart rate under control.

You knew it wouldn’t take Joel long to figure it out—that you weren’t really a masseuse, that this wasn’t some wholesome back-cracking session with a side of eucalyptus oil. That lingerie didn’t belong under robes worn for healing. And yet here you were, wearing it anyway, lace brushing against your skin with every step, wondering how long it would take before he got up and left.

When you stepped back into the room, he was still standing—just as rigid, just as uncertain. “Sit,” you said gently, offering a small, practiced smile, your tone breezy enough to keep the moment from collapsing under its own weight. “Please.”

Joel nodded once, tight-lipped, and lowered himself onto the edge of the bed like it might burn him. His knees were wide, his elbows stiff, his eyes trained directly ahead—on nothing at all—like he was trying very hard not to see any part of you.

You approached slowly, extending the glass of water toward him, the condensation already beginning to bead along the side.

He took it with a quiet murmur of thanks, his fingers brushing yours for the briefest moment—just a flicker, but enough for you to feel the heat of him, the way he flinched ever so slightly like he wasn’t used to being touched without intention.

“So, uh…” Joel began, voice low and hesitant, the sound rough like it had scraped its way out of his throat. He rubbed a hand along the side of his neck, eyes flicking briefly up to yours before landing somewhere over your shoulder, already looking like he regretted speaking at all. “How long you been doin’ all this?”

The words hung awkwardly in the air between you, heavy with implication but wrapped in a poor attempt at small talk—something Joel Miller was not known for. You could tell it took effort for him to say anything at all, that his instinct was to sit in silence and let the tension pass like a storm front, but some part of him—some flicker of politeness or nerves—had nudged him into conversation.

Your eyes widened just a little, caught off guard by the question, and then you blinked, like you needed a moment to remember who you were supposed to be in this room. “Oh—yeah,” you said, stumbling just slightly over the words. “Since I got to Jackson, really. Started pretty soon after I arrived.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not exactly. You had been doing this since you arrived—though massage had never been the core of it.

Joel nodded slowly, his brow furrowing with thought, and you could see him working through the gaps, filling in the blanks with whatever image he had in his mind. “So you, uh… didn’t have any proper trainin’? From before?”

You shook your head, lips parting as your answer tripped a little over your breath. “No. I—uh. No, it’s all… self-taught.”

His eyes lingered on you for half a second longer than necessary, then shifted away again, landing on the corner of the bed, then the curtain, then the floor—anywhere but you. “Right,” he said finally, like it was the only thing he could think to say, like maybe he’d already asked too much.

The silence that followed wasn’t cold, but it was thick with uncertainty—his, mostly. His knee bounced once. His fingers tapped the glass in his hand. You could feel the weight of his restraint like smoke in the room, curling into the corners of the furniture, slipping under your robe.

You took a small step forward, smoothing your hands down the front of your robe out of instinct rather than necessity, and offered him a gentle smile—nothing suggestive, just a flicker of softness to meet his discomfort.

“Okay,” you said, voice quieter now, almost tender. “It might be easier if you take your shirt off.”

Joel’s eyes snapped back to yours—not wide, not shocked, just hesitant. Cautious in a way that wasn’t rooted in modesty but something deeper, older, worn thin over time like denim at the knees.

Still, he nodded, slow and uncertain, and reached for the buttons of his flannel, hands broad and calloused, fingers stiff with age and overuse. They moved with that steady, familiar rhythm of a man who'd spent most of his life taking off shirts for work, not for anyone watching. The ache in his knuckles—probably arthritis—tugged at him with every movement, but he didn’t stop.

He just tried not to think about how long it had been since anyone had seen him like this—shirtless, stripped down, exposed in a way that wasn’t about survival. He tried not to wonder whether his body, changed by time and burden, would make you flinch. Whether the soft at his waist, the scars, the salt-and-pepper spread of hair across his chest would make you look away.

You turned away—not out of modesty, not to create distance, but to offer him something rare in this kind of space. The grace of privacy. The freedom to choose, or not choose.

Behind you, there was a quiet rustle—cloth shifting, boots scuffing gently against the floor, the faintest creak of the bed frame as his weight shifted.

“I’m ready,” Joel said at last, his voice low and gruff, the words shaped more like a sigh than a decision, like he was forcing them through clenched teeth.

You turned around slowly, hands folded softly in front of you, gaze lifting to meet him—and stilled for just a moment at the sight.

He was broader than Tommy. Thicker through the chest and shoulders, his body weathered with age and labor in a way that wasn’t unkind, just honest. The kind of build earned from years of carrying things—wood, gear, grief. His torso was lined with muscle that didn’t try to impress, but spoke of endurance, strength without vanity. Sparse hair dusted across his chest, silver threaded through dark, and a thin scar trailed down from his left shoulder toward his ribs, pale and healed and unspoken.

You cleared your throat gently, “You can lay on your tummy,” you murmured, voice soft, quiet.

He nodded once, eyes flicking away from yours, and with a heavy breath he lowered himself down, letting out a grunt as he adjusted his limbs, clearly not used to surrendering his body to anything but pain or sleep.

You dipped onto the bed beside him, the mattress dipping beneath your weight as you knelt beside his frame, your knees brushing the sheets. He was tense—every muscle held taut, like even now, he didn’t know how to truly let go.

You reached out carefully, hands warm and deliberate, and let your palms press gently against the slope of his shoulders. The moment your skin touched his, he flinched—not sharply, not out of fear, but with the quiet recoil of a man unused to kindness. Of someone who hadn’t been touched gently in years—not without urgency, not without purpose.

“That hurt?” you asked softly, letting your fingers still against his back, giving him space to answer.

“No,” he murmured, voice muffled against the pillow, gruff and strangely quiet. “It’s just—”

You waited. He didn’t finish.

So you started to move again, slow and careful, letting your hands glide over the broad expanse of his shoulders, down the rigid line of his spine, easing into the hard knots along his lower back. His skin was warm, rough in places, scarred in others, but beneath your fingers you felt something deeper—a kind of held breath, a body that had been bracing for too long.

And then—just there—just below his ribs, your thumbs pressed into a tight knot of muscle and he let out a sound. Low. Unintentional. Somewhere between a grunt and a breathless sigh, like the smallest piece of him had slipped loose without his permission.

You paused.

Not because he told you to, but because something in the room shifted—just slightly, but enough. The silence grew thicker, not with discomfort, but with heat. A different kind of tension settled beneath your palms, no longer just physical but charged.

You leaned forward, just barely—close enough that your breath warmed the curve of his neck. “That okay?” you asked, your voice low, velvet-soft.

He nodded, but didn’t speak.

So you let your hands drift lower. Slower. Testing. Exploring. And when your fingers grazed the waistband of his jeans, you felt him tense again—but not the same way. Not from pain. Not from unease.

From want.

A breath caught in his chest. His fingers curled in the sheets.

Still, he didn’t stop you.

You let your hands linger at the small of his back, then slowly, deliberately, splayed your palms across the wide stretch of his hips, fingertips grazing just beneath the worn hem of his jeans. The heat coming off him was no longer the warmth of skin—it was heavier now.

“Turn over,” you murmured, your voice barely more than breath, a suggestion wrapped in silk.

Joel hesitated—but only for a beat—before he shifted beneath your touch, his breath hitching slightly as he rolled onto his back, propping himself up on his elbows. His chest rose and fell with quiet tension, each breath like he was trying to steady something inside of him that had already tipped. His hair was mussed from the pillow, his ears flushed red, and he wouldn’t quite meet your gaze—his eyes somewhere near your shoulder, like he couldn’t decide if this was the moment he should speak or simply stay.

You looked at him—really looked—and it hit you with a kind of quiet intensity you hadn’t expected. Rugged. Shy. Ruined with restraint. For one suspended second, you felt your breath catch—your body going still with the weight of what you were about to admit.

“I’m not really a massage therapist,” you murmured, the truth threading from your lips like smoke, soft and unembellished.

Joel’s brow lifted slightly, a flicker of surprise ghosting across his features—but he didn’t flinch, didn’t yell, didn’t get up and storm out the way you thought he might. He didn’t raise his voice or accuse you or spit something cruel. He just sat there—this man you’d heard whispered about around town, the one with the sharp jaw and the sharp aim, the one who’d killed infected like it was nothing, like breathing—and he blushed. His ears pinked. His throat bobbed. And for a man who was supposed to be all grit and gravel and gunpowder, he suddenly looked so soft.

Your gaze dropped.

And there it was—undeniable, obscene even—his cock straining thick and swollen against the front of his jeans, the fabric doing a poor job of hiding just how wrecked he already was. You could see the wet spot where he’d already leaked through, dark and damp and desperate, the denim pulled tight across the aching outline of him like his body couldn’t help betraying how badly he wanted this. How badly he wanted you.

“Shit,” he muttered, voice low and cracked, almost pained, one hand dragging down his face like he could scrub the arousal off with enough pressure. “I’m… I’m sorry.”

The apology hit your chest like a bruise—small and self-conscious and entirely Joel. Like he couldn’t imagine that his desire was allowed, like he thought being this turned on was somehow shameful. Like he wasn’t sure if wanting made him pathetic.

It was so different from Tommy.

Tommy never apologized for being hard. He wore it like a joke, a badge, always ready with some cocky little line—“That one’s your fault, sweetheart”—as he adjusted himself without blinking. He got hard, you both laughed, he’d kiss your shoulder or slap your ass and go right back to whatever he was doing, comfortable in his skin, in his want, in the way he took up space.

You reached for him before that shame could bloom any further, your hand wrapping gently around his wrist—steadying him, grounding him—and you leaned in close, voice soft and sure and edged in something deeper.

“Don’t,” you whispered, letting your fingers slide slowly up his forearm. “Don’t apologize.”

Your gaze dropped again, drinking in the sight of him—his flushed neck, the way his thighs had tensed, how his cock twitched hard under your stare like it hurt to be untouched.

And then—without breaking eye contact—you sank slowly to your knees between his thighs, the sheets rustling beneath you as your robe slipped open just enough to reveal the tops of your breasts, the soft glow of your skin catching the light. Joel’s breath hitched sharply in his chest, and he didn’t move—didn’t lean in, didn’t pull away—he just watched, wide-eyed and stunned, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real, like he was afraid that moving might wake him up.

“That’s why I’m here,” you murmured, your voice low, velvet-smooth as your fingers glided up the inside of his thigh. You could feel the heat radiating off him now—thick, pulsing heat—and you swore his legs trembled just slightly under your touch, like his body had been starving for this, aching longer than he’d ever dared admit. “To take care of you.”

You reached for his belt then, undoing the worn leather with slow, reverent hands, letting the soft clink of the buckle echo in the stillness. He sucked in a breath at the sound alone, as though it unraveled something inside him.

Before you even freed him, you pressed your palm gently over the bulge in his jeans—and fuck, he twitched beneath your touch, cock rock-hard and leaking, the wet spot soaking through the denim where he’d already been dripping for you.

“Fuck,” he breathed, the word trembling out of him like he wasn’t even sure he was allowed to say it. “This—this ain’t right.”

You looked up at him from between his legs, your position deliberate, your eyes steady and warm. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t shy away. You just smiled softly, your voice velvet-wrapped and laced in heat. “Why not?”

Joel’s gaze dropped—first to your mouth, then to your hand still palmed over the thick, pulsing bulge in his jeans. His chest rose in quick, shallow breaths, like he was trying to breathe through wanting. “You’re—fuck—you’re a hooker?”

His voice cracked on the word, like it embarrassed him to say it out loud. Like it made him feel ashamed to be this turned on by someone he wasn’t supposed to deserve.

But you didn’t pull back.

You didn’t offer shame or explanations. You kept your hand right where it was—pressing gently against the thick, leaking shape of his cock—and leaned in, close enough that your breath warmed the sensitive skin of his thigh through the fabric.

“I’m here,” you whispered, slow and steady, “to make you feel good.”

Joel opened his mouth, ready to argue, to throw up some sad scrap of pride or guilt—but you didn’t let him.

You kissed him instead.

Right on the inside of his clothed knee, a soft, filthy little kiss that made him twitch beneath your palm. So gentle. So patient. So goddamn unfair to a man who hadn’t been touched like this in years.

“Stop thinking so much,” you murmured, your lips brushing against him again. “Let me take care of you.”

There was a pause. A long one. You could feel it pulse between you—hesitation, thick and tight, the kind that came from deep inside a man who hadn’t let himself need in a long time. The want was there, throbbing—pressed up against years of restraint, of pride, of silence. But then Joel looked down at you—eyes wide, pupils blown, a little wild with it—and he nodded. Once. Sharp. Like the motion hurt.

“Okay,” he said. Then, barely audible—“Please.”

God, his voice on that word—so wrecked, so raw—you could’ve come from the sound alone.

You smiled, slow and warm, something curling in your chest, deep and satisfied. “Good boy.”

The words slipped out before you even thought them through—instinctive, soft, teasing. But the moment they left your mouth, you saw it hit him. His jaw clenched, his chest stilled, his breath catching like you’d yanked the air right out of him.

His eyes flicked away immediately, like he wasn’t sure what just happened or why it made his cock twitch so hard it strained visibly against his jeans. But it did. And he felt it.

He was so different from Tommy.

Tommy never waited. Never asked. He’d grip your thighs, mutter something cocky like “Bet you’re already wet for me,” and be halfway inside before you could catch your breath. He took control like it was his birthright—rough palms, fast kisses, always in command.

“Let’s get these off, huh?” you said gently, already reaching for the button on his jeans, your fingers working with slow precision, deliberate and unhurried, like you were unwrapping something rare.

He didn’t stop you. He didn’t speak. He just sat there, chest bare, arms braced behind him, watching you with a look that was part surrender, part disbelief.

You pulled the denim down, inch by inch, and then his boxers—already damp with arousal—until both were gathered around his thighs.

And then his cock sprang free.

Fuck.

It slapped up toward his stomach with weight, flushed and hard and glistening at the tip, fat drops of pre-come already trailing down the shaft. Not as long as Tommy, no—but thicker, meatier, with veins you could trace with your tongue and a curve that made your cunt clench just looking at it. The kind of cock that filled you. That stretched you.

Your mouth watered.

And below it—God. His pubes were wild, a thick thatch of dark hair streaked with silver, coarse and completely untouched, like he hadn’t even thought to groom because he never imagined someone might want to see him like this. And that happy trail? Not neat. Not delicate. Just a messy line of hair leading down from his soft stomach to the base of his cock—feral, raw, real, like the rest of him. This wasn’t a man who prepped for pleasure. This was a man who had been surviving.

And still—he was so fucking hard for you.

Visibly twitching with every breath you took.

Your hand found his thigh first, the heat of him pulsing beneath your palm, solid and thick beneath your touch. You let your fingers trace the curve of his muscle, the hair there soft and coarse at once, and you felt the faintest tremble as you leaned in closer, your breath warming the head of his cock just enough to make him twitch.

“You’re so big, Joel,” you murmured, your voice slow, low, reverent, like you were saying it just for him and no one else. “You’re already dripping for me, baby,” you added with a little smile, dragging your thumb across the head—slow, teasing, making his hips jerk like he hadn’t even meant to move.

His breath caught, chest rising like he’d been hit, eyes locked on you in disbelief. “Christ,” he rasped, the word escaping him like it physically hurt to hold it in. His hand twitched where it braced against the bed, knuckles white, jaw tense, his eyes dragging over you like he was afraid to blink and miss anything.

Then, softly, sweetly—you tilted your head, lips just brushing the inside of his thigh.

“Do you want me to use my mouth?” you asked, the question falling from your lips like silk, delicate but charged, heavy with intention.

Joel opened his mouth. Closed it again. Swallowed hard.

“I—” he stammered, and then exhaled like it cost him something. “Shit… can I… can I see you first?”

The request was so gentle, so earnest, it cracked something inside you. There was no demand in it. No entitlement. Just the soft ache of a man who hadn’t been given softness in a long time, if ever. He wanted to see you. Not just touch, not just take—see. He wanted you to be real to him, wanted to remember how you looked in this moment, flushed and glowing and his, if only for now.

You couldn’t help but smile. “See me?” you echoed softly, lifting your eyes to meet his.

He nodded—barely—a small, shaky dip of his chin like anything more might shatter the moment. And when he spoke, his voice was rough, low, wrecked, caught between awe and the kind of ache that sat low in a man’s belly. “Yeah… if that’s okay,” he said. “I just—fuck. I wanna remember it.”

You straightened slowly, your breath soft and even, fingers slipping to the sash of your robe. The silk felt cool against your skin, a faint whisper as it slid beneath your touch. You untied it with quiet grace, letting the knot fall loose, the fabric parting to reveal the delicate lace beneath—your lingerie soft and sheer, clinging to you like second skin.

Joel’s eyes were on you now—truly on you—and the way he looked made your stomach flip. Not hungry. Not greedy. Just wide-eyed and reverent, like you were something holy he didn’t know how to touch without ruining.

You stepped closer.

His hands rose slowly, hesitantly, the way a starving man might reach for fruit he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch. His fingers brushed your hips with the barest pressure—calloused and trembling, like even that much contact might be too much. His thumbs ghosted along your skin, just beneath the lace, pressing in gently like he needed proof that you were real and not some fevered hallucination his mind had conjured from loneliness and want.

“This okay?” he asked, voice rough but quiet, like it hurt to say aloud—like he was asking permission just to want you. His eyes lifted to yours, and they were so fucking open, something vulnerable flickering there, raw and unguarded, as if a single word from you might send him crumbling.

You nodded, slowly, letting your smile bloom soft and slow—something deeper than heat, something that said yes, I want this too.

Your fingers threaded into his hair—thick and unruly, streaked with silver at the temples—and the second your nails grazed his scalp, he broke. Not loudly. Not all at once. But in the way his breath hitched, in the way his knees seemed to go soft beneath him, in the way his entire body leaned into your touch like it was the first good thing he’d felt in years.

His shoulders dropped like a weight had slid off of them, like your hands alone were holding him upright. He didn’t move his own—just kept them resting on your hips, loose and trembling, like he was scared if he held tighter, you might pull away.

And when you tugged gently at the strands, he let out the softest, smallest sound—a whimper, barely there, but so raw it made your chest ache.

He tilted his head into your palm like he couldn’t help it. Like your touch was oxygen. Like he needed it more than he needed to come.

Like he’d been waiting for this—not just your body, but your hands, your care, your permission to be held—for far, far too long.

“You can take this off,” you murmured, your voice barely a whisper, lips brushing the shell of his ear as your fingers toyed with the straps of your lingerie. “If you want.”

He swallowed hard, his throat working visibly, his eyes flicking up to yours again—wide, hesitant, a little stunned.

“You sure?” he asked, and God—his voice when he said it, thick with that gravelly drawl and threaded with something so soft it made your chest ache. His eyes were almost pleading—puppy-dog eyes, sweet and unsure, hidden under all that gruff exterior. The kind of look that said he wanted it so badly he couldn’t bear it if you didn’t.

“Yeah,” you whispered, nodding as your teeth grazed your lower lip, voice as open and bare as the skin he hadn’t touched yet. “I want you to see me.”

His eyes stayed locked to yours, dark and wide and uncertain, but he nodded—just once, soft and small—his voice barely audible as he whispered, “Okay.”

You moved slowly, carefully, like the moment might break if you shifted too fast. Your knees sank into the bed, and you straddled him gently, your body folding around his like a promise, like something he wasn’t sure he deserved but couldn’t stop wanting. His cock—hard and flushed and waiting—pressed up against the thin fabric between your thighs, heat meeting heat, and you felt him twitch slightly, breath catching in that way that made you ache for him.

He was still so nervous, so unsure, like he didn’t know if he was allowed to want this, if you truly meant what you’d said—so you leaned in and kissed him, soft and slow, your mouth brushing against his like you were giving him time to change his mind.

He didn’t.

Joel kissed you back with a kind of desperation that nearly undid you—like he was starving for it, like every nerve in his body remembered what his mind had forced itself to forget. His lips were rough, a little clumsy, but so eager, so full of want it made your knees weak. His hands gripped your hips first—tight, tentative—but then one of them slid slowly up your back, the movement stiff and unpracticed.

You felt his fingers fumble at the clasp of your bra.

Slow. Awkward.

A clink. A pause.

Then another tug that clearly wasn’t going anywhere.

You smiled into the kiss, unable to help the way your lips curved gently against his. The affection in your chest bloomed too big to contain.

“Need a hand, baby?” you murmured, teasing soft and warm.

Joel froze.

Literally froze, like you’d just caught him red-handed doing something far more scandalous than trying to get your bra off.

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes—cheeks flushed, lips kissed raw, brows furrowed in mortified concentration. His hand was still awkwardly stuck on the clasp like it might bite him.

“Shit—God, I’m sorry,” he said quickly, his voice hoarse, the shame already rising like a tide in his chest. “It’s just… I haven’t—fuck, it’s been a while. A long while.”

Your heart swelled. Not with pity—but with something softer. Deeper.

“It’s okay, Joel,” you whispered, your voice like balm, soft and steady. “You don’t have to be perfect.”

He huffed quietly, almost laughed—but it didn’t carry humor, just something strained and bruised, something that lived in the hollow of his chest. He shook his head, gaze dropping as he muttered, “I’m sure the other men you’re with…”

“Joel,” you said firmly, cutting him off before the sentence could reach its end, your voice soft but full of weight. You leaned in a little, pressing your forehead gently to his, forcing him to look at you, to feel how present you were. “I’m not thinking about anyone else right now but you. Okay?”

His breath shuddered out of him in response, his eyes closing like he was holding that truth against his ribs, trying to believe it. After a moment, he nodded, the smallest, quietest movement—just enough to say he heard you. Just enough to say okay.

You smiled at him then, slow and warm, and leaned back just slightly. “Now,” you murmured, fingers slipping behind your back with practiced ease, “let’s get this off.”

Your hands worked quickly, but not rushed—there was no shame in the movement, no hesitation, no apology. Just the quiet, practiced confidence of a woman who knew exactly how powerful she was. The clasp of your bra came undone with a soft snap, the straps sliding down your arms with sinful grace before the lace slipped away completely, falling to the floor like it had never deserved to touch your skin in the first place.

And then—you were bare.

Joel’s breath caught so violently in his chest he almost choked on it.

Your tits were fucking perfect. Full and high, soft but heavy, flushed with heat, nipples tight and begging to be sucked. Lit by the golden light filtering through the room, they looked practically edible—glistening, mouth-watering, obscene in how pretty they were. They swayed gently with every breath you took, right at his eye level as you sat astride him, so close he could’ve buried his face between them and died happy.

But he didn’t.

He just stared.

Wide-eyed, jaw slack, pupils blown so dark they nearly swallowed the color. Like he wasn’t sure whether to worship or drop to his knees. Like it was his first time seeing a naked woman and you were every fantasy he’d ever had—all of it—wrapped in silk, sweat, and sin.

And fuck, the way he looked at you?

It made you wet. Soaking. Aching.

Because his gaze wasn’t greedy. It was wrecked. Full of awe. Full of reverence, like you were something holy and he was already praying.

His tongue flicked out, instinctive, desperate—wetting his lips like he could taste you just from looking.

And finally—hoarse, broken, like it physically hurt to say it—he murmured, “You’re… beautiful.”

You smiled at him then, your hands still resting gently at the back of his head, your fingers idly curling through the hair at the nape of his neck. “You’re handsome,” you said, and meant it—because even flustered, even blushing, even sitting there with guilt in his eyes and wonder on his face, Joel was beautiful. In a way he didn’t know how to carry. In a way you ached to show him.

He shook his head a little at that, bashful, like the compliment didn’t belong to him, like he didn’t know where to put it.

You leaned in slightly, shifting your weight just enough to press your chest a little closer to him, your breasts soft and warm in the space between you, your skin nearly touching his. “You can touch them,” you whispered, your voice low, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear as your breath shivered across it. “I like when people use their mouth.”

Your fingers slipped deeper into his hair, gently tugging at the roots, anchoring him in the moment, steadying him against the flood rising between you.

“Whatever you wanna do,” you whispered. “It’s yours.”

His breath shuddered in response—just a single exhale—but it sounded wrecked, like you’d just undone something in him that had been locked tight for years.

His hands rose slowly, big and broad and calloused, shaking just slightly as he brought them to your chest. And when he finally cupped your tits—gently, reverently, like they might melt in his palms—you swore you saw his lips part in pure awe.

His thumbs brushed over your nipples—light, tentative—and his gaze flicked up to meet yours, wrecked and open and begging for approval.

You nodded.

And he leaned in.

Your fingers tangled tighter in his hair as his mouth closed around your nipple, warm and wet and so gentle at first, like he was still afraid he might do it wrong. But the moment he sucked—just a little, just enough to pull a quiet gasp from your lips—you whimpered, the sound leaving you before you could stop it, breathy and broken and so full of want it made his cock twitch against the inside of your thigh.

He froze for just a heartbeat, pulling back only slightly to glance up at you, lips still parted, a little swollen now, his eyes dark with something soft and searching.

“Am I…” he paused, his voice rough and low, so unsure, like the words tasted foreign in his mouth. “Am I doing good?”

God. God.

Your chest rose with the breath you sucked in, your eyes already glossed with it, your lip caught between your teeth as you nodded—hard, fast, desperate for him to understand just how much he was ruining you.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” you whispered, voice trembling, your hips already rocking forward, chasing friction. “Fuck, Joel… you’re making me feel so good.”

His eyes widened slightly at the praise, his breath catching in his throat, like he didn’t know how to carry those words—but needed to.

You cupped his face then, pulled him back to your chest, your thighs squeezing tighter around him as his hands cradled your hips and his mouth returned to your breast with more purpose now, more hunger.

He moaned against your skin, low and desperate, sucking softly, his tongue flicking over your nipple just to hear the way your breath stuttered.

“Shit,” you breathed, voice barely holding together, your body already flushed and trembling from the way he touched you like you were something precious, something sacred he didn’t know how to handle but wanted to try.

You pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, your thumb brushing gently over his flushed cheek, your chest still rising fast from the weight of his mouth. “Lie down,” you murmured, the command soft but firm, wrapped in something far more tender than dominance. “Get comfortable.”

Joel obeyed without a word, shifting beneath you with a quiet grunt as his back met the sheets, but his eyes—God, his eyes—never left you. They dragged down your body like a prayer, following the way your hands slipped beneath the waistband of your panties, tugging them down slowly, baring yourself to him inch by inch until there was nothing left between you. His breath hitched audibly when he saw you, the heat of your pussy glistening in the low light, your thighs already slick with want, your confidence quiet but undeniable.

You crawled back onto the bed, slow and deliberate, your knees parting as you straddled his thighs again, his cock thick and flushed and waiting, twitching slightly where it rested against his stomach. Your breasts—red and swollen and slick from his mouth—bounced gently with each movement, catching the light like they’d been made for him.

And then—just as you were about to reach for him again—Joel sat up.

“Wait,” he said, voice low and rough, and a little breathless.

You stilled, your hands settling on his chest, your brows lifting slightly. “Yeah?” you murmured, brushing your thumb along the curve of his shoulder.

He looked at you—so shy, so unsure, like a man who didn’t know if he was allowed to ask. His cheeks were flushed, his lashes low, his voice softer now than you’d ever heard it.

“Can I…” he hesitated, swallowed. “I don’t think I’ll last long if you—if you use your mouth. Can I just—can I be inside you?”

You smiled, “Of course you can,” you whispered against his mouth, your lips brushing his with a sweetness that made him sigh into you, the sound barely audible but heavy with relief, like the permission alone had eased something he’d been holding for far too long. “I want you to.”

But before he could move—before he could even think—you reached down, your hand slipping between your bodies, finding his and lacing your fingers together. Gently, deliberately, you guided his hand downward, slower than necessary, not for hesitation but for effect—for connection—until his fingers rested at the slick heat of your entrance.

“Here,” you said, voice breathy, your eyes locked to his. “Feel.”

Joel’s eyes snapped to yours, wide and glassy, full of disbelief, like he hadn’t expected you to give him this, too. His throat worked around a hard swallow, the tips of his fingers twitching against the soaked warmth of your cunt, already glistening for him.

“For me?” he asked, the words almost reverent.

You nodded, biting your lip, your breath hitching as his fingertip brushed just barely against your entrance. “For you,” you whispered, your voice trembling with heat. “I’m so wet, Joel. For you.”

He made a soft, broken sound in the back of his throat—part groan, part plea—and you could feel how badly he wanted this, how hard he was fighting to hold on to whatever control he still had.

“I—” he started, and then sighed, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “Shit. My back’s bad. And my knees—”

You smiled, warm and teasing, as you leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, your voice turning playful as you reached for his cock and lined him up against your soaked entrance. “Gonna make me do all the work, huh?” you teased, your hips already rolling slightly, letting the thick head of him slip just barely into your folds.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, flustered, completely undone now, blinking up at you like you’d just caught him stealing something precious.

“I’m joking, Joel,” you said with a breathless laugh, your fingers slipping into his hair, your lips brushing his as you began to sink down slowly, inch by inch, the stretch burning in the most perfect way. “Relax. Let me bounce on your cock.”

Joel exhaled like he’d been punched in the chest, his hands gripping your hips instinctively, not to control—but to anchor. His eyes were locked on yours, wide and dark and filled with something that looked dangerously close to awe.

And then you sank down—fully—his cock stretching you wide, thick and throbbing and buried so deep it felt like you couldn’t possibly take more.

Your cunt clenched tight around him, soaked and fluttering with every inch he filled, your thighs trembling from the fullness. You held still, just for a moment—breathing with him, grounding yourself—as your body adjusted to the sweet, overwhelming ache of having all of him inside you.

And Joel?

He fucking unraveled.

His head tipped back against the pillow, jaw slack, throat arched, eyes squeezed shut as he let out the most broken, shaky moan you'd ever heard tear from his chest.

“F-fuck—oh my God,” he gasped, the words tumbling out of him like they weren’t meant to be said out loud. “Fuck—sweetheart—I—I can’t—”

His hands gripped your hips like he didn’t know what to do with them—torn between holding you down and worshipping you. His whole body trembled beneath you, his thighs tight, chest rising in frantic, ragged bursts like he was trying not to cry.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed again, voice high and wrecked, cracking under the weight of it all—awe, hunger, helpless fucking need. “You’re—fuck—you’re so tight—so warm—I can’t—fuck, baby, I can’t—”

He looked up at you like you were about to ruin him—eyes wide and glossy, mouth open, chest rising fast.

“Please,” he whimpered, voice shaking so badly you felt it in your cunt. “Don’t—don’t move yet. I—I need a second.”

You nodded gently, cradling his face, letting him breathe through it—letting his cock throb deep inside you as your walls fluttered around him, gripping like a fucking vice.

But when he finally exhaled, when the tension in his shoulders dropped just enough—you moved.

A slow, teasing grind of your hips. One long, drawn-out rock that pressed your clit right against the base of his cock, dragging every inch of him against the softest, tightest parts of you.

Joel gasped.

His eyes slammed shut, his fingers digging into your hips like he didn’t know whether to pull you down or beg you to stop.

“You okay, baby?” you whispered, lips brushing his cheek.

He nodded—too fast, too desperate—his head barely bobbing before he choked out, “Yeah, just—fuck, slow down—please. I ain’t gonna last long if you—”

You leaned in, pressing your forehead to his, anchoring him in the heat between your bodies, and whispered against his lips, “That’s okay. You don’t have to last long, Joel.”

Another grind. Wetter this time.

His breath hitched violently.

“Just let me make you feel good.”

And then you rolled your hips again—slower this time, deeper—and his hands shook on your skin, his whole body going tight beneath you as he gasped and swore again, his voice barely holding together.

“Goddamn,” he groaned, one hand slipping up to your waist, fingers trembling, the other rising to your chest like he couldn’t help it. You guided him, curling his hand around your breast, moaning as his thumb grazed your nipple.

“Touch me, Joel,” you whispered. “Just like that. You’re doing so good.”

And he was—his cock throbbing inside you, his mouth open, eyes wide and overwhelmed, his voice breaking as he tried to keep himself from losing it. But your pussy was gripping him so tight, soaking and pulsing and grinding down with every slow, filthy roll of your hips—and he was ruined.

“Shit—darlin, please—I can’t—” Joel gasped beneath you, voice catching as his fingers dug into your hips, trying desperately to still you, to slow you down, to regain any control over the way your body was grinding down onto his, slick and hot and perfect around him. His head fell back against the pillow, his chest heaving, eyes squeezed shut like he was holding on by a thread.

But you didn’t stop.

You moved faster now, hips rolling deep and steady, your thighs trembling from the pace, your cunt clenching around him with every thrust. Joel’s hands flew to your waist, gripping you hard, like he could physically slow you down—but even as his fingers dug into your skin, his hips bucked up to meet you, chasing your rhythm like his body had stopped listening to him.

“Darlin’,” he gasped, voice fraying, wrecked, “you gotta stop—I’m serious—fuck, you gotta slow down or I’m gonna—”

But you didn’t stop.

You moved harder.

And Joel’s breath hitched, eyes wide, mouth open like he was trying to warn you and couldn’t remember how.

“Shit—shit,—stop movin’—I can’t—I’m not gonna hold it—fuck, I’m gonna come—you’re gonna make me come.”

His voice cracked on the last word, his grip trembling as he tried to slow you, tried to guide you off him—but his cock twitched violently inside you, and his hips snapped up in betrayal, chasing that edge like he couldn’t help it.

And then he broke.

With a sharp, shuddering gasp, his whole body arched beneath you, thighs shaking, eyes squeezing shut as he came hard, release spilling into you in thick, pulsing waves. His hands clamped down on your hips, not to stop you anymore—but to hold on, to anchor himself as the pleasure tore through him, brutal and sudden.

His jaw clenched, breath catching in his throat as he moaned low and hoarse, like he was in pain from how good it was.

You gasped softly at the warmth spreading inside you, the way his cock twitched with every pulse of it, the way he moaned your name—broken, wrecked—like a prayer against your collarbone, his breath shuddering as it spilled from him.

And then—he pulled you in.

His arms wrapped tight around your waist, dragging you down against his chest, like he needed you closer, needed to be grounded in the heat of your skin. His face buried in your neck, breath ragged, hot and frantic, his whole body still trembling with the aftershocks. He held onto you like he thought he might float away if he didn’t—fingers digging into your back, too tight, too desperate.

You didn’t move.

You just stroked your fingers slowly through his hair, soft and patient, cradling the back of his head like he was something fragile, like you were holding a man coming undone quietly in your arms.

And Joel? He didn’t even lift his head.

He couldn’t.

His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven waves, his cock still buried inside you, twitching with sensitivity, every part of him too much—too raw, too fast, too gone. He pressed his face deeper into the curve of your neck, like maybe if he hid long enough, you wouldn’t see how red his cheeks were.

“Fuck,” he rasped finally, voice hoarse, choked, mortified. “I—shit. I’m so sorry.”

The words were slurred, mumbled into your skin, thick with shame, like they physically hurt to say.

“I didn’t mean to… I mean, I wasn’t trying to—fuck, I didn’t think I’d—”

He cut himself off, groaning in frustration, still unable to look at you. Like he was bracing for disappointment. Like you were gonna laugh. Like he’d failed some unspoken test.

“I didn’t mean to come that fast,” he whispered. “That’s… not how I wanted to do this.”

“Shh,” you whispered softly, stroking his hair a little slower now, your touch more comfort than seduction. “You don’t have to be sorry, Joel.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, brushing his sweat-dampened hair from his forehead, your gaze tender, reverent. “You did so good for me,” you murmured, kissing the corner of his mouth, your voice a hush of affection. “Made me feel so good. So warm.”

His eyes fluttered open, glassy and unsure, and when he looked at you—really looked—he almost broke again.

“Look at me,” you whispered, thumb brushing his cheek. “Please.”

And when he did, you kissed him—slow, deep, soft enough to make him sigh against your lips. His mouth opened to you like instinct, and he almost whimpered into it, the sound desperate and sweet, like his heart was leaking out through the press of your mouths. He held onto you tighter then, arms curling around your waist, pulling you down against him like he didn’t want any space left between your bodies.

He didn’t say anything for a long moment.

He just breathed.

Held.

Tried to remember what it felt like to be this close to another person without losing something.

And then—so quietly you almost missed it—he whispered, “I don’t wanna go.”

The words cracked something in you. Not lust. Not even longing. Just something bare and soft and aching.

You kissed his jaw, then his cheek, then the corner of his mouth, and whispered back, “Then don’t.”

And he didn’t.

He stayed.

Wrapped around you, still trembling, still catching his breath, holding you like you were the only safe place left in the world.

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

TY FOR READIN - LET ME KNOW UR THOUGHTS IN THE COMMENTS !!!!

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froggibus · 29 days ago

Text

— Grayson's Girl - Dick Grayson & Wally West

Pairing: Dick Grayson x f! reader (has a pussy + she/her pronouns) x Wally West

Genre: smut/nsfw, angst

Word Count: 11.8k

Summary: Wally swears he’s fine with you and Dick’s new relationship… and if he says it enough times, maybe he'll actually believe that

CW: established relationship (Dick x reader), fem reader, wally is the flash here, plot w porn, jealousy/insecurity, masturbation, sex fantasies, fear toxin, yearning, mutual pining, threesome (mmf), fingering, oral (m! receiving), p in v, cuckolding, outdoor/semi-public sex, unprotected sex, eiffel tower (kinda), aftercare!!

the longest thing ive ever posted on tumblr, by far the most detailed/complicated...and it was the dick/wally sandwich of all things that brought this on. also HUGE thanks to my fellow gotham pothead for helping me brainstorm + for listening to me yap about this for days. anywaysss enjoy!! (banner stolen from Nightwing #90 (Tom Taylor) title may or not be a rick springfield reference (im so corny) yes my nerd ass made special dividers for this

“Wally, help me!” You shout, playfully hitting your fists on Dick’s back. “Dick, put me down!”

The former Robin ignores your pleas, continuing his path straight to the pool. You squirm on his shoulders, kicking your legs frantically, but he’s simply too strong.

Wally watches, suppressing a sigh. He’s not jealous—how could he be jealous? His best friend is dating his other best friend, and he’s in love with both of them. What’s there to be jealous about?

You look at him with sparkling eyes and a glittering grin, the sun on your face. You’re gorgeous, practically ethereal, and you always have been in Wally’s eyes. And Dick? Years of training with the Bat and being a vigilante have left him looking like a Greek god. It doesn’t help that the summer heat has him rocking a glowing tan.

Wally can’t help but think back to that night a little over a month ago. When you and Dick had showed up to his apartment for your weekly game night, and broke the news. You seemed so happy together, and it’s not like either of you knew about Wally’s feelings. All the boy could do was smile and nod and congratulate the two of you, no matter how bitter the word tasted on his tongue.

“Dick!” You slap his shoulder, “come on! If you throw me in there, I’m not swimming back up! Enjoy your homicide charge!”

Wally laughs at your stupid joke. “Don’t worry, Rob. I’ll help you hide the body.”

You put on a fake hurt face and flip him the finger before erupting into giggles. Wally returns your gesture, grinning back at you. Dick makes it to the edge of the pool and tosses you in, giving you a half-assed salute as you fall.

Of course, Wally can’t let this stand. He’s on his feet in a microsecond, dashing towards the two of you at the edge of the water. He shoves Dick into the water, tugging his phone out of his pocket before he falls in. Wally manages to grab you just before you hit the surface of the water, lifting you into his arms.

He stands still and watches his best friend surface, the water droplets on his tanned skin making him look even more god-like.

“I’ll get you back for that, Wally.” Dick threatens, but with the grin on his face and his sopping wet hair, it’s hard to take him seriously.

You hate to admit it, but you secretly enjoy the feeling of Wally’s warm skin on yours. His bare abs and strong arms glisten with sweat and banana scented sunscreen—you swallow hard and force yourself to look away.

“Thanks for the save,” you flash a grin at him and hop out of his arms.

“It was worth it,” he shrugs. He looks down at the melted rubber of his flip flops and sighs, “good thing these were only $3.”

Dick hoists himself out of the pool, his biceps dripping wet and glowing in the sunlight. He grabs his towel off of his foldout chair, towel drying his hair. The ends curl where it’s started to dry, and you want to tug on the strands with your fingers.

Wally retreats back to the chair he was laying on. “That’s enough sun for me for the day,” he jokes. “One more minute and my skin would’ve matched my suit.”

“You and your delicate ginger skin,” you smirk. “Poor, delicate Wally.”

He rolls his eyes at you. “I’d watch it, unless you want a swim in the pool.”

“Okay, okay, I surrender.”

Dick comes up behind you, pressing his wet body to your warm back. You shiver and attempt to shove him off but he clings onto you.

“What?” He pouts, “you don’t want me, baby?”

Wally scrunches up his nose without meaning to. He wishes he was either one of you right now, in the middle of you two. Anything but this.

Dick spins you around, keeping his hands on your waist, and pulls you in for a kiss. The water from his hair drops onto the top of your head and runs down your temples but you don’t care. You’re too focused on tasting him, his familiar flavour muddied with the taste of chlorine and lemonade.

It takes a minute for either of you to notice that Wally’s gathered his things and left.

You frown. “He didn’t even say goodbye.”

“He’s had a long week.”

Dick offers you a half-hearted smile but you can’t help but look beyond that to the steely look in his eyes. The same one he gets when he knows more than he’s letting on.

—

Wally’s scorching by the time he gets home from the pool. Running mile after mile in the blazing summer heat is not for the faint of heart—especially for someone who already runs hot.

The heat is only made worse by the ache in his groin. He’s never felt more relieved in his life than the relief he feels at dropping his swim shorts and letting his cock spring free.

He spits in his palm, smearing it up his shaft along with his precum. A shiver runs up his spine. God, he needed this.

He squeezes his eyes shut and falls into an easy rhythm. Up and down, up and down. And then the images of you and Dick come flashing through his mind and he knows it's wrong and he knows he should stop—but he doesn’t.

He thinks of your mouth, how warm and wet it would be. Lips wrapped around his cock, pretty eyes looking up at him. He thinks of how Dick would be by your side, a hand in your hair to guide you and the other hand petting Wally’s thigh.

He could make you feel so good, he could make both of you so happy. Why didn’t either of you think of him, why didn’t either of you want him?

The frustration gets to him, his fist clenching his cock tighter. He imagines his hand fisting Dick’s cock while you ride him, soft moans slipping from your lips with every bounce. With his eyes closed, he swears he can almost feel your pussy around him.

It’s wrong, it’s so wrong, and he’s not sure he’ll be able to look either of you in the eyes after this. But he keeps going, imagining it going further while his cock twitches in his hand.

The heat consumes him and his hand only moves faster. He can’t help but think of how you’d squirm beneath him, how you’d whine about it being too much. He pictures Dick being beneath you, his cock stilled in your walls, talking you through it while Wally fucks you so good.

A gasp slips from his throat, his mouth dry with the heat of the day. He needs you so bad, and for one torturous second, he contemplates calling you. Throwing caution to the wind and confessing to you and Dick.

And then he’s finishing, hot ribbons of cum bringing him back to reality. It coats his abs, his thighs and his hands—but he wishes so badly it was you instead.

He hasn’t even had a chance to wipe up his fluids when his phone is buzzing and your contact is popping up. Even the sight of your smiling photo in his phone has his face burning in guilt.

He lets it go to voicemail, and the reality of his situation washes over him.

He can’t help but stare at himself in the mirror while he washes his hands. A million thoughts race through his mind but more than anything: what can Dick give you that he can’t?

He’s tall, he has abs, and he’s funny, or at least, you laugh at all his jokes. So why don’t you like him?

And though Wally puts up such a confident front, he crumbles before himself in the mirror. He’s all that, and maybe more, but one thing he will never be is Dick. He’ll never be that confident, trustworthy leader that you’d follow anywhere.

While Dick is a hero through and through, Wally can’t help but think he’s a cheap copy that could never compare.

Dick stills inside of you, the hand he had between your shoulder blades relaxing. Your walls clench around him in need but the vigilante remains still as stone.

“What—“ You swallow, your voice breathy with unspoken moans. “What’s wrong?”

His voice is raspy with sex. “You’re distracted.”

You open your mouth to protest but suddenly his hands are on your hips and he’s manhandling you onto your back. A giggle slips from your lips, your knees automatically folding into your chest.

Dick watches you with a smirk and resists the urge to make a joke about how well-trained you are. “What’s on your mind, sweetheart?”

“I’m worried about Wally.”

Dick rolls his hips into yours. Whether he’s satiating his need or yours, you’re not sure.

“Why’s that?”

You reach up and tangle a hand in his curls, a frown forming on your face. “He’s been distant lately. I-I don’t know. I’m worried.”

He offers you a few lazy thrusts, tilting his head into your chest so you can knead your hands deeper into his scalp. The head of his cock bullies its way through your walls and forces a gasp from your lips.

“He’s been busy.” Dick plants a kiss to your collarbone, “but if you’re really worried, why don’t you give him a call?”

“I don’t want to pry.”

“Don’t get shy now.”

For emphasis, he snaps his hips into yours again and an embarrassingly loud moan rips its way from your throat. Heat rushes to your head and you find yourself burying your face in your hands.

“Okay, okay,” you concede, and reach for your phone on Dick’s nightstand. “I’m calling him, so pipe down.”

“With my cock still inside of you? That’s bold.”

You playfully slap his arm before shushing him, pressing dial on Wally’s contact. It rings once, twice, three times, and then you’re greeted by his voicemail.

‘Hey, you’ve reached Wally. I’m probably busy right now, so shoot me a text and I’ll get back to you in a Flash.’

You purse your lips and drop your phone in frustration. You look at Dick seriously, “do you really think he’s fine?”

“Wally might bite down his feelings sometimes, but when he wants to talk, he’ll talk. Just let him come to you.”

You sigh. He has a point. Wally may seem confident and brazen, but you know that beneath that suave surface, there’s an entire undertow of emotions waiting to be uncovered.

“You’ll see him for game night this week, anyway.”

“I know, I know. You’re right, I’ll leave it alone.”

“Now,” Dick grins and presses a chaste kiss to your lips, “can I fuck you, or what?”

You tangle your fingers on the back of his neck and tug him into you, letting his taste distract you from your concern.

Dick’s away helping family by the time game night rolls around, leaving you no choice but to change it to a movie night instead.

Wally tries to protest that Catan is totally playable with two players but after some light pushing, agrees to come over and watch movies for the weekend. On the condition he gets to choose the movies, of course.

“You’re gonna love this one,” he says through a mouth full of popcorn. “It’s like Groundhog Day if it was a horror movie.”

Wally plops onto the couch next to you, slinging an arm across the back of the cushions. He doesn’t even think about how close he is or how there’s only inches between you two. You’re best friends, you’ve been best friends for years—this is totally normal, right? The memories of his evening after the pool flash through his mind as if to say no.

You press play on the remote before reaching across Wally’s lap to set it on the side table. Your arm brushes his chest and you swear you see him blush but suddenly the movie is starting and your attention is carried away. You settle back into your spot next to him, so close you can feel the heat radiating off his body.

Wally tries to keep his cool and focus on the movie but his attention keeps drifting back to you. You’re gorgeous, he can’t help it. And it doesn’t help that you’re so reactive to the movie—jumping into his side, gasping at the gory parts, laughing at the jokes.

Every time you move, it’s like a stitch in his side. You’re so close to him that he could just wrap his arms around you and pull you into his lap. It takes everything in him not to.

At some point, you rest your head on his shoulder, the soft skin of your cheek brushing the spot where his tanktop meets his skin. He swallows hard, taking shallow breaths like he’s afraid you’ll move away.

“Is it—” He scratches the back of his neck, “is it hot in here?”

You sit up and Wally bites back his disappointment. “I can turn the air conditioning on if you want. I know you run hot.”

He nods, fanning his face to keep his ears from glowing red. When you pull your legs out from under yourself and stand, Wally can’t help but miss the feeling of you against him.

No, he berates himself. She’s not yours.

Wally forces himself to his feet, following the familiar path to your bathroom. He only feels like he can breathe again when he locks himself inside. He runs the tap on cold, splashing the frigid water over his face and into his hair.

Through the water on his lashes, Wally makes eye contact with himself in the mirror. For the first time since your day at the pool, he lets his thoughts wander to a place he’s been refusing to go. What does Dick have that he doesn’t?

He wonders what would’ve happened if he’d asked you out first, or if he’d been open to either one of you about his feelings. Maybe things would’ve been weird as he’d always feared—but that what if in the back of his mind wonders if it could’ve turned out better than he could possibly imagine.

He dabs his face dry with a nearby towel and hates the way he can recognize your scent on it. He hates even more the way it has heat rushing to his groin, his cock shifting awkwardly in his boxers. Calm the fuck down, man.

When he settles back down on the couch, concern riddles your features. “Are you okay?”

“Just hot,” he lies. “Speedster genes and all.”

You squint at him and though you don’t believe him for a second—especially given it’s a brisk 18 degrees celsius in the apartment—you nod slowly. Wally presses play on the remote and forces himself to focus on the movie.

You can’t focus, though. Your mind runs laps, thinking of his odd demeanour at the pool, his distance this week and now his sudden jumpiness today. You glance at Wally, who’s keeping a generous six inches of space between you two, and frown.

“Are you sure everything is okay?”

He pauses the movie, drawing in his legs to sit criss-crossed on your couch. He opens and closes his mouth, the gears turning behind his green eyes. He doesn’t know what to say to you. He knows he can’t keep lying and avoiding his feelings, but what the hell else is he supposed to do?

“You’ve been…off lately.” You pick at your cuticles. “You didn’t even say goodbye at the pool and honestly, it felt like you were trying to blow me off this week. Did I—did I do something wrong?”

Wally’s heart cracks inside his chest. He wants to hug you and kiss you and tell you that you couldn’t possibly do anything wrong in his eyes, but he doesn’t. He sits on the couch like a fucking statue, his mouth falling open in shock.

He’d considered that Dick might’ve noticed something was off—the insightful bastard—but never for a second did he think you would notice. It was stupid, really. You’ve been friends for years, and he knows you can read him just as well as he can read you.

His voice cracks when he speaks. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You sit in silence, waiting for him to elaborate. Every feature on your face, every movement of your body tells Wally you’re listening. Waiting.

It’s a trap, every bone in his body screams. Don’t do it.

“I just—” He swallows, knowing the dam is going to break and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. “You guys started dating and I-I feel so awkward. We hang out and I watch you be so happy together and I wanna—I wanna be happy too. I know I could be happy with you guys if you just gave me a fucking chance and—”

He stops himself before he can take it any further. The blood rushes to his ears and for a minute he questions if he really just said all of that out loud. The stunned look on your face tells him all he needs to know—he fucked up.

“Wally…”

He shakes his head, messy red strands bouncing off his temples. He shuts his eyes, hoping if he hides long enough, this whole mess will go away.

“Sorry, I should go.”

He goes to stand but you catch his wrist tightly in yours, beckoning him to stay. He turns on his heel, watching you with careful eyes. The adrenaline barrels through him, your fingers on his skin only edging it along.

“Stay. Please.”

The words send electricity up his spine like a bolt of lighting. Blood roars in his ears and suddenly he’s a man possessed. He’s dropping to his knees in front of you on the couch, hands cupping yours. And then his hands are wandering, trailing higher.

They brush up your arms, to your shoulders and linger on your neck before cupping your cheeks. You don’t dare breathe, don’t dare make a sound. And then he’s leaning in and his lips are crashing against yours and you’re stuck there in shock.

He squeezes his eyes shut and with your soft lips against his, he can almost pretend like this is normal. Like this is something he’s allowed to do and not something he’s taking.

Reality hits him like a brick wall. He forces himself away from you, arms falling flat at his sides. He looks at you, his mouth fallen open in shock.

You stare at him, his green eyes darkened. You’re not sure what to say, what to do. Your heart hammers against your ribs. What the fuck just happened?

“Wally—”

He’s running out the door before you finish saying his name, a trail of lightning in his wake.

It takes an hour from when Wally kisses you for you to call Dick.

“Hey, sweetheart.” His voice is hushed and it’s only now that you realize he’s probably on patrol with one of his brothers.

“Wally,” your voice shakes, “Wally kissed me.”

There’s silence on Dick’s side and you brace yourself. You just shared a worryingly passionate kiss with your mutual best friend, and even though Dick rarely gets jealous, you expect the worst.

There’s an amused undertone to his voice. “How was it?”

You blink. “How was it? How was it?” You can’t help but laugh—what the fuck is he going on about? “You’re not seriously asking me that.”

“At least you know now why he’s been distant.”

He says it so casually that it leaves a sour taste in your mouth. You think back to that day at the pool and that look in his eyes. You knew there was more than he was letting on.

“Did you know?” Your voice is quiet, “did you know he had feelings for me—us?”

“I suspected it.”

He’s using that annoyingly calm voice that makes you want to throw your phone at the wall. Your heart races with barely suppressed frustration. He knows, and he’s possibly known this whole time, and he hasn’t said a damn thing?

“And you said nothing?”

“I knew he’d say something eventually. It wasn’t my place.”

You swallow back tears of frustration. Wally’s been hurting this whole time, hurting because of you, and Dick didn’t say anything. He let you continue on being happy knowing Wally was miserable—knowing you could do something about it.

“How could you?”

“Y/n,” the phone crackles with his sigh. “It’s not like that.”

“I don’t—I can’t hear it tonight, Dick. I’ll talk to you later.”

You hang up before he can protest.

Your apartment is impossibly quiet when your phone call ends. Conflict lines every cell in your body—frustration with Dick and sympathy for Wally battling it out. Even after you curl up back on the couch and start the movie from where you left off, silence seems to blanket the apartment.

You don’t even realize you’re dialling Wally’s number until it goes straight to his voicemail.

‘Hey, you’ve reached Wally. I’m probably busy right now, so shoot me a text and I’ll get back to you in a Flash.’

You can’t remember the last time you heard his voicemail, and yet you’ve heard it too much this week. Wally always, always answers your calls. The sound of his prerecorded voice is only a monument to how fucked up things have gotten.

With nothing else to do, you turn off your phone and watch the rest of the movie.

Wally’s never felt guilt like this before. It weighs on him, hangs over his head like storm clouds. The sight of your shocked face—all swollen lips and wide eyes—stays burned in his mind. The fantasies he’d once had about you have faded away and all he can feel is your shock and sadness when he’d pushed his lips onto yours.

He’d called you the second he’d got back to his apartment only to hang up before the first ring. He’d done the same to Dick, only to realize there was no one he could talk to about his. At least, no one he wanted to talk to about it. With nothing else to do and nowhere else to go, Wally suited up and hit the city, hoping to burn off some energy. Unfortunately for him, it’s a horribly slow night in Keystone city.

After running a dozen laps around the city, he settles down on the tallest building he can find and opens his phone. He stares at his lock screen—a photo of the three of you at the beach from last summer—and sighs. He considers calling you again, or calling Dick.

Then his phone lights up with your contact and panic swells in his chest. He slams his finger on the decline button. He can’t bear to face you right now.

While any other day he’d be grateful for such a slow night, the evening passes achingly slow, and he can’t help but be grateful when the burglary alarm sounds at a nearby bank.

Finally, something he can’t fuck up tonight.

Your week passes agonizingly slow.

On a good week, your evenings are spent with either Dick or Wally or both. Your apartment is filled with laughter and stupid jokes, and your fridge is found emptied of its contents more often than not.

It’s not a good week, though.

Dick calls you almost every day. It’s typical of him to try and fix things before they’re ready to be fixed. He’s always forcing the pieces back into place before the glue has had time to set.

Wally also calls you. Only once and you declined the call as soon as you saw his contact. Regret filled you the second your finger had touched the decline button but that stubborn side of you couldn’t bring itself to let go and allow you to call him back.

So you sit in silence every night, wondering if when Friday comes Dick will show up with board games and Wally with pizza.

When Friday does roll around, your group chat is a ghost town. You type out a message on your lunch break, just a quick ‘hey, we still on for tonight?’ before immediately deleting it. No matter how bad you want to, you can’t bring yourself to send it.

You buy yourself takeout after work and settle in at your apartment for a quiet night. You queue up Wally’s other choice of movie despite the bitter taste it leaves in your mouth.

A part of you still wants to call him back and ask him if he really meant what he said. If he really meant to kiss you that night. Another part of you is too scared to hear the answer—scared he’ll say it was nothing.

And that part scares the hell out of you.

You think about calling Dick, too. You want to ask him where you go from here, why he was so okay with another man—his best friend of all people—kissing you. Still, you don’t, because you’re not ready to hear Dick’s answer, either.

You’re only part way through the movie when your front door is slamming open so hard dry wall rains from the wall where it impacts. You cringe—your landlord is not going to be happy. You rise to your feet and grab the heftiest book off your coffee table, ready to face your intruder.

The Flash stands in your living room, his chest rising and falling so fast you’re worried he’ll go into cardiac arrest. Nightwing is draped over his shoulder, half limp and breathing just as fast. You freeze at the sight of them, the book clattering from your hand onto the floor.

Dick’s hair is matted to his forehead with blood, a trail of it leading down to his mask. His muscles are tense and twitching, and his pupils are almost entirely blown out. You take a step towards them only for him to flinch, cowering in Wally’s arms.

“What the hell happened?”

You glance from the costumed men to your broken door, unsure of what you should tend to first. Wally rips off his cowl, taking a deep gasping breath. His cheeks are nearly as red as his suit, his hair coated in sweat and his pupils nearly as big as Dick’s.

They can’t be seen like this, you decide, and make your way to the door. The deadbolt is broken and the door makes a horrible screeching noise when you force it back into the frame, but at least it closes. You frown and make a mental note to have them fix it when there’s not a crisis on hand.

Wally coughs, muscles twitching in pain. “Got ambushed with—” He’s cut off through another coughing fit, adjusting his grip around Dick. “Fear gas.”

Your eyes shoot wide. Though you’d never had any run-ins with the substance, you knew just how volatile it could be. The last time Dick had encountered it, his nightmares had lasted over twelve hours and it took him days to recover. You can only pray this dose wasn’t that potent.

You rush to Dick’s other side, wrapping his arm around you to help Wally bear his weight. He trembles against you and you can feel his heart hammering in his chest. At this rate, he’s going to faint.

With Wally’s help, you manage to get him to your couch. Dick weakly protests as you lay him among your plush blankets and throw pillows but in this state, there’s not much he can do to fight back.

Wally stands on shaky legs by Dick’s side and you can’t help but notice he’s still hanging onto Dick’s hand. Though he’s better off than Dick, it’s not by much. You see the way he cringes at the shadows on the wall cast by passing cars, the way fresh guilt floods his eyes.

You frown at the thought of him running all this way here with Dick. His enhanced metabolism is enough to fight off the worst of the effects but not fast enough to keep the nightmares from setting in.

You nod to the couch. “You too, Red.”

“I’m fine.”

“That’s a lie and you know it.” You rest a hand on his shoulder, your other hand cupping his to gently coax him onto the couch, “just sit down for a minute while I bring you water, yeah?”

Wally’s too tired to protest, something you’re secretly thankful for. While you fill up two glasses with water, you can’t keep yourself from wondering what he’s seeing right now. You know that in the past Dick’s nightmares have ranged from horrible monsters to the zombified corpses of his loved ones.

You only hope that with some rest, Wally will at least be up and running again soon.

Wally greets you with a weak smile when you hand him his water. His hands shake as he takes it from you and greedily gulps the entire cup in one go. You can’t help but stare at the wetness around his mouth and the bob of his throat as he swallows.

It’s terrible, really, to stare like that. He’s your best friend and he’s hurting and your boyfriend is right there—but clearly the kiss has left you with some unresolved feelings.

“Something wrong?”

You snap back to reality to find Wally staring at you with a lopsided grin. He knows you’re staring. Shaking your head, you gesture towards Dick. “Are you feeling up to helping me give him water?”

Immediately, you feel guilty for asking because you know he’d never say no to you or Dick. Wally nods and rises to his feet slowly, following you to Dick’s side. He stands next to him, cupping the back of his neck to raise his head just enough so he won’t choke.

You raise the glass of water to his lips and gently pour in a couple millilitres. His eyes snap open and fear lines his features. The usual blue of his eyes has been almost completely washed out by black, a heart-wrenching sight.

His arms thrash out to fight you off but the toxin has made him sluggish and Wally catches his wrists before he can touch you. “Dick,” he says seriously. “Dick, it’s just us. We’re trying to help you.”

He only fights for a few more seconds before his arms relax and his eyes flutter closed. With Wally still holding him, you slowly peel his mask from his face and set it on the side table along with his glass of water.

You’re tempted to grab a cloth and try to wipe the blood off but you know it’ll only cause him to fight harder. Besides, Wally needs rest almost as much as Dick does and it would be unfair to ask him to wrestle his best friend again.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “Do you need anything? More water?”

“I can get it.”

You level him with a serious look. Sweat still beads his temples and though his breathing has slowed, it’s still not at his normal rate. “You need rest. I’ll grab it just…hang tight for a sec.”

You can feel Wally’s eyes on you the whole way to the sink. Even when you turn around to fill up his empty glass, you feel him watching. A shiver runs up your spine, your hand clenching the cup tighter.

“Y/n, watch out!” He shouts.

You spin around, expecting Scarecrow himself to be behind you. In your panic, you drop the glass of water. You don’t even finish your turn before Wally’s arms are around you and suddenly you’re in the corner of your living room.

Your heart is frantic in your chest and your eyes dart to the place you’d just been standing only to find…nothing. Wally clutches you tighter to his chest, defending you from unseen monsters.

“Jesus, Walls.” You press a hand to your chest as if that will slow your rapid heart rate. “You scared the hell out of me.”

His grip around you loosens slightly. “Sorry, I—I thought I saw something.”

It’s his tone that really grips you. Relief. True, genuine relief. Like he really thought someone was about to hurt you, to rip you right out from under him, and he’d gotten to you in the knick of time.

You rest a sympathetic hand over his and it’s only now that it dons on you how close he is. His body heat feels so nice against your skin and you can smell his deodorant with just a hint of sweat, and—God, has he always been this tall?

“You really should rest, Wally.”

In spite of your words, you make no move to leave his arms. It’s comforting and warm and familiar, and though he’s hugged and carried you before, it’s never been quite like this. Wally makes no move to let you go, either.

“I’m fine like this.”

You’re not sure how long you stand with Wally pressed behind you, his arms around your waist. It feels like only seconds but based on the waning darkness outside, you know it’s been much longer.

“You guys are cute,” Dick rasps out.

You swear Wally flinches behind you. He drops his arms from your waist and you force your face to remain neutral despite your disappointment.

You tear yourself away from him and immediately miss his warmth. “How’re you feeling?”

Dick’s eyes are open now, most of the blue having returned. His breathing’s returned to normal, too. Shit, how long were you guys standing there?

Dick ignores your question. “Would’ve been so cute to see you guys kiss.”

Scratch that—he’s clearly not back to normal yet.

Wally goes white as a sheet, green eyes darting between you and Dick. “Shit, you told him? You know?”

“Of course I told him. I tell him everything.”

A million emotions flash across his face. Confusion, guilt, betrayal. You reach for him but he shuffles back, his gaze suddenly steely. You see him glance at the door and realize he’s planning his escape route again.

“I‘m not mad,” Dick mumbles. “I’ve kissed her too.”

If you weren’t so concerned, you’d probably laugh at that. Instead, you step directly in front of Wally, sizing him up. “Don’t leave again.”

Wally’s not sure what prompts him to stay—whether it’s the sad look in your eyes or his sick best friend—but he does. When you reach a hand to guide him to the couch, he has no choice but to take it.

Your apartment falls into silence once more. Not the comfortable silence you’d grown used to this week. No, this silence is thick and awkward and threatens to choke you at every turn.

Dick just sits there, staring ahead and processing how he got to your apartment. Wally taps his feet like he always does when he’s uncomfortable or has too much energy. You play with your hands, trying to think of anything to break the ice.

It’s not you who gets the first word in, though. It’s not even Wally.

It’s Dick who speaks first. “She’s a good kisser, right?”

You laugh, if only in shock and embarrassment. “Okay, that’s enough for me for the night.”

You glance at Wally whose face has turned an impossible shade of red. His brows furrow at your statement, his mouth falling open as if to speak but no words come out.

“You two should get some rest. Come and get me in about 8 hours, okay?”

“But—” Dick protests, stopping in his tracks when you shoot him a serious look. “Okay, goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Wally parrots.

“Goodnight,” you say. “No one die in my apartment, please.”

You’re thoroughly unsurprised when you wake up sandwiched in the middle of your bed. Sweat coats the back of your neck, heat seeping into every pore.

Dick lays on your left, having traded his sweaty Nightwing suit for a pair of old sweatpants you’d stolen from him months ago. There’s a gash on his forehead and the skin along his torso is lined with bruises but the blood is gone. He must have showered. Wally lays on your other side in nothing but a pair of Calvin Klein boxers. He has an arm slung over your waist, his freckly skin glowing in the early morning light streaming through your window. There’s a massive, purpling bruise on his side that makes you wonder what, or rather who, had been able to hit him that hard.

You can’t help but lightly trail your fingers over it, as if your touch alone could heal him. Goosebumps raise across his skin where you touch him and suddenly his eyes are opening, the sight like grass on a foggy morning.

You withdraw your hand before he can notice, pressing it tightly to your side. Wally blinks a few times, his eyes adjusting to the light, before he notices his arm draped over you. Pink dusts his cheeks.

Wally takes in slow, deep breaths. At one time he had dreamed about this—being in bed with you and Dick. But now that he’s actually here, he’s exhausted and his heart is beating way too fast, and man, do you have to wear that to bed?

“Sorry,” he mumbles, and pulls his arm back.

“It’s okay, I’m just gonna—” You keep your voice a whisper as you untangle yourself from the mess of sheets and limbs. You gasp in relief when the cold morning air hits your skin. “I’m gonna go sleep on the couch.”

It’s too much. Between the heat of their bodies against yours and the events that’ve transpired this week, it’s enough to leave you dizzy and confused.

You shimmy your way out of the bed, stopping only when Wally rests a hand on your shoulder.

“I can go,” he says. “I’m not going to kick you out of your own bed.”

You risk a glance down at his bruised abs. “No, you’re hurt. I’m not gonna make you run all the way home.”

“And I’m not going to make you sleep on the couch.”

“Then neither of you go anywhere.”

Both your attention snaps to Dick laying perfectly still with his eyes still closed. There’s a knowing smirk on his face and the morning light gives him an ethereal glow.

Wally narrows his eyes. “Have you been awake this whole time?”

“What can I say, I’m a light sleeper.”

Wally watches you nod slowly in agreement. He feels dizzy with whiplash, thinking of all the nights he’s spent alone in his bed, thinking about a moment just like this. He lets himself fall back into the plush sheets of your bed, fighting the rising blood rushing to his face.

You stay sitting up, staring at the window just behind Dick’s head. “I’m too hot.”

Without another word, Dick reaches over and blindly feels around for the latch to your window. It takes a few tries but then he’s clicking it open and the room is flooded with fresh air.

“No excuses to leave now,” he says.

You press your lips into a line, knowing he’s right. You’re hesitant to lay between them again, as comfortable and safe as you felt. Something about it feels off, like you’re doing something you’re not supposed to.

You’re torn between pretending to use the bathroom and just going back to sleep when Dick wraps an arm around your waist and tugs you back into the bed. You hit the pillows with a soft thud, shifting on top of the sheets until you’re comfortable.

Well, that settles that.

Wally is gone before you wake up, Dick following suit not much later. At least the latter kissed you goodbye—Wally couldn’t even be bothered to send a text. You hate how much the thought upsets you.

You go about your Saturday morning the way you normally would. Coffee and breakfast somewhat soothes your racing mind from the confusing, dizzying blur that was your Friday night. Still, the events from last night echo in your mind.

For a moment, in the fog of the early morning, waking up between Wally and Dick just felt right. There was no uncertainty, no shame—just you and two men you love resting after a considerably long night.

And then the weight of your thoughts hits you and your stomach drops because you love Wally, in the same way you love Dick. You remember the way your heart hammered in your chest when he kissed you, the butterflies in your stomach when he held you. God, what have you gotten into?

You force yourself into the shower before you can think about it anymore. Your skin still smells like Wally’s cologne and Dick’s sweat. The water runs across your skin, washing away their scents and the associated feelings that flood and threaten to drown you.

You stand under the water much longer than you mean to, only getting out when your phone starts buzzing enough to send it tumbling off the counter.

Shit, you’re quick to rinse off and hop out of the shower, dripping water all over the floor on the way to your discarded phone. You grab it, your wet palm smearing water all over the screen, and squint at it through water logged eyes.

Batboyfriend: Pool day? 👀 Speedy + Clingy = This Guy: OMG YES. It’s hotter than me out here and that’s saying something.

Speedy + Clingy = This Guy: dibs on throwing her in the pool this time

Batboyfriend: what? you literally saved her last time

Speedy + Clingy = This Guy: and? I contain multitudes bro.

Batboyfriend: y/n? you in? I swear I won’t let him drown you

You can’t help but smile as you flip through the messages. After a week of silence, the normalcy feels good—even if you are still worried about Wally.

You: sure, why not

Batboyfriend: great, see you in an hour?

Speedy + Clingy = This Guy: YAY!! 💪😎 👊🤠✋

Batboyfriend: what??

You: what??

Speedy + Clingy = This Guy: ⬆️ that’s literally me rn

With your afternoon spoken for, you go to get ready.

You’re nervous when you pull up to Dick’s, wringing your shirt in your hands. You’ve been here a thousand times, swam at the pool more times than you can count, but still your heart flutters in your ribcage.

You thought you were ready to face them again but then the memories of Wally’s hair messy and glowing in the early morning light come bleeding back. Dick’s voice echoes in your ears with every step you take: She’s a good kisser, right?

You’re tempted to duck away, to go back home and pretend like you got caught up in something. And then Wally is calling your name and Dick is coming skipping down the parking lot.

You swallow at the sight of them—this pool day is going to be the death of you. Wally is shirtless and wearing only a pair of green swim trunks and cheap flip flops. Sweat glistens across his bare chest, highlighting the dark bruise on his side.

Dick offers you a wave, tan skin peaking out from under his tank top. A pair of aviators sits on top of his head and holds back his mess of dark curls. Your heart wrenches at the gash on his head.

Wally grins at you from behind his sunglasses. “Took you long enough.”

Dick comes right up to you, wrapping his arm around your shoulders and kissing the side of your head. You glance at Wally nervously but the redhead looks completely unbothered.

“How long have you guys been here?”

Wally checks an imaginary watch. “Pretty much since Dick texted.”

You glance at your boyfriend with raised eyebrows who only nods to confirm. Despite their lighthearted attitudes, you can’t help but feel hesitant. Suspicious, even.

“You guys aren’t actually planning on drowning me,” you glance between the two, “right?”

“No,” Dick says.

“Only if you deserve it.”

You roll your eyes only for sweet relief to hit you when Dick unlocks the gate and gestures you into the poolyard. The water catches your eye, sparkling as if to say hello.

Dick and Wally have already set up the tanning chairs, the cooler, and laid out towels for each of you. You smile at the sight, shimmying out of Dick’s reach to sprint towards your favorite chair.

“You guys have been busy.”

“Duh, we’ve been waiting for you.”

You settle in on the chair, dropping your stuff and claiming your territory. It’s already warm from being in the sun—prime tanning real estate, as you always called it. You sprawl out across the chair and bask in the afternoon sunlight with no intention of getting up anytime soon.

“Straight to the chair as always,” Dick laughs. “There’s drinks in the cooler. I got your favorite.”

“Ugh, you’re speaking my language right now.”

You slowly strip out of your shorts and t-shirt, letting the sun rays wash over your almost naked figure. You try to ignore the way Wally looks at you, instead focusing on Dick digging through the cooler to grab you a drink.

“What’s the point of going to the pool if you don’t go swimming?” Wally teases.

“I’m tanning.” You glance at his pasty figure, “you should try it sometime.”

“Hey, you know I burn easily!”

“Poor, delicate Wally.” You tease.

“That’s it,” he says, and suddenly he’s grabbing you from the chair and tossing you over his shoulder. “You’re going in.”

“No, wait, Wally!”

“Nope, bad girls get thrown in the pool.”

You hate the way that phrase has heat pooling in your core. You glance to Dick, currently floating on his back in the water, for help.

“Don’t look at me,” he shrugs. “He literally told you ahead of time this would happen.”

Some help he is.

You look at Wally pleadingly. “I concede. I apologize. I surrender. Just—please, do not throw me in.”

It must be the way you’re looking at him or the desperation in your voice, but Wally actually puts you down. Relief floods you when your bare feet meet the concrete lining the pool. You’re inches away from him, you can see every bead of sweat, feel the heat radiating off of him, see the burn forming across his neck and shoulders.

“You and your delicate skin,” you say quietly, reaching out to touch the bruise along his ribs. You stop yourself from touching him.

Wally just stares at you. No retort, no threat to throw you in the pool. Just pure unabashed staring. You shrink beneath his gaze, pulling your hand back to your side.

“You guys gonna kiss again?”

The sound of Dick’s voice has you realizing you’re standing entirely too close to him. You risk a glance only to see him smiling wickedly in your direction. Oh god, you know what that smile means. He’s planning something.

You take a step back only for Wally to catch your hand in his. “Don’t,” he breathes.

You look at Dick once more, though you’re not sure why. Are you waiting for him to rescue you, to tell you what to do? To give you permission? You shy away from the thought.

Dick takes a sip of his drink. “Well?”

He’s looking at you expectantly, like he somehow thinks you’re going to kiss Wally right here in front of him. The very idea has your face going hot—and not from the sun. You try to meet his eyes from here and it’s only then that you find he’s not staring at you at all.

He’s looking directly at Wally.

You snap your head up only to find the redhead blushing, his mouth set in a hard line. Your gaze follows the length of his arm—his skin turning pink in the sun—all the way down to where his hand rests on yours.

You’re entirely too hot, now.

“Don’t you remember what we talked about?” You look at Dick again as he speaks.

What we talked about? You frown, suddenly feeling vindicated at your hesitancy earlier. Something isn’t right here.

Your voice cracks when you go to speak. “Am I about to be drowned?”

Your attempt to lighten the mood falls on deaf ears. Dick smirks, looking at Wally with raised eyebrows, while Wally’s eyes are entirely focused on you. Oh god.

“We had a deal.” Dick prompts, and that undertone in his voice sounds eerily similar to the one he uses when he’s commanding the Titans. An order—not a request.

“Fuck it,” Wally mumbles under his breath, and suddenly he’s tugging you into him, closing the gap by gripping the back of your neck.

All of the breath leaves your body as you collide with him, the warm skin of his palm beckoning you closer. His other hand wraps around your waist and before you can even think to question him, his lips are slamming against yours.

There’s no hesitancy, no soft shyness. You can’t feel guilt and anger radiating off of him the way you could last time. There’s passion, now. Intent.

You fall into him, letting all of your own confusion and fear melt away. Your hands trail up his spine like they have a mind of their own. They run up against his bare skin, flickering like lightning until they meet at the back of his neck, tangling up in his hair and tugging him closer to you.

Wally gasps, his hand on your waist tightening until his fingers dig in hard enough to bruise. The sting of it all doesn’t phase you, it only drives you to want more.

And then there’s a different hand on your back and you’re brought back to reality. You pull away, lips swollen and eyes wide, dizzy with lust. You look behind you and meet Dick’s eyes and your vertiginous new reality falls over you.

“I—”

Dick’s hand trails down to the small of your back, rubbing circles on your bare skin. “How was it?”

“How was it?” You repeat, your voice barely a mumble.

You press a hand to your chest. The world is too hot, your heart beating too fast. If it weren’t for their hands on you, you’re sure you would’ve passed out by now.

“Good.” Wally takes the words right out of your mouth. “You were right.”

It’s the way he says it that catches your attention. His words are void of bitterness, just pure breathless curiosity.

He looks at Dick, his green eyes sparkling in the sunlight. “Can I—can I do it again?”

“It’s not me you need to be asking.”

His eyes fall on you and you swear your heart hits terminal velocity. You look at him through your lashes, the whole world bright and dreamlike.

“Can I?” He swallows, “please?”

It’s the sheer need in his voice that makes you nod, not trusting your voice to be any sort of stable right now. Wally doesn’t waste a second to pull you against him and press his lips against yours. It’s less desperate this time, but just as needy, just as passionate.

For a second, it almost feels like the world is shaking. Like the ground beneath your feet is vibrating at the exact frequency you are. And then Wally rips himself away from you to take a deep breath and you realize the world wasn’t vibrating—he was.

“Fuck,” he says through a laugh.

“Easy, Wally.” Dick lays a hand on his shoulder, clasping tight until the speedster slows down. “You alright?”

He blinks a few times before offering a weak thumbs up, his hand still shaking. It’s only now that you realize what a number you’ve done on him. His red hair is tangled and messy, his cheeks and ears a shade of vermillion you’ve never seen before. It would be laughable if you didn’t feel equally as frazzled.

“And how are you feeling?” Dick asks.

“I just kissed Wally,” you say slowly. “Twice.”

“And?”

“And you watched.”

Dick just laughs. “It was definitely a sight, I’ll give you that.”

You’re not even sure what to say to that. Dick’s never been considerably possessive but you never pegged him as the kind of man to share. You think back to that first night Wally had kissed you and the initial worry you’d felt while waiting for Dick to pick up the phone.

You never expected it to turn into this.

“Was that really okay?” Wally’s tone is serious in a way you’ve rarely heard before.

“We had a deal,” Dick repeats.

The statement has your eyebrows raising. You open your mouth in question, ready to ask your boyfriend what the actual fuck is going on, but stop dead in your tracks.

You blink a few times, making sure the sight isn’t just a heat-driven mirage. But no, what you’re seeing is entirely correct. Wally West is kissing your boyfriend, and Dick’s kissing him back.

You watch in surprise, your jaw hitting the floor. Is this how Dick felt when you kissed Wally? Are you supposed to feel this turned on by it? It feels like the world around you is on fire and you’re caught right in the middle of it all.

Dick pulls away entirely unphased and wholly unaware of the state he’s left Wally in. Meanwhile, Wally looks like he’s about to faint. And though you’ve done such a good job holding in your incredulous laughter up to this point, Wally’s messy state finally drives you over the edge.

“What the actual fuck is going on?” You cackle, “what are we even doing?”

“We’re helping Wally.”

Dick states it like it’s the simplest thing in the world and it’s enough to have you doubting your own overcomplicated thoughts. You glance at Wally, hoping for some insight.

“Do you not want this?” He asks.

You’re not even sure what “this” is but something in the way he asks it has you saying you do. It’s Dick and it’s Wally and they’ve always taken care of you, so why wouldn’t you trust them now?

“Good,” he says and then he’s closing the gap between you, his fingers finding their way to the nape of your neck as if they have a thousand times before. “Because I do too.”

Then Wally’s lips are on yours again and you swear the world falls away from your feet. Your knees shake and your body threatens to tumble forward but then Wally’s holding you, bracing you against the perfectly strewn muscles of his body.

You gasp into his mouth when you feel Dick press himself against your back, his lips attaching to the side of your neck. One of his hands rests over Wally’s on your hip, the other trailing up your spine to fiddle with the string of your bathing suit top.

It’s almost too much, being between them this way. You’ve never felt so contained, you’ve never felt so free. Wally’s tongue slips into your mouth at the same time Dick unties your top. You barely have time to cover your chest before the useless garment falls limply to the ground.

You pull away gasping, an unbearable heat in the pit of your stomach. “Dick.”

For a moment, both men just stare at you like deer in headlights. You tighten your arms around your chest, awkwardly shifting to cover your bare tits from their prying eyes.

Dick finally hums in acknowledgement.

“You took my top off.”

“I know.”

You look over your shoulder at Dick, and then to Wally, and you’re not quite sure who’s staring harder. All you know is that Wally’s shorts suddenly look tighter and you’re now a little too curious about what he’s packing beneath them.

Dick rubs himself against you, the bulge in his shorts catching on your skin. You take a deep breath and brace yourself.

His mouth brushes against your ear. “Why don’t you move your hands, hm? Let Wally take a look.”

He’s using that damn voice again. The ‘I’m not asking, I’m ordering’ voice that he uses when you’re being a brat. You don’t even think twice before you force your arms away from your skin, letting them fall limply at your sides.

Wally coughs like there’s something stuck in his throat, reaching a hand down to adjust his shorts. His mouth falls open, a hand reaching out and stopping midway as if he’s about to ask permission.

Dick rests a hand under each nipple, cupping your boobs like he’s putting them on display. “Well?”

“Hot,” he breathes. “Fuck—gorgeous, I mean. Pretty.” He cracks a smile, rubbing the back of his neck, “I’m gonna stop talking now.”

Your heart flutters at his praise like you ever thought he’d say otherwise. He reaches out again, more confident this time, and brushes a hand across your nipple. You shiver, backing up into Dick without meaning to.

Your boyfriend holds you still, planting soft kisses on your shoulder to keep you calm while Wally’s hands explore your chest. Goosebumps raise in every place he touches, the heat of the day soothing them down almost as quickly as they form. It’s a tantalizing cycle.

Heat pools in your centre and you’re grateful that you’re wearing something waterproof. You clench your legs together without meaning to, hoping for some friction. Dick knows what you need before you even ask for it, dropping a hand down to rub slow circles on your clothed clit.

Wally dips his head in, flicking his eyes up to silently ask for permission—met with a curt nod—before attaching his lips to your skin. His hot mouth leaves a trail of marks wherever he kisses you, your skin turning shiny with his spit.

“How’re you feeling, baby?” Dick asks while he slips his hand into the front of your bathing suit bottoms.

“G-good.”

Wally laughs against your skin and for the first time in a while, you see sunshine behind his eyes. His happiness almost feels better than the combined pleasure they’re giving you.

A whine slips from your lips when Dick’s fingers meet your bare pussy. Wally’s quicker than that, though. He presses his mouth against yours and greedily swallows up your moans.

Dick crouches behind you to get better access and pulls your bottoms down to your knees. You stumble slightly but Wally catches you, his mouth moving away from your lips down to your jaw. He kisses lower and lower, sucking dark marks against your neck, your shoulders, your chest.

It’s his way of claiming you, you think. You may not be his girlfriend and he may not be your boyfriend, but it’s his small way of saying Wally was here.

Dick slips a finger inside of you, pushing it up to the hilt, and another moan is ripping through you. You grip at Wally’s shoulder, trying to keep yourself stable while the two men ravage you. You squeeze your eyes shut and try to focus on the moment—on the way Dick’s finger curls inside of you, the way Wally’s teeth graze your nipple, the way you can feel your juices running down your thighs.

He dips another finger inside of you, pumping them deeper. You press your body fully against Wally’s, his cock pressing against your stomach through his shorts. If it wasn’t for him, you’d probably be tumbling to your knees by now.

You run your fingers across his abs as a way to distract yourself from Dick’s fingers inside of you. You dip your hand lower and lower with each pass until you’re just barely grazing the top of his swimshorts.

Wally gulps and that’s the only reaction you need before you’re sliding your hand into his pants to grab his mostly hard cock. He’s solid in your hand, a little longer than Dick but not any thicker. You give his cock a playful squeeze before collecting the precum from his tip and using it as lube to glide along his shaft.

“F-fuck,” Wally gasps. He glances at Dick kneeled down behind you, “she’s good.”

Dick nuzzles his face between your thighs, drinking up the slick that drips from his fingers. “You haven’t even tasted her yet.”

The way they talk about you like you’re not even there just turns you on more, that pressure in your lower stomach building with every thrust of Dick’s fingers. You tighten your grip around Wally’s cock, trying to match Dick’s pace inside of you.

Wally brushes a finger under your chin, tilting your head up so he can kiss you again. His lips slam against yours and you part yours to welcome him. His tongue dips into your mouth and suddenly his taste is everywhere.

A familiar heatwave hits you and suddenly you’re finishing all over Dick’s fingers, your orgasm washing over you in waves. You squirm, your knees shaking and your pussy fluttering around his fingers. Dick pulls his face out from your achy, needy pussy, watching you with hearts in his eyes as you cum all over his hand.

Wally pulls away from you too, watching the spectacle you’ve become. His hand reaches for yours, stroking his thumb along your knuckles in a way he hopes is soothing. It only takes a few seconds before you come back to yourself, panting and messy and hot.

“God, that’s a sight I’d pay to see.” Wally laughs.

Dick rubs a hand up and down your thigh before rising to his feet. “Good thing you don’t have to.”

He wraps an arm around Wally and tugs him in for a kiss. You watch them through bleary eyes, your ears perking up when Wally moans at the taste of your pussy on Dick’s lips. Then Dick is turning to you, beckoning you in and pressing his lips to yours. You swear you can taste Wally on him, too.

“Let’s get you over to your chair, hm?” Dick mumbles against your lips.

You don’t even think, you just obey. You shuffle over to your chair on shaky legs, laying on your back. “Like this?”

The two men follow you over, Dick settling on the chair next to yours while Wally shuffles over to you. You watch him through half-closed eyes while he shimmies out of his swim trunks, letting his cock spring free.

He’s rock hard, his tip glistening with precum. You trace his body from his muscly thighs to his throbbing cock to his kinda-but-not-really groomed hair. It’s almost exactly what you were expecting, and so incredibly Wally.

He gives himself a few strokes before kneeling on the chair with you, testing his weight. “Man, I hope this thing doesn’t break.”

You gently hit his arm. “Don’t say that, now I’m gonna be paranoid.”

“Don’t worry, baby.” He tests out the nickname, watching you for a reaction. “I’ll protect you.”

He grabs your legs, hooking them around his waist on either side. You take a deep breath and brace yourself, your eyes finding Dick’s for a glimpse of comfort.

He smiles at you reassuringly. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, sweetheart.”

“I-I want to.”

“Then let us take care of you.”

Wally hums in agreement, rutting his cock through your folds. The head of his dick catches on your clit, eliciting a gasp from your lips that brings a smile to his. You shift lower in your chair, trying to close the gap between his tip and your entrance.

He leans into you, bracing a hand on the chair behind your head. His lips ghost over yours, “you ready for me?”

You mumble a quick yes and then his lips are pressing against yours, his hand guiding his cock inside of you. A moan falls from your lips the minute his length splits you open. You squirm beneath him but Wally’s other hand presses into your hip, holding you against the chair.

He’s surprisingly slow to bottom out, like he’s savouring every inch he pushes into you, every second he gets to be inside of you. He moans shakily once he’s all the way in, the warmth and wetness of your walls almost has him finishing then and there.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders and draw him in closer as he starts to thrust. His hips move out painfully slowly before snapping back in, forcing his length into you all at once. The breath leaves your body, his motions leave you gasping for more.

He falls into a steady rhythm, his movements fast and to the point. His head moves away from your lips to nuzzle into the crook of your shoulder, his breathy moans directly in your ears.

You can’t help but dig your nails into his skin, marking him the same way he marked you earlier. Your eyes flutter open, glancing over to Dick only to see him staring straight at you guys and stroking his cock. You clench at the sight, reaching out a shaky hand to beckon him closer.

He shakes his head, holding up a finger as if to say “give me a minute.” You nod weakly in acknowledgement, letting your head lull back and eyes close again. The pressure in your stomach only builds with every thrust, Wally’s hand only adding to it.

“Is he watching?” Wally rasps.

A cross between a moan and a yes is all that you manage, but Wally seems to get the picture. He snaps his hips harder into yours, each thrust punctuated with a sort of showiness that only Wally himself could pull off. You cling to him tighter, holding on for dear life.

And then there’s a tap at your shoulder and Dick’s cock is next to your face. You don’t even think to question it, only opening your mouth to give him access.

He’s gentle to start, slowly pushing his length into your mouth and letting you get used to it. You hollow your cheeks, letting the saliva build up in your mouth as you bob your head up and down his length. Dick’s thumb rubs the area beneath your lips and brushes away any of the drool leaking out.

Wally shifts his grip on you, his hand almost completely resting on your tummy now. The sudden change has you crying out, arching your hips into his which only drives his cock deeper. You whimper onto Dick’s length, looking up at him through your lashes.

“Doing so well,” he says breathlessly. “Taking such good care of us.”

His praise is what keeps you going, clearing your fuzzy head just enough to keep bobbing on his cock. His salty, somewhat chlorinated taste keeps your tastebuds on their toes, each inch you take of him driving you further and further.

Wally’s thrusts start to get slower and sloppier and your pussy aches with your impending orgasm. Wally pushes a little harder—whether on purpose or not, you’re not sure—and then you’re coming undone beneath him. Wave after scorching wave of pleasure rolls over you, your pussy spasming around him.

Wally is hard pressed to pull out but somehow manages to tear himself away from you, cumming in spurts on your pussy and tummy. He watches you writhe beneath him, your mouth still full of Dick’s cock, and thinks he can cum again from the sight alone.

You pop your mouth off of his cock and finally catch your breath, opting to jerk him off instead. You only get a few strokes in before his hand is covering yours.

He looks at Wally. “Mind switching places?”

Even though he phrases it like a question, you all know he really isn’t asking. Wally’s up on shaky legs and taking Dick’s place at your head before you can even process what’s happening. And then Dick is crouching between your legs and sliding his cocks into your slick, overstimulated folds.

It’s hot and you ache, but Dick feels too good inside of you to stop now. He leans closer to you, pressing his lips against yours while he thrusts lazily inside of you. While Wally felt amazing, Dick just feels right.

The speedster stands beside you, mesmerised by the sight of you two. He can’t help but rub at his half-hard cock while he watches—the two of you are just too sexy.

It doesn’t take long before Dick’s finishing, only pulling out enough to have his cum pooling at your entrance. He dips his sweaty forehead into your chest while he finishes, mumbling curses against your warm skin.

“Fuck,” is all he says.

“Fuck,” Wally agrees.

Dick takes his sweet time getting off of you but when he does, Wally is waiting next to you with a towel. You smile and thank him, sitting up and wiping his drying cum off your stomach the best you can.

Dick, dressed back in his swim shorts, grabs fresh water out of the cooler and sits at the end of the chair. “Here,” he passes it to you. “You’re dehydrated.”

You nod in agreement. Two orgasms in the summer sun would leave anyone dehydrated. You gulp down half the bottle in one go, surprised to see Wally waiting for you with your discarded bathing suit.

You frown at the sight of it. The thought of putting on something so restricting right now is enough to overstimulate you.

“You can wear my t-shirt if you’d prefer,” Wally offers when he sees your face. “Might be comfier.”

“I—” Your voice cracks. Yep, definitely dehydrated. “I’d like that, thanks.”

Dick rubs soothing circles on your back. “Do you need anything else?”

You shake your head. Honestly, what you need more than anything right now is some clarity on what just happened and some time to process.

You wait until Wally is out of earshot, rooting through his messy pile of stuff to find you his t-shirt, before you speak. “What happens now?”

“What do you want to happen?” Dick mimics your quiet tone.

“I want Wally.”

You don’t need to clarify any more—Dick knows exactly what you mean. He laces his fingers with yours just as Wally comes back with an old band t-shirt.

You expect him to hand it to you but instead he gestures for you to put your arms up, helping you tug it over your head. The cotton feels amazing on your feverish skin.

“So, uh,” he says awkwardly. “Should I go?”

You grab his wrist. “Stay, please.”

He offers you a half smile before turning his attention to Dick. The two lock eyes, partaking in one of their silent conversations that you’re not privy to.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll stay.”

You fight the urge to celebrate, instead springing to your feet and wrapping your arms around him. Wally’s shocked, for just a second, and then he’s pulling you closer to him, holding you the way he did in your living room.

He rests his chin on your head. “Not to ruin the moment or anything but,” he looks at Dick over your head, “do you guys wanna get something to eat? I’m starving.”

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@4-ann1e since u wanted to be tagged >⩊<

masterlist | dc masterlist

#dick grayson x reader #dick grayson x you #nightwing x reader #nightwing x you #wally west x reader #wally west x you #kid flash x reader #kid flash x you #young justice x reader #young justice x you #dick grayson x reader x wally west

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