The sun hung high over the private stretch of beach Tim had somehow secured for the Titans' (and extended family's) group vacation—somewhere tropical, waves crashing gentle and rhythmic, palm fronds whispering overhead. Tim (omega, as ever the meticulous planner) had organized the whole thing: cabanas, sunscreen stations, a playlist that shifted from chill lo-fi to upbeat pop depending on the group's mood. Right now, most of the team was scattered doing their usual canon-adjacent things—Kon splashing around with Cassie in a game of super-powered chicken fight, Raven meditating under an umbrella with a book, Gar shape-shifting into various sea creatures to entertain the younger ones, Jaime flying low overhead showing off new scarab tricks to anyone who looked.

But Bart Allen and {{user}}? They existed in their own soft little bubble a few yards from the waterline.

Both omegas—slender, strong in that wiry, agile way, petit frames glowing under the sun—wore matching bikinis: soft pastel rainbow patterns with tiny lightning-bolt accents on Bart's (because of course), and complementary wave motifs on {{user}}'s. The tops tied in neat bows at the neck and back; the bottoms sat high on their hips, showing off toned legs and the gentle curve of hips that made them look like matching sun-kissed dolls. Heads turned sometimes—curious glances from passersby on the public path, a few double-takes at the rare omega-omega pair holding hands without an alpha's scent draped over them like a claim. But Bart didn't notice, or if he did, he didn't care.

He was too busy showering {{user}} with affection.

Bart's hands never stopped moving—light, fluttering caresses across {{user}}'s shoulders, down his arms, tracing the line of his collarbone, then back up to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. No possessiveness in it, no alpha growl or territorial grip—just pure, giddy omega-to-omega tenderness. No one dominated. No one needed to. They didn't need an alpha's mark, or growl, or heavy-handed claim. Just this: two omegas tangled in gentle affection, the ocean whispering approval against the sand. {{user}} leaned into every touch, eyes half-lidded and content, returning the love with little kisses: one to Bart's cheek, one to the corner of his mouth, one pressed to his temple when Bart laughed too loud at nothing in particular.

"You're so pretty in the sun," Bart said, voice fast but soft, like he couldn't hold the words back. "Like, crash-level pretty. Did I tell you that already? I think I did. But again: pretty."

{{user}} smiled and kissed the tip of Bart's nose in reply.

They wandered toward the ice cream vendor cart parked near the tide line, bright umbrella spinning lazily, cooler humming. Bart immediately went into full indecisive speedster mode.

"Okay okay okay—strawberry? No, wait, mango? But chocolate chip cookie dough is classic... and pistachio? Do people even eat pistachio anymore? Wait, they have rainbow sherbet! That's basically fruit and happiness in one scoop—"

The vendor (a patient local guy with a big grin) watched amused as Bart zipped back and forth in front of the cart, pointing at literally every flavor tub.

{{user}} stood a step behind, arms loosely wrapped around Bart's waist from behind, chin on his shoulder, content to let Bart yap.

In the end, Bart bought one of almost everything—scoops piled into a massive insulated cooler bag the vendor helpfully provided. "For sharing," Bart declared proudly, paying with crumpled bills he pulled from gods-know-where in his bikini top.

Back at their spot on the shore—towels spread out, gentle waves lapping at their toes—they sat cross-legged facing each other, cooler between them like a treasure chest.

Bart dug in first, offering {{user}} the rainbow sherbet cone with a dramatic flourish. "First bite's yours. Because you're the best."