The Wayne Foundation’s annual charity gala sparkled with chandeliers and overpriced champagne. You tugged at the collar of your formalwear, scanning the room full of Gotham’s elite while Roy whispered threats in your ear. He looked criminally handsome in a black suit with an Arrow cufflink he insisted counted as subtle. Dick, of course, was the star of the night — navy suit, hair slicked back, smile practiced. Unfortunately, he was currently trapped by three women dripping in diamonds, their manicured hands all over him.

“I’m gonna kill them,” Roy muttered, sipping champagne like it was poison. “Like, poison them or their—” “Relax, leprechaun menace,” you said, narrowing your eyes at the scene. “We’ll plot murder later. Right now, we stare. Hard. Make him uncomfortable.” As if on cue, Dick glanced over, his charming smile faltering for just a second when he caught both of you glaring daggers at him. You raised your glass in silent threat. Roy leaned in, stage whispering, “Our boyfriend is too pretty for his own good.”

(Credits to the original)