[angclhood]

𓏲 mar — they/them twenty-three aroace neurodivergent bibliophile a place for me to compile my favorite things ˖᯽ ݁˖

꒰ current read ꒱ : the return !

[angclhood]

i am currently in a reading slump and it pains me to say :(

[sozzoe]

˗ˏˋ talia al ghul x gn!reader, ft. babianˎˊ˗

Birds drifted among stars, little figures twirling slowly as the mobile spun above the crib. Carefully, Talia laid Damian in it, his tiny hands already searching for the plushie his mother had sewn herself, his own piece of home.

She hummed softly — something between a song from her childhood and the timeless melody of peace that came with motherhood as full of love as hers. From your spot by the door, you smiled, calling her in a low voice.

“Bedtime?”

You held out your hand for her, a small offering; it was time for your home to sleep, peaceful and tranquil.

“Shall your dreams be sweet, Dami,” she whispered to her son, and with a kiss to the top of his head, Talia blessed his sleep. She followed you out of his nursery, her hand in yours, ready to finally rest, too.

In his little crib, Damian dreamed of the universe, flying through the cosmos like the birds above him.

main masterlist | © sozzoe. do not copy, post as yours, translate, or use my work for any AI purposes.

[snoopysupe]

Koolie how do you think Clark would react to his wife/girlfriend trying to pay for the both of them

like a big baby 😫

pairing: clark kent / wife!reader. content: fluff/silly humour. you pay for (1) meal and clark is upset about it. not proofread yet! (wc: 953)

CLARK KENT MASTERLIST

“Clark, will you please just talk to me?”

The car rolls to a stop at a red light and you turn your head to look at your husband. He’s, for all intents and purposes, sulking. And he’s being pretty loud about it with his actions too. 

For what it’s worth, it was kind of entertaining, watching your sturdy built husband turn his body toward the window of the passenger seat he was currently sat in. Even from your position as the designated driver, you were able to see his pink bottom lip jutting out further than necessary to tell you he was upset. 

It was juvenile. 

It was completely Clark Joseph Kent. 

The day took a turn after the two-hour mark in the Metropolis Overstreet Mall. You had spent the day perusing the windows of the retail clothing branches in search of a wedding guest dress for an upcoming wedding back in Smallville. After about an hour and a half of skimming the clothes racks with Clark as a second pair of eyes to try strike gold in the plethora of shops, you decided to stop by the food court to grab a bite to eat before retiring back to your home for the afternoon. 

There, is where it went wrong. 

The waiter—no older than sixteen, you’d guess—came to the table with the bill for your lunchtime munchies and, without much thought behind it, you use your card to pay for the meal. (Keep in mind that it was only $20 without a tip.) 

You grab your things after thanking the waiter, and look over to your husband to green light your departure. Only to find his blue eyes intensely boring into your face, his lips in the deepest set frown you have ever seen—and you’ve seen Clark frown hundreds of times. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask worriedly. 

Clark blinks at you, “What the hay was that?”

“What was what?” you look around the food court in search for a visible answer, “Did you see something?”

“Yes.” Clark states matter of factly, “A complete sacrilege of our marriage.” 

The sentence alone makes you choke out a laugh.

You tilt your head, “Sacrilege? Are you—Oh, you’re being serious. What part of this was a sacrilege, Clark? I thought we agreed on this place to eat.” 

Clark huffs and stands, “What sort of husband am I, if you think you have to pay for our meal?” he informs dramatically, “That completely goes against our marriage vows.” 

“It really doesn’t.” you stand with him with more nonchalance, because his reaction was nothing short of preposterous. You begin to walk, “Come on. You can cry and walk, if you’d like.” 

Clark obediently trudges behind you, his shoulders rounded, knuckles white as he grips the fabric of his jacket. You can feel him staring at the back of your head, so you slow your steps and begin to walk backward for a moment. 

When Clark diverts his gaze to the decorated walls of the mall, you simply roll your eyes and keep silent until you reach the elevator that takes you down to the underground parking lot beneath the building.

Despite being upset, Clark still holds his hand against the elevator door to prevent it from shutting on you on both entry and exit. He still walks on the outside, keeping you safer from oncoming cars attempting to locate an empty parking space; and he still opens the car door for you—without a kiss, but he still opens and shuts it for you. 

Then, he sits in silence. Big body turned away like a sulking toddler. (And you begin to question if toddlers may be easier than this sudden manchild carpooling with you.) 

“Clark.” you prod his thigh. He turns his head even more. “You’re really not talking to me over a $20 meal? I’ve legitimately paid for other things for us in the past. It’s not a big deal.” 

Clark inches his head back to look at you. “I don’t care. I make the money to give you the luxuries, honey.” he says earnestly, which makes you almost laugh. Almost. 

“That meal does not fall under the category of luxury.” you lilt, “What? It doesn’t!” 

“Unbelievable.” Clark mumbles with a shake of his head. 

The red light turns green, and you ease out onto the road again. Your fingers happily tap away at the steering wheel, unbothered by your husband’s petty moping over disposable income and how it is spent.

You hum a song, beep at a driver and turn down one wrong road and Clark’s mood still doesn’t shift.

You exhale as you come to a resolution in your mind, “How about…” you mull it over, “Okay, remember the dress I tried on in the third shop we went into? You said you loved it, and I said I wasn’t a fan of the way the hem of the skirt landed on my legs?” 

Clark nods. 

“I was lying.” you admit with a strained smile, “I loved it too. I just saw the price tag and thought I couldn’t justify buying it—or you buying it, if we’re apparently splitting hairs this afternoon. So, you can buy the dress for me and that will be us even on this ridiculous argument. Capeesh?”

“It wasn’t an argument. It was a statement—” you deadpan and Clark changes his tune, “—You’re right, honey. I’ll buy it for you.” he surrenders happily, leaning across the console to kiss you—seeing as he didn’t do it when he held the car door open for you on the way out from the mall.

You pull away with a smile. You pat his cheek, “Thank fucking god for that.”

[violained]

݂ ໋. ⎯͟͟ ͟ㅤㅤ.‎ ‎ ‎‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎‎surrender !

summary in the backseat with dean <3

content MDNI 18+, gn!reader, reader is slightly shy, dry humping, gentle nipple play (dean receiving mhm) #happy trail dean! he is needy and very in love, use of baby, angel, and pretty !

masterlist ; divider

wc 816

Dean kisses your bare sternum with the same delicacy that he uses to kiss your cheeks and jaw and the smooth of your calf. His lips are feathering plum pink; he's kiss-bitten and happy to be. The heat of a gentle bite stings his neck.

He likes when you bite, though you'd been shy about it. The feeling always plunges him into hazy dizziness. Your knee shifts and bumps his stomach lightly, he spreads molten fingers over the plush of your thigh and pushes down to flatten the bend.

"Come on," he whispers. "Tell me what you want, pretty."

Too many options. You weigh them. He'll give anything, you could ask for his mouth or thick fingers or dick. Could push off your back and clamber onto his lap. He's a mess but hiding it well, save for telling pinched brows.

"Wanna see you better."

He sits high on his knees and blinks at you, trying to focus. It's hard, when you're a glowing vision in his backseat and nude besides underwear. An angel. Splayed and running a tender hand along his chest, your thumb coaxes his nipple.

"Fuck," he hisses, dark lashes aflutter.

You smile. Rarely are you the one doing the teasing.

"Sensitive," you coo and pinch quick. "Oh, you like that."

Ribbons of silver moonlight bleed through the windows, strapping across his abdomen. They set the honey-blond hairs above his belt flaming white, flowing down his navel in a band, beckoning to be licked and touched.

You twist his nipple between a delicate thumb and index. He barely swallows a whimper.

"Baby." He scrambles to hitch your thigh up his waist, holding it there while he helplessly grinds the swell of his jeans against you. "Fuck, you're so- so good. A fuckin' angel."

Your hand falls and settles on his bicep. He ruts slow and stuttered, lowering himself to press the point of his nose beside your ear. Powdery fragrance, he breathes in and in again, chest flowering with sticky, sweet love.

"Dean, I... oh."

He raises his head, fingers kneading at the dough of your leg. His rings indent cold and your half-lidded eyes tug his heart achingly. You've such a breathy, faraway voice and he hasn't even fucked you stupid yet.

"Good?" he checks. "Feels good? You like this?"

You nod feverish, catching his chin with a sloppy, pillowed kiss. He's got enough sense to grin lopsided and swallow your mouth whole, tongue needling for yours. This earns him a dreamy, lilting sigh that pits straight to his gut and pools there in welling heat.

"Y'sound like..." he starts, mumbling and blissed, following a connecting string of saliva back towards your lips. Can't ever get his fill, mind a mantra of you, warm, soft, sugary. "Heaven. What does heaven sound like?"

A shaky breath passes from your nose. "Heavenly, I'd guess."

He licks a stripe on your throat. Your arms cross over his shoulder blades, palm scooping through spiked hair, hips lifting to meet his movement. A small, hiccupping sound flies from him traitorously, bordering on plea.

"Jesus- shit," he says. His clothed thrusts become sloppy.

"Here," you offer, reaching for his belt. "Please."

There's nothing else to think about, to feel, except for your fingertips grazing past that musky trail on his low stomach. He slows, missing the friction as it wanes, but adoring your cautious expression. Excitedly nervous. Your pinkie curls around a belt loop. His palm skates the length of your thigh.

"Y'don't have to," he murmurs. "It's okay, baby."

Dean decides you must be magic, when your eyes find his. Glittering jewels amidst the dim light in the car. He can see your smile, a perfect, curling thing, and holds back from kissing you again and again until your brain is mush.

"Want to," you reply. His belt comes undone with a clink.

The button of his jeans pops out lazy under your tentative touch, but he doesn't rush. Rolls his lip beneath a shiny canine as you slide the zipper down and stifles a whiny beg. You're soft and pretty and he wants to bury himself in your skin forever.

You work his jeans to his knees and then pause to watch him quietly, ignoring his straining boxers, your chest pulling with prolonged rises. He wonders where that brief teasing went but loves you just as much, like this. Affected.

"Hey," he whispers. Leans quickly to give a smacking kiss to your hip bone. "You're beautiful."

"Thank you. You're, um. You're beautiful, too."

His body pangs. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Can you fuck me, now? Please."

Yes, yes, yes.

Clumsy in this small space, he manages to kick off his pants without hitting the top of his head and yanks his wallet from the back pocket to grab a condom. Brings it to his teeth and tears it open. His supply is diminishing.

"Yeah, yeah, baby. Yes. C'mere."

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂

EWW okay. this is just simply a mess don't laugh at me :p i wrote the majority of this half-asleep and barely read it over !!!

[pixelbfs]

better off as lovers! — r.harper (pt. 4)

summary: a moment of realization makes you distance yourself from roy, though your heart can't get rid of him that easily.

content: gn!reader, hurt/comfort, reader has a moment of epiphany that makes them go crazy, reader makes roy sad :( might be a bit bad sorry!!, ft. wally donna & dick!

wc: 2.7k

a/n: once again i am late. you guys are allowed to tickle me if you ever see me irl.

part one | part two | part three

You're the first person he searches for.

As he clashed the cymbals and beat his drums, his eyes dissected the entire crowd, landing and staying on the person he hoped with all his heart would come: you. His favourite person for the past few months, the person replacing all of the thoughts in his mind. And unfortunately, the person who's been ignoring him for a whole week.

Days had gone by with ignored text messages, with those texts varying from long, semi-emotional texts to short questions about your well-being. With each text that was ignored, his heart ached from worry and insecurity. Questions of your current well-being and his actions that could've caused this flooded his mind, adding to his growing worry.

Those thoughts led to one last text message he left last night. 'I hope you come to my gig.'

And there you were, standing in the far back, holding a cup of whatever while you watched him play. Your face was devoid of any expression, watching him with a blank stare and lips pressed into a tight line.

He didn't let it mess with his head. That night, he played better than he's ever played.

— ONE WEEK AGO.

"You look fine. Pretty, even." Roy chuckled, glancing at you as you checked your teeth for the umpteenth time in the vanity mirror. You were now aware of never asking Roy how you looked; he was always going to say you looked pretty. It was one of those sweet things that became annoying over time.

You swore you could still feel some remnants of the veggies you ate earlier lodged in the gaps of your teeth, hence why your finger was still nudged in your mouth, trying to find where the salad was, as it muffled your speech. "I cou hill heel ik!" You muffled, straightening your posture once again to look in the mirror.

A few moments later, you proved Roy wrong. There was, in fact, a small bit of salad stuck between your molars. Before leaving the car, you took one last look at yourself in the mirror. You were going to meet his friends today, and you were determined to impress them.

They were pretty popular on campus. A wallflower like you heard a few rumours here and there, but still knew well enough not to let those rumours cloud your judgement. After all, giving Roy a chance at that house party made him become your partner, your significant annoyance.

You walked into the bar with him, looking around to take in the atmosphere. It was probably a little fancier than the usual dive bars people you knew frequented. You wouldn't know — you've stepped into many taverns filled with pointy-eared humans and those with skin painted in bright greens or purples, but not actual bars that served alcoholic drinks. Mentally, you thank Roy for not making you remain a total dork.

"Theeerreee he is!" A voice boasted, lifting his arm to direct the two of you to a booth in the far end corner of the bar. He was another ginger, tall and a little bit lankier than Roy. His hair was curly, face peppered with visible freckles. You finally recognise him to be none other than Wally West.

Surprisingly, you've talked to Wally a few times before due to common interests. Hell, in freshman year, you hated him for stealing your spot in the college's e-sports team (which, to be frank, he earned fair and square.)

"Oh, hey!" He grinned, dabbing you up with so much energy you wondered if he had super speed. "Haven't talked to you in a while, dude." He said, throwing his arm around your shoulder to walk you closer to the gang.

"Wally, can you let them breathe first?" Says the only girl in the group, staring at him with the familiar look of siblingly annoyance. "Ignore him, he's just excited to have someone new on the table."

Donna, like Wally, was familiar to you, too. She was the first person most clubs scoured to hire whenever pictures needed to be taken. A semester ago, your D&D club booked her to be the photographer for your annual meeting. By some magic miracle, she managed to make your club look cool.

"Mhm." The guy next to her nods. You'd be living under a rock if you say you didn't know him. Dick Grayson was the campus heartthrob — you've seen him pretty much everywhere, with your favourite appearance of his being the one where his entire face was on a huge banner in front of the accounting faculty. He wasn't even learning accounting.

Roy eventually rolled his eyes, pulling you closer to him by the collar of your shirt. He took the chance to jest, accepting the risk of being punched in the arm. "Guys, chill. Please. This is their first time interacting with human beings."

Of course, you punched him in the arm. "Dick." You huffed, to which Dick Grayson says, "Me?"

Donna snorts. "Anyways, where the hell's Garth?"

"Swim meet. Didn't you read the group?" Wally answered, reaching out to steal another one of her fries.

The rest of the night went well — more than well, really. They had you caught up with their inside jokes, told funny stories they would never stop repeating to new people they meet, and even talked about letting you join their future meetups. Even though you still preferred being alone in your room, the fact that they thought of inviting you was nice.

The sound of a microphone's feedback makes you wince, ruining the comfortable atmosphere of the conversation. You turned around, seeing a girl on a stage with a TV above her head, displaying the lyrics to the song she was about to sing.

Roy had brought you to a karaoke bar.

When you turned to face him, you were met with a pout and pleading puppy eyes. "No," you said, immediately turning him down. "There's no way in hell am I going up there to sing, Harper."

A few moments later, you sat at the table, watching Roy belt out an old eighties love ballad, unable to hit a single note. He caressed the microphone stand, moving with nothing but unadulterated passion. For a second, his eyes found yours, flustering you before you looked away.

You weren't the only one to have noticed that. Beside you, Wally eyed you with a suggestive smirk. The redhead nudged Dick, "Think he's got anyone in mind, Dicky?"

"Oh, definitely." Dick laughed, also looking at you for a moment. The four friends broke into quiet laughter, sending suggestive looks your way, implying something you didn't know.

"Why the heck are you guys looking at me like that?" you asked, looking at them as you fidgeted with the edge of your cup.

Donna chuckled, answering with a sarcastic shrug. "Oh, I dunno, maybe the fact Roy's pretty much in love with you?"

That made your heart drop. Not in a good way. A dam in your head broke, flooding your head with thoughts that weakened your nervous system. Roy Harper. In love with you? You face the man on the stage again, watching him as he practically humps the microphone stand with how passionate he's singing. You suddenly felt physically sick, unable to process that statement even if they meant it as a joke.

Roy Harper, in love with you? The change of perspective felt too sudden. Your body went limp as if you'd been hit by a high-speed bullet train. The way you see everything he's done for you changes — from the Renaissance Faire to the dance in Ollie's kitchen.

To you, it was still ridiculous. It didn't make sense. The mere thought of him loving you more than a friend felt as impossible as the concept of time travel itself. The polaroid girl's face is etched in your mind, being the voiceless figure that reminds you to never fall for Roy Harper, because he doesn't go for geeks like you. You're not his type, and you never will be.

Yet… why does it make sense? That would be the answer to his kindness towards you, the reason behind why Roy would've pushed everything aside just to see a smile on your face, even if it was only for a second.

Common sense was pushed aside as the anxieties in your head grew stronger. It protected you as much as it harmed you. It reminded you to be aware of who you were, plaguing your thoughts with deeply rooted insecurity while simultaneously keeping you away from potential heartbreak. Deep in your bones, you felt insurmountable guilt for making Roy seem like he liked you.

Before you could even think, your legs walked you out of the bar.

— PRESENT DAY.

Roy wipes the sweat off his forehead, eyes squinting as he takes the handkerchief off his face, blinded by the bright spotlight shining on him. His gaze returns to the direction of the crowd, blinking the sunspots away for a few moments before seeing you again, still in the same position.

He reached down to grab his water bottle, taking a big gulp to moisturise his throat that dried at the sight of you. He hadn't practised what to say to you — he didn't even think you'd show up.

With a deep breath, Roy walked off the stage, pushing through the dense crowd with polite 'excuse me's. Once he was finally standing in front of you, everything seemed to be quiet. He couldn't hear the sound of the crowd, just his heart beating so hard and fast he was sure he could die of cardiac arrest right then and there.

"Hey," was the first thing he could think of. He stands motionless, his eyes looking at you with the now-familiar softness he's only used for you.

"Hi." You greeted, also not knowing what to say. Was 'Hey, my insecurities are rooted so deeply in my soul that I thought I was a terrible person for making people think we were dating. Sorry.' too straightforward? Probably.

"I'm really glad you came." He mumbled, scratching the back of his neck nervously. "I thought you weren't gonna show up."

"It was a last-minute decision." You replied truthfully, suddenly finding the floor to be an interesting sight.

Those words made his heart break a little. Even though you were standing here in front of him, it wasn't your initial choice. "Right," he forced a laugh to detensify the atmosphere, but nothing seemed to help. "Look, just… Let's cut to the chase and talk, can we?"

You've been dreading this. Since your arrival here was a spontaneous decision, you came unprepared, unsure of what to say to him. "Yeah. Sure. Outside?"

A tumbleweed rolls by the two of you as you stood outside the bar. Figuratively.

It's so silent you could hear each thump of your heart, thrashing against your ribcage as you waited for him to speak. Roy looks as unsure as you are, judging by his clammy hands and the way he was tapping his feet. After a full sixty-three seconds — yes, you were counting — you broke the silence. "So, what did you want to talk about?"

You should've known better; it was an extremely stupid thing to say to a man who's been suffering over the lack of your presence. Roy's mouth opens at first, but he's immediately at a loss for words. For the first time in your friendship with him, he's letting himself be angry at you. "Are you kidding me?" he sighed, crossing his arms. "Is there anything for us to talk about except for the fact you've ghosted me for an entire week?"

Embarrassment renders you unable to speak.

Roy continues, doing all he can to hold back his anger and think clearly for you. "We do everything together. Everything." He bit his lip, finding his words, "I just want to know what made you stop wanting that."

Your reaction was immediate. You finally face him, using up all your willpower to look into his eyes. "No, Roy… I want that. I do, it's just—"

"Just what? What the hell happened to you that made you stop answering all my texts? If it's me, then just tell me—"

"It's not you!" You answered, rubbing your face in frustration. "And nothing happened..."

"So tell me. Tell me why I've been ignored this entire week by the only person I care about on this stupid campus." Those words came out before he could even reconsider them, but he didn't care. For you to know just how bad your absence had affected him, you needed to know the truth.

You couldn't answer that. At least, not in a way that wouldn't have hurt him. "I… I guess I wanted you to spend less time with someone like me?"

His expression doesn't seem to change. He's still looking at you with narrowed eyes and a gaze so charged with anger it burned on your skin. "Someone like you?"

"Y'know, me. A total geek everyone laughs at? Someone who can't dress even if their life depended on it? Someone who's the literal opposite of cool?"

His look softens. It doesn't turn sympathetic — the anger remained, but there was slightly less than before. "So what, just because you feel insecure, you'd throw away everything we had? You're really gonna let your head win?" He asked, not really expecting you to answer. "I get self-sabotaging, I really do. But are you not even gonna try to fight it? For us? For me? For your own, self-proclaimed loser self?"

You slumped against the nearby wall of the building, closing your eyes. "Guess I wasn't."

He scoffed, leaning next to you. "Y'know, D&D weekends and ren faires don't make you a loser. Quitting does." He stated, uncrossing his arms. "You know I don't care, right? I genuinely don't give a single flying fuck about what people think of me. If I woke up tomorrow to people throwing tomatoes at me just because I hang out with you, I wouldn't care. You mean more to me than that."

As your eyes remained closed during the onslaught of emotions you felt at the moment, you felt the ghost of his hand next to yours. Slowly, his fingers laced with yours, holding your hand firmly — his way of saying he wasn't going to let go. "I'll hold onto you. I'm not gonna let you run away and actually become a loser who quits."

You kick his leg. He smiles.

"There you are." He hummed, pulling you closer by your intertwined hands. "My favourite person to bother."

You couldn't help but let the smile force its way on your face. Roy Harper was the only person who could ever successfully crumble down the walls you've built around yourself. It's been that way since he first met you at the house party that seemed so long ago now.

"You're the coolest person I know, y'know that?"

"Roy—'"

"You are. I love it when you talk about your campaigns or your favorite supervillains. It's cool." he murmured, those words reserved just for you. "And I think your geeky shirts are cool too. They're vintage. They suit you well."

Seeing the way you were reluctantly taking in those words, he considered his mission of convincing you to have some self confidence a success. "C'mon," he smiled, tugging you inside the building. "You need some music in your veins."

Another band had taken over the stage, playing a punky rendition of a twenty-tens love song you've heard on the radio a long time ago. In the warm, low lights of the bar, you let your eyes wander around his face. You find a few things you didn't initially notice, like the small scar on his right cheek or the small mole under his jaw, hidden in the subtle dust of orange stubble.

Rather than halting your thoughts before they had the chance to become less than platonic, you let them happen. You let yourself blush when he turns to smile at you. You let your heartstrings tug when he puts his arm around your shoulder, needing you closer.

That night, you let yourself fall for him, without thinking about yourself or the polaroid left forgotten in his car.

extra scene:

You and Roy were holding separate microphones, waiting for the lyrics to kick in. The smirk remained on his face, even when you gave him a death glare. You would've killed him if your body wasn't incapacitated by terrible stage fright.

"You areee… my fiiiireee…" He started, lips way too close to the microphone. It was unhygienic, but there wasn't much you could do when it came to Roy Harper.

"The one, deeesiiiireee…" You continued, stiff as a pole, as your eyes darted aroundthe crowd, trying your best to ignore Donna's phone trained on you and Roy.

Roy turns to you, far too excited to be singing Backstreet Boys. It was to a point where he had you genuinely wonder if he was drunk. "Believe, when I say…"

In tandem, the two of you sang. "I waaant it thaaat way."

likes & reblogs appreciated !!

stars by @/pixopix, drumsticks by @/mouseygraphics

taglist: @batwngs @cherryvvave @xmosskin @emmaaagb @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @the-demoninside @bloomcissa @forgotten-totoro @permanent-chaos @ftkats @makimakimi

[pixelbfs]

red ultra-hot chilli peppers — r.harper (pt. 3)

summary: you promised you'd spend more time with him — so today, you're accompanying him at his soundcheck and meeting his family.

content: college au, popular!roy x gn!nerd!reader, roy teaches reader how to play the drums, reader meets the GA 2001 arrow fam, reader vomits bcs of ollie's chilli, reader opens up about their bad high school experience, READER IS SMART BUT DUMB. THEY'RE PAINFULLY OBLIVIOUS, lover boy roy comes in to save the day ❤️

wc: 2.5k

a/n: awe man... sorry for the slow updates! uni just started and my schedule's insanely packed. anywayssss i got this done and hope you guys like this update <333

part one | part two | part three | part four

You owed him this.

You promised Roy, after everything he's done for you, it's your turn to follow him around — social anxiety be damned.

Today's schedule was packed. In the morning until noon, you were going to be accompanying him for his soundcheck. Apparently, his band earned a last-minute booking for an on-campus event arranged by one of the fraternities. It called for a lot of rushed practicing in a short timeframe.

Now, you just stayed backstage, working on the latest assignment that's been burdening you. Even though you were at the back, the sound of the guitar and the beat of the drums messed with your focus.

With a sigh, you closed your laptop, rising from the couch to see how Roy was doing.

You took a peek from the back of the curtain, spotting Roy on his drums, hydrating himself with a few gulps from his water bottle. The harsh spotlight makes the sweat on his body more noticeable, glistening on the freckled skin.

His eyes lit up upon spotting you. "Taking a break from work?" He asked, motioning his head to the side to encourage you to come closer.

"Yeah," you stretched the cramps away while walking over to him, picking up one of his drumsticks and hitting the snare. At the sight of that, a rather fun idea pops into that wonderful head of his.

He scooted the stool behind, making some space for you before patting his lap. "C'mere, let me teach you how to play." He said, arms opened invitingly.

"And… sit on your…?"

He was quick to reply. "It's only weird if you make it weird."

You gulp down your nervousness, masking it with an eye roll before reluctantly sitting on his lap (which, you dare say, was rather comfortable.) You picked up the other drumstick, both sticks feeling rather foreign in your palms. "So, how do I…?"

Your questions were answered with his hands on yours, guiding your movements. Roy's chin was almost resting on your shoulder — he's getting too comfortable in the current position. "Don't hold the drumsticks too tightly," he instructed, his breath fanning against your ear. You had to physically fight the shiver running up your spine. "You'll restrict your movements and lose precision."

You loosened your grip, letting him control your drumming to play a simple duh-dum-tssh. "Yeah, just like that," his voice was uttering those words lowly — it's far too intimate for you to keep your cool, but you tried your best, anyway.

You took control of the drumsticks with his large hands still on yours, playing a bum-ba-dum-tshh. The large, calloused hands holding your wrists slide down to your waist. While you're losing your composure, he's acting as if none of this were a big deal. "You're doin' great," he murmured, "but you're still hitting it too hard, try again."

How could you not hit it too hard? His hands were on your waist while you sat on his lap, listening to his praises and instructions uttered in a literal bedroom voice.

He's just a friend — those thoughts weren't even supposed to cross your mind, but yet they did, taking root in the crevices of your brain and growing into thoughts that were way too far from platonic.

"Like this?" You hit a few random drums after composing yourself. The beat sounded surprisingly good, despite the nerves bubbling in your stomach.

Roy leaned back, looking at you with a glimmer of pride in his eyes. "You're a fast learner, aren't you? My star student."

You mentally utter a 'holy shit'. Those words were definitely not supposed to make your heart rate speed up that much.

You immediately stood up from his lap, accidentally dropping the two drumsticks in the process. "… Guess that's enough for today's lesson. I should let you focus on your soundcheck."

You don't notice the way his shoulders slumped while you were picking up the drumsticks. He liked teaching you how to play — it was like a love language to him. Despite that, he kept his displeasure to himself. "Yeah, you're right. You should keep doing your assignments too," he said, forcing a smile on his face.

When you walked away, his gaze lingered on your frame. His heart was beating so fast that it literally ached. The only thing running through his head now was the nerd who's somehow captured his heart.

Roy stared at his drums for a few moments before taking a deep breath, gathering himself and getting his head in the game. "Hey, Mal! Let's do Californication again!"

He held your books for you as you left the studio with him. Despite your many efforts to make him understand that you can hold them by yourself, he insisted on helping you. It was slightly annoying, but his heart was in the right place.

"Sooo, you hungry?" He asked once the two of you were buckled up in his car. "Ollie's having another chilli night. Dinah said I've missed out too much already, so… you wanna join in?" His palms on the steering wheel suddenly felt extremely sweaty. "Plus, you could finally meet the fam."

"I can?" you raised an eyebrow, "I mean, hell yeah. But am I even ready for Ollie's chilli?"

He chuckled, "Probably not. But I could whip up some omelettes for you if you don't want the chilli— I'm real good at them."

It's your turn to laugh, giving him a slight nudge with your elbow. "Sure. I'd like some of Roy Harper's world-famous omelettes as a side."

The apartment was cozy and well lived-in. It smelled of incense, lit up with warm lights that made it feel much more homey. Almost all of his furniture had wooden frames. Judging by your knowledge of interior architecture, they were definitely vintage — sometime in the 70s, you assumed. On the walls were many framed newspaper clippings alongside many photographs. For some reason, he seemed to be really into Green Arrow.

You followed Roy from behind, using his large frame to hide yourself.

"Ginger Spice, you made it!" Mia squealed, tackling him with a hug from behind. Roy's talked about her once or twice to you — according to him, you'd 'definitely hit it off' with Mia. "Oh," she paused, a Cheshire cat grin forming when she sees you, "it's a pleasure to finally meet you. This guy here's been talking about you non-stop."

"That's hyperbole." Roy quickly interjected, narrowing his eyes at her. He puts his hand on your back, guiding you away from Mia. "Ignore her, she's weird."

The next person you met was Connor, who was curled up on the couch, reading a book. Roy reached out to ruffle his hair, snapping him out of his focus.

"Dude!" He grinned, dabbing his brother up before turning around to face you. The excited smile on his face turns into a grin as mischievous as Mia's. "Nice to meet you," he said, leaning in closer to whisper in your ear, "Between us two — Roy here can't stop talking about you, ever. It's clogging up the family group chat."

Roy doesn't give you enough time to reply before he pulls you away from Connor, glaring daggers at him. "Ignore him and Mia, they're both way too overdramatic," he said, hands on your shoulders as he steered you away from the two blondes, "And for the record, I don't talk about you that much."

Those words were a complete and utter lie.

The two of you walked over to the kitchen, met with the sight of Oliver lip-locked with Dinah while some of the chilli on his spatula dripped on the floor. Roy cleared his throat, causing the couple to immediately pull apart, cheeks red while they introduced themselves to you.

Oliver quickly composed himself, walking towards you with an excited grin. "A new mouth touches the chilli!" he announced, putting his hands on your shoulder as he walked you over to the pot of chilli. The smell of spices filled your senses once he opened the cover, making you squint and sniffle just a little bit.

Roy gulped, arms crossed as he watched Oliver scoop some of the chilli in a spoon, "Ollie, I don't think—"

"Calm down, Roy!" he waved his hand dismissively, offering you the spoon. "You know what you're getting yourself into, right?"

You nod, blowing the steam coming from the scoop of chilli. "I can handle my spices, Roy. No need to worry, trust me." You said as an attempt to calm him down. Roy looked too worried for you, despite it just being some chilli. You've had some in your life; they've been harmless to you.

With everyone watching, you tasted the infamous Oliver Queen chilli.

"Hey, hey. C'mon, drink up." Roy whispered, gently rubbing circles on your back. While you were vomiting in the toilet bowl, he came prepared with your fifth cup of ice water.

You groan, taking the glass from him and swishing the water on your tongue, trying to calm down the insane level of spice. Roy sighed, his hand still on your back. "You really didn't need to eat that much, y'know."

You grabbed some toilet paper and blew your nose into it. "I—I thought it'd be rude not to." You mumble pathetically, fingers reaching out to find the cold glass again.

Despite your misfortune, the statement makes him laugh. He raised an eyebrow, looking at you with half-disbelief, half-disappointment. "You're unbelievable." He whispered, running his fingers through your hair in a gesture of comfort.

You built up the strength to face him again, seeing the previous expression replaced by a tender glint in his eyes. "Stop that. You're lookin' at me weird." You slurred, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

"Yeah," His gaze remained, still looking at you like you hung the stars. "I am."

This wasn't like the drum lesson earlier — there was nothing sexy about throwing up in front of your close friend. Your noses were almost touching; his breath fanned against your quivering lips. It took almost all of his self-control not to lean in and close the gap between you.

A knock on the door makes him jump, pulling away from you. "Are you okay?" Dinah sounds as worried as Roy was — it makes a tinge of guilt pang in your heart, you didn't want to worry her too much.

"I'm fine!" you answered, immediately getting up from the tiled floor. You were still slumped against the toilet bowl when you heard the door creak open, revealing Dinah leaning against the doorway, accompanied by Mia and Connor being nosey.

Roy walked outside, his hands gently squeezing your shoulders. "They're alright. Can you get some milk from the fridge?" Connor nods, being the one to fetch it for him.

When Connor walks away, Oliver catches sight of you. He beamed at the sight of you standing up. "See! You took it like a champ, kid!"

No one laughed — the entire apartment was so quiet that you could hear a pin drop.

Despite your earlier predicament, you stayed to help Roy clean the kitchen and the dishes. While you're bent down in front of the fridge, rearranging the items inside to make way for the leftovers, you hum a tune an old teacher of yours used to love.

Roy's ears perked up, closing the dishwasher. "Haven't heard that song in a long time — reminds me of high school." He said, replaying memories in his head, "I think I would've loved going to prom with you."

A dry, self-pitying laugh leaves your lips. "…I never went to prom." You confessed, sitting on the kitchen counter beside him. "Didn't have a date, and my friends left me out of their plans, so I spent prom night playing bingo at the retirement home."

"You didn't have a prom date?" His jaw dropped, as if the mere concept of you being alone on prom night was unbelievable, "No high school sweethearts?

Gosh, despite how nice he's been to you, you wish you could slap him for wording it like that. "No. No college sweethearts either." You muttered.

"So you've been single your entire life?" Even though you can tell he's being sincere, he's still rubbing salt in the wound.

"Yep." You sighed, shaking your head and looking away from him — hiding the display of humiliation present on your face.

When he noticed your visible discomfort, he stopped speaking. For a few moments, there's nothing but silence between the two of you.

Suddenly, you heard the opening notes to the song you had hummed earlier, followed by the scratchy vocals of the 80s one-hit-wonder. The lights were then turned off, leaving only the yellow refrigerator light illuminating the small space of the kitchen. You finally turned around, seeing him in front of you. The song was coming from his phone placed on the kitchen counter, playing it from his Spotify.

"C'mere," he smiled, pulling you closer. Those hands smoothly slid onto your waist, holding you close, "I'm your prom date now."

It took all your courage for you to wrap your arms around his neck, holding the eye contact that makes your heart thump violently against your ribcage. You swayed to the music with him, unable to hide the smitten smile forming on your face. "Isn't it a little too late for that?" you playfully asked as he twirled you around, causing a giggle to escape your lips.

He caught you again. "Nah," he shook his head, the hand on your waist daring himself to pull you closer. 'It's only weird if you make it weird,' those words echoed in his head as he slowly rested his chin on your shoulder. Truth was — he was hoping you'd make it weird. He wanted to ruin the friendship, but he wanted you to be the one who did it.

You spin once again, and now his chest is against your back. His large arms — still in contact with yours — went down to wrap around your waist. "If I'd known you then, I would've asked you to be my prom date."

Instead of your usual dismissal, you found yourself playing into it. "Yeah?" you chuckle, "And what would the promposal be like?"

He laughs at that, tilting his head down for a moment before finally answering you. "Well… I'm a simplistic guy. I think I'd just attach a note on an arrow and fire it into your room."

You snorted. You couldn't believe you forgot he had an ego the size of a skyscraper. "And you think it'd land in my room? Without hurting me?"

"Oh, yeah. Definitely." He said it like it was a fact — because it probably was. "I never miss, which means I can miss on purpose."

You decide to take his word for it, nodding while you let a smirk form on your lips. "So, is this…"

"A date? Yeah, it is." He chuckled, looking at you with an unfamiliar softness in his eyes, one you've never been the recipient of.

You know not to get attached. After the Polaroid you found in his car a while ago, you know you shouldn't assume any of this meant anything apart from Roy being a caring friend. But for tonight — in Ollie's kitchen with your head nuzzled into Roy's neck — you let your guard down and finally had your first prom dance.

likes & reblogs are appreciated ♡

star dividers by @/pixopix, guitar dividers by @/sister-lucifer

taglist: @batwngs @cherryvvave @xmosskin @emmaaagb @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @the-demoninside @bloomcissa @forgotten-totoro @permanent-chaos @ftkats

[pixelbfs]

don't delete the kisses — r.harper (pt. 2)

summary: you’re feeling down. it’s roy’s duty to cheer you up — and really, what better way than a trip to the comic book store?

content: college au, nerdy!gn!reader, popular!roy, roy's still crushing on the reader, the reader's still oblivious, someone is mean to the reader :( set two weeks after the first part

wc: 2.6k

a/n: idk why this part took so long to write UGEHEHH but its okay. its here now. thank you for all the love you gave for the first part ❣️❣️ and thank you to my wife @lechelovestoyap for proofreading this (we just got married a few hours ago.) as always, let me know if you want part three to come out sooner 😼

part one part two part three part four

Even when he's awake, Roy Harper dreams of you.

He dreams of your arm linked around his as the two of you spun around, dancing to music blasting from the hidden speakers in the town square. He dreams of your giggle when you step on his toes, your movements as clumsy and unkempt as his. He dreams of your touch, memorising the pressure of your grip around his arm. He dreams of your smile and how it could light up an entire room.

He dreams of you, even when you're right in front of him.

You snapped your fingers in front of his dazed face. "Hello? Earth to Roy Harper?" He blinks a few times, the pictures of you dressed as an elven traveller now replaced with the sight of you. No fake ears, no braided hair. Just the usual tousled hair, deep eye-bags and Star City University hoodie.

His mouth curls into a soft smile — thinking about how pretty you were.

"Hey, yeah. I'm here." He replied as a quick saving throw, "Just… This equation's killing me. I've been trying to solve it for the past few hours."

Your arms crossed, nodding understandingly. You'd just wrapped up your latest assignment — a noble effort in your quest of defeating the evil beast named Procrastination. "We should get some coffee," you suggested, pulling your wallet from your backpack. "I'll pay."

"Hmm, no. I'm paying." He said, shutting off his laptop and getting up from the seat. He's been stuck on the same equation for the past couple of hours; there's nothing he needed more than a break.

"Oh, c'mon, you never let me pay!" You complained, to which he just replies with laughter, the subtle crater of his dimples revealing itself. "Not funny, not at all. You're trying to make me seem like a beggar, aren't you?"

"Nothing wrong with being a beggar," he quipped. He immediately flinches when you give him an annoyed punch on his arm. "Owww!"

You rushed past him while he was still packing his things up. "I'm gonna pay!" You grinned, skipping away from him.

"Oh no, you don't!" he chased after you, dropping a few pens and pieces of paper in the process.

The bell chimed as you stepped inside, the smell of coffee beans and the subtle hum of instrumental jazz music making you subconsciously wind down. The cafe's surprisingly not busy, probably because everyone else was busy with classes.

You walked towards the cashier, but the bell chimed again. "Nope, I'm paying." Roy said, taking advantage of his strength and holding you back.

"Hey, stop that!" You barked, trying to break free from his grip. The people at the very few occupied tables stared at the two of you with furrowed brows, but you were still busy trying to make him release you.

He dragged you toward the counter. Yes — dragged, since you decided to rest your legs as an attempt to make yourself heavier. Forgetting the maximum weight he could lift was a big mistake on your part. "Hey," he greets the cashier with his usual charming smile, "I'd like a black coffee and a latte, please. Both hot."

"Don't let him pay!" You tried to say, but he just put his palm on your mouth, silencing you. The cashier didn't seem to be in the mood for your antics, and just took his money without saying anything.

A few moments later, when the payment went through, he finally let you go. Your hair's even messier than before, and your face is flushing a deep shade of red. "Over here?" He asked with a smirk, pointing at a small table for two people. You just huffed in annoyance, sitting down on the chair.

Roy sits across from you, taking an empty chair nearby to put your backpacks on. "Heyyy, c'mon. None of that grumpy munchkin look." He drawled, playfully poking your arm.

"None of that, what?"

"What? What'd I say?" The smirk turns into a full blown grin. Oh boy, he's pissing you off on purpose, and it's working wonderfully. At the sight of your continued scowl, he finally stopped. "Okay, okay. I'm sorry."

At the far right corner of the counter, the barista called out Roy's name. You stand up, walking over to the counter to pick up your daily dose of caffeine. On the warm cups, written in almost-dry black sharpies, were you and Roy's name. As always, they wrote yours wrong.

When you turned around to walk back to your table, you spotted Roy with a burly, stereotypical jock-like guy. He's ripped straight from a 2000s teen comedy, with the spiky short blonde hair paired with the letterman jacket. Roy doesn't seem too pleased to see him.

"Harper! The hell are ya doin' here? Another date with a hot chick?" he guffawed, voice loud enough to echo around the entire cafe.

"No," Roy answers dryly. His earlier smiles were now gone, replaced with a charged stare and tight lips.

"Riiiight, then whose backpack is this?" The jock asked, lifting your backpack from its nylon handle. The keychains jingle and clack as it made contact with the many badges you had.

"It's mine," you quickly interjected, placing your drinks on the small, rounded table. "That's my backpack."

God, you wish you weren't unphased with the look the jock gave you. It's clear he wasn't expecting Roy to be meeting up with a total nerd incarnate. Instead of minding his own business — he's staring at you the same way people in high school would stare at you when you asked to be their project partner.

"Huh," he snorts, though nothing on his face tells you he's amused. "What a downgrade."

That makes Roy stand up, flaring red with anger. "Get the fuck out, man," he hissed, slamming his fist on the table.

The jock rolled his eyes, walking away in pathetic defeat. Roy was too caught up in his anger to see you slumped against the seat, blankly staring at your latte without saying a word.

His heart ached at the sight. He quickly sits from across you — his hand reaching out to squeeze yours, but you quickly pulled away. You're feeling too many emotions. On one hand, your insecurities made you agree with the dickhead. You're not the kind of person Roy should be hanging out with. That's social suicide for him.

On the other, you… were happy. You've never been defended by your so-called friends like that. Never once in your entire goddamn life has someone cussed out a bully for you.

You feel two emotions from opposite ends of the spectrum. Nothing's able to escape your mouth — your eyes do all the speaking for you. A single tear rolled down your cheek, and you quickly wiped it away with your sleeve.

"He's not a friend," Roy said, his voice so low you almost didn't hear him, "Just some guy who's been trying to assimilate in my friend group."

You took a sip of the coffee, trying to calm yourself down. "…It needs more sugar."

"Roy—"

"No, I mean it. Take anything you want." He said with a smile, hands shoved in his pockets in a false show of nonchalance. He wasn't nonchalant — he was nowhere near it.

After the earlier incident, you were dead silent for a good amount of time. Roy couldn't bear to see you like that, so he knew he had a single duty to fulfill: bring you to the local comic book store.

The store was lit up like it were a decade ago, warm, buzzing LED lights that drove him a little crazy. On the walls were hand-painted murals of famous comic book characters — he was sure you'd be able to name the nichest of them in a minute.

Roy felt his heart speed up when he watched you stand in front of him, arms on your hips as you looked at him with narrowed eyes. "I feel like you're gonna ask me to do you a favour." You suspected.

"Hey," he chuckled, the sound of his voice deep and boyish. His hands squeezed both sides of your arms reassuringly. "I want you to enjoy yourself. I still have a lot of the prize money from the Ren Faire."

You're still unconvinced, pursing your lips and shaking your head. "I don't like this. I didn't do anything to deserve it."

"Oh, c'mon," he snorted, wrapping his arms around yours and pulling you deeper into the store. "You don't have to earn enjoyable things. Not with me."

Your thoughts halted, letting those words linger in your head for a second. When your gaze found his, you could see the glint of sincerity behind those green eyes — he means every single word he's said, and he wants you to believe him.

You let out a long sigh, leaning against the bookshelf as one of your arms remained wrapped around his. "I don't understand you, Roy." You mumbled, letting go of his arm. "I don't know why you've been too nice to me. I've spent too much time thinking about the potential reasons that it literally hurts my head."

His heart ached. There's nothing in this world that he wanted more than having you understand why he liked you so much. He took a deep breath, walking closer towards you so he could speak in a whisper. "Out of everyone I've met here, you're one of the few who's not afraid to be themselves," He said, "You're one of the few people here who's not friends with me just because they want popularity or because they want to screw one of my friends — Hell, because they want to screw me."

He liked you, he truly did. But in the midst of getting to know you, he found a diamond in the rough — a friend who didn't look at him with underlying intentions, but with appreciation.

But he didn't say that. "And you make the best egg mayo sandwiches I've ever had. So, does that answer your question?"

Your arms are crossed, you're still looking at him with disbelief written all over your face — not over his words, but with the thought of someone valuing you that much. It was too unrealistic. You're not meant to be liked, but here you were, standing in front of a man who just told you he liked your shitty sandwiches.

"You're a cornball," you said, a smile finally forming on your face as you walked past him, ready to hunt for some comics to add to your never-ending 'unread' stack. Roy chuckled, following you from behind.

The two of you spent a few hours there, looking through the shelves of paperbacks and the boxes of single issues. Roy didn't complain, not even once. Despite the fact he's much more of a non-fiction guy, he listened to every single rant of yours — the topics ranging from pairings you disliked to writers you hated with a deep passion. He has no clue what you're talking about, but at least you're talking.

"Look at this!" he grinned, holding up a single issue he just found, pointing at its cover. It's a shirtless superhero with his abs out — a cover that's obviously drawn to milk every single penny from the fans. "Who did it better?" He flexed his biceps, grinning goofily at you as if the sight wasn't painfully sexy.

You quickly snapped a picture of him before replying to his question. "I plead the Fifth." You said, trying to hide a grin.

Roy's expression lights up even brighter, "Oh, you definitely think I did it better."

An hour later, you're finally standing in front of the cashier, looking away in embarrassment as the worker — a woman in her fifties — scanned your comics one by one. Roy leaned against the counter, already holding his card to pay for your haul. After the total's shown on the small price display screen, the worker lets out a soft sigh.

"You guys remind me of my hubby and I when we were younger. He'd pay for my comics too, never complained once." She chuckled softly, while you and Roy stared at her to see if you really heard her words right.

Roy's as red as his hair. The sight's painfully adorable — but you don't comment on it. "Ah, that's… sweet, ma'am. But we're not a couple. We're just friends."

The woman shrugged, putting your comics in a plastic bag. "Well, so was my husband and I." she teased, handing the bag over to Roy.

When the two of you left, you were red as tomatoes. Roy's flush matched his hair, dusting almost his entire face with a dark shade of red. He bit his lips, preventing any words from escaping — pushing him towards further embarrassment.

"Thanks, Roy." You mumble, building up the courage to face him.

"Yeah," he nodded, "Yeah, it's all good."

You're sitting in a car with a beautiful boy. He won't tell you that he likes you, but he likes you. The beautiful boy stops the car, looking at you with a special kind of softness he only reserves for you and other close friends. "Can I have ten bucks?"

"What?" you face him, raising an eyebrow.

"Teeeennn. Buuuucckkkssss." He said, enunciating the words slowly and carefully, as if you didn't hear him. "I'm ten bucks short."

"I heard you loud and clear the first time. Just… What's this for?" You asked.

"Gas," he replied, pointing to the fuel gauge. As predicted, he was almost out of gas.

You let out a sigh, unzipping your backpack to hand him a ten dollar bill, alongside a few extra cash. "Get me some sour pelts."

"Mhm, Okey dokey." He said, nodding before leaving you in the car.

You're left alone, the angsty, nasally voice of some punk vocalist accompanying you while he sings of death and despair. While you were humming to the tune, you felt a chunk of food stuck to your teeth. No matter how many times you tried to push it out with your tongue, it wouldn't budge.

With an annoyed huff, you pulled down the flap of the sun visor too aggressively, causing something to fall out from the slit.

You picked it up and immediately felt your heart stop. It was a picture of him embracing a woman, lips locked. The background seemed to be a crowded house party. You couldn't help but wonder when and where it was taken.

Your eyes zeroed in on the woman. Gorgeous long black hair, dressed in a shade of emerald green that suited her. Gods, was she beautiful, yet unfamiliar to you. Your eyes went to look at Roy, who was clearly happy to be there, kissing a pretty girl at a party.

The reminder hits you like a bullet train, giving you a sense of nausea that makes your stomach turn.

Roy was so much more different from you; he lived his life in a way that you could barely comprehend. Everyone on campus loved Roy Harper. He's never sat alone in the mess hall, he's never struggled to find partners for assignments, he's never had people look at him as if he was some alien from outer space. Of course he'd be kissing someone whose beauty you doubt you'd ever be on par with.

For some reason, that makes you even sicker.

You slipped the picture into the slit just in time for him to come in, oblivious to your current thoughts. "So, I got Skittles, a bunch of sour belts and oh — look! teeth gummies!"

"Thanks, Roy." You forced a smile, your breath shaky. Thankfully, it goes unnoticed.

"Of course." He smiled, pushing the pedals and continuing the drive. "So, back to your dorm, right?"

You stare out of the window, trying your best not to think about the girl in the polaroid. "Yep, my dorm."

likes & reblogs are deeply appreciated ♡

spiderman dividers by @/andromeda-graphics

star dividers by @/pixopix

[pixelbfs]

Natural 20 — r.harper (pt. 1)

summary: roy harper — who has been crushing on you since forever — is finally brave enough to woo you. the problem? you have crippling anxiety and can't seem to understand why he wants to hang out with you so bad.

content: college au, gn!nerdy!reader x popular guy!roy, fluff, reader is anxious and oblivious, reader is mentioned to have hair long enough to be braided (but you could skip that part), the writer doesn't know how archery works and has never been to a ren faire </3

a/n: this fic is the first chapter to a short multi-part story i came up for roy !! i just love the premise of a shy nerdy/geeky reader being paired up with an outgoing popular guy roy. please let me know if you want part 2 to come out sooner 😼 + thank u to the lovely @lechelovestoyap for beta reading this and listening to my yaps 🫦

wc: 2.5k

part one | part two | part three | part four

As a college student, you've been confused about a lot of things. Staring at your study material for hours at a time, trying to comprehend what you're learning and feeling a sense of regret over choosing your major wasn't a rare occurrence — but that was the beauty of education, you always find an answer in the end, no matter how confused you started off.

But this? You're still confused about this.

You're not in Roy Harper's league — you've told yourself this multiple times tonight, but here he was, leaning against the house with his body facing yours, looking at you like you're some sorority girl guys like him seem to love. Why the hell was he talking to someone like you?

"Hey, y'listening?" He asked, his smile dropping just a little as he noticed your lack of enthusiasm.

"Yeah — Yeah." You stuttered, clearing your throat to compose yourself. "Sorry, it's just… the music here's too loud. There's too many people." It was why you retreated to the backyard in the first place, drinking your punch while you waited for your friends to tell you they were about to leave.

You're not meant for house parties, no matter how many times you try to go through them for exposure therapy. For one, you had no clue how to talk to the average college student outside of your own circle of nerds and geeks. Apart from that issue, no one ever wanted to talk to you, so you never had the chance to practice social interaction anyway.

Roy was an exception, for whatever reason.

He chuckled, nodding as he crossed his arms, his gaze still on you. You seriously just want to choke him and ask why he's here, giving you the time of day. "Yeah, damn right. Don't get me wrong — I like partying, but when everyone's making out and getting freaked out, I leave."

"Really?" As soon as that word comes out of your lips, you feel like a dickhead. Great! Now Roy goddamn Harper — one of the most popular guys on campus — was going to think you see him as some hedonistic asshole.

Thankfully, he just shrugged it off with that stupid annoying agitating definitely-not-charming smile of his. "I like to have fun, but I also like to be alone, y'know. Guys have social batteries too."

"Right," you said dryly, taking a sip out of your fruit punch.

At the sudden quietness, Roy's smile slightly dropped again. "Hey, y'know… If I'm bothering you—"

You immediately spat out the fruit punch you were drinking onto the grass. "Oh my gosh — No. I'm—" You paused, taking a deep breath to gather yourself, "Look, I appreciate your company. I don't want you to go away. I'm just… I'm really awkward, Roy."

He's staring at you with a raised eyebrow; you just continued talking. "I… uh, don't know how to talk to people. I have zero conversational skills. I swear I don't actually hate you or anything." I'm also confused why you're here with me instead of hanging with your friends, you wanted to say, but held back.

"Uh, no biggie." He eventually said, biting back a chuckle. Slowly, he straightened up, leaning closer to you. "What can I do to make you talk?"

You were left agape in genuine surprise. He seriously, seriously could not be this eager to talk to you. "I…" You blink a few times, looking at him as a smirk slowly appeared on his face, "I like talking about my interests, I guess."

His eyes darted down to your t-shirt for a second. It's an old, thrifted tee that just says TALK NERDY TO ME. It's not exactly party attire, but your other shirts were at the laundry. It was the only clean shirt you had left.

An imaginary light bulb lights up next to Roy's head after he read your shirt. "Well don'cha say." He mumbled before clearing his throat. Roy then bows down, offering you his hand. "I have a proposition. In an attempt of trying to crack open thy stubborn shell, I hereby am offering my esteemed companionship to the Renaissance Faire next weekend. Pray tell, what say you, my liege?"

You look at him like he's grown a second, radioactive head. "Roy...?"

"Please," he said, remaining bowed down.

You're trying to deny him, you really are. But unfortunately for you, he's successfully winning you over — it's cute, even though you wouldn't let yourself admit that. "…Fine." You sighed, crossing your arms. "How'd you know there was Ren Faire?"

He stands up straight again, giving you a bright smile. "My roommate's friend's a volunteer who's gonna be working there." He answered, "Thought you'd like going to some nerdy place like that."

Before you could answer with a smartass reply, a voice makes your body jump. "Hey!" The two of you turned around to see one of your friends — who was clearly a little tipsy — waving her hand at you. "We're gonna head home now!"

You gave her a nod before turning to face his smirking face again. "Of course I would." You said, rolling your eyes at him, "But since you're the one who's so insistent on getting to know me, you're driving me there."

Roy mirrored your eye roll, nodding his head, "Yeah, yeah. Sure thing, babe."

You gag, immediately punching his arm before walking towards your friends. "Yeah — don't even think about calling me that. You're not my type." You told him, meaning every single word … or at least you think so.

You could hear that low, resonant chuckle once again. "Fine." he said, slipping his hands into his pockets, "See you next week!"

You tousled your hair a little to give it a more worn out look. You made sure the braids were intact — hopefully strong enough to last the entire day. After making sure your hair looked good enough, you stepped in front of your mirror, shifting your focus to your outfit. You're dressed as a wee traveller, clad in linen fabric that came in beige and other earthy tones. Your clothes were accessorized with a potion belt, a satchel, and the coolest thing you own — a hooded cape.

As a finishing touch, you took out the fake elf ears you had stored in your drawers. You finally look like someone straight out of some random D&D campaign. Perfect for your day at the ren faire.

Despite the feeling of nervousness that came from the thought of hanging out with Roy, you're excited. It's been a while since you've dressed up for an event you actually like. As you were busy with your touch-ups, your phone buzzed.

[9:47 am] Roy Harper: Hey hey hey

[9:47 am] Roy Harper: I'm outside!!!

You take one last look at yourself, taking a deep breath.

You're going out with Roy Harper. It's not a big deal.

When you walked outside, you saw him leaning against his car. Roy's wearing an old off-white shirt, tucked into a pair of tight brown pants with matching leather boots. A red leather vest compliments the brown tones and his orange hair — you could tell he put in a lot of effort to look cool.

Your eyes widened in admiration when you saw the quiver on his back. The arrows were peace-tied, and the bow you just noticed he'd been holding was strung with yarn. "Do I look cool or what?" He grinned, taking a step back to let you judge his outfit.

You feel your earlier nerves calm down a little. Maybe there was a nerdier side of Roy that you never knew existed. "…Yeah. You look cool, Roy." You smiled softly.

He reciprocates the smile, feeling a little giddy at your compliment. "Anyway," Roy walks over to the door of the passenger side of his car, opening the door for you. "Let's go."

As soon as you hear a medieval rendition of Shakira's Hips Don't Lie being blasted on the hidden speakers, you feel like yourself again.

The Renaissance Faire is the same as it ever was. People were dressed as if they were storybook protagonists — from elven rogues clad in black with sheathed daggers, to knights with shining armour that would've taken months to finish, everyone put in tons of effort into their appearance. There were even some who painted their skin a different colour, attaching prosthetics to cosplay as an Orc or a Tiefling.

While you were busy walking around, searching for the artisan marketplace, Roy's left walking a few steps behind you. His eyes and mouth remained slightly agape as he took in the surroundings and the lively atmosphere of the fair — he felt like he's been dropped straight into Middle Earth.

"You good?" You asked, seeing the way he slowed his steps.

"I'm in tip-top shape." He answered, turning around and walking backward as he took in his surroundings. "That guy's costume is sick!"

"It sure is," you agreed, putting your hand on his biceps to pull him away. When your fingers wrapped around the muscle, you swore you lost your breath. Of course it's hard — you're well aware of the fact that he's built, but feeling the muscle for yourself? It made your legs weak for just a second.

When you reach the art markets, you're already sure that you were gonna spend the next few hours walking in circles here. You bit your lower lip, thinking of what to purchase. More dices? Cool looking overpriced crystal necklaces? Handwoven baskets for you to hold as you skip through an imaginary enchanted forest?

As you looked around, you found a stall that sold sparkly dice sets that were perfect for your growing collection. While the starry resin captivated you, Roy got a little sidetracked.

"Thank you!" you chirped, taking your new dice set from the seller. After you kept it in your pocket, you noticed a growing crowd near the archery range. From a distance, you could hear the crowd gasp in sync, eagerly watching the landing point of the arrows.

You'd planned to watch from a far, having no interest to be pushed around and swept up by the enormous crowd. However, you immediately pushed those plans aside when you saw him, standing at the far edge of the archery range, the last contestant in line.

Roy was now holding a longbow you assumed he rented prior to the competition. His focused face lit up as soon as he saw you push past the crowd, trying to get a better look at him. He gave you an excited wave, feeling the thrill of having you watch him compete.

It's his turn now. The earlier excitement evaporates in a millisecond; Roy's in focus mode once again, taking a deep breath before he draws his arrow, narrowing his eyes to get a clearer shot.

You're unsure of what to expect; was Roy even sure of what he's doing?

Slowly, the archer breathed out, letting go of the arrow and putting your worries to rest. "BULLSEYE!" the announcer cheered, jumping with excitement. The crowd erupted in applause, no doubt fueling Roy's already-large ego.

You're left breathlessly grinning, looking at Roy with nothing but pure shock written on your face. "What?!" you squealed, pushing your hair back in disbelief. Roy just shrugged, giving you a smirk.

Then it was the second round. It was fifteen yards away now. Some of the lesser skilled archers earner lower points, missing the bullseye by a far distance. Roy, however, never ceased to impress you and the crowd.

Once again, he hits bullseye. He keeps the smirk on his face as the roar of the crowd temporarily deafens him with their cheers. Roy brushed off some imaginary dust from his shoulder before turning to face you again. You were the only person in the crowd he wanted to see.

You're biting your nails when the last round comes. The target was now twenty five yards away, with Roy's points almost being tied with another archer's. You felt as though the game went by too quickly, with most of the contestants earning lower points because of the distance.

The other archer's arrow lands a centimeter or two away from the bullseye, still accumulating a good amount of points. As the audience's attention focused on Roy, the atmosphere suddenly felt heavy — as if Earth's gravitational pull suddenly doubled.

You could hear your heart palpitating as you watched Roy pull the arrow back.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Let go.

Thud! bullseye!

You jumped so high you almost ripped your pants. "Let's go!" You whooped, your legs immediately moving to run over to him. "Dude, you were amazing!"

"Was I?" he jested, grinning so brightly his teeth could've blinded you. "But that was nothing, though."

You punched his arm, making him let out a short 'oof!' "Stop trying to be humble, you sound stupid." You snorted, watching him rub his arm with a playful pout. He's bad at concealing his own excitement about the win.

Roy was awarded his prize money not long after, alongside a cheap plastic gold medal. He smirked, nudging you to show off the held the medal up. He was always vying for your attention; it was both endearing and annoying. You just rolled your eyes, pulling out your phone to snap a picture of him.

Deep in the adrenaline of triumph, the two of you had a celebratory drink at the 'tavern' nearby. "On the house," the bartender, a man painted green, said, "You did a real good job, winner."

"Thanks, man." Roy smiled, taking the drinks from the counter and bringing them over to you. "Conyberry Mead, said to be the go-to drink for celebratory occasions."

"Oh really?" You raised an eyebrow as you took a sip out of your drink.

"No. I made that up," he said bluntly, sitting down next to you. "I did pretty well, huh?"

"Of course you did," you replied, putting the tankard down on the table. "You don't need to hear me tell you that."

He laughed, shrugging nonchalantly. "Of course I didn't. I just wanted to hear you say it."

You kick his shin, making him laugh again. The two of you were then caught up in conversation, discussing other activities you could do together. Suddenly, loud and upbeat bardic tunes drifted in from outside, lively enough to halt your conversations, and loud enough to capture your attention.

In the town square, couples danced together joyously, their arms linked as laughter rippled through the air. At the sides, the crowd clapped in time with the beat — you could already feel your body mindlessly swaying to the song.

While you watched them dance, you felt Roy's gaze on you, his eyes wordlessly asking a question you already knew. "Please?" He pleaded, reaching out to tug your arm like a child asking for a toy.

"Well," you took a deep breath, pulling him towards the dancing crowd, "Guess I should give the winner some sort of prize."

Your arms linked, and the two of you immediately began dancing to the beat, spinning and twirling. You were the loudest pair there — bursting out into fits of laughter whenever you almost stepped on each other's feet. The clapping crowd urged you on while the music seemed to get louder. The two of you were in your own worlds now, laughing and pushing each other around as if you were the only people there.

In the midst of spinning in circles, you couldn't help but think that maybe Roy's not as bad as you thought he was. He's successfully rolled a natural twenty on your charisma check.

likes & reblogs are deeply appreciated <3

[sobbingscripter]

Tags: [mlw]🦇[mdni]🦇[somnophilia]🦇[whiny wally]🦇[sub!wally]🦇[spooning]🦇[prone bone]🦇[thigh fucking]🦇[groping?]🦇[oral f!rec.]🦇[creampie]🦇[cum eating]🦇[pathetic wally]🦇[brief mommy kink]🦇[i think one 'good boy']

wc. 2723

Wally's had what he would categorise as the third worst day of his life.

Aching muscles weigh him down like he's had lead stitched into the spot between his bone and the carved tissue. The scent of the gross and weirdly chilly-sputum mix remains clinging to his suit from earlier, when he'd taken a photo with a giggling baby dressed as him. Who'd waited so patiently for the picture to be taken, before puking down the front of his suit.

He hadn't had the opportunity to clean it, before Superman had called an emergency team mission, demanded everyone be there and not a minute later. And while Wally could've cleaned it fast enough with his hands, there's no way he's touching baby vomit.

And the already bad day had been coupled with strategically placed green, hologrammy banana peels that had been scattered all around the building, getting trapped Wonder Woman's lasso and accidentally blurting that his biggest fear is coming too fast.

And finally, the endless barrage of jokes made by Green Lantern once the lasso had come off.

He can't believe he let himself get bullied by someone named Harold.

Wally's snapped out of his loathsome thoughts by the familiar sounds of the building. The soft, techno music playing from the neighbour down the hall, the humming of your next door neighbour's fridge and the quiet ambience of your TV playing what could be the fourth ASMR video of the evening.

A carefully constructed playlist that will, instead of making him sleepy, give him various toys and triggers to focus on.

Wally grimaces when he's pushing open the door of your apartment, discarding his boots at the door and his socks emanate a putrid smell that makes him gag.

"Why're you wet..." He groans, green eyes glossing over with the frustration as he shuffles past where you're bundled beneath the covers, and straight into your bathroom, flickering on the fluorescent light that seems far too harsh right now and he peels off the suit.

"Ew, ew, ew—" a scream dies in his throat when he touches the goopy mixture and he shakes, knuckles turning with at the way he clenches his fists, lips curling inward and he shudders. The smell is something bitter, which is worse than if it smelled like a sewer.

It's the type of smell that lingers in your cavities like it belongs, and he dry heaves, audibly gagging when he looks back at the mixture.

Wally steps under the stream of the shower, hot water pouring down on him, soaking gingery strands to his scalp, pale skin turning rosy under the warmth and pressure of the pelting liquid

His eyes remain fluttered shut, long lashes brushing against freckled cheeks, and his lips part in a sigh, and he feels every knot in his body loosen.

Wally's lathering himself up, the scent of vanilla and warm honey filling the bathroom, mixing with the steam. Suds trickle down the carved muscles of his frame, along the divots in his biceps, down the trail of his V-line and down the thickness of his thighs.

For the longest time, he just stands.

Enveloped in the heat and safety of your apartment. A place where everything predictable resides, where the worst thing that could happen is a busted pipe or the beep of your microwave past 2AM.

Wally's pushing his hair out of his face as he turns, back faced to the fogged up glass, head tilted back, welcoming the spray and the sight's one for the ages.

Rivulets traveling down thick planes, suds pool in the delves at the base of his neck before being pushed out by the stream and he hangs heavy between his thighs. And one of his hands travels down his torso, abs flexing at the way his hand wraps around his base.

He gives himself one stroke.

Before he's turning off the faucet, grabbing a towel as he dries his hair, his body vibrating just enough to rid his skin of the trickling rivulets and he flicks off the light on his way out.

His eyes find your form easily.

A weirdly shaped lump beneath the covers, one of your feet poked out from beneath, while the other has probably found its way beneath the curve of your ass. Somehow.

"This... Can't be comfortable, it just can't." Wally murmurs, gingery brows knitting at the way your limbs are twisted and turned, jaw slack and drool trickling down your cheek in that slow, snail-like way, head tipped back over a pillow bunched up at the nape of your neck.

He softens when he's peeling back the covers, the way your body shifts just a bit, the curve of your shoulder exposed by the droopy neckline of whatever shirt of his you've deemed as yours for the night. The soft give of your body when he settles in behind you, his face pressing into the curve of your neck as his arm tucks you against his chest.

Muscles flexing and his breath evening just a bit more when you melt against him, the fat of your ass pressed against his hips.

And he swallows.

⋅ ⋅──⊱ ⋆🎃⋆ ⊰──⋅ ⋅

"S'warm...."

Wally's face remains tucked into the curve of your neck as his hips move, flushed cock peeking out from between the softness of your thighs with each desperate pump of his hips. He's going slow. So painfully slow as to not wake you, and he nearly whines when he feels your thighs flex just a bit.

A shuddering breath escapes him, lungs too tight to breathe properly.

The heat of your cunt through the sticky cling of your panties, gusset soaked so thoroughly from your slick and thick globs of precum that allow him to feel every single bump and ridge of your folds. His voice cracks, a moan dying in his throat when he hears that soft, almost content sigh slipping from your lips. Your lashes flutter, cheeks ruddy with sleep and the fat of your ass presses against his carved hips.

"Oh my fucking God.." His voice cracks, and the arm that's not supporting you shifts, his hand creeping up the front of your torso, feeling the soft warmth of your belly beneath his calloused palm, feeling the way you exhale so easily and he travels up.

Until his hand's palming your breast, and he melts against you, beefy body curled awkwardly to press his face into your back, cock twitching between your thighs.

Beads of precum trickle from his slip, glossing your thighs and he's breathing heavy, hips rutting aimlessly, chasing the sweet floaty feeling he gets whenever he comes.

His thumb brushes over your nipple, feeling the softness of the bud as it perks up beneath his affections, his face hidden, the tips of his ears flushed with a devilish blush, and his eyes squeeze shut.

Wally's abs flex as his stomach dips, the friction of your slickened thighs, coupled with the odd grind of his tip between your velvety folds through the sodden gusset of your panties....

The heat behind his navel burns like an inferno before he comes, pearly white ribbons strewn across your inner thighs, soaking through your already ruined panties and his hips jerk, fingers sinking into wherever he can.

Nose brushing against the curve of your neck, inhaling the scent of your soap, your skin, your sweat like it's his only salvation.

"M'so sorry..." He pleads softly, "I still respect you..."

Wally's hand shifts out from underneath your shirt to hike your thigh over his, keeping you spread and he shudders.

"I respect you so much," he breathes out, voice quiet in the stillness of the early morning hours, as he tugs your panties to the side, "it's just been a really hard day, and I know you don't want me to wake you up..."

Gentle fingers scoop creamy spent up, before he's fucking it into you, two fingers pushing into your cunt slowly, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit and he moans at the way your lips part in a soft moan, brows twitching, and your hips grind against his palm.

And he whines. "You're so pretty." His fingers curl, calloused tips pressing against that spongy spot that makes your body go slack against his, head tipped back and your hand finds his, fingers wrapping around his wrist. Not pushing him away, just looking for something to hold onto.

"Wally..." Your voice cracks, thick with sleep but you don't bother to open your eyes, lashes fluttering and plush lips, still glossy with drool, part to let out a content sigh.

And he melts. Pulling his fingers out of you, before they're finding purchase, nestled between slippery folds and he circles your clit so slowly, just enough to get you to twitch. Just to listen to the little hum that slips from you, your thighs falling open.

Before lining himself up with your hole, slowly pushing into you. Emerald gaze fixed on every micro expression that takes over your face, the furrow of your brow, the way your teeth sink into your bottom lip and the way you arch, pushing your ass flush against him.

"Oh my god—" He gasps, "You're so tight..."

Wally's body shivers, fingers going back to your sensitive bundle as he circles, feeling the way your gooey walls spasm around him, tightness clinging to each vein and ridge, his mushroom-y tip nestled against the plug of your cervix.

And Wally ruts.

Face tucked into your neck, hips grinding against the fat of your ass as his fingers slip between your folds, clumsy and unpracticed, a blush permanently tinting the skin above his shoulders.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—!" Wally gasps, his voice a hushed whisper, canines sinking into your skin, before he's soothing the mark with his tongue. Laving the wet muscle along your skin, tasting the sweat and bitterness of that sweet smelling soap you're always using, accompanied by the sweetness of your lotion.

A cacophony tastes burst across his tastebuds and he whines.

It's something meek and pathetic, his voice cracking at the way your cunt squelches around his cock, squeezing him like a vice as pearly cum trickles down your supple thighs.

And he pants.

"Fuck, mommy—" Wally whines, choking back the cutest little sob, his freckled cheeks flushed so deeply, brows pinching into an adorable little frown before he's pushing you onto your tummy, leaky cock still nestled in your sloppy pussy, and he's supporting himself with one hand, straddling the backs of your thighs, tilting your head just enough for your cheek to smush against the puffed up pillow.

Your brows furrow, lips slack in that way let that lets the softest mewls slip from your lips each time his hips smack into yours.

Wally's knees dimple the mattress, one hand grasping the sheets, veins visible beneath his skin, and his knuckles whiten under his grip. The golden ring on his middle finger catching the dim lighting of the TV and he groans at the way your manicured hands grab the sheets, fabric twisting beneath your palm, and he watches the way your teeth sink into your bottom lip.

Leafy pools are darkened by want, lashes fluttering as he glances down, simply to watch the way your pussy clings to each vein and ridge, puffy lips pulling him back greedily and he whimpers.

The sound of flesh smacking against flesh, wet squelches, bated breaths and syrupy moans fill the air, alongside that undeniable stink of sex and soap, debauchery clinging to the air like a fucking mist.

His blunt, oversensitive and leaking tip smears precum across your walls, each drive of his hips bullying into that spot that makes your eyes roll back in your head, saccharine sounds slipping from your slack maw.

"Fuck, you're so tight..." His body slumps forward, his forehead resting against your skin and he feels so feverish. "Can I come inside?" Wally pleads. "Please, mommy, let me come—" He gasps when you arch, ass flush against carved hips, "—please, please... Wanna come inside.."

"Huh...?"

Your voice is weak, lashes fluttering open and your eyes scrunch at the brightness of the TV, before you're tucking your face into the pillow.

And you're nodding. "Come inside..."

His pistoning comes to a stuttering halt, and Wally's hands clutch the sheets, veins bulging beneath the surface of his alabaster skin and his beefy body breaking into a cold sweat above you, and his weight presses you into the mattress, soaked sheets clinging to your damp skin.

Warmth floods our body when Wally's cock pushes a thick, creamy load into you, pearly cum being fucked into you with each whiny and desperate rut.

Thick forearms tense, the muscles of his broad back shift beneath the skin and those two dimples in his lower back deepen with each twitch of his hips, before he's pulling out of you.

Cock painted in spent and slick, before he's guiding you into your back, your body limp against the sheets and you're peering down at Wally from beneath thick lashes, watching the way he pushes your thighs apart.

Hands shaking, palms clammy and he's watching you like you're art.

Pupils blown wide, plush and rosy lips parted to let out soft sighs and he's shifting onto his belly, legs halfway off the edge of the bed but he simply doesn't care when he's guiding your thighs over his shoulders.

"Wally—... oh my god ..." The words die in your throat, and your hand's moving out of its own accord, sinking into those strawberry strands, nails dragging against his scalp when you feel the way his tongue slides between your slippery folds, bumping over your clit in a way that has your lashes fluttering and your head falling back against your pillow.

The taste is... Different from what Wally's familiar with. Obviously. But there's something so distinctly erotic about tasting himself, hidden in the walls of your cunt, now smeared with his spent. And his tongue traces those elusive infinities over the sensitive bundle of nerves, your thighs clamping against his ears as a reflex and he purrs.

Your hips twitch and you're grinding against his face, back arching in that way that would make you feel a bit more ashamed if you didn't catch the way his hips twitch against the mattress.

"Fuck, that's it..." He sighs, laving over your puffy lips, smearing the mess of translucent slick, saliva and cum. "Use me.... M'your good boy..."

Wally's voice cracks when you're raking your nails across his scalp, so loving in the way you're watching him through hazy eyes, your brain so sleep-addled that your limbs are mostly limp, and you're melted all pretty into the sheets.

And he's got hearts in his eyes.

His lips find purchase, wrapped around your clit and he sucks, lapping at the mess and he pays no mind to the mes that glosses up his chin.

Only focused on the way your back bows, and your eyes roll back in your head.

"Just like that—" Your voice cracks, a mewl breaking through your praise. Your brain feels like it's leaking out your ears, each coherent thought slipping from your mind like they've grown wings and your hand fists his hair.

Hips jerking when you're thrown headfirst into an orgasm, pleasure crashing and breaking over you like waves crashing against jagged rocks. And you're pulling him closer, potentially smothering him, but Wally's never been happier to be anywhere.

Slurping at your slick, his nose buried and bumping against your clit, hands pawing at your hips, fingers sinking into the flesh, the heels of your feet digging into his back and he groans, the sound obscene against the soft tapping and whispering from the TV.

And Wally pulls back, his forehead resting against your inner thigh as he catches his breaths bated and shuddering breaths slipping from his lips. Long lashes brushing against his ruddy cheeks as his eyes flutter shut.

A heavy exhale escapes him and your fingers card through his hair.

"You wanna talk about your day, honey?" Your voice is quiet when Wally's peeking back up at you, bleary eyes.

"Yeah..."

🦇⋅ ⋅──⊱🫀⋆taglist⋆🫀⊰──⋅ ⋅🦇

@lucky-beheaded @allycat4458 @jasontoddswhitestreak @queen-of-gotham @mummmycrust @v1tale @titchx0 @4ckatron @southernfrogprincesd @spitting-flowers-since @alma-ru3 @coral4everrrsposts @enchantedstarfish

[pellucid-constellations]

Unknown Etiology

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Resident!Reader

Summary: You pass out at work. Jack already knew that was going to happen. Still scares the shit out of him.

Word count: 2.2k

Warnings: Fainting, light angst, medical inaccuracies perhaps

a/n: Small bedtime fic based on this request because who doesn't love knocking out in public and having Jack come to the rescue yayyy <3 love you enjoy sweet dreams

Masterlist

It started as a headrush as you got out of bed. Nothing serious. Nothing too alarming. You figured it was from poor sleep or standing up too fast. The black spots in your vision dissipated after a few hard blinks, and you went on about your day. You ate breakfast at 4 pm, because that was normal on a night-shift schedule, and got to work just fine. 

The hospital florescents were a little more jarring than usual, and maybe the noises in the Pitt were grating on your ears, but you chalked it all up to a really terrible night’s sleep. You were tired, fatigue settling into your bones as your shift began, so it made sense that everything felt off. People were known to have off days, on occasion. 

Jack Abbot was very attentive to your off days. 

His eyes narrowed the second you stepped into the Pitt—or, rather, stumbled into the Pitt. You were favoring your left side just a hair, your toe catching on the vinyl tile, and he could tell it wasn’t on purpose. Jack scanned you for injuries and found none. 

Patient presents with an unsteady gait. Unknown etiology. 

Stumbling into the first shift of four was not inherently unusual. Jack filed the information away. He met you in the hall after rounds and pretended he wasn’t double-checking the amount of weight you were putting on your right leg. 

“Good weekend?” he greeted, bumping his shoulder into yours. “Saw on Instagram that you went to that fancy coffee shop downtown. Thought we were supposed to go together.” 

You huffed out a laugh, knocking your head to the side. “You actually go on Instagram?”

“You told me to follow you.” 

“Yeah, but I didn’t know you were keeping it up with it. 

“Only yours,” Jack hummed out. “But I am very with the times.” 

“Right. And I’m Oprah,” you laughed. 

“I can get with Oprah,” Jack nodded, arms crossing over his chest. “Very wise.” 

You started to roll your eyes and offer Jack the slap on his arm that he was vying for, but you blinked too hard instead, a quick squeeze to settle yourself. Jack’s expression faltered, his hands reaching towards you. Not too close—not obvious—but enough to do something if he needed to.

You focused back in on him before he could point it out. 

“I’ll let you know if I hear Oprah is on the market,” you breathed out, patting Jack on the chest as you continued down the hall. 

Patient demonstrates periods of inattention and difficulty focusing, possibly due to fatigue, weakness, presyncope, etc. Differentials to be assessed. 

He was trying not to hover. You hated hovering, and Jack could tell he was pushing it. He was letting his gaze linger a bit too long when he caught you across the room and stood too close every time you got up from your chair. He was analyzing the depth of your breaths through subtle counts because he was pretty sure you weren’t taking full ones, but he couldn’t quite confirm it. 

Something was up. 

But he was pushing it.

“I ordered repeat labs for our guy with jaundice. And the tox screen in South 15 came back clear, so we have to re-evaluate the cocaine hypothesis,” you prattled off, hands on your hips as you gazed up at the board. “Anything else I should—okay, what?” 

Jack had forgotten to look away as you turned your head and looked at him. You had caught him having a staredown with your well-being and did not seem amused by the analyzing gaze. The attending righted his posture and blinked. 

“What? What’s up?” Jack asked, trying and failing to feign innocence. He raised his hands in mock surrender when you gave him a hard look. “I was listening to you. What, is it illegal to look at you while you talk?” 

“You were not just listening to me! You’ve been all… assessing all shift. So quit it.” 

“I have not been assessing,” he lied, trailing after you down the hall. Damn, you were moving fast. “You’ve just been a little off, is all. I’ve been keeping an eye on it.” 

You waved him off and changed course for the bathroom. “Well, don’t. I’m fine, Jack. Don’t be weird.” 

Jack pressed his hands against his chest. “I’m not being weird. You’re being weird. That’s why I was concerned.” 

You spun to face him, arms crossed and expression fixed into an oncoming lecture. When you and Jack began exploring your obvious feelings for each other, you made it clear that you didn’t want anyone to know. Not until things were sure and you were more established in your role as a doctor. You didn’t want people to think you were messing around with an attending just for the relationship to crumble and your career to be lost in the aftermath. 

Jack was fine with waiting. He had absolutely no plans of letting your relationship crumble, but he was fine with the cautious approach. Things were still new, and if you wanted to wait until you felt more secure with him, he was going to do a damn good job providing that. 

But your breathing was off; he finally caught it as you eyed him down in the hall, and that was concerning. He was officially entering concerned doctor territory, and you were officially entering leave me the hell alone territory. The combination was not ideal. 

“Just—keep your distance, okay? People have been eyeing us all shift. I want to continue pretending there isn’t gossip flying around the day shift nurses, but that can’t happen if you give them something to gossip about.” “But if you just—” 

“Jack.” 

He raised his hands again. “Alright, my bad.” 

You pushed into the bathroom, door swinging shut behind you, and Jack let his head hang, sighing into the abyss. 

Patient with ongoing dyspnea that cannot be assessed in a medical setting. Patient resistant to treatment and going AMA. 

It came to a head three hours in. Jack saw the way you kept blinking and pressing your hands against your head, shaky fingers threading by your scalp and creating pressure. A headache—you had a headache, you kept stumbling, and Jack knew you were having trouble breathing. He tapped his palms against the counter in a nervous tic and listed out every differential in his head. 

It didn’t help that you kept glaring at him. And avoiding him. Jack couldn’t keep an eye on you if you were hyperaware of his presence, but he couldn’t exactly slink around the ED unnoticed, so he did what he could. He tracked the movement of your shoulder as you stood with your back to him, and he kept a ready stance when he saw you stumble in the hall.  He was one more hand flex and grimace away from telling Lena to keep another eye on you, but then you caught yourself against a wall, expression pained, and he figured his action was warranted. 

He jogged across the Pitt, hands immediately finding your shoulders and head lowered to search for your eyes. They were unfocused when he got there, blinking again—he was trying to catch you amidst the blinking. 

“Hey, you alright?” he stressed, tracking the way your hands shook as he steadied you. 

“Yeah,” you affirmed, trying and failing to push away. A small group of nurses had gathered, concerned faces looking on. “Yeah. I’m just—maybe I need to eat something or—” 

You went limp, effectively stopping Jack’s heart in the process. He hauled you against him with a long “whoa” that sent the entire ED on alert and cradled your neck as he tried to get your eyes back open. Your head only rolled in his hand, and his breathing felt punctured. 

He said your name and did not get an answer. “Okay. Okay—someone get me a bed and a room cleared,” he calmly ordered, gaze never leaving your face, arms secure around you. He turned his head to mirror each time you lopped over. “I need you to try and open your eyes, y/n. Can you do that?” 

A bed was wheeled into the hall, and Jack lifted your legs from the ground to lay you in it, quickly walking alongside the small team that had formed. He swiped his flashlight from his chest pocket, assessed your pupils, then moved down to your lymph nodes as you were settled into a room. 

“Okay, vitals and get an IV for stat labs—y/n? Come on, let me know you can hear me, sweetheart,” Jack called out, checking your pupils again, flashing the light too many times than was necessary. 

It was the third pass that got you to respond. You groaned, bringing your shaking hands up to push his flashlight away. Jack felt all of the air leave his lungs, a weight dropping to his feet and keeping him rooted to the ground. His head hung again, and he glanced up after a steadying sigh. You were wincing at the overhead light in the room, face an unnatural shade, but more alert and conscious. 

“Fuck. Okay, you scared the shit out of me,” Jack accused. He cupped your face and raised his brows. “You’re fine? Really?” 

You let out a muffled sound. “Sorry. That was weird.” 

“Yeah, you think? Weird—told you you were the one being weird.” Jack glanced at your vitals on the screen. “You’re tachy and your blood pressure’s pretty low. Any ideas?” 

“My mouth hurts,” you mumbled out, gaze blearily trying to focus on the screen. “Maybe… ow, Jack.” 

“Sorry, sweetheart. Okay, yeah, not counting on your medical opinion right now. Let’s get some ibuprofen on board and push fluids until we get the labs back. I want a head CT to rule out—” Jack paused as he looked around the room. Half of the nurses were honing in on Jack’s hands on your face, the other half were smirking at the man himself. Jack looked back down at you, at how hard you were trying to focus on him, and he figured he would deal with the rest later. “Hey, we’ll get this all sorted, alright?”

About twenty minutes later, you were sitting upright and much more cognizant. Jack had the lights dim in the room and a bag of pretzels glued to your hand even though your blood sugar came back normal, and he found you just as he left you as he pushed back inside. He hadn’t really been able to focus since you went down, so stalking the lab for your results was easy. 

“Labs came back,” Jack revealed, sitting on the edge of your bed. You’d given up on making him leave you alone after his second visit to your room. “Wanna take a wild guess?” 

You groaned, shoving another pretzel in your mouth. “No. Just tell me.” 

“Iron-deficiency anemia. You honestly might need an iron infusion with the levels you’re at. How long have you felt like this?” 

“Seriously?” you sighed. “I fainted because I don’t eat enough legumes?” 

“Hey, this is serious,” Jack chastised. He leaned in closer and took your hand in his. “It’s not just a little deficiency. You were down for the count for a while there. We gotta get this figured out.” 

“We?” 

Jack took in the color returning to your face and intertwined your fingers with his. “Yeah, sweetheart, we. Unfortunately, I think I kinda gave us away when you passed out. Forgot I was supposed to be playing it cool because you looked almost dead.” 

“That’s a little dramatic.” You puffed out your cheeks with a loaded breath. “So… everyone knows?”

“There’s about a 95% chance it’s made its rounds. And been sent out to many day shift nurses who have probably sent it to—” 

“Okay, okay. Everyone knows.” 

You slumped back against the bed, pretzel bag crinkling as it fell beside you. Jack hadn’t let go of your hand, and with the clammy pallor it still resembled, he didn’t have it in him to let go. He had been right to worry this morning, and his slow action was eating at him.

“I’m serious, though,” Jack began. You cracked an eye open. “Your ferritin levels are alarmingly low. We’ll have to think about infusions and then go to supplements after we get you more regulated.” 

“I can just call my PCP and—” 

“I’d like to help. I can help.”

You paused, lingering humor and frustration wiped from your expression. Jack watched emotions flit across your face and saw each settle as your hand twitched in his. Just slightly. Enough to almost be a squeeze. 

“You don’t have to do that,” you softly said. “I know it freaked you out that I fainted, but you don’t have to take on some huge responsibility when it comes to me. We only just started seeing each other.” 

Jack smiled, brows coming together. He patted your hand as it rested in his. “Yeah, well, I’d like to continue seeing you for a long time. So let me have some responsibility.”

[starlord-s]

hey girl!!

I've loved what you've written for brendon park so far!! I was wondering if you could write something where park is so very in love with you, always following close behind you, and only being nice to you. You don't notice it at all but everyone else in the pitt does and tease him about it while you're oblivious.

your coworkers first noticed brendon park’s affection towards you when you helped him to diagnose a patient, and he didn’t make you feel like shit for it. if someone like whitaker had said what you said, park would’ve come out with a sarcastic retort. instead, he nodded once and encouraged you that it was the right course of action to take.

what really got them talking was the time he was called down to the ED for a kid who had his leg crushed by a car, and wordlessly handed you a coffee as he made is way to the trauma bay. princess and perlah could hardly contain themselves, making sure the whole ER knew that park the shark knows your coffee order off by heart.

there was the time robby caught park congratulating you on your fellowship. he almost did a double take at the beaming smile on your face, and the way you wrapped your arms around brendon’s large frame in a grateful hug. robby quickly looked away, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that you were softening the shark.

“do you have any weekend plans, (y/n)?” javadi asks as you chart, and you turn to her with a small smile and a shake of your head.

“not this weekend.”

“oh, i thought you and park would be doing something.”

your eyes nearly pop out of your head, “me and park? what makes you think that?”

“aren’t you guys dating?” she looks like a deer caught in headlights and you nearly choke on your own spit at the insinuation.

“no!” you exclaim, catching the attention of dana, santos and whitaker. “what makes you think that?”

“you can’t be serious,” santos chuckles. “have you seen the way he is with you? he isn’t even like that with garcia and he actually tolerates her.”

“brendon’s nice.” you shrug.

“nice?” whitaker says loudly. “yeah, to you maybe. he hates my guts.”

“sure, he’s a little frosty—“

“he made whitaker cry three weeks ago.” santos deadpans.

“trinity!” whitaker glares at her and she shrugs.

“robby tried to joke with him about whatever feelings he has for you and park threatened to break his wrist. guess he doesn’t want anyone to know he’s soft for an R3.”

you don’t get a chance to finish your conversation because your three friends are called away for an emergency, and you stare at your monitor in complete and utter confusion.

sure, your heart races whenever you’re around brendon. you secretly love when he’s called down for a consult and you get to see him. you’ve almost followed him on instagram many times, dying to see the gym photos he probably posts…

“hey,” speaking of the devil, he appears right in front of you. “everything okay?”

“yeah!” you squeak. “just behind on my charting.”

brendon looks at you as if he’s trying to detect what the problem is, but you don’t give him time to analyse you. you spring up from your chair and catch him off guard.

“i gotta pee.” you blurt out, rushing in the direction of the bathroom you don’t even need and making park watch on in disbelief.

[buffalokill]

brendon park with an er doctor, she's not afraid of him like everyone else, she actually talks back to him and he finds it annoying at first but eventually starts to love their bickering and asks her out after work. just an idea if you're willing to write, i really love your writing!!

I wrote something similar here just w/o that ending of him asking r out anyway they be ✨flirting✨ at this rate lmao it’s kind of short f!reader implied

FISH ARE FRIENDS NOT FOOD

your head rolls to the side, tongue clicking against your teeth as you wait for ortho to get here. a clean cut amputation that needed evaluation.

“what’ve we got?” uttering a finally under breath when you hear him. someone from behind briefing him in.

"thought you'd swim faster, shark."

your words landing with bite. intention. a jeer at the name that apparently started back in his med schools days.

it was past the end of your shift. and you were tired. you knew you weren't the only one. it was selfish really. ignorant even. and you'll apologize about it when you get some sleep in.

"what is it past your bedtime?" he glances to you, his remark short. barely acknowledging you and your annoyance.

"it's also past your life expectancy." you add another.

it’s not a glare he gives as his eyes pan to you from where he stood across the room assessing. it’s just a look you know. that you’ve seen plenty of other times. like he was expecting it even if he doesn’t show it in his expression.

his eyebrows were leveled.

everyone was practically clutching their pearls.

the relationship you had with brendon park was interesting to say the least.

not friends but also not friendly. according to you. but to those who witnessed the interactions you had with the orthopedic surgeon, thought it to be anything but that. because park the shark didn't just take time like that to entertain just anybody.

he didn't like it. it annoyed him to no end. at first. 

but you had become a familiar face for him to see each time he came to the ed. 

“I was working. something you should be doing.” park uttered drily. 

“I am working, but now you’re here and I can’t help if I’m attracted to that charming personality of yours.” it couldn’t have been said more deadpanned. the look on your face almost equivalent to the one he wore daily. you swayed on foot. 

“I strive to be delightful.” he said flatly, looking away.

the side of your mouth lifts faintly, a ghost of a grin. a tired one.

he takes his gloves off, orders falling from his lips that are repetitive. expected. already knowing his expectations. so you drown him out. it begins to sound muffled in your ears. almost like when you’re under water. only resurfacing and grasping the last of his words.

“—prep for OR.”

you nod, automatically. assuming he’s referring to the amputee. but when your eyes catch his, you see he’s already looking at you. undivided attention. eyes practically pinning you to the floor. awaiting.

oh absolutely not.

your head is already shaking, beginning to understand why.

“it’s past my shift, park.” you grit.

“like I said, prep for OR.” he repeats, something he never does, and leaves. no room for arguments. you turn and watch him sail out. Your head swiveling, trying to find anyone in the same proximity as you that he might’ve been referring to. even if it was said directly to your face. you see robby, whose lips are pursed obnoxiously, shoulders shaking as he rips his own gloves off.

albeit being in the same boat you are with the amount of exhaustion, he finds it all too amusing. your eyes find his; pleading for him to do something.

he laughs harder.

“kid, you’re an attending now.”

“and you’re the chief, michael.” you make a face. trying to grasp any excuse to get him to get you out of this. his head went side to side. “technically I’m just robby right now since day shift ended a few hours ago.”

“and technically, you’re still here.” you argue. desperate. arms crossed as you look to your fellow attending.

he offers you a half shrug. “so is Abbot.”

“Abbot isn’t chief.” you were getting annoyed. more than you already were.

he gives a tired smile.

“this is what happens when you’re friendly with shark.” patting your shoulder in faux sympathy and walks out.

“we’re not friendly— oh for fucks sake.” dismissing yourself and your words as you wave it off and head upstairs.

you were awake now.

—

whatever you were feeling before surgery was nothing like what you’re feeling now.

you. were. tired.

exhausted.

eyelids heavy. eyes stinging. legs stuttering as you walked. barely even a person right now. only wanting to get to the elevator as soon as possible even if it was just a step compared to how much further you have left to get to bed.

your body leaned against the railing in there. head falling to the side as you close your eyes. briefly you told yourself. just for a little while. your body barely even responding to the doors sliding open again. someone stepping in.

“bedtime?”

if you weren’t so damn tired, you would’ve said something. told him off even. give him your famous bite me that you say all too often every time he’s in the ed. ironic given his nickname.

but you didn’t. rather than your usual jabs, you give him a faint snort. an exhausted look and a small smile to offer as you open one eye. you turn to him.

“it is past my bedtime.” you confirm with a breathy laugh.

its probably the first time park has seen you like this. no doctor front. no guard up. no you using humor as a mechanism. just you.

“not too bad up there.” he says it low. not even looking at you. referring to the surgery you just got out of. the one you pleaded at robby about. you open your eyes fully.

“I’m gonna need that in writing.” you joke. letting out another breathless laugh. park gives you a side glance.

“gotta have something to back me up when I tell everyone that park the shark was nice to me.” you shrug after explanation.

“I’m always nice to you.” he argues, poorly. drily. the words uttered as if it was obvious. the look you gave him said otherwise. “is it like a free trial period then?“

his expression changes. the movement almost missed if you hadn’t been watching him. the slight asymmetric pull to the corner of his mouth.

you broke him you think

you’re a little more awake now. too aware as you step out of the elevator.

“you off tomorrow?” he asks as he holds the elevator door. blue eyes stare back you.

“you mean today?” you correct with a lilt. head rolling to the side as you wear a satisfied grin. it was already past midnight. early morning.

the surgery had taken longer than expectated. something you couldn't refuse to jab brendon about in the OR— commenting on the many times he’s performed this type of surgery in only a few hours but can’t seem to do it now. you were sure everyone in the there held a breath. aside from the sound of the machines and your breathing, it was quiet. and instead of being met a look of a man whose skill was just insulted, they saw something else entirely. because while the staff downstairs were well aware of you and brendons interactions, upstairs had yet to see that side of him.

you liked giving the man a hard time. annoying if you must say.

you work in the same place, it’s a hospital for gods sake, you know things can happen out of nowhere, it was obviously you joking. not that anyone could tell. probably not the best time to do so either but you and park have bickered and bantered— if could call it that— in far more worse cases.

he looks unimpressed by your response.

“I am off though.” you answer, sparing him from your ways. his eyes steady, linger, before nodding.

he takes a small inhale. and then exhales through his nose. “get some sleep. I’ll call you.” park orders. tells. backs up into the elevator again and then realizes he’s not on shift so he fixes his words.

“is it okay if I call you?”

it takes a minute for your mind to catch up. lack of sleep getting the best of you in the moment. because where was he going with this?

you slowly nod.

“get some sleep then.” he offers, and leans up against the railing.

“you too, brendon.”

his eyes unwaver from yours at the use of his name falling from your lips. and just before you see him disappear behind the closed doors.

“— it better not wake me up though!”

[starlord-s]

“you’re jealous,” garcia has a shit eating grin as she looks over at park, who doesn’t look amused at her words. “look at you. you’re practically blowing steam out of your ears.”

“yolanda.” brendon sighs.

“i’m just saying,” she takes a sip of her wine. “you know robby is seeing noelle, right?”

that piques park’s interest. he looks away from where you’re on robby’s arm to give garcia a (fake) disinterested glance.

“why is that any of my business?” he asks.

“brendon,” yolanda laughs incredulously. “i’ve known you for a long time. you don’t have to act like you aren’t interested in (y/n).”

“because i’m not.” he emphasises, but garcia is the only person who can see through his carefully adjusted mask.

“then stop looking like you want to punch robby. it’s a party, you could at least mingle.”

“i thought you hated these things.” he snaps.

garcia hums, her eyes flitting over to santos talking to dr. al-hashimi across the room, “they can be fun sometimes.”

park can think of three different places he’d want to be on a friday night. the PTMC’s annual charity gala isn’t one of them. not even if the object of his affections is wearing a beautiful gown that hugs her figure in all the right places, her perfectly manicured hand tucked into robby’s arm.

“it’s politics,” garcia captures his attention again. “(y/n) wants a fellowship, so she has to play nice with the board. robby needs to hide his situationship with noelle from the board. it’s a win win situation, she comes as robby’s date tonight and gets all the attention from the right people, and robby looks like a good attending. don’t get your panties in a twist, shark, she’s free game.”

garcia leaves park with that sentiment, just as you look over at him from your spot next to robby. you smile and give him an adorable wave that melts his ice slightly.

“excuse me.” he sees you mouth to robby, who nods, still deep in conversation with whichever board member he needs to rub shoulders with.

brendon knocks back his glass of whiskey, trying to act unbothered as you approach him. he pictures what that dress would look like on his bedroom floor.

“hi,” you greet him. “why are you in a corner? come and say hi to everyone.”

“this isn’t really my scene.” he responds.

“it isn’t mine either. you think i want to be wearing a dress i can’t breathe in and heels that i’m dying to kick off?”

park could curse his brain right now for the images that puts in his head. what would it be like to be the one to unzip your dress, helping you to step out of it as he presses kisses to your bare shoulder, admiring what you’re wearing underneath?

“park?” your sweet voice pulls him back.

“you were saying?” he clears his throat, suddenly back in the room.

“i was asking if you’d like to dance with me?” you look hopeful.

“i’m not a dancer.” he says firmly, but you’re already taking his hand and pulling him towards the dance floor.

“don’t be boring!”

as you turn around and place your hand on his shoulder, his significantly larger hand rests in yours as his other finds your hip. the silk of your dress is soft against his fingertips, and he can barely concentrate on the song that’s playing as your perfume drowns out his senses. he catches garcia’s eye over your shoulder, and she gives him two thumbs up that he would usually roll his eyes at, but in this moment he’s far too distracted to care.

“see? this isn’t so bad.” your painted lips curve up into the prettiest smile he’s ever seen.

“you’re ruining my reputation.” he says bluntly, but you giggle as if he said something really funny.

you can see some of your colleagues watching, and you know they will have questions for you tomorrow, but you keep your eyes trained on brendon’s. for a split second, you swear you see his soften.

“how come you aren’t dancing with robby? didn’t you come here with him?” he asks coyly, and you fight the smile you’re dying to release.

“you don’t have to worry about robby, brendon.”

“what makes you think i’m—“

“i’m dancing with you,” you interrupt. “you’re the only person i want to dance with tonight.”

and later on, in the dim light of his bedroom, park notices that the silk dress matches his carpet perfectly.

[silverlullabies]

Park hasn’t stopped ranting in nine minutes.

You know this because the clock on the vitals monitor is directly in your line of sight, and you’ve been keeping track of the minutes while tracking the patient’s vitals- numbers ticking over in the periphery of your attention while the rest of your brain tries to keep your hands from shaking.

Fourteen hours. You’ve been on for fourteen hours. The last thing you ate was half a protein bar at six am that tasted like shit, washed down with burnt coffee from the break room pot that nobody’s cleaned since before you started this rotation. There’s a tremor in your left hand that you’ve been hiding by keeping it pressed flat against your thigh whenever you’re not actively doing something with it. The skin around your fingernails is ragged where you’ve been picking at it- a habit you thought you’d kicked in undergrad, resurrected now by the particular misery of being the stupidest person in every room you walk into for twelve weeks straight.

And Park is still ranting

It’s the sutures. It’s always the sutures, or the charting, or the way you positioned the drape, or the fact that you apparently hesitated for a quarter of a second too long before calling out a dosage. Today it’s the sutures. Something about your tension. Something about spacing. His voice has that cadence it gets when he’s not actually teaching anymore, when the correction has already been made and absorbed but he’s still going because he likes the sound of his own authority filling a room. It rolls out of him, low and unhurried, the kind of voice that doesn’t need volume because it knows no one in a thirty foot radius would dare interrupt it.

Your eyes sting. Not from crying; you’re so far past crying that the thought of it feels almost quaint, a luxury for people who slept more than three hours last night. They sting because you haven’t blinked in too long, because the fluorescents in this room have that particular institutional flicker that you can’t quite see but can absolutely feel, a faint buzzing pressure behind your orbital bones that’s been building since noon.

"- and if you’re going to work in my department, you need to understand that I’m not going to hold your hand through basic -”

“Oh my god, shut the fuck up.”

The words don’t feel like yours.

That’s the first thing. They don’t feel like something you decided to say. They feel like something that fell out of you, dislodged by exhaustion, the thing holding it in place quietly giving up. Your voice doesn’t even sound right. It’s flat, toneless, the weight of someone who genuinely, completely meant it.

The room changes.

It’s not silence- the monitors are still going, the ventilator still pushing rhythmic air through tubing, the IV pump clicking through its programmed drip rate. But the human layer of the room, the subtle living soundscape of people breathing and shifting and existing in proximity to each other... that just stops.

You feel it before you understand it. A stillness that presses against the outer edges of your awareness like a change in barometric pressure.

Then your brain catches up.

First, the echo of your own voice playing back to you on a half second delay, the consonants sharper than you expected, the fuck landing with a hard, percussive weight that seems to bounce off the tile and come back louder. Then the context: the room, the hierarchy, the badge clipped to Park’s scrubs with ATTENDING PHYSICIAN printed beneath his name. Then the realization. The simple, devastating realization of what you just did.

You are an intern.

Twenty six years old. Four months into your emergency medicine residency. You do not yet have the authority to order a meal from the cafeteria without someone double checking it. You have told a senior attending- the senior attending, the one the other attendings don’t even argue with- to shut the fuck up.

In front of people.

Your peripheral vision starts feeding you information you don’t want. Robby, to your left, has shifted his weight backward. Not a full step. Just a transfer of gravity from the balls of his feet to his heels, a subtle rocking away from you that his body chose before his conscious mind caught up. Whitaker has dropped his gaze to his hands, looking at his own fingers like he’s never seen them before, studying them with the rapt, deliberate focus. Behind you Princess has stopped writing. The pen isn’t moving. The soft scratch of ballpoint on paper that’s been a constant background noise for the last hour is just gone.

Nobody is going to save you.

The thought arrives with a nauseating clarity. There is no version of the next thirty seconds in which one of your co-interns steps forward and makes a joke to cut the tension or offers some plausible reinterpretation of what just happened. You are alone in this like a dream where you’ve shown up somewhere without clothes, exposed and and suddenly aware that every exit is very, very far away.

Your pulse is doing something it shouldn’t. You can feel it in your throat, your wrists, the soft dip behind your ears. A rapid, threadlike fluttering that you’d flag as tachycardic if it belonged to someone else. Your mouth has gone dry, tongue too thick, too present, a useless slab of muscle sitting behind your teeth with nothing helpful to contribute.

Apologize.

The word surfaces like an air bubble, wobbly and urgent.

Apologize right now. Open your mouth. Say Dr. Park, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what- say something, say literally anything, you have a medical degree, you passed boards, you are a person who is capable of organizing words into sentences that-

Your eyes lift.

You don’t decide to look at him. It’s closer to compulsion, the same instinct that makes you look toward a sound you didn’t expect, your body orienting itself toward the source of the danger before your higher brain can intervene.

Park hasn’t moved.

He’s in the same position he was in thirty seconds ago, shoulder against the supply cabinet, arms folded across his chest, one ankle crossed over the other. The posture of a man who was mid-lecture and simply… stopped. His mouth is closed. The steady, unbroken stream of correction that’s been filling this room for the better part of ten minutes has ceased completely, and in its absence his jaw is set, his lips pressed together tight, like he’s keeping something behind it.

His eyes pin you to the floor.

They’re on you. They’re only on you. Not scanning the room for the reactions of the other interns, not cutting toward the door, not doing any of the things you’d expect from a man whose authority was just challenged in front of others. He is looking at you with a fixed, undivided attention that feels less like being seen and more like being ripped apart from the inside, read down to the last molecule.

His expression is... you don’t have a word for it. His brows are level, not raised in surprise or drawn together in anger. There is no visible tension in his forehead, no flare to his nostrils, no whitening around the corners of his mouth. The set of his face is almost neutral, would pass for neutral, except for something happening in the space between his eyes and his mouth that doesn’t match. Something you keep trying to categorize and failing because it doesn’t fit any of the reactions you braced for. Not fury. Not cold professional disapproval. Not the performative disappointment of a superior preparing to make an example of you.

He looks like someone just set something down in front of him that he didn’t order but has every intention of keeping.

Your stomach drops about six inches.

It drops because you recognize that look. Not from Park, not from this context, but from somewhere older and less clinical, somewhere your hindbrain catalogued and filed away under a category you absolutely cannot be accessing right now, standing in an exam room in your scrubs with your career in a shallow grave at your feet.

The air conditioning kicks on overhead, a low mechanical shudder that moves through the vents and stirs the hem of the curtain partition to your right. Someone’s pager goes off down the hall, muffled through the closed door, two short bursts and then nothing.

Park still hasn’t said a word.

He’s watching you the way you’ve seen him watch a complicated case- that particular narrowing of focus, that quality of stillness that means the gears are turning somewhere behind his expression, that means he’s already three steps ahead and you just became the most interesting problem in the room.

His chin dips. Just barely. A fractional tilt downward that changes the angle of his gaze, sends it through his lashes instead of over them, and the difference that makes is something you feel in the backs of your knees.

Your mouth is still open. You haven’t apologized. You haven’t said anything at all. The silence has gone on long enough now to calcify into something that feels almost agreed upon, a held breath between two people who both know what just shifted and neither one has decided what to do about it yet.

Somewhere behind you, Robby clears his throat and murmurs something about checking on a patient in Bay 4. Whitaker rushes to join him. The door opens. The door closes.

Park’s mouth changes.

It’s not a smile. It’s barely even movement. Just the faintest asymmetric pull at one corner, a shift in his expression so subtle that if you weren’t staring directly at it- and you are, god help you, you absolutely are- you would have missed it entirely.

Your brain is still trying to apologize. You can feel the words piled up somewhere behind your soft palate, a traffic jam of I’m so sorry and I didn’t mean and please don’t report this, but none of them are making it to your mouth because your mouth is busy doing nothing. Your lips are parted about a centimeter. You’re breathing through them because at some point in the last forty five seconds your nose stopped being sufficient, your body rerouting to the faster intake the way it does when you’re afraid, when your hindbrain has identified a threat and started allocating resources accordingly.

The problem is that your hindbrain and your forebrain are in violent disagreement about the nature of the threat.

Your forebrain says: career. You’re thinking about your career. The program director. The evaluation that Park files at the end of this rotation. The letter in your file that will follow you to every fellowship application, every attending position, every hospital that ever Googles your name.

Your hindbrain says something much less articulable and significantly more inconvenient.

Park takes a step forward.

Not toward the door. Not toward the computer, or the supply cabinet, or any of the dozen professional destinations that would make this a normal post lecture movement of a senior physician continuing with his day.

Toward you.

It’s one step. A single, unhurried shift of weight that puts him maybe three feet closer than he was, which means he’s now close enough that you can see the specific weave of his scrub top, the way the fabric pulls differently across his shoulders than it does across the plane of his chest, the slow and even rise of his breathing. He’s not winded. He’s not tense. His respiratory rate hasn’t changed at all, and you hate yourself for noticing that, hate yourself for the clinical part of your brain that’s catches that like he’s a patient instead of the man who holds your professional future in his hands and is currently standing close enough that you can see the flecks of amber in his irises that the fluorescents keep catching.

The room feels like it’s shrinking. Not metaphorically; you know it’s not actually shrinking, you’re not psychotic, you haven’t lost your grip on the material dimensions of an eight-by-twelve exam room, but something about the air quality has changed. It feels thicker. Closer. Like the ventilation system decided to shut down at the exact worst moment, leaving you to breathe the same recycled air that he’s breathing, the same molecules passing back and forth between you in a loop that feels more intimate than it has any right to.

Princess leaves.

You don’t see her go, but you hear it, the soft lick of the door latch, the brief rush of hallway noise that floods in through the gap and then seals shut again, the retreating squeak of shoes on linoleum fading into the mid distance. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t make an excuse. She just left, which means she either read the room and decided she wanted no part of it, or she read the room and decided you needed no audience for whatever is about to happen to you.

You’re alone with him.

The realization seeps in, cold and slow, like water filling a basement. It rises around your ankles first, the awareness that the door is closed, that the hallway noise is gone, that the only breathing you can hear besides your own is his. Then it’s at your knees, your waist, your chest, and by the time it reaches your throat you understand with a complete, full body certainty that whatever is happening right now is not what you thought was happening thirty seconds ago.

Park tilts his head.

It’s a small movement. The kind a dog makes when it hears a frequency it can’t quite identify: curious, alert, the whole body orienting around a single point of interest. But there’s nothing canine about the way he’s looking at you. Dogs tilt their heads because they’re confused. Park tilts his head because he’s decided something and he wants to see you from a slightly different angle while he enjoys it.

“Fourteen hours,” he says.

His voice is different. You can’t identify what changed. The pitch is the same, the register is the same, the vowels still carry that particular unhurried precision that makes everything he says sound like a bastard. But there’s a texture to it that wasn’t there during the lecture. Something underneath the words, packed into the consonants, something that makes the back of your neck prickle the way it does when you walk into your apartment and feel certain someone else was just in it.

You swallow. You feel your throat click with the effort. “What?”

“Fourteen hours on your feet. Four months into the hardest rotation of your first year. Running on what, coffee and adrenaline? Maybe some spite.” He pauses. His gaze moves down your face in increments. Your forehead. The bridge of your nose. Your mouth. He stays on your mouth for a beat that lasts about a half second longer than clinical assessment would require. “And that’s what comes out.”

You can’t tell if it’s a question.

Your hands are shaking again. You gave up pressing them against your thighs sometime in the last minute and now they’re just hanging at your sides, trembling faintly in a way that you’re desperately hoping he can’t see but almost certainly can because Park doesn’t miss things. That’s the whole problem with him. That’s always been the whole problem with him. He catches the suture tension that’s off by a degree, the half second hesitation, the pulse that’s running eight beats faster than it should. He is a man who is professionally trained to notice the things your body does before you’re aware of them, and right now your body is doing several things you’d prefer to remain unaware of.

“Dr. Park-” you start, and his expression shifts.

Shifts. Not changes. There’s a difference. A change would be readable. A change would give you something to work with, anger you could apologize to, disappointment you could grovel through, cold professionalism you could match with your own until the moment passed and you could go have a cardiac event in the supply closet like a normal person with dignity. But this isn’t a change. It’s a shift, tectonic and internal, something rearranging behind the surface that you can only detect by its effects on the landscape of his face.

His eyes narrow, lids dropping maybe a millimeter, just enough to change the structure of his gaze, and the look that comes through that narrower aperture is... focused isn’t the right word. Focused implies effort. This is something past focus. Something that has settled into its attention the way a thing settles into still water, disturbing nothing, displacing everything.

He looks at you like he’s already taken you apart and is now considering the order in which he’d like to do it again.

His tongue touches the inside of his lower lip. You see the movement through the skin, a brief, subtle pressure that reshapes his mouth for less than a second before it’s gone. It’s nothing. It’s a unconscious gesture, a self soothing tic, the kind of thing people do a hundred times a day without thinking.

It doesn’t look unconscious.

“Dr. Park, I’m- ”

“Don’t.”

One word. Quiet. Not sharp, not cutting, not delivered with the clipped authority he uses on the floor when a resident is about to make a mistake. This is softer than that. Lower. It comes from somewhere deeper in his chest, and the sound of it lands at the base of your spine and sits there, warm and heavy and refusing to move.

“Don’t apologize,” he says, and then he smiles.

It’s barely a smile. It wouldn’t register as one in a photograph, wouldn’t survive the flattening of a two dimensional image. You’d need to be standing exactly where you’re standing, this close, in this light, in this airless little room to catch the way the corner of his mouth lifts. To see the way it pulls something taut across the planes of his face, reshapes the hollows beneath his cheekbones, turns the set of his jaw from something authoritative into something predatory.

It is, you realize with a clarity that goes all the way to the marrow, the expression of a man who has been waiting for something he’s very much looking forward to ruining.

The smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

It doesn’t need to. His eyes are doing something far worse- they’re warm. Not kind warm. Not reassuring warm. Warm the way a hand on the back of your neck is warm right before the fingers tighten. Warm the way a voice goes warm when it drops into the register it only uses behind closed doors. There is a heat in the way he’s looking at you that has nothing to do with anger and everything to do with appetite, and it is so profoundly, catastrophically different from anything you prepared for when you walked into this hospital fourteen hours ago that your brain simply stops trying to process it and hands the reins to something older and less rational.

Your body knows what this is.

Your body has known since his chin dipped, since the first pull of his mouth, since he hasn't stopped looking at you. Your body has been screaming the answer at your prefrontal cortex for the better part of two minutes and your prefrontal cortex has been politely declining the call because accepting it would require you to reconcile the clinical reality of your attending physician with the man who is currently looking at you like he intends to take his time.

Park reaches past you.

His arm extends to your right, his hand landing flat on the counter behind you, and for one vertiginous, blood loud second you think he’s reaching for you, caging you in, and every nerve ending you have lights up simultaneously. But he’s not. His fingers close around the chart Princess was writing in before all of this happened: your chart, your patient, the one with the sutures he was critiquing when you decided to set fire to your entire professional trajectory.

He picks it up. He looks at it. He looks back at you.

“Fix your tension,” he says. Same low register. Same impossible warmth. “Then come find me.”

He holds the chart out between you.

You take it. Your fingers brush his. The contact lasts less than a second, barely qualifies as touch, just the drag of his knuckle against the pad of your index finger as the chart changes hands. He doesn’t pull away quickly. He lets the contact happen, lets it register, lets you feel exactly how steady his hands are compared to yours.

Then he turns and walks to the door, and you watch him go because you can’t do anything else, because every voluntary muscle in your body has been temporarily requisitioned by the part of your brain that’s still processing the afterimage of his smile.

He pauses with his hand on the door. Half turns. Looks back at you over his shoulder with an expression you’ll be replaying at two in the morning for reasons you refuse to examine.

“And intern?”

You can’t speak. You manage something- a breath, a sound, a squeak, something that exists in the neighborhood of acknowledgment.

The warmth in his eyes sharpens into something with an edge, something that gleams.

“Get some sleep,” he says. “You’re going to need it.”

The door closes behind him.

You stand there, chart in your hands, pulse in your teeth, the ghost of his knuckle still burning along the length of your finger.

The ventilator cycles. The IV pump clicks. Down the hall, someone pages radiology.

You don’t move for a very long time.

[gingerhouseplant]

Brendon Park x Traumapatientwife!reader

Just a little something about Park’s wife getting into a car accident and him being overprotective but soft for his girl 🤍.

Dr Brendon Park was known for, a lack of better words, being unlikable. He’s cruel to residents, talks down to his nurses, and is cocky when talking to other doctors. He’s smart and beyond capable and isn’t afraid to make it a known fact. The one thing he wasn’t known for, was being soft hearted. Until it came to you.

You were his rock, the one who understood him when no one else did. The one who could look past his anger and tough exterior, and the only person that could make him feel vulnerable. So when he got the call from one of the residents in the ER at PTMC that you had been in a car accident, he lost it.

He didn’t have to work that day, having a much needed day off at home with you. Until you had a girls lunch that day you had been looking forward to, and who was he to tell you that you couldn’t hang out with your friends? Your outfit was cute and you were so excited, and you had kissed him goodbye and left. That was over 2 hours ago. He thought maybe you were still chatting with your friends, until he got the emergency contact call.

He sped to the hospital, pulling into the ambulance bay and running inside. “Hey man, you can’t park there!” A parking attendant yelled after Brendon, but he quickly responded with a “fuck off!”

He had a sheen of sweat on his forehead as he barreled into the ED sliding doors, barely waiting on them to open up as he went sprinting in. “Where is she?” He demanded, stopping at the desk and making Dana raise her eyebrows.

“And who is she?” She asked, and he scoffed.

“My wife.” He snarled, showing his sharp teeth, making Dana realize that “shark” is a pretty accurate nickname for the man.

“Trauma bay 1. Was in a multi car pileup.” Before she could say anything else, Brendon was gone. The trauma bay doors slid open, and Dr Robby was quick to notice his entrance.

“Park? Who called you?” He asked, peering at the man over his glasses. The large man was in jeans and a Pittsburgh Steelers t-shirt, stretching tightly over his large arms. His hair was wild and not slicked back, and his eyes were huge with fear. But Park’s words wouldn’t come out. His mouth was dry as he looked at you lying on the stretcher.

A collar was on your neck for stabilization. Your nose was obviously broken, and then was a large laceration on your chin. There was dried blood on your cute white blouse that you were so happy to wear, and what looked like dried vomit as well. “Park, I’m talking to you. This isn’t your patient. We didn’t call for ortho.” Dr Robby said, grabbing Park by the shoulder.

He jerked his arm out of Robby’s grasp, and the growl ripped from his throat before he could help himself. “This is my fucking wife.” He choked out, reaching to put his hands on you, but not sure what to touch.

“Brendon,” you whimpered, your voice small, “the car, I’m so sorry.” You stretched your fingers out in his direction and he grasped them tightly in his large hand.

“I don’t give a fuck about the car. You’re the only thing I care about. Are you okay?” He asked, and Ogilvie spoke up.

“She has a broken nose and a chin lac, and,” Brendon cut him off quickly.

“Hey kid, let’s let the fucking adults talk, alright?” He said through gritted teeth, and Ogilvie flinched back, the tips of his ears turning red.

“My face hurts and so does my back.” You groaned out, and Brendon’s eyes flickered to Robby, wanting to ask but not having the nerve to.

Robby cleared his throat and spoke up. “Definitely a broken nose and right cheek bone based on crepitus and tenderness. The chin laceration goes all the way though and we can see her teeth through it. So we will be getting a dentistry and plastic surgery consult so that can be addressed.” Brendon nodded his head and Robby continued. “We saw no internal bleeding on ultrasound. She is complaining of severe back pain, but can move all four extremities without difficulty and has full sensation of touch, including cold and pain. So we will get an x-ray and based on that, an ortho consult.”

Brendon was quiet as he took in all of the information, and his throat was tight as he agreed with Robby’s plan. He leaned down and placed his forehead against yours, being careful not to harm you any further. His eyes were shut tightly as he tried to catch his breath, and you were barely able to reach up and gently place your fingers in his hair. “I’m okay baby, I promise.” You whispered, and you felt a tear fall from Brendon’s eye onto your cheek. “Will you stay with me?” You asked, and Brendon squeezed your hand tighter.

“Of course I will, sweetheart.” Robby and the ER crew stood back, watching the scene with stunned expressions. Shocked that “Park the Shark” could have emotions beyond rage and annoyance. Taking in the effect that you had on him, your adoring husband that would take a bullet for you if need be. And Brendon was true to his word, he didn’t leave your side for a moment, all the way from the x-ray department to the floor he resided on during his shifts, knowing deep down inside that those nurses were the best he could hope for for his girl.

[helaintoloki]

Can you write a fic between Bucky and an avenger reader (maybe she’s just a little older than Peter (like she’s in her mid 20s)and she always had a crush on Bucky)

notes: thank you for sending this in ! i hope you enjoy

warnings: fluff, mentions of night terrors

summary: you think you’re too young for Bucky to be interested in you. ironically, Bucky thinks he’s too old for you to be interested in him

“So how did that date go?” Wanda asks while watching you mindlessly scroll through the selection of movies Tony has on the entertainment room TV.

“I bailed,” Natasha admits shamelessly with an innocent shrug, prompting both Wanda and yourself to turn to her in shock. “I’m not really interested in giving up my personal time for something as trivial as a blind date.”

You hum thoughtfully at her response, only half listening as Wanda begins to pester her for more details about the man she had stood up. The three of you are enjoying a rare night of peace in the tower after forcing the men to vacate the premises and allow you to have the space to yourselves. The three of you are outnumbered on the team, so sometimes a break from the intense amounts of testosterone are needed for you all to decompress. Girl’s night is a simple tradition, but you all enjoy each other’s company more than anything.

“What about you, y/n?” Natasha prompts while gently nudging your side and breaking you from your daze. “Any guys out there you think are first date material?”

You shift uncomfortably now that the spotlight is on you and try to mask the embarrassment that washes over you in response to the question. You know your answer, but you think you’d rather die than admit the truth. You try to remain as nonchalant as possible by offering a seemingly uninterested shrug and answering with a quiet ‘No,’ but you unfortunately can’t hide the truth from a mind reader.

“She has a crush on Barnes,” Wanda blurts out before she can stop herself, causing your eyes to widen in horror at being exposed. Natasha lets out an amused huff while her counterpart quickly utters out apologies. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to say it. It’s just your thoughts get so loud when you think about him.”

“You don’t need to be a mind reader to know that,” Natasha jokes much to your dismay.

“Is it really that obvious?” You groan before allowing your head to fall back against the couch in defeat. Wanda pats your arm sympathetically, obviously still guilty about her slip up. You’re just thankful no one else is in the tower other than the three of you.

“Not to him,” the Widow consoles with a faint smile, “the man isn’t exactly the greatest at navigating social interactions. But I’ve seen the way you look at him from across the room and how your eyes light up when Steve puts you together on missions. You like him.”

“It’s pathetic, I know,” you admit with a defeated sigh, looking between the two in despair. “I don’t even know how it happened! One day we’re just teammates and the next I’m suddenly realizing just how blue his eyes are instead of paying attention to a debrief.”

“There’s nothing pathetic about your feelings,” Wanda says with a comforting smile, “it’s only natural. Maybe you should try talking to him about it.”

You look at her as if she’s grown a second head before scoffing at her suggestion. “You’re kidding, right? There’s no way I’d ever be his type. Besides, he probably sees me as some kid considering I’m only twenty-six and he’s basically a hundred years old.”

Natasha can’t help but to let out a small chuckle at your predicament before taking the remote from your fidgety hands. You don’t exactly appreciate her amusement towards your self-depreciating rant, but you know she means well, and you also know you have a tendency to be a bit dramatic.

“Don’t sell yourself short, y/n/n,” she advises before finally deciding to hit play on a random comedy movie. “Remember that you’re the prize, and any guy or girl would be lucky to have you. Besides, you’ll never know what could happen if you don’t give it a shot.”

The conversation ends there as your trio becomes engrossed with the movie, but her words linger on your mind for the rest of the night. You really doubt Bucky could have anything but platonic feelings for you, and it would be embarrassing to confess your feelings only to have him shoot you down. You don’t think you could show your face around the tower again if that were to happen, but you also know that you would give anything to win the super soldier’s heart.

Your inner turmoil persists, and you go to bed that night unsure of how to move forward.

~~~

“Barnes, y/l/n, how are you holding up?”

“We’re pretty much fucked, Cap,” you grunt into your earpiece after being slammed against a wall. You thought the room had been cleared, but you were soon proven wrong by the assailants who had been hiding in the shadows waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Bucky was currently taking on three on his own while you tried to fight off the woman who seemed hell bent on killing you. “If I survive this will I still be written up for swearing?”

“Focus, y/n,” Natasha’s voice chimes in. “Do you guys need backup?”

You manage to chance a glance over at Bucky and see that he’s fairing rather well on his own, and after returning your attention back to your own attacker, you swiftly lift your knee so that it slams into her gut and forces her to stumble back. It doesn’t take you long to disarm her and render her unconscious so that she no longer proves to be a threat, and you’re finally able to return to your own task.

“No, we’re good. Bucky should be able to hold them off while I plant the chip into the computer system,” you finally reply before setting to work. “It shouldn’t take long.”

“I hope so because they’ve got reinforcements already on the way,” Tony alerts over the earpiece. “You need to be out of there within the next five minutes.”

“Yep, you got it,” you affirm before looking over your shoulder to see Bucky finishing off the last of your attackers. His broad shoulders rise and fall with his labored breaths, hair falling perfectly into place and blue eyes looking up to meet your gaze. You swallow nervously and return your attention to the computer in an attempt to act inconspicuous. Luckily for you, the files you came for have been uploaded. “Alright, let’s get out of here before someone slams me up against another wall.”

“What?” Bucky retorts, eyebrows scrunched in confusion and cheeks slowly turning red at your poor choice of words. You pay him no mind and begin your trek towards the exit, though your stomach flips at the mere thought of having him cage you in against a wall and having you at his complete mercy. You shudder and try to shake the thoughts away, but it’s hard to do so when the man in question is right beside you matching your brisk pace.

“You okay?” He asks, eyes scanning your figure for any sign of injuries.

“Definitely going to have a bruise in the morning, but it’s nothing I can’t handle,” you note with an easygoing smile.

“I’m on dinner duty tonight,” Bucky notes thoughtfully before kicking down the doors and clearing your path to the outside. “You interested in lending a hand?”

“Oh, definitely. You and Steve can’t be trusted with dinner anymore after the last time.”

“I’ll have you know tuna casserole was a popular dish back in my day,” he retorts defensively only to make you laugh instead.

“Okay, grandpa, whatever you say,” you giggle much to his annoyance. He retaliates by playfully nudging your side with his elbow so that you stumble away, but he can’t hide the amused smile on his face at your antics.

“It’s about time,” Tony retorts impatiently after you two finally make it to the Quinjet. “I’d appreciate some sense of urgency, you know.”

“You said be back in five minutes, it’s only been three,” you reply defensively only to earn an eye roll from the man.

“You and Barnes can flirt with each other on your own time,” he quips to your dismay. You immediately feel yourself heat with embarrassment and do everything your power to avoid looking at Bucky who shifts uncomfortably beside you.

“We weren’t-“ Bucky starts to say only for Tony to interrupt.

“I don’t need the details, I just need both of your butts on the quinjet now.”

You’re mortified as you step foot inside where the rest of the team sits waiting. All eyes land on you and Bucky, and you try to ignore their gazes as you take your seat beside Wanda.

“If it makes you feel any better,” she whispers after leaning in closer to you, “his thoughts about you are loud, too.”

You swallow nervously and chance at a peek at the super soldier only to find he’s already looking right at you. You immediately turn your gaze towards the floor before sinking down sullenly into your seat.

It’s going to be a long flight home.

~~~

The tower is silent when you make your way to the living room in search of a distraction from the terrible nightmare you’d just endured. Your body still trembles with unease despite the blanket you have wrapped tightly around your figure, and it was times like these where you heavily contemplated begging Wanda to use her powers on you despite her reluctance to manipulate your mind.

There isn’t anything good playing this late on TV, but you don’t mind watching reruns of old sitcoms if it means you don’t have to sit in silence. You fixate your gaze on the screen, but you’re hardly paying any mind to your surroundings as you simply begin to dissociate. No one knows about the night terrors or the bad dreams that plague you after missions; you fear coming off as weak or unprepared for the life of an Avenger by telling any of your teammates about your dilemma, so you’ve learned to deal with it on your own by escaping through trivial distractions.

You’re so lost in thought that you don’t detect the presence of someone else in the room until a hand rests on your bare shoulder. You jump, obviously startled as your wide eyes look to the perpetrator sitting beside you. Bucky immediately yanks his hand back and raises his hands in surrender, his features apologetic at having startled you.

“Sorry, sorry,” he immediately says. “I tried calling your name first but you weren’t exactly responding. You okay?”

“Yeah, I um- sorry,” you utter with a soft shake of your head before swallowing, “I just got lost in thought I guess.”

“Anything you want to talk about?”

You normally would have insisted you were fine and tried to change the topic, but there was something about the gentleness in his eyes and the comfort his presence brought you that made it easier for you to open yourself up. You sigh, shifting in place so that you’re facing him now. He offers you a an encouraging smile and already you can feel yourself melting.

“Sometimes I have night terrors,” you confess quietly, almost embarrassed to admit it out loud. “They usually tend show up after a mission or an intense fight. When they happen I just come out here and watch some TV until my brain shuts up enough for me to get some sleep. Pathetic, huh?”

Despite the humorless laugh you let out, Bucky frowns before uttering, “I don’t think that’s pathetic at all. I get it. This job is tough, and sometimes you see things you can’t unsee no matter how hard you try. Don’t beat yourself up for having a normal human reaction to trauma.”

“You sound just like a therapist,” you tease, prompting him to let out a sheepish laugh in return.

“I may have picked up a thing or two in therapy myself,” he admits. A beat passes before he takes your hand in his own and gives it a reassuring squeeze. “Just know that if you ever need help chasing the nightmares away, I’m right here.”

Your heart pounds in your chest while the warmth of his hold encompasses your hand and spreads throughout your entire body. His eyes are full of sincerity, but you also detect something that you’ve never seen from him before. This look is different than the ones he normally gives you, more intimate, and you find yourself nervously biting the inside of your cheek while trying to decipher what it could be.

“Thank you,” you finally voice with a tired smile. Wanting to lighten the mood, you ask, “How come you’re up this late, anyway?”

“Made the mistake of having a cup of coffee after dinner,” he confesses with an embarrassed chuckle. “You mind if I keep you company?”

“Of course not, silly,” you retort as if it’s the most absurd question you’ve ever heard.

You and Bucky settle into a comfortable silence as you tune in to the sitcom playing on the TV screen. A sense of calm has washed over your body now that you’re no longer being tormented by the remnants of your nightmare, but there’s still a part of you that remains nervous around the man you secretly harbor feelings for. You find your mind drifting back to what Wanda had said you earlier and wonder if there was any truth to her words. What did she mean by it?

“Can I ask you something?” Bucky prompts after the episode ends.

“Anything,” you reassure him, grabbing the remote to lower the television’s volume so that he can have your undivided attention.

“I know it’s just your way of poking fun at me, but when you call me ‘grandpa’ or ‘old man,’ is that… that’s not how you see me, is it? Old?”

You’re honestly taken back by his comment, not expecting him to have thought this heavily into the subject. Of course you knew the man was out of his time, and if he had been given the chance to age naturally you most likely would not be sitting here on this couch with him, but you had never thought less of him because of the fact.

“No, of course not! Honestly sometimes I forget you’re technically 106.”

Bucky lets out a chuckle at that, but there’s still doubt lingering on his features as he self-consciously looks down at his hands in his lap. “I just see you with Peter and Wanda sometimes and wonder if I’m too old for you to be hanging around with.”

You shift closer to Bucky so that you can rest a comforting hand on his bicep, prompting him to lift his head and meet your softhearted gaze. Your entire being emanates warmth and tenderness, and it draws the soldier right in to you. You have no idea the effect you have on him or the way a single brush of your fingertips against his skin can satiate the yearning he feels every time he looks at you. Wanda had been telling you the truth; his thoughts are always loud when you’re around him.

“I guess sometimes it’s easier to connect with them considering we’re closer in age, but I like that you and I are so different because of it. I think there’s more to learn with you and more to appreciate. I genuinely enjoy any minute that’s spent with you,” you confess adamantly, prompting the corner of his lips to quirk up. “Besides, it’s going to take a lot more than a number to scare me away from you.”

Bucky only responds by wrapping his arms around your frame and pulling you into a long awaited hug. You try to stifle your gasp of surprise at suddenly being so close to him, and you hope he doesn’t pick up on the fact that your heart is nearly beating out of your ribcage. You feel his lips press to the top of your head and swear you must be dreaming this because there’s no way the Avenger you’ve pining after for months is now so boldly giving you his affection.

“How about we go away for a weekend?” He finally says after holding you in silence for some time.

“Go away?” You repeat, curiously peeking up at him.

“Leave New York, explore somewhere new,” Bucky reiterates, his features relaxed as he looks down upon you with an adoring gaze. “Be regular people for a few days.”

“I’d like that,” you profess quietly, sighing in contentment when the man pulls you against his chest once more before settling back against the couch. You can feel your eyelids already starting to become heavy, and the soothing circles he rubs into your back doesn’t help. You don’t want this moment with Bucky to end, but you also know that there’s so much to look forward to.

“Bucky?” You hum quietly after allowing your eyes to flutter shut.

“Yes, doll?”

“When we go away for the weekend, can we be regular people in a relationship?”

You feel his body gently shake from the quiet laugh he lets out at your response. You feel his lips press to your forehead as you drift to sleep, missing his answer when he replies, “I’d want nothing more.”

~~~

You slept through the rest of the night without issue; Bucky’s comforting presence was enough to lull you into a peaceful rest, and you entrusted him to chase away the nightmares for you. The two of you remained entangled together on the couch all the way until sunrise, and neither of you had bothered to consider the repercussions of your actions in the morning.

“I feel bad waking them,” Steve sighs, arms crossed over his chest as he and Natasha look down on your sleeping forms. There’s an almost proud smile on his face as he takes in the sight of his best friend holding the woman of his dreams in his arms.

“Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to let them sleep a little longer,” Natasha notes with a knowing smile before promptly ushering the blond out of the entertainment room. Unbeknownst to either of you, by the time you wake up you’ll be the talk of the tower.

“So how much do you owe Wanda?” Steve asks after quietly shutting the door behind him. Natasha lets out a disappointed sigh.

“I’m out twenty bucks. I bet it would take at least another week before they finally got their heads out of their asses and confessed. But I guess as long as they’re happy…”

“That’s all that matters,” Steve finishes for her with a nod.

The team is happy they’ll no longer have to endure your obvious pining over each other, and they make sure to tell you so when you finally wake up.

It’s an eventful morning to say the least.