A thing I really appreciate about supergirl is that Kara is never shown to be pretty. Yeha she is pretty regardless because they casted milly fucking alcock but the never show her to be put together. They let her be messy. They let her be rude. They let her fuck up. Every time we see strong confident women in media they are always wearing the tightest bodysuit and look beautiful even when they have been beaten to shit. Not here. Every scene Kara is in she looks like a car had run over her. And they don't "transform" her and make her look prettier by the end to show that she has started to heal. Nah they keep her like that and they change how she acts. I love supergirl.
why must female led superhero movies be exceptional. why can't they just be good. like legit i'm sick of it. supergirl is fun and good i enjoyed it and that's all you fuckers are getting out of me. go see it.
HEAR ME OUT (no idea if you have done this before or smth BUT) Jason x fem gf reader who is an author 👀👀👀👀👀
My Muse
Jason Todd x fem!Reader
warning: fluff!
A/N: GOATED THANK YOU FOR YOUR REQUEST!!! Hope you like this<3333
The first time you caught him rereading one of your chapters at three in the morning, he’d looked genuinely embarrassed.
“What?” he’d says defensively from your side of the bed. “It’s a good book.”
You’d nearly cried on the spot.
Jason read your work before anyone else ever did. Every draft. Every messy unfinished chapter you swore was terrible. He’d sit at the kitchen table with your manuscript in his massive hands, completely focused, brows furrowed while he turned pages carefully.
And the thing was…he never treated your writing like a cute little hobby. He loves this about you. Your passion. Your love for writing. He saw this as your power. He saw this as your way of art and expressing yourself.
Jason took it seriously. He remembered tiny details from chapters you’d forgotten writing. He quoted lines back to you weeks later. Sometimes he’d stop in the middle of reading and just stare at you like he physically couldn’t process the fact that the woman who sometimes slaps the back of his head when he forgot to do the dishes also wrote love so beautifully, he just knows Shakespeare would be taking notes from you.
“You did that on purpose.” he’d accused once, pointing at a page dramatically.
You looked up from your laptop. “Did what?”
“That line.”
“What line?”
Jason read it aloud immediately, voice quieter than usual. “She loved him gently, as if the world had already been cruel enough. She showed him that he deserves the love she’s giving him. Even though he believes otherwise.” he pauses for s brief second before he continues. “She looked at him and she saw her future. With him. She never wants anyone else to touch her the way he does. He doesn’t know it yet but he made her love life. She wakes up in the morning with a smile on her face.”
Then he’d looked at you with actual betrayal in his eyes and muttered “Wow. Baby this is ART!”
You’d laughed so hard you snorted.
So when your newest book released, Jason was probably more excited than you were. He tried to pretend otherwise, obviously. Acted all casual while helping you set up for the signing. Leaned against bookshelves with his arms crossed like this wasn’t secretly the highlight of his entire month. But every time someone walked up holding your novel, his expression softened in that stupidly proud way he couldn’t hide around you.
And the entire time, Jason still didn’t know. Didn’t know the reason the main character was loved so hard. Didn’t know why readers of your book kept saying he felt sooo real. Didn’t know he was the reason why many women started believing in love again. Didn’t know why writing him had always come so naturally to you.
By the time you both got home that night, you were exhausted. Your feet hurt, your throat hurts from talking for hours and your apartment floor was covered in bouquets readers had handed you throughout the evening. Jason carried all of them inside carefully.
You sat curled sideways on the couch while he moved around the kitchen making tea, still dressed in the black button up he’d worn to the event. The sleeves were rolled to his elbows now, while he making the tea.
“You know,” you said softly. “you talked about my book to strangers more than I did tonight.”
Jason looked offended immediately. “I was marketing.”
“You were emotionally attached.”
“Those are different things.” You smiled to yourself as he walked back over and handed you a mug carefully.
Then, without hesitation, Jason picked up your book from the coffee table. Your chest squeezed instantly. He’d already read it months ago while you were drafting, but he still handled the finished copy with this softness every single time. Thumb brushing over your name on the cover. Reading random passages like he was still trying to process the fact that you created this.
“You know what’s crazy?” he murmured, flipping through pages. “People are gonna keep this forever.”
You blinked and couldn’t really understand where he is going with this. “What?”
“This.” He held the book up slightly. “Someone’s gonna have this on their shelf in like twenty years. And know you, forever.”
The awe in his voice made your heart ache. Jason looked down at the pages again, shaking his head softly to himself. “That’s insane.”
You watched him for a second before smiling faintly. “You really love books.”
“Yeah.” he admitted quietly. There was something almost shy about it. You’d noticed that before. Jason got embarrassed about the softest parts of himself. Like he expected people to laugh at him for caring too much.
Instead, you tucked your legs beneath yourself and said gently. “Wanna know something?”
Jason glanced up immediately. “Always.”
You hesitated just enough for him to notice. Instantly, the book lowered slightly in his hands.
“What?” he asks now, suspicious.
You smiled nervously into your tea. “I never told you who inspired him.”
Jason frowned a little. “The main character?”
You nodded.
“The internet’s convinced it’s some tortured poet or whatever. I think this guys deserves the love he got.” If only he knew he was talking about himself right here…
You laughed quietly. “It’s not a tortured poet”
“Then who?” Your eyes found his.
“You.” Jason stared at you. Then down at the book. Then back at you again.
“What?”
“The main character,” you repeated softly. “He was based on you.”
Jason actually looked winded. Like you’d physically hit him with the information.
“No, he wasn’t.”
“Yes, he was.”
“You’re telling me this guy.” he flipped open the book aggressively now. “the guy everybody on goodreads is obsessed with?”
You nodded, trying not to laugh at his expression. Or cry at this point.
“That’s me?”
“Pretty much.” Jason looked horrified. Then confused. Then something softer started breaking through all of it.
“You wrote…” He swallowed hard, eyes darting over the pages in his hands. “All that stuff? And it was based on me?”
Your smile turned gentler. “Yeah.”
Jason looked back down at the book again like it had fundamentally changed in his hands.
And suddenly you could see it happening. Every line he’d highlighted. Every scene he’d reread. Every emotional moment that hit him harder than expected. He was reprocessing all of it now knowing it was him.
“The scene where she says he looks dangerous until he smiles.” he said slowly.
You bit back a grin. “Mhm.”
Jason blinked at you.
“The motorcycle.”
You nodded again.
“The bookshelves and the pictures of him and his girlfriend sitting on this favorite books.”
“You looooove your classics, Jay. And I’ve seen the pictures of us on top of your Pride and Prejudice copy.”
“That was private information.” You burst into laughter. But Jason still looked completely stunned, staring down at the novel in his hands.
“You really see me like that?” he asked, voice quieter now. The question nearly broke your heart. Because underneath all the disbelief, underneath the shock and awe and confusion, there was genuine uncertainty there. Jason still couldn’t fully understand being loved gently. He was convinced he doesn’t deserve love, but here he is. You set your tea down before moving closer to him on the couch, your fingers slipping carefully around the wrist holding the book.
“I wrote a love story,” you said softly. “and every time I imagined someone worth loving that deeply, I thought about you.”
Jason’s breath caught. You watched his throat move as he swallowed hard, eyes dropping back to the pages again. Then he laughed once under his breath. Not because this was funny. But because he was overwhelmed.
“This is insane.” he murmured.
“It isn’t.”
“But it is.” Jason looked at you again now, eyes softer than you’d ever seen them. “Do you know what this feels like?”
You shook your head slightly. He looked down at the book in his hands one more time before smiling.
“Feels like I got let inside your heart,” he admitted quietly. “And found out I lived there the whole time.”
ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ featuring: dick grayson, bruce wayne, wally west, jason todd, clark kent x reader!!
ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ cw: nsfw 18+, MDNI, mostly fluff, slice of life, crack, oral mention, established relationship
ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ a/n: first smau with multiple dc boys! i like doing this style!! i wanna do more!! i need ideas heh...
synopsis: you were curious about bikers before, but you are pretty sure they just became your weak spot after meeting this handsome, green-eyed stranger at the gas station
content: fluff, meet-cute, tough exterior n soft interior jason, reader thinking of riding him for a sec, but c’mon, who wouldn’t in this context
“Hi, um, sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if I could…” Jason watched you—the cute girl who had approached him at the gas station—do a revving motion with your hand. Didn’t even say it out loud; just moved your fist and looked at him with those big eyes.
Through the dark visor of his helmet, you couldn’t see the way Jason was squinting down at you. And still, you felt like you were being scrutinized. Now, you regretted not getting ready properly. I mean, you had just wanted to go get some gas. You would’ve put more thought into your choice of clothing if you had known that you’d end up seeing a biker there; one with broad shoulders that filled out his leather jacket impressively. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case, though, as you’d randomly thrown something together this morning.
Taking in your adorably curious face, Jason found himself wondering what a sweet girl like you was doing walking up to a guy like him. He was well aware of what kind of first impression most people got of him. After all, he was a big guy with an even bigger motorcycle.
But you didn’t look intimidated by his stature at all. If anything, you just seemed a bit shy asking him for permission to lay hands on his bike. So with a nod, he gave you the okay. In real time, he saw the sheepish expression on your face melt away and in its stead witnessed a spark of excitement light up in your eyes.
He watched you attentively as you took a few steps closer to his bike, and reached over to the handle. You were about to twist it expectantly, when Jason stopped you with a chuckle. Eyes lifting to look at the attractive stranger, you were worried that you had done something wrong already without noticing it.
“Not like that. You need to twist it towards you, all right?” Your cheeks warmed up in embarrassment, but his gloved hand simply came to rest over yours.
When he guided it in the right direction now, the bike’s engine roared to life loudly. The vibrations of the motor sent your heart tumbling into a frantic rush. To say you were impressed would have been nothing less than a blatant understatement. Jason could practically see stars form in your eyes. “You’re a fan of bikes, huh?” He huffed in amusement. His gaze drifted over your side profile as you nodded. You were pretty. Really pretty.
“Y’want to go for a ride?” The question left his mouth before his brain could catch up with what he was suggesting. It was unlike Jason to make an offer like this to someone he didn’t even know. He did it anyway, so that had to mean something, surely. Lifting his visor, he peered straight into your soul now—no kind of glass acting as a form of separation between you two.
You turned your head to look at him, and for a moment, you were just staring at him—soft lips parted. Clearly, you were as taken aback by his offer as he was. And also by those uniquely vibrant green eyes, but hopefully that wasn’t something the dark-haired biker would know.
Stranger danger should have stopped you from agreeing to something so reckless, especially in a crazy place like Gotham City, but much like Jason, you weren’t acting like yourself at the moment. “I… I mean, if you have the time.” Luckily for you, he had an extra helmet with him.
After Jason explained the basics of what you needed to know, you found yourself on the back of his bike. When he sensed that you hesitated to hold onto him, unsure of where to put your hands without crossing some sort of line, one of Jason’s hands reached backwards to grab yours and place it around his midriff.
“Hold on tight, sweetheart,” he ordered, but his voice was terribly kind. Then he snapped his visor back down, and you were off onto the road.
It was exhilarating; hearing the raucous vrooming sound of the engine, feeling the wind whip past your bodies.
You felt more alive than you ever had before. A thrilled little laugh came from you as you allowed yourself to enjoy the ride. Only now did you realize that you didn’t even know this stranger’s name yet. You had been too caught up in your inner monologue panicking over how bad of an idea this probably was.
When Jason sped up to overtake a car, you closed your eyes momentarily and rested your head against his back. Oh my god, this was as terrifying as it was fun.
The longer you two drove, the more your nerves began to ease into pure, unfiltered joy. You were growing more comfortable by the minute—your hands traveling along his abdomen and holding onto him tighter. At one point, your hand was pressed against his pectoral, and if you hadn’t been so swept up in the moment, you would’ve been able to feel the rapid, thumping beat of his heart.
Once you two stopped at a red light, the man you’d been clinging onto turned his head so that you could hear him better. “You good?” You might not know much about this stranger, but one thing you knew for sure: he was painfully considerate.
Jason started out driving not too fast, paid attention to your body language the whole ride through, and only began speeding up upon noticing that you had relaxed a bit. In other words, he made sure you felt comfortable the whole time, and now he was also checking in on you verbally. You were surprised by how well this was going considering how unsure you’d been about this choice.
“Yeah, I’m fine!” you spoke loudly in the hope of your voice carrying over the cacophony of traffic noise around you. With a growing grin, you added, “More than fine, actually. This is crazy!” Jason was thinking of a reply when the stoplight turned green, effectively interrupting your conversation.
Butterflies swarmed your stomach as you leaned into him, arms wrapped around him securely. Hands holding onto his front, you took notice of the warmth that seeped through the material of his black compression shirt. You couldn’t help but wonder how many days a week this man must have gone to work out to be this fucking ripped. Even from afar, it had been impossible to miss his size, but actually feeling the hard planes of muscle hidden beneath his clothes gave you a different kind of impression on just how built this man was.
Time flew by quickly. When Jason eventually dropped you off at the same gas station that he met you—he felt like it would be creepy to ask you where you lived, and your car was parked there anyway—the adrenaline was still pumping through your veins like a river of ecstasy.
Your breath was erratic as you warned him that you would get off the back of his bike now, just as he had told you to. Communication was key between the driver and backpacker. You wouldn’t want him to lose balance and let the bike fall to the ground. He likely wouldn’t have made a fuss about it, even if you did, though.
Standing on your own two feet after the addictive feeling of speeding through the streets with him felt weird. Your shaky fingers began fumbling with your helmet, and mere seconds later, Jason stood right in front of you. Noticing your struggle, he silently helped you. Your blown eyes were locked on him the entire time as he slipped it off your head. With him this close, you could smell the dizzying scent of his cologne: leather, musk, and something irresistibly warm that you couldn’t quite put your finger on. It smelled almost like gunpowder, but you doubted that with how sweet this man had been to you. Either way, he smelled absolutely to die for.
You ran your fingers through your hair to fix it, and Jason watched you closely. The corners of his mouth tugged up into an amused smirk. Fuck, you were too cute.
“Thank you. That was the most fun I’ve had in a while.” You sounded so gentle, so sincere in your gratitude. It wasn’t even a big deal, really, nothing that demanded much effort on his part. Still, it clearly made you happy, and he found himself feeling unreasonably accomplished by that, which was stupid, because he didn’t know you.
Jason should have reminded himself of that. He didn’t.
After he took off his own helmet, you could finally take a good look at the entirety of his face, and it was actually embarrassing how affected you were by it. The gorgeous green eyes you had seen before, but his dark, perfectly disheveled hair alongside the faint, jagged scar on his face piqued your interest in the man.
He was gorgeous, undeniably so.
You wanted to find out more about Jason, wanted to see if he had other scars or birthmarks hidden beneath the fabric of his protective gear, wanted to ride with him again. Of course, the more debauched side of your brain couldn’t help but think of wanting to ride him too, but that unfitting thought was quickly banished into the back of your traitorous mind. Even briefly imagining that with him right in front of you, fuck, that was a horrible idea, worse than climbing onto a stranger’s motorcycle.
“Any time…” Jason trailed off, a subtle inquiry of your name. Snapping out of your thoughts, you giggled at his smoothness. The man, who had died and come back to life, swore he felt something that he’d never felt before. An odd sensation of warmth spread through his chest. Illogical. Entirely unfounded. What was up with him?
You told him your name softly, and Jason repeated it back to you like he was testing the way it sounded rolling off his tongue. “Jason.” The curt response would have seemed aloof, if it weren’t for the evident interest shining in those emerald depths of his. “Well, thank you then, Jason,” you said with a sweet smile. Your heart was pounding wildly against your ribcage, and you knew that that wasn’t just the aftershocks of residual adrenaline.
Internally, you wondered if you should ask him for his number. Then you cringed at how awkward it would be if he told you no, if he said that he had a girlfriend and this was just him trying to be nice earlier. “Okay, I should—” You didn’t even finish your sentence, because he spoke up at the same time as you did, “Could I—” The air between you seemed static as you nodded at Jason to say what he wanted to first. “Could I get your number?” All right, girlfriend theory debunked then, you guessed.
He cleared his throat, trying to tamp down the tension he had created with the intense, deep timbre of his voice. Jason licked his lips before adding, “So we could… do this again, you know. If you’d like.” Wait, was he shy?
Jason didn’t want to come on too strong or make you feel like this was him expecting your number in return for his favor. It wasn’t like you owed him anything! He wasn’t an asshole like that. But you didn’t think that anyway.
The smile on your face broadened into an even more radiant one, and Jason had an inkling that he would grow to love this grin of yours. “Sure, I would love that. Maybe we could go to the library next time.” You inclined your head downward and chuckled bashfully, realizing how unspectacular of a place that sounded like. Leave it to you to suggest to the hot biker you met to go to the freaking library of all places. “I mean, if you don’t find that too boring. My aunt runs a library. I help out every once in a while, so I like the quiet there.”
Jason might have just found the woman of his dreams.
“No, no, I don’t find that boring at all,” he said, and when you lifted your head, you could tell by the look on his face alone that he meant what he said. Your eyes darted across his pretty face, teeth tugging at your bottom lip like that could contain your giddiness.
Jason might have been the man of your dreams too.
He gave you his phone, and you couldn’t believe that this was actually happening to you, as you typed your number into the phone of the handsome biker you met only today. The owner of the prettiest green eyes and the most attractive voice you ever had the pleasure of beholding. And he liked to read, apparently. It was like this man had stumbled right out of a romance novel.
Handing his phone back to him, you looked up at Jason through your eyelashes. “Call me.” Such bold words, yet coming out of the mouth of a sweet thing like you, they didn’t sound half as provocative as they should have.
Oh, Jason was definitely going to call you.
em’s masterlist | jason todd masterlist wc: 2.2k request: no
˙⋆✮ a/n: this was inspired by sth that happened to me this week lol. lowk don’t like ts, but i’ll post it anyway, bc i don’t want to scrap the fic. and also again, this is a drabble that turned into a one-shot. like, ugh, guys, i cannot write short stuff for the life of me 😭😭 this isn’t even acc long to me, but it’s definitely also not drabble-kinda short ykwim
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hi! can you write a story where wife reader and zuko have an argument over him being too risky going on dangerous adventures with the gaang when he has a wife and newborn at home and they go to bed mad at each other maybe even the fire lord sleeps in a guest room and it causes rooms to circulate around the palace and it’s him dealing with her silent treatment for a week and apologizes? like man is wrecked without his wife and baby and barely does his duties bc he misses them so much
silent treatment
summary : zuko frequently leaves to adventure with the gaang, but when you have your first child your concern for his safety grows and so does your feelings of neglect. another letter from aang leads to a fight, and a long week of silence for zuko.
pairing : zuko x fem! reader
cw : sfw! arguing, fluff.
divider by @cursed-carmine
zuko’s spot in the gaang had been secured long ago. he knew that, you knew that, everyone with eyes to see knew that. they were like his family, being of more importance than his nation, but never you. almost.
and yet, despite being the fire lord, responsible for an entire nation, he still felt the need to leave on wild adventures with aang and his friends to agni knows where.
this was fine and well when he first became the fire lord, when you were both young, when it was just the two of you.
however, the moment you fell pregnant you began to see the many issues surrounding his crusades. while he was gone you would walk through the castle, dreading any letter that arrived in fear it would be news he would not return.
any messenger who arrived from afar was turned away, in case they brought with them the announcement of his death.
you were beginning to picture the worst every time he stepped foot out of the borders of the fire nation.
it’s not like this fear was completely unwarranted either as he often returned injured or otherwise, unable to attend court for days.
then the baby came. you expected him to slow down with his adventures, make them every few years instead of every few months. but when a letter came, addressed to ‘flameo hotman’ himself, he was rearing to go.
you took it upon yourself to remind him that you JUST popped out his baby, to which he failed to see the issue. thankfully what he lacked in brains he made up for with his care, being there for much of your recovery. so you acquiesced, allowing him to go with a kiss and a long string of prayers for his safety.
one more. one last big crusade, then he can stay home to help you. that was his promise. he never went back on his promises. at least that’s what you thought.
and then another letter arrived, and he saw the fire nation through you like he never hoped to, red, hot, fiery anger blazing in every piece of you as you chastise him in the confines of your bedchambers. despite your anger, you know better than to disrespect him in the public eye of his court, especially as his ‘lowly’ wife.
“you’ve been back for 3 months at the least, do you have no desire to be with your wife and child?” the letter crumples under your tight grip, and zuko’s displeased wince has you squeezing it harder.
“what? of course i do, how could you even say that?” his eyes are full of concern and hurt.
“how could i say that? here, allow me to enlighten you. three months ago you promised me, you swore, zuko, that this would be the last one for a “long” while.” you feel immense relief that your baby is with your ladies in waiting, unwilling to allow her to ever see this side of you. even if she’s unlikely to remember it.
“and i thought that would be the case! i want to stay with you, i do!”
“so turn him down! you have every capability to reject his invitation. or is this your subtle way of saying that you would rather be free from your responsibilities? from us?”
“my love, c’mon you know that’s not what this is.”
“you’ve done nothing to show me that's the truth.” you toss the letter towards his feet, daring him to reach for it. he is smarter than you give him credit for, you’ll admit, as he steps over the crinkled paper.
“where is this coming from?” he reaches out for your dress, and you swiftly swat his hand away, in no mood to entertain his puppy eyes and delicate hands. in no way ready to accept an indirect apology through gentle touches and soft whispers, as he cares for you like a porcelain vase. you remind yourself that this discussion is for the wellbeing of you and your daughter and you will not be swayed by mediocrity, you want acknowledgement and reflection.
“do you have any idea what i went through during my whole pregnancy while you were gone on your little adventures? do you? i couldn’t be sure if you would back unharmed, let alone alive. i had to worry about not only the health of our baby, but also my husband who would rather risk his life for his friends that live in safety with his family.”
your eyes burn with tears you didn’t notice brewing. you’re not sad, you’re brimming with a rage that has been building for months and months.
he is silent and unmoving. the only indication of his attention is the furrow of his brow and the way his chews on his lip in frustration. even if he wanted to speak, you don’t allow him the opportunity.
“let me ask you this, lord zuko, is your fun worth more than your life? worth more than coming home to your wife, or your daughter having a father?”
“you know it’s not! you two are worth more than the entire world to me.”
“then you know how you will answer aang’s letter.”
“my love..”
“i’d like to be alone now. in fact, i’d like to be alone until you know for certain where your priorities lie.” you approach, gaze pointed as you brush past him, leaving him alone in your shared chambers.
that is the last words you speak before, what he will always remember as, the long week of silence. the first time a fight has left the room with you and carried itself alongside you like a protective shield, preventing him from getting in close. you won’t even let him near the baby, which may be a tad unfair, but you’re angry and not thinking straight.
you continue to perform your duties as the fire lady, diligent as you are, but you’re mean about it. he’s not ‘zuko’ anymore, not your love, he is lord zuko. fire lord zuko. you’ve shrunk him to not so much as a colleague in your mind.
it’s the only way you continue in your position as the fire lady, playing the role of dutiful wife for his court then leaving right after the dismissal of said court with a curt bow.
the tension between you two is felt throughout the castle by all. the court notices the subtle distance between you but doesn't verbalize this observation.
you sleep in the nursery with your daughter. your back is stiff, and your neck is crimped, from sleeping on the tiny futon within. you are kept awake all night long by the light of decorative fire ornaments, night lights for your baby. you don’t rest well.
neither does zuko.
he lays in the empty space of your previously shared bed, staring at the ceiling. his mind races with how to win your favor back. how to speak to you. he misses you. misses his daughter. he reminisces on your touch like it’s been years of your absence, when really it’s only been a few days.
he’s already rejected aang’s invitation and you know that, so why have you not returned to him?
when the end of the week approaches he begins to feel ill. distracted. and of course, you notice, but you are stubborn and strong willed.
you miss him too, but the hurt from feeling second to his ‘freedom’, an idea concocted completely on your own, overwhelms you too much to give in just cause he appears to be losing sleep. you want him to feel your absence a little longer, the way you felt his for nights on end. at least, you reason, he knows you and your daughter are alive and well.
the grand chamberlain drones on and on in the confines of zuko’s royal office, to which he casts a spiritless gaze. his thoughts are not on the affairs of his court, rather they are anywhere but.
he only thinks of you, of your baby. have the two of you eaten? what are you doing now? are you in the gardens? in the capital? in your bedroom.. alone.. without him..? should he go to you?
have you forgiven him?
“my wife...”
“what?”
“hm? oh.. um, what i said was, my life. as in.. i would give my life for this court, of course, chamberlain.”
“i believe you spoke of the honorable fire lady, lord zuko.” he stares at zuko with a silent contempt, then relinquishes his harsh gaze upon fully taking in the shell of the fire lord in front of him.
“i suppose.. my mind may have drifted.” zuko sighs, head falling back against his chair’s backrest. a pause, a moment of understanding and quiet contemplation between them, before the chamberlain speaks again.
“forgive my asking, lord zuko, but have you done something to upset the honorable lady?”
“why? did she speak to you? what did she say?” he straightens, like an arrow, gaze pinned to the chamberlain whose head shakes in dismissal.
“i assure you, lord zuko, that is not the case. in fact, it is quite the opposite, as the honorable lady speaks to none but your own child.” zuko frowns, another wave of guilt flooding his already weak stomach.
“she has not spoken to anyone?”
“not in the last week. perhaps she has taken a vow of silence to honour the beginnings of your child’s life?” it’s more than a stretch to suggest this, considering your daughter has been in the world for over three months now, but the chamberlain suggests it despite this. zuko releases a weak huff of laughter.
“yes.. i suppose, it may be that. thank you, advisor, that shall be all..” zuko waves him off with a gentle flick of his hand, the opposite palm sliding down his weary face. finally, he decides, this silence has gone on long enough.
he leaves his office with a start, tripping over his feet as they try to match his fervor. he searches high and low for you, every nook and cranny where you could be hiding from him. until it dawns on him, you’d barely left the nursery since you took shelter there.
he approaches the nursery quietly, cautiously. his palm, slick with a thin layer of nervous sweat, reaches for the door knob and hesitantly pushes it open.
you sit on the rocking chair in the corner, baby in hand, cooing at your daughter until the door creaks and makes his presence known. your eyes meet his for less than a second before they are stubbornly focused on your daughters chubby cheeks.
one glance at you is enough to have him feeling better, not whole, but no longer ill with worry. he walks to you, steps slow, like he doesn’t rule the nation but rather like that of a hesitant child. he points to the foot stool, unused, muttering a small ‘may i?’
“you’re the fire lord, you don’t need my permission to do anything. you’ve made that fairly clear..”
“i’m asking you if i may join you..” you nod, but still your eyes avoid his. he sits.
“are you well?” you nod once more. “and the baby?”
“she is fine as well.”
“good.. that is good,” he clasps his hands together, contemplative as he searches for his next words, “i rejected aang’s invitation.”
“so i’ve heard.”
“but you didn’t come back..”
“i wasn’t ready to.”
“and now?”
“you tell me.”
he sighs, slipping off the stool to kneel in front of you.
“please, don’t dirty yourself on my behalf, lord zuko”
“enough.” his tone is not unkind, but firm. your brow raises and his nods in apology, you listen despite this, eyes finally on him.
“i understand what you're doing.. and why. and i’m sorry,” he reaches for your hand and you can tell he expects to be swatting away again, a visual that makes your heart hurt, “i’m sorry for everything.”
you hold your daughter, who is drifting in between sleep and wakefulness, close to your body. zuko’s thumb rubs across the back of your hand, searching for forgiveness before he continues.
“i will never know how you felt back then, when i was gone, but i know now the power of absence. you have been gone from our bed mere days and i cannot sleep, i cannot eat, i can think of nothing but you. and i know that my safety is questionable on aang’s crusades. so.. i understand why you do not want me to go as often, if at all. i do enjoy a break from being the fire lord but i.. i never want you to think that i value my freedom more than you. i did not know the meaning of the word until you, until .. her.” his eyes drift towards your daughter, soft and longing.
“i know..” you admit quietly, freeing your hand from his grip to cup his cheek.
your thumb swipes across his scar, his eyes close like a dog being pet. your eyes sting with the threat of tears, but the closeness of him after days of distance overwhelms that part of you, a strange happiness patching any sadness lingering within. you tuck his hair behind his ear, his handsome face on display.
“you do?”
“of course i do, i married you for a reason, i know you value this family.. i was just hurt.”
“i know, baby, i’m sorry.. i’m gonna do anything and everything to make up for that.”
“this is enough for now.. i missed you.”
“yeah?” he smiles weakly, like he’s unsure if that's allowed. when you smile back, it grows more sure. he falls forward, arms wrapping around your waist and face resting against your stomach, “i missed you. so much. both of you.”
“i.. don’t mind if you go with aang every once and a while, but we need you here. safe.” your hand rests on his head, which he raises to look at you once more.
“i know. i’m gonna be better. i’ll be around so much you’ll both get sick of me.”
he stands, offering his hand for you to do the same, which you do. you calmly offer him your daughter, his face lights up. his back straightens, like weight upon weight are being rolled over his shoulders one by one. he takes your daughter in his arms, kissing your temple.
“our chambers have been so quiet without you, you’ll come back right?” you nod. “right now?” you smile at his eagerness, hand resting on his arm.
“sure, lord zuko, let’s go, i am dying for a nap on an actual bed. you’ll watch her right?” he leads you out of the room, and down the hall, baby in his arms as he wears the widest grin you’ve ever seen on his face. It’s infectious, bleeding onto you and making your lips curl upwards.
“yeah, i’ll watch her,” he looks at you with a sincerity you’ve never seen, “we’ll be right where you left us when you wake up, promise i’m not going anywhere anytime soon.”
summary | wally notices something about your smile that makes him frown
cw | fem! reader
He'd only meant to step away for a few seconds. Just to refill your glass of water, but then he'd gotten sidetracked by Donna, and a few seconds turned into minutes. By the time he's sliding back onto the couch next to you, arm sliding to rest around the back of your shoulders, your smile has dimmed.
The smile Wally loves more than anything was nowhere to be seen as you sat across from Garth, listening to the Atlantean's tales of what he's been up to over the past few months.
Sure, as soon as Wally sidles up to you, that pretty smile's returned, if a little smaller than he's used to.
Wally's always been a man of science. He's formed a hypothesis, now to gather the evidence.
He watches you carefully over the next few days, waiting to see your smile dip, your shoulders slump, anything to indicate you're not happy being around him or others.
He asks around your friends, the Titans, and League members, gathering enough objective data that can't be seen as biased.
Roy looks at him like he's grown a second head when Wally asks, "Dude, I don't think I've ever seen her smile if you weren't there too." Roy's laughing, but Wally doesn't find the humour in the situation.
"She's quiet when you're not around." Kori agrees easily, like Wally's heart's not breaking further and further.
Dinah tries to reassure him, says it's cute how easily you light up around Wally, but still, he can't help but wonder how much of it is you just pretending. Pretending to smile just for him so you don't hurt his feelings when you're clearly exhausted.
He sees it the second he walks into your room that night. You'd been reading peacefully, the new book you'd been excitedly telling him all about, only to perk up after you noticed his presence.
"Wally!" You beam, book forgotten as you practically leap out of bed to get to him, and Wlaly watches, heart aching as your smile dims.
"Wally?" You cup his cheeks, and he nearly has to look away from the concern shining in your eyes.
"You don't have to pretend with me, you know?" He turns his head, kissing the palm of your hand before reaching up to lace your fingers with his.
Your brows furrow in bewilderment. "Wally, what?"
"To smile." He clarifies, "I know I can be... a lot, but you don't always have to try and match my energy if you don't feel like it. I won't be upset. I love you, and I just want—don't pretend to be happy just for my sake."
You don't respond straight away, a deep frown decorating your face now. "Wallace West, I don't know where you got such a ridiculous idea—"
"It's not ridiculous, you're never that excited to see anyone else—why are you laughing?"
"I'm never excited to see anyone else because they're not you, silly boy. You could spend hours ranting about the colour green, and I'd still enjoy every second of it because I'm with you."
He blinks, cheeks flushing, and butterflies swarming in his gut, voice an embarrassing squeak, "really?"
"Really." You giggle, wrapping your free arm around his waist before leaning in to kiss him. It should be a little embarrassing how quickly he melts into your embrace, but well, how couldn't he, when it's you?
Summary: When Wally gets hurt on a mission, you're willing to sacrifice everything—including your own life—to get him out. In the afterglow of the incident, you and Wally struggle to cope in your own ways
Word Count: 4.9k
Content/CW -> canon typical violence, evil robots, near death experience, reader is a hero who uses a revolver, traumabonding, codependency, avoidance, emotional immaturity, angst -> comfort
froggi yaps -> channeling all my yearning into wally this week </3 i fear this is only 1/3 of the angsty wally fics i have ;-; tysm to pookie bear @kitkatscabinet for reading this for me <3 mwah
Your hands are red, your arms are red, everything is red. You stare owlishly at the speedster in front of you, barely conscious and bleeding out on the pavement. Your hands, once pressed over his wound, are too slick with blood to stop it now.
You’re so screwed.
Chaos still ravages the city around you, your ears numb and full of cotton from the sounds of explosions. Your allies are gone, your comms are fried and your hope of getting an extraction died the second Wally got hit.
“Come on, come on, come on,” you say, desperately wracking your brain for a solution.
Wally groans uselessly in response. Not that you can blame him—there’s a gash in his side spanning from his chest to the small of his back.
“Okay, think. Think.”
But your head is spinning and it’s so damn loud and Wally is running out of time. You take a deep breath, lungs burning from the smoke lingering in the air. Your head clears, the adrenaline kicks in.
“First things first,” you mumble, more to yourself than anything, “stop the bleeding.”
Stop the bleeding, get Wally on his feet, get the fuck out of here. You’re not sure how you’ll achieve that last part when the streets are clogged with killer robots and your allies are nowhere to be found. You’ll just have to burn that bridge when you get to it.
You tear at your clothes until they’re barely shreds, tying the fabric together until it’s long and wide enough to clamp down over his wound. Wally whines when you pull it taut over his body but you hush him with a hand over his mouth and an apologetic, if forced, smile.
You’re sure you must look ridiculous. Covered in his blood, your costume in tatters, but it doesn’t matter right now. The only thing that matters is getting Wally out alive.
Alive. You cringe at the alternative, the very real reality you almost glimpsed when one of the larger robots had taken a swipe at you only for it to be parried by the speedster. The sound of its blade against flesh followed by the thunk of Wally against the ground still rings in your ears.
“Alright, Walls,” you breathe. “This is gonna hurt. Sorry.”
You squat over his legs, slipping your arms under his armpits and hauling him to his feet. His face twists into a mask of pain and your heart wrenches.
“Sorry, sorry.”
He stumbles and falls into you, the weight of his body almost taking both of you back to the ground. Somehow, probably due to the adrenaline swimming in your veins, you manage to catch him and keep yourself steady.
His head falls into your shoulder, hair tickling your neck, and you ignore the way butterflies bloom in your body. Now is not the time.
With Wally hanging over your shoulder, you start to move the two of you closer to the streets. By the few things you’re able to hear, the street ahead of you has cleared out. Sweet relief floods you.
The next twenty steps are the hardest you’ve taken in your life. The strain of keeping both you and Wally up while also keeping watch for the robots has your head aching.
You’re almost to the next street when a shot goes off. You flinch. Despite all of your training, despite how many gunshots you’ve heard in your life, you flinch. A robot appears in front of you, gun whirring to life.
You barely have time to duck into the alleyway next to you, taking refuge behind a dumpster, before the bullets start to rain. Wally’s eyes snap open, less cloudy than before. His healing must be kicking in.
“W-what?”
You swallow, reaching for your own revolver. “It’s—it’s gonna be okay. Just...stay put.”
And you force yourself to stand despite how badly you’re shaking, force yourself to push forward and face your oncoming attacker. Your hand shakes on the handle of your gun. Every bone in your body tells you to turn back.
You’re one person, all you have is a gun full of nonlethal rounds. But you can’t let it get to Wally.
It takes another step forward, clanking with every motion.
You won’t take him from me, I won’t let you.
You fire and by some miracle, the bullet goes right through the eyesocket of the robot. It explodes, crumbling into pieces . Your ears ring, the sound washing away the world around you and making your head throb.
You duck back into the alley to check on Wally only for hot, searing pain to flare in your thigh. You suppress your scream, forcing yourself to slide back against the wall. Blood drips down your skin, coats the ground, spreads beneath you.
You’re the luckiest motherfucker alive given the bullet just grazed you. The pain only drives more adrenaline through your body, your heart working overtime to keep up.
You can hear the loud clanks of more bots closing in on you, at least three of them by your count. Your leg is burning, your muscles ache from carrying Wally. You’re not sure you can get up, not with how the pain seems to radiate up your leg and eat away at the muscle.
You look at Wally, dozing against the wall, his face twisted in pain. You can’t let them get to him, can’t let him get hurt again.
You force yourself to your feet, reloading and taking a breath before peaking out. You shoot one, two. They both drop. More flood the streets, eyes glowing red and focused solely on you.
Fuck, you don’t have enough ammo for this.
You spare a glance to Wally. You’re going to have to make do.
You fall into a routine of shooting a few, ducking away to reload and shooting more. They just keep pouring in, though. Damn these evil billionaires and their infinite army of robots.
Wally looks at you through half-lidded eyes, dazed from the scene around you. He tries to force himself to his feet, clearly sensing you can’t possibly fight them all off alone, before he collapses. Something close to fear fills his eyes,
You force a smile. “I-it’s okay. I’m gonna get us out of this, okay? I won’t—they won’t get to you.”
His eyes widen, mouth opening like he has something to say only for him to cough up blood. His ribs must be broken, not mended soon enough by his superior healing.
Your hands are shaking again. You know what you need to do to get out of this, your hail mary practically glowing as it approaches you. You’re just not sure you’ll be able to do it, locked in on the fear and pain and adrenaline.
You don’t have a choice, though. Not if you want to get Wally out of this.
Stepping back into the fray, you brandish your gun. Come on, come on. You let the bots get closer and closer, congregating into a thick crowd before you take a deep breath, relax your muscles and go for the shot.
Bullseye, you hit one of the bots in the middle directly in the head. He explodes, causing a chain reaction. You just barely manage to dive into Wally, shielding his body with yours, as the bots blow up one by one.
Shrapnel flies every which way, imbeds itself in your body, narrowly misses your skull. You keep steady, eyes squeezed shut as you pray for Wally to make it out. Wally, not you.
It feels like hours before you peel yourself away from him. Your back is sticky with blood, arms aching from where tiny pieces of metal have embedded themself in your skin. It’s fine, you’re fine. You can keep going as long as they don’t take him from you.
You manage to get Wally back up against you, his sudden awareness making it easier for you to carry him. He has a frown on his face, eyes locked onto the blood dripping down your body.
“You’re—” He coughs wetly, “you’re hurt. P-put me down.”
“No.”
“You’re hurting yourself, put me down.”
“I won’t let them take you from me, Wally,” you say and your face is suddenly wet and the tears won’t stop coming. “If I let you go…”
He tries to pull himself away but only succeeds at making you stagger, the pain in your leg doubling. You grit your teeth, tightening your grip on him and forcing yourself forwards.
You make it another few blocks with no interruptions, Wally clearly too exhausted from his injuries to argue with you any more. Every step brings more pain, stars blossoming in your vision. Just a little further, a little further and you can rest. A little further and you’ll be fine.
Your blood runs cold when you hear the same clanking footsteps as before. You’re in the middle of a street, no alleyways to duck behind. There’s a car next to you that might serve as cover but that brings the next issue: you’re almost out of bullets.
There’s no way you can fight your way out of this one, not when seven robots round the corner. You’re screwed. You’re not going to make it. But maybe, just maybe, you can protect Wally.
You manage to get the two of you behind the car, hugging him tightly in a way that shields his body with your own. “I’m really sorry, Walls,” you sob into his shoulder. “Please forgive me.”
And you brace yourself for what’s going to come. The gunfire, the smell of smoke, the pain. You wait for it, muscles tense anticipating the worst.
It never comes.
You blink and suddenly Nightwing is at your side, prying you away from Wally. He grabs Wally off of the ground, pulling him from your grasp. Instinctively, you lash out, trying to grab back the man you’ve been protecting this whole time.
You scream, more tears falling down your face. “Stop, stop! Don’t take him, please.”
Roy Harper is suddenly in your line of sight, cold hands clasping at your cheeks. “You need to calm down. It’s okay, he’s just going to the jet. We’ll be right behind him. It’s okay. Deep breaths.”
You shake your head lip trembling like a child while you watch Dick and Kori haul Wally into the jet. Roy frowns at you, hand cupping your chin and turning your head so he can examine your injuries.
Despair sinks in, the adrenaline that’s fought it off for so long dissipating. The pain in your body grows and grows, the exhaustion fighting its way to the surface.
“Hey guys, need some help over here!” Roy yells.
Victor is sprinting towards you guys when you open your mouth to speak only for blood to pour out. You wipe it on the back of your hand, looking at Roy with wide eyes.
The world falls away around you.
Wally can’t move. His injury is healed, his legs work just fine, but he can’t move. He can’t take his eyes off you, every blink only opens the wound in his chest and makes him bleed and bleed until he’s dry.
His hand is clasped around yours, your skin colder than usual, fingers probably numb from how they’ve been hanging over the side of your bed. He tries to warm them between his palms but all of his attempts are futile.
The rain outside is just loud enough to drown out his thoughts but does nothing to quell the misery. You’re hurt, you’ve been sleeping on and off for the past three days. You haven’t been conscious longer than a few minutes.
It’s only a small mercy you were able to stay in your room at the tower.
You’re dressed in his sweatshirt. He told everyone it was to keep you warm, but that was a lie. He just couldn’t bear to see the IV in your arm and all of the healing wounds on your body. It hurt worse than anything—anything—he’s ever experienced.
Every minute, Wally fights the urge to get into that damn bed with you. Fights the urge to wrap his arms around you and sob into your neck and beg you to be okay. Because you have to be okay. You’re not allowed to die, least of all for him.
He’s never felt so fucking useless in his life.
I won’t let them take you from me, Wally. Your words echo in his mind, the look on your face seared into his eyes like pictures on an old tv. You were scared. Terrified, shaking. And he couldn’t do a damn thing to help you.
I-it’s okay. I’m gonna get us out of this, okay? I won’t—they won’t get to you.
You were going to die for him. You were ready to die for him. He saw it in your eyes, saw the exact moment your resolve broke. He could feel the steady sway of your heart when you’d shielded him with your body and felt the minute you gave up on fighting. On living.
I’m really sorry, Walls. Please forgive me.
He wasn’t worth it. Looking at you, wounded and out cold, he can’t help but think it. He wasn’t worth it. He would’ve been better off if you’d left him to die.
And the team. Where was the fucking team when you needed them? When you were fighting off hordes of robots, when you were going to die, where were they?
Wally tries not to think about it but then the tears start coming and they don’t stop. He takes a deep, shaking breath and wipes at them with the back of his hand and still they don’t stop. And he’s not thinking straight now, not when he stands up and crawls into the bed with you, gently pulling his body against yours.
He can’t be without you anymore, not a minute longer. Every inch of distance is like a million hooks through his skin.
He presses his face into your neck, breathing in your scent, wetting your skin with his tears. “I’m sorry,” he sobs, “I’m so fucking sorry.”
And Wally must be the unluckiest luckiest man in the world because he swears he hears you breathe out a small, “it’s alright.”
He pulls away just slightly, eyes narrowed in confusion only to widen when they meet yours.
“Hi,” you say quietly.
“H-hi.” Is all he manages.
Wally is glued to your side for the next few days, like your own personal bodyguard. Your wounds take much longer than his to heal, your muscles weak and achy, so Wally does almost everything for you. No matter how much you insist you can pour your own cereal and make your own bed, he doesn’t let you.
“It’s the least I can do,” he always says, a hollow smile on his face and that warm look in his eyes.
The same look he’s been sporting since you woke up, since you saved his life at the expense of your own.
You sleep together, too. The first half of the night is spent pretending like you won’t, like the two of you are stable enough to sleep apart after everything you went through. The second part of the night is spent with Wally crawling into your bed, pulling your body flush to his and holding you like you’ll slip through his fingers if he lets go.
You almost did, you remind yourself sometimes. You almost died, almost left him forever, and it would have been worth it if you could’ve given him one more day alive.
The two of you have been benched pending your recovery, both mental and physical. Though Wally had tried to argue it, had actually yelled at Dick and Donna about the decision, they hadn’t budged. It was for the best, you thought.
The idea of him leaving your side, of going out into the world again where you can’t protect him, makes you sick.
“You’re warm,” Wally murmurs in the early hours of the morning, the sunrise turning your room pink and gold. He slicks a hand over your head, lips ghosting in the wake of his palm, “how’re you feeling?”
It’s odd to see him like this. Quiet, all of those Flash Facts and wise cracking-ness gone, scooped away from him and replaced with this: the horrible, burning need to take care of you.
“Sleepy,” you admit.
He smiles but it’s a ghost of the ones he used to sport. “Me too.”
You push your face further into his chest, nuzzling into his shirt like a cat in the sun. It’s like he’s been moulded to fit your body, like the past few days together have carved pieces of the two of you away until you fit flush like a two piece jigsaw puzzle.
You trail a hand down his side, fingertips curling under the hem of his shirt and tracing along his hip bones. “You can sleep more, Walls. I’m not going anywhere.”
You look up at him through your lashes only to see the glimpse of something pale and ugly and afraid, but just as soon as you see it, it passes. He shakes his head, hand on the small of your back drawing you in closer.
His eyes are lined with purple bags, the red strung throughout his irises making the flecks of colour in his eyes pop. He’d be pretty if you weren’t so worried about him, if he weren’t so hollow.
“You look exhausted…”
“I’m fine.”
You frown but decide to drop the argument.
It’s another week before you recover. Recover, the word makes you scoff. Your wounds are mostly healed over, though scarred, and your muscles still ache. It’s been less than two weeks without fighting and standing in the ring with Roy, you feel more than out of commission.
“We’ll take it nice and slow,” he assures, though you’re not sure if he’s talking to you or to the redhead sideyeing the two of you. “Just get you back into the swing of things.”
You nod, using your tongue to adjust your mouthguard. You think it’s a silly addition but after Garfield lost a tooth sparring with Dick, he’d forced all of you to wear one. Minus Kori and Donna, of course.
Roy counts down slowly, eyes still assessing you until he reaches one and then he’s dropping low to the ground and kicking a leg out at you. It’s slower than usual, giving you more than enough time to leap over him. You thrust an elbow behind you as you do, hoping to catch him between the shoulder blades but Roy’s too fast.
He ducks, slides and grabs your elbow, using your momentum to send you backwards. You stumble, tripping over your weakened ankles, but somehow you manage to stay upright. Roy takes advantage of your dazed state and throws a punch that you barely manage to dodge.
You jab, he sidesteps, he punches, you dodge. You spin in a circle, bouncing on your heels just to keep some movement while you spar. You get greedy, you try to sweep his legs only to stumble back. Roy uses the opportunity to press a forearm to your throat, taking the two of you down on the mat.
Your back hits the ground hard and the wind is knocked out of you. You cross your arms and raise them above your head, anticipating Roy’s fall on top of you only for it to never come. You blink. He’s gone.
Wally has him pinned against the wall across the room, the speedster breathing heavily. He looks between you and Roy, wide eyed and distracted. His forearm is tensed over Roy’s chest, keeping him tight against the wall, while his gaze is locked onto you.
“Jesus, Wally!” Roy smacks his arm away, ducking under it. “What the hell, man?”
He blinks, lips twisted in a frown, before retreating to your side. “Sorry,” he says lamely.
No stupid jokes, no innuendo, no challenge. Yeah, Wally West might be thoroughly broken.
He offers you a hand up, tugging you up and into his arms, hugging you tightly. You let yourself fall into him, basking in the warmth of his body and the security of his hold.
Roy makes a noise of disgust, grabbing his water bottle and leaving the two of you behind. Left alone in the training room with just Wally, you can’t help but wonder if either of you will ever feel normal again.
Wally West is a ghost.
He’s gotten better over the past few days. He’s rejoined the team in the field, he cracks his stupid jokes, he commandeers the tv in the living room to play loud annoying video games. But something’s different.
He doesn’t crawl into your bed anymore, doesn’t trail after you to help make breakfast or clean your room. He barely talks to you at all anymore, actually. Whenever you enter a room, he seems to disappear. Anytime you get close to him, he shifts away.
You try to pretend it doesn’t hurt and swallow away the pain in your chest.
But sometimes, like right now, you can’t pretend. Not when it’s two in the morning and you can’t sleep and you’re quietly knocking at his door only for him to not answer.
You try to keep your voice even and quiet, even though you’re certain most of your teammates are still awake. “Wally?”
There’s no answer.
You rap your knuckles gently against his door again. “Walls? Can I come in?”
Still nothing.
A sigh passes through your lips as you slide down his door, wrapping the blanket you’d taken from your bed tighter around yourself. “I-I’m sorry if I upset you.”
You tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut. Even on the ground, no pillow and hard wood beneath your tailbone, you feel infinitely better here than you did in your own bed. Anything to be closer to Wally.
“I don’t know what I did but…we can talk about it,” you say, starting to drift off to sleep. “I-I don’t want to lose you.”
The world darkens and blurs, uneasy sleep falling over you.
You wake up in your own bed, the blankets tucked neatly around you and your head angled on the pillow just the way you like it. You blink. Hadn’t you fallen asleep outside of Wally’s room? Did he move you?
Something ugly and cold twists in the pit of your stomach. He wouldn’t just leave you, would he?
You don’t linger in bed as long as you usually do, don’t bask in the morning sun streaming through the curtains. Instead, you force yourself out of bed, kicking on your slippers and tugging the nearest sweatshirt—Wally’s sweatshirt—over your head.
You’re not sure why he’s avoiding you or what you did wrong, but you know one thing: it ends today.
Any hope of confronting Wally dies when you see his room empty, his presence cleansed from the tower. His room, the training range, the common areas, the kitchen—they all come up empty. Dread sinks in.
You text him only for the message to be left on delivered. You call him and it goes straight to voicemail. A cold panic coils around you and tightens until you can't breathe.
You raise your arms above your head and try to focus on the texture of the rug beneath your feet but it doesn’t help. He’s gone, he’s missing, he’s hurt. They took him, oh god, you’ll never see—
“Woah, hey.” Roy sets a firm hand on your shoulder, ducking down to face you. “Are you okay?”
You claw at your tightening throat, tears in your eyes, and shake your head. You breathe, quick and shallow, but the air won’t come. Black spots dance in your vision.
“Shit, okay, come here, sit down.”
Roy guides you to the couch, sitting you down next to him. “Deep breaths,” he says, “in for five seconds, hold, out for five. You can do that, yeah?”
You stutter on your first few attempts, your heart pounding so fast you fear it’ll burst. In, hold, out. In, hold out. It should be easy and yet, your lungs refuse to inflate.
Slowly, you come back to yourself, the world getting sharper and your breaths getting more even. The burning in your chest soothes, the tears stop coming.
“Thanks,” you say weakly.
“Anytime.” Roy looks around the room uneasily, “is Wally around?”
You cringe. “No, I think—I think he’s been avoiding me.”
Roy chews on his lip, considering what you’ve just said. You’re almost certain he’s reflecting on the training incident the other day, the way Wally had ripped him off of you and pinned him to the wall.
“Do you know where he is?”
“I don’t, but you know Dick will.”
Bingo.
It’s late by the time you make it to Wally, dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans and hiding out on the roof of some condemned building across town. There’s a half-finished beer bottle in his hand, the lime wedge bobbing along in the bottle.
“Mind if I sit?” You call.
He doesn’t react, clearly aware of your presence long before you said anything. He says nothing but gently pats the concrete ledge next to him. An invitation.
You side step the cooler behind him and settle in, legs dangling over the rooftop. The night is warm, the breeze around you gentle on your face. You keep a few inches between you and Wally, careful not to touch him until he’s ready.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
He casts his gaze to the street below, unable to look at you. “I know.”
“Well—why?”
He says nothing, turning his head away from you, eyes hidden by his mess of windswept red hair. His hands fidget in his lap, vibrating nervously.
“Wally,” you say. “Wally, the least you could do is look at me.”
Silence and then, “I can’t.”
“You can’t?” Frustrating burns at your nostrils and pricks at your eyes, “what, I save your life, you feel bad for a few days and now I’m nothing to you?”
Wally’s heart drops at the sound of your voice, sad and broken and scared, but he can’t bring himself to speak. The pressure on the floodgates inside him have only been building since the incident and he fears that if he speaks now, they’ll burst and the flooding will never stop.
“You know why I saved your life, Wally?”
He hums lowly.
“It wasn’t noble or selfless or any of that bullshit hero stuff.”
His head snaps up, confusion on his face. He opens his mouth to speak but you’re on a tangent now, the words bubbling up.
“I just didn’t want to be without you. I couldn’t bear the thought of being away from you and I-I couldn’t let them take you from me. I’m selfish, okay? I think saving you is the most selfish thing I’ve ever done.”
His lips part, an inaudible gasp slipping through. He says your name but it’s your turn to look away, heat burning beneath your skin at your sudden confession. It might just be the most embarrassing thing you’ve admitted out loud.
“Please look at me.”
You shake your head, biting your lip to keep the tears from slipping out.
A harsh gust of wind blows in your face, the warmth of the evening starting to dull into the cold of the night. You draw your arms around yourself just to keep warm.
“You almost died,” his voice breaks on the word. “You almost died and fuck, I was useless to help you. I—all I could do was watch. You almost died and I fucking sat there.”
You look at him with wide eyes. “Walls…”
“I’ve never been that scared in my life. I’ve never felt that useless in my life.”
“You were hurt, I was trying to protect you.”
His eyes burn with tears, the green more prominent. “You shouldn’t have had to. And now that’s all I see when I look at you. You, almost dying and me being fucking useless and now all I want to do is make it up to you and it’s—fuck, it’s messing with my head.”
“Wally.”
“It hurts me to see you hurt, it hurts me to not see you at all. I don’t—I don’t know what to do anymore.”
“Walls…”
“And I love you so much it makes me sick, it makes me sick and all I want to do is run until I can’t feel it anymore.”
“Wally, stop.”
He’s breathing heavily, mouth agape as he looks at you. You’re both crying now, the tear streaks on your face matching his. You reach for his hand, intertwining it with yours.
“You love me?”
He swallows, throat bobbing. “More than anything.”
You’re not sure who leans in first, whose lips connect with whose, but suddenly his lips are on yours and he tastes like everything you’ve ever wanted. You tangle a hand in his hair, ravenous for his touch.
You let your eyes flutter closed and suddenly you see every 11:11, every birthday candle, every coin you threw in a wishing well, and it all leads to Wally.
He’s smiling when you pull away, a hand cupping your cheek, thumbing at the leftover tears on your skin.
“I love you, Wally,” you say, eyes locked with his, “until time stands still.”
“Until time stands still,” he says, cupping your other cheek and leaning in to kiss your forehead. “And even after that.”
dc masterlist | navigation
thanks for reading & have a wonderful weekend /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡
Hello! I was wondering if you’d be cool to explore an unserious scenario within the modern AU on the Akotsk guys reacting to their gf’s doing the ‘I hate my bf’ trend on tiktok😭? No worries if not, and thank you so much for your time🤎!
ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 doing the #ihatemybf trend with AKOTSK! men
˚˖ ft . baelor, maekar, valarr, daeron, aerion and dunk.
⋆˚࿔ baelor
⋆˚࿔ maekar
⋆˚࿔ daeron
⋆˚࿔ valarr
⋆˚࿔ aerion
⋆˚࿔ dunk
a / n: thank you anon !! i had such a great time doing it.
He had meant to say no the moment his wife appeared in the doorway of his chambers well past midnight, wrapped in a dark cloak over her nightdress, hair loose down her back, eyes bright with the sort of wicked excitement that never led anywhere respectable.
He had meant to say no when she climbed onto the edge of his bed and took his book from his hands.
He had especially meant to say no when she smiled and said, very sweetly, “Do you love me?”
Because when his wife began with Do you love me? it was never because she doubted the answer.
It was because she intended to use it against him.
Valarr looked up at her from where he sat against the carved headboard, one knee bent beneath the coverlets, and sighed in the long suffering way of a man who had already lost.
“That,” he said, “depends entirely on what you want.”
She gasped softly and pressed a hand to her chest. “How cruel. You make me sound manipulative.”
He gave her a look.
She smiled.
Moonlight poured pale through the lattice windows, silvering her skin, catching in her hair. She was lovely enough in the daylight to make songs seem foolish things, but at night soft with sleep she had not yet taken, conspiratorial and glowing and dressed in white beneath black velvet she seemed built deliberately to destroy what little judgment he possessed.
She climbed fully onto the bed then, kneeling in front of him, and settled both hands on his chest.
Valarr’s own hands rose to her waist at once.
They always did.
He touched her as though he’d been born with the instinct.
“What do you want, sweetling?”
“There is wine in Lord Redwyne’s private cellar,” she said.
Valarr closed his eyes.
Of course there was.
“And?”
“And I wish to taste it.”
His eyes opened again. “You have wine.”
“Yes, but not that wine.”
“It belongs to Lord Redwyne.”
“Yes.”
“That usually means one ought not steal it.”
“I am not stealing it,” she said. “I mean only to borrow a bottle.”
Valarr stared at her.
She tilted her head and smiled as if she had said something entirely sensible.
Gods.
“My heart,” he said carefully, “you cannot borrow wine.”
“Why not?”
“Because once you drink it, it is gone.”
She thought about this.
Then, with maddening serenity, “Then I shall borrow it permanently.”
Valarr laughed despite himself, low and helpless.
His wife brightened instantly. “So you will come.”
“That was not agreement.”
“It sounded very close.”
“It was despair.”
“Mm,” she said, leaning nearer until her forehead brushed his. “You do despair so fondly.”
He should not have loved that line.
He did.
He loved everything she said to him in that soft midnight voice, as if the world narrowed after dark until there was only the two of them and all the things he was too proud to admit under the sun.
Valarr looked at her for a long moment. “If I refuse you, will you go alone?”
Her silence lasted one heartbeat too long.
He stared.
She smiled guiltily.
“You were going to go alone.”
“I had not yet decided.”
“You had a cloak on.”
“I like being prepared.”
“You were absolutely going to go alone.”
“Well,” she said, with the dignity of someone who had none to spare, “I am very persuasive. I may yet persuade myself.”
Valarr made a sound somewhere between a groan and a laugh and pulled her forward until she nearly toppled into his lap.
She caught herself with a delighted little noise, hands sliding to his shoulders.
“No,” he said into her hair. “You may not.”
“So possessive.”
“So tired,” he corrected.
“Of me?”
“Never of you.”
The answer came too quickly to be helped.
It always did with her.
His wife grew quieter for a moment, and when she drew back to look at him, there was mischief still, but softened around the edges by something warmer.
“You make it very difficult to remain wicked,” she murmured.
“Do I?” Valarr asked, thumb brushing the line of her waist through her cloak.
“Yes. Every time I think to become a menace, you look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I am something precious.”
Valarr frowned faintly, as if there were any other way to look at her.
“You are.”
The words slipped from him with no ceremony at all.
Her lips parted.
For one beat she was silent.
Then she recovered enough to say, “Well. That was unfair.”
“How so?”
“Because now if I ask you to commit crimes with me, it will seem romantic.”
Valarr laughed outright.
Gods, he adored her.
That was the true humiliation of it that she could be absurd, troublesome, impossible, and all he ever thought was yes, yes, still her, still mine, still the loveliest thing I have ever known.
She leaned in at once, pleased by his laughter, and kissed the corner of his mouth.
“Come with me,” she whispered. “Please.”
Valarr should have refused.
Instead, he slid one hand to the back of her neck and kissed her properly, slow and deep and doomed from the start.
When he drew back, she was smiling against his lips.
“That is not a no.”
“No,” he admitted softly. “It never is, with you.”
Her expression turned unbearably smug. “I know.”
“Brat.”
“My prince.”
“My trouble.”
That made her grin.
She loved when he called her things in that voice soft and low and full of helpless affection he no longer had the dignity to hide.
“Will you come, then?” she asked.
Valarr sighed, already moving to throw back the blankets. “If I do not, you will go without me.”
“Yes.”
“And if you go without me, you will absolutely get caught.”
“Perhaps.”
“You say that as though it is charming.”
“It is charming,” she said. “To you.”
He rose from the bed and reached for his boots. “To me, everything about you is charming. That is the problem.”
She watched him dress with infuriating satisfaction, perched prettily on the edge of the mattress like some victorious little thief.
“You are very whipped,” she observed.
Valarr glanced over at her. “You should not use words I cannot defend against.”
She laughed.
A quarter hour later, they were creeping through the corridors of the Red Keep with one lantern between them, his wife’s hand tucked firmly in his.
Valarr had insisted on that.
Not because she would get lost. Not because she would fall. Simply because if he was to be dragged into theft in the middle of the night, then he at least intended to keep a hand on her while it happened.
She swung their joined hands once as they walked.
“You are enjoying this,” she accused softly.
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“I am enjoying your company.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“It is to me.”
She looked over at him, moonlight and lantern glow catching at once in her eyes. “You say such dangerous things when you are sleepy.”
“I say them when I am awake too.”
“Yes,” she said, pleased. “But at night you say them like you mean them more.”
Valarr stopped walking just to stare at her.
“My love,” he said, “I have not spent a single waking hour of this marriage meaning them less.”
That did it.
That was the look he loved best not her wicked smile, not her triumphant smirk, but the brief stunned softness that came over her when he was too openly devoted for her to tease her way around it.
She squeezed his hand.
Then, because she was herself, she ruined the moment beautifully by whispering, “That was lovely. Now help me rob Lord Redwyne.”
Valarr nearly laughed loud enough to wake the castle.
The cellar door was, unfortunately, locked.
His wife crouched before it with all the confidence of a seasoned criminal.
“Do you know how to open it?” Valarr whispered.
“No.”
He blinked.
“You do not know how.”
“Not yet.”
“You brought me here without knowing how to get inside?”
“I brought you because you are clever.”
“That is flattery.”
“It is also true.”
Valarr shook his head, smiling despite himself, and reached for the key hung from the steward’s peg beside the archway.
She stared.
Then looked at him.
Then at the key.
Then back at him.
“You knew where the key was.”
“Yes.”
“You could have told me.”
“Yes.”
“You let me kneel on the floor looking industrious for no reason.”
“You looked very cute.”
Her mouth fell open.
Valarr smiled and unlocked the door.
She followed him inside in scandalized silence.
The cellar smelled of oak casks and stone. Racks of wine lined the walls, shadows lying thick between them.
His wife shut the door behind them and rounded on him at once.
“You called me cute to distract me.”
Valarr set the lantern on a barrel. “Did it work?”
“Yes.”
“Then it was effective.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You are impossible tonight.”
“And you,” he said, stepping close enough to smooth a loose strand of hair behind her ear, “are cute every night.”
Her expression faltered.
Only for a moment.
Then she drew herself up and said, “I am trying to be criminal and alluring. Do not make me adorable.”
Valarr made a helpless sound. “How am I meant to help it?”
She was, in fact, adorable. Even in the middle of a theft. Even with mischief shining in her face. Especially then, perhaps.
He adored all her forms.
“Pick a bottle,” he said gently.
She looked at the rows and rows of casks and bottles with immediate delight. “Any?”
“One.”
“Two.”
“One,” Valarr repeated.
“Very well,” she said grandly, selecting two.
He laughed under his breath and took one from her hands, setting it back.
She pouted.
“Do not do that.”
“Do what?”
“That face.”
“What face?”
“The one that makes me want to give you anything.”
She smiled slowly. “And do you?”
“Yes.”
“All things?”
He touched her cheek. “Without question.”
She went quiet again.
Valarr had discovered, over the course of their marriage, that she was only truly speechless in two situations:
when he kissed her senseless,
and when he loved her too plainly.
He was rather fond of both.
She chose a bottle at last, and together they made their escape with far less grace than she had imagined and far more success than he had feared.
They ended up on the roof above his chambers, wrapped in one cloak against the chill, sharing the stolen wine and trying not to laugh too loudly each time footsteps echoed somewhere below.
His wife leaned against his side, warm and bright and pleased with the world.
“This,” she declared, sipping from the cup, “is much better than a feast.”
Valarr took the cup when she offered it and drank where her mouth had been.
“Mm,” he said. “Because there are fewer lords.”
“And more stars.”
“And only one troublemaking princess.”
She smiled into his shoulder. “Your favorite kind.”
“My only kind.”
She shifted then, curling more fully into him, and he opened his arm at once to let her settle under it.
That was another thing the court had surely noticed by now: Prince Valarr Targaryen was seldom content unless his wife was touching him in some way. A hand at her waist. Fingers twined together. Her knee against his beneath a table. Her body tucked against his side when they slept.
He liked her near.
He liked her nearest.
At night, most of all, he gathered her into him as though sleep itself could not be trusted to keep her safe unless she lay in his arms.
His wife, for all her restlessness, always let him.
Sometimes she even sought him first in her sleep, all unconscious softness and warm limbs and trust.
It undid him every time.
“You are staring,” she murmured.
“I am looking.”
“You always look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you still cannot believe I am yours.”
Valarr brushed his lips over her temple.
“I cannot,” he admitted.
That made her laugh softly, but she tucked herself closer.
They finished the wine slowly, talking of nothing and everything, her feet in his lap, his hand rubbing absent circles over her ankle through her stockings. She told him which ladies at court secretly hated one another. He told her which knights had wagered on the tourney and lost heavily. She confessed she had once hidden a lady’s fan simply because the woman had spoken too sweetly to Valarr over supper.
He looked at her in delight.
“You were jealous.”
She sniffed. “I was right.”
“About what?”
“She wanted your attention.”
Valarr turned her face toward his with two fingers beneath her chin. “She did not have it.”
That pleased her. He could tell.
“And who does?” she asked.
Valarr kissed her once, slow and warm.
“You do, little love.”
Her lashes lowered.
He could never decide whether she liked his pet names because they softened her or because they reminded her she could.
Little love.
Sweetling.
My heart.
My trouble.
Darling girl.
He gave them to her as often as breath.
By the time they climbed back into his chambers, she was sleepy from wine and the late hour, all her earlier wickedness softened into languid affection.
Valarr undressed her himself cloak, gown, jewels, each set aside with quiet care and kissed whatever skin he uncovered simply because it was there.
She stood in her shift, smiling drowsily at him.
“You look very pleased.”
“I am.”
“Because we succeeded?”
Valarr drew her into his arms. “Because you are here.”
That made her hide her face in his shoulder for a moment, and he held her tighter, smiling into her hair.
When they finally slipped into bed, she curled toward the wall out of habit only to make the softest protesting sound when Valarr immediately pulled her back against his chest.
“There,” he murmured, settling one arm beneath her and the other around her waist. “Better.”
She laughed sleepily. “You are clingy.”
“Yes.”
“Possessive.”
“Yes.”
“Obsessed.”
At that, Valarr pressed a kiss to the back of her neck.
“Yes,” he whispered.
She turned in his arms then, slow and warm beneath the blankets, and draped herself over him instead, one leg sliding between his, her cheek against his chest.
His hand went to her hair at once.
“There you are,” he murmured.
“I moved half an inch.”
“It was a terrible half inch.”
She smiled against him. “Can you truly not sleep unless you are holding me?”
“No.”
“That is very dramatic.”
“It is also true.”
She lifted her head enough to look at him in the dark. “What would you do if I went away for a week?”
Valarr’s arms tightened immediately.
“I would not allow it.”
She laughed outright. “You cannot stop me from visiting my mother.”
“I would come with you.”
“That defeats the purpose.”
“What purpose could possibly require my suffering?”
She laughed again, then kissed his chest over his nightshirt and settled back down.
“My poor prince,” she mumbled. “So lovesick.”
Valarr looked up at the canopy and smiled to himself in the dark.
He was.
Hopelessly.
Gladly.
His wife shifted once more, tucking her cold feet against his leg.
He did not complain.
She always stole warmth from him in bed, and he always gave it.
After a few quiet moments, her breathing began to slow.
Valarr kept one hand at the small of her back, the other in her hair, thumb stroking lazily.
Just before sleep took her, she murmured, “Thank you for getting in trouble with me.”
His chest ached so sweetly it was almost pain.
“Always,” he said.
And because she was nearly asleep and therefore honest in a way daylight never quite allowed, she whispered back, “Good. I like when you come with me.”
Valarr closed his eyes and held her closer.
As if he would ever let her go alone.
Never his sweetling.
Never his little love.
Never his troublesome, lovely wife who drew disaster like stars drew sailors and then looked at him as though he were the answer to it.
Let her drag him into all the trouble in the world.
So long as she came back to bed after,
curled herself into his arms,
and let him love her there.
Want more..... Read this ...
Requests are open, feel free to message me specific scenes or ideas you’d like to see in my fics 💕
Summary: after a gruelling mission, Leon takes care of you
Word Count: 1.8k
Content/CW -> written w/ re9 Leon in mind (but could be read for any!), spoiler free!!!!, hurt/comfort, injuries, blood, mentions of death, non-sexual showering + nudity, Leon & reader are partners in the DSO, canon-typical trauma etc.
froggi yaps -> i haven't finished the game yet, any mentions of spoilers etc. will get you blocked!!! i have been sooo excited for this game for so long and i cannot believe it's finally here 🥺🥺 hope u all enjoy & have a lovely day
You’re shaking when Leon finds you.
Drawn into a corner in the dark of the room, the throw blanket torn off the bed and wrapped around your shoulders. You shake violently, eyes darting around the room like every shadow will mutate into something evil.
His lips tug into a frown. You look smaller like this, sadder. That fierce fighter he’d seen gone and replaced with a watered down version of yourself.
Clearly, the adrenaline has worn off.
He crouches down to your level, clocking the exact moment your gaze softens. Eyebrows fall, shoulders soften, lips part.
“Hey, talk to me.” He tilts his head, freshly washed hair falling in his face, “what’s going on?”
You take a shaking breath, lips quivering, before you let your eyes fall shut. “I-I—“
The words don’t come easily, not after what you’ve seen. What you’ve been through. The injuries you’ve sustained.
Leon’s frown only deepens. He’d known this was a bad idea right off the bat. Taking an analyst into the field, a rookie analyst, could only end terribly. Though you were meticulously trained—a requirement of every DSO agent—you’d hardly seen any action beyond what was shown to you on a screen.
Besides, Leon didn’t want a partner in the first place.
You were smiling when he met you, like the sun was trying to claw its way out from between your teeth.
You aren’t smiling anymore.
“I thought I saw something,” you finish finally.
Leon breathes through the moment, trying to find the right words. They don’t come easily to him, either. Year after year on the job and he still prefers the bottom of a bottle over talking.
He stiffens his spine. “Where?”
You point with a shaky hand to the closet of the motel room, dark and dingy, a shadow bursting from beneath it. You expect him to scoff. He doesn’t.
He only nods, tight lipped, before grabbing the knife strapped to your blood-stained thigh holster. His own guns and knives were currently locked in the safe, his tactical gear shed so he could clean days of blood and death of himself.
This will have to do.
He’s slow to approach the door, methodical, before he kicks it open and jumps back, swinging the knife in front of him. The closet is empty, save for an old housecoat that’s now suffered a pretty sizable gash.
He turns, only to see you’ve scrambled to your feet behind him on shaky legs. You’re terrified, heart hammering in your chest, and yet you still forced yourself to push on.
For him.
“There’s nothing there,” he nods to the closet. “You’re safe here.”
You swallow, humming in agreement. It was silly to be so worked up about this, silly to be so upset. And yet, in the moment, it felt so real.
You take a shaky breath, bracing yourself on the edge of the double bed that separates you and Leon. “Thank you.”
He takes you in. The dirty, torn clothes. The blood that soaks through them. The cuts and scrapes littering your skin.
“You should get cleaned up,” he says. “Might make you feel a bit better.”
Your eyes fall shut again, nails digging into the side of your thigh. A nervous tick, Leon’s learned over his time with you. Something you do to calm yourself when you’re scared, or worried, or nervous.
“I don’t—I’m—“
Again, your words fail you, catching on your traitorous tongue. Lucky for you, Leon knows. One look at you, those ocean eyes assessing the look on your face and the shake of your hands, and he knows.
“I’ll guard the door.” He forces a smile, meek and barely there, “I won’t let the shadow monsters get you.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
He has that defiant glint in his eyes. “I won’t let anything happen to you. Go wash up.”
It’s ten minutes later that you’ve managed to strip yourself of your work clothes and holsters. Standing in the steam of the bathroom, shower curtain open, you brace yourself to step in. Just two steps, and a close of the curtain.
That’s all it is.
Something so small and yet it feels like you’re climbing a mountain. Like the minute the water touches you and washes away the waste of the past few days, the trauma of it all will soak in.
Somehow, you force yourself into the shower, relaxing under the scorching water. Your wounds sting, a particularly bad gash on your side burning beneath the water.
You grit your teeth and take it. That’s what Leon would do.
You’re just rinsing your hair, reaching for the shampoo bottle, when it falls to the floor with a thud. You stare at the bottle, numb, before dropping to the floor after it.
You pull your knees to your chest, head resting between them. Breathe, breathe, you’re fine, just breathe.
You don’t hear the door burst open, or his footsteps. You only notice his presence when he calls out for you.
“You okay? What’s going on?”
“I’m fine,” your voice is tight with tears. “Sorry.”
“What happened? Are you hurt?”
You stay quiet, trying to breathe through the tears. Not in front of Leon, not right now.
The curtain slides open slightly, Leon ducking his head in. He has a hand slightly covering his eyes, hiding you from sight.
“You don’t need to worry about me—“
The tears come hot and heavy, your words choked and quiet, half-hidden beneath the stream of the shower. You know he hears, though.
“You’re crying.”
You can only hum in acknowledgement.
“I—fuck, tell me how I can help you.”
It’s so genuine that it has your heart stopping in your chest. You swallow, swiping the tears on the back of your hands. You breathe easier when he’s nearby.
“I dropped the bottle,” you say. “I don’t think—Leon, I can't move.”
And it’s the truth. You’ve been rooted to the spot, finally giving up after days of forcing yourself to persevere.
“Okay,” he says. “Okay. Do you need me to grab it for you?”
“Yes, please.”
He’s cautious uncovering his eyes, keeping them rooted to the yellowing walls of the shower. He doesn’t care that the sleeves of his shirt are getting soaked when he reaches in and grabs the bottle, doesn’t care when it comes to you.
He drops it in your lap. “There.”
Your hands are shaking when you grab it, unsteady. You can barely pop the cap open. It slides out of your hands, barely being caught by your folded legs.
Leon sucks in a breath. “I’m gonna help you, okay? Let me help you.”
You nod, eyes falling shut.
You listen for the sounds of his clothes hitting the floor, staying utterly still while he climbs into the tight space in the shower behind you. He settles in on the floor, legs on either side of you, and grabs the shampoo from your lap.
It’s a blur of soap and hands and warmth after that, Leon’s presence a comforting hum behind you. He’s stable, a constant, a good man in a storm.
He helps you to your feet, manhandling you so you’re standing under the stream of water. It drips down your back, washes the conditioner from your hair, drenches you completely. Leon stands in front of you, chest strong and scarred.
You try your best not to stare.
Satisfied you’ve been thoroughly rinsed, he tugs you into his chest and spins the two of you. He turns off the water and helps you out of the shower from there, keeping a hand on your waist and giving you his other for balance.
Leon shakes his hair out like a dog before draping a towel over your shoulders, letting you dry yourself off. He turns to face away from you, drying himself off again and pulling on the sweatpants he’d been wearing before.
You pause, only now realizing you’d forgotten your clean clothes in the trunk of his Porsche. “Fuck me,” you curse under your breath.
Leon raises an eyebrow. “What’s wrong?”
“I forgot my clothes in the car.”
He doesn’t even think before he tosses you his t-shirt, turning just in time to see it fall over you. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t savour the sight, didn’t like the way it rides up your thighs. His gaze stills on a fresh cut on your thigh.
“How’s that feeling?”
You glance down, self-consciously rubbing a hand over your thigh. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“Neither is anything in our line of work,” he scoffs. “Let me grab the first aid kit.”
He disappears for a minute, the anxiety in your chest swelling until that familiar head of blond hair pops back through the door. He has the red kit tucked under his arm.
You know the drill, hopping up on the counter to make it easier for him.
Leon rips open an alcohol pad, looking up at you seriously. “This is gonna hurt.”
“Way to sugarcoat it.”
His heart flutters at the soft smile on your face, quickly snuffed out by him dabbing the pad across your wound. You suck in a breath, digging your fingers into the counter.
“I know, I know.” He pats your thigh gently, “you’re taking it like a champ.”
He bandages you up, tending to the one on your side before finally letting you go. You’re dog tired by the time you get into the shitty motel room bed, your muscles aching.
Both of you are much too tired to care there’s only one bed, and a double at that. Part of you feels more soothed than anything, knowing Leon’s so close to you.
Leon keeps the lamp on for you. “Wake me up if you need anything.”
You nod, already knowing it’s going to be a long night.
You’re already awake when Leon seeks you out, reaching across the bed until his hand grasps at your hip. He doesn’t pull you, doesn’t get closer, just seeks you out.
“Leon?”
His voice is raspy with sleep. “Did I wake you?”
“I was already awake.”
He hums tiredly, “rough night?”
“Mhm.”
His fingers squeeze the skin of your hip. “I’m here, I got you.”
There’s something in his voice, something tight and locked up that you don’t quite recognize. You roll over to face him, resting a hand on his outstretched forearm.
“I got you, too.”
Leon engulfs you, pulling you fully into his body. Here, in the room, in the dead of night, it’s okay for him to hold you like this. For him to be so vulnerable. You let yourself relax into him, head pressed into the hard muscles of his chest.
He breathes you in, inhales your scent, lips pressed over the top of your head. “Goodnight.”
Valarr and f!reader ❛say that again. i dare you.❜ ❛desire❜ ❛enemies on the same side❜
⊹ ࣪ ˖ pairing: valarr targaryen x f!blackfyre!reader
⊹ ࣪ ˖ wc: 1.8k
⊹ ࣪ ˖ notes/content: enemies to lovers (reader is blackfyre sympathiser), sexual tension, pookie wants that cookie so bad he's frothing, really. No idea if I managed to hit the right note with him since this is first time writing him, but I kinda wanna pick him up by the scruff anyway. Enjoy!
Valarr Targaryen looks best in firelight.
Annoyingly so.
The war-tent is thick with it—braziers guttering along the canvas walls, making the map table swim in gold and shadow. Smoke curls with the damp stink of leather and horse and men too long on campaign. Outside, the storm still lashes the Blackwater shore; the canvas shudders on its ropes with every gust. Inside, it’s just you and him and the crackle of wet logs.
“You think too much of them,” he says, leaning over the painted rivers and carved tokens as if he means to throttle the whole rebellion with his bare hands. “Bandits with a borrowed banner. They’ll break as soon as we push.”
“Bandits don’t hold a bridge that’s slaughtered three of your scouts,” you rebuke, rolling your eyes. “Bandits run. These men dug in.”
Pretty little prince’s eyes flick to you. Mismatched, like his father Prince Baelor’s, but colder. Less patient. You feel the old, familiar prickle along your spine. Every time he looks at you, it’s like he’s measuring how deep to drive the knife.
“Funny,” he says, straightening. “I don’t recall you being so cautious when you rode under the other dragon.”
The words land between you like a slap. The other dragon. Blackfyre. Your dead husband’s sword. Your father’s choice. The treason that bought you this new life of oaths and sidewise glances—sworn now to the king who killed him, wearing their red and black over a heart that still remembers the black and red.
Enemies, you remind yourself harshly, bitterly. Enemies on the same side, for as long as it suits the realm.
“Caution is what your father brought me here for,” you answer evenly. “Or did Prince Baelor forget to mention that when he put this pretty pin on my cloak?”
You tap the small dragon sigil at your shoulder. The metal is cold; the weight of it isn’t. Valarr’s gaze follows the movement. He’s stripped down to his padded jerkin, hair damp from the rain, darkened in strips where it’s plastered to his temples. There’s mud on his boots and a smear of soot along his jaw. He looks less like a prince and more like what he actually is: a sword his father’s been honing ever since the last rebellion bled out on Redgrass, so the realm may one day have a strong king in him when it's his turn to sit the Iron Throne.
“That pin doesn’t make you loyal,” he argues, mouth thinning with scorn. “Our enemies don’t vanish because you changed cloaks.”
“And yours don’t vanish because you pretend I’m one of them,” you snap back.
He huffs a laugh, quick and sharp. “You were one of them.”
You feel your hand fist around the edge of the map. The canvas under your fingers crackles. “Say that again,” you tell him, voice overly calm. “I dare you.”
For a heartbeat, the tent is only wind and fire and your own pulse. Valarr’s eyes drop to your tight-knuckled grip on the table, then climb back up to your face. Slowly. Deliberately. As if he’s never been afraid of any dare in his life.
“You rode against my house,” he says softly, something cutting in his mellow tone. “You shared their tents, their food, their songs. You would have shared their victory, if they’d had one.”
“You think that sits easy?” The words rip free before you can stop them. “You think I don’t see every dead man’s face when I close my eyes? Yours among them, if the gods had picked different sides that day?”
His mouth tightens. You’ve never seen him flinch in battle, but this—this lands somewhere tender. You push on, because if you stop now, you’ll never say it.
“I am here,” you go on, breathing hard, “because both dragons burned the same fields and someone has to remember what that looked like. Because Prince Baelor knows victory isn’t worth a realm that hates itself. Because you don’t know when to stop.”
His jaw works, tension flickering. You can feel desire pounding along the same path as anger, hot and reckless. It’s always like this with him. Every argument is a skirmish. Every brush of hands on the map is a spark.
“You think I want war?” he demands hotly. “You think I enjoy pulling farmers out of their own hedges with pikes?”
“I think you enjoy being right,” you shoot back knowingly. “Even if it costs blood.”
He steps around the table. The breath catches in your throat before you can smother it. You don’t move, but it feels like retreat when you don’t. He stops on your side of the map, close enough that you can see the faint silver shot through his dark hair at the temples, the fine line of an old scar at his throat where armour didn’t quite meet mail. Close enough that the smell of him cuts through the tent: rain, steel, the sharp tang of whatever oil he uses on that sword he loves more than half the court.
“Look at me,” he says.
You do. Because you’re stubborn. Because you’ll be damned before you drop your eyes first. He studies your face like it’s a battlefield. You can almost feel him placing his tokens—here, the anger; there, the guilt; there, the stubbornness that made you keep fighting after your banner fell.
“I know exactly how much blood it costs,” he tells you, voice quieter now. “I was there when the hill went red. I was there when we burned the dead. Your husband among them.”
Husband. The word hits like an old bruise. You swallow over the swell in your throat.
“If this goes wrong,” Valarr goes on patiently, “if we are too soft, too slow, there will be another Redgrass. Another winter full of widows. I won’t let that happen.”
“So you’d rather ride blind?”
“I’d rather ride hard,” he argues. “And finish it.”
Your heart is a drum against your ribs. You can feel heat at the back of your eyes, at the pit of your belly, rising in ways that have nothing to do with the brazier.
“You’re not the only one who remembers the dead,” you choke out, words frayed. “Let me help you keep more men breathing. That’s all I’m asking.”
“And I’m telling you,” he counters, “you’re too close to this. They’ll use you if they get the chance.”
“Then don’t give them the chance.”
The challenge hangs there. His gaze drops to your mouth.
Desire hits you so hard it steals your breath. It’s been there for months, prowling the edges of every conversation. In the way he watches your hands when you speak. In the way you note how his shoulders roll under armour when he swings up into the saddle. In the way, both of you always, always find yourselves standing too close in crowded rooms.
You hate him. You want him. You hate that you want him. Enemies, you remind yourself yet again. On the same side. For now.
“You’re infuriating,” he says, very softly.
“So are you,” you fire back with an indignant sound. “Unfortunately for the realm, we’re all it has.”
That almost coaxes a smile out of him. Almost. He leans in, just enough that you can feel his breath stir a strand of hair at your temple.
“You dare me,” he says, ghost of humour in it. “To say it again. To call you what you were.”
“I dare you,” you echo. Your voice comes out lower than you meant. Rough.
He doesn’t. Instead, he lifts a hand—slow, as if giving you a chance to pull away—and lays two fingers over the pulse in your throat. Your heart trips hard under them.
“This is why you’re dangerous,” he murmurs. “Not because of where you’ve been. Because of where you are now. Standing in my tent, arguing like you have every right to, making sense and making me want to agree just to watch you light up when I do.”
Heat rushes up your neck. “Valarr.”
“You want me to trust you?” he asks. “Then understand this: if you ever turn that clever mouth and those old loyalties against my family again—if you even think of riding the other way—I will be the one who comes for you. Not Father. Not the king. Me.”
He’s so close now that if you lean in, your lips will brush his knuckles.
“And yet,” you murmur knowingly, “you keep me by your side.”
“I’m not sure if it’s strategy,” he admits. “Or something stupider.”
The laugh breaks out of you, helpless, frayed by nerves. “Desire?” you offer.
He huffs, breath warm on your skin. “Say that again. I dare you.”
You do. Because you’re reckless. Because he’s a dragon and you’ve already burned once, and some part of you has never stopped walking into the fire.
“Desire.”
Silence crashes down. His fingers flex against your throat like he’s holding himself back from closing that last sliver of distance. Enemies. Same side. One wrong move and everything shatters—the fragile trust, the place you’ve carved for yourself between dragons, the thin line of peace his father is breaking his back to hold.
He lifts his hand away. Air rushes in where his touch was.
“Tomorrow at dawn,” he says, straightening. His voice is back to Prince’s business, clipped and firm. “We cross at the shallows instead of the bridge. Use their barricades against them. That was your idea. Happy?”
It takes you a moment to find your own voice. “Yes.”
“Good.” He turns back to the map, jaw set. “Stay with the outriders. If there’s a trap, you see it first. You know how they think.”
He doesn’t look at you again. You watch the set of his shoulders, the tightness in his hands on the table edge. You chose this, you tell yourself. The realm over your ghosts. This man over the graveyard in your chest.
You turn to go.
“—and,” Valarr says behind you, almost too low to catch, “don’t die.”
You stop. “Was that an order, Your Grace?”
He finally looks back, eyes dark, something raw flickering there and gone.
“Consider it…strong advice,” he offers. “I find you useful.”
The word lands warm in your bones in ways it has no right to.
You incline your head. “Then try not to get yourself killed either,” you tell him mildly. “I’d hate to do all the interesting work alone.”
This time, the smile makes it to his mouth.
“Go,” he says. “Before I forget we’re on the same side.”
You duck out into the storm, breath sharp in your chest, rain slapping your face. Enemies, you think, as the wind snatches the heat from your skin. On the same side.
For now.
Desire burns anyway, low and stubborn, like a coal buried in ash, waiting for the next gust.
froggi yaps -> it's been so long since i did a multi-fic i feel like these lowkey suck :,) i had some planned for the other guys (jason, booster, bruce, clark, constantine) but couldn't commit to doing them rn </3 if this one does good tho i can do another part ^^ hope you guys enjoy
Dick Grayson (Roy):
Dick’s jaw drops when you walk into the bar, greeting your table of friends with a little wave before settling on Roy’s lap. Roy’s lap. His hand tightens around his glass.
The redhead raises his eyebrows, instinctively placing a hand on your hip to steady you. He tilts his head up, flashing you an easy grin. “Hey.”
“Hey,” you say casually, grabbing his glass of ginger ale and sipping on it.
In your peripheral, you can see Dick’s jaw clenched, fingers digging into his palms. Roy rubs his thumb in circles around your hip, ignoring the inquisitive stares coming from your friends.
You watch as Dick downs his whole drink and forces a smile. A breath, and then he’s back to normal, making conversation with Donna across the table.
The night is normal after that, laced with jokes and easy conversation. It’s so normal you’re beginning to think Dick’s forgotten about your antics now that you’ve moved from Roy’s lap to the seat between them.
It’s when you’re on your way out of the bathroom that shit hits the fan.
“So, you and Roy?”
He’s standing in the small nook where the bathroom doors lay, looking at you expectantly. His arms are crossed over his chest, muscles bulging out of his t-shirt.
You flinch at the sound of his voice, hand clenched over your chest in shock. You recover quickly. “Why do you care? We’re just friends, aren’t we?”
“Friends? I—” He laughs incredulously. “Is this because of what I said?”
You scoff and shake your head, shoving past him only for him to catch you by the arm.
“C’mon, don’t be like this,” he pleads. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
You spin around to face him. “Then how did you mean it, Dick?”
“I just meant that we aren’t dating.”
“So why does it matter so much to you if I flirt with Roy?”
He looks puzzled, brows knit together as he tries to find an answer for your question that doesn’t involve him confessing his feelings for you in the back of a bar. He doesn’t find one.
“I-I don’t know.” He runs a hand through his hair, “we’re not just friends, alright? It was—it was stupid for me to say that. Just, please stop flirting with my best friend.”
“Okay,” you say quietly. “Good to know.”
You retreat to the bar, getting another drink, while Dick returns to the table. You give it a few minutes, letting him stew before making your way back.
You’re about to sit back down on Roy when Dick catches your wrist, tugging you towards him. You stumble, falling into his lap. Your eyes widen, looking up at him curiously.
“No chance in hell,” he mutters into your ear, “nice try.”
Roy flashes you a thumbs up under the table. Mission accomplished.
Wally West (Kyle):
Wally’s clenching his glass so tightly it might break.
Standing in the corner of the bar, leaned against the wall and watching you dance with Kyle of all people, he can’t help but wonder what it would be like to toss the glass at his head. It’s a tempting thought, Wally’s fingers wandering up the side of the glass.
It’s payback. He knows it is. He hurt your feelings and now you’re taking it out on him via grinding on Kyle. It’s whatever. He’s not going to fall for it. Whatever.
It’s when the song ends and you press yourself real close to Kyle, laughing in his ear about something he said, that Wally really loses it. One minute, Kyle has a hand on your hip, basking in the radiant sound of your laughter, and the next, you’re gone.
The cold night air is unforgiving, clinging to the sweat soaking your skin. You shiver, wrapping your arms around yourself.
You scowl at the redhead who dragged you out here. “What the hell, Wally?”
He paces the alleyway in front of you, long strides casting dark shadows across the brick wall of the club. He has a hand in his hair, the other fidgeting nervously.
“Kyle? Really?” He laughs humourlessly, “he can’t even dance.”
“He dances better than you.”
Wally’s jaw falls open in offense as he clamps a hand over his chest.
“Why do you care, anyway? We’re just friends.”
“Yeah, cause friends fuck the way we do.”
It’s your turn to be shocked, turning your head away from him to try and hide it. “You’re—” You take a deep breath, fighting the heat rising to your face, “you’re the one who said we’re friends.”
“That doesn’t mean you can just—just go and fuck Kyle!”
You shake your head. “We’re not fucking, Wally. We’re dancing.”
You turn away from him, starting to leave the alleyway to get back in the club. Still, you can’t help yourself. “But, now that you mention it…”
Wally’s in front of you before you’ve finished blinking. He’s breathing heavily, a dark look in his eyes. He presses closer to you, squeezing out all the space.
“Don’t,” he breathes, “fuck Kyle.”
Something in his tone tells you to tread lightly. Something in your core tells you to press him more.
“Yeah? And what if I d—”
Wally’s lips are on yours before you finish speaking, his hands settling into your waist like they belong there. They roam your sides, feeling every inch of you. His tongue slips into your mouth, marking his territory.
He pulls away, looking at you seriously. “Come home with me, I’ll show you how friendly we are.”
Back in the club, Kyle smiles to himself. Your plan must have worked.
Roy Harper (Dick):
Roy almost faints when he walks in the living room, a necessary stop on his journey to grab a glass of water, and finds you and Dick snuggled up on the couch. He rubs his eyes, thinking this must be a result of a nightmare, but when the stars dissipate from his vision, the two of you are still laying there.
You’re face down in Dick’s chest, your head buried in his t-shirt. Dick’s laid down on his back, watching a movie while idly rubbing your back. It’s so domestic that it has Roy’s heart wrenching, his mouth suddenly dry.
Dick notices the redhead immediately, cheekily raising a finger to his lips to signal him to be quiet. He gestures to you with his eyes, putting emphasis on the fact you’re trying to rest.
Roy, with frustration bubbling up in his chest, does not give a fuck. “What are you guys watching? You look cozy.”
And just like that, your head is perking up, puffy eyes landing on Roy. There’s dried tears on your cheek, the skin around your eyes still wet and shiny from crying. Shit.
“I didn’t—fuck, I’m sorry.”
You push yourself away from Dick’s chest, untangling your body from his. “Can I speak to you for a minute?”
Roy only nods, not wanting to say anything else and risk upsetting you. You lead him back to your room, the gesture so familiar it has your heart hurting.
“Literally what is your problem?” Your voice is thick with tears, “can’t you leave me alone? Since we’re ‘just friends’.”
“You’re crying,” is all that he says, evidently stunned by your disheveled state. “Is that why you’re crying? Because of what I said?”
“Does it matter?”
His voice cracks. “You’re sad, of course it matters.”
You avert your eyes, suddenly unable to meet his gaze. Drawing your arms around yourself, you take a big step away from Roy. Like that will be able to keep this conversation from happening.
“It hurt when you said that, Roy.”
“So you go and cuddle up with Dick?”
“Jesus Christ.” You pinch the bridge of your nose, “he’s my friend. He was comforting me. And last I checked, according to you, friends do a lot worse than cuddle.”
He sucks in a breath. Touché.
“You either care or you don’t, Roy. Make up your damn mind.”
“I care, okay?” He runs a hand through his hair, “I care too much to see my best friend using you as a blanket.”
“But not enough to date me?”
He takes a deep breath and for a moment, you wonder if he’s going to leave. If he’s going to storm out and leave you here and never speak to you again. Instead, he does something that surprises you even more.
He drops to his knees in front of you, looking up at you through his lashes. He says your name, reaching up for a hand. Reluctantly, you peel a hand from your shoulder and offer it to him.
“There is nothing I want more,” he says seriously, “than to be with you.”
Your vision blurs with tears. “You mean it? No more mixed feelings?”
He kisses the back of your hand. “Promise.”
Kyle Rayner (Guy):
Kyle doesn’t think anything of it when you don’t respond to his good morning text. Barely even notices it when you choose to sit next to Guy instead of him. Forced himself to ignore the way you seemed glued to the ginger all day. But this? This—seductively biting your nail while rubbing a hand up Guy’s chest—cannot stand.
He stands in the corner and watches the two of you flirt, waiting for his time to interject. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, fingers clenched to his palms. Any minute now, there’ll be a lull in the conversation and he could pull you aside to talk this out.
‘Any minute’ doesn’t come for at least another ten minutes, your rampant flirting with his partner only growing to annoy him more and more. He’s pacing now, twisting the ring around his finger.
“Jeez, Rayner, can you cut that out? You’re making me nervous.”
Guy’s voice grates on him, adrenaline pumping through his chest. Kyle forces himself to take a deep breath, to think reassuring thoughts and then—
“Ignore him, he doesn’t know what he wants.”
It’s something in your tone that sets him off, that has him creating a bucket of water and dumping it over the top of you and Guy. He’s barely even registered he’s done it until you’re turning on him with a scowl, looking like a wet cat.
“Really, Kyle?” You scoff, “real mature. I’m soaking wet.”
“Yeah, you are.”
You ignore Guy’s innuendo, rushing out of the room to go and dry yourself off in the bathroom. You’ve pulled off your shirt, holding it under the hand dryer, when the door swings open and Kyle’s coming in and stammering an apology.
He barely pays any mind to your half-naked figure, too busy talking himself in circles. “I don’t know what came over me, seriously.” He tugs off his sweatshirt, tossing it to you to cover yourself up. “I’m so sorry.”
You catch his sweater, your own ruined shirt dropping to the floor. “No you’re not.”
He opens his mouth to speak but you beat him to it.
“What do you want, Kyle?” You pull his sweatshirt over your head, “you say we’re just friends and then you get all weird and jealous when I try to move on. It’s bullshit.”
And Kyle’s at a loss for words because you look so fucking cute in his sweatshirt, hair still damp and messy from the water.
“And you’re not even listening to me.”
You shoulder past him, about to leave the bathroom when he suddenly grabs your hand and spins you around to face him. He says nothing, only tugging you into his chest and holding you tightly.
“I don’t want you to be with anyone else,” he says quietly. “I don’t want to be just your friend.”
You nod slowly, letting his words sink in. And just as he’s pulling away, you squish your hand into one of your wet pockets, gathering the water and wiping it on the back of his neck.
Kyle cringes, loosening his grip. “I deserved that.”
Barry Allen (Hal):
Six laps. Barry’s done six laps of the planet, changed in and out of his costume in the bathroom, and eaten an entire burger in the time you and Hal have been playing pool. It’s not the game that bothers him, really. It’s the way Hal has his hands on you, bending you over the table and pressing himself into you.
The sight ties Barry’s stomach up in knots, the deluxe bacon cheeseburger he just devoured threatening to come up again. He sits back, watching the two of you play a game against Ollie and Dinah and trying to keep the jealousy from rising to his throat.
It should be him down there. Those should be his hands wandering too close to your chest. He’s about to take another lap when Hal’s crotch is suddenly flush with the swell of your ass and he can’t take it anymore.
One minute, he’s sitting on a bar stool and the next, the two of you are standing on a beach somewhere far, far away from Hal Jordan.
“Barry?” You frown, adjusting to your surroundings, “where are we?”
“...Brazil.”
“Brazil? I—why are we in Brazil?”
“Because Hal isn’t,” he mumbles.
“What?”
“Because I need to talk to you.”
You blink. “And you needed to talk to me in Brazil?”
“Can you forget about Brazil for a minute?” He sighs, “can I—am I allowed to ask what’s going on between you and Hal?”
You burst out laughing. “Me and Hal?”
“...yes? I don’t see what’s funny about this.”
You reach for one of his hands, kneading your thumbs over his warm palm. “Barry, nothing’s going on between me and Hal. What you saw—” You scrunch your nose, embarrassed, “I was trying to get your attention.”
“You always have my attention.”
“I don’t want to be ‘just a friend’, Barry,” you confess, looking at him through your lashes. “Friends don’t do the things we do.”
Realization dawns on his face, his lips tugging into a frown. “No, that’s not—I didn’t mean it like that. God, I’m an idiot.”
You think back to the conversation in question, wracking your brain to decipher what else he could’ve possibly meant by that wording.
He rubs a thumb over your cheek, leaning in until his lips are inches away from yours. “You could never be ‘just’ anything to me. You mean so much to me and I—”
You cut him off by kissing him, swallowing his words.
Hal Jordan (Bruce):
Of all the people Hal expected to find you flirting with, Bruce Wayne was the last on his list. Guy? Absolutely. Barry, Clark, Diana…he wouldn’t cross off the possibility. But Bruce? That would almost be as bad as if you were cozied up to J’onn himself.
You offer Bruce a radiant smile, resting a hand on his shoulder while he tells you and a few other stragglers from Oliver’s charity gala a story. You cling to his every word, nodding along eagerly.
Hal clenches his fist and raises his glass to his lips, downing the whiskey in one go. Adrenaline, or liquor, or maybe some unholy combination of the two rushes to his head. He finds himself stomping over to the little group that’s formed around Bruce.
He’s not sure what he’s expecting when he sidles up next to you and flashes the group a fake smile. “You guys don’t mind if I borrow y/n for a minute, do you?”
He’s already starting to tug you away when he’s met with resistance, Bruce’s other arm looped through yours.
“Actually,” he says, giving Hal an even faker, even shinier smile, “I promised I’d show everyone the pictures from my newest Gotham development.”
Hal yawns, addressing you directly. “You don’t really want to see that, do you?”
Bruce’s hand slides from the crook of your arm to the small of your back. A vein bulges in Hal’s forehead. His frown deepens when you pull yourself away from him, sidling up to Bruce.
“Actually, I’d love to see those photos, Bruce.”
Hal shrinks, defeated. He hates the sudden cold in your tone, he hates the way you barely regard him. Above all that, he hates how good you look on Bruce’s arm.
He slinks away to a far away corner, Barry waiting with a new glass of whiskey and a comforting pat on the back.
Hal finds you an hour later, half drunk with booze heavy on his breath. You’re just finishing up a dance with Bruce when the pilot saunters up to the two of you. You suck in a breath. Here we go.
“Mind if I cut in?”
Bruce looks at you, assessing every miniscule expression on your face in less than a second. He sizes up the pilot, a silent reminder not to fuck with you.
“Do you want a drink?” Bruce asks, posture much more relaxed talking to you. “I could use a drink.”
“Yes, please.”
And then he’s disappearing into the crowd, leaving just you and Hal.
“Really? Bruce?”
You scoff at him, tensing when his hands find your hips and he guides you back onto the dance floor. “Keep your voice down, you’re gonna make a scene.”
“I’m not the one everyone’s been drooling over tonight.” His jaw tics, “of everyone, why Batman?”
“Bruce just wanted to help me take my mind off of things. Pissing you off was just an added bonus.”
He blanks.
“You can’t really be that dense, Hal.”
He thinks on it for a minute and you can practically see the exact moment the light goes off in his head. “Is this about what I said? The friends thing?”
Your silence speaks volumes.
“Why’re you so mad about that? I didn’t mean anything by it.”
You smile sweetly. “So you wouldn’t be mad if I went home with Bruce? I wouldn’t mean anything by it.”
His grip tightens, fingers digging into the meat of your hips. He pulls you closer until his face hovers close to your ear, breath fanning over the side of your neck.
“I will cuff you to me right now. Don’t even joke.”
You intentionally step on his foot. “Admit it, then.”
“Why does it matter so much to you what we are?”
You groan, pulling yourself away from him and starting on your way back to Bruce. He grabs you before you get very far, pulling you back to him and locking his arms tighter than before.
“Fine, fine. I’m sorry, okay?” His gaze softens, “I didn’t mean it. Please, please do not go home with him.”
You kiss his cheek. “That’s what I thought.”
Oliver Queen (Hal + Dinah):
Oliver thought things couldn’t get worse than seeing you and Hal hug after winning beer pong. Oliver thought wrong.
Seeing Dinah kiss your cheek, her arms around your shoulders while the two of you pose for a photo, feels worse than any injury he’s ever received. It’s no help that the two of you look so damn good together, it’s near unbearable.
Dinah pulls away but the slight shimmer of her lipgloss is still visible on your cheek. Oliver can feel the envy bubbling up inside him like magma in a volcano. He tries to focus on something—anything—else.
He looks to Booster Gold and Blue Beetle, playing something on Ted’s Nintendo. He looks to Guy, currently having a very intense conversation with J’onn who looks like he’d rather be doing anything else.
It doesn’t work, he always finds a way to come back to you. Always.
You and Dinah are now wrapped up in a conversation with Hal and Barry, the smile on your face glowing brighter than the sun. He should be there, standing at your side, talking proudly. Instead, he’s lurking in the corner, watching from afar and trying to pretend his blood isn’t boiling.
And then Dinah’s hand rests on the small of your back and he can’t take it anymore.
He clears his throat, approaching you. “I need to talk to you.”
No pleasantries, no sugarcoating it, nothing. He doesn’t even bother to hide his annoyed expression.
Dinah flashes you a knowing smirk, nudging you towards him slightly. “Go on.”
Ollie leads you away from your gathered comrades, from the overlapping chatter and swell of bodies. He’s just barely gotten you out of view when he’s slamming you against the wall and pressing his lips to yours.
He can taste the remnants of your dirty shirley temple, along with something that tastes suspiciously like Dinah’s usual lipgloss. He thumbs at your waist, slipping a leg between your thighs and pressing his chest further into yours.
You gasp, shoving him off of you. “Ollie, I—what—I—”
He’s breathing heavily, feet planted less than a foot away from you. His cheeks are pinkened from your impromptu makeout session, his beard just barely hiding how flustered he is.
“What was that for?” You frown, “there’s people around.”
“And?”
“And?” You scoff in disbelief, “and you said you didn’t want anyone to know and that we’re nothing more than friends?”
“Fuck that,” he growls, reaching for you again. “You’re mine.”
Heat washes into your core, travels up your spine, floods your cheeks. You’re suddenly feeling lightheaded, unsteady on your feet.
“You’re impossible.”
“Maybe,” he admits. “Do you want me, or not?”
You sigh, beckoning him in. Defeated.
Guy Gardner (Booster):
Pretty much every hero you’ve worked with was confused by your relationship with Guy. It was clear the two of you had something going on, not that any of them were brave enough to inquire about it. No one thought too much about it.
That is, until you started cozying up to Booster Gold. As if Guy Gardner wasn’t bad enough.
Guy tried to ignore it. He really, really did. He tried to play it up to himself. At least this way he could see other people, too. He didn’t have to worry about hurting your feelings or dealing with jealousy. And yet, despite his sudden freedom, he couldn’t get you out of his damn head.
Maybe that’s what led him here, outside your house at two in the morning, banging his fist on the door.
Booster Gold answers the door, buttery hair disheveled and shirt nowhere in sight. “Hey, Guy.” He blinks, eyes shooting wide, “oh, shit.”
His jaw clenches, something snapping behind his eyes. Guy shoves past him, barrelling his way into your house. Booster rushes after him, trying to catch him before he slams open your bedroom door.
You wake with a start, rubbing your tired eyes to face your attacker. “Oh,” you say casually, sitting up. “It’s just you.”
Michael’s head pops over his shoulder. “I tried to stop him.”
“You tried your best, sir.” Skeets pipes up.
“Like you could,” Guy scoffs. “What the hell is he doing here, anyway?”
“Spending the night? What does it look like he’s doing?”
Your response does little to quell the angry look on his face. Guy clenches and unclenches his fists.
“What are you doing here? I’m sure whatever this is could’ve waited til morning.”
He ignores you. “Are you guys fucking?”
You laugh humorlessly.
Booster slinks away, “I think that’s my cue to leave.”
Your shoulders slump when you watch the familiar head of gold hair disappear back into your living room, presumably resuming his residence on your couch.
Guy crosses his arms, looking at you expectantly. “Well?”
“It’s none of your damn business, really.”
He closes the door behind him, stepping closer to you in the dark of your room. “Does he make you cum? I bet he doesn’t.”
“Jesus, Guy.”
“What? I’m just saying.”
“We’re not fucking, for fucks sakes.” Your head is still fuzzy with sleep, “he’s crashing on my couch. We hang out sometimes. What’s the big deal? It’s not like we’re dating.”
He clocks the bitterness in your tone, the way your voice falters on those last words. A cheshire grin fights its way to his lips.
“So that’s why you’ve been so mad.” He’s standing at the end of your bed now, looking up at you, “cause I said we’re friends?”
“And what if it is?”
“C’mere.” Through the dark, you can just barely make out his hand gesturing you closer.
Despite your better instincts, you find yourself crawling towards him on the bed, kneeling just in front of him.
He grabs your chin, forcing you to look at him. “You’re really that upset about it?”
You can only nod.
He leans in, lips pressing against yours. You relax in his grip, letting the world fall away from you while he kisses you.
He pulls away, offering you a toothy grin. “Yeah,” he concludes, “still mine.”
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