— Sparring Accident
Includes: Wally West, Dick Grayson, Barry Allen & Michael Carter
Summary: he accidentally hurts you while sparring
Content/CW -> gn! reader, minor injury, mentions of blood (Dick's), guilt, crying, hurt/comfort, mild angst
froggi yaps -> im sorry i know i should be writing more neglect week fics but </3 i missed wally so much i needed a quick break to write this. ty to my pookie bear for helping me pick the characters + write them <3
Wally West:
Wally’s buzzing, the energy that lives under his skin surging through his veins like lightning. He bounces around on the balls of his feet as the two of you circle the mat.
You get a couple jabs in, all playful with no real intent behind them. Wally jabs back, kicks out at you, spins so he’s standing behind you. The energy crackles and burns under his skin. You spin, punching out at him. Wally catches your wrist and blocks.
He goes to throw a punch, that familiar lightning bubbling up inside of him. It’s a split second too fast, a tad too strong and yet, he doesn’t react fast enough to stop it.
His fist collides with the side of your jaw. You hit the mat. Hard.
Wally drops to the floor with you, panic surging in his chest when you don’t open your eyes. He taps your face, “baby? Baby, look at me.”
You don’t move, limp in his arms, head lulled to the side. He cups your cheek, thumb smoothing over the spot where he hit you.
“C’mon, c’mon.” Tears burn at his eyes as he pulls you into his lap, arms under your legs and shoulders, ready to pick you up. “Don’t do this to me, sweetheart.”
And just before he can lift you up, your eyes are fluttering open and Wally’s breathing a sigh of relief. The tears he was holding back slip from his eyes, hot and heavy on his freckled cheeks.
“Thank god,” he tugs you into his chest, burying his face in your shoulder.
“Wally?” You groan, rubbing the side of your face, “did you—you knocked me out.”
“I’m so fucking sorry, doll, I didn’t mean—“
You lean in, pressing your lips to his, swiping at his tears with your thumb. “I know, Walls.”
“I love you, I—I’d never ever hurt you.”
“Wally,” you clasp his face between your palms, “I’m okay. It’s okay.”
He breathes a sigh of relief, relaxing under your touch. “I think I’m done with sparring for like, forever now.”
You giggle slightly. “Such a drama queen.”
Dick Grayson:
A million thoughts race through Dick’s head when his fist collides with the side of your face. He’s at your side in an instant, catching you when you stagger back and helping lower you to the mats.
You rub at the side of your face, laughing humorlessly. “Nice one.”
Dick, unfortunately, doesn’t see what’s so funny about the situation. His lips are drawn into a frown, brows creased together as he examines you for any signs of injury.
His hands are all over you, cupping your face, tilting your head every which way to make sure he hasn’t accidentally maimed you. He’s never intentionally gone for your head during sparring, never once did the thought ever cross his mind. Your wires just got crossed.
He threw a jab and you ducked and before he knew it, his fist had connected with your face.
“It wasn’t meant to be,” he says finally. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I really didn’t mean to.”
You shrug, “we’re sparring, Dick. It was bound to happen eventually. Let’s keep going.”
“You’re taking at least a five minute break first.”
“What? I’m—” You pause, words dying on your tongue when you feel a hot trickle of blood drip from your nose. Swiping it on the back of your hand, you quiet your voice, “...fine.”
“Yeah, fine.” He shakes his head, jumping to his feet to grab a towel.
He presses it carefully to your face, pinching the soft part of your nose. You lean into his touch, the stinging in your face that radiated to your nostrils suddenly making sense now.
“Dick,” you say quietly, voice muffled by the blood-stained towel.
He looks at you, eyes stormy.
“It’s okay, I’m not upset with you.”
“I know.”
“Then why do you look like you’re five seconds away from crawling into a hole and dying?”
He sighs, “because—fuck, I hurt you, sweetheart, and I don’t like seeing you hurt.”
You rest a hand over his, “I guess I need to punch you in the face so that we’re even, then.”
Something sparks behind his eyes. You shake your head a little too quickly, stars blossoming in your peripheral vision.
“No,” you say. “Absolutely not.”
Barry Allen:
Barry has always hated sparring. He hates the brutality of it, hates how cocky his usual sparring partner—none other than Hal Jordan—gets. Most of all, he hates hurting people that don’t deserve it, even if it is just for practice.
He’s never hated it more than he does right now, watching his fist connect with your face.
He watches it all in slow motion. The jab he intended to throw towards your shoulder, your attempt to dodge it, the unfortunate mix up that leads to his knuckles colliding with your cheek.
Barry’s catching you before you even have a chance to stumble back, hands soft on your hips, keeping you upright. “Baby, I’m so sorry.”
Time speeds up again, you rub at the aching spot on your face.
“I really didn’t mean to, I swear, I was aiming for your shoulder and—”
You spin in his arms to face him. “Barry.”
His head is hung low, eyes teary and ashamed. You reach up to cup his face, “Barry, look at me.”
He glances up, looking like a kicked puppy. “I hurt you…”
“I’m fine, Barr.”
He shakes his head, the image of his fist colliding with your face replaying in his mind. His hands tighten on your hips, head falling into the crook of your neck.
“I’m sorry, baby, I’m so sorry.” Barry kisses gently at your shoulder, “I’d never hurt you on purpose.”
You sigh, knowing you’re not going to get anywhere anytime soon. “I know, Barry. I know.”
You hold him for a while, letting him cry into your shoulder.
Booster Gold:
The sound of his fist hitting the underside of your jaw echoes in Michael’s ears. The sound of you hitting the mat follows, loud and hard and something that’ll probably never leave the back of his mind.
His brain short circuits. He freezes. For all the times you’ve sparred, he’s never managed to even land a hit on you before, let alone one this hard. He watches you hit the mat, watches you bounce then draw yourself back into a sitting position.
You look up at him from the ground, wiping a trickle of blood dripping from where you bit your lip. You rub at your aching jaw, the spot that’s sure to hurt for the next week minimum.
Booster’s neurons start firing again. He steps towards you, reaching a hand to help you up and you flinch. Something cold floods his chest, even after you clasp your hand around his and let him haul you to your feet.
You’re afraid of him now.
“I-I’m so sorry, are you—” All of that usual bravado is drained from his voice like the colour from his cheeks. “Are you okay?”
You nod, “just a little dizzy, might need to sit out a minute.”
His voice cracks. “I think we should call it there for today.”
You look up, tilting your head at your boyfriend. “Are you…crying?”
He shakes his head but you see the way his eyes are glistening, see the stray tear that drips down his cheek. You reach up, swiping a thumb at it. He shrinks beneath your touch, tries to withdraw from you only for you to catch his hand.
“I hurt you,” he says plainly.
“I’m fine.”
“I-I hit you.”
“You didn’t mean to.”
He shrinks even more, broad shoulders folded in on themselves. You wrap your arms around him, pulling yourself closer to him.
“How about we stop with the sparring for today?” You mumble against him.
“Yes, please.”
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