Hey! I'm Laima, and here’s my current masterlist in all of its glory. Reader is gn unless stated otherwise. If there’s an idea you think I’d like, feel free to send it my way via asks! Happy reading >:)
(Key: * = content warnings, listed in more detail in links)
!!more under the cut!!
Attack On Titan
Zeke Yeager - Flirting HCs
Winning over reader might take a while, but Zeke’s no quitter.
Call Of Duty: Modern Warfare II
Alejandro Vargas - Just A Scratch*
You pull your stitches when getting a late night glass of water. Alejandro's up, too, and insists on giving you a hand.
John “Soap” MacTavish - Open Arms
Soap might be the tiniest bit jealous of the throw pillows you nap with. You might just have to do something about that.
Multi - Where They Kiss You
Because sometimes a kiss on the lips isn't enough.
DCU
Bart Allen, Kon Kent, Jaime Reyes - Snowfall
It's cold outside. Snowing, actually, but you didn't realize just how freezing you were until right this very moment. Now what?
Bart Allen - Masterlist
All of my works for Bart Allen/Impulse can be found at this link!!
Tim Drake - Night Out (Miniseries)
When out at a dive bar with your friends, you step outside for a breath of fresh air and run into the Red Robin. For some reason, he seems… familiar?
Dead By Daylight
Dwight Fairfield - Kiss it Better
Phantom pains are just another unpleasant part of the Entity's realm. If only there was something to take the edge off...
Ghostface Tormenting A New Survivor! HCs*
As the newest survivor to come through the fog, it’s only a matter of time until the Ghostface puts you through hell.
Killers’ Favorite Color On Survivor! Reader HCs
Even bloodthirsty killers have their favorites. Favorite victims, favorite weapons, favorite... colors?
Killer’s Love Languages - Danny Johnson, Evan Macmillan*
Hard to believe that the killers have love languages. But, y’know, weirder things have happened.
Killers’ Big Spoon vs. Little Spoon! HCs
Everyone has a soft spot. Even killers in the fog... right?
Survivor! Reader Being Used As A Shield! HCs - Pyramid Head*
Pyramid Head isn’t in Silent Hill anymore, but it won’t stop him from exacting justice where he sees fit.
Survivor! Reader Attempting To Flirt With The Killers HCs
When running and hiding from the killers becomes too much work, it’s time to change strategies.
The Doctor Tormenting A New Survivor! HCs*
You’re new to the Entity’s realm and need someone to show you the ropes. It’s a good thing the Doctor is in...
Wesker Tormenting A New Survivor! HCs*
It’s too bad that nobody taught you not to make a fool of Albert Wesker. Looks like he’ll be teaching you himself.
Gotham
Gotham Villains' Favorite Color on Reader! HCs
A lifetime of wreaking havoc and evading authorities has a way of making Gotham’s rogues value the little things.
Jervis Tetch - Please*
Jervis Tetch has a habit of wanting what he can’t have.
Jervis Tetch - Foggy Mirrors
You can never have too much of a good thing.
Random Traits Gotham Villains Find Attractive! HCs
Love’s hard to come by in Gotham City, but that doesn’t mean people stop looking--even villains.
Marvel
Matchmaker! Steve Rogers
Steve thinks you'll make the perfect match... for Bucky.
Stephen Strange/Sinister Strange - Wrong One
F! reader has feelings for Stephen and visits the Sanctum Sanctorum, only to discover he’s not the person she thought...
Stephen Strange - Bad Dream?
Reader wakes up from a nightmare when taking a midday nap. Good think a certain sorcerer (and a certain cloak) are around to ground them.
Resident Evil
Albert Wesker - Dinner?
Wesker keeps calling you into his office to run point. It’s definitely not anything deeper than that, right?
Karl Heisenberg - Reader Asking For Affection! HCs
So what if the most dangerous Lord in the village could use a nap every once in a while? (request)
Leon Kennedy - I Knew You Would
Leon Kennedy, your coworker and friend, does not want to just be friends. Too bad he hasn't told you that. (valentine's day adjacent)
Leon Kennedy - New Perspective
After losing a bet with friend and fellow DSO agent Leon Kennedy, he takes you for a ride on his motorcycle. Unforeseen consequences include windburn, watery eyes, and maybe developing a crush on him. Maybe.
Leon Kennedy - Not For Nothing
Leon’s been playing matchmaker for weeks, so he should be thrilled that you’re going on a date with Chris… right?
Star Wars: The Clone Wars
Clone Medic Kix - Works On Everyone
Space is boring, and scary, and way too empty for your liking. Good thing a certain flirty medic fills that void.
The Dark Knight Trilogy
Bane (Nolanverse), Jonathan Crane (Nolanverse) - Confrontation*
Reader is sick of Bane’s threats and Crane’s jurisdiction. In a moment of bravery (or stupidity!), reader tells the villains exactly what they think. (done separately).
Jonathan Crane (Nolanverse) - Everything You’ve Got*
Jonathan Crane is infatuated with reader, who’s forgotten about him entirely. That just won’t do.
Jonathan Crane (Nolanverse) - For Better Or For Worse
Why is your boyfriend, Jonathan Crane, wearing the Scarecrow’s mask?
This masterlist is for my Bart Allen x reader miniseries Won't Know What Hit Him!! Still very much a work in progress (teehee blog title reference) but wanted to put all of it in one place. My main masterlist can be found here, and my Bart masterlist can be found here. Happy reading fellas
(all content warnings listed in links)
!!more under the cut!!
Won't Know What Hit Him (I)
Cassie's gonna set you up with Bart if it's the last thing she does. All you can hope for is as little collateral damage as possible.
Won't Know What Hit Him (II)
Cassie puts her plan into action, but it looks like you and Bart aren't the only ones involved...
Won't Know What Hit Him (III)
You're fed up with Cassie's meddling and ready to call it off. Things take a turn when you literally fall for Bart.
You're fed up with Cassie's meddling and ready to call it off. Things take a turn when you literally fall for Bart.
AN; strap in fellas its getting a little hotter in here. whew. very glad to know that yall are enjoying this goofy little series. i see you 🫵 and i appreciate you 🫵 (read the rest of the series here!)
Wordcount; 1k
TW; cursing, a bit suggestive, teensy little mentions of head trauma
It's been a few weeks since movie night, and Cassie's scheming has only intensified. She never does anything in half measures, and spends her time finding excuses to shove you and Bart together like Barbies in a dollhouse.
Everyone meets for dinner? Cassie suddenly wants to sit on the other side of the crammed corner booth. You'll just have to sit thigh-to-thigh with Bart instead!
Cassie forgets her wallet in the car? Well, she's busy whooping Tim's ass in Mariokart, and she'd really appreciate it if you'd go get it for her! Of course, she tosses the keys to Bart instead of you, blames it on being "too locked in" to the race, and sends you and Bart off as a pair.
As far as you can tell she's the only active meddler, but Duke sends you cryptic texts and Steph's been watching you like a hawk, so who's to say, really?
Even with their concerted efforts, nothing's changed. You and Bart spend more time talking and in each others' personal space, but it hasn't prompted anything, and in all honesty you're having second thoughts. You have great banter, and Bart somehow always knows just what to say, but what if it's a fluke? You've never spent more than a half hour alone with him, and what if, when your mutual friends are removed from the equation, everything... goes away?
Thinking about it makes you feel queasy, so instead you focus on searching Wayne Manor's pantry for a super niche snack that Cassie requested. She'd get it herself, but she's a little busy at the moment, wink wink nudge nudge.
You'd like to nudge nudge her off a cliff.
"I think the wrapper's blue," Bart muses, sorting through the meticulously labeled marble shelves at superspeed. Because of course the Waynes have marble fucking shelves in their pantry. "Or... maybe green?"
"Or maybe she made it up," you grouse, keenly aware of Bart's back pressed against your own as you search. The pantry's big, but there's only enough space to skirt around one another. You keep bumping elbows and stumbling over each others' feet.
"Nah. No way," he replies, moving to the next shelf, "Why would she lie about something like that?"
You bite your tongue.
"Did you check the top shelf yet?" He asks over your shoulder.
"No." You frown. "It's just out of reach."
"Here," Bart says, as if he's not the shortest speedster you know, "Let me just..."
He jumps a little, narrowly avoids smacking you in the back of the head, and knocks a basket of pre-packaged goodies from the top shelf and into his arms. Which would've been fine had the basket not tipped over mid-fall, showering the both of you in multicolored snacks.
You curse and twist to get out of the way of the fallen basket, knocking the door closed in the process. It slams shut on its hinges, taking the light from the kitchen along with it and plunging the both of you into darkness.
"Shit! You okay?" Bart asks.
"Fine," you say, groping around in the dark for a light switch, "Totally fine, just can't see anything—"
You turn around, arms outstretched, when your hand comes into contact with something that is definitely not the wall.
It feels like a wall: solid, strong, unassuming — but it's warm and covered in soft cotton and it takes you a second longer than it should to realize you've just put your hands all over Bart's chest.
You gasp. "Oh! Shit! Sorry!"
"It's fine, you're, uh, fine!"
"Sorry, sorry—"
Why are your hands still all over him?
You retract your hands like you've been burned, but the extra momentum has you stumbling backwards. Your foot catches one of the plastic-wrapped snack bags and you lose your balance, dropping to the ground like a bag of rocks and waiting for the inevitable impact of—
Of... nothing?
You don't open your eyes for a second. Maybe you cracked your skull open on the bougie ass marble shelving unit and the impact sent you straight to the afterlife. You do feel a little weird, honestly, a little bit warm all over, suspended in the air, and something's pressed against your cheek...
"You good?"
Okay, that's Bart's voice. He has great reflexes, so, like, he definitely wouldn't be felled by the Wayne family pantry. Which means you're probably alive.
You open your eyes. There's not much to see in the darkened pantry, but as you adjust to the low light, you see that Bart's face is hovering over yours, and that your cheek is pressed to his chest, and that he's cradling you in some kind of princess carry.
"My hero," you say, in full seriousness, though your voice comes out breathier than you'd like it to.
Even in the low light, you swear up and down that Bart's face flushes.
He swallows, hard, like he's trying to get his head back in the game. "Oh, you know. All, uh, all part of the... the job," he rasps.
You want to speak but you can't find words, and so you watch Bart's face instead.
"Uh," he says, and he is definitely blushing, "You feeling okay? You're kind of staring."
You shrug. "It's a nice view."
His tongue darts out to wet his lips. You track the movement. The temperature in the pantry goes up, like, twenty degrees.
"Y'think?" Bart whispers.
You open your mouth to answer when the door is wrenched open. Light from the kitchen floods into the small space, blinding the both of you, and this time Bart actually does drop you a little bit, but you catch yourself easily, throwing a hand over your eyes to shield yourself from the bright fluorescents.
"Heard a bang down the hall. You guys doing okay?"
It's Duke. Part of you wishes you could crawl into a hole and die, but a bigger part of you is immensely thankful that Duke found you instead of Cassie.
"We're good," you answer, your voice shockingly steady considering the circumstances, "The pantry tried to hold us hostage."
Duke hums noncommittally. "Sure, sure."
"I'm serious, Duke—"
"I believe you," he says with the tone of someone who absolutely does not believe you.
You groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. "Come on, Bart, back me up here!"
Bart does not, in fact, back you up. He's gone uncharacteristically quiet, and when you look at him, he seems deep in thought. The tips of his ears are flushed bright red.
Cassie puts her plan into action, but it looks like you and Bart aren't the only ones involved...
AN; bart makes an appearance! and duke is in this bc i love him. nuff said. part one can be found here :)
Wordcount; 1.2k
TW; cursing
"We're here!" Cassie chirps, slipping in through the back door of Wayne Manor. You follow behind her, cradling a pack of Zesti Cola in your arms. The borrowed shirt is, in fact, almost the exact shade of red as Bart's uniform, and as you duck inside, part of you hopes he won't notice.
You sat shotgun the whole car ride over, picking at the hem, worrying your lower lip between your teeth and protesting to Cassie — I'm not sure this is a good idea, what if you're wrong and Bart only sees me as a friend, maybe playing matchmaker is a mistake, etc. etc. etc.
She wouldn't hear it.
You know Cassie, and you know she'd never do anything you were truly uncomfortable with. And, as much as you hesitate to admit it, you're not uncomfortable with her meddling. You've had a thing for Bart for a while now, and you probably weren't going to work up the nerve to do anything about it, so maybe this is for the best.
You would've told Bart eventually.
...Wouldn't you have?
The slight ache in your arms from carrying the pack of Zesti Cola brings you back to reality. You're standing in the sprawling Wayne Manor kitchen. Steph's the first person you spot; she's perched on a stool by the kitchen island, and she waves when she sees you. "Nice shirt."
I'm going to kill you, you want to say. You hold it in.
Everyone else is already there. Tim lives at the manor (sort of) so you expected he'd make it, and wherever Tim goes Kon follows (again, not surprising). When you see Bart pulling a bag of popcorn from the microwave, well, you're thrown. You're not sure he's ever been on time to anything, ever, so this is a first.
"Yo," Kon calls, "What's up?"
"Brought the drinks," you say, holding up the Zesti Cola.
Bart turns to look in your direction, too, mouth open to say something, but then he sees you and his mouth shuts. Then he ducks his head and turns his full attention to the steaming bag of microwave popcorn in his hands.
"You know you don't have to bring anything, right?" Tim asks, amused. "Pretty sure Alfred's stocked the fridge with enough of everything for the whole city."
"It's the thought that counts," you say, only half paying attention, because maybe Cassie's stupid shirt trick is actually working. Or, maybe — and more likely — Bart somehow knows about Cassie's scheme.
Your stomach sinks like a stone, and you busy yourself with freeing the cans of soda from their confinement.
"Hey," Cassie says suddenly, "Did you guys pull up the movie yet?"
"Duke's working on it," Steph supplies. "He's in the other room."
"Maybe he wants a Zesti!" you say suddenly, voice a little too high, "Um, I'm gonna go check!"
With that, you snatch a can off the counter and practically speed walk out of the kitchen. Your ears are burning. You're chickening out and nothing's even happened yet.
When you turn the corner to the movie room, you spot Duke reclined in one of the chairs in the first row. The movie's all queued up. He lifts his hand in greeting.
"Hey," you say, flopping into the seat beside him.
"Rough day?" Duke asks, amused.
You make a noncommittal sound.
"...You look a little red."
"Oh, not you, too," you groan, covering your face with a hand.
"Trust me," Duke says, "I won't be getting involved."
"Thank you."
"See, I'd much rather kick back and watch from the sidelines. Preferably with a bucket of popcorn... and a Zesti," he grins, plucking the can from your grip.
"You're so evil," you mumble, but there's no bite to your words. "And you're lucky that soda was for you."
He hums, cracks the can open. "Am I more or less evil than Cassie?"
"Just different."
He laughs. "Yeah, well. Your secret's safe with me."
"Secret?"
You look to the doorway. Of all people who could've popped their head inside, it's fucking Bart.
"What secret?" You ask, immensely thankful that the dim lighting hides the warmth rising to your face.
"Mm. I should be asking you that," Bart chirps, speeding over and plopping down in the seat beside you. He offers you a bowl of popcorn (you take a handful before he can eat the whole bowl) and he sets a can of Zesti in your lap.
You look at him, confused.
"Forgot to take one for yourself," he says with a shrug. "So about this secret—"
"Wouldn't be much of a secret if I told you, would it?"
"Guess you're right." Thank god Bart moves on so fast. "What's up, Duke?"
The two of them chatter back and forth and you pull your phone out, pretending to check your notifications while you let your pounding heart settle. The interaction was completely normal, completely friendly, but now that you know Cassie's actively attempting to pull the strings, now that you know Duke is in on it, now that you know this is a full-blown scheme and not just a throwaway conversation at a dive bar, the time you spend with Bart has taken on a different meaning. It's kind of freaking you out.
You take a breath, put your phone down, and crack your Zesti open. You need to chill. There's no point in worrying about the odds of Cassie's scheme blowing up in your face, especially since it's still in the 'plausible deniability' stage. You've got to quit overthinking it.
Everyone starts to filter in and Bart strikes up another rapid-fire conversation with Tim, who's sitting behind you. As Bart leans over to get closer to Tim, he puts his hand on your shoulder. It's a mindless, throwaway action, but you find it a little harder to breathe.
Duke catches you eye. Looks at Bart, then back to you. Raises his eyebrows.
"Shut up," you mutter, smacking him in the arm while careful not to dislodge Bart's hand.
"Shh," he replies, hitting a button on the remote, "Movie's starting."
"You are such an—"
"Shh," he repeats, looking downright devious.
You roll your eyes but settle into your seat anyway. Bart takes his hand off your shoulder, and you're in the middle of mourning the loss of contact when your phone goes off.
"Okay, okay! I'm working on it," you huff, fishing your phone out from the gap between the seat cushions. You turn down your brightness and set it to silent, but not before noticing the notification on your homescreen. It's from Cassie.
see what i did there
kicking bart out of the kitchen first
see do u see r u observing
You roll your eyes and type back a very colorful message of your own.
Three dots appear, go away, then return.
let me cook
You huff, turn your phone off, and tuck it away again. Movement as your side has you nearly jumping out of your skin.
"Anything interesting?" Bart asks, voice low and directly in your ear.
"Nope," you breathe, pointedly ignoring the skim of his lips on your earlobe.
"Bummer."
He offers you the bowl of popcorn again. It's already half empty.
Cassie's gonna set you up with Bart if it's the last thing she does. All you can hope for is as little collateral damage as possible.
A/N; helloooo bart nation. how are we feeling. resident evil 9 and the spring sun have resurrected me. also yes perchance a series is on the way but shhh dont tell anyone or the Writer's Block will get me (read the rest here!)
Wordcount; 915
TW; some cursing, drinking mentions, 'girls night' but reader is gn !!
"Hey," Cassie grins, her million-megawatt smile lighting up the dark corner of the dive bar she dragged you and Steph to for girl's night, "I've decided I'm gonna set you up with a guy."
You nearly choke on your drink. "Huh?"
"Yeah, hang on," Steph says.
"Do I get a say in this?" You ask, crossing your arms.
"You said you've been looking all over and finding absolutely nothing," Cassie says with a shrug — it's not a lie, you'd recounted your dating woes to them earlier in the evening — "And you're looking for an upstanding guy! Which, I'll admit, is pretty hard to find... but lucky for you, I know two who just might fit the bill."
Steph opens her mouth to say something, but shuts it almost immediately. In hindsight, that should've been the first sign that something was up. Not that you noticed.
Cassie's manicured fingers wind around your forearm, squeezing reassuringly. She looks sweet, practically angelic in a flowy white tee, batting her long lashes at you with an innocent little smile playing on her lips. "Do you want Kon, or Bart?"
Everything stalls out. Stops. The ambient chatter of the bar fills the silted half-silence and you blink once, twice, three times, wondering if you heard her correctly.
"So maybe we go easy on the shots next time," is what you finally say, reeling, because the point-blank, matter-of-fact way Cassie asked that question tells you she's been paying way more attention than you're comfortable with. Oh, you're a moron. You thought you were being subtle.
"Pick one," she insists, still beaming like the summer sun.
You look to Steph, who just shrugs.
Traitor.
She's not protesting either, so clearly she's also well aware of the glances you've been casting in Kon and Bart's directions over the past several months. Apparently, nothing is a secret when one of your friends has heightened senses and the other's a world-class detective.
"They're my friends," you say, "And more importantly, they're your friends—"
"If you had to pick, who are you frenching?"
It should be illegal for Cassie to look so harmless, playing with the straw of her mixed drink as if she doesn't have you in a headlock.
"That's, like, hardly appropriate—"
"No room for decorum here! It's girl's night! Pick!"
Again, you look to Steph for help. She's far too busy smothering her cackles to be of any use.
"You're not serious," you say, but even as you protest you know that they are in fact dead serious, and worse yet, Cassie's line of questioning seems to have shaken things loose, and now all the thoughts you have about Kon and Bart are rising to the surface bit by bit, then all at once. Something must change in your expression; Cassie claps her hands together while Steph launches into a fit of laughter.
Fuck.
"Bart," you say quickly, face burning, the name falling from your lips before you can stop it.
Steph's eyebrows raise. Cassie's grip on your arm tightens.
"He makes me laugh," you mumble, staring at the table, "He's kind and he's not uptight. And also. Uh, perfect, um..."
"Sorry, didn't get that last part," Steph cooes, leaning forward, and it takes all of your self control not to swing at her.
"Perfect. Kissing. Height," you grit out, flipping her off.
Cassie throws her head back and laughs triumphantly. It's loud and booming and has strangers looking your way and sends everyone in a six foot radius, including you, into a fit of giggles. You drop your head into your hands, mortified by your admission, but strangely relieved to have finally told someone about the feelings you've been harboring for Bart. When the strangers go back to their conversations, Cassie just nods. Her steely expression reminds you of how she looks when she's taking down a villain.
"Fuck yeah, you're getting with Bart," she declares, "I'll make that shit happen for you. He'll have no idea what hit him. And, little did you know, but I've caught him checking you out more than once, and also he started watching that one horror movie series you mentioned liking even though he totally despises horror, so, like, if that's not a sign from the stars I don't know what is."
"Whatever you say," you nod, happy that this interrogation is over. The odds of Cassie remembering this conversation tomorrow are staggeringly low; she knocked back a whole tray of green tea shots about twenty minutes ago. Steph'll probably remember, but you hope she'll take mercy on you and act like this whole thing never happened.
The night continues as planned: drinks, dancing, and late night Big Belly Burger. You go to sleep exhausted, but with a big, fat smile on your face.
The next day, you're perched on the edge of Cassie's bed, waiting for her to finish getting ready so you two can meet Steph and the guys at Wayne Manor for an impromptu movie night.
"Thanks for driving," you say.
"Of course." She emerges from her closet a few seconds later and throws a shirt at your face.
You catch it, move to fling it back, but she shakes her head.
"Borrow it. It's the same shade of red as Bart's uniform and he's going to lose his mind when you wear it."
Your mouth falls open.
"Can't get drunk on normal alcohol, remember?" She says far too cheerfully, lacing up her shoes. "Now go change, or we're gonna be late."
Space is boring, and scary, and way too empty for your liking. Good thing a certain flirty medic fills that void.
A/N; if there's 1 million tcw fans im one of them. if there's 1 tcw fan its me. and if theres 0... there wont be... bc my adoration for tcw is everlasting
Wordcount; 691
TW; mentions of stitches and needles, medical stuff but nothing's described in detail (like seriously super vague), kix is a massive flirt
The silence of hyperspace is crushing. Space is too vast and the war is too real. But the medbay — the medbay, even when it's empty, is never silent. There's always a machine beeping, or a bacta tank bubbling away in the corner, and if you're lucky, there's someone shuffling paperwork and grouching about the GAR-mandated release forms he's got to fill out.
Kix. It's Kix. And you'll find your way to him like clockwork every time your future starts to feel like a big black hole, because you know for a fact that his no-nonsense attitude and commitment to the present moment will make your dread evaporate.
He's sensible. Kind. Funny. Good looking.
Not that you'd ever admit that last part out loud.
It's midday and you're traveling through hyperspace, and by your estimate, he shouldn't be busy right now. Of course, you've never been very good at estimations (or maybe it's the GAR's barely controlled chaos that stops things from being predictable).
It's far busier than it should be. At first your stomach drops; you hate seeing so many troopers wounded, but if they're in the medbay it means they're receiving the best possible care — it's means they're recovering.
So you swallow the nausea and hover in the doorway, mentally debating if it'd be better to leave the medics to their work, and just as you're about to leave, someone calls out to you.
"D'you plan to stand there all rotation?"
"What? No. No," you splutter, swiveling your head around until you spot the speaker: Kix. "You... looked busy, that's all."
"Mm. Quite an astute observation, that."
You walk over, rolling your eyes. "Shut up."
You'd smack him in the shoulder, but he's halfway through tying off a line of sutures on a trooper's forearm. You don't recognize the patient, but exchange a polite smile all the same.
"I can come back," you say quickly, casting a glance around the sort-of-crowded space.
Kix trims the excess thread, drops the metal tools into a pan, and looks up at you. "You hurt?"
"Me? No."
"Good." His posture noticeably relaxes. "This is a social call, then?"
"Well, yeah, but if you're busy—"
"Stay," he says, "But check on the pair of morons that hobbled in here half an hour ago, would you?"
You blink. "Huh? Pair of morons?"
"Fives and Echo," he says matter-of-factly, picking up the tray of used tools and walking off.
You're quick to follow, just a half-step behind him. "Ah."
"Matching ankle sprains if I had to guess," Kix continues, "No idea what crock of shit they stepped in this time, and I haven't had a chance to assess them yet."
"Uh, one problem," you say, hurrying after him as he swiftly deposits tools into metal boxes you assume are some kind of industrial sanitizers, "How, exactly, am I qualified to help them?"
"You always make me feel better when I'm not well," he says.
You stumble over your feet.
Kix says nothing, but meets your eyes as he strips off his gloves. Then he leans in. Close. Closer. So close you can feel his breath on your skin, smell whatever non-regulation soap he uses, and when he speaks, his voice is a murmur, his lips barely ghosting the shell of your ear.
"I'm sure it works on everyone," he breathes.
And then he reaches past you to throw the used gloves into the trash.
He pulls back.
Winks at you.
Walks back to his patient like he didn't just stop your heart.
"Hey," you say, face burning, "Hey, hang on, wait a fucking minute—"
"The two morons, if you wouldn't mind," Kix calls over his shoulder, gesturing to Fives and Echo.
"You know we can hear you, right?" Fives asks, crossing his arms.
"Kind of the point!"
You stare at the ground and force your temperature to return to normal while Fives and Kix bicker back and forth. When you finally look up, Echo's watching you with a shit-eating grin.
Yeah. Things are about to get a lot more interesting around here.
Just dumping all of my Bart Allen x Readers here so they don't clog up my main masterlist, which can be found here. I just really like writing for him idk. He's pookie. Hope y'all enjoy 😃👍
(all content warnings listed in links)
!!more under the cut!!
Generic Action Thriller
When is a date not a date? Or, rather, when is a not-date a date? You have no idea, but you and Bart aren't just friends anymore and it's only a matter of time until something snaps.
Heat Wave
There’s only one cure to the unrelenting summer heat: an impromptu ice cream date.
Only In Gotham
You’re a well-known actor, and you’ve managed to keep your love life under wraps — no small feat when you’re dating a superhero. Of course, hostage situations have a way of making even the best laid plans fall apart.
Snowfall
It's cold outside. Snowing, actually, but you didn't realize just how freezing you were until right this very moment. Now what?
Won't Know What Hit Him (Miniseries Masterlist)
Cassie's gonna set you up with Bart if it's the last thing she does. All you can hope for is as little collateral damage as possible.
It's cold outside. Snowing, actually, but you didn't realize just how freezing you were until right this very moment. Now what?
A/N; winter blurbs!! im trying a new format so there's that. each of the characters are separate btw. and i didn't have a specific iteration of these guys in mind so u can read as comics, young justice, or live action :)
Wordcount; 655
TW; tooth rotting fluff. like. brother i am not joking. one mention of frostbite but this is pure fluff i promise
Your breath comes out in puffs, hanging in the air for a moment before dissipating into the falling snow. It's been coming down for a few hours now — just enough to turn everything pretty without screwing up the roads.
The both of you had come outside a while ago, playing around and exchanging a few snowballs, but now that you're both standing still, admiring the snow, the chill is starting to set in. You're freezing, actually, and you shiver despite yourself. When you glance in his direction, you find that he's already looking your way.
Bart Allen
You swear your teeth are actually chattering.
"Cold?" Bart teases. His face is tinted pink and his hair's a snowy mess, but the look is endearing on him.
"No. Not at all," you deadpan.
"See, I didn't think you were," he continues, pulling your hands into his own. "Just figured I'd check."
You laugh quietly when he brings your hands close to his face and starts blowing on them in an attempt to warm them up. "How responsible of you."
"I know, right?"
"My hero."
Bart looks up at you, then, through snowflake-dusted lashes, and when he speaks, his words are laced with a honeysweet sincerity that has your insides melting despite the bitter cold. "I try."
You say his name, quiet and soft as the falling snow. For a moment, you feel like a speedster — caught in a moment of time where you're the only two people in the world.
He fixes you with a smile, breaking the trance, and presses a kiss to the back of your hands. "C'mon. I'm sure I've got hot chocolate mix inside."
Kon-el Kent
"This is so not fair," you say, crossing your arms over your chest to try and warm yourself up. "I mean, you can't even get cold! Why even bother wearing that jacket?"
Kon hums, closing the distance between the two of you and rubbing his hands up and down your arms. "Aw, c'mon. You're building character."
"I have plenty of character as is, thank you very much."
"Don't I know it," he grins.
You roll your eyes and open your mouth to speak, but another shiver has the words dying in your throat.
Kon frowns. "Can't have that."
Before you can ask what he plans on doing about your predicament, he shrugs off his leather jacket and drapes it over your shoulders.
"You're right. I should've put this thing to better use a long time ago."
You reach up and run your fingers over the spikes on the shoulders. "You think it suits me?"
"Everything suits you."
Kon steps closer, then, adjusting the collar so it lays flat. There's barely a breath between you.
"You know," he starts, fingertips lingering near your collarbone, "Maybe we should stay out a while longer."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," he affirms. "Call me selfish, but I like seein' you in my jacket."
Jaime Reyes
Jaime's gaze drifts the way it always does when the scarab's speaking. After a few moments, his dark eyes drift to you. "We should get you inside."
"What? Did scarab say I have early onset frostbite?" You joke.
"No," he says, slinging an arm over your shoulders, "But scarab did say that your body temperature was, quote, 'below optimal operating standards,' and I'm pretty sure keeping you in good shape is the one thing we agree on."
"That's sweet," you say, tipping your head against his shoulder. "Can you tell scarab I say thank you?"
Jaime huffs out a laugh. "That's not really how it works."
"Well, tell scarab anyway. For me."
"And what about me, huh? Where's my thank you?"
"You'll get it when my whole body isn't numb."
"Ooh, careful," Jaime grins, "That sounds like a symptom of early onset frostbite."
"Shut up," you laugh, knocking your shoulder against him. "Not funny."
He leans in, pressing a quick kiss to your temple. "Please, cariño. I'm hilarious."
Leon's been playing matchmaker for weeks, so he should be thrilled that you're going on a date with Chris... right?
A/N; im not sorry. mild angst be upon ye.
Wordcount; 492
TW; a little cursing
It's half past one in the morning, and Leon should've been in bed a long time ago, but he's still laying on the couch, still staring up at the white-painted ceiling of his apartment without actually seeing anything. He'd been watching the game on TV, but it's over now, and he's wondering if your date with Chris is over too, or if you're still...
Leon scrunches his eyes shut, ignoring the way his face heats at the thought of you. He's just nervous for you, that's all. He's spent the past several months playing matchmaker, trying to set you up with Chris, because you guys get along so well, and he wanted to actually help for once, and, well, you and Chris are two of his closest friends, you're both single, why not take it a step further? He's been finding excuses to leave the two of you alone for weeks now — taking fake phone calls, pretending to forget his wallet, checking on his bike. On this random Friday night, Leon knows he wasn't making a fool of himself for nothing. You and Chris are out tonight, getting dinner somewhere nice, probably sharing a bottle of some expensive drink and laughing about nothing in particular.
There's no reason to get weird about you and Chris going on a date, and he's definitely not being weird, definitely not. He's just a little anxious to hear about how it went, just a little worried about whether or not it went well.
Of course it went well, the voice in his head says, it's them. How could it not?
Leon's jaw clenches. He opens his eyes again. The ceiling still hasn't changed. The TV's still droning in the background. He's still sleepless.
What would you even wear on a date?
It would probably depend on where you went, Leon thinks. Since Chris is taking you out to a nice dinner, maybe you'd wear something classy... not too over the top, but nice enough that the maitre d' would nod in approval as you walked by. You'd smell good, too, and he's certain you'd do something with your hair, certain you'd spray it with the stuff that makes it all soft and bouncy. You'd look good. Well, you always look good, but you'd look, like, really good. Definitely good enough that Chris would want a second date.
And, speaking of, would you kiss on the first date? Or do you make them wait until the second? The third? Leon knows he'd want one immediately, but, hell, he'd wait until the fiftieth date to kiss you if that's what would make you happy.
That's all he wants to do: make you happy.
It's why he set you up with Chris in the first place.
Leon's chest tightens. He pulls his lower lip between his teeth, bites down hard enough to draw blood. For some inexplicable reason, he really, really hopes there's no second date to speak of.
Hello! Well, I don't know if your requests are open, but here's one!
I'd like to know if you could do a Bart Allen x Reader (I was thinking about using Bart from the Young Justice series, in the Outsiders season). I think for this fic, Bart could be in a romantic relationship with the reader, who is a popular actor, but they must keep this a secret until a villain (you decide which one) captures him and the Outsiders/Original Team must save the reader. Even if you can't do this, thank you for your attention!
-💫
You're a well-known actor, and you've managed to keep your love life under wraps — no small feat when you're dating a superhero. Of course, hostage situations have a way of making even the best laid plans fall apart.
A/N; i got carried away. only blue beetle n cassie in this one bc i fear if i wrote the whole team into this i wouldn't have finished it 🗿
Wordcount; 1.6k
TW; cursing, canon-typical violence
Jaime tries and fails to smother a laugh. "Dude. There's no way."
His words stop Bart in his tracks. He'd been pacing back and forth for the better part of twenty minutes, practically wearing a hole in the floor while trying to explain why, exactly, he's so personally invested in the Gotham-based production studio that's been hijacked by a villain of the week. "What?"
"You? Dating... them? I know you said you could pull, but..." Jaime trails off, shrugs noncommittally.
Bart throws his hands in the air, exasperated. "Do I look like I'm joking?"
"You have, like, negative charisma, man."
Bart bites the inside of his lip hand enough to draw blood.
"Look, look, we're going, yeah? Regardless of whether or not Bart's dating one of the hostages," Cassie interjects, dissipating the tension with a wave of her hand. "The GCPD hasn't made any progress at the studio yet, so it's not like we're stepping on anyone's toes."
"Then let's go," Bart says.
Jaime reaches forward, claps a hand on Bart's shoulder to prevent him from running off and dealing with the hostage situation solo. As annoyed as the speedster is with his teammate, he has to admit there's few people on the planet who know him better than Jaime does.
"No running off on your own," Jaime mutters.
"Wasn't gonna," Bart lies.
He can't help it. Can't help but worry. The only thing on his mind right now, the only thing that's been on his mind since the cry for help came through, is you.
You're smart, and strong, and more than capable of handling yourself, and Bart knows this, because if you weren't a certified badass you wouldn't have been able to rise to the top of the industry like you have. He's positive you could make it through anything because that's just the kind of person you are.
That being said, when Bart imagines you kicking ass, he usually conjures the image of you negotiating a contract or securing a leading role... not confronting a C-list villain.
When you think of hostage situations, many things come to mind: marked bank robbers, civilians being used as meat shields, that one action thriller you played in a couple years ago. The real-life version pales in comparison, mostly because it's so damn boring.
Not that you're complaining. You're only uncomfortable because you've been sitting in the same spot for over two hours and your butt's gone numb. Your lovely PA, Laura, sits right beside you, shoulder pressed up against yours. She's keeping you grounded. You'd move into a more comfortable position, but the last thing you want to do is draw the amateur villain's attention; they're not unstable, exactly, but they busted into the studio and declared that they'll hold everyone captive until the finale of their favorite TV show is redone.
In the villain's defense, it had been an exceptionally shitty finale.
You're not sure what the villain hopes to achieve. You hadn't been in the show, but you knew the writer's room had been disbanded after filming wrapped, and that had been ages ago at this point. The villain has no idea. It's unlikely they've thought that far ahead.
As of right now, they're walking in loops around the edges of the room, unidentifiable weapon in one hand and brownie stolen from craft services in the other.
You've heard the phrase 'only in Gotham' many, many times before, but only now do you think you've adequately grasped the absurdity it's supposed to convey.
"How long until Batman shows up?" Laura whispers.
"I bet it'll be Signal," you counter.
"You hope it'll be Signal, you mean. You've got a thing for him, right?"
"Dunno. I'm really more of an Impulse fan."
She fixes you with a skeptical look, then shrugs. "I guess his freckles are cute."
"That's what I'm saying," you reply, working overtime to smother a laugh. If only she knew.
"But, like, if the two of them were in a room together—"
"I'm picking Impulse every time."
Laura pauses for a moment, shakes her head. "Okay, the freckles are cute, but they're not that cute."
"They are to me," you finish, nudging her gently before risking a glance at the villain — they've polished off the brownie and have struck up a one-sided conversation with a makeup artist and a gaffer on the other side of the room.
The situation is as ridiculous as it is overwhelming, and you can't help the cold slither of fear in the pit of your stomach. You know someone will show up eventually. You hope someone will show up eventually. If only your phones hadn't been confiscated; then you would've been able to call Bart, or call 911, or do literally anything other than sit against the wall and feel completely and utterly helpless.
Your gaze swings to the clock on the wall. It's well into the afternoon. If something doesn't happen soon...
BOOM.
Laura shouts. You throw your arms over your face, peer through your fingers at the massive hole in the wall and the plasma cannon that caused it.
The cannon's attached to Blue Beetle, and amidst the spray of drywall, you spot the villain wrapped up in what looks to be a shimmering gold rope. You catch a glimpse of shockblonde hair — must be Wonder Girl with her lasso — and the villain's jerked backwards a moment later, pulled through the hole in the wall and out of sight.
Finally.
Blue Beetle's arm shifts back to normal. He cups his hands around his mouth, starts shouting out directions. Everyone clambers to their feet, ready to run as Wonder Girl and the villain of the week battle it out in the next room over. The air is thick with dust and smoke, and as the thuds and slams next door start to get louder, the walls shudder where they stand.
When you get to the door, you make sure Laura's through first before following quickly after. You nod a quick thank you to Blue Beetle as you pass him by (he's looking at you strangely, questioningly, like you're a puzzle piece he's trying to place).
An errant blast of multicolored light, probably from the villain's weapon, blows a hole in the ceiling above you, and, fuck, there's no way you'll be able to move in time—
You squeeze your eyes shut, and suddenly you're outside.
Everybody's outside, actually. And from the looks of it, you're a whole block away from the studio. You could've sworn the ceiling was about to rain down on you, and now you're standing in the midday Gotham drizzle, hands trembling, struggling to understand what happened. Then someone bowls into you and wraps their arms around you tight.
You recognize the scent of his cologne before anything else and immediately relax. It's Bart, you're with Bart, you're safe. Everything's alright.
You throw your arms around him and hug him hard, burying your head in his shoulder. You've been so damn careful about not being seen with anyone in public, but after the past two hours you've had, you can't find it in yourself to care. Bart came to save you because of course he did, and you're safe, and that's the only thing that matters.
"Never, ever, ever do that again," Bart mumbles, punctuating each word with a kiss to your temple.
"Which part?" You ask, voice muffled by his suit.
"All of it."
You nod, inhale deep, and squeeze your eyes shut.
"And I know it wasn't your fault or anything," he adds, "But. Still."
"You have my word," you murmur.
"Good," he says.
You're not sure how long you stand there wrapped up in Bart's arms. All you know is that when you finally disentangle yourself from his hold, you feel considerably better.
Someone shuffles behind you. You turn around to face them, though not before pressing a kiss to Bart's cheek. He takes a hold of your hand, fingers anxiously drumming against your skin, as if worried you'll disappear should he let go.
"Huh," Blue Beetle says. "So, you two, huh?"
"Pack it up, Blue," Wonder Girl says, affixing her golden lasso to her belt. "And, uh, Impulse? You guys might wanna pack it up, too, because you're getting kind of popular."
You glance over your shoulder, where Laura's enthusiastically giving you a double-thumbs up, and, beyond her, a random guy across the street has stopped to stare. He draws his phone out of his pocket to take a picture, and you roll your eyes.
"Yeah. Noted," Bart nods, swiftly stepping to the side to block you from the impromptu photography session.
Now that you've tuned back into reality, you note the red and blue lights flashing across the city block. Cops stream into the production studio. Wonder Girl mutters something into Bart's ear that you can't hear; he nods, and as she and Blue Beetle head back to the studio, Bart remains firmly rooted by your side.
He shoots you a sidelong glance, speaks in a low voice. "'M sorry. For a bunch of things. 'Cause I should've been here sooner, and, also, I know you wanted to keep things under wraps, and I get it, but..." his gaze drifts to the small crowd that's gathering across the street. It's unclear whether they're fascinated with the heroes, the police, or with you. "I can scare 'em off. Do you want that? I can do it. I'll gladly do it."
A stray raindrop slides down the bridge of his nose. You reach up to wipe it away. "How about you take me somewhere else?"
The air is chilly, but his eyes are warm. "I think I like that idea."
Hello idk if your asks are available but i was wondering if you can do another bart Allen fic
He's so underrated i swear
Sorry to bother though
There's only one cure to the unrelenting summer heat: an impromptu ice cream date.
AN; anon ur so correct. that is my underrated pookie. tbh it's tough to pin down his vibe since his personality is all across the board in different shows/comics,,,,,,,, but that's neither here nor there. anyways he's a little chiller than normal in this one you'll see
Wordcount; 969
TW; cursing, suggestive themes (he's down bad ur honor!!), reader referred to as 'beautiful' but otherwise no mentions of physical appearance
"Hey," you say, "Come over."
In your defense, the unrelenting heat wave has stolen your decorum. It's the dead of summer. It's so hot you swear your brain's melted. It's so hot you swear you've melted. You want to sit in silence and stare at the wall. You want to count the dust motes that hang in the air. You want to see your boyfriend.
"Can't," Bart huffs, weary.
You frown. Bart? Low on energy?
"Are you doing okay?"
He groans. You hear wind rushing in the background; he must be running. "Fine. Tired, hot, but fine."
"No offense or anything, but you don't sound fine."
"'Cause the League put us on heat stroke duty," he grouses. You presume 'us' means the team. "Looking for anybody who looks sick, that kinda thing. Which is good! And fine. And helpful. And goddamn exhausting, because I've been running laps from Maine to Georgia since ten."
"You're a good person," you say, settling down on your bedroom floor.
He huffs in a way that could be a laugh. "That why you like me so much?"
"Nah," you tease, "It's gotta be the hair."
Bart gasps in mock offense. "What, not my shining personality? My sharp wit? My devastatingly good sense of humor?"
"...Definitely the hair."
This time he laughs in earnest. "Least 'm doing something right."
"Look," you say, flopping onto your back, "How long until you're off?"
There's a burst of wind. "I think Flash's gonna trade with me soon."
"If you feel shitty, go home. But, like, I have ice cream, and a tower fan, and also, I miss you. Bad."
"I miss you, too," he says in the soft tone of voice reserved for you specifically. It has you looking away from the phone, bashful, as if Bart's actually in the room with you right now instead of hundreds of miles away.
You're not the sappy type, so you blame your pleasant lightheadedness on the heat instead of the guy on the other end of the phone. "I know you're busy and tired and everything, so don't feel obligated. Like, seriously—"
"What flavor of ice cream ya got?"
You blink. "Um... strawberry, chocolate chip cookie dough, and I think there's some chunky monkey in the back of the fridge?" You offer, rolling over to your stomach. "Back door's unlocked. By the way."
"We both know I could phase through it."
"It's the thought that counts," you insist, absentmindedly tracing patterns on the floor in front of you.
He hums in agreement.
There's that pleasant lightheadedness again.
"Well, beautiful, I'll let you know if I can make it," Bart says.
"Drink water. Be safe."
"Always am," he drawls, hanging up a moment later.
You lay on the ground, directly in line of the fan, for an indeterminate amount of time. All you know is that when your bedroom door opens with a soft click, the sun's moved down in the sky to bathe your boyfriend in golden light.
"You're handsome," you murmur, tossing your forearm over your face to block the offending beam of sunlight that's managed to hit you directly in the eyes.
Bart laughs, sitting down on the floor beside you. "Very subtle."
You ignore his comment and push yourself into a seated position. It looks like he made a pit stop on the way to you, having changed into civvies and smelling like he's freshly showered (and, also, he's not eating his way through your fridge like he normally would if he was returning straight from the field). A thin sheen of sweat decorates his brow nonetheless, a testament to the heat outside. Before you can stop yourself, you reach forward and push Bart's sweat-slicked hair back from his forehead. He shudders at your touch.
"Doing okay?" You ask quietly, running your fingers through his hair a few more times. You can't help it.
"Better now that 'm here," he mumbles, catching your hand in his own and pressing a kiss to your palm. "Sorry I'm sweaty 'n gross."
"You've been worse."
"I've also been better."
"It's not like you don't have a change of clothes here," you say with a dismissive wave of your hand.
He's tired, that much is obvious, but Bart's smile still reaches his eyes.
"Y'want the ice cream? I have waffle cones. If you want the full experience."
"Fuck, I'd kill for a waffle cone," Bart groans, and you pointedly ignore what the sound does to you. "I've been looking forward to it. The cookie dough, and the strawberry, and then maybe some almond slivers on top... that is, if you have them...?"
You chuckle. "Planned it all out, huh?"
"Hey," he says, wagging a finger at you, "Gotta get my energy back somehow."
"Guess so," you say, surging forward and pressing a quick peck to his cheek.
The two of you sit there for a few minutes, wordless, sighing in contentment as the tower fan blows a cool stream of air at your faces. The sun sinks a little lower in the sky, and you hope the weather cools down soon. You'd rather not be reduced to a puddle before Halloween comes around.
Eventually, you get to your feet. You take Bart's hand, intent on pulling him to the kitchen, but instead he pulls you back into his grasp (sweaty as it is) and presses a kiss to the crown of your head. It's sweet.
He's sweet.
Maybe even sweeter than the ice cream in your freezer.
He holds you there, arms wrapped around your waist, head tucked under his chin, for all of thirty seconds before you simultaneously decide it's definitely way too hot for a cuddle and head for the kitchen instead.
"Maybe next time," he grins, throwing a wink your way.
You roll your eyes, but accept another kiss regardless.
When is a date not a date? Or, rather, when is a not-date a date? You have no idea, but you and Bart aren't just friends anymore and it's only a matter of time until something snaps.
A/N; didn't have a particular impulse in mind when i wrote this so i kinda smashed a couple comics together with later young justice. i'm trying my best here. also what if i wrote for nightcrawler
Wordcount; 1.3k
TW; suggestive themes, teeny 🤏 makeout session, use of y/n
"Scoot over," you say, though it's less a command and more of a warning as you drop yourself onto the couch right beside Bart. He yelps. He's startled (which you find hilarious, considering his lighting-fast reflexes and inhuman perception) but catches your hand regardless, tugging it away from the remote with an indignant huff.
"Hey! My turn for movie night, remember?"
"I was just gonna change the volume!" you protest.
"Uh-huh. Likely story." Bart snatches up the remote, feigning indignation. As the crease in his brow gives way to a wide smile, you promptly realize that he's still holding your hand.
Your gaze falls to the bowl of popcorn on the table in front of you. Should you move your hand? Should you leave it? Is it bad that you like it?
There's been several moments like this as of late — moments where you and Bart toe the line of 'friendship' in the traditional sense of the word. You'd grown close within weeks of your first meeting, he's one of your best friends, you spend probably too much time with him, and even though you've been seeing him in a new light you're convinced nothing should change. He's your bestie, first and foremost, and you're not yet sure if you're willing to risk it... especially when it's not clear whether he feels the same or not.
Last week, the two of you had gone to a smoothie place. When the cashier assumed you were dating, you'd flushed so hard you thought you'd catch on fire.
(Bart had launched into a rapid-fire monologue explaining that you were just friends. It lasted for thirty seconds and probably would've gone on for thirty minutes had you not grabbed the receipt and physically dragged him away.)
A month before, you and Bart went rollerskating with Tim, Kon, and Steph. You'd picked it up quickly, but Bart's balance was decidedly miserable, causing him to cling to your side for the better part of an hour. At least you'd been able to blame your heated cheeks on the physical activity.
Bart struggled with boundaries on a good day, but as of late, you hadn't had the slightest urge to push him off when he hugged you unannounced. Yeah, it was annoying when he ate through all the snacks in your kitchen, but it was equally endearing when he'd replenish your stock a few days later. Now, at your bi-monthly movie night, you wondered if this was a date or a friendly get-together. And Bart was only complicating matters by still holding your hand.
"...Did you pick a good one?" You finally ask, trying to distract yourself from his warm palm on the back of your hand.
"Please. All of my picks are good."
"And what about the time we watched Cats?"
"That's the only exception," he continues, teeth gently biting into his lower lip as he focuses on cueing up the movie he's selected. "I distinctly recall picking it to mock it."
You lean back into the couch cushions. How was the furniture in Bart's apartment so much more comfortable than yours? "Still a terrible pick."
He hums dismissively and you take note of the way his perpetually messy hair falls across his forehead. He's wearing an oversized t-shirt, but it's rumpled, and you can make out a sliver of skin from where it's hiked up his abdomen.
Look away.
"So it has good reviews," Bart says, and your eyes snap back to his face. You needed to get a hold of yourself! "And it can't be worse than Cats."
You nod. Bart holding your hand has your pulse racing before the generic action thriller even starts. Maybe he doesn't notice he's doing it! He probably doesn't! He's flighty, and you're reading into this far too much!
He stands, stretches, and promptly speeds across the room. By the time you've blinked he's turned off the lights, grabbed a blanket, placed the popcorn in your lap, pressed play, and put his hand right back on top of yours.
So, yeah, he's probably doing it on purpose.
You swallow thickly. Focus on the movie.
An hour later, you've concluded that 1) the movie truly is generic, and 2) Bart is most definitely holding your hand on purpose, because he fidgets more than anyone you know and yet his hand is still on yours and it's not moving. The movie is scarily average, but you make a game out of it, the two of you going back and forth about story beats and attempting to guess the next scene. As you talk, his grip tightens, loosens; his fingers dance over your knuckles when he laughs and vibrate when he gets particularly excited.
Then he laughs hard enough to gasp for breath and you allow yourself to see him as you do in your errant daydreams: he's boyishly charming, his cheeks are dusted with pink, and his smile is bright as the morning sun. He's your best friend, but he's more than that, too, and by the time you've returned to reality Bart is openly staring at you. And he's not holding your hand anymore.
Oh, you've done it now, haven't you?
Bart's jaw is tight. He matches your stare. His gaze rakes over yours, suspicion shining in his eyes.
"(y/n)?" He asks, the headlights to your deer.
You stutter out a half-baked apology. You're beyond mortified. You're sitting so close to Bart that your legs are pressed together — when did that happen? — and it's so obvious that you were just pining after him that you want to put your head through a wall.
His fingers cup your cheek, and your words die in your throat. Bart's touch is warm, you think. He's always warm. He's looking at your lips.
Fuck, he's looking at your lips!
"You don't have to apologize," he murmurs, "And it's not just you."
Bart has the sense to look at least a little flustered. The dusting of color on his cheeks has deepened into a cherry red, and he's breathing a little heavy. You lean into his touch. He leans into you. He huffs out a breathless laugh and then ducks his head and when your noses bump the movement feels as natural as breathing.
The kiss is a little salty and he tastes like buttered popcorn, but, shit, who cares if he eats his way through your pantry if it means he'll touch you like this?
Time has thickened into a honey, seconds slowing and stopping as his hands shift and move. They rest on your waist, then slide up your ribcage, then squeeze with the gentlest pressure, coaxing you into him. Your fingers skate beneath the hem of his oversized shirt and he shudders, doubling down on his attempts to pull you right up against him until there's not so much as a molecule of space in between.
The kiss ends all too soon. You're out of breath, and you've got both hands under his shirt, and the movie credits are rolling. Bart looks dazed but triumphant, grinning with slightly swollen lips.
You exhale shakily. "Who the hell taught you that?"
He blinks at you, arms firmly around your waist. "Kon."
You stifle a laugh and drop your head to Bart's shoulder. For a fleeting second, you wonder if you'll regret the kiss, but it's quickly overshadowed by the zoo's worth of butterflies that have descended on your stomach. This is good. This is comfortable. "Why am I not surprised?"
"Well, clearly, it came in handy," he says, words picking up speed as he talks. "In his words, it got 'reallyfuckingobvious' that I liked you, like, more than I did initially, like, I like liked you, and—"
You pull your head away from his shoulder. "Bart?"
"Yeah?"
You look your best friend in the eyes. He's still your best friend. And then you cup his face in your hands, lean in, and kiss him again.
Phantom pains are just another unpleasant part of the Entity's realm. If only there was something to take the edge off...
A/N; when the former hyperfixation rises from the dead anyways everybody enjoy dwight hes so pookie. tarhos kovacs mention ftw
Wordcount; 415
TW; mentions of past injuries, some cursing
There comes a point in the fog when sensation starts to dull. Pain loses its edge, especially when your skin is magically sewn back together after every close call. But tonight, even as you bask in the warmth and safety of the campfire, you can't seem to shake the phantom burn of the Knight's sword slashing into your shoulder.
You and Dwight are close, always have been. So it's not a surprise when he nudges your knee from where he sits beside you, asking how you are without saying a word. You only hesitate for a moment before speaking.
"It shouldn't hurt anymore."
His inquisitive look morphs into a knowing one — it's not uncommon for survivors to wake from sleep with a shout and a shudder, having re-lived a mori in their dreams.
"Fucking Knight," you mumble, toeing the dirt beneath your feet.
"Anything I can do to help?" Dwight asks, because he's always trying to be genuinely helpful, even when faced with problems he can't very well solve.
You huff out a humorless laugh. "Kiss it better?"
He says nothing, and you turn your attention back to the crackling fire and the ragtag survivors scattered around it. Then you feel the softest brush of warmth against your shoulder.
Dwight's bridged the gap between the two of you, pressing his lips to your arm with a tenderness that makes your eyes widen. He glances up at you from behind his glasses, head bowed, and your stomach twists pleasantly. At least he has the common sense to look bashful when he pulls away, cheeks and nose flushed red.
"Better?"
You blink. "I'm, uh, definitely not thinking about the Knight anymore."
He smiles, albeit timidly. "Then it worked."
You distantly wonder what the hell happened to the nervous, tentative guy you first met. Not that he's completely composed right now — because he really isn't — but Dwight's flirting with you and he hasn't broken eye contact once.
He swallows thickly; you track his tongue as it darts out to wet his lips. "What... um, what are you thinking about?"
"Need a room, you two?"
Ace grins like a madman at the both of you from across the campfire, effectively ending the moment. Nea laughs, Meg smothers a smile. Suffice to say you've become the best entertainment of the night.
"Sorry! Sorry," Dwight splutters. He looks lost. It's endearing. "I, uh, we— we'll be better about it next time!"
You've been friends with Steve Rogers for a while now, and he just knows that you'll be a fantastic fit. It's not like he's actively trying to find his best friend, Bucky Barnes, a romantic partner, but he's not not trying to. And hey, who would he be to look a gift horse in the mouth?
If only Steve would take a step back and realize that the warm, fuzzy feeling he's getting in his chest isn't because he's playing matchmaker, but rather because he's the one with the crush on you.
This masterlist is specifically for Night Out, my Tim Drake x Reader miniseries!! Figured I'd compile all three parts rather than cluttering my main masterlist, which can be found here. Hope you enjoy >:)
(all content warnings listed in links)
!!more under the cut!!
Night Out (I)
When out at a dive bar with your friends, you step outside for a breath of fresh air and run into the Red Robin. For some reason, he seems... familiar?
Night Out (II)
You have a crush on Tim... and to your surprise, getting his attention won't be nearly as hard as you thought. But he keeps reminding you of Red Robin? That can't be right.
Night Out (III)
After discovering Tim is the Red Robin, his behavior starts to make a lot more sense. One confession leads to another…
After discovering Tim is the Red Robin, his behavior starts to make a lot more sense. One confession leads to another...
AN; and we are done!! i hope u all enjoy the final installment of the tim drake miniseries. never done anything like this before and very grateful for the support <33 literally wouldn't have written it otherwise
Wordcount; 1k
TW; cursing, choking, minor injuries, tim being a simp
You don't have to puzzle over Tim's strange behavior for too long. Just days after the incident in the alleyway, you're watching a news report on the Red Robin, who was spotted fighting Dr. Freeze with Nightwing's help somewhere in the Diamond District.
The news anchors play a clip of Robin protecting civilians while Nightwing kicks ass in the background, and when Robin pushes an elderly man out of the way of Dr. Freeze's ray gun, you get deja vu; The arm flung in front of the civilian, the reaching for something in his utility belt--the vigilante's motions match Tim's exactly, right down to the damn batarang.
And then Dr. Freeze kicks Tim in the gut, and you can't keep watching.
You're not sure if you're the world's best detective, if Tim's horrible at hiding things, or if it was just plain luck, but ever since you put two and two together things have been making a lot more sense. Namely, why he constantly backs out of plans at the last minute and is busiest at 3am. His vigilante status might also have something to do with the ungodly levels of caffeine he consumes, but you're pretty sure he'd be drinking all that coffee regardless of whether he was Red Robin or not.
Unfortunately, you figured this out days before finals week, and you know that if you don't confront him you'll be distracted the whole time you're taking exams...
...Which is what leads you to where you are now. You're sitting in the passenger seat of Tim's fancy car (it's glossy black with custom upholstery to match--really, the whole 'Batman and Robin' thing should've been way more obvious) and chowing down on Big Belly Burger in a parking garage.
"So," you start, taking a sip of your drink to steel yourself, "I have something to tell you."
He swallows a gulp of food, brow furrowing. "Which is?"
"Y'might wanna put the food down for a second."
Tim huffs out a laugh. "No way it's anything that serious."
"Uh, I know you're Robin?"
He chokes.
Thirty seconds and several gulps of water later, Tim is staring at you with a dumbfounded expression that would be comical if the stakes of the situation weren't so high. Are the stakes high? You're not really sure. While you don't peg Batman as the type to have his vigilantes assassinate randos for figuring out their secret identities, he's a grown man running around dressed up like a bat. Who knows what goes on in his head?
Well. Tim might.
Regardless, Tim doesn't even attempt to dispute you. After sitting in silence for an additional two minutes, he just sort of... shrugs?
"Yeah. You're right."
You blink at him. You're not sure what you expected, exactly, but him owning up to it with zero hesitation was definitely not it. "You're just gonna admit it?"
"I mean-" he shrugs again. "What am I supposed to do? Dispute you? I'm sure you've got evidence."
You say nothing.
"You had no evidence?"
"I had a hunch," you protest, "And you just confirmed it!"
He groans, dropping his head into his hands. "You only had a hunch? No photos? No eyewitnesses?"
"It's almost finals week! What was I supposed to do, drop everything and research you instead of my term paper?"
"No, obviously not. Sorry. I'm just..."
"Shocked? Surprised? Caught off guard?"
"Well, you saw the news," he says dryly. Reaching for the hem of his shirt (also black, it was so obvious), he pulls it up a few inches to reveal a dark bruise splashed across his abdomen.
His incredibly toned abdomen--
You wince. "Ouch."
"Yeah, no kidding." At that moment, Tim's cheeks flush pink, and he quickly pulls his shirt back down. "Uh, sorry. Didn't mean to... you know."
"Nah, it's fine," you say, opting to stare out the window so Tim doesn't catch you blushing, "It's not a bad view, if that makes you feel any better."
Wait, what the fuck did you just say?
Your eyes go wide, and you immediately drop your gaze to your lap. There's a time and place for flirting with your best friend who's also Red Robin, and that time and place is not right after he's shown you his injuries and admitted to having a secret identity.
Except maybe it is, because when you risk a glance at Tim, his lower lip is pulled between his teeth and his eyes look just a touch hazy.
"You think I look good?" He murmurs, and you forget everything that's ever happened, ever.
"Yeah," you admit, looking around his face rather than at it, "And I was gonna tell you about that the other night. But, um, then we got interrupted."
Tim sucks in a small breath.
"So judging by your reaction, I'm gonna go out on a limb and say that you feel the same way...?"
"No," he deadpans, "I'm just staring at you like you hung the moon because I'm bored."
You blink at him. "You better be fucking joking--"
Tim reaches across the console, cups your jaw in his hand, and pulls your lips onto his.
You gasp. He swallows up the noise, moving slowly, deliberately, like he's been thinking about this moment for a long time; his fingers tremble but he guides your movements regardless, pulling you as close as he can manage with the console in the way.
Tim makes a small, muted noise when you slide your fingers into his hair. It shocks both of you enough to break the kiss--you stare at each other, unblinking. Then someone moves and the cup of ketchup you'd been sharing tips over and launches itself all over Tim's lap.
Both of you burst into laughter.
"You know," Tim says a few moments later, "You figuring out that I'm Robin is, um... really hot," he confesses, cheeks turning the same shade as the ketchup he's wiping off of his pants.
"Really?" you ask, still trying to catch your breath between giggles.
He looks you dead in the eye. "Really."
You dissolve into laughter again, and somehow you just know that your relationship with Tim--whatever form it takes--is right.
