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...
Survivors’ Favorite Colors On Reader! HCs
It’s the little things.
Killers - Masterlist
All of my works for the Killers can be found at this link!!
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.
Victor Zsasz - First Meeting*
Your boss, Detective Gordon, drags you to the Iceberg Lounge... where you find more than you expected to.
Victor Zsasz - Satan In A Sunday Hat*
You unwittingly strike up a romance with Gotham's most notorious hitman. Your older brother, Oswald Cobblepot, is less than pleased.
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?
hey, I saw that you write for Victor Zsasz and I was wondering if you could write something where the reader is Oswald's younger sister and decides to go live on the mansion after Oswald inherits it and tells her to move in, then he discovers that since she moved in, her and Zsasz have been getting along too well. Gotham's most dangerous man and his younger sister who wasn't even related to any crimes.
AN; i was Nawt expecting the victor zsasz renaissance in 2026 but i am also Nawt upset abt it. quite the opposite in fact. love that goofy ahh fella
Wordcount; 602
TW; oswald's paternalistic streak..... eek!! nothing egregious but, like, you cant deny that he'd be toxic abt this sort of thing 😬
No.
No, Oswald thinks, no, as all other thoughts turn to static and rattle around in his skull. He stands there, nailed to the spot, slackjawed and blank faced, grasping at straws; there is no good reason why one of Gotham's most dangerous men should be standing so close to you with that expression on his face.
Victor's hand is on the small of your back, far from any exposed skin, and yet that doesn't diminish Oswald's knee-jerk reaction at seeing you and his right-hand hitman playing house. There's nothing domesticated about the bloodthirsty killer beside you, and Oswald of all people should know.
His fingers twitch.
"Oh. Hey Boss," Victor greets, sparing Oswald a glance. He lifts his hand from your back to wave.
Hiding the sordid bits of his "business" activities from your keen eye has been hard enough on its own. Oswald thought it’d be easier to keep you out of the line of fire when you'd moved into the mansion; the last thing he needs is for you to form some kind of attachment with the goddamn hitman.
Oswald grits his teeth. "Hello, Victor."
The pale, leather-clad man dips his head in acknowledgement. Well, good. At least he remembers his place, though for how long that will last is anybody's guess. Perhaps Oswald's flying off the handle right now, assuming far more than he should, but you're standing in the kitchen with Victor at your side, panting like a dog—
"You alright, boss?" Victor asks.
"Fine," Oswald says through pursed lips, "Just fine."
"Could've fooled me," you snark from across the room, not bothering to look up.
"Having fun?" Oswald asks, and even he can hear the syrupy-sweet, over-the-top note in his voice.
You roll your eyes, but finally look up from what you're doing (from the looks of it, making chocolate chip cookies). "I guess."
Victor's tone is even, empty. "She's a riot."
"Yes, well. I suppose some things never change," Oswald replies, forcing himself to laugh.
You shoot him a look that screams 'what the fuck are you doing?'
Oswald catches your eye and starts to say your name. He stops himself after the first syllable.
Oh, he needs to talk to you. He needs to explain that you're safer if you stay away from Victor — yet Oswald knows you well, and he knows for a fact that the only reason you'd ever do anything he said was if he had a damn good reason why you should.
So he can't talk to you! Because he'd have to explain that Victor's dangerous! He'd have to explain that Victor's a cold-blooded killer! Which, inevitably, will make you grill your brother about why the fuck he's in league with a dangerous, cold-blooded killer, and then this whole carefully constructed house of cards that he's set up to keep you out of harm's way will come crumbling down around him.
Still: this situation can be salvaged.
"Victor? A word," Oswald finally says.
Your brow furrows, suspicious, but you say nothing as Victor leaves your side to follow Oswald out of the room.
He has a semblance of a plan to fix this. He'll send Victor on a long-winded job, a task that will keep him out of doors and away from you.
You — you've never stepped a toe out of line. You feel guilty when the cashier at the corner store forgets to ring up one of the items in your bag. You don't have so much as a speeding ticket to your name.
He'll be damned if you get caught in Gotham's crossfire because of his right-hand man.
My dbd fics are taking up a criminal amount of space on my main masterlist so now they live here! Only the killers though. Survivor fics can be found here. Happy reading fellas
(all content warnings listed in links)
!!more under the cut!!
Killers' Favorite Color on Survivor! Reader
Even bloodthirsty killers have their favorites. Favorite victims, favorite weapons, favorite... colors?
Killers' Big Spoon vs. Little Spoon! HCs
Everybody has a soft spot. Even killers in the fog... right?
Killers' Love Languages HC's - Danny Johnson, Evan Macmillan
Hard to believe that even killers could have love languages... but weirder things have happened, right?
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.
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.
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.
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, the new survivor, not to make a fool of Albert Wesker. It looks like he'll have to teach you himself.
Say what you will, but Cassie gets results. Allegedly.
AN; howdy fellas 🤠 we are so back. shorter than planned but we're getting to the Good Shit i promise bro......... you can read the rest of the series here! (divider creds; @saradika-graphics)
Wordcount; 756
TW; cursing, drinking, a sprinkling of self-doubt
"Nothing! Swear!" you insist, after Cassie asks you what happened between you and Bart for the umpteenth time. She's not buying it, she hasn't this whole time, and she peers at you over the rim of her drink with narrowed eyes, calling you a liar without actually calling you a liar.
She's dragged you and Steph out for another girl's night. This time, you're careful with what you say. You learned the hard way that even five drinks in, Cassie's more aware of your surroundings than you are sober.
"Don't make me get the lasso," Cassie says slowly, and you know by the look on her face she's only half joking.
"Another round?" Steph interjects, attempting to redirect Cassie's attention.
"Sure," she replies noncommittally, but she's still watching you like a hawk, still not believing that you and Bart are purely platonic.
In truth, you're a little confused about where the two of you currently stand. You haven't seen Bart since the pantry incident, and you haven't forgotten about his flushed face or mussed hair or the way he tried reallyfuckinghard not to look at your lips. But he didn't say anything about it afterwards, so you haven't said anything. He's probably embarrassed.
Maybe. Possibly.
There's no guarantee that he feels the way you do, and you're not willing to ask him directly — not yet. Not when your preexisting friendship is at stake. You'd rather err on the side of caution.
Even if it's eating at you to act like nothing's changed.
Shockingly, Duke has also not said anything. Actually, ever since he found you and Bart in the pantry, he's backed off a bit, leaving all the needling and meaningful eyebrow raises to Cassie (and sometimes Steph).
When you zone back into the conversation at the table, Steph and Cassie are debating what kind of shots to order. You watch them go back and forth and find yourself grinning like a fool. It's probably the late night and fun drinks talking, but you're feeling all mushy inside. No matter what happens with Bart, these two will always have your back, and you know it. You're about to say as much when your phone buzzes several times on the tabletop.
Cassie and Steph lean over your shoulders on instinct, curious, and the three of you read the text messages at the same time.
"It's from Bart," you say, stating the obvious.
Cassie whoops, high-fives Steph, and claps you on the shoulder hard enough to jostle you into the tabletop.
"I told you! I fucking told you it would work," she cheers, completely ignoring the stares that are coming her way as she does a little victory dance in the crowded bar. "I'm gettin' those shots now. We're celebrating!"
"They haven't even said yes yet," Steph protests.
"As if they'd say no," Cassie calls over her shoulder. "I'll be back. Don't go anywhere."
Their words fall on deaf ears as you re-read the message stream again.
hey
wanna see a movie
like
not in tims house
just us
??
"Dude," Kon groans, "I'm really happy for you, but the multi-text is a little—"
"It suits him," Tim corrects, "Besides, when was the last time you had any action?"
"Do not call this 'action,'" Bart mumbles, dropping his head into his hands. He'd love to snatch his phone back and lock it, but he knows better. Tim would hack his way back in (or more likely, he already knows the password to Bart's phone).
"Fine," Kon says, "'M just glad you're finally fuckin' doing somethin' about it."
Bart feels all of his nerve endings buzzing under his goddamn skin. He needs to go for a run or clean the entire Kent family home top-to-bottom.
"Hey, watch it! You're sparking again," Tim scolds, holding Bart's phone up and out of range. "I don't wanna have to reboot this thing, again."
"'Orry," Bart says through his palms, trying not to phase through the Kent's couch cushions.
"They're typing," Kon sing-songs.
In a quarter of a second, Bart's phone is back in his hands. He watches the typing animation vanish and reappear several times. His stomach flip-flops. He's elated! He's in excruciating pain. What if you say no?
But, fuck, what if you say yes?
He sees your message the very instant it comes through, and reads it multiple times before Kon and Tim can even process the words that have appeared on the screen.
sure !!
when
also where (if not tims hosue)
house***^
:)
"Aw," Kon says, grinning wolfishly, "You're both multi-texters."
Hey, are you still writing about Gotham?
I wanted to ask if I could request a Gotham story featuring Victor Zsasz x female reader—specifically, one where the reader is shy and has social anxiety? And this is their first meeting.?
AN; tried out a new format!! felt like switching things up, living on the edge, idk idk anyways hope you enjoy...... hope this is, as nsync says, all you ever wanted and all you ever needed
Wordcount; 1.1k
TW; cursing, stressful situations, lowkey claustrophobia kind of
Jim Gordon's a dead man, and you'd love to say that to him, but he's technically kind of your boss, and also the crowd around you is pressed so tightly that you're too busy trying not to suffocate on your own breath
As the GCPD's newest temp, you were used to doing the jobs nobody else wanted to do. So when Detective Gordon asked you to do him a favor, you'd expected to grab him a coffee or file his paperwork — not to be shuttled halfway across the diamond district in your workwear
Turns out you'd been the detective's ticket into the Iceberg Lounge...
As in, the Penguin's new nightclub.
A detail that the detective conveniently withheld until you were already there
(Sure, Detective Gordon had assured you of your safety, said this was completely allowed within the GCPD's departmental playbook, etc. etc. etc., and since this excursion was outside of work hours, you were making overtime. The extra couple bucks were enough to make you agree, however reluctantly, but at present, you're convinced that you've made a massive mistake)
Now you stand at the polished wood bar, one hand braced against the wooden countertop, the other fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve as Detective Gordon confronts the Penguin a stone's throw away
As he launches into one of his well-intentioned, one-sided lectures, talking at Penguin rather than to him, you gaze out at the crowd, noncommittal and super chill. You look far calmer than you feel — internally, you're cursing the detective, cursing yourself for going along with this so easily, and trying desperately to ignore the way the nightclub is compressing in on itself, throttling you in the process.
You know for a fact that the clubgoers are too wrapped up in their own glitter and champagne soaked evenings to pay you much mind, but you walked into one of the city's hottest new clubs in your workwear. It's impossible to feel like you don't stick out!!
You close your eyes, focus on the feel of the wood grain under your fingers, try to parse Detective Gordon's self-righteous speech out from the pulsing, ground-shaking music and the shouts of the crowd, and for several moments you stay like that
You wouldn't say calm washes over you, it's too damn loud in here for that, but you feel less unsteady, buried under a blanket of audio static, tuning out the chaos around you... until you feel like you are really, genuinely, truly being watched
You blink, search the crowd with panicked eyes, tug on a loose string hanging from your sleeve, shift your weight from one foot to the other and back again, and risk a glance behind you
There. In the corner.
Impossibly dark eyes lock onto yours. They're intense, almost enough to make your knees buckle; clean shaven, clad in leather, pale as a ghost, it's a miracle you didn't notice this man sooner... he doesn't exactly blend in with a crowd
When he notices you noticing him, he grins. Lifts a hand in greeting.
After several seconds of internal debate (they feel more like minutes, in truth), you awkwardly wave back
The stranger's grin widens. The crowd shifts, blocking your view of him, and when you can see the corner again, he's vanished
Surely he wasn't a stress induced hallucination. Surely.
You tune back into Gordon's conversation (argument?) with the Penguin. The latter's the one talking now, animatedly and unhinged, when a new person shoulders their way into the conversation (again, argument?): the ghost
He's trouble personified. He oozes danger, from the sharp edge of his canines to the holster wrapped around his chest, but something about him makes you feel like you can take full breaths again. Like for the first time since you stepped into this nightclub full of strangers, you're not drowning
"Zsasz," Detective Gordon says, voice low, and the name is familiar to you. You don't know why.
"Always a pleasure," Zsasz drawls, absentmindedly picking a speck of lint off of the detective's suit jacket before lifting his gaze to you. He watches you with a quiet intrigue that makes your head spin. "Didn't realize you were roping civilians into your plans, Jim."
Belatedly, you realize Zsasz is talking about you. You open your mouth to speak but Detective Gordon beats you to the punch, scowling.
"She's got nothing to do with this," he insists, "Leave her out of it."
Well, maybe you shouldn't have dragged me here in the first place, you think, tugging on the hem of your sleeve a bit harder.
"Certainly," the Penguin pipes up, clapping his hands together in a poor imitation of excitement. "Victor, would you mind seeing her out?"
"Not at all," Zsasz replies, stepping past a spluttering Gordon and placing a hand on the small of your back.
He guides you around the throngs of people effortlessly, avoiding the worst of the crowd. If it was anybody else, anywhere else, you wouldn't like the way his hand's on your back. Tonight's different. You don't know why you find the stranger's touch grounding instead of frustrating. You don't know why you're so happy to take a backseat while he guides you back to the elevator. It feels right, for some reason
He doesn't say a word the whole time, just a silent guardian nightmare. People move out of his way — out of your way, by extension — you make it to the elevator in no time
You don't expect him to get on, but he slips inside after you do, gaze trained on you as the doors slide shut
"So," he says, "How'd you end up in a place like this?"
"Overtime pay," you say bluntly, watching the numbers on the wall panel go down. The silence in the elevator is making you feel better already, but you're so drained from the past twenty minutes that you can't muster up more than a few words at a time.
Zsasz laughs, actually throws his head back and laughs. "My kinda woman."
You can't help the faint smile that comes to your lips.
He notices. Doubles down.
"You're a cop, then?"
"No."
"Ah." His expression shifts, like suddenly everything makes sense. "Parties aren't your thing?"
"Strangers," you correct. "Crowds. I don't know."
Zsasz hums, then falls silent.
The elevator car keeps descending.
"I'm a stranger," Zsasz says quietly, and you feel his eyes drilling into the side of your face. It feels like he's trying to intimidate you, maybe, see if you'll crack, but you're too damn tired from your day to care.
You shrug. You can see his grin widening from the corner of your eye as the elevator comes to a halt.
He says nothing, of course. The doors slide open.
"Goodnight," you say hesitantly as you step off the elevator. You don't look back, and you don't have to — you know he's keeping an eye on you when you head into the rainy Gotham night.
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.
Won't Know What Hit Him (IV)
Say what you will, but Cassie gets results. Allegedly.
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.
