jason todd x fem!reader
summary: jason can't seem to understand why you keep talking about "your" wedding
contains: fluff, established relationship, pet names
word count: ~600
You and Jason laid in bed, morning light shuffling in through the blinds and illuminating the soft bedding. Jason had one arm around your waist as his head was tucked into the crook of your neck, eyes shut contentedly. Your eyes were open, staring blankly at the page of your book as you listened to Jason’s soft breathing mix with the morning birdsongs that rolled in with the light.
“Jay?” you whispered quietly, testing to see if he was awake.
“Hm?” he grunted in reply, nose nestling further into your neck.
You kept quiet for a moment, hesitant to bring up such a topic before finally asking, “Do you ever think about what you want your wedding to be like?”
Jason was silent and you felt his arm subtly tense around you. You started to worry you had crossed some line you didn’t know existed before he replied, “What do you mean?”
“I mean like how many people, what type of cake, the venue…that stuff. How do you picture your future wedding?”
You felt Jason’s brow furrow against your skin. “I’m still confused,” he mumbled, lips brushing ur neck and placing a soft kiss there.
You pursed your lips, puzzled at how he could be confused by such a question. “What are you confused about? When I picture my wedding I know I want—”
Jason abruptly sat up straight, causing you to stop speaking and stare at him in confusion. He was really starting to freak you out.
“Why do you keep saying it like that?” he asked, looking at you with a mix of annoyance, confusion, and a hint of hurt.
“Saying it like what?”
Jason looked away for a moment, letting the sunrays filtering in illuminate his features. His scars were highlighted and when his eyes met yours again, you could see them so clearly, their mix of green and blue capturing you before he spoke again.
“Saying ‘your wedding’ or ‘my wedding’. Why do you keep doing that?”
“Um…” you paused, laughing nervously. “What am I supposed to say, Jay?”
“Doll,” he brought his hand up to cradle your face. “There’s not gonna be a ‘my wedding’ or a ‘your wedding’...only ‘our wedding’. I’m not getting married unless it’s to you, princess.”
“Oh.” Your face flushed and your eyes widened, a soft smile breaking out across your lips before you buried your face in Jason’s chest in embarrassment.
Jason laughed, bringing his arms up to envelope you and leaning down to place a kiss upon your head. You were consumed by his intoxicating scent - the expensive cologne Dick had bought him for Christmas, gunpowder from last night’s patrol, your favorite shampoo he swore he never used, and the fresh smell of clean linen sheets.
“Yeah, ‘oh’.” He smiled as you brought your head back up to meet his. Jason kissed you softly and sweetly, still sluggish from sleep. “What, were you plannin’ on marrying someone else?”
Your eyes widened as you pulled back. “No! No, of course not! I just…didn’t know if you wanted that.”
He looked at you with a gentle, lovesick expression on his face. “I never thought I did either, doll.” He paused which made your heart pick up nervously again. But he just brought his hands to yours and raised one to kiss it tenderly. “Until I met you.”
You flushed again, swatting him away playfully. “Who knew you were such a romantic, Todd?”
“Always have been,” he pulled you back into his arms. “Just hadn’t met the right girl until now.”
summary : work lost its fun when you dated richard john grayson and broke up with him a year later. what made it worse was having to go on missions with him at bruce wayne’s beck and call. what took it to hell was getting infected by a pollen that made you want him. good news, he needed you.
contains : mouth-watering smut !! mdni, read at your own risk. yearner!dick, ex!dick, aphrodisiac trope, of course poison ivy is involved in this one, yes dick is scrumptious so we want him, munch!dick, ripping of shirts, he’s highkey an ass man, yes consent is involved, he’s still a gentleman, p in v, fingering, mentions of masturbation, riding (+ face), almost kitchen sex but unfortunately not, some witty banter, yk, yk , dry humping, over-clothes munching, did I miss anything?
inspiration : sports car (t.m)
The worst thing about being DICK GRAYSON’S ex was having to get over him.
You’d been doing so well, avoiding scrolling on his Instagram, where he’d reposted Polo Ralph Lauren’s ad of him being their new poster boy. Jeans slung low, the band of his boxers covering half his v-line, shirt bunched up so your eyes could follow the slope straight into your wet dreams, sunnies perched on his nose, baby blues peeking out. Thumb tucked in a belt loop, fingers of his other hand carding through his hair.
Frustrating. Sexy. Making you more chronically online for him than you thought.
When did you start mulling over him like this? Maybe when he once took off the Kevlar of his suit with you in the Batcave. When his abs flexed during a routine stitch-up. His lips dropping open, fixed on yours while you did it.
Maybe you two weren’t over each other. Who the fuck was he to keep you hooked on a feeling?
He wasn’t over you, his eyes followed you when you walked past him. He dropped the sweetheart, dotted his i’s and crossed his t’s when it came to pining over you.
It hurt when he plummeted from heaven, falling for you.
Long winded romances were built to fail, your line of work made sure of that. A year’s worth of kissing in cars, making out on the Batjet and whispered promises sacrificed for fifteen days of bruising.
The kissed brick should hurt less, it was a mutual splitting, but rules as old as time dictated being friends with your ex was taboo. No one said shit about being almost friends, though. Lobbed insults slipped straight down both your waistbands, put rose in your cheeks, shocks in his heart.
Enough about him.
Saving the world from pollution was a noble act, it should be commended, but the line was drawn when biological warfare started to poison intentions. Tim had uncovered radiation signals from the mountains in Alaska, further reconnaissance uncovered a small camp where men in white hazmat suits conducted unknown experiments.
Naturally, Bruce wanted you and Dick to destroy said camp immediately.
The mission had been fine, routine, clean-cut, a trudge into unknown waters when the tent revealed mini-greenhouses, glass cages three holes poked into the top, incubating small, pulsating, glowing flowers, sticky pollen floating, clinging to tendril, stem and petal.
Yeah, they were strange, and supposed to be a passing thought after the charges went off, the tents going up in smoke and flames. After you’d dragged all unconscious personnel out of harm’s way.
“That’d been easy,” Dick had remarked. Oh, if only.
Your cells caught fire within the hour, so had his. Sweat dripped down his neck, his suit felt like a fucking greenhouse by itself, the ends of his hair stuck to the back of his neck, his knees fought against surrender. Your throat dried up, muscles ached, waves of saturated need riddled a heat-addled brain.
This was worse than your luteal.
You needed him, like needed him. It was the only thing your stupid brain could focus on, not Bruce’s hurried voice on comms during the flight home, it was secondary. Call his body the primary.
He wasn’t sleazy. Despite his screaming body, he kept as much distance from you as he could. Distanced himself. Shut himself in his room in Wayne Manor to get away from you, advised you to do the same. Your brain just accepted it, the walls of the guest room closing in on you.
Your hand had slipped past your panties a million times. You’d circled your clit in the way Dick used to, hand moving by itself in the rhythm he’d built into your mind. It was what worked best, but it was just surface shit, it did nothing. Honestly, felt like you were touching hot water, with how flushed your skin was and wet your fingers were but never once did it make a difference with how you felt.
Life was out to fucking get you.
Dick had tried everything too. Swallowing to push saliva down a throat rubbed with sandpaper. Taken off his clothes to feel cold air. He’d run his body over with beating cold water from a shower head. He wrapped his hand around himself and rubbed, but it made no difference, his body still burned, burst into fire for you. Water. He needed water.
The breakup had happened for a reason, ok? Your relationship was chasing you, but work was faster. It was all consuming, the stakes, dangers were running high, something else that crashed and burned with a heated argument and ‘we’re over’s thrown like punches.
Bruised knuckles blanched against the counter, other hand clutching a very full glass of water. His shirt stuck to his skin, even his baggy Calvin Klein sweats constricted him. Everything was claustrophobic, chipping at him with a chisel.
He lifted the glass to his lips. Water dripped past his lips, sliding down his chin, landing next to the sweat stains from his chest clinging to his shirt. It did shit all, his mouth was as dry, throat as scratchy, temperature high as Vesuvius.
You at the door, you stared. Watched, observed, droplets of sweat and water sliding across his collarbone your tongue’s calling, jaw begging for your lips, his lips themself soft, parted, pliable. You could lick up his neck. Shove him down onto a bed, position yourself above his face, he’d let you, probably. He did love eating pussy—
Wait, what?
You shouldn’t have gone into the kitchen, looking for a glass of water to soothe your mouth. Spectacular luck, ending up in the same place as the object of your thoughts right now. Your navel tugged, attempting to drag you closer to him. Your navel succeeded easily.
“Hey.” He rasped, the back of his hand dragging across his forehead. He could see his outline in the sweat when he looked at it. “This— fuck, it feels shitty, huh?”
You hung your head, any chance you grasped to look at him was dangerous.
“Tell me about it.” You mumbled. You couldn’t recognise it, it’d been roughed up by the fucking pollen shoved down your throat. Hay fever had permission to shove itself up your ass at this point. You itched the back of your neck, horniness addling your pussy.
You felt it when you walked, every word, every breath, it was desperate to its core, screaming for Dick. And his dick. Both of them. “I— I don’t know how much longer I can go like this, Dick.” You forced, swallowing (ow). The wince was clear as fucking day.
He started. “It hurts that much? Shit, I—” You felt the jolt in your navel again when he stepped closer, hands flying up, stopping short of your cheeks. He couldn’t. He couldn’t touch you, it would make the coil winding in his brain snap. His hands dropped, sighing, head bowed. “I can’t do anything, sweetheart, not ‘till Tim gets back with a cure to this thing.”
A cure to a reanimated thousand year old plant that was used during Ancient Egypt to encourage procreation. Right.
You turned away from him, dissociated from your body as it reached to grip the jug of water, filling the same glass he’d drank from once again. Taking a long sip, water sliding over the burn in your mouth, no relief, no dissipation. “I don’t wanna be a pessimist, but the plant’s centuries old. I doubt Tim can find a cure.”
“Have more faith in the little guy.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “He’s pulled miracles out of his ass before.” Tim probably had more brains than Einstein.
The glare he got in return was venomous. "I'll have faith when my knees aren't Jello." Faith wasn't much of an option when you'd had five failed orgasms. At least when you were with other one nights after Dick, you felt something. Even if it wasn't as satisfying.
"Touche." The silence beat on your ears, his breath in punctured that. "Look, we can hold out a little longer—" You vehemently shook your head.
Your voice came out unintentionally as a snap. "Can't you see? We're stuck like this. For — I don't even fucking know how long — and this hurts and burns and you're telling me that we can hold out a little longer?" Your fist banged the marble counter. All this frustration stemmed from the intense sexual frustration, so he didn't take it to heart. "I call bullshit."
It was unhelpful that he was also sexually frustrated. "Oh, I'm sorry." He hissed sarcastically. "I'm sorry that I'm working to protect your dignity here and keep the bit of autonomy we have left. I don't know if you want this— shit, sweetheart, do you even think about me?"
Of course you did. You thought about him every day cause your brain was obligated to think about him during every resting moment. Hot sweat plagued your midnights, imagining his lips on your neck in your dreams. The pinch in his brow when he hit the spot. Shameless, loud moans that his neighbour gave him a dirty look for the next morning.
"Of course I do." You said stiffy, spine rigid, need crawling up your back. This seemed like the type of argument which used to end in make up sex. "You're my coworker, I have to see you every day—"
Your sentence was cut off with a scoff. "That's not my question." He pressed, straight, perfectly trimmed brows furrowing. "You know that's not my question."
"Do we need to have this discussion when an aphrodisiac is eating us alive?" You hissed, shrinking into yourself. This discussion was always taboo, you both took the breakup like a brick with your lipstick print and his lip balm on it. "This hurts, ok? I don't have the energy to argue."
His eyes melted on hearing it, it hurt your heart more than it already was pained. "We don't." Folding his arms, a breath puffed from his nose, shoulders slumping. Broad shoulders your nails needed to dig in and break skin. "This sucks balls." I hate seeing you hurt, was the ulterior message.
"It really does." You looked at your feet. Maybe you could drop to your knees, undo his drawstring, suck on him for desperate clarity.
Maybe that would work.
You could feel it oozing off him; the half-baked thoughts of what you’d look like over him. You could take the chain around his neck with your finger and tug him towards you. Or his waistband. All while pain struck your abdomen. “Is it hurting— well, yeah, it’s hurting, but is it too much?” He asked softly, his chest, his broad chest connecting to an unfairly slutty waist calling your name. Despite the sweat adorning his temple, his eyes were locked on you. Out of horniness or concern, though? It was impossible to tell.
The corners of his eyes crinkled. It was concern.
You hesitated, then your head bobbed. Loosely, in what you thought was a nod. You wiped sweat off your neck, white noise pumping into your brain. “Yeah.” You rasp, taking in as much oxygen as you could to avoid delirium.
“I can help. If you want.” He was too close. His voice too gentle, hands raised like you were a fucking wild animal, even then, his eyes searched yours for a sign to stop. “I can kiss you, it might— it could take some of the pain for a second.”
This was the pollen talking, not him, you had to remind yourself. You were broken up.
“You sure?” Your breath came out in a whoosh, your body singing the closer he got. He needed to get closer. Closer. So close he was inside you.
He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter what I want, you’re in pain.”
“So are you—”
“Just listen.” He said, your vocal cords forgetting their function. “If I kiss you, you could stop hurting. Even if it’s for a short while, it could work.” But if he did, he didn’t know if he could stop.
You frowned. “Weren’t you the guy preaching about autonomy?”
“Do you want to feel better or not—” Your lips sealing over his answered that question. Pretty fucking well.
Fuck.
He’d have let you pull away, but the coolness dousing his head had his lips chasing after yours when your head reared back, the gap you made between your lips closed again when he kissed you hard. Hand gripping your jaw, one coming to grip the back of your thigh, locking it around his hip. Good grief.
Could you pull away? Did you have the strength to pull away? You only had the strength to yank him closer by his sweat-weighted shirt, pushing your hand in his hair, yanking at the strands. Normally pulling that hard with the danger of ripping out chunks of hair would have a man hissing and running for the hills, he just moaned. Loudly enough for you to wonder if he was faking it.
He wasn’t. Every kiss pressed to your lips by his starving mouth went straight to his dick. His hand on the back of your thigh sent signal after signal to your pussy that switched off your rational thoughts. Talk about a downstairs brain.
The ripping of fabric was followed by his shirt flumping onto the floor, a heap of cotton that was torn by the seams at the side. Hot kisses to the side of your neck paired with him massaging your thigh with strong fingers made your pussy clench— you’d never felt close to coming from a hand on your thigh before.
His tongue flattened. And dragged, all the way up your neck, to take your earlobe in his mouth and suck. Suck enough so your nails dug into his shoulders, breaking skin. Pain translated into pleasure, pleasure translated into euphoria, the sick fucking cycle that had your panties clinging to your legs.
“Shit, gorgeous.” His breath pulsed against your ear, tip of his tongue following the shell of your ear. “You gotta use me. Fuckin’ use me, honey.”
“Dick, maybe we should—” Wait, why were you about to preach autonomy?
Jesus H. Christ. Your hands moved forward on instinct, thigh dropping, shoving him in the direction of his bedroom, laving over his pulse, forcing him to bury his hand in your hair, his eyes rolling back, hips jolting forward to grind on your thigh. His body was on autopilot, hooked on a feeling, on the lack of pain, or fire burning his nerve endings.
His back hit the bed. Head sunk back into the pillows, rosy lips dropping open when your pussy dragged over his dick, through thick sweatpants, of course, didn’t stop the aphrodisiac from making him think it was heaven. His voice cracked as he whimpered, he fucking whimpered, grabbing your ass and grinding you back down, so you obliged again, and again, to the point where you were humping him. To the benefit of both of you.
He was muttering nonsense, brain not connected to his mouth of vocal cords, stammering. “So close— shit, shit, sweetheart, stop,” He stilled you, tugging at both your waistbands, five seconds later those garments, sweats and panties, were chucked across the room. He beckoned you with two fingers, flushed cheeks betraying breathlessness. “C’mere, baby.” He mouthed at your pussy over your sweats, it wasn’t enough. Who was he kidding? It would never be enough.
His tongue swiping over his bottom lip told you everything. “Classic.” You scoffed, but your pussy throbbed. It was typical of him, to put you first. He shouldn’t put you first. “We don’t have time for this—”
“Yes, we do.” He said sharply, taking your wrist and shoving your hand in his hair. “I said use me.” His lips burned down your stomach, holding himself up off the bed without his hands. Curse him and his insane ab strength. “You had no problem with that before.”
You rolled your eyes. Your pussy reminded you to get a move on, prompting you to roll your hips over the muscle of his thigh. Without thinking, he encouraged that. Literally without thinking, his hand moved of its own accord. “You can survive without eating pussy.” It wasn’t like you didn’t want him to eat you out, he did a stellar job. Always to the point where you had to go nonverbal. You were just being a jerk.
He fake-gasped. “Wow. That’s offensive.” He pulled you onto his face without further hesitation, his tongue sliding up the length of your cunt— oh. Your hand in his hair gripped tightly, a curse-string rolling past your tongue. Was it meant to feel like you were ascending into some ninth heaven? Was that him or the aphrodisiac?
Maybe just him.
“Mm, Dickie, fuck—” You gasped, even better was his tongue slipping inside you, his thumb rolling your clit, circling, circling, larger, larger, expanding, legs shaking, eyes rolling back, pussy jolting to grind on his nose and lips.
His tongue pulled out, replacing it with his fingers, two slender digits curling, stretching you out till his knuckle pressed on that spot he always managed to find. How did he always find it? It felt unfair. “That’s it. C’mon, honey, that’s it, make yourself feel good.” He breathed, muffled by your cunt, kitten licking whatever juices didn’t drip onto his fingers.
Maybe it was the failure of every one night stand since you two broke up. Maybe it was the aphrodisiac, but you were barrelling towards a high he was making you addicted to. This shouldn’t even be happening. A part of you whispered that this would send you into an impossible-to-leave rabbit hole of yearning and fucking year-long pining.
You shut that part of you up.
“Dickie,” You moaned, a white-hot coil in your core winding up, ticking down — ten, nine, eight — “baby, m’close.” You called him baby. Against all reason, you called him a pet name. That’s it, you were what everyone called ‘in deep’.
He really needed to hear that. His fingers pumped, curled, tongue rubbed your clit, all he could do to help you get there. “Mhm?” He mumbled, drinking you up. Every fucking drop, aching, sandpaper-esque throat soothed. “Yeah, gorgeous girl, give it to me, ok? I’ve got you, m’here.”
Fuck him and his sweet talking. It had you shaking as you came, he didn’t waste a drop, licking everything up like anything wasted was the loss of a billion dollars.
He was honest to himself. Any drop of you wasted was the loss of ambrosia. Can’t put a price on that.
He withdrew his fingers, placing them in his mouth, licking the digits clean with a moan. As if the image couldn’t get more erotic, you smeared all over his mouth, the tip of his nose and his chin. “You get better every time.” He grinned, but, to ruin the mood, his dick gave him a less than welcome reminder that it existed. Pain lanced through his body, making him wince, blunt nails pressing into your thighs. “Sorry, sorry, I—”
You got it. Like hell you wouldn’t. The last of your high ebbing away caved to let aching settle in your bones once again, screaming for you to actually, you know, have his dick in you. No two ways about it.
“No, I know.” You yanked at his drawstring, helping him out of the unnecessary layers of his sweatpants and his boxers, both of them disappearing into a corner of the room. He sat up, finger lifted, tilting your chin so your lips tenderly met his. Like there wasn’t an aphrodisiac making you both desperate. “Condom?”
“I didn’t anticipate this happening.”
“Even better.” You breathed, kissing him, the taste of you flooding your tongue. He groaned, grabbing your tit, squeezing, swinging your leg so your pussy was nestled at the tip of his cock. A millimetre away from bliss.
His nose bumped yours, fighting off his flush, blown-out eyes darting to your lips then back up. Like you were Aphrodite’s gift to men. “We can stop.” He murmured, lips brushing yours again, his lashes fluttering, lids closing. “Just tell me to, and we’ll stop.”
You laughed. Quietly. “We’re kind of beyond asking.”
“Stop that, stop fucking arguing, just tell me if you want to stop.” He moaned in frustration, mouthing at your pulse. “I won’t let you do anything till I hear it. Tell me, sweetheart.”
“I don’t want to stop.” You murmured so he could hear you, grabbing his chin to kiss him, muffling the moan you both let out in that sloppy exchange as you sank down onto his waiting cock. No resistance, just slip, giving way to euphoria that clouded your brain. “Oh, fuck.” You whimpered, clawing at his back.
His eyes rolled back, if he’d been deeper than his balls in this pollen, he’d already be coming. “O—Oh, baby.” He stammered, squeezing your hip to encourage you to move.
This was what the pollen wanted. You feeling full, snug on him, lifting yourself so only the tip of him was in you before sinking down entirely. His lip caught between his teeth, propping one leg up to roll his hips up, matching each and every lift and fall of those glorious hips. This alone was euphoric, this alone sent you spiralling, nails raking down his abs, through his hair, talking dirty into his ear so you could drag him down with you.
Where did the lines blur? When did the line between aphrodisiac and emotion blur, maybe with the whisper of “Shit, baby, I love you” that he whined into your ear? It was hidden by the cacophony of pornographic moans the two of you were surprising yourselves with.
Never in his life had he sounded like that. He wanted to sound like that more often, it told you how irreplaceable you were.
He was holding out, gripping restraint, his high here and approaching fast, his head bowing down. Taking your tit into his mouth, sucking, other thumb flicking and essentially bullying your clit. Telling you to get a goddamn move on.
A cry tore from your throat, your entire being giving way, clutching his hair, his arm, as you came, the constricting of your pussy around his dick making him follow straight after, his low moan humming against your skin, pleasure rolling, wracking, wrecking, voices cracking, words disintegrating into whimpers and indiscernible sounds. His mouth coaxing more, burning up your chest, your neck, your jaw, your lips, tugging your bottom lip down with his thumb.
“I think we’re gonna need to go a few more.”
Around seven rounds of sex, sucking dick and eating pussy later, burning need faded into a pleasant hum of your weary bones. You were never going to go into an environmental terrorist’s biohazard camp ever again.
The pillows were unusually soft, but maybe your sex-exhausted brain was making you think so. So far, all you’d done is stare at the ceiling, as if this was a Tuesday where you hadn’t, y’know, slept with your ex due to an aphrodisiac.
Dick padded out from the bathroom, sweats slung low like in his jeans in that stupid Polo Ralph Lauren ad. Warm, wet, soft towel in his hand, he gently coaxed your legs apart, running the towel between your legs to clean you up.
You rolled your head to look at him. “What are you doing?” You mumbled.
“Taking care of you.” The answer was, apparently, so simple. He pushed the glass of water on your his beside table towards you. “Drink. You’ve had it rough.”
“What about you?” You took the water, letting it slide down your throat. Finally soothing it. That’s how you knew the pollen was out of your system.
He sat down beside you on the bed, tucking his legs under the covers. “Well, my legs feel like pudding, my dick’s been worked nine ways till Sunday, and my kneecaps feel creaky from the backshots.” He shrugged, lips curving into a lopsided smile. “Exactly how I wanna be.”
“You’re weird.”
“I love you too.” He chuckled, your world regaining its footing when he said that. You leaned towards him, kissing him again, this time without lust or motive or anything, just feeling him. Feeling the way he melted, like he always did.
His eyes blinked open when you pulled away. “Can we give us another shot?” He asked, shy. That was new. “Uh, only if you want to. No pressure.”
You took a breath in. This could fail. Crash and burn again, leaving you to thirst over his modelling gigs and all of him. But it’d never be worse than not trying at all.
summary: jimmy and lois find the perfect gift for clark “i love my wife” kent.
pairing: husband!clark kent x wife!fem!reader
word count: 1.6k
contents: silly fic with minor warnings. clark loves his wife. kissing, pet names and snoopy loving? and that’s about it mwah mwah
a/n: this is for my own self indulgence lmao
“Yes, honey—”
Clark stepped out of the elevator, one foot tripped over the other, briefcase, ID card and newspaper slotted between each finger on his left hand, whilst he cradled a styrofoam cup of hot coffee in his right. Phone pressed between his shoulder and his ear, he narrowly missed a journalist on the shorter side as she ducked beneath his arm to get past him.
“I love you too, honey. Yup.” He continued. Perry White came into view, his cigar hung between his lips as he tapped at his watch and mouthed, ‘Late again, Clark.’ to which Clark cringed and mouthed a sincere apology with his mind elsewhere, “—Sweetheart, I really have to go…No, no, I didn’t forget my glasses.”
The bullpen was alive as he stepped into it. TV’s scattered across the room, never changed from news report channels in the chance that they miss a new lead on recent events involving the conflict with Lex Luthor and Superman. Reporters hunched over their desks, ink stains on their pinkies, coffee rings stained their drafts. Everyone looks. . . busy. Intense. Like, the real deal journalists.
Cat Grant sat atop of her desk, aimlessly chatting and Lois Lane, who was nose deep in her laptop, pretending to listen with intermittent nods to engage her co-worker to keep talking.
Jimmy Olsen swivelled round in his chair, away from two ladies, to greet Clark who was rounding up his call with you.
“I love you too, honey. OK—Yeah, got it. Eight o’clock sharp. OK, I love you, bye. Bye.” Clark huffed out with a smile as his phone dropped from his ear and onto his desk. Styrofoam cup placed on top of deadline reports, Clark acknowledged his friends with a curt nod; smoothing the tie you picked out for him as he sat on his chair that squeaked.
Jimmy leant back in his chair, “You talk to her all the way to work?”
Was that not a given?
Clark looked up from his briefcase to Olsen who looked bemused by his query.
It was no secret that Clark Kent doted on his wife. He’d spend every millisecond of the day around you if Metropolis didn’t charge such an alarming rate for a one bedroom shack on the third floor of an apartment complex. He wore his golden band — engraved with your fingerprint on the inside — with the upmost pride, polished and gleaming in the Metropolis sunrise every morning.
Naturally, it had become a hot topic amongst the bullpen journalists, busy with deadlines but not too busy to prod fun at Clark for his sweet devotion to his wife.
Daily Planet second. You first.
He was quick to respond, “You know I do, Jimmy. Is it a crime to enjoy my wife’s company?”
“No, no—” Jimmy held his hands up in faux surrender, “—You wear marriage well, dude. Oh. By the way…” He yanked the second drawer at his desk open and pulled out a wrapped present, “Happy Birthday, buddy.”
Clark extended his arm to grab the present, brow furrowed at the Snoopy patterned paper.
You loved Snoopy, he’d have to save it.
“…It isn’t my birthday.” Clark stated.
Lois chimed in, “We know.”
Clark’s eyes drifted from Jimmy, to Lois who hadn’t even broken concentration from her screen, and then back to Jimmy who was hiding a smile behind his cracked sports mug.
Suspicious.
“Open it, dude.” Jimmy encouraged.
Nodding, Clark sceptically peeled at the layer of 90s inspired wrapping paper — ironically — a blue and red eyesore. He was careful enough not tear it recklessly because in the forefront of his mind, he knew that you basked in nostalgia. And, this EBay find would put a darn good smile on your pretty face.
He also tried to recall the last time he ever gifted one of the close-knit crew — excluding Steve — a present with no ulterior motive.
Right. Never.
Paper folded back, Clark deadpanned at the gifted t-shirt within, his large fingers pinching the fabric of the shoulders to pull it upright in front of him.
Jimmy smiled widely, idly tapping at the ceramic of his mug, awaiting Kent’s verdict on the joint present from Lois and him. It was wholly Jimmy Olsen’s idea, but Lois wasn’t one to stray from a lighthearted joke; especially if it was directed at her interview snatching nemesis.
Clark scanned the front and read out the enlarged font, “Let me ask my wife—” He dropped the t-shirt into his lap and stared at his friends, “That’s funny.”
His statement didn’t match his tone.
“And true.” Jimmy added.
Lois, who finally tore her eyes from her screen, turned in her chair and gestured to the item of clothing, “You know she will love it, too.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Clark chuckled, folding the t-shirt whilst shaking his head, “Thank you both.”
“Are you going to wear it for your date tonight?” Lois teased as she stood from her position to go grab a coffee — no holding off on the sugar.
Clark returned his focus to his laptop, posture terrible, knees locked together as he leant to enter his password. He mumbled quietly, “Don’t know, Lois. Let me ask my wife.”
Jimmy cackled.
Later that night, Clark returned back to your shared apartment after turning in three different reports on Superman to a beaming Perry White. He was visibly tired, eyes sore behind glasses from the hard concentration of staring at black and white on his screen until the words made sense and they were Daily Planet, print newspaper worthy.
“Honey?” The front door clicked behind Clark, his suit jacket foregone with his white dress-shirt rolled up to his elbows, the top two buttons undone to let the white t-shirt peek from underneath.
You called, “Kitchen!”
Clark haphazardly tossed his jacket onto the coat stand, taking a mental note to wedge a piece of cardboard under the shorter foot to prevent it from keeling over. One foot in front of the other, he made it to the claustrophobic kitchen you adored so much. He leant against the doorframe with his arms folded, a warm smile spread across his face as he watched you smack your beloved pink toaster with force.
He let you mumble to yourself — and for him to admire you from afar — for a moment before pushing off of the doorframe. Hands smoothed across your hips, he dropped his head into the crook of your neck and inhaled.
“I told you I would buy you a new toaster.” Clark mumbled into the skin of your neck, “That thing is old, and a fire hazard.”
You huffed, “It’s vintage.”
Clark chuckled softly, turning you to face him with little resistance.
“Hi.” He mumbled and kissed you.
“Hi.”
“Missed you.” He whispered between another kiss, his smile growing wider when you accepted three more.
You pulled back and planted your hands on his broad chest, “You saw me this morning. And, for a brief moment at lunchtime…” Clark pouted, “OK. I missed you too.”
Clark kissed you again for good measure as you fiddled with the collar of his dress-shirt with your brows pinched at the undershirt. It wasn’t his usual crisp white vest, a greyish-black letter peaked from beneath the button down. He watched you closely as the cogs turned in your head over a simple matter. Something he loved entirely.
You never missed the small things.
The toaster’s cough interrupted your thought process, your burnt toast flung into the air and dropped onto the tiled floor with a ‘thunk’.
You’d have to ask him about the shirt afterwards.
Bending down with a grimace, you grabbed the smoking toast by the corner of the crust — Clark quick to put his hand over the corner of the countertop to save a headache for you — a few strings of curses leaving your mouth as you dropped the charcoal toast onto your plate; sucking at your thumb to soothe the burning.
Without a thought, Clark grabbed your wrist, pulling your thumb to his mouth and pressed a gentle kiss to the reddened pad.
“My hero.” You spoke lovingly with a quick scratch to your husband’s chin before reclaiming your hand to butter your toast. You continued, “How was work today? Any news on that Superguy…Superman?”
Clark pinched your hip.
“Turned three in.” He dragged a hand down his face before the thought pinged from the back of his mind, “Oh, look at this—” You turned as Clark pulled the wrapping paper he saved for you from his back pocket, “—Snoopy. And that old style wrapping paper you like.”
You grinned with a glint in your eye, “We’ll keep it, mushy.” Knife in hand pointed at his chest, “New undershirt?”
“Ah. Yes. Jimmy and Lois bought it for me.”
Clark tucked his chin to unbutton his shirt just enough for you to be able to read the print.
“Ta-Da.” He sung.
You folded your arms, “Let me ask my wife, huh?”
“Silly, isn’t it?”
“I love it.” You let out a laugh of approval, “Very fitting for you, although, we’ve already discussed that you do not need my permission for big decisions.”
You were referencing last week. You had held an intervention for your husband and his tendency to mull over big decisions by conferring with you. The last time Clark Kent had said: ‘Let me ask my wife.’ was over if he wanted to sign up to a benefits card at Chaney’s.
He didn’t take that decision lightly. So, he called you.
Despite the intervention, Clark would always call you for the final say.
Clark nodded dopily, “Yes, honey. But, I like calling you to ask. You take it so seriously.” He bit into the buttered and burnt toast you offered and pulled back with a scrunch of his nose. Cheek full of bread, he spoke, “Still up for dinner at eight?”
Toast with two bites into it, discarded, you wiped your hands together and nodded enthusiastically.
jason todd is the kind of man to keep you safe and continually mentally stimulated, feeding your mind to nourish your soul with genuine care and compassion. he challenges you, offering real opinions that don’t border toxic masculinity. jason listens to you even when you have nothing to say.
he literally sweeps you off of your feet because that’s how much of a gentleman he is. he learns to appreciate the quietness with you, falling in love with existence beyond reason and acceptance that didn’t have to be earned. jason wants to be known and he doesn’t make that distinction any less clear, he only struggles with admitting what he needs. he is kind, he is soft spoken and insatiably intelligent.
he would be the kind of guy who brings roses to a date, run across the car to open the door before you get there and bend down to fix your shoelaces for you.
jason todd is the type of guy to teach you how to do things, especially practical things like changing a tire or oil from your car. he would probably make excuses to see you at first, coming over to fix something and getting himself a little extra dirty just to feel you wipe the scuff off his cheek. he’ll drag his hand over his face purposefully because he wants that excuse to touch you without having to initiate it.
jason todd would finally admit his feelings for you after a long day with you because he just couldn’t help it. he’s rubbing at his temples from the sheer amount of energy it takes from him to be away from you. acting like it didn’t make him want to rip out his skin and scream that he’s in love with you. it would probably slip out in conversation. your complaining about guys in your city and he’s telling you how it shouldn’t be a problem, forgetting about the implication of his words.
“none of them are good enough for you anyways. you deserve a protector,”
you roll your eyes, “i’m not some damsel jason.”
he’ll smile, give you those pretty teeth that he swears never got braces to achieve their straightness with, “nah you’re not. but you’re someone worth dying for.”
you’ll pretend to be unfazed and not like your heart isn’t swelling because he’s the one you wanted all along.
jason todd is never rough or mean in any regard. not with you at least. he would absentmindedly stare at your lips, mind wandering off on how the supple skin would feel against his. faintly wishing he had permission to touch you. shaking his head when you say his name and snap him from his thoughts, smiling up at you.
when you date him, he wouldn’t touch you unnecessarily at first, dragging his hands on the couch next to you. restraining himself for god knows why. he doesn’t initiate touching until you do, until you put his hands where you want them. until you have to straddle him to show him that you need him to touch you more.
jason todd is not half the dominant sexual force people say he is. sure, he’ll kiss you passionately, letting you melt into him before deepening it at all completely. mouthing at you til your breathless, like he wanted his very soul to be fused to yours. he’s hungry, but he’s not rough with it.
he matches your pace, he lets you build it.
he doesn’t just crave reciprocation—he needs it.
jason todd wouldn’t have sex with you immediately either. nor would he be rough in bed like some sex craved demon, even if you wanted him to. one night when you step out of the shower, he’s got dinner cooking and ready for you, and you couldn’t help but appreciate him for his efforts. palming at him through his shorts, whispering that you need him now. he stops your wrists immediately, grabbing them just to tell you he doesn’t need you to, even though he really wants it. jason settles for laying you back on the couch and showing you what a real man does.
when you blink at him, he’s already on his knees.
“let me worship you. please?”
he doesn’t need to touch you yet, he doesn’t even need to be inside you to lose his mind.
jason todd is the type of guy to create his own category of good men. the kind that you would have never labeled before, but knowing him, there was no one else quite like him.
he eats you out like he’s actually starving but he savours at the same time. going back for seconds when you think he’s done, when you think he’s not breathing enough. he acts like he’s got all the time in the world, lapping and not even inside yet, to get you whining and falling apart.
jason todd is a gentle lover, through and through. intimacy was no exception. he cried the first time you had sex, not because it hurt or anything, but because he couldn’t believe he could have you. inching himself slowly until he’s buried in the heat. he kisses you through it, making promises you knew he would never break. the words that slip past his lips, those were what got you. his gentle love that felt like a bed of feathers.
jason todd would carry you to a bath afterwards, even when you were exhausted. even when you told him you just wanted to nap. he’d wash your back anyways, run his fingers through your hair and lather up soap. he would be knowledgeable about it too, putting leave in conditioner in your hair and moisturizer on your face, even though you’re half asleep. you’ll wake up happy, clean and moisturized, with the slightest ache between your legs.
jason todd would already be up, the smell of something sweet and coffee mixing in the air like he lived in a bakery. beckoning you to find out what was creating such a delicious scent. you’ll find him in the kitchen, in a ridiculous apron that says to kiss the chef and no shirt underneath. when he sees you he smiles and strides over, spatula in hand. and when he kisses you, it’s like a thousand butterflies emerge from their cocoons and the warmth of the sun is shining directly on you, all at once.
jason todd would be the first to tell you he loves you when he’s comfortable. he just wouldn’t be able to hide it from you, and he’d probably say it in passing at first, saying bye to you before you leave the house, waving his hand up while he’s busy with something.
“have a good day, love you.”
he wouldn’t even realize until you tell him later that night, after beating yourself up for not saying it then. his cheeks will pinken and his jaw will unclench—like the realization dawned on him in that moment. then he smiles and doubles down.
“well even if you ever decide you hated me, it’s too late. i love you too much to let you go without a fight.”
even jason todds threats linger with sugary sweetness because jason todd is a sweet man, through and through.
not proofread, wrote this on my break at work :p my colour schemes are always so boring, i always write at random times…
bf!jason todd who only had the gentle hum of his fridge and the police sirens echoing in the empty night as a source of sound before you came along
bf!jason todd who swears he's annoyed every time he hears the intro to the show you've rewatched atleast 6 times now (he's not, he's actually quite invested)
bf!jason todd who keeps you tight against his chest at night, inhaling that familiar scent, relishing in the feeling of your warm body against his. this was his sanctuary. this was his home. he'd die a happy goddamn man if he got to spend the rest of his life with you like this.
bf!jason todd who was finally having filling meals when you came along
bf!jason todd who once ran a hand over his stomach, where the soft pudge had replaced the flat contour with hard lines it once was. he could've sworn his pants were digging into it, and just hoped you didn't notice
bf!jason todd who feels a whole lot better when you tell him the softness only makes him more attractive, his abs and muscles were still there. just not so defined.
bf!jason todd who has always struggled with opening up and showing emotions. so when he's got you on your back as he buries himself into you, he'll tell you how much he loves you, and if you feel some wet hot tears falls upon your cheeks? that's between him and the bed.
bf!jason todd who doesn't mind any noise as long as it's coming from you.
the mattress dips under jason’s bulky frame as he pulls you down harder with one broad, all calloused hand gripping the flesh of your hip like he’s genuinely afraid you’ll listen to reason and stop.
meanwhile, you’re trying to keep most of your weight on your knees. thighs trembling from holding yourself up so you don’t crash his freshly–stitched wound. and no— jason’s definitely not having it. the long, scarred fingers dig tighter in his grip, yanking you flush until you’re actually straddling him and there’s no space left between you.
“jason.” you warn, with zero bite, and zero intention of really stopping.
he groans. “baby, shut up.”
somehow, he manages to roll his hips up into you, sinking his cock deeper (if that’s even possible) into your sweet, wet cunt. you choke on a moan, high–pitched, borderline filthy and when the red, swollen tip of him hits against that spongy spot, you clench hard around him. a low, coarse grunt mixed in with a curse slips out of jason through his teeth (maybe from the pleasure, maybe from the pain that travels down his body from doing that).
both of your palms fly to his broad chest, just to keep you steady. you lean forward, your eyes closed, silky hair falling gracefully down your shoulders, perky tits pushing up toward his rugged face, and jason? well, he nearly spills his hot load inside your warmth, right there and then. but just when he thought you wouldn’t argue anymore—
“wait—” your eyes snap open.
needless to say, he doesn’t.
and just to prove a point (and be a little shit about it), he snaps his hips up again, harsh enough to kill the rest of your sentence and replace it with a loud, pathetic moan instead. because now, you feel every throbbing vein decorating his cock, the drag of his sloppy length coming in and out of you, fuck him.
“baby, ‘s just a couple stitches.” he whispers, the words punctuated by the wet slap of skin meeting skin. “been through worse.”
“but—” another thrust, another gasp that spills out of you. “you’re bleeding through the gauze.”
both of you look down at the same time, right where the wound sits on the hard ridges of his toned stomach. that’s when you finally feel it: the slow warmth, mixed in with your arousal, already sticking against your inner thigh right where the bandage is now stained dark.
and maybe that should be the final sign to stop, to make the both of you come to your senses and down to earth.
it isn’t.
not when he’s staring up at you now: with his pupils blown so wide there’s almost no blue left in his eyes, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscles ticking, eyebrows furrowed. he looks tired, but annoyed. like his own body has personally offended him by daring to interrupt the feeling of getting lost inside you.
jason’s gaze pierces holes right through you, then his lips curl into something lazy, something dangerous, the kind of smile that tells you he is finally getting entertained.
“then let it bleed, baby.” he rasps out, tapping your hip to urge you to keep moving. “but you might have to ride me slower, you know… because of doctor’s orders and shit,” he snorts.
you roll your eyes, giving a small playful ‘smack’ to his chest. “stubborn asshole.”
pairing: ex!dick grayson x afab!reader, endgame!wally west x afab!reader
summary: you knew that moving on from a breakup would hurt, you just didn't expect your ex, dick grayson, to move on so soon and publicly to boot. little did you know that someone was watching out for you and is willing to do anything to make you smile.
content: ex! dick grayson, asshole dick grayson, angst, hurt, wally comforts you, banter and flirtation with wally, pining wally, observant wally, self-deprecation talk, wally fully believes in the power of food being healing, love confession,
wc: 7.1k read part 2 here
heart to heart valentine collection | buy me a coffee | general masterlist
There was a time when Dick Grayson fit into your life as if it had always been waiting for him.
You remembered it in fragments, the way memories tended to surface when you didn’t invite them.
Moonlight through your bedroom window, pale and soft, painting his bare shoulders silver as he lay on his side facing you. The city hummed beneath the tower, distant and alive, while the two of you existed in your own quiet world. His hand rested at your waist, thumb tracing lazy circles as if he had nowhere else he needed to be. As if there wasn’t a city that demanded him, or a symbol stitched into his suit that he carried even when it wasn’t on his chest.
You remembered laughing until it hurt. The kind of laugh that pulled a sound from your chest before you could stop it. Dick always loved that laugh. He used to say it made everything feel lighter, like for a moment the weight of being Nightwing slipped off his shoulders.
You mornings together was your preferred way to start the day. Sharing burnt toast and strong coffee, others were spent with gentle hands and bandages after missions. Conversations whispered into skin, secrets exchanged in the dark that felt safe simply because they were yours.
You remembered thinking, This is it. This is what it’s supposed to feel like.
The memory shattered the moment you opened your eyes.
The tower ceiling stared back at you, sterile and unfamiliar. Your room felt too quiet now, too empty. His jacket wasn’t draped over the chair anymore. There was no warmth lingering in the sheets, no sleepy voice teasing you for staying up too late.
That life belonged to another version of you.
And Dick Grayson belonged to someone else.
The last mission had been brutal — not the worst you’d ever faced, but draining in a way that left exhaustion sitting heavy in your bones. You worked well with the team, always had, but something felt… off.
It took you longer than you cared to admit to realize why.
Dick was there, and fought and covered civilians. He moved with the same precision he always did. He checked in over comms, just like he did with everyone else.
But he wasn’t fighting with you.
There was no familiar pressure at your back, no instinctive trust that someone was watching your blind spots because you watched theirs. No silent coordination born from knowing how the other person moved, thought, or reacted. You didn’t realize how much you’d relied on that unspoken connection until it was gone.
He hadn’t abandoned you. You knew that. He still cared — as a teammate. As a friend?
But the space between you felt cavernous. And fighting alone, even in a crowd, felt lonelier than you expected.
You stood under the spray of the shower longer than necessary, letting the water pound against your shoulders, hoping it would wash the memory of the mission, and the announcement that came after, from your mind.
Everyone had been so happy for them, Dick and Kori. Official. Public, almost aggressively so.
The way she glowed at his side, radiant and unapologetic in her affection. The way his smile came easy around her, unguarded in a way you hadn’t seen directed at you in a long time. They looked good together, like couple that belonged on the front page of a magazine or whispered about in awe.
It shouldn’t have hurt. You were broken up, and this was inevitable.
But your heart didn’t seem to care about logic.
You shut off the water, wrapped yourself in a towel, and stared at your reflection until the redness around your eyes faded enough to pass as exhaustion instead of heartbreak. You dressed quickly, deliberately. If you stayed in your room too long, you’d think too much.
You just needed food. Something solid, something normal.
The common room lights were dimmed when you stepped inside. Late evening, the tower winding down, and for one fleeting moment, you thought you might be safe.
Then you saw them. Kori sat curled against Dick on the couch, her legs tucked beneath her, her laugh bright and unrestrained as he murmured something into her ear. His arm was slung easily around her shoulders, fingers resting at her waist like they’d memorized the shape of her already.
Arms that had once held you. Something in your chest twisted painfully.
Dick’s eyes lifted instinctively, catching yours across the room. For a split second, something flickered there — surprise, maybe guilt — but you didn’t give him the chance to figure it out.
You turned on your heel and headed back the way you came. You didn’t hear him call your name. You didn’t want to.
“Hey— wait up.”
Wally’s voice cut through your thoughts like a jolt of electricity, familiar and grounding. You slowed but didn’t stop, side-eying him as he fell into step beside you.
“You wanna hang out?” he asked lightly. “Maybe grab a snack? Get outta the tower for a bit?”
You huffed out a breath, arms crossing instinctively as you kept walking. “This isn’t because you feel bad, right?” you said. “I know this has got to be awkward for you.”
While Dick had insisted on keeping it quiet about any kind of relationship the two of you had, Wally was the exception to the rule. So while the rest of the team had no clue about any history between you and Dick, Wally has insider information. It wouldn’t be a far guess to say that he might just actually pity you, which is why you couldn’t help but ask. Not that you were really in a position to refuse a friend anyway.
Wally stopped short enough that you were forced to glance back at him.
“No,” he said immediately, cutting you off before the words could sink too deep. His tone was gentle, but firm. “It’s not about that.”
He jogged a step forward, falling back into stride beside you. “I can’t get a late-night treat with my friend and teammate now? And if it coincidentally means we leave the tower for a bit,” he added with a shrug, “well… who cares?”
He nudged your shoulder with his own, just enough that you stumbled slightly before catching yourself.
A small smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it. You sighed, the tension in your chest loosening just a fraction. “Fine,” you said quietly. “But you’re buying.”
Wally grinned, flashing you a wink as he turned toward the exit. “Wouldn’t dream of letting you pay.”
And for the first time that night, as the tower doors slid open and the cool air brushed against your skin, it felt like you might be able to breathe again.
⚡︎𓅩
You noticed it without meaning to. You’ve been trying to give the happy couple their space, but it seems like the universe is determined to keep shoving them into your face. So, of course, you notice Kori’s new fashion accessory.
Dick’s jacket was draped over Kori’s shoulders. It sat heavily on Kori’s shoulders, the fabric too large for her frame, sleeves hanging past her wrists as she laughed at something Dick murmured under his breath. The emblem on the back curved with her movement, catching the light as she shifted closer to him. Dick didn’t even look down when she tugged it tighter around herself — his arm came up automatically, settling at her waist like the two gestures belonged together.
Like this was normal, like it had always been allowed. Your fingers tightened around your cup.
It shouldn’t have mattered. It was just a jacket. A piece of fabric. Something practical, something replaceable.
But it wasn’t. Not to you.
The memory came without warning.
You were still flushed from the mission, sweat cooling too quickly against your skin as you stepped into the hallway outside the lockers. Your hands trembled faintly as adrenaline bled off, exhaustion settling deep into your bones. Dick stood beside you, already half out of his suit, laughter soft as he recounted something stupid Roy had said over comms.
You’d been cold.
You remembered hesitating before reaching for his jacket, fingers brushing the sleeve tentatively. “Hey,” you’d said lightly, trying to keep it casual. “Can I—?”
He’d looked down, surprised. Not upset, not angry, just…caught off guard.
“Oh,” he’d said, gently pulling it back before you could fully shrug it on. “Careful.”
You’d laughed, embarrassed. “What?”
“I just—” he’d smiled apologetically, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t want you to accidentally rip it or stain it or something. You know how that suit fabric is.”
You remembered nodding immediately. Too quickly.
“Oh. Yeah. Of course,” you’d said. “That makes sense.”
He’d kissed your temple instead, warm and familiar, arm sliding around your shoulders like that was supposed to make up for it.
At the time, you’d believed him.
You’d told yourself he was being practical. Protective or possessive even. That it didn’t mean anything deeper than caution and habit. You’d told yourself love didn’t need symbols, that the way he held you when no one was watching mattered more.
Now, watching Kori wear it openly and proudly, you understand. It had never been about stains, or rips, or carelessness.
It had been about visibility. He hadn’t wanted the team to know.
Not fully, not unmistakably. Not in a way that couldn’t be explained away as a coincidence or convenience. Loving you had lived in private spaces, in shadows, in rooms with doors closed and lights low.
Kori wore his jacket in the middle of the room. No hesitation or apology.
Dick didn’t flinch or glance around. He didn’t look uncomfortable. He just let it happen.
Something inside you sank quietly. It wasn’t jealousy — not really. None of this was Kori’s fault. It was clarity. The kind that arrived too late to change anything, but early enough to hurt.
You’d spent so long being careful with him. Making yourself smaller. Accepting less because you thought that was the price of loving someone who carried so much weight.
And now you saw it plainly.
He hadn’t been protecting the jacket.
He’d been protecting the story he told everyone else.
You took a slow sip of your drink, gaze drifting away before the ache could sharpen further. Across the room, Dick laughed at something Kori said, his hand resting on her back without thought.
You didn’t look again.
Because you didn’t need to.
You finally understood what you’d lost — and what you’d never really had.
But now there’s Kori tugging the jacket tighter around herself, smiling up at him. Dick’s hand rested at her waist without hesitation, easy and familiar.
You swallowed and turned away.
“Hey.”
Wally’s voice cut in gently, and you startled just enough to feel silly about it.
“Sorry,” you said automatically.
“For what?” he asked, already grabbing a drink from the fridge and sliding it toward you. “Existing in the same room as… people?”
You huffed a quiet laugh. “Something like that.”
He followed your gaze, took in the scene, and then looked back at you — really looked. The slight tension in your jaw. The way your shoulders had drawn in on themselves.
He didn’t comment. Instead, he leaned against the counter beside you. “You eat yet?”
“No.”
“Cool,” he said, nodding once. “Same. Tragic, honestly.”
You smirked. “You say that every time.”
“And every time it’s true.”
The banter was familiar and easy. It helped more than you wanted to admit.
⚡︎𓅩
It happened again a few nights later.
You were on patrol, moving across rooftops, when a familiar neon glow caught your eye. A café window, warm and inviting, steam fogging the glass.
Dick sat inside, with Kori across from him, chin propped in her hand as he spoke, eyes bright with attention. He smiled in that open, unguarded way — the one he used to reserve for late nights with you, when the world felt smaller.
Your feet slowed before you could stop them.
“Don’t,” you muttered to yourself.
Wally, your new patrol partner, ran back towards you when you saw you were stuck, having noticed immediately. “What?”
“Nothing,” you said quickly, forcing your pace to pick up again.
He glanced through the window, understanding dawning. The rest of the patrol passed in near silence.
Not the uncomfortable kind. Just… quiet. The city stretched out beneath you in a scatter of lights and distant sirens, wind rushing past as you and Wally moved from rooftop to rooftop. Normally, he filled the air with commentary, bad jokes, half-finished thoughts that tumbled out of him faster than he could filter them.
Tonight, he didn’t. He stayed close, matching your pace, eyes scanning the streets while occasionally flicking sideways to check on you. You appreciated the lack of pressure more than you could say.
By the last stretch of your route, your feet were aching, and your shoulders felt heavier than they should have.
Wally let out an exaggerated groan.
You blinked, glancing over. “Are you dying?”
“Slowly,” he said, hand dramatically over his heart. “Tragically. From starvation.”
“You ate before patrol.”
“And, why are you keeping track of that? Who are you, my doctor?”
You snorted softly. “I feel like that’s more like a dietician.”
“Come on,” he said, nudging closer. “There’s this place I love. Best late-night snacks. Open all hours. We could swing by?”
Spend the night replaying the scene you saw, or hang out with Wally? An easy choice. You shrugged, the effort minimal. “Sure. Why not?”
His eyes brightened. “Really?”
“It’s food,” you said. “You don’t need to sell it.”
“Excellent.” He paused. “Can I carry you?”
You raised a brow. “Excuse me?”
“Just for speed,” he clarified quickly. “We’ll get there faster. Less walking. You look, don’t take this the wrong way, tired.”
You hesitated — then nodded. “Okay. Yeah. That’s… fine.”
He grinned. “Great.”
He barely gave you time to brace before he scooped you up, one arm under your knees, the other steady at your back. The city blurred into streaks of color and light, the wind cool against your face, his grip solid and careful.
When he slowed, you felt the shift immediately.
You glanced around — and frowned.
“This is the tower.”
“Mm-hmm.”
You looked up at him. “Wally.”
“Yes?”
“This is your room.”
“Correct again.”
You stared at him, unimpressed. “You said favorite snack spot.”
He opened the door and gestured grandly inside. “Yes. My favorite late-night snack spot. It has everything I love and is open at all hours.”
He stepped inside, smug as anything, heading straight for the kitchenette.
You stood in the doorway for a beat, then followed, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Effective, I’d argue,” he countered, rummaging through a cabinet. “There’s a difference.”
He tossed you a packet of something chocolate-coated, a bag of chips, and a water bottle. “Here.”
You caught it. “What is this?”
“Protein bar, allegedly. I have to be a good influence and provide something nutritious.”
You squinted at the label. “This is barely food.”
“Manners, that is no way to treat a gracious host.”
You laughed despite yourself and wandered closer as he grabbed a couple more things.
“So,” you said, leaning against the counter. “Why do you get a whole suite with a kitchenette, anyway?”
He puffed up slightly, raising three fingers. “Seniority. Pension. Hero benefits.”
You give him a deadpan stare. “You’re in your twenties.”
“Mentally? I’m at least seventy.”
You laughed again, softer this time.
He shrugged, more genuine now. “Actually, it’s the speed thing. Easier to have my own stuff than accidentally blow up the communal kitchen at three in the morning. Trust me.”
“That makes sense,” you admitted.
He nodded. “See? Practical.”
He turned and promptly fumbled the protein bar, dropping it against his chest where it smeared something sticky and dark across the front of his suit.
“Oh— come on,” he groaned. “Rude.”
He peeled the top half of the suit down in one smooth motion.
Your brain…just kinda…stopped.
His skin was warm gold under the lights, muscles defined in a way that made no effort to be subtle about the work they did. Broad shoulders, strong arms, a chest that made your thoughts go pleasantly blank.
You were aware, distantly, that you were staring.
You were also aware, slightly less distantly, that you had stopped breathing.
“Uh.”
His eyes flicked up and caught yours.
Something shifted between you, like the air before a storm breaks. The room seemed to shrink, narrowing to just the space you both occupied. Your skin prickled with awareness, heartbeat suddenly loud in your ears.
His eyes darkened slightly, pupils expanding as they held yours, and you watched his throat work as he swallowed. His chest rose with a slow, deliberate breath, like he was trying to steady something inside himself. Neither of you moved, caught in that fragile moment where possibility hung suspended, electric and dangerous.
Then there was a knock, and the door slid open before either of you could react.
Roy leaned in, eyes immediately taking in the scene: you standing far too close, Wally shirtless, snacks scattered, the air very clearly Not Normal.
“Well,” Roy drawled, leaning against the doorframe, grin slow and wicked. “What’s happening here?”
You and Wally looked at each other.
Whatever had been building between you snapped — not gone, just… scattered.
You both started talking at once.
“It’s not—”
“He just—”
“We were just—”
“He spilled something—”
“She was tired—”
You stopped and blinked before closing your eyes and taking a step back.
“Goodnight,” you said flatly, and turned and walked out.
Behind you, you heard Roy’s laugh and Wally’s very distressed, “Roy—!”
You didn’t stop walking until you were back in your own room.
And only then did you sit on your bed, heart racing, face warm, and whisper quietly to yourself:
“Oh no.”
⚡︎𓅩
It wasn’t just that Dick was affectionate. It was that he was affectionate everywhere.
The tower’s common spaces had always been neutral ground — places where masks slipped just enough to breathe, but not enough to expose anything fragile. Or at least, they used to be. Now, it felt like every room carried the echo of something you no longer belonged to.
You saw it in passing moments first.
Dick’s hand was resting at the small of Kori’s back as they walked down the hall, guiding without thinking. Fingers brushing her wrist when he laughed, lingering just a second longer than necessary. The way he leaned into her space openly, shoulder pressed to hers, head tipped close as if the rest of the room didn’t exist.
You tried not to stare.
You tried not to remember how many times you’d reached for him like that and felt him subtly shift away. How often he’d murmured, “Later,” or “Not here,” as if affection were something private, something that needed to be rationed carefully.
You had told yourself it wasn’t rejection.
You had told yourself he was just cautious. Guarded. That loving him meant understanding the weight he carried.
Now he laughed freely, loud and unrestrained, pressing a kiss to Kori’s temple without hesitation as she teased him about something trivial. The room reacted; smiles and easy acceptance, and something inside your chest tightened painfully.
You looked away, but reflections betrayed you.
In the glass of a display case, you caught the way his arm curved around her waist, familiar and intimate. You saw the way she leaned into him, trusting and unafraid, his hand settling there as it had always belonged.
You felt… smaller.
Not jealous — not exactly. Just painfully aware of how much you’d minimized yourself to fit beside him. How gently you’d loved him, careful not to ask for too much, careful not to make him uncomfortable.
Careful not to be a burden.
It hurt in a way that was dull and sharp all at once, like pressing on a bruise you hadn’t realized was there.
You busied yourself with gear checks, adjusting straps that didn’t need adjusting, focusing on routine. Anything to avoid watching the way he touched her so easily.
When the mission call came through, you welcomed it with something like relief.
Action was easier than feeling.
—
The mission was chaotic from the start.
Smoke and shouting as more concrete collapses.
You moved without thinking, instincts honed from countless hours in the field. When the opening appeared, you took it — pivoting, feinting, striking with precise timing.
Dick, however, followed through perfectly.
Your move.
The mission ended successfully. The team gathered for a quick debrief, adrenaline still buzzing.
“Nice work, Nightwing,” Roy said. “That move saved our asses.”
Dick smiled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Figured I’d try something new.”
Your stomach dropped. You stared at the floor, jaw tight, pulse roaring in your ears.
Wally looked at you, really looked, and saw it. The stiffness in your posture. The way you folded inward.
He remembered Dick talking about that move months ago. How impressed he’d been, how proud.
“Hey,” Wally said softly, stepping closer. “You wanna grab food? Before Roy demolishes everything edible in a five-mile radius?”
You blinked, pulled from your thoughts. “What?”
He hooked an arm around your shoulders, not tight, not claiming — just there. “Come on. I’m starving, and you look like you could use a break.”
You hesitated, eyes flicking toward Dick without meaning to. He was already being pulled into conversation, attention elsewhere.
Wally noticed, he always did.
“Hey,” he murmured, nudging you gently. “I got you.”
You exhaled slowly, tension easing just enough to let you move.
“Fine,” you said. “But if you eat my fries—”
“Whoa, whoa,” he laughed. “I’m not a monster.”
As you walked away together, Dick glanced up, catching sight of you leaving — Wally’s arm around your shoulders, your head tilted toward him as he animatedly complained about Barry.
Something twisted in his chest that he steadfastly ignored. For the first time since he could remember, you didn’t look back.
⚡︎𓅩
The tower’s living room was loud in a comfortable way.
Soft music hummed from speakers tucked somewhere out of sight, low enough to blend into the background rather than demand attention. Someone had stretched out across the couch like they planned to stay there all night, boots kicked off without ceremony. Laughter drifted freely, unguarded, the kind that only existed on nights when no alarms screamed, and no one was counting down the minutes until the next emergency.
It should have felt safe.
You stood near the edge of the room, a warm mug cradled between your hands, letting the noise pass through you instead of into you. You nodded when someone glanced your way. Smiled when it was expected. You were present in the way one learned to be present when absence would be noticed.
Dick stood across the room, Kori sat beside him, close enough that her thigh pressed against his, his jacket draped over her shoulders like a promise.
“Dick,” Kori said brightly, nudging his arm. “Tell them the joke you said the other night.”
You couldn’t stop yourself from focusing on the conversation, despite knowing that it would most likely lead to your heartbreak again.
Dick blinked, looking slightly confused. “What—?”
“The one about the—” she laughed, waving her hand vaguely as she was unable to continue the background details. “The story. It was funny.”
The room leaned in, anticipation flickering easily from face to face.
Dick’s eyes flicked toward you.
Just for a second.
Your breath catches, afraid of what that look might mean. You didn’t move, you didn’t react. You simply lifted your mug and took a slow sip, gaze unfocused, fixed on nothing in particular.
“Oh,” Dick said, a chuckle slipping out as understanding clicked into place. “That one.”
He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Okay.”
And then he told it. Your story.
Your voice, stripped of its softness. Your timing sharpened for laughs instead of honesty. A moment that had once lived quietly between you and a close friend — something vulnerable, something shared late at night when trust sat heavy and real between you — reduced to a punchline.
You remembered that night with startling clarity.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, lights low, the two of you laughing so hard you’d cried, a mixture of grief and laughter. How you’d confessed something small but meaningful about a close friend long since gone.
A moment you shared because you had felt safe only because of who you were telling it to. How you’d smiled afterward, warmed by the certainty that it mattered, comforted by your companion, and wanting them to carry this treasured memory with them too.
Now it was just… content.
A story told without context. Without care. Dick told it well; he’s a great storyteller.
The room erupted in laughter.
Someone wiped tears from their eyes. Someone else shook their head, already repeating the best part under their breath.
You stood perfectly still.
You felt it happen inside you, the moment something disconnected.
It was subtle, like a wire loosening, like a door closing softly instead of slamming. The ache didn’t spike. It emptied. The warmth drained out, leaving behind a numb, hollow space where feeling had once lived.
You didn’t laugh or flinch. You didn’t even look at him. You simply… stopped being there.
And it was almost as if Dick felt it.
Not immediately, but as the laughter stretched on, something in his chest began to tighten, an unease threading through the easy moment. His eyes found you again, instinctively searching for the familiar reaction he’d always been able to count on.
A smile or an eye-roll.
That look you used to give him; fond, conspiratorial, like the two of you shared something just beneath the surface.
Instead, he found nothing. Your eyes were distant, polite. Empty in a way that felt wrong and hurt.
Gone.
The laughter faded unevenly, as if people sensed the shift without understanding it. Dick’s voice trailed off at the end of the story, landing awkwardly in the space that followed. He shifted, tugging at the hem of his sleeve, suddenly unsure of where to put his hands.
His gaze locked with yours.
For half a second, memory surged: moonlight through your bedroom window, your laughter muffled against his neck, the way you used to look at him like he was home.
Then he saw it. The absence.
Whatever fragile thread still connected you, whatever hope he’d held that you could exist in each other’s lives without pain, disintegrated in that instant. Like paper catching flame, burning faster than he could reach for it.
Your eyes slid away.
You turned your body slightly, a subtle motion that somehow landed heavier than any argument ever had.
Dick’s heart stuttered.
“Hey—” he said suddenly, pushing himself upright, already stepping toward you. “Wait—”
He didn’t get the chance, because Wally was already there.
Not rushing or dramatic, despite the way Dick was experiencing it. He didn’t insert himself into the moment or raise his voice. He simply appeared at your side, like he’d been standing just outside the edge of your world, waiting for the exact second you needed a way out more than you needed answers.
Dick saw him before he registered anything else.
Saw the way Wally angled his body slightly toward you, shielding you from the rest of the room without making a show of it. Saw the way his expression softened when he looked at you; not concern exactly, but familiarity. Understanding.
Wally didn’t touch you right away; instead, he held out his hand.
Open and patient, a clear invitation, not a demand.
“Come on,” Wally said quietly, leaning in just enough for you to hear him. His voice didn’t carry—it wasn’t meant to. “You promised me a rematch.”
You blinked, eyes unfocused at first, like you were surfacing from somewhere far away.
“I did?” you asked, voice faint but steady.
He smiled, small and easy, the kind of smile that came from shared moments instead of charm. “Mm-hmm. Loser buys snacks.”
Dick took a step forward, his mouth opened, but no sound came out.
Because you were looking at Wally now.
And then — without hesitation — you reached for him.
Your fingers slid into his hand naturally, like muscle memory. Like this was something you’d done before, something your body recognized even if your heart hadn’t fully caught up yet. Wally’s hand closed around yours with quiet certainty, thumb brushing your knuckles once in a way that was achingly gentle.
Dick’s breath caught hard in his chest.
That wasn’t a first touch. It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t careful. It was familiar. It was the kind of intimacy that came from repetition — from trust built slowly, from presence earned over time.
And suddenly, Dick understood.
This hadn’t started tonight. This hadn’t even started recently.
While he’d been absent in all the ways that mattered, someone else had been showing up. Someone else had been learning the shape of your silences, the weight of your tiredness, the moments when you needed to leave before something broke.
Wally turned slightly, guiding you with him. You followed without looking back. The room seemed to tilt.
Dick stood frozen, watching your joined hands swing gently between you as you walked away — not hurried, not dramatic — just decided.
You weren’t running from him. You were choosing something else.
The doors slid shut behind you with a soft hiss, sealing the sound of laughter and music inside.
Dick remained where he was.
For the first time, it wasn’t heartbreak that settled into his chest.
It was understanding.
He hadn’t just lost you romantically. He had lost access to you; to your touch, your reactions, your presence in his life. The loss wasn’t theoretical anymore.
It was real and it was final.
⚡︎𓅩
The hallway was quiet, the door sliding shut behind you with a soft hiss that felt louder than it should have.
You walked a few steps before realizing your hand was still in Wally’s.
The warmth of it grounded you. Steady and real, pulling you back from the numbness that had settled over you moments before. Your fingers tightened briefly before you let go, clearing your throat as you slowed to a stop.
“Sorry,” you murmured. “I think I spaced out back there.”
Wally stopped immediately. “No worries,” he said easily. “Happens.”
You leaned back against the wall, exhaling slowly as the adrenaline — emotional, not physical — began to ebb. The quiet wrapped around you, gentle and forgiving.
“Hey,” you said after a moment, trying for lightness. “You know you don’t have to… rescue me every time, right?”
He tilted his head. “Rescue?”
You gestured vaguely behind you. “You know. The dramatic exits. The timely distractions. You going full hero mode around me all the time must be exhausting.”
You smiled, small and self-deprecating, like it was a joke you’d rehearsed enough times to make it sound casual.
Wally didn’t smile back.
Instead, his expression softened into something serious and intent in a way that made your chest tighten unexpectedly.
“Hey,” he said gently, stepping closer just enough to keep your attention, not that he didn’t have it already.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Talk about yourself like you’re a problem I have to manage.”
You blinked.
“I don’t mind,” he continued, voice quiet but steady. “Not for a second. I’m not tired, I’m not obligated. I’m here because I want to be.”
His gaze held yours, unflinching.
“I care about you,” he said simply.
The words landed softly, but they knocked the breath from your lungs all the same.
Something shifted in your chest. Warmth bloomed where there had only been emptiness before. Gratitude, yes — but something else too. Something that made your pulse stutter, that made you see him differently all at once.
You looked at him, really looked, and felt it. Wally, who was looking at you intensely, saw it the second it reached your eyes.
His breath hitched, just barely. A slow smile spread across his face; not triumphant or smug, simply tender. Like he’d been hoping for that look without expecting it.
For a heartbeat, neither of you spoke. Then Wally straightened slightly, clearing his throat.
“So,” he said, voice deliberately lighter. “Snacks?”
You laughed, the sound real and surprised, and nodded. “Yeah, snacks.”
“Good,” he said, already turning. “Because I’m starving, and I refuse to have this moment derail my nutritional needs.”
You fell into step beside him, the silence between you no longer empty; just full of things neither of you were quite ready to name yet.
And for the first time in a long while, the ache in your chest didn’t feel like something you had to carry alone.
⚡︎𓅩
The debrief room was louder than usual.
People talked over one another, adrenaline still buzzing from a mission that had gone better than expected. Roy leaned back in their chair, boots propped on the table. Garth was already arguing over credit for a distraction that hadn’t actually been planned.
You sat near the end of the table, tablet balanced against your knee, half-listening while scrolling through post-mission data. This part always felt strange—being surrounded by people dissecting a fight that already felt distant, like it belonged to another version of you.
“…and honestly,” Wally said suddenly, voice cutting through the noise, “the whole thing only worked because she spotted the second location before anyone else did.”
The room quieted. You looked up, startled.
“Wait,” Donna said. “You found it?”
You opened your mouth to clarify, but Wally, already committed, kept going.
“Yeah,” he said, gesturing vaguely in your direction. “She basically mapped the entire pattern on the fly. I mean, she could probably predict weather systems if she wanted to.”
You stared at him.
“No, I can’t,” you said quickly, cutting in before the attention could crystallize into something heavier. “Obviously, the weather’s gotten to Wally.”
A few chuckles rang out through the room before the looks shifted back to Dick and Cyborg for finishing details. The room relaxed again, conversation sliding easily back into overlapping voices and half-formed jokes. Someone changed the subject. Someone else complained about paperwork.
Wally blinked, realization dawning, a sheepish expression on his face. “Okay, yeah, that was—”
“—dramatic,” you finished dryly, smiling as you shrugged. “I just noticed something off in the data. Anyone could’ve.”
Crisis averted. Or so you thought.
You leaned slightly toward Wally and mouthed, What the fuck?
He winced, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Yeah,” he murmured back, lowering his voice and leaning into your space. “Sorry, I got carried away.”
You raised a brow as if to say ‘oh really?’
“But,” he added quickly, earnest now, “you were great. If you hadn’t caught that second location, we would’ve screwed the whole mission.”
You laughed quietly, the sound warm and genuine, and reached out without thinking—your fingers brushing his knee in an easy, familiar gesture.
“Next time,” you said softly, “try not to make me sound like a wizard.”
“No promises, Dumbledore,” he replied, grinning.
The exchange was small, casual, and comfortable.
It didn’t slip past Dick.
He watched it from across the table—the way you leaned toward Wally without hesitation, the way you touched him like it was nothing, the way Wally’s attention never wavered from you. There was no tension or uncertainty in it.
Just ease.
The meeting wrapped up a few minutes later, chairs scraping as people stood and filtered out in loose groups. You gathered your things and fell into step beside Wally, already mid-conversation about something inconsequential.
“Hey.”
Dick’s voice made both of you stop. Wally turned, surprised but not uncomfortable. “What’s up?”
“I’ll catch up with you later,” you murmur to him, touching his arm to grab his attention. You could think of 50 other locations you’d rather be than in the same conversation with just Dick and Wally.
He nodded immediately. “Yeah. Definitely.”
You smiled at him, soft and unguarded, before heading off down the corridor.
Wally watched you the entire time, only turning away once you disappeared around the corner.
“Feels like it’s been a while since we’ve hung out,” Dick said, attempting casual. “Just us. You know?”
Wally considered that for a moment. “Yeah,” he said honestly. “It has, sorry about that.”
Dick’s shoulders loosened slightly. “It’s fine, I’ve been busy too. I was thinking maybe we could—”
Wally grinned, clapping a hand to his shoulder. “Yeah, with her. Don’t really wanna disappoint her, so I gotta head out now. But we’ll definitely hang out soon! Maybe we’ll do a boys’ night!?”
Before Dick could respond, Wally was gone—a red blur vanishing down the hall in the direction you’d gone.
The room didn’t stay quiet. Someone snorted. “Wow.”
Roy leaned back against the table. “You guys notice how often those two hang out now?”
“On missions, too,” Donna added thoughtfully. “They’re always paired.”
Cyborg chimed in, teasing. “Guess Dick and Kori really inspired love to bloom around here.”
Laughter followed, but Dick didn’t laugh.
Something twisted sharply in his stomach, nausea creeping in slowly and unwelcome. The room felt too warm, too loud. He stared at the doorway where you both had disappeared, chest tight with a realization he hadn’t wanted to make.
Whatever was happening between you and Wally had been growing quietly—right under his nose—while he’d been elsewhere, assuming you’d still be there when he looked back.
He swallowed hard. For the first time, the loss didn’t feel only like heartbreak.
It felt like a consequence.
⚡︎𓅩
Another month passed.
It wasn’t marked by anything dramatic; no declarations, no lines crossed, no moments that demanded names. Just time, shared and unspoken and steadily meaningful.
You and Wally fell into a rhythm without ever acknowledging it as one.
Late-night patrols that stretched longer than necessary. Coffee runs that turned into conversations about childhood, fears, and things neither of you talked about easily. Sitting side by side on rooftops, legs dangling over the edge, watching the city breathe while the world felt smaller and calmer than it had in a long time.
You learned how he liked his coffee — sweet enough to be suspicious. He learned the exact way you went quiet when you were thinking too hard. You learned that he always ran faster when you were tired, and that he always positioned himself just slightly closer when you looked overwhelmed.
He learned when to joke, and more importantly, when not to. Somewhere along the way, you realized you felt… safe again.
Not the fragile kind. The steady kind. The night it finally happened was unremarkable in the best way.
Patrol ended early. The city was quiet, streets slick from earlier rain, lights reflecting like constellations below. You sat on the edge of a rooftop, boots resting against concrete, the cool air settling comfortably against your skin.
Wally stood nearby, stretching, then dropped down beside you with an exaggerated sigh.
“Wow,” he said. “Peaceful. Suspiciously so.”
You smiled. “Don’t jinx it.”
“Right. Sorry.” He mimed zipping his lips.
Silence settled — not awkward, not empty, just unsure as to how to start.
You glanced at him without thinking and caught the way he was already
looking at you.
Wally gave no indication he was startled; he just kept looking, something you couldn’t believe was obvious in his eyes. Your breath hitched before you could stop it.
Wally noticed. Something in his expression shifted. It softened, deepened, like he’d been holding something back and finally decided to stop.
“Hey,” he said quietly.
You turned fully toward him, giving him a small smile. “Hey.”
He rubbed his palms together once, nervous energy bleeding through despite his usual ease. “Can I… say something?”
Your heart thudded painfully in your chest. “You just did.” You couldn’t help yourself from saying.
The look Wally gives you makes you laugh and helps break the uncomfortable tension that was in the air. “I think this is one of those moments you told me about that isn’t right to joke.” He teases you, throwing back your argument you told him.
“Yeah,” you said, giving him a sheepish smile and a shrug. “Sorry, I was nervous.”
“Yeah, I get that.” He murmurs back to you. The nervous energy is gone, and instead, a tension lingers in the air. He looks you in the eyes, then awa,y before looking back and slowly leaning in. His arm reaches out and grabs your hand, holding it gently in his grasp, his thumb rubbing against your knuckles.
He took a breath before letting it out slowly starting.
“I’ve been trying not to,” he admitted with a small, self-aware smile.
“Because I didn’t want to mess anything up. Or rush you, or make things weird.”
Your chest tightened.
“But,” he continued, eyes never leaving yours, “somewhere between the third late-night snack run and the fifth time you fell asleep during movie night… I realized I was already way past that point.”
You laughed softly, more breath than sound.
“Wally—”
“I care about you,” he said, gently cutting in. “Not in a teammate way. Not in a ‘I’ll always have your back’ way — although, yeah, that too.” He swallowed. “I mean… I like you. A lot. And it’s more than friendship, and I didn’t want to keep pretending it wasn’t.”
The words settled between you, warm and terrifying and real. You stared at him for a long moment.
Then you exhaled, shoulders relaxing as if something you’d been carrying finally found a place to rest.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” you admitted quietly.
His eyes widened. “You were?”
You nodded. “Yeah. Because I’ve been trying to tell myself it was just comfort. Or gratitude. Or… anything but this.” You smiled faintly. “But it’s not, and it hasn’t been for a while.”
You looked at him fully now, letting him see it.
“It’s more than friendship for me, too, Wally.”
The relief on his face was immediate — bright and unguarded, like sunlight breaking through cloud cover. He laughed, soft and incredulous.
“Wow,” he breathed. “Okay. Wow.”
You laughed too, the sound lighter than it had been in months.
He hesitated, just for a second, then asked quietly, “Can I…?”
You nodded before he finished.
He leaned closer, his gaze unwavering. As he hesitated, breath hitching in the space between you, the air thickened with unspoken words. Then, with a soft determination, he closed the distance, pressing his lips against yours.
The kiss was tentative at first, a sweet brush that ignited a spark, before deepening into something more, a shared promise that lingered in the cool night air.
Neither of you rushed it because neither of you needed to.
The city hummed below, indifferent and vast, while something small and meaningful settled into place between you.
And for the first time in a long while, the future didn’t feel like something to brace for.
It felt like something you were allowed to want.
⚡︎𓅩
a/n: everyone say thank you to olivia rodrigo for inspiring this! this was originally 3k and was like a little drabble, but then? i just? couldn't stop? and now we have this pretty little baby.
this fic could also be named "wally showing he cares by making sure you eat",
as always, likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated. here’s a kiss from me to you 💋
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