Discover Top Posts Tagged with #garth x reader

“I had a hard day, can you help me stop thinking for a little bit?”

Small drabble of how Dick Grayson, Tim Drake, Barbara Gordon, Roy Harper, and the Titans men would turn your brain off (ftm!reader)

Warnings: subspace, piv, choking-ish (dick), sir kink (dick), squirting (dick, titans), shibari (tim), vibrators, anal (roy, titans), strap (barbara), deepthroat (barbara) (i love sucking strap), GANGBANG (titans), this is so self indulgent bc i had a hard few days and need to stop thinking

Masterlist

#dick grayson x reader #tim drake x reader #roy harper x reader #barbara gordon x reader #garth x reader #victor stone x reader #wally west x reader #ftm!reader #male!reader #dc x reader

— Kissing Wounds

Pairing: Garth x gn! reader

Summary: after a rough mission, Garth helps clean you up

Word Count: ~900

Content/CW -> gn! reader, established relationship, canon typical injury, mentions of blood + pain, guilt, reader is a titan

— requested as part of my neglect week event

froggi yaps -> sooo sorry for the delay on these, like i said the other day im packing up and moving 12hrs away and its just been a Lot to process mentally ++ lots of packing and organization to do. also yes this was the culprit with the 45 word sentence lol

#garth of shayeris x reader #garth x reader #tempest x reader #dc x reader #froggi's neglect week

MATCH ME PLS??!

trans guy, love sports exercising and swimming, very passionate and confident but also a bit of a pussy when it comes to confrontation/arguments, but i also tend to be very opinionated 😧

spend my spare time with my friends mostly, very sociable but do need my time to do nothing except sleep, i love cod and am very interested in history ok bye

me and the crystal ball have found two people for you

your dc suitor is Garth of Shayeris

Perhaps it's a little too on the nose to choose someone who so dearly loves the sea, but it's one thing the two of you have in common, not to mention the fact that the two of you have an independent spirit that will run in good complement to each other. He's a more calm and restrained spirit, so the two of you will be able to work well together as he takes you under the sea to explore the beauties underneath :)

your marvel suitor is Lin Lie (Iron Fist)

Someone who's got something to prove, Lin Lie walks around with a bit of a cocky attitude and chip on his shoulder, but it's only because he's got a vulnerable side that needs to be coaxed out of him. The two of you will work together in the sense that you'll both grow together as you fall in love, and once you have him, you got him. Lin Lie is in your corner forever to cheer you on in your athletic endeavors while you admire him in his hehe ;)

the crystal ball has spoken...come back anytime

#anon ask #twentytomatchnight #garth x reader #garth of shayeris #lin lie x reader #lin lie x you #iron fist x reader #tempest x reader

— Garth comforts you on your period

-> afab! reader (reader menstruates but no pronouns are used), mentions of being on your period, just cute mostly

#garth x reader #dc x reader #tempest x reader

AO3 Fic Recs!

An anon asked for recs from ao3, so here’s some of my faves from over there :)

They Don’t Have Your Eyes (Universe, Meet Humanity) by GalacticRover - kyle rayner x reader

Four Green Lanterns walk are dragged into an off-Earth medbay, Kyle doesn't get the joke because he's distracted by the stars (the guys are never letting him live this down).

Is This a Trap or Is This Flirting? by GalacticRover - kyle rayner x fem!reader

The glamour of the lighting around them still shines, although for a brief, heartstopping moment, the feeling dims. He feels as though he has just walked in to a terible trap, caught. (It is worthwhile, in the end).

#…cee’s recs!#kyle rayner x reader #dick grayson x reader #wally west x reader #garth x reader #clark kent x reader #justice league x reader #damian wayne x reader #jon kent x reader #dc comics x reader #dc x reader #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #ao3 recs #fanfic rec

3 a.m.

Garth x reader fem

The testaments

*****************************

The nightmare had begun like all the others.

Not with a precise image, never with something you could name and confront directly. With an atmosphere. A light that wasn’t right, too red at the edges, too white at the center. Corridors that never ended. The feeling of searching for something you had put down somewhere and could no longer find, something important, something whose absence grew in your chest as the corridors stretched longer.

And then the faces.

Faces from Gilead, the Aunts, the Eyes, Guardians whose features you couldn’t see but whose gaze you felt like a physical pressure on your shoulders, on your neck, everywhere at once.

And among all that, someone you were looking for and who was never where you looked, never in the corridor you took, always around a turn you never managed to reach.

A voice calling your name,

Y/N, Y/N and you knew it was him but you couldn’t find where it was coming from and the corridors kept going and the red light intensified along the walls and…

You heard yourself make a sound.

Not a scream. Something more muffled, more involuntary, the kind of sound you make when the body decides to leave the dream before the mind has time to understand what’s happening. Short, caught in your throat, followed by the abrupt awakening.

Your eyes open on the ceiling.

The reddish light filtering under the door from the corridor. Your heart beating too hard and too fast in your chest, dull and frantic, like someone knocking on a door from the inside.

Your room. Ardua Hall. The crucifix on the wall. The narrow bed. The window too high that only let in gray sky even in full daylight.

The dream was unraveling at the edges but the residue remained, that feeling of searching without finding, that pressure in your chest that hadn’t yet received the message that you were awake and safe, as much as one could be here.

You placed your hand flat over your heart.

Checked that it was beating.

It was beating.

In the corridor, footsteps.

Light and quick, someone approaching from outside with the gait of someone who had heard something and made a decision before fully evaluating it.

Footsteps you would have recognized among a thousand, in any corridor, in any city, because you had known them for five years and some things imprinted themselves in memory on a level that had nothing to do with conscious effort.

A stop in front of your door.

A silence of two seconds, someone listening, waiting, calculating.

Then three knocks. Very soft. Almost imperceptible in the silence of three in the morning.

You looked at the door without moving.

Curfew had been in place since ten. You could feel it in the thickness of the silence outside, in the quality of the darkness, in that something still and flat the night held in its deepest hours, three in the morning, maybe a little later. No one had a legitimate reason to knock on a Pearl’s door at that hour.

Except someone whose night post was in the exact corridor your room opened onto.

Three knocks again. The same softness.

You got up.

Two centimeters of opening.

Garth.

In service uniform, dark trousers, navy top, his feet still in his patrol shoes.

His hair in that in-between state between the order of the beginning of his shift and the gradual disarray of the late night, slightly undone in the way it was when he ran a hand through it without thinking, that gesture he had always had when something was on his mind.

His eyes found you in the crack immediately.

They moved over your face in two seconds, quick assessment, risk calculation, and beneath that something else, something that appeared the moment he saw your eyes in the dimness and looked like relief.

— I heard, he said very quietly.

Not a question. Not an explanation. Just that, two words that held everything necessary.

You glanced down the corridor over his shoulder. Empty. The reddish light, the silence of the sleeping building, no one in sight in either direction.

You opened the door wider.

He stepped inside.

The door closed behind him, the latch set with that care he had for movements that should make no sound. He scanned the room in three seconds, old field habit, automatic check, window, blind spot, nothing to report, and then he really looked at you.

You were standing in the middle of the room in your nightshirt, hair loose over your shoulders, arms lightly crossed over your chest in that gesture you make when you try to keep yourself warm from the inside. The nightmare was still there, not in the images but in your body, your heart not fully slowed yet, your shoulders still a notch too high, your eyes carrying that slightly dazed quality of a brutal awakening you hadn’t quite come back from.

He didn’t say are you okay because he could see you weren’t.

He said:

— Come here.

You crossed the two meters without thinking.

His arms closed around you with that solidity that had never changed in five years, not in Montreal, not in Toronto, not in any of the temporary apartments Mayday had assigned you before the mission, and not here either, not even Gilead had managed to change that.

That specific way of holding you that said I’m here, you’re here, the rest can wait, and to which your body had been responding for so long it had become a reflex.

Your cheek against his chest. His hand in your hair, the other at your back.

His warmth.

His heart under your ear, steady, stable, alive. That rhythm you knew in the dark, that you would have recognized with your eyes closed among all the others.

Something in your chest began, very slowly, to loosen.

— The same nightmare? he asked quietly.

He knew. He had known for a long time, the recurring nightmares had started six months after your arrival in Gilead, and even without direct contact he had eventually known, through the signs that people who pay attention to others always learn to read.

— More or less, you said. The corridors. The light. I was looking for you and I couldn’t find you.

His hand in your hair tightened slightly.

— I’m here.

— I know. Your voice still came out with blurred edges, not quite steady. In the dream you’re never there. That’s the problem with dreams.

— You would have found me.

— You don’t know that.

— I do. That quiet, slightly stubborn certainty that had always been his, unchanged by the years, untouched by Gilead. You would have found me.

You stayed like that for several minutes.

The silence of Ardua Hall at three in the morning, not a peaceful silence, a curfew silence, a surveillance silence, everything this country compressed into the dark hours so it would hold until dawn. Somewhere outside, a clock. The usual draft under the too-high window lifting the edge of the curtain.

Your heart eventually slowed.

Your shoulders lowered.

The pressure in your chest faded inch by inch.

— I miss the apartment at night, you said quietly. During the day I manage. At night it’s different. The creaky floorboard, the living room where we slept more often than in our bed.

A soft sound left him, something between a laugh and a sigh, very low.

— The couch.

— You say it like it’s ridiculous.

— I never said that. His voice was warm in your hair. I think about the couch too.

— Liar.

— I think about the coffee, he admitted. The machine that’s too slow. Saturday mornings.

Saturday mornings. The market downstairs you heard before you saw it, voices and carts and smells rising up to the half-open window. Him still half asleep with his coffee too hot and you leaning on the counter and that particular Saturday morning light in Toronto that didn’t exist anywhere else.

— We’ll go back, you said.

— We’ll go back.

You lifted your head.

He looked at you very closely in the low orange light of the bedside lamp, and in his eyes was what you had read there for five years, that way he looked at you that had no exact name but that you would have recognized with your eyes closed, that Gilead and its uniforms and protocols had not managed to completely cover.

— You’re risking something being here, you said.

— Yes.

— And you’re here anyway.

— I was in the corridor and I heard you.

Simple. Direct. As if the rest was obvious and didn’t need explaining. I couldn’t stay outside.

Your hand rose to his jaw, that gesture, always that gesture, for five years, your way of saying things words couldn’t reach as well. He closed his eyes under your palm, one second, two.

And you kissed him.

Softly.

Not rushed, not because there wasn’t urgency, but because you chose to set it aside for something slower, fuller. His lips on yours in the silence of the room, his hand sliding up to your neck with that precise gentleness he had always had, and in that single contact you felt everything the forty days still held, the weight of what remained to cross and the quiet certainty of what waited on the other side.

He smiled against your mouth.

— What, you breathed.

— Nothing. His lips still close to yours, his voice very low. I’m glad you opened the door.

— How many times would you have knocked before leaving.

He thought for half a second.

— As many as it took.

He didn’t leave right away.

You sat on the edge of the narrow bed, him with his back against the wall, you against him, his hand holding yours resting on his leg, and you spoke in low voices about small, real things. Things that belonged to a Toronto apartment and to five years of ordinary life you had put on hold for Mayday and that were waiting forty days ahead.

The silly argument on a Saturday morning about how to arrange books, by author or by color, a fundamental and entirely pleasant disagreement that lasted forty minutes and ended in a cheerful stalemate because neither of you truly gave in on that kind of thing.

The plant in the entryway you had managed to kill in three weeks despite his very precise instructions.

The restaurant on the corner that always closed too early on Sundays and that you always reached too late, that had become a kind of private joke, a tradition of punctual failure.

Small things.

Things that were waiting.

At some point your head dropped onto his shoulder.

He rested his chin in your hair.

You stopped talking.

The silence of the room, the low light, the Gilead night on the other side of the door and the too-high window, and between you that specific, familiar warmth that had not changed over the years and that nineteen months of infiltration had not cooled.

— Go back before five, you murmured without moving. The morning round…

— Four forty. I know.

— You didn’t sleep at all.

— I slept before my shift.

— Garth.

— Y/N.

He said your name the same way you said his, without argument in it, just the name, like an answer in itself.

You smiled into the fabric of his shirt.

— Night shift because of me.

— Night shift with you, he corrected quietly. That’s different.

He left at four thirty.

Standing without a sound, he checked the corridor through the slight opening and turned back to you one last time. You were still sitting on the edge of the bed, hair loose, your eyes no longer carrying anything of the brutal awakening from earlier.

He placed his hand on your cheek.

A light pressure. His fingers against your skin.

— Sleep, he said.

— You’re the one working.

— And you sleep. His eyes in yours in the low light. The nightmare doesn’t come back twice in the same night.

— You don’t know that.

— No. Something soft in his voice. But I say it anyway.

He kissed your forehead, simply, his lips resting there for a second, and he left.

The door closed without a sound.

You lay back down.

The ceiling. The wooden slats. The reddish light under the door. And outside, in the corridor, Garth’s footsteps resuming their patrol rhythm, steady, measured, the sound of someone doing his job.

There.

A few meters away.

You closed your eyes.

That night you did not dream of endless corridors or red light or someone you searched for and never found.

You dreamed of Saturday morning, of coffee too hot, of the market you hear before you see it, and of an argument about books that didn’t matter and that was perfectly, entirely yours.

*****************************

If you want to tell me your opinion, it would be great !

#the testaments #the testaments hulu #garth x reader #guardian garth #love #gilead

The names we didn’t said.

Garth x Reader fem

The Testaments

———————————-

The news had arrived through the usual channels.

That is to say not directly, never directly in Gilead, where information moved like water under a door, invisible as it passed and treacherous when it arrived.

An Aunt speaking in a low voice to another in the administrative corridor, her hand resting on the other’s arm, that precise gesture that accompanied important bad news.

A Guardian on duty who had shifted position nervously twice in five minutes in front of the main building.

A Violet in the courtyard who had lowered her eyes too quickly when you met her gaze.

The ground was already wet before you even saw the water pass.

Daisy had found you in the library at seven in the evening.

She had sat down across from you with a book she hadn’t opened and had looked at you in that way, the one that said I have something to tell you and neither of us is going to like it.

— There were arrests, she had said in a low voice, her eyes on the blank page in front of her. On the Guardian side. Infiltrators discovered. Mayday doesn’t have the names yet. The bodies are on the northern wall since this morning.

You had heard the words.

You had heard them perfectly, clearly, each syllable in place.

And something in your chest had stopped.

Not dramatically. Just a stop. Like a clock that runs out in the middle of a beat. As if the internal machinery that had kept you going for nineteen months had received a signal to stop and didn’t yet know how to process it.

— The names? you had said.

— Not yet.

— How many?

— Three.

Three Guardians. Three infiltrators. Three bodies on the northern wall since this morning while you were studying sacred texts in a classroom at Ardua Hall without knowing the world might have just tilted.

You had stood up.

You had put your book back on the shelf with precise, controlled movements because it was all you could do in that moment, control the gestures, control the surface, be Lina the Pearl putting away her book and leaving the reading room normally.

You had walked to your room.

You had closed the door.

And there, in the four square meters of your room with the crucifix on the wall and the narrow bed and the window too high, something had opened in your chest like a trapdoor.

Three Guardians.

Central sector.

Garth had been operating in the central sector for twenty two months.

The calculation had done itself, without you asking, with the cold precision of a field brain that kept functioning even when the rest of you wanted it to stop. Twenty two months of infiltration. The rank that gave him access to convoys, files, sensitive areas. That same rank that made him valuable to Mayday was also the rank that exposed him, that put him in places where the Eyes watched more closely, where a slight anomaly in behavior could trigger an investigation, where another Guardian who had noticed something could

Stop.

You had sat on the edge of the bed.

Stop calculating. You don’t have the data. You have nothing concrete.

But the field brain did not stop on command.

The Toronto apartment had come to you without warning.

Not a chosen memory, an intrusion. The way memory brings back exactly what you cannot afford to lose at the precise moment you risk losing it.

The entrance hallway too narrow where you bump into each other when you come home at the same time with groceries.

The kitchen, two people already one too many but you had learned the choreography, him at the counter, you at the stove, your shoulders brushing in passing and neither of you really stepping aside.

The living room window that never fully closed and let in a constant draft that you had named and treated like a third roommate. You had called it Marcel. Marcel the draft, faithful, punctual, present every evening from November to March.

The floorboard that had creaked in the same place for eighteen months and that neither of you had ever repaired because you liked knowing by sound where the other was in the apartment.

His morning coffee, always too hot, always drunk too fast because he was never patient with that machine that took four minutes thirty and that he watched as if looking at it could make it faster.

The bed, large enough for two but you always slept on the same side, tangled together, as if the available space didn’t exist. His arm around you even in sleep. His hand on your hip on bad nights to check that you were there.

All of it.

All of it on the northern wall if his name was among the three.

The first tremor had come from your hands.

You had looked at them with a kind of detachment, your own hands trembling on your knees, fingers no longer quite still. You had placed them flat on your thighs. They had continued.

Then your breathing had changed. Gradually, like a mechanism slipping out of rhythm step by step. Shorter. Higher in your chest. Your lungs no longer going all the way down, stopping halfway as if they hit something hard and invisible.

He might have been dead since this morning.

You had eaten this morning. You had studied the Prayers of the Foundation. You had looked at the courtyard through the window and thought about how many days before you would go back.

And him, maybe, at the same time.

Maybe.

No.

Maybe.

A very soft knock on the door.

Daisy had entered without waiting, closed behind her, and had looked at you and something in her face had changed immediately.

— Oh no, she had said softly.

She had crossed the room without hesitation and had sat beside you and had wrapped her arms around your shoulders, not gently, really, firmly, like someone deciding that contact was the only useful thing available.

You had let yourself fall against her because there was no other option.

— It might be him, you had said. Your voice came out compressed, narrow, as if forced through something too small. Three Guardians, central sector, his exposure is exactly the profile the Eyes target first…

— We don’t have the names.

— We don’t have the names, that’s exactly the problem. He might have been dead since this morning and I am three corridors away and I don’t know and…

— Y/N

— There is an apartment in Toronto waiting for us and Marcel the draft and the creaking floorboard and if his name is among the…

— Y/N. Daisy’s arms had tightened around you. Breathe.

— I am breathing.

— No. You are not. Look at me.

You had raised your eyes to her.

Her face was calm, not the artificial calm of someone minimizing, but the deliberate calm of someone choosing to be steady for two. Her eyes were red at the edges. She had been afraid too when she had heard the news, she too carried something tonight, and she set it aside to stay here with you.

— Breathe with me, she said. From your stomach. Slowly.

You had tried.

The air had come in halfway and had gotten stuck and your chest had tightened in an involuntary movement, not a sob, not yet, just a silent convulsion of something trying to get out that you had held back since you heard the bodies are on the northern wall since this morning.

— Okay, Daisy had said very softly. It’s okay. Let it out.

The tears had come without sobbing.

Silent and continuous, like something that overflowed simply because there was no more room to contain it. No hysteria, you had never been that type and you did not have the energy for it tonight. Just the tears, warm and uninterrupted, while Daisy held you and said nothing because there was nothing to say.

— Our apartment, you had murmured after a moment. I can’t stop thinking about our apartment. The kitchen far too small. The draft. The floorboard that creaks in the same place for eighteen months.

— I know.

— We were supposed to go back together. That was the plan. And now…

— It is still the plan.

— You cannot know that.

— No, she had admitted. But I say it anyway.

She had held you tighter.

— I am afraid of the future, you had said quietly. Something other than panic, deeper, older. Something you had carried for a long time and that tonight had opened. Not just now. After too.

Daisy had waited.

— We talk about after as if it is guaranteed. Extraction, Toronto, our apartment, normal things. We talk about it like a plan. You had looked at your hands. But this is Gilead. And if we get out, if we both get out, are we still the same people. Nineteen months being someone else in a place like this. Will the floorboard still creak the same. Will Marcel still come through the living room window and will we still find it funny or did Gilead take something we cannot get back.

— Y/N…

— Five years, you had continued. We had five years of something real and we put it in a drawer for Mayday. And sometimes I wonder if when we open that drawer everything will still be there or if it will have crumbled in the dark.

Daisy had thought before answering, truly thought, not to spare your feelings but because it was a real question.

— Garth does not seem like a man who lets things crumble, she had said simply. And neither do you.

The Pearl curfew had fallen at nine o’clock.

Daisy had stayed until the last minute, sitting against you on the narrow bed, speaking intermittently about logistical details that had no importance tonight but gave your mind something to hold onto. Extraction. Protocol changes. Numbers, dates, code names, the concrete structure of a mission that continued and reminded you both why you were here.

She had held you tightly one last time before leaving.

— Twenty four hours, she had said. And then we know. Do nothing reckless

— Yes.

— Try to sleep.

You both knew it was unlikely.

You had not slept.

One in the morning. Two. The slats of the ceiling counted and counted again. The crucifix on the wall that you looked at without seeing it. Outside, the silence of Gilead at night, not a peaceful silence, a curfew silence, a surveillance silence, everything compressed into the dark hours so it could hold until morning.

Three bodies on the northern wall.

Since this morning.

At two forty five, you had stood up.

It was not a reasoned decision.

If you had reasoned it you would not have made it, the risk was real, the curfew was in effect, a Pearl in the corridors after ten could trigger an investigation that would compromise everything. You knew it. You had set it aside.

Because you could not stay in that room one more minute without knowing if his heart was still beating somewhere in that building.

You had put your dress over your nightshirt, kept your wool socks on, and had opened the door with the slowness of someone who knew the creak of its hinges by heart.

The corridor was empty.

The night lamps, reddish, cast a low clinical light along the walls. Outside, somewhere, the night Guardians were making their rounds, fixed schedules, known intervals, you had memorized them from your second month at Ardua Hall because fixed schedules were information that stayed.

Eight minutes between rounds in the East corridor.

You had five ahead of you.

There was only one place where Garth could be after curfew.

The night Guardians had their own quarters, a separate wing at the back of the main building, accessible through the service corridor that ran along the kitchens. You had never been there. You knew where it was.

You had walked quickly and silently, your wool socks muffling your steps on the cold tiles, counting the seconds in your head.

The service corridor. The kitchens to your left, closed, the cold smell of industrial food. The door at the end, thick wood, no window.

You had knocked three times. Softly. Your heart pounding.

Nothing.

You had tried again.

And then footsteps, slow, careful, someone approaching from the other side wondering who was knocking at that door at this hour.

The door had opened.

Garth.

In pajamas, dark trousers, t shirt, bare feet on the tiles. His hair slightly disheveled the way it was when he did not really sleep and ran a hand through it without thinking. His eyes found you in the dim corridor and immediately shifted, quick assessment, risk calculation, and beneath that something else that had appeared the moment he saw your face.

— Y/N…

You had gone into his arms before he finished the word.

He had caught you.

Not surprised, or surprised for a fraction of a second, then his arms had closed around you with that specific solidity, that way he had of holding you that said I am here, you are here, everything else can wait. He had stepped back to bring you inside and the door had closed behind you in the dark.

His Guardian room was as small as yours. A bed, a chair, a window. The essential.

The bedside lamp cast a low orange light.

You had not let go.

— I heard tonight, you had said against his chest. Your voice came out blurred, tight, nineteen months of restraint cracking in a service corridor at three in the morning. Three Guardians. Central sector. And the names…

— I know. His hand in your hair, on your bandage, with that care he always had there. I heard too.

— The names are not…

— I know.

— Garth. Your voice had broken on his name. Truly broken, not the small tremor you could control, a clean fracture in the middle of the word. I spent the night thinking you might be…

— Shh.

— No, let me… You had lifted your head. Let me say it. I spent the night thinking about the creaking floorboard and the draft in the living room and the way you make coffee too hot and wondering if I would ever…

The tears had come back.

Different from before, warmer, less silent, the kind of tears that had waited too many hours.

He had placed both hands on your face.

Gently. Your cheeks in his palms, his thumbs brushing away the tears in a slow motion, his eyes in yours in the orange light.

— I am here, he said.

— I know. I know you are here. But tonight I did not know and I could not…

— I am here.

He was not repeating it to interrupt you, he was repeating it because it was the only thing truly necessary in that room at that hour. I am here. Two words that held everything else.

Your hands had rested on his chest. You felt his heart under your palms, steady, stable, alive. Very alive.

There.

— I was afraid of losing you, you had said quietly. Not just tonight. The fear of losing everything. Our home, the floorboard, Marcel, the coffee too hot, you. All of that in a single night and I did not know how…

He had kissed you.

Softly at first.

His lips on yours in the silence of the room, the orange light, the impossible hour, a kiss that began like an answer to something that could not be said otherwise. His hands still on your face, your hands on his chest feeling his heart beating.

There.

You had returned that kiss with everything you had held back since tonight, since nineteen months, maybe, since the service corridor and the wooden door and the five years waiting in a drawer and the fear that had filled every inch of that night.

It had changed.

Slower than rushed but deeper than gentle, something rising from the base of your spine that had nowhere to go in the monitored corridors of Ardua Hall but that had here, now, this narrow room and the closed door and him.

His hands had left your face. One in your hair, gently, still careful with the bandage, always that care even now, the other at your back, pulling you closer.

You had made a sound against his mouth.

— Garth…

— I know, he had said quietly, his lips still close to yours. I am here.

I am here.

The warmth had risen between you with the logic of everything that had been held back too long.

Nineteen months of calculated corridors and counted glances and carefully maintained distances, nineteen months where the only allowed contact had been in dark storage rooms for a few stolen minutes, in empty waiting rooms for ten seconds, at the edge of your hair for a kiss that could not last.

Tonight there were no Aunts returning. No Guardians within reach. No curfew that mattered.

Just the two of you and a whole night and the fear of that night searching for something on the other side of itself.

— You almost killed me with worry, you had breathed against his jaw.

— I almost… He had stopped. Taken a breath. When I heard about the arrests tonight, I thought of you. Of you in that place alone.

— I have not been sleeping for weeks. His voice was low, direct, the kind of confession he only made here. I do my rounds and I count the doors between the service corridor and your wing and I tell myself that if something…

— Garth.

— I know it is the protocol. I know. I hate it anyway.

You had taken his face in your hands, as he had taken yours.

— We have to hold on, you had said.

— We have to hold on, he had repeated.

— The floorboard will creak the same.

Something in his eyes had softened.

— And Marcel will come through the living room window.

— Exactly like before.

He had rested his forehead against yours, that contact, always that contact, the storage room and the waiting room and now here, and you had stayed like that for a few seconds in the silence of the room.

Then his mouth had found yours again.

And the rest of the night had belonged to two people who chose to believe, just for those few hours of peace and love.

———————————-

I Hope you’ll enjoy it.

Xoxo.

#the testaments #the testaments hulu #Daisy #guardian garth #garth x reader #gilead

does shame taste as sweet as pleasure?

a smutty lil smth i cooked up as an apology for still not finishin the Valentine's event (im so sorry, tis comin i swear!!)

Wally x reader | one-sided Garth x reader x Wally (he's pining for both them)

•♡☆♡☆♡☆♡•

Garth was screwed.

Well and truly screwed.

Actually - he was beyond screwed; Garth was fucked.

Absolutely fucked.

He hadn't meant to stumble upon the video - hadn't even known there was a video to stumble upon in the first place, really - but now that he was so far in, the thought of clicking away somehow seemed worse than seeing his 'mistake' through to the end.

#18+ mdni #wally west x reader #the flash x reader #wally x reader #garth x reader #tempest x reader #garth x wally #tempest x the flash

The names we didn’t said.

Garth x Reader fem

The Testaments

———————————-

The news had arrived through the usual channels.

That is to say not directly, never directly in Gilead, where information moved like water under a door, invisible as it passed and treacherous when it arrived.

An Aunt speaking in a low voice to another in the administrative corridor, her hand resting on the other’s arm, that precise gesture that accompanied important bad news.

A Guardian on duty who had shifted position nervously twice in five minutes in front of the main building.

A Violet in the courtyard who had lowered her eyes too quickly when you met her gaze.

The ground was already wet before you even saw the water pass.

Daisy had found you in the library at seven in the evening.

She had sat down across from you with a book she hadn’t opened and had looked at you in that way, the one that said I have something to tell you and neither of us is going to like it.

You had heard the words.

You had heard them perfectly, clearly, each syllable in place.

And something in your chest had stopped.

— The names? you had said.

— Not yet.

— How many?

— Three.

You had stood up.

You had walked to your room.

You had closed the door.

And there, in the four square meters of your room with the crucifix on the wall and the narrow bed and the window too high, something had opened in your chest like a trapdoor.

Three Guardians.

Central sector.

Garth had been operating in the central sector for twenty two months.

Stop.

You had sat on the edge of the bed.

Stop calculating. You don’t have the data. You have nothing concrete.

But the field brain did not stop on command.

The Toronto apartment had come to you without warning.

Not a chosen memory, an intrusion. The way memory brings back exactly what you cannot afford to lose at the precise moment you risk losing it.

The entrance hallway too narrow where you bump into each other when you come home at the same time with groceries.

The kitchen, two people already one too many but you had learned the choreography, him at the counter, you at the stove, your shoulders brushing in passing and neither of you really stepping aside.

The floorboard that had creaked in the same place for eighteen months and that neither of you had ever repaired because you liked knowing by sound where the other was in the apartment.

His morning coffee, always too hot, always drunk too fast because he was never patient with that machine that took four minutes thirty and that he watched as if looking at it could make it faster.

All of it.

All of it on the northern wall if his name was among the three.

The first tremor had come from your hands.

You had looked at them with a kind of detachment, your own hands trembling on your knees, fingers no longer quite still. You had placed them flat on your thighs. They had continued.

He might have been dead since this morning.

You had eaten this morning. You had studied the Prayers of the Foundation. You had looked at the courtyard through the window and thought about how many days before you would go back.

And him, maybe, at the same time.

Maybe.

No.

Maybe.

A very soft knock on the door.

Daisy had entered without waiting, closed behind her, and had looked at you and something in her face had changed immediately.

— Oh no, she had said softly.

You had let yourself fall against her because there was no other option.

— We don’t have the names.

— We don’t have the names, that’s exactly the problem. He might have been dead since this morning and I am three corridors away and I don’t know and…

— Y/N

— There is an apartment in Toronto waiting for us and Marcel the draft and the creaking floorboard and if his name is among the…

— Y/N. Daisy’s arms had tightened around you. Breathe.

— I am breathing.

— No. You are not. Look at me.

You had raised your eyes to her.

— Breathe with me, she said. From your stomach. Slowly.

You had tried.

— Okay, Daisy had said very softly. It’s okay. Let it out.

The tears had come without sobbing.

— I know.

— We were supposed to go back together. That was the plan. And now…

— It is still the plan.

— You cannot know that.

— No, she had admitted. But I say it anyway.

She had held you tighter.

— I am afraid of the future, you had said quietly. Something other than panic, deeper, older. Something you had carried for a long time and that tonight had opened. Not just now. After too.

Daisy had waited.

— Y/N…

Daisy had thought before answering, truly thought, not to spare your feelings but because it was a real question.

— Garth does not seem like a man who lets things crumble, she had said simply. And neither do you.

The Pearl curfew had fallen at nine o’clock.

She had held you tightly one last time before leaving.

— Twenty four hours, she had said. And then we know. Do nothing reckless

— Yes.

— Try to sleep.

You both knew it was unlikely.

You had not slept.

Three bodies on the northern wall.

Since this morning.

At two forty five, you had stood up.

It was not a reasoned decision.

Because you could not stay in that room one more minute without knowing if his heart was still beating somewhere in that building.

You had put your dress over your nightshirt, kept your wool socks on, and had opened the door with the slowness of someone who knew the creak of its hinges by heart.

The corridor was empty.

Eight minutes between rounds in the East corridor.

You had five ahead of you.

There was only one place where Garth could be after curfew.

You had walked quickly and silently, your wool socks muffling your steps on the cold tiles, counting the seconds in your head.

The service corridor. The kitchens to your left, closed, the cold smell of industrial food. The door at the end, thick wood, no window.

You had knocked three times. Softly. Your heart pounding.

Nothing.

You had tried again.

And then footsteps, slow, careful, someone approaching from the other side wondering who was knocking at that door at this hour.

The door had opened.

Garth.

— Y/N…

You had gone into his arms before he finished the word.

He had caught you.

His Guardian room was as small as yours. A bed, a chair, a window. The essential.

The bedside lamp cast a low orange light.

You had not let go.

— I know. His hand in your hair, on your bandage, with that care he always had there. I heard too.

— The names are not…

— I know.

— Garth. Your voice had broken on his name. Truly broken, not the small tremor you could control, a clean fracture in the middle of the word. I spent the night thinking you might be…

— Shh.

The tears had come back.

Different from before, warmer, less silent, the kind of tears that had waited too many hours.

He had placed both hands on your face.

Gently. Your cheeks in his palms, his thumbs brushing away the tears in a slow motion, his eyes in yours in the orange light.

— I am here, he said.

— I know. I know you are here. But tonight I did not know and I could not…

— I am here.

He was not repeating it to interrupt you, he was repeating it because it was the only thing truly necessary in that room at that hour. I am here. Two words that held everything else.

Your hands had rested on his chest. You felt his heart under your palms, steady, stable, alive. Very alive.

There.

He had kissed you.

Softly at first.

There.

It had changed.

His hands had left your face. One in your hair, gently, still careful with the bandage, always that care even now, the other at your back, pulling you closer.

You had made a sound against his mouth.

— Garth…

— I know, he had said quietly, his lips still close to yours. I am here.

I am here.

The warmth had risen between you with the logic of everything that had been held back too long.

Tonight there were no Aunts returning. No Guardians within reach. No curfew that mattered.

Just the two of you and a whole night and the fear of that night searching for something on the other side of itself.

— You almost killed me with worry, you had breathed against his jaw.

— I almost… He had stopped. Taken a breath. When I heard about the arrests tonight, I thought of you. Of you in that place alone.

— Garth.

— I know it is the protocol. I know. I hate it anyway.

You had taken his face in your hands, as he had taken yours.

— We have to hold on, you had said.

— We have to hold on, he had repeated.

— The floorboard will creak the same.

Something in his eyes had softened.

— And Marcel will come through the living room window.

— Exactly like before.

Then his mouth had found yours again.

And the rest of the night had belonged to two people who chose to believe, just for those few hours of peace and love.

———————————-

I Hope you’ll enjoy it.

Xoxo.

#the testaments #the testaments hulu #Daisy #guardian garth #garth x reader #gilead

#garth x reader

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