thinking about how clingy wally west is. he couldn't seem to keep his hands off you, even at two in the morning.
"wallyyuhh," you groaned, feigning annoyance. wally ignored you and threw a leg over yours, kicking the blankets away. "wally, it's hot, and you're basically a human furnace!"
once again, the redhead had nothing to say, burying his face further into your hair. you'd caught a glimpse of him earlier; cheeks flushed pink, just like his bare chest and shoulders, constellations of freckles and moles standing out against the dusted rose. you knew he was hot, too, even as he tightened his arms around you. he just couldn't let go of you!
"mmh... i love you, 's all," he mumbles sleepily, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. "don't w'na let y'go."
you sigh. "i love you too, walls."
man, your boyfriend was a handful, but you sure do love him.
Wally is sick, which means he’s extra needy and clingy.
╰┈➤ warnings and tags:
Wally is suuuper needy. uh whiny Wally yeah. mentions of soup?! just fluff. Wc: 1k
The first sign that indicated that Wally West was sick was not a fever, or a sore throat. It wasn’t him moving slower, or complaining about a runny nose. Nope. It was him becoming way more clingy than he usually is. (which is already a lot)
Sickness for Wally West was very rare. While you got sick every three months, the speedster got sick every three years. This was, as you had guessed, one of the nearly impossible occasions where Wally had been exposed to some toxin, and had fallen ill.
You had an inkling he wasn’t feeling his best when he literally whined like a literal baby when you got out of bed this morning.
First, he clung to your waist, pulling you back down with him, and resting his forehead in the crook of your neck. When you finally broke out of his grip, you could’ve sworn he almost cried.
“Don’t leave me.” He had pouted.
You left him.
You had work to do, and places to be, and Wally…? Well, Wally claimed that he had no issue discarding his responsibilities to be with you, and when you refused to leave yours, he deemed it as the ultimate betrayal.
Once again, this was how you knew something was up. Wally was already a clingy boyfriend, but practically crying because you had to go to work? The only explanation was that he was sick.
On the way back from work, you picked up some soup and crackers for Wally. When you finally showed up, he glared at you.
“You left me… for,” he paused and counted under his breath, “7 hours, 32 minutes and 45– 46 seconds.”
You shook your head incredulously, “well I’m home now.”
“I’m…” he coughs dramatically, “I’m sick, need you to take care of me.”
You laughed softly, “yeah? you want me to kiss it better?”
He nodded frantically and you shook your head, “nope. Brough you soup though.”
“Okay, okay cmere," you reached for his for forehead, “holy shit, you’re burning.”
You started to pull your arm away, but he crashed his full weight into your hand, and then your neck and started showering you with kisses.
“You’re supposed to be the one kissing me, not the other way around,” he mutters between pecks.
“Nuh uh, you’re gonna get me sick too.” You added, which brought your attention back to the soup, that was now probably cold
Wally looked deeply unimpressed by that argument, but he eventually released you after extracting a promise that you were coming right back. Even then, his eyes followed you all the way out of the room.
The soup only took a few minutes to heat up. When you returned, Wally had managed to sit upright against the headboard, although judging by the way he was wrapped in blankets and blinking slowly at the wall, the effort had taken a lot out of him.
You settled onto the bed beside him and offered him the bowl. Wally glanced down at it before looking back at you with such blatant expectation that you immediately regretted asking if he wanted soup in the first place.
“Feed me.”
“No.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“No.”
The look of a helpless puppy remained, and you caved within ten seconds. How could you say no to those green eyes, okay, fine, they did look a little swollen and red, but still! They were still the prettiest pair of eyes you had ever seen. By the time you picked up the spoon, he looked entirely satisfied with himself.
You fed him the first spoonful and watched him visibly relax. Whatever had managed to take down the Flash had clearly left him miserable. The fever still lingered beneath his skin, warming every point of contact between the two of you, and the exhaustion hanging around him seemed heavier than the blankets piled over his lap.
The room gradually fell quiet. Wally accepted each spoonful without complaint, his attention fixed less on the soup and more on you.
Every now and then his gaze drifted away, his eyelids lowering before he caught himself and focused again. Sometime during the process, one of his hands found your arm and stayed there.
As the bowl grew emptier, he gradually leaned closer until his shoulder rested against yours. A few minutes later, his head followed. You felt his weight settle there and adjusted automatically, continuing to feed him while he practically melted against your side.
“You tired?”
A sleepy hum answered you.
“Is that a yes?.”
Another hum.
You smiled and brushed a hand through his hair while you waited for him to finish the next spoonful. His eyes fluttered shut and his shoulders loosened beneath your touch, the faint tension he'd been carrying since you'd gotten home finally disappearing.
It was a pattern you'd learned over time.
Whenever Wally got sick, he wanted to be touching you at all times. He wanted your hand in his hair, your shoulder beneath his head, he wanted to just… be glued to you. The speedster who spent every normal day bouncing between a dozen places at once suddenly became incapable of letting you out of his sight.
You couldn't even find it in yourself to tease him about it.
By the time the bowl was empty, his eyes were closed more often than they were open. You set the soup aside on the nightstand and expected him to sit up.
But, he didn’t. Instead, he moved closer. His forehead brushed your shoulder before settling there again, and one of his arms slid around your waist.
“Wally.”
“Mhm.”
“Lie down.”
His grip tightened.
“Wally.”
A quiet groan escaped him.
“You'll sleep better.”
For a moment, you thought he might continue to argue, or groan, instead, he allowed you to guide him back beneath the blankets. The second he settled onto the pillows, however, his hand immediately found yours.
His fingers curled around yours with surprising determination for someone who could barely keep his eyes open.
A laugh escaped you.
“Seriously?”
The only response was a sleepy squeeze. You remained where you were, your hand trapped in his, while his breathing gradually slowed. The fever had left his cheeks flushed. Strands of red hair fell across his forehead. Several minutes passed.
His grip loosened little by little, only for his hand to find your waist, and for his head to rest slightly above your chest. The steady rise and fall of his chest became more even. You were beginning to think he'd finally fallen asleep when his eyes cracked open one last time.
“You'll be here when I wake up right.?”
You brushed his hair back.
“Yeah.”
“Good.” He then reached for your hand and placed it back in his hair.
The answer seemed to settle something in him. His eyes closed again, and this time they stayed closed.
barry allen x fem!reader. a look through all the years of your relationship with your now husband, barry allen. ╱ 4k words, fluff & a little cringy ˚.✦
Your kids didn't believe you when you told them that, at first, you and their dad hated each other. They had this image of Barry and you being overly in love, dancing in the kitchen while cooking, happily retired, both of you now teachers in university. Even your own students were tired of Barry appearing in the middle of class in his free hours to listen you teach.
So yes, no one could believe you hated each other in the beginning of your careers as superheroes. Your children were begging for a story about your relationship.
YEAR ONE
He was the one new to the team. Barry Allen appeared in your life unannounced, faster than ever and very annoying. Within the first two glances and a few his and hellos, both of you were decided to despise each other forever.
He showed up late to that first briefing (not late by normal-human standards, but late by Barry standards).
Which meant he came skidding in with wind-swept hair, a half-finished sandwich, and the world’s most self-satisfied grin. You didn’t know him yet, but you instantly recognized the grin as the type that deserved to be wiped off someone’s face with a firm application of reality.
He called it “fashionably delayed.”
You called it “tacky time-dilation.”
From the start, everything about him grated. His optimism. His chatter. His infuriating habit of answering questions before you finished asking them. And the way he kept orbiting you like a hyperactive moon.
The first mission together didn’t help.
You were trying to quietly infiltrate a warehouse full of weapons smugglers. Emphasis on quietly. Barry lasted seven whole seconds before tripping an alarm because he “got a weird vibe” from a crate and wanted to check it out faster than thought.
The lights blared on. Laser fire erupted. You dove behind cover.
Barry appeared beside you, sheepish and blinking. “So. Funny story—”
You didn’t let him finish. “I am going to murder you.”
He held up his hands. “In my defense—”
“Barry, there is no defense. You vibrated through a box. A box making absolutely no noise. WHILE WE WERE SUPPOSED TO BE STEALTHY.”
“It felt suspicious!”
“It was full of canned peaches!”
The smugglers heard the screaming before they saw either of you, which only made things worse. By the end, the two of you had dismantled the operation, saved three hostages, and blown up half the warehouse. The team congratulated you both.
You didn’t speak to each other for the rest of the night.
The next week wasn’t any better.
He stole your mug in the break room because he “didn’t see your name on it.” You pointed out the giant permanent-marker label that literally read YOUR NAME in aggressive lettering.
He apologized by buying you a replacement mug that said #1 HERO (PROBABLY).
He talked too much during debriefs. You talked too little. He tried to charm you. You countered by being a wall made of irritation and caffeine dependency. Sparks flew, but not the romantic kind—more like the static shocks you get from someone who keeps wearing fleece in winter.
And yet, for reasons that annoyed you deeply, the team kept pairing you up.
It was not because they believed in your potential chemistry.
It was because, together, you were absurdly good.
Where you were methodical, he was instinct. Where he was impulsive, you were strategic. Where you wanted to punch him in the face, he had already run three blocks ahead to do something infuriatingly heroic.
You saved his life twice that month. He saved yours three times. You tried to argue that the third time didn’t count because “technically the collapsing ceiling would’ve missed you by a few inches.” He brought up physics. You shoved him.
He laughed.
And that ridiculous laugh was what you hated most at the time. Because every time he did it, something in your chest shifted, ever so slightly, like the world was rearranging itself without your permission.
YEAR TWO
It took you a whole year to accept your feelings.
It sneaked up on you the way Barry always did: too fast, too bright and absolutely unwelcome.
You’d spent a year convincing yourself that you disliked him. You curated that dislike like a bonsai tree: meticulous, daily maintenance, trimmed into a sharp little sculpture of irritation. It was elegant, really. A masterpiece of denial.
And then the universe ruined it.
The moment arrived on an ordinary Tuesday, during a mission that shouldn’t have been memorable. A rooftop chase, a handful of armed idiots, and an explosion you swear Barry caused, even though later he insisted it was you.
Debris rained down. One concrete slab came straight for your skull faster than you could dodge. In a blur, he was there, arms around you, whipping the both of you out of danger in a crackle of lightning.
He held you a second longer than necessary. Long enough for your heart to misbehave.
You stepped back, dizzy for reasons you did not care to examine. “You can let go now.”
Barry grinned in that careless, world-tilted way of his. “I wasn’t sure if you were done dying theatrically.”
And your stomach did something traitorous. Something warm. Something that made you want to throw yourself off the roof just to escape it.
You blamed adrenaline. Then dehydration. Then cosmic rays. Anything but the obvious.
But the obvious followed you.
It showed up when he laughed too hard at one of his own jokes. When he brought you coffee before you asked. When he dragged his hair back with one hand while reading a mission report. When he wandered into your lab to watch you work, pretending he had a question when he really just liked being there.
It was a problem. A huge, Barry-shaped problem.
So you did the only reasonable thing: you withdrew like a hermit crab fleeing a noisy tide pool. You dodged him in the halls. You cut conversations short. You shifted to the opposite end of briefing rooms. You perfected the art of ducking around corners so fast even he didn’t catch you half the time.
He noticed, of course.
Barry pretended not to at first. He tried to play it cool. Well, “Barry-cool,” which was roughly equivalent to a golden retriever trying to disguise itself as a houseplant. But eventually even he had limits.
It finally erupted during patrol one night, both of you perched on a rooftop, the city glowing below. You were staring pointedly at anything that wasn’t him when he zipped into your line of sight.
“You’re avoiding me,” he said, tone too gentle for someone who usually communicated in speed lines and snacks.
You rolled your eyes. “I’m avoiding everyone.”
“You’re avoiding me harder.”
“I avoid annoyances. You should be flattered.”
He tilted his head. “You’re lying.”
It hit you like a swung-open door. The directness. The certainty. The fact that he said it not accusingly, but… softly.
You scoffed, because scoffing was safer than honesty. “What would I even be lying about?”
“That you don’t like me.”
You froze. Heart thrashed. Brain stalled. Muscles stopped cooperating entirely.
Barry’s voice dropped, barely above the wind. “You don’t hate me anymore. I’m not trying to make it weird, I just—I miss you talking to me. Even when you’re insulting me. Especially then.”
Your mouth opened, but absolutely nothing intelligent came out. “I—no, that’s—Barry, I just—”
He stepped closer. Not too close. Just enough that you could see every shade of sincerity in his eyes.
“I annoy you less than I used to,” he said. “And you… you care more than you want to admit. It’s fine. I won’t explode if you say it.”
You tried to pull your armor back on, but it was already in pieces. Your carefully cultivated bonsai of denial wilted. Disarmed, that was the only word. Barry Allen, master of chaos and accidental grace, had taken your walls apart with a single truth-shaped sentence.
You managed, after what felt like a century, to breathe. “Maybe I don’t hate you as much as I said.”
His grin broke over him like sunrise. “That’s practically a love confession.”
You punched his shoulder.
He caught your hand before you could pull it back, fingers warm around yours for one suspended moment.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he murmured.
And you were doomed.
YEAR THREE & FOUR
Because now, you and him started the worst and longest phase of your lives together. Barry likes to call it the "Yearning Incident", you prefer to not mention it at all.
Once both of you admitted (barely, quietly and grudgingly) that you “maybe didn’t hate each other,” the floodgates should’ve opened. Normal people would have kissed within the week. Maybe held hands in the moonlight. Maybe confessed in a heart-thumping moment of courage.
Instead, you and Barry accidentally turned the Justice League into a long-term psychological experiment involving collective suffering.
From the outside, the two of you were a couple. A disgustingly affectionate couple. A couple so couple-coded it made seasoned heroes despair. The League spent entire meetings groaning like they’d been dropped into a bad romance novel.
But you and Barry? You clung to the phrase just friends like it was a legally binding oath.
Friends who:
• held hands everywhere.
• kissed each other’s cheeks hello and goodbye.
• sat shoulder-pressed together during mission briefings.
• whispered into each other’s comms so softly the rest of the team felt like they were intruding on a private conversation.
• laughed at jokes no one else heard.
• blushed when the other smiled too long.
“Just friends,” you’d insist, sitting in Barry’s lap because there were “no chairs left.”
“There are literally eight chairs open,” Batman grumbled that day.
You didn’t move.
Barry didn’t help.
But this is how denial works: it makes geniuses idiots; it makes heroes cowards; and it makes two destined idiots convince themselves that gentle affection is “normal professional bonding.”
The sidekicks suffered first. They were younger, more perceptive, and fully capable of policing nonsense.
Kid Flash confronted Barry: “Dude. You stare at her like you’re trying to time-travel with your eyes.”
Barry sputtered. “I do NOT—my staring is purely observational!”
The kid blinked. “You whisper ‘she's really cute’ under your breath.”
“That was ONE TIME.”
It was nine.
Over in the training wing, you weren’t faring better.
Dinah cornered you during a sparring break. “Sweetheart, you’re glowing.”
You blinked. “I have a good skincare routine.”
“You giggle when he calls you over the comms.”
“That must be static interference.”
She stared at you long enough to qualify as emotional violence. “Just… consider that you might be in love.”
You nearly swallowed your water bottle.
Meanwhile, the media caught footage after a mission. Barry helping you down from a ledge, hands lingering at your waist, you brushing dust from his cheek with a tenderness that absolutely no one bought as platonic.
The next morning’s headlines were everywhere. Suddenly, you two were the favorite pair of superheroes.
The League refused to let it go.
Superman started leaving pamphlets around the Watchtower titled “COMMUNICATION FOR DUMB BUT LOVELY PEOPLE WHO ARE IN LOVE.”
Wonder Woman took a different tack. “Love is war,” she said calmly while polishing her sword. “End the siege, both of you.”
One night, during a late shift in the Watchtower control room, Barry ended up seated next to you too close, knees touching. Too much warmth. Too much everything.
He leaned his shoulder against yours. “You ever notice everyone’s been acting weird?”
You turned to him, bewildered. “You’ve noticed too?”
Barry nodded. “I think the team’s just jealous of how good our friendship is.”
Your chest tightened. “Yeah. Must be that.”
He smiled at you. You smiled at him. Both of you blushed at the exact same moment.
Behind you, Green Lantern walked in, saw the tableau, groaned like he’d walked into a lecture he hadn’t studied for, and walked right back out.
For two whole years, the League lived in shared agony. Missions went smoothly, but morale was… irregular. The entire organization operated on a background hum of “JUST GET TOGETHER ALREADY,” but neither you nor Barry heard it.
Or rather—you both heard it, but denied it. Boldly. Passionately. Stubbornly. You denied it with the fervor of two people who were absolutely in love and catastrophically insecure about it.
Barry calls it the Yearning Incident. You pretend not to remember a single moment.
But everyone else? They recite your mutual pining like it’s a dramatic epic passed down through generations.
YEAR FIVE
The break didn’t come in a dramatic battle, or during a life-or-death moment, or under mistletoe (though Clark may or may not have temporarily installed some around the holidays).
It came during an argument.
A small one, at first. The kind couples have about chores, except you weren’t a couple, and this wasn’t about dishes.
It was about a mission report.
You and Barry had disagreed about the best strategy for dealing with a new meta-criminal. It had been a mild disagreement in the field, but afterward the temperature suddenly rose.
You were tired. Overworked. Heartsick without admitting it.
He was frustrated. Confused. Heartsick without admitting it.
It started in the Watchtower hallway. Your voice sharp. His sharper.
“You can’t just run ahead without telling me!” you snapped, pacing like a caged thing. “You scared the hell out of me!”
His eyebrows shot up. “I was fine! I always check in!”
“No, you don’t! You disappear! You vanish before thinking, and I—” You stopped yourself. You bit down hard. “It’s reckless.”
Barry crossed his arms, not defensive, but wounded. “I can handle myself.”
“I know that,” you said, too fast. “But you don’t get to act like it doesn’t matter when you take stupid risks.”
“Why?” he demanded.
“Because—because—”
Your explanation jammed in your throat.
Barry stared, waiting. The air hypercharged. His voice softened, dangerously controlled. “Why does it matter so much to you?”
“That’s not—Barry, don’t twist this—”
He stepped closer. His eyes shone with something furious and fragile.
“You don’t get scared like that for your teammates,” he said quietly. “Not like you do with me. Not ever.”
Your heartbeat punched your ribs.
He kept going, voice breaking open. “And you don’t look at your teammates the way you look at me.”
Your breath caught.
“You don’t hold them the way you hold me.”
Your throat closed.
“You don’t smile at them like—” His voice cracked for real this time. “You don’t smile at anyone like you smile at me.”
You were trembling. He was breathing too fast.
The hallway was small. Too small for five years of pent-up longing.
You whispered, “Barry—please—”
“Just say it,” he said, eyes burning. “Say what we’ve both been pretending isn’t true.”
“I can’t.”
“You can. I know you can. Just tell me.” His tone dropped. “Tell me you love me.”
Your entire world spun. You felt stripped bare, exposed, cornered by the one person who saw you too clearly.
“I—Barry, I don’t—”
He laughed, but it wasn’t happy. It was desperate. “You don’t? Really? After everything? After five years of… of this?”
He threw his hands out. Lightning flickered along his fingertips.
“You think I haven’t noticed? You think I don’t hear the way your heartbeat changes when I’m near? You think I don’t see you looking at me like I hung the moon and then pretending you were just checking for injuries?”
Your voice dropped to a whisper. “I care too much.”
He stepped closer. Inch by inch.
“How much?” he asked softly.
Your heart finally cracked open.
“Enough that it scares me.”
A breath.
“Enough that I don’t know what my life looks like without you.”
Barry exhaled like he’d been underwater for years.
And then he touched your cheek. Tentatively, reverently, terrified and hopeful in the same breath.
“Please,” he whispered. “Just tell me.”
You looked at him, this infuriating man who’d dismantled your walls with patience and laughter and lightning.
The words came out trembling.
“I love you,” you said. “Happy now?”
Barry made a strangled sound and pulled you into him, forehead pressed to yours, lightning dancing along his skin in tiny sparks.
“Finally,” he whispered, almost reverent. “Finally.”
And just like that, the five-year storm broke.
But the best part? The calm after would be the sweetest era of your lives.
YEAR SIX
Dating after six years of yearning was like stepping out of a burning building into soft rain. Everything finally made sense and yet neither of you sprinted forward. Quite the opposite.
Barry asked for slow.
He did it the night after the confession, when both of you were still trembling with leftover adrenaline and brand-new honesty. You were sitting on the Watchtower balcony. Same place where countless almost-confessions had died slow.
He sat beside you, hands twisting nervously, because even the Flash could be awkward when it came to feelings he couldn’t outrun.
“I want to do this right,” he said softly. “With you. I don’t want to rush. I don’t want to look back in a year and think I went too fast and scared you. I want… slow. If that’s okay.”
For the first time in years, your heart didn’t panic. It settled.
“I want slow too,” you said.
Barry’s shoulders relaxed like you’d removed a weight he’d carried since the day he met you.
So that’s what you two did.
You didn’t dive into couplehood like an action scene. You eased into it, letting every step bloom in its own time.
The League, for once, respected your pace. Mostly because they were terrified of spooking you both back into the Yearning Incident. They observed from a safe distance, like wildlife biologists watching rare creatures.
Your first date wasn’t fancy.
Barry showed up at your place holding two takeout bags and wearing the brightest grin known to mankind. You spent the evening on your couch eating noodles, comparing war stories and laughing over old footage of missions where you’d both denied being attracted to each other while practically flirting in full view of cameras.
He walked you to your door at the end of the night.
Neither of you kissed.
You both wanted to. You both chickened out. And it was perfect.
The second date was a museum.
The third was a rooftop picnic.
The fourth was him dragging you to a small-town fair he used to visit as a kid.
Every time you brushed hands, it felt like touching electricity. Every time he looked at you too long, you felt your knees wobble. Every time he hugged you goodbye, your heart did a ridiculous little flip you chose not to analyze.
The League watched in agony.
But you and Barry were happy in the slowness. Peaceful, even. It was the first time in years that you didn’t feel like you were drowning in unspoken feelings. You were swimming now.
Your long talks became a ritual.
Sometimes in the Watchtower cafeteria.
Sometimes on your living room floor.
Sometimes lying side-by-side on his bed staring at the ceiling, your shoulders touching, your hearts close but your lips still shy.
One night, after a mission, Barry asked you to stay with him on the balcony again.
He seemed nervous. Speed fidgeting, knee bouncing, tapping the railing in a lightning-fast Morse code you couldn’t decipher.
“Can I tell you something?” he asked.
“You always can.”
He exhaled. “I keep thinking about our first kiss.”
Your breath caught. “You do?”
“All the time,” he admitted, looking at the stars instead of you. “I want it to be special. Not like—it doesn’t have to be cinematic or dramatic or perfect, I just… I want it to feel like us. Like everything we went through actually meant something. I want—”
You touched his hand, and he froze.
“Barry?”
He turned his head slowly.
“Yeah?”
You leaned in carefully, so he had time to move away if he wanted.
He didn’t move.
He held perfectly still, like the whole world was balancing on the moment between you.
“Tell me when you’re ready,” you whispered.
He swallowed once, hard. “I’m ready now.”
The kiss was…
Soft. Slow. Warm. A release and a beginning all at once.
His lips met yours like he’d been waiting six years to earn the right, and another lifetime to savor it. One hand cupped your cheek. The other curled in your shirt like he didn’t trust the world not to steal you away.
You kissed him back with the affection that had lived in you for years, finally allowed to bloom without fear.
When you pulled away, he was smiling the way people smile when they see sunrise after a very long night.
“Well,” he whispered, voice shaking with happiness, “that was… really special.”
You rested your forehead against his. “Worth the wait?”
“Worth every agonizing, ridiculous second.”
You laughed. “We’re terrible at this, you know.”
“We’re also incredible at it,” he said. “Look how long we managed to fall in love without accidentally blowing up the world.”
YEAR FIFTEEN
“Ew, ew, ew, ew.” Nora scrunched up her entire face, as if the story physically offended her. “Mommy, you and Daddy were so weird.”
Beside her, your son—five years younger and dramatically invested in snacks—paused mid–gummy bear to nod with grave agreement. “Yeah. Weird.”
Barry clutched his chest, staggering back as if struck by a villain’s death ray. “Weird? Weird? Sweetheart, your mother and I were the blueprint of romance.”
You swatted his shoulder. “No, we were a six-year nightmare of denial.”
Barry winked. “A gorgeous nightmare.”
“Ew!” both children yelled in tragic synchronization.
Your son buried his face in a pillow. “Stop talking! My ears!”
Nora pointed accusingly at Barry. “You didn’t kiss Mommy for SIX YEARS! That’s weird! That’s so weird! Daddy, that’s, like… medically weird!”
Barry crossed his arms, indignant. “It was called building tension! And respect! And emotional maturity!”
You raised an eyebrow at him. “You literally vibrated through a box of canned peaches on our first mission.”
He ignored that. “Sweetie,” he said to Nora, “your mommy and I had a slow burn.”
Nora gagged dramatically. “Gross.”
“Slow burn isn’t gross,” Barry protested. “It’s romantic.”
Your son, now deeply invested in the conversation, said, “So, when did you stop being dumb?”
You and Barry exchanged a look.
“Year Six,” you admitted.
“We got better,” Barry mumbled.
Nora flopped back on the couch, limbs everywhere like a melodramatic starfish. “Why didn’t you just KISS? That’s what normal people do! Aunt Carol told me Uncle Hal kissed her after, like, THREE DATES.”
Then Barry poked her forehead. “We were romantic idiots. There’s a difference.”
Nora pushed his hand away. “I can’t believe you two made us. You’re too embarrassing.”
Your son whispered, as though sharing classified intel, “Mommy, did Daddy cry when you finally kissed?”
Barry gasped. “I did NOT.”
You smiled sweetly. “He absolutely did.”
“TRAITOR,” Barry hissed dramatically.
Nora flailed again. “Stop! STOP! Why are you telling us this? We didn’t want DETAILS. We just asked how you met!”
Barry threw his hands up. “This was how we met!”
“And fell in love,” you added.
Nora groaned into a cushion. “Why do parents do this? Why do you ruin everything?”
Barry grinned, scooping her up despite her flailing. “Because someday you’re going to grow up, and fall in love, and your kids are going to call you weird.”
“Never!” she declared. “I’m never falling in love! Ever!”
Your son nodded solemnly, sticky with gummies. “Me neither.”
a/n: i've been working on this since i got the request, it's been such a journey to write this ngl. and i loved loved the result. now pls don't make it flop. also, i didn't name barry and reader's kid nora for me, it's just barry's mother name
Summary: Your husband thinks that having super healing abilities means that he needs to throw himself in front of danger to protect you, and you can't keep watching it happen.
Pairing: Barry Allen/gn!reader
Tags and warnings: angst -> comfort, wound description, setting bones description, couples arguing, reader and Barry are married, reader is also a JL member with undescribed powers, mentions of wanting children
Author’s Note: My last angst -> comfort from my poll, finally! This one took some pondering on how I wanted it to shake out, and ultimately I think I'm happy with how it turned out so I am releasing it into the wild. Thank you to everyone who participated in my poll!
Word Count: 4.0K
Strangled groans of blinding pain echoed through the hospital bay, not muffled at all despite the frayed bottom lip twisting underneath forceful teeth. Calcium grinding against rock hard collagen, jagged edges of bones fighting to align next to each other as they were forced back in place. Feeling the unbearable itch of tears prickling in your waterline, you stormed out of the room with a snarl on your face. You couldn’t endure this scene for the millionth time.
Desperate howls reverberated off of faded linoleum floors reviving memories of last week’s argument, which overwhelmed your mind beyond words.
You remembered that day you were so frustrated that you felt like crying.
“Barry.” You had turned, voice deadly serious. Your tone was low, almost hollow and without phonation. “I can’t have this argument again.”
The two of you in opposition, yet again standing against each other in a space where you had spent so many previous hours entangled together. Snuggled up on the couch watching a show, nestled against his chest drifting into a sleepy bliss as he read aloud from some novel, saddled upon his lower back as he stretched out on the floor nearly drooling from the peppermint balm you rubbed into his sore muscles. There was less and less of that these days, and more of the fighting. Especially after work.
Becoming a crime fighting vigilante was never on your life’s bucket list, but you were encumbered with some pretty useful powers and too much guilt to not put them to good use. Sooner than you had anticipated, you fell into the comfortable rhythm of having an alternate life. These days, you were more in tune with your powers and your limitations than you had ever been before, and yet, here you were, going around again with Barry.
“I’m not trying to argue.” Barry replied.
Your eyes narrowed. By his pitiful expression, he was either desperately trying to convince you of his submission or hurting more than he was letting on. Your fury stoked, the rage licking up your insides, as you watched him try not to writhe as he took a seat on your couch.
Immediately after speaking, he could sense your disapproval at this statement.
“We’ve gone over this, honey.” Barry said, holding his hands up in hopeful surrender. “It’s just logic, alright. It makes sense.”
Instantly, he realized that he shouldn’t have said anything at all, watching your eyes squeeze shut with irritation and your eyebrows wrinkling sky high.
“No, it doesn’t, Barr.” Exasperation seeped from you. “It does not make sense that you feel the need to throw yourself in front of every bullet, punch, knife, whatever with reckless abandon!”
“If that knife clipped you in the ribs, you would be on bed rest for at least two weeks.” Barry argued, despite his best intentions to stay neutral. To make his point, he pulled his palm away from his torso. The gauze bloomed crimson without his applied pressure. “It’s gonna sting me for an hour, and then I’ll be perfectly fine.”
You let out an exhale of frustration, feeling your breath vent out hot.
“What if it hadn’t clipped me at all?” You retorted. “What if you gave me the chance to dodge it? Toss it to the side with the rest of the rubble? Then neither of us would be on bed rest for any length of time!”
You watched Barry wince as he sat up to converse with you.
“I’m not trying to doubt your abilities, sweetheart.” Barry assured with an earnestness that bit at you. “But on the other hand, what if it did more than just cut you? What if it severed an artery and you bled out in my arms? That’s not something I can live with.”
“What if it did way more than cut you, Barry?!” You returned. Your hands were mindlessly carding through your hair in frustration. “You heal fast, but you’re not invincible. That’s not something that I should have to live with, either.”
You wrapped your arms tensely to tie them down, chest heaving with emotion. Swapping hands to hold the dressing to his rib cage, Barry extended his fingers out to you, clearly wincing from the stretch. You fixated your stare on his outstretched palm, before casting it down to your feet with a shake of your head.
“Baby, I’m not trying to disregard your emotions.” He said, his voice slipping into that softness reserved only for you. “But I stood at that altar and vowed that to the best of my abilities, I would always protect you. If that means hurting for an hour, couple days, couple weeks-” he sighed. “It’s no contest.”
Despite the magnetic pull that beckoned you to him, possessed you to gravitate towards him and press your face into the angle of his neck where the skin there was extra soft and smelled just like him, you gathered your strength and turned away. This was a boundary worth protecting.
“No, it just results in us both hurting.” You muttered.
You had spent that night alone in bed. Your mind mulling about how Barry always insisted that if you two were to sleep apart, you’d take the big bed so that you could still be comfortable. Even with a stab wound extending from his flank to the edge of his rib cage, he maintained that he’d take the couch. Which is exactly where he spent the night, memorizing patterns in the popcorn ceiling as his mind worked over how to make it up to you in the morning.
You both did more thinking than sleeping that night.
You tried to shake the memory out of your head, tossing slightly like you were trying to Etch-a-Sketch erase all of the fights, all of the injuries, and most importantly, the last hour of your life, out of your mind. How desperately you wanted to see that scene fade out of existence into a blank slate.
Nevertheless, it lingered. The recollection of the blade coming towards you and the calm drive you maintained, poised to knock the blow aside. Then the blur of fire-engine red. A sight that used to bring a sentimental swell of emotion in your lower belly, which was now replaced with tense panic. You couldn’t erase the sound of flesh tearing, a wound being ripped up your husband’s back. You couldn’t erase that the first emotion that came to your mind was anger rather than concern for your husband’s well being.
And you were having a hard time erasing the desperate look on his face as they set the bones in his arm, which had crunched against the pavement as he fell on an outstretched palm, and the way he had rolled limply to your feet.
Whether he’d be perfectly fine by dinner time or not, you didn’t deserve to witness that.
So, as you left the hospital bay, you came to the hopeless decision to pack up some of your things in a suitcase and stay with your parents for a while. You left with no note and tried not to imagine his face as he crossed the threshold of your shared home to your subtle but persistent absence. A lone toothbrush in the holder he had painted on your date at the Pottery Cafe in preparation for your upcoming move-in together. No keys strewn by the microwave. The pile of clothes that draped over the chair in your bedroom noticeably gone.
You drove on to your parents, putting on a podcast to try and immerse yourself in something that wasn’t your own guilt.
It was almost 11:00 PM, and there you were, tucked back into your childhood twin bed with an ache in your heart. Your misery was feasted upon by the teenage heartthrobs trapped in posters that still remained tacked to the walls. The desk that you studied for your SAT on still stood in the corner. You grimaced as you turned on the bedside lamp to plug in your phone charger and call it a night.
Just as you leaned over to fish for the outlet, your screen illuminated and your stomach did an involuntary dive of guilt when his contact appeared upon your lock screen - which was a shared photo of the both of you, of course. Regardless, you couldn’t resist opening his messages.
If your stomach had done a dive of guilt at the thought of him texting, your heart did a full plunge in shame after reading his messages. You squeezed your eyes shut, letting tears burn at your waterline and your throat clench up with welled emotion. You hated being stuck at this crossroads: torn in half between running home as quickly as you could to throw yourself in the arms of your lover and standing your ground by maintaining your absence for the preservation of your husband’s life. As you swallowed the strangled fist of sorrow back down your throat, you flipped the phone over and turned off the table lamp to retire for the night.
A stray beam of sunlight cracked open your eyelids, which ended the streak of slumber you had managed last night. Other than the two hour interlude, during which the tears finally overtook your resolve and you bawled into your pillow.
And for the next couple of days, you didn’t do much but oscillate between panic and deep despair. Sitting on the porch of your childhood home, you looked out onto the lawn where you skinned your knees and got grass stains in your overalls that your mother never really could get out. You thought about your own children, perfect hybrids of you and Barry, running through the sprinkler across that lawn. Something that the two of you had spent nights imagining, you wondered if that was even a possibility anymore.
Your brain churned the whole time you were away from Barry, ruminating on thoughts like a cow chewing cud. You spat out what little you could verbalize onto a legal pad one night in an attempt of therapeutic journaling, but tore off the page and tucked it under a log in the fireplace the next morning. The League hadn’t bothered you. Whether Barry had told them you had moved out or your services simply weren’t needed, you couldn’t say.
You knew that you would have to go back, which was a thought that troubled you for the first day or two of your stay, but something that became more akin to a goal as the days trickled on. Barry called - twice a day. Once just before he’d be leaving for the forensics lab in the morning, and the other at varying hours of the night, presumably whenever he had dragged himself home. It all went to voicemail. He even tried your parents' ancient home phone once, and you tried not to eavesdrop as your mother gently told him: “sorry hon, not available right now.”
One morning, you finally felt that you had reached the limit of the mental clarity that you were able to achieve, with a strong drive to return to your home and to your husband. You saw your parents off with thanks, and drove home with the intention of resolving this dilemma that had been tormenting you. You and Barry had fought numerous earth-ending threats. You weren’t going to let a dispute ruin your marriage. You felt your anxiety surge as you pulled into your parking spot but worked to quell it to a dull roar.
You plunged your key into the lock, knowing that Barry wouldn’t be home, but still the confirmation of such once you stepped into your living quarters soothed your nerves. As you unzipped your luggage, you pulled out a pair of comfortable clothes and changed for the night. You moved to continue unpacking the suitcase, yet something nagged within you to keep it packed, just in case. You ignored that thought and returned your belongings to their place.
You made a fairly easy dinner so your hands had something to do. You ate some, but couldn’t taste it. Settling into the couch, you stared at the blank television screen for minutes or hours, knowing that even if you turned something on, your mind would be preoccupied.
You felt your fate seal as the deadbolt to your front door turned.
It was clear that Barry hadn’t been expecting you, from the way he slunk through the door with his shoulders slumped. He tossed his jacket over the closet door hook with a grunt. When Barry came home to you, he entered with reverence on his face at your presence, sweeping you into a snug embrace no matter how tiresome the day had been. It seemed that your husband had been feeling as defeated as you had in the last couple of days.
As you stretched your wrist to turn on the side table lamp, Barry caught sight of your movement and finally noticed your presence. A million emotions crossed his face at once: initial delight, then regret, frustration, sorrow in succession.
“You’re home.” He said. His voice was husky with fatigue.
Once you turned on the table lamp, you saw that he had been neglecting his stubble, now a faint blanket of prickly blonde hairs covering his chin and cheeks. You recognized the tiredness in his eyes from gazing at your own in the mirror. His work shirt was wrinkled, clearly having abandoned the ironing in your absence.
“I’m home.” You replied. You waited a beat, before swallowing. “It’s time to talk.”
Barry crossed the threshold of your living room entirely too slow for anyone that knew him, taking a seat on the couch just kitty-cornered from your perch. He folded his hands, leaning over with his elbows on his knees. You let your eyes drift along his strong fingers and over the peak of his knuckles before turning back to his worried gaze.
“Okay.” Barry said, with just a whiff of exasperation, although maybe fear. “Let’s talk.”
You studied his face, patiently waiting for his reluctant eye contact before continuing.
“I’ve decided to put in my letter of resignation with the Justice League.” You announced.
You observed more reels of emotion warp over Barry’s face at this, watching his bottom lip quiver with indecision as his mouth fought his brain over what to say.
“What?” He questioned, his tone incredulous. “You can’t resign from the League.”
“Of course I can.” You replied, much too calm for Barry’s comfort.
“Is this something you’ve been thinking about for a while?” Barry asked. You could see him restrain his hand from circling the skin on your knee. “Because if you’re truly done, I mean… you more than deserve that retirement. But honey, we were just talking about how you’ve been hitting your groove-”
“I choose you, Barry.” You cut him off. “I choose you over the League.”
You watched his light blonde eyebrows furrow as he squeezed into an expression that revealed the turmoil brewing in his mind.
“You don’t have to choose me or the League, baby, you HAVE me-” He started, building a ramble again, before you interrupted his momentum.
“But, I do, Barry.” You countered.
Despite the moments of silence following your statement, Barry didn’t attempt to interrupt. His pale baby blues scanned you, fully immersed in this moment with you in desperate anticipation of your next statement.
“I almost lost you the other day, Barr.” You continued. “And before you try to argue with me that you were fine, remember that I saw the way you laid limply at my feet. So while I do still have you, Barr, I can’t stand to lose you. And if that means that I’m not there for that situation to occur - for that drive that you have to protect me to take over - then the choice is simple. I choose you. I choose our marriage.”
Even after you laid it all out on the table, Barry observed you in silence, stunned by the extent of your sacrifice. He searched your face for insincerity or indecision, but found none. He wanted to blurt out that there was a way for you to make it both work - that you could have him and have the League in perfect harmony - but he knew deep down that you were right. Barry Allen, your husband, and The Flash, your team mate, could not coexist.
Without response, and still in that languid manner that chilled you more than anything, Barry reached out to wrap his arms around you. His slow movements gave you more than enough time to evade him, but you sunk into the embrace, feeling his warmth and listening to the always fast clip of his heartbeat. He curled into the side of your neck, holding his lips to your pulse as his thumb stroked a path along your cheek.
And you didn’t speak another word about it. Not that night, nor the morning after, nor the several days that followed. You drafted your resignation letter in preparation for the weekend’s Justice League meeting where you would make the announcement.
Even though it sent an uncomfortable pang through your chest to think that you would never be going on another mission, never recruited for another global emergency, you knew that your end game was growing old with Barry. That thought urged you to continue writing up your departure letter even when the computer keys felt like hot coals. This was the way for your marriage to continue in harmony, even if the choice felt entirely wrong.
The morning of the Justice League meeting, you woke up to the smell of french toast wafting through the bedroom. While you had been savoring waking in your lover’s embrace over the last couple of days, you found yourself in the sheets alone. His absence spurred you to get out of bed and waddle to the kitchen for investigation.
Over the years, you couldn’t count how many times you watched a shirtless Barry make you breakfast, but the sight only ever got sweeter. Faint red scratch marks still adorned his traps from last night’s activities and his cowlick was adorably mussed from the pillow. Your eyes trailed his lean lower back muscles to where they disappeared under the waistband of his boxer briefs, stepping forward to discover for yourself. At the sound of worn floorboards creaking under your feet, Barry turned around, regarding you with a lazy smile.
“Good morning, sweetheart.” He said, his voice gravelly from sleep.
Gaze ripped from where it was trained on his musculature, you finally noticed the vase of fresh tulips on the table. A smile formed on your lips. Barry was always a ‘flowers guy’, and you loved it.
“French toast and tulips?” You teased. “How lucky am I?”
“Not as lucky as me.” Barry replied, pressing a kiss to your hairline.
As he turned back to the stove, your hands wrapped him, roaming the expanse of his back. You closed your eyes, relishing the feeling of his bare skin under your palms. You leaned against him and stayed like that a while, enjoying the warmth of his chest against your cheek as he leisurely flipped toast in a sizzling pan. A soft pair of lips on your forehead broke you out of your peaceful moment.
“Breakfast is ready, angel.” Barry murmured. “Go sit at the table and I’ll fix you a plate.”
As you tucked your legs underneath yourself in your chair at the dining table, you thought about how good it had been to be present again in your relationship with Barry. Back in your chair at the dining table. Sleeping on your side of your shared bed. You took the buzz that the thought brought to your chest and held onto it to drown out what you’d sacrificed for it. A dreadful anticipation of your announcement this evening.
Barry set a plate in front of you with endearing yet unrealistic Barry-sized portions, as usual. You always chided him for giving you too much and he’d reply that he didn’t want you to be hungry. Besides, he was always good for finishing your meal when you tapped out.
He took his spot at the table across from you, handing you a knife and fork before settling into his dining chair. As he picked at his plate, you watched his thumb rub down a worn groove in the dining table that had endured nearly the entirety of your relationship. You could sense his reserved anxiety through the motion.
“These are wonderful, baby. Thank you.” You said, causing his eyes to glance up at you from the table.
It was hard for Barry Allen not to smile when he looked at you, so he always gave in on the impulse. His soft eyes with slightly blown pupils darting shyly from your face shortly after. But, you could still sense something internally gnawing him, fraying him ever slightly. You placed your hand over his, squeezing with gentleness. He set down his cutlery.
“I wanted to talk to you about something.” He said.
You internally grimaced, having so enjoyed your last couple of days free of domestic dispute, but the look your husband was sporting convinced you that this was of importance to him. So you nodded, urging him to go on.
“I- um. I had a meeting with Batman and Martian- J’onn, a couple days ago.” He announced.
“Okay.” You replied with caution. Certainly Barry hadn’t gone behind your back to spring the news of your departure. Right?
“I made some arrangements with them.” He said. At this, he flipped your hands, so his palm was covering yours. “For the League, going forward.”
You looked at him, electing silence.
“From now on, I’m going to be stepping back from the League.” He said. “Wally’s going to take my place on the team. I’m going to focus on local crime here in Central City.”
At this announcement, your gaze sharpened. This time, you weren’t electing silence, you were truly speechless.
“Any missions I do go on for the League going forward will be missions you’re not scheduled for.” He affirmed. He pressed a kiss to the back of your hand. “Honey, I need you, but the world deserves you. I won’t go back on my vows, but I can’t in good conscience be the reason that you resign from the Justice League.”
You reached a shaking hand out to cradle Barry’s cheek, which he leaned into instantly.
“Barry, I can’t ask you to do that.” You sputtered, barely stringing the sentence together.
“That’s okay, because you aren’t.” He replied. “I’m doing it willingly. I choose you. I choose our marriage.”
His thumb brushed over your wedding band and you stood from the table, climbing into his lap and molding yourself into his arms. As you rested your head against his sternum, you tried to ingrain the touch of his palm sweeping against your back into your memory.
“Are you sure about this?” You whispered to him.
He pulled away, leaning so that he could gaze at you with unrivaled fondness.
“So sure.” He replied, matching your tone. “And if that doesn’t work out, we’ll try something else, and we’ll make it work. We are worth that.”
As you sunk back into his chest, you let your eyelids flutter shut, falling into the rhythm of Barry’s breathing. There was a gentle release of a coil constricting your heart at the thought of not having to submit your resignation letter, and more importantly, at the thought of a future where you and Barry could protect the earth, while not at the expense of the other. As you opened your eyes, looking over Barry’s shoulder at the vase of blush pink tulips, you felt solace in the bleeding, unwavering commitment that you and Barry had made to each other and the promise of holding each other close until olden, gray days.
The Earth would always be worth protecting, but your marriage would always be worth protecting, too.
Lightning Divider by: enchanthings
Text messages written by me with: chattales app
You do not have permission to copy, edit, or repost my original work.
incoming letter ⋮ i wish i knew you wanted me .ᐟ ꒱
ⵌ to whom it may concern . . .
massive tease!dick grayson x oblivious and insecure!reader golden retriever!wally west x black cat!reader
ⵌ s u m m a r y . . .
dick "we've been a thing for a hot minute. catch up lol" hydrogen bomb vs wally "HUH? WE'RE A THING? IT WORKED?" coughing baby
ⵌ c o n t e n t s . . .
[ songfic ] bad habit by steve lacy ; bullet point imagine format ; i held myself hostage and beta'd
⟢ no gendered pronouns, no y/n, no detailed description of reader's body
⟢ dick's reader ruminates and is self-conscious and clingy but not overwhelmingly self-deprecating ; dick uses a petname over text [ baby bird ]
⟢ wally's reader is standoffish and blunt but not cruel
⟢ reader is unaware of their alternate identities
ⵌ w. c. . . .
dick 1.5k ⋮ wally 1.5k ⋮ combined w.c. 3k
ⵌ p.s. . . .
well, actually, i came up with the concept first, then remembered this song while i was writing, so &hellip it's inspired retroactively. had to backtrack to fit lyrics appropriately, so they do jump around a bit &mdash hopefully it feels natural to read .ᐟ
༝༚༝༚, ℬ ᨐฅ
Dick Grayson
⊹ ࣪ ˖ ︵ . . . who could tell there was something between the two of you before you even knew
✦ he was nice to you one time and from then on you clung to him like sweet on a clementine
he revels in the citrus taste of your need to be near him,
refreshed by your naïveté in this jaded-ass town
✦ seeing as you weren't aware of your own blossoming romance, of course he has to be the leader and take initiative, guide you in the right direction (into his arms)
// no, you're not too good for me . . . funny, you come back to me
✦ sometimes metaphorically — learning your preferences at record speeds so he can tell you exactly what food you're in the mood for and the best places to grab the best bang for your (his, lol you're not paying) buck; memorizing your schedule and fixing his around yours so he can coincidentally be in the area should you need a lift; random texts sprinkled like cinnamon powder throughout the day to remind you to unclench that jaw and relax your shoulders because he knows you're doing it (he's correct)
✦ sometimes literally, with a palm at the small of your back;
fingers smoothly curling around your wrist when you've been separated from him in a large crowd and feel a panic coming on, his thumb swiping over your knuckles while he mouths, 'it's okay. i'm right here'
✦ at the club, shaking his shoulders and hips, hooking his fingers at you, a "come hither" gesture beckoning you out onto the dancefloor with his waggling eyebrows because you've been hunched over the same drink for a hot minute and he wants to see you move tonight. wants to jump and drink and scream the words to every banger that blasts through the speakers
hours pass. your breath heavies and your movements feel like they're pushing through molasses, sweat trickling down your neck. clavicle. further down your chest … damn, he has gotta get you out more often
or have you dance just for him in the privacy of his own bedroom, that'd be good too
darkened, half-lidded eyes observe you salaciously, his bottom lip tucked in as he watches you twirl with your hands above your head. your languid movements falter for a moment when you see that he's watching you …
you timidly shrink under his gaze. 'aht-aht' he tuts, taking your hand and spinning you around once more, your laughter spilling out and reaching him even over the music. your cares fall to the wayside now, the both of you pulling out all the corny moves in this high-profile establishment — the shopping cart, the sprinkler, the robot. top-tier classics, obviously
✦ you look carefree for once
✦ it's nice
✦ takes everything in him not to grab your face, shake you and say "kiss me kiss me kiss me, you dork"
✦ or to grab your ass to deter all the onlookers waiting for a moment to steal you away. technically you're still free game, and it's against his arbitrary made-up rules to intervene until you realize you're his
buuuuut he believes in you
you'll figure it out
eventually
✦ he might be enjoying this a little though
the whole spoiling you stupid in every single way possible, dropping hint bombs and watching you unwittingly absorb the impact, not realizing that something inside you changes every time. not right away. not entirely
// i turn it on, make it rowdy . . .
✦ the one-sided barrier comes crashing down since his lips always find the top of your head or shoulder; when hands clutch and drag you so that you're situated comfortably in his lap like a beloved teddy bear, even around your friends ; ankles crossing around yours underneath restaurant tables. comfortable did not remotely begin to describe your intertwining existences
✦ on the rainiest, most miserable of nights, your thumbs are hovering over the keyboard, fixing to shoot him a text. you rock back and forth, eyes puffy and snot dribbling down your philtrum, deciding if you're willing to triple text him
except he's the one that texts you first, several times, as if he's reading your mind
[ thinkin abt u at work, baby bird, sorry i didnt respond before ]
[ im the worst ikik vote me off the island just vote just vote ]
[ hope you're free in, erm ]
[ an hour-ishhh maybe ]
[ i want street tacos and slushies ]
[ gonna blow up ur toilet </3 but its ok im loaded ill buy you a new one lol ]
✦ it'll be so late … but you'd never sleep again if it meant you would be pulled back into dick's orbit where you belong. his baby bird. snug in the palm of his hand
// . . . then turn around
✦ you've gotten so accustomed to the weight of his presence in your life, you felt like you might float away without his reassuring distinctive scent and clear-sky-over-the-lake eyes. you re-read previous text exchanges that last for hours when you miss him, as if a part of your heart is gone
the ache hits harder when he doesn't respond for days
what does he do again? he said he works for the city … that could mean anything
// . . . and carry on
he always comes back with an apology and a promise to make up for lost time
you always forgive him
✦ wayward anxious thoughts crawl into your brain when dick mingles with other people you consider to be equally good-looking and socially adept
( coworkers, siblings, entire friend group )
( your shy ass is cooked )
✦ plus, he goes away for extended periods of time; sometimes without notice, sometimes at the most bizarre hours
✦ sometimes returning with bruising around the neck, light scratches around his shoulders and back if he's wearing a tank top
✦ it's quite challenging not to let your imagination run wild
who else does he stay up late texting?
what other wallflowers is he luring into a clumsy waltz all night?
who else gets to prettily perch on his lap while his calloused fingertips rake through their scalp?
who else's heart screams until its throat is raw beneath their ribcage at the mere possibility of him loving another?
✦ … oh
✦ a reckoning occurs. a not-comfortable one. an exciting one. a horrible one.
✦ who else … falls in love
with their best friend?
it feels marvelous
you're gonna be sick
[ can you come over sometime this week? i've got some heavy stuff on my mind ]
[ wanna see u now. cool beans? ]
✦ he shows up to your place holding a netted bag full of fruits from the farmer's market he passed on the way
he wears with a fitted black shirt and gray sweatpants and two perfect dimples which bracket an easy-going smile
he looks like a sexy superhero. or is that the rose-colored glasses from your crush on him talking
✦ half an hour passes. the table next to the couch is covered in curling peels of fruit, crumpled-up napkins, and glasses half full. you'd eaten in pleasant silence, his legs tangling around yours as you lounge opposite ways
✦ . . . it's time
✦ 'so —'
✦ 'i … have feelings for you —' you force yourself to blurt out. you successfully look him in the eyes for three whole seconds before you can't take it anymore, suddenly finding the fringe of this decorative pillow far more interesting
'i really like you. sorry if this, uh, feels like it's coming out of nowhere. kinda finding this out recently myself, haha'
✦ aww. you're babbling. you don't know how adorable you are, do you
✦ 'you don't have to reciprocate or anything, i love our friendship the way it is and i would never want to jeopardize what we have now especially because it's probably a silly little crush but i think it's fair that you're aware of —'
✦ he laughs, his smile seeming to light up the entire space around him, even in broad daylight
// you can't surprise a gemini pisces
✦ 'yeah?, he retorts. 'you finally catching up with me?
'i've known for a while
'why do you think i'm so sweet on you?
'all those dates, my hands and lips all over your body in public ... i already claimed you, was waiting for your pretty ass to notice
// fuck around, get tongue tied
✦ 'i - but - you - dates - eh???
'nonononono -'
'nonononono?' he mocks playfully, admiring you through his long lashes with a smirk
'you're sweet to everyone! kind, charming, thoughtful, irresistible'
'mm, i like this. keep goin'.'
✦ a projectile pillow is thrown in his direction. curse his superior reflexes for smacking it out of the way
✦ 'i … i would've made a move earlier if i knew i could be with you. i would've taken a stab at it, even if it scared me'
' nah, i always would've made the first move. i've made multiple, actually. in fact, i turned it into a game to see how long i could pursue you for until you figured out that i was ... well ... pursuing you.'
'ughhh, why didn't you just tell me? i'm … mad that you didn't. i kept moping around, thought you were too good for me'
'it was more entertaining not to, so i bit my tongue for almost, what, three months? it was pretty brutal. BUT i promise to be more
// but i'm not hidin'
'straightforward from now on.
✦ 'and don't talk like that' he scolds, flicking at your knee
'ow ??? what was that for ???'
'that was for talking shit about the person i love. you're the one too good for me and i'm not letting anybody say otherwise, including you. ditch that bad habit'
'...yeah. okay.'
'great!'
'now. kiss me, dork'
Wally West
⊹ ࣪ ˖ ︵ . . . who thought you hated his stinkin' guts the first time the two of you meet
⟢ intimidating hot people are his type though so. be it far from him to not at least take a crack at it
⟢ compliments, letting you have the first bite of his meals and favorite snacks,
attempts at reeling back on his infamous inside-thoughts-turned-outside-rambling, purposefully facing you and including you in the conversation when you get talked over or can't find an opening to jump in
timidly throwing an arm around your shoulder before regretting it and hesitantly pulling it back because you didn't look happy about it. well, you didn't look mad about it either. god you're really hard to read/p>
// please say to me if you still want it; i wish you wouldn't play with me . . . i wanna know
⟢ he paces back and forth, taps his foot at the speed of light, writes out everything he can about you so he 1) doesn't forget, ever and 2) can come up with more creative ideas on how to show how much he likes you so you'd be more comfortable around him. then he can ask you out, with increased chances of you saying yes with enthusiasm and not like you're being held hostage
let's see -- not much for physical touch, not really a talker, you're a bit picky when it comes to gifts, you struggle with accepting favors, and the relief that slacks your body is palpable when you're about to have alone time after a long day ... he's running out of steam here. how can he connect with you in a meaningful and non-invasive way?
⟢ [ wallace ],
you ping him randomly one day. oh shit haha nice. wait. when and how did you get his number?
[ you'll go to the event with me tonight right ]
⟢ he stares at his phone, slack jawed and wide eyed
[ofc i would love nothing more!!!!!]
nope. far too many exclamation points. bring it back, big guy.
[ yeah, ofc! would be more than happy to :) ],
he responds with unsteady thumbs.
⟢ later, he picks you up from your place. 'you look. wow. you look really ... really nice.' he has stars in his eyes as he gives you a once, twice, thrice over
a warm, genuine smile from you. wow.
'thanks', you mumble bashfully, cheeks heated, glancing down and running your hands over your already pristine clothes
⟢ in his car, you politely ask him about his day over the soft pop music drifting from the radio. he stutters through it at first -- idiot, come on, get it together -- but every once in a while at a red light, he catches you out of the corner of his eyes and sees you have your attention completely on him. his breath hitches, and he prays you can't see his face turn firetruck engine red under the passing streetlights. you continue asking more questions, urging him to elaborate while deflecting anything he asks you; you give simple, short answers and turn them back on him with earnest curiosity. he takes note of this but doesn't push. enjoys conversing with you and it gets so much easier
he wants everything to feel this easy with you but
he feels like he keeps messing it all up
⟢ wally pulls up to the venue, gets out to make a beeline for your door, opens it up and offers his hand like a prince charming
his heart buckles. it was only for a second, why does his palm feel naked?
you're standing right there, so why does he miss you so much?
⟢ your hands make a couple more passes over your outfit before you casually link your arm around one of his
⟢ he freezes
⟢ uhhhhhhhhhh . uh . the . uhhh
⟢ ' can't wait to introduce you to my friends, ' you quietly declare, leaning your head against him. your eyes flutter closed for a moment, and he swears he feels your grasp on him tightening ever so slightly
⟢ 'oh yeaH?' his voice cracks. his free hand finds the back of his head and he scratches nervously
// it's okay — things happen for reasons i can't ignore
⟢ 'mhm. i've been telling them about the sweet, annoying, loud, hot, weird guy i fell for,' you continue, pulling him along so that you're heading towards the venue's entrance at a meandering pace. 'i talk about you all the time without even realizing it and they always make fun of me for it
' though i think they're just happy i'm finally dating '
' … yes, wallace, why are you confused. we're together … right? '
⟢ he sputters in pure disbelief, abandoning your linked arm. he throws his hands up. paces. he gestures wildly between yourself and him. he puts a finger in the air like he's about to make some sort of strongly-worded statement before putting it back down. his head lolls back, hands settled on his hips, and he exhales for a long time out of his nose
⟢ ' i
' have been
'TRYING-
your head tilts to the side
⟢ ' to figure out how to make you like me, or even, like, breathe in my direction
' FOR WEEKS-
⟢ ' stop yelling '
his voice softens as he comes close to you, mere inches apart, searching your eyes with desperation in his own. 'and you mean to tell me that ... that we're ... together? like' -- he connects the sides of his two pointer fingers -- 'this?'
no one else would've picked up on the twinkling in your eyes under this cloudless night sky except for him, nor the way the corners of your mouth twitch &mdash you're holding back a smile. he wishes you wouldn't but he'll earn it someday
his breath slows as he watches you watch him back
⟢ ' wally,' you say after what feels like an eternity. he hopes you don't catch his hands clenching closed at you suddenly calling him by his nickname.
'i know it doesn't seem like it because i'm not bouncing off the walls like you. but i get butterflies in my tummy every time we're together. you always extend so much kindness to me, always making me a part of your life even in the smallest ways
'i guess i've been a loner for so long, i forgot to reciprocate the affection … but in my head, i thought you were going out of your way like that because you …'
⟢ 'wanted. me.' your gaze falters. you shuffle your feet and hide your hands behind your back
⟢ 'romantically.'
⟢ he stares at you. he squints
⟢ 'i wish i knew
... you'd felt like this!'
a Certified Wally Smile breaks out on his face, the one that makes his bountiful freckles flourish with the way they stretch over his cheeks.
he laughs, tucking a finger under your chin and bringing you closer to him. your bodies touch, gingerly.
'i thought i was never gonna make a breakthrough with you ... but i guess i did? at some point?'
⟢ 'somewhere between you feeding me treats everyday and the little touches that last just the right amount of time, i suppose.' you nod. wally lets pride quietly bloom inside of his chest as you confirm that his efforts weren't pushing you away
// you always knew the way to wow me
'... and,' you add warmly, sliding your hands and arms around his shoulders, touching your forehead to his, 'the way you let my voice be heard. even if you're the only one listening'
⟢ he can't breathe. his hands, gaining a consciousness of their own in the midst of wally's internal chaos, find your waist and squeeze with tender devotion. his eyes crinkle, smile softens subtly. 'can i ... make it official then? since we're here?'
⟢ he sways your bodies back and forth. you smell the fresh mint on his breath and scrunch your nose with a tiny smile, thinking of him carefully combing his gelled hair back, shaving, and downing an entire tin of Altoids before rushing out of the house. you want to kiss him badly, but you won't say it. not tonight
⟢ ' mhm ' you purr
⟢ ' uhh. ahem. '
' would you. will. can uhh. right so, so what i wanted to ask is. that. i want to. your '
' you have ten seconds '
' do you. wanna go steady. with me '
' are you 80 years old. ask like a normal person '
' i am. trying- '
' you quite literally already know the answer '
' mayipleasebeyourboyfriend.please. '
' mmmm gotta think about it '
' HEY '
' ok ok geez yes '
// go stupid, go crazy;
⟢ he fist pumps and shouts, taking victory laps
// it's biscuits & gravy
⟢ he tells any and all passersby that the two of you are in love and dating
⟢ it's embarrassing but quite sweet nonetheless. you adhere to his side for the evening, opting to tentatively hook a single finger around his instead of hanging off of him like before now that other people are perceiving you
eventually you'll love him more brazenly — you would never want him to question your affections for him
but from what you've gathered from all your stolen glances at him, seeing him beam like a beacon in the night …
// . . . i know i'll be in your heart 'til the end
𓏵 ┊ no AI is ever used for any reason in the crafting of my works as i am fully against generative AI in creative fields & endeavors
𓏵 ┊ all rights reserved to tumblr user @bijouxmisu. do not repost, translate, modify in any way nor feed my works to AI. thank you in advance for your compliance
summary: you come home for the holidays and discover barry allen, the boy who always waited for you, never stopped loving you—and the fastest man alive finally learns that some miracles only happen when you stand still, together, under the mistletoe.
word count: 3.8k
extra: not beta read, we die like real men. happy holidays to everyone :3
series masterlist — main masterlist
you come back to central city in december, which feels like a kind of betrayal to the life you built elsewhere.
gotham has sharper edges. taller buildings. less history clinging to every sidewalk crack. but central city at christmas is all soft light and memory: snow dusting the sidewalks like powdered sugar, strings of lights slung too optimistically between lampposts, the faint hum of warmth leaking from coffee shops that never quite changed their menus.
you tell yourself you’re only visiting for iris. that it’s tradition. that the holidays pull people home whether they want them to or not.
you don’t tell yourself barry allen’s name.
the west house looks exactly the same, which should be impossible. same porch steps, same slightly crooked railing, same wreath Iris insists on hanging even though it sheds pine needles everywhere. the windows glow gold against the early dark, and for a moment you stand on the sidewalk with your suitcase and feel nine years old again—coat too thin, hands numb, heart wide open.
you knock. you don’t need to, but you do.
iris opens the door with a squeal and throws her arms around you like she’s afraid you’ll vanish if she lets go. she smells like cinnamon and something warm baking in the oven.
“you’re late,” she says, grinning. “barry’s been cleaning like we’re expecting royalty.”
you laugh, distracted. “barry cleans?”
she pulls back just enough to give you a look. the kind that says “oh, honey.”
“you’ll see,” she says, dragging you inside.
the house is loud in the good way—music playing softly, something crackling in the fireplace, joe’s voice somewhere down the hall. there are garlands draped over doorways and tinsel wound around the banister. and there—right in the living room, hanging slightly crooked between two beams—is mistletoe.
you stare at it longer than necessary.
“festive, right?” iris hums, far too innocently.
you don’t get the chance to reply. because barry is suddenly there.
he looks… different. not in a dramatic way—no lightning, no mask, no blur of red—but in the subtle accumulation of years. broader shoulders. a steadiness to him that wasn’t there when you were kids. he’s wearing a sweater joe probably picked out, hair a little messy like he ran a hand through it too many times.
he stops when he sees you.
for half a second, the room goes quiet. not literally—music still playing, joe still talking—but something inside your chest stills, like the world hit pause.
“you’re here,” is all he says. it’s stupid. of course you’re here. you come every year when you can. but the way he says it—like relief, like something fragile made it through the storm—makes your throat tighten.
“hey, bar,” you say, smiling.
he smiles back, softer. slower. like he’s afraid of spooking the moment. “hey.”
iris watches the two of you with open amusement, then claps her hands. “okay! hug later. food first. barry, take her bag.”
“i can—” you start.
he’s already reaching for it. always was.
your fingers brush when he takes the handle, and you feel it—quick and electric, a ghost of something that shouldn’t still exist after all this time. you pretend not to notice. he pretends harder.
dinner passes in a blur of laughter and stories. joe asks about your job, about the city, about whether you’re eating enough. iris fills in the gaps you leave out. barry listens.
he always listens.
you catch him watching you when he thinks you’re not looking—eyes soft, fond, a little too focused. you wonder when that started. or if it ever stopped.
when you were kids, barry was just… there. quiet. kind. the boy who shared his fries and waited for you after school. the one who slept next to you on the couch at the wests’ when things were bad at home and somehow still smiled in the morning.
you assumed that was just who he was. everyone else apparently knew better.
after dinner, iris shoos you toward the couch while she and joe argue about dishes. barry ends up beside you, close enough that your knees almost touch. the tree lights reflect in his glasses, little stars caught in amber.
“it’s good to see you,” he says again, like saying it twice might make it real.
“you too.” you hesitate. “central city looks… good.”
he snorts softly. “you’re being polite.”
“no, really,” a pause for laughter. “it feels… warm.”
he looks at you then, really looks. like he’s cataloging every detail for later. like he always has.
“yeah,” he says. “it does.”
the music shifts—something old and familiar—and you recognize it halfway through the first verse. a love song.
you laugh under your breath. “of course iris put this on.”
barry’s ears turn pink.
outside, snow starts to fall, soft and slow. you should be watching it. you should be anywhere but here, sitting too close to a man who used to trail after you like a shadow and now stands in the center of your life in ways you don’t fully understand.
“should be playing in the winter snow,” you murmur, half to yourself.
barry glances at you. “what?”
“nothing.”
but you both look up at the same time. the mistletoe hangs overhead, slightly off-center, swaying gently when the heater kicks on.
you freeze. barry goes very, very still.
“oh,” iris says from the kitchen, far too loud. “would you look at that.”
joe clears his throat. “i’m gonna… check the garage.” cowards, all of them.
barry lets out a breath that sounds like he’s been holding it for years. “well,” he says, attempting casual and failing. “this is… festive.”
you laugh, nerves crackling. “we’re not kids anymore.”
“i know,” he says. too quickly.
you swallow. barry isn’t staring at your face. he’s staring at your mouth.
the realization lands slow and heavy, rearranging old memories into something new and unmistakable. the way he always waited. the way he never dated anyone for long. iris’s teasing. the way he looks at you like you’re home.
“oh,” you breathe.
his eyes flick up, startled. “oh what?”
you don’t answer. you don’t have to. because suddenly everything makes sense.
and sitting under the mistletoe, with the lights glowing and the past pressing close, barry allen looks at you like the miracle he’s been waiting for his whole life.
and you’re not sure how you never saw it before.
you don’t kiss him. not then.
the moment stretches—mistletoe overhead, music crooning about miracles and lips on lips—but something fragile holds you back. maybe it’s the years between you. maybe it’s the way barry looks like he might shatter if you move too fast.
so you laugh, soft and nervous, and shift away, out from under the mistletoe.
“nice try, iris,” you call toward the kitchen.
she groans dramatically. “you’re no fun.”
barry exhales, slow and careful, like he just survived a near-miss car accident. he adjusts his glasses, runs a hand through his hair.
“sorry,” he says. “i mean—if that was weird—”
“it’s not weird,” you interrupt. “just unexpected.”
he nods, a little too eagerly. “yeah. totally. unexpected.”
you spend the rest of the evening pretending nothing has changed. but everything has.
later, when the house settles into that post-dinner quiet—joe asleep in his chair, iris scrolling through her phone with a grin she’s absolutely hiding—you and barry end up on the front porch, bundled in coats, breath fogging the air.
snowflakes drift down, lazy and bright beneath the streetlights. “this city really goes all out,” you say absentmindedly.
barry leans against the railing beside you. “it didn’t always.”
“no?”
he shrugs. “i think joe made it that way. after… everything.”
you know what he means. what he always means.
nora allen. the trial. the way barry moved into the west house with his grief folded so neatly it fooled everyone except you. his father being exonerated. the betrayal from harrison wells.
you remember the first night he slept on the couch—knees drawn to his chest, eyes too open for a kid his age. you sat on the floor beside him until he fell asleep, promising him things neither of you could control.
“i used to think christmas was cursed,” barry admits quietly. “every year just reminded me of what i lost.”
you glance at him. “and now?”
he looks out at the street, lights reflected in his eyes. “now it reminds me of what stayed.”
your chest tightens. you don’t say his name, but you don’t have to. he knows.
when you were kids, barry allen loved you in small, invisible ways.
he loved you by saving you the blue candies from mixed bags. by letting you copy his homework even when he needed the practice more than you did. by standing between you and anyone who made you cry, fists clenched at his sides like a promise, even when he knew it would result with joe having to clean off his cuts.
you thought he was just kind. iris knew better.
“you’re blind,” she told you once, sprawled across her bed while you painted each other’s nails. “like, legally blind.”
“to what?”
she blew on her nails. “barry.”
you snorted. “barry’s like your brother, and you’re like my sister. that makes him like ny brother.”
she stared at you. “you do realize brothers don’t look at you like you hung the moon, right?”
you laughed it off.
barry tripped over his words every time you smiled at him too suddenly. he remembered everything you ever said, even the stupid things. he lit up when you walked into a room like someone turned the sun on.
you missed all of it.
barry never said anything. because loving you felt safer than risking you.
the night he became the flash, you weren’t there.
you were already gone by then—college, then work, then a life that pulled you further and further from central city. you heard about the accident through iris, her voice shaking over the phone.
“he’s alive,” she said. “but something’s… different.”
different turned into impossible.
barry told you himself months later, sitting across from you in jitters, hands wrapped around a coffee he didn’t need.
“i’m the flash,” he said, like he was confessing to stealing office supplies.
you laughed. then you saw his face. “oh,” you breathed out. “you’re serious.”
he nodded.
you should have been scared. you should have asked a thousand questions. instead, you felt a strange, fierce pride bloom in your chest.
of course it was barry. of course it was the boy who always ran toward trouble, even when he didn’t have to.
you hugged him then, tight and unthinking. he froze like your arms were made of fire. he didn’t hug you back for a full second. when he finally did, it was careful. like he was afraid to want too much.
now, years later, you see it everywhere.
the way he still slows his steps to match yours. the way he lights up when you laugh. the way iris watches him watch you, smile sharp with vindication.
“you staying long?” barry asks one afternoon as you walk downtown, snow crunching underfoot.
“just the week,” you say. “then it’s back to real life.”
he hums, noncommittal.
you stop at a crosswalk, lights blinking red. the city feels alive around you—music spilling from shops, people laughing, bells ringing somewhere.
“i thought i was over it,” barry says suddenly.
you blink. “over what?”
he swallows. “you.” the word lands heavy between you. “i thought when you left, when everything got… busy, it would fade. and it did. mostly.” he lets out a soft, humorless laugh. “turns out ‘mostly’ isn’t the same as ‘gone.’”
you don’t know what to say. he’s not looking at you—eyes fixed on the light, jaw tense like he’s bracing for impact.
“i never wanted to make it weird,” he continues. “you had your life. i had… mine. and i figured if i kept running fast enough, it wouldn’t catch me.”
the light turns green. neither of you move.
“barry,” you say gently.
he finally looks at you.
and there it is—years of quiet love, still burning, still patient.
“i don’t know what this means, for us at least,” you admit. “but i know i don’t want to pretend i don’t see it anymore.”
something fragile flickers across his face. hope? fear? relief?
“that’s more than i expected,” he says.
you smile, small and real. “story of my life.”
that night, iris corners you in the hallway, triumphant.
“you talked,” she says. “i know it.”
you groan. “you’re unbearable.”
she grins. “and right.”
you hesitate. “did you always know?”
“please,” she scoffs. “barry’s been in love with you since he was twelve.”
“twelve?”
“he tripped over a curb because you waved at him,” she says fondly. “face planted. still smiled.” your heart twists. “just don’t run,” she adds, softer now. “he’s fast enough already.”
later, the house glows quiet and warm. the tree lights blink hazily. a new piece of mistletoe hangs, waiting.
barry finds you in the living room, hands tucked into his sleeves. “you okay?” he asks.
you nod. “yeah. i think i’m just… catching up.”
he smiles, gentle. “me too.”
outside, snow falls heavier now, blanketing the city in white.
you stand together beneath the lights, beneath the history, beneath the thing that never quite let either of you go.
and this time, when you step under the mistletoe—you don’t move away.
the mistletoe doesn’t make a sound when it sways. it just hangs there, green and unassuming, like it hasn’t been the quiet witness to decades of almosts.
you stand beneath it with barry, the space between you close enough to feel the warmth he gives off. the house is hushed—joe asleep, iris deliberately not nearby. the only sound is the low hum of the heater and the muffled city outside, blanketed by snow.
barry shifts his weight.
“we don’t have to,” he says quickly. “i mean—there’s no rule. it’s just—”
“i know,” you interrupt. you tilt your head up slightly. his eyes flick to your mouth again before he can stop himself. you smile despite yourself. “you always overthink.”
he huffs a quiet laugh. “only when it matters.”
you think about all the years he’s mattered. all the moments he chose silence instead of risk. you think about the boy who waited on the couch, the man who runs through lightning and still looks at you like you’re the thing that might undo him.
you reach for him.
just his sleeve at first, fingers curling into the knit fabric like a question mark.
barry freezes. then he stills—not the tense, braced stillness you’re used to seeing when he’s holding something back, but something deliberate. grounded. like he’s choosing not to move.
“barry,” you say softly.
he meets your eyes. “yeah?”
“kiss me.”
the world doesn’t end.
he doesn’t rush it. he doesn’t blur forward, doesn’t let instinct or speed take over. instead, he lifts a hand, pauses just long enough for you to pull away if you want to.
you don’t.
his thumb brushes your cheek, reverent. like you’re something precious. something earned.
when he kisses you, it’s warm and careful and devastatingly familiar—like coming home to a place you didn’t realize you missed until you were standing in it again. your hands slide into his sweater, gripping tight. he exhales against your mouth, a sound caught somewhere between a laugh and a breath he’s been holding for years.
snow taps gently against the windows.
the kiss is unhurried. no fireworks. no lightning. just two people finally standing still.
when you pull back, foreheads resting together, barry laughs softly. “wow.”
you grin. “you say that like you didn’t see this coming.”
“i hoped,” he admits. “i’ve just never trusted hope.”
you kiss him again, quick and sweet, and this time he smiles into it.
later, you sit on the couch together, legs tangled, the tree lights painting everything gold. barry’s arm is around you like it’s always belonged there.
“i should’ve said something,” he says quietly.
you glance at him. “back then?”
“anytime,” he says. “but especially when you left.”
you think about that—about how young you both were, how leaving felt like survival instead of choice.
“i might not have been ready,” you admit. “but i wish i’d known.”
he nods. “me too.”
silence settles, comfortable. then, softer: “are you going back?” the question isn’t accusatory. it’s careful. vulnerable.
“yes,” you say. “my life is still there. my job, my apartment, all my friends.” his jaw tightens just a fraction. “but,” you add, turning toward him, “that doesn’t mean this has to disappear again.”
he looks at you, searching. “long-distance with a guy who disappears mid-sentence?”
you smile. “i’ve always been good at waiting for you.”
that does something to him. you see it—the way his breath stutters, the way his grip tightens just a bit.
“i don’t want to be something you only visit,” he says.
“i know, and i don’t want to keep running either.” you lean in, resting your head on his shoulder. “maybe we figure it out,” you murmur. “together.”
barry presses his cheek to your hair. “i’d like that.”
christmas eve arrives wrapped in snow.
the city looks like something out of a postcard—lights everywhere, laughter spilling into the streets, music drifting through open doors. you and barry walk side by side downtown, gloves brushing, steps matched.
“you know,” you say, “if twelve-year-old you could see this—”
“he'd trip over something,” barry responds immediately.
you laugh. “definitely.”
a group of kids runs past, one of them wearing a cheap red hoodie and pretending to zoom around the others. barry watches them with a fond smile.
“you ever wish you could just… be normal?” you ask.
he considers it. “sometimes. but then i think about how many people get hurt if i’m not who i am.”
you squeeze his hand. “you’re allowed to want both.”
he looks at you like that thought never occurred to him. “maybe,” he says slowly, “that’s what this season’s about.”
you tilt your head. you fight the urge to call him cringey “what, miracles?”
“no,” he says. “choosing to stay.”
that night, the house fills with warmth and noise and the smell of something burning slightly in the oven. iris catches your eye from across the room and grins, victorious.
“you’re welcome,” she mouths.
you flip her off affectionately.
later, when the house sleeps and the world outside goes quiet, you and barry step onto the porch together. snow drifts lazily through the glow of the streetlights.
you can feel it, deep within. where something felt like it was missing. you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.
christmas morning comes softly.
not with chaos or urgency, not with alarms or emergencies, but with pale light filtering through frosted windows and the low hum of a city at rest. you wake on the couch with a blanket pulled up to your chin and the faint smell of coffee already drifting from the kitchen.
for a moment, you don’t remember where you are.
then you remember everything.
the mistletoe. the kiss. barry’s arm warm and steady around you until you fell asleep sometime after midnight, his thumb tracing absent circles against your wrist like a habit he’d been waiting years to start.
you sit up slowly, careful not to wake anyone. the house feels suspended in time—like it’s holding its breath.
barry is in the kitchen, moving quietly, hair still sleep-mussed, wearing an old central city police department hoodie that definitely isn’t his. he looks peaceful in a way that steals your breath.
“hey,” he says when he notices you, voice gentle.
“hey.”
he pours you a cup of coffee without asking, sets it in front of you like he’s done it a thousand times already.
“i didn’t want to wake you,” he says. “you looked… content.”
you smile into the mug. “i was.” you sit across from him at the table, knees brushing. the tree lights blink lazily in the living room, casting reflections across the walls.
“i was thinking,” he begins.
“that’s dangerous,” you tease.
he smiles, then grows serious. “i know we talked about this yesterday... i don’t want this to be a holiday thing. something we remember fondly and then pack away with the decorations.”
your chest tightens. “me neither.”
“i know your life is there,” he continues. “and mine is… here. complicated. messy.” he hesitates. “but i don’t want to lose you again.”
you reach across the table, lace your fingers with his.
“you’re not asking me to give everything up,” you say carefully. “i know that, barry. you never would. you’re asking me not to disappear.”
he nods. “yeah.”
you take a breath. “then i won’t.”
relief washes over his face, unguarded and bright.
the day unfolds in warmth and laughter.
iris insists on photos. joe pretends not to get emotional but fails spectacularly. gifts are exchanged—small, thoughtful things that carry more meaning than price.
barry gives you a book you mentioned wanting years ago, dog-eared and annotated in the margins with notes like “this part reminded me of you” and “i never forgot you liked this line.”
you have to blink a few times before speaking.
“i kept everything,” he admits quietly. “even when i thought i shouldn’t.”
you give him a scarf you picked up in gotham, soft and deep red. “for when it’s cold,” you say. “and you forget to slow down.”
he laughs. “i do that a lot.”
you wrap it around his neck yourself.
later, while iris and joe argue over leftovers, you and barry step outside again. snow falls thicker now, catching in his hair, melting against your lashes.
the city glows—lights everywhere, spreading so much cheer.
“this is usually when i go on patrol,” barry says. “make sure everyone gets home safe.”
you tilt your head. “and tonight?”
he looks at you. “tonight i stay.”
your heart stutters. “you don’t have to—”
“i want to.” he smiles, soft and sure. “the city will be okay for a few hours. i need to practice choosing stillness.”
you smile in return. “you’re getting good at it.”
he slips his hand into yours, squeezes once.
“kiss me underneath the mistletoe?” you say quietly, nodding toward the doorway where iris, smug as ever, has rehung it.
barry laughs, bright and free, and pulls you close.
this kiss is different—sure, unafraid. the kind that promises mornings and missed calls and figuring it out as you go.
“i don’t need anything else,” he murmurs against your lips. “just you.”
that night, as the house settles and the lights dim, you sit together on the couch, legs tangled, the future uncertain but open.
you’ll go back soon. he’ll run fast and come home tired. there will be days when the distance aches.
but this time, you won’t pretend you didn’t see it.
Requests are open but ONLY if they’re Twilight or Supernatural! <3 Have a nice day/night
Barry Allen x Fem!Reader
Word count: 990
Warnings: Nothing Just fluff!
Y/N: Your Name
Summary: A surprise Valentine’s Day delivery leaves Y/N stunned—and unknowingly on the brink of a long-overdue revelation. What begins as a mysterious bouquet and unsigned note turns into a heartfelt confession
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(Not my photo, credit to whoever made it!)
Valentine’s Day had never really meant much to me. I didn’t hate it, not exactly, but it always felt like a holiday meant for other people. People who liked grand gestures. People who had someone consistently in their lives. People who weren’t perpetually busy, perpetually tired, perpetually orbiting around things bigger than themselves. So when the receptionist called my extension that morning and said,
“Uh, Y/N? There’s a delivery for you.” My first thought was that someone had mixed me up with someone else.
“Are you sure?” I asked, already pulling on my coat. “I don’t think-”
“Big bouquet.” She said. “Very red. Very… Valentine’s.”
That stopped me.
By the time I reached the lobby, half my office was already pretending not to stare. The bouquet was massive- deep red roses, white lilies, sprigs of baby’s breath tucked between them like stars. There was also a heart-shaped box of chocolates tied with a red ribbon, sitting innocently beside it like it hadn’t just completely derailed my morning. I stood there, frozen.
“Wow…” Someone muttered behind me. “Who’s the lucky guy?”
“I-” I laughed awkwardly. “I don’t know…”
The receptionist handed me a small envelope. “No name.”
Of course there wasn’t.
I opened it with fingers that suddenly felt clumsy.
Happy Valentine’s Day.
I hope today makes you smile as much as you make everyone else smile just by being you.
That was it. No signature. No initials. Nothing. My heart did a strange little flip that made absolutely no sense.
“Secret admirer?” The receptionist teased.
“Apparently.” I said, still staring at the card.
I spent the rest of the morning distracted in a way I hadn’t been in years. Every time my phone buzzed, I half-expected… something. A confession. A clue. A name. But nothing came. Just emails. Calendar reminders. Work. By lunch, my coworkers had decided this was now their business.
“So,” One of them said, leaning over my cubicle wall. “who do you think it is?”
“I honestly have no idea.” I said, for maybe the tenth time.
“Come on. Someone doesn’t just send that without you having some idea.”
I thought about it. About my life. About the people in it. There was no obvious answer. Which somehow made it worse.
By the time I made it to S.T.A.R Labs that evening, the flowers and chocolates were in my arms. I knew if I didn’t bring the chocolates, Cisco would riot if I didn’t share.
“Okay,” Cisco said immediately when he saw the box and flowers. “either you robbed a very romantic store, or you have news.”
I laughed. “They were sent to my office.”
“Sent?” Caitlin perked up. “By who?”
“That’s the thing.” I said, setting them down. “I don’t know.”
The room went quiet.
Barry, who had been standing by the computer, stiffened almost imperceptibly.
I didn’t notice.
Yet.
“A secret admirer?” Iris said, grinning.
“Apparently.”
Cisco’s eyes widened. “Oh my God, this is like a rom-com!”
“Is it someone from work?” Caitlin asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“An ex?” Iris pressed.
“Definitely not.”
They all turned to Barry at the exact same time. It was subtle. But it was not subtle.
Barry blinked. “What?”
I frowned. “Why are you all looking at Barry?”
“No reason.” Cisco said too quickly.
“Yeah.” Caitlin added. “Just… thinking.”
Barry shifted on his feet. “Why would it be me?”
I stared at him.
Really stared.
Barry Allen. My best friend. My constant. The person who showed up with coffee when I was tired, who remembered tiny details about my life that I forgot myself, who always seemed just a little too happy when I laughed.
“Oh…” I said slowly.
Barry’s ears turned pink.
“Oh…” I repeated.
Iris smiled like she’s been waiting for this moment for years.
“You didn’t sign the card.” I said quietly, looking at Barry.
He swallowed.
“I didn’t think I needed to.” He said. “I mean- I wasn’t sure if-”
“Barry.” I interrupted gently. “How long?”
He hesitated.
Then sighed.
“Years.”
The word settled between us, heavy and soft all at once.
“Since before the particle accelerator.” He added. “Before everything.”
My chest tightened.
“You never said anything.”
“I didn’t want to mess things up.” He said quickly. “You’re important to me. And I figured… if you didn’t feel the same, I’d rather still have you in my life than risk losing you.”
I didn’t know what to say.
So I did the only thing that felt right.
I stepped closer.
“Barry…” I said, voice quiet. “you could’ve told me.”
He looked at me then, really looked at me, eyes bright and vulnerable and terrifyingly hopeful.
“I know.” He said. “I just… I needed you to know it wasn’t just some Valentine’s thing. I didn’t want it to feel shallow.”
My throat burned.
“It doesn’t.” I said softly.
Behind us, Cisco made a choking sound.
“Oh my God!” He whispered. “This is happening!”
Barry laughed nervously. “I’m sorry if this makes things weird.”
“It doesn’t.” I said immediately. “It actually explains… a lot.”
“Like what?” He asked.
“Like why you always run faster when I’m in danger.” I said. “Or why you remember my order better than I do.”
He smiled sheepishly. “You take two sugars and oat milk.”
I laughed, shaking my head.
“I’m not saying I have everything figured out.” I said honestly. “But… I’d like to try. If you do.”
Barry’s smile was slow, careful, like he didn’t trust happiness to stick around.
“I’ve been running toward you for years.” He said. “I can wait if you need time. But yeah. I’d like to try.”
