#impulse x reader

You sighed through your nose. Whatever. You’d skimmed the mission file before you even walked in; you didn’t need a live-action audiobook version mixed in with Dicks passive aggressiveness today.

Your focus was instead on the tangerine in your hands. The citrus smell cut through the stale air as you dug your nail into the peel. The goal was to finish before Dick wrapped up and threw everyone straight into drills. A stupid little game you gave yourself every briefing, mostly to stay awake.

Around you, the team was just as checked out; Cassie fiddling with her lasso absently, Jaime muttering occasionally to the scarab, Virgil slouched so far back you wondered if his chair might slide out beneath him, and Gar, unlucky soul, sat closest to Dick, pretending to look engaged even as his notepad filled with doodles.

And then there was Bart Allen.

Slouched forward, elbow on the table, chin resting in his palm. To anyone else, it might have looked like the speedster was zoning out, caught in a rare moment of stillness. But his green eyes were locked dreamily on you. 

The way your brows furrowed when the peel left that stringy white stuff (google says its called pith), the absent little huff you gave when you had to dig in harder and a spurt of juice got on your fingers, and the flick of your wrist as you dropped a strip of the peel onto a napkin. He caught it all, noting every detail like it mattered more than the mission briefing ever could.

Despite being a Wayne, child to one of the world’s greatest detectives, little sibling to two others, you were blissfully ignorant. Oblivious to the stares, to the quiet longing in his eyes across the table, and to the fact that Bart hadn’t heard a single word of your brother’s instructions. Not one.

He’d been watching you the whole time. Not the slides, not Nightwing pacing at the front, not the mission details. Just you and your fingers working at that tangerine. It was like gravity; his eyes couldn’t pull away.

And the worst part? You weren’t even trying!

He’d fought time itself, faced alien invasions, saved the world even, and yet, the way you pressed your thumb into the peel with your brow furrowed in quiet determination was what had his pulse running faster than a dash across the world.

He leaned even more forward onto his elbow, a lazy smile tugging at his lips. Totally inconspicuous. Totally casual. His gaze was on your lips, how they were pursed slightly, and how badly he wanted to kiss them.

If he did it now, would he taste tangerines? No, you hadn’t eaten any yet, you were just finishing peeling… he wouldn’t mind either way, he just wants to kiss yo—

Then, without warning, you looked up.

His brain stalled. Heart skipped. Oh, crap.

He froze, caught in the act, a wider smile snapping into place too quickly; bright, nervous, and impossible to hide. 

You tilted your head slightly, lips curving upward in a small, curious smile. Not teasing, not mocking, just… amused. Like you’d caught him simply zoning out in the middle of your brother’s boring lecture.

And maybe that’s all it was to you. But to Bart? It felt like standing too close to the sun.

Oh man, they’re smiling at me :) They’re so pretty— wait, why are they smiling like that? Am I smiling weirdly? Oh, shit, I’m staring— Why’d she look to Dick and back?

“Kid Flash.” 

His stomach dropped. Nightwing’s voice had that sharp edge, the one that said I’ve been calling you for a while now. Bart snapped his head toward Nightwing, blinking like a deer in headlights. “Uh— yeah?! Present! Listening the whole time!”

The silence broke in a wave of laughter. Jaime muttered something under his breath that made Virgil snort, Cassie smirked behind her hand, and Gar leaned back in his chair, grinning like this was the best part of the meeting (which it probably was).

And you? You actually giggled.

It was soft, almost airy, the kind of laugh that slipped out before you could stop it. That alone made his ears burn and his chest squeeze tight, and yet… that little sound stuck in his head more than Dick’s entire briefing.

“Really? That’s great.” Nightwing arched a brow, arms folding across his chest. He looked every bit the exasperated older brother. “Repeat the last thing I just said.”

Bart’s stomach did a nosedive. Of course Dick would do that to him, of course he would. His brain scrambled, desperate to find anything— fallback points? Coordinates? Stealth? He said stealth earlier, right?

For a moment, he was just opening and closing his mouth like a puppet, completely lost on what he could say that would salvage this moment. He wanted to say something that could maybe make you look at him in a way other than amusement, something that said: “Wow, Bart’s so cool, and handsome, you should totally date him and kiss him forever—”

“Oh, uh… it was… something about…” He swallowed, panic buzzing in his veins faster than any sprint. “Stealth?”

…

The silence that followed was brutal. Virgil muttered a low “god,”, Cassie pressed her lips together, shaking with suppressed laughter. Jaime groans rubbing his face as secondhand embarrassment flooded him, and Gar had his head down, shoulders shaking.

Nightwing’s voice cut clean through the room. “Uh, huh,” he said, tone dry as Gotham concrete, “Or maybe I should assume there’s something across the table that’s more interesting than the briefing?”

This is where you properly tune in, looking up at the two. First at Dick, then at him. Your brow furrowed for half a second, gears turning, before your expression cleared with sudden realization.

Bart’s whole body went rigid. Oh no. Oh no, no, no— he couldn’t have been more obvious even if he’d tattooed I like you across his forehead.

“Oh!” you said brightly, like everything had perfectly fallen in place in that very moment.

Bart’s heart stopped as heat flooded his whole body. You’d figured it out. You knew. Oh god, you finally knew. Part of him wanted to run laps across the globe just to burn off the panic; part of him wanted to scream with joy.

Would you reciprocate? God what if you rejected him in front of everyone? He’d had to travel back into the past again with a whole new Time Machine—

But you were anything but predictable. You promptly split your tangerine neatly in half, sliding one piece across the table toward him. It could work as a metaphor for what you just did to his heart; split his hopes and panic in two.

“You should’ve just said you were hungry,” you said, casually, like that explained everything. “Speedster metabolism and all, right?”

Bart’s brain short-circuited.

Ah.

You thought… he wanted the tangerine.

Not you. Just the fruit.

“Oh,” he croaked, voice cracking on the single syllable. He grabbed the offered fruit like it was a lifeline, forcing a wobbly grin onto his face. “Uh— yeah. Totally. Thanks.”

He stuffs the whole half into his mouth, not bothering to pull it apart to eat normally, wanting to do something with his mouth other than make a bigger fumble. The citrus burst sweet and tart on his tongue, but it tasted like humiliation.

Nightwing didn’t say anything, but the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth said enough. Bart couldn’t prove it, but he knew deep down that what Nightwing did was an attempt at sabotage.

He and Tim, your doting older brothers, were nowhere near helpful when it came to you. Bart had learned that the hard way.

At first, he thought Tim was on his side. His dear friend Robin. The one who always seemed a little more relaxed, less big-brother-guard-dog than Dick. Tim even used to chuckle at Bart’s rambles of how perfect you were, which Bart had taken as a good sign— approval, even.

Yeah. That lasted all of five minutes.

Tim’s version of sabotage was quiet, methodical. Every time Bart worked up the nerve to invite you to grab food, Tim somehow swooped in with “important case files” only you could help him with. Every time Bart caught you alone after training, Tim appeared out of nowhere with some excuse to drag you off.

Always so casual, so polite, like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. And if Bart dared to glare? Tim just blinked back with that calm, innocently aggravating face that said clear as day: no one will believe you.

And then there was Dick. He had the authority, and he weaponized it. Mission assignments that somehow never put Bart and you together. Training exercises where Bart's attempts at conversation got cut off mid-sentence with a sharp “focus.”

One time, Dick had even slid himself between you two at the table during a debrief, leaning back in his chair with that smug older-brother smirk that screamed, Don’t even try it.

It was sabotage. 

Pure, calculated, Bat sabotage.

Bart tried to laugh it off, tried to make it sound casual. Totally fine. No big deal.

But his voice cracked halfway through the laugh, he could feel the heat crawling up his neck, blooming across his cheeks, not subtle, not cool, not fine.

Still, he forced another laugh, like that might erase the first one. It didn’t. Bart knew every single person at the table could see straight through him.

Everyone but you, of course.

You’d grown up pursued by classmates with shy crushes, family friends who tried too hard, and strangers who only cared about your last name.

It had started when you were barely old enough to understand what “dating” even meant, and it never really stopped. Notes shoved in lockers, people tripping over themselves to impress you, whispers about what it would mean to be with a Wayne.

After a while, you stopped taking any of it seriously. It was easier to treat it all like static, background noise you could ignore. Compliments and lingering stares slid right past you, in one ear and out the other.

The only time you ever really noticed was when it crossed the line, whether with words or actions. Those you caught immediately. Everything else? Filtered out without a second thought.

So Bart’s stare? His nerves? His laugh cracking on the edges? It didn’t even register.

To Bart, however, it was his entire heart on display, invisible to the only person who mattered.

You just smiled like you’d done a good deed, popping another piece of tangerine into your mouth without a second thought. Oblivious. Cheerful. Completely unaware that Bart Allen had just died and been resurrected by citrus in the span of thirty seconds.

————————————

The meeting ended with Dick clapping his hands once, sharp and final. “Alright, gear up for some drills. Y/N, a word.”

Your head snapped up mid-bite of tangerine. For a second, you froze, then let out an audible groan and sagged back. “Ugh. What?! Why— oh.” You pause, half-turning in your chair. “Is this about the—”

The words died in your throat the second Dick’s brows lifted, interest sparking like he was ready to drag the full confession out of you right here in front of everyone.

You clamped your mouth shut immediately. “... Never mind,” you muttered, shaking your head as you decided not to out whatever silliness you recently got into.

Dick didn’t push, but the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth said he’d file it away for later. Great. Just great.

You busied yourself with the napkin, gathering up the scraps of peel a little too carefully, then stood. Before leaving, you risked a glance at the table, one look at your so-called friends, and regret hit instantly.

Cassie’s grin was way too sharp, like she was already writing her commentary in her head. Virgil gave you a lazy two-finger salute, pure mockery. Gar mouthed good luck in the most dramatic way possible, and Jaime just shook his head, lips twitching like he’d seen this show before (which he had, you did a lot of things under your family's nose, which more often than not came to bite you in the butt.)

You rolled your eyes and let out a sigh that was half annoyance, half resignation, before pushing your chair back with a scrape. Clutching the tangerine and napkin like a shield, you trudged after your brother, muttering pitifully to yourself. The door slides shut behind you, sealing both your fate, along with Barts.

For three blissful seconds, the room was silent.

And then it erupted.

Cassie leaned forward first, chin in her hand, grin wicked. “So… hungry, huh?”

Bart groaned, sliding down in his seat until his forehead thunked against the table. “Don’t. Just— don’t.” His voice came out muffled, but the misery was clear enough.

“Metabolism and all,” Virgil chimed in, pitching his voice to make it syrupy in a passable impression of you. He batted his lashes for effect, earning a snicker from Jaime. “They basically fed you like a stray cat, dude. Next thing we know, they’re setting out a bowl for you outside their dorm.”

“Knowing Bart he’d be there on his hands and knees” Jaime adds, swivelling on his chair to face the speedster better, “you can’t even deny it, man”

Gar’s laughter bubbled out of him as he shoved Bart’s shoulder. “You should’ve seen your face, man. Bright red, like cartoon-level red.”

Bart muffled something into the tabletop. He didn’t care what it was. Anything to drown out the sound of his friends dismantling his dignity piece by piece.

“Well, we can’t really blame him for his reaction.” Jaime chuckled, shaking his head. “Zoning out in front of Nightwing? That’s next-level unlucky.”

Gar grinned widely. “Down bad during a mission briefing. I mean… priorities, I guess.”

Bart let out another muffled groan into the table. His ears were red.

Cassie huffs a laugh, smirk still sharp. “Count yourself lucky Tim wasn’t here. Dick just embarrassed you. Tim would’ve went for humiliation”

“Mmhmmm,” Virgil said, pointing at him with a grin. “You know he’d go all deadpan— ‘He’s not zoning out, Dick. He’s staring at Y/N’.”

Jaime nodded, amused. “And then Dick would double down. Because if Tim handed him ammo like that? Game over, man.”

Cassie gave a small shrug. “You’d be toast. No escape.”

Gar smirked, leaning back in his chair. “Seriously, Kid. Lucky break today. Only had to face one Bat brother instead of two.”

The table continues to laugh, entertained at his expense. Bart groaned again, wishing the ground would swallow him up, because clearly there was no way to win here.

And yet, even through all the teasing, his mind wouldn’t let go.

The way you tilted your head, meeting his gaze.

The way you’d smiled when you split the fruit.

The way you’d giggled, soft and unguarded, when Dick called him out.

After the first week you found a way to contact him, although it was hardly private. The shared communicator was always in use.

You only got to talk to Bart once a week at best, even then the call would only last 10 minutes.

You yearned for his touch, his warm skin against yours, the way he’d look at you, you even miss the soft morning kiss he’d give you every day.

Most of all, you missed the way he fucked you. The way he knew everything about your body, the way his pretty cock filled you so perfectly.

You’re horny and frustrated. You can’t even do anything over the phone, it’s taken away before you can even think about it. But fuck, you need him like you need to breathe.

You’d tried to get off yourself, fingers shoved up your pretty pussy, but it was never enough. It’s not his fingers, they don’t curl the right way, don’t press deep into that spot that makes you see stars

You had gotten the okay to go home a week ago, you had called Bart to tell him the good news. Finally, you’d be able to see him after what felt like an eternity.

When you had gotten home, exhausted and utterly needy, you only got one step in before you were pushed harshly against the door.

It knocked the breath out of you, startling you more than you’d like to admit. Golden eyes stare into you, already dim and wanting.

Strong hands hold your hips to the door, keeping you in place. He’s so close, you can smell his familiar cologne, feel the warmth radiating off his skin.

“Fuck I missed you.”

That’s all you hear before he’s pulling you into the deepest kiss. It’s soft and hungry, it’s everything you’ve wanted for the past three months.

Your hands find their way into his tangled hair, pulling him closer. He groans when he feels you tug at the short strands.

His tongue rolls over yours, his hands grab you tighter, making you yearn for more.

You whine and push yourself as close as possible. He pushes you harder against the door, tapping your hips before pulling you up.

Your legs wrap around his slender waist, arms coming around his neck to keep your lips on his.

His strong hands grip your ass, grinding you against him. “Oh fuck, need you. Let me fuck you sweet girl?”

“Please.” That’s all you could whimper out before your leaning back in, desperate for him.

Air presses against your back before you’re slammed against the bedroom wall, knocking the air out of you. It’s disorientating, with how quick he was, but you can’t even care when he’s kissing you the way he is.

“Fuck can’t make it to the bed, just- sit up for me baby. Yeah, just like that.”

When you push yourself straight against the wall, you feel yourself falling for a second. Suddenly, you’re naked, and in Barts arms again, like he never left.

His eyes take you in, dark and dim. They’re dilated and blown wide, moving quickly like he’s taking in every single inch of you.

He props you up on one arm, the other finding its way to your cunt. A warm finger slips inside, quick like always.

It’s familiar, but you’ve been yearning for this for months. It’s everything you wanted, immediately making you moan and squirm in his hold.

“Look at you, so pretty. Shit, I missed you so much. Fucked my fist every night just wishing you were here.”

He has his forehead against your temple, talking into your ear, keeping you so close.

“Bart, please. Faster, I can take it. I just want you, right now, please.”

He hums and gives you a sweet kiss before pushing another finger in. Scissoring them quickly, focusing on stretching you out, his wrist moves fast.

It feels so good, he reaches deep, rubbing against your sensitive walls. His speed always feels good, like you’re closer to him, like you feel the buzz under his skin.

When his fingers slide out, you can’t help but whine. He shushes you with soft praises, pumping his pretty cock, before pushing in slowly.

“God, knew this pretty pussy missed me. She’s sucking me in.”

The stretch burns, he's just so big, your cunt feels like it’s being split in half. You can feel his veins rubbing against your walls, cock pushing so deep inside.

You whine from the stretch, eyes rolling back. His fingers find your clit, rubbing deliciously small circles over the bud, easing himself deeper.

“There we go, open up for me baby.” His forehead rests against your temple, giving you small pecs while whispering sweet nothings.

Your breath gets pushed out of you when he bottoms out. His tip is practically in your throat, walls clenching uncontrollably around him.

Your head tips back when he grabs your thighs and brings them up over his shoulders. He’s bending you in ways you didn’t even know were possible, folding you in half, body tensing and straining against the small cramping.

His lips find your throat as he snaps his hips into you. He’s biting the smooth skin at your throat, leaving pretty bruises for everyone to see.

He’s going fast and hard, not letting you adjust to his size, pounding into you. He’s feral, gasping and moaning, telling you how much he’s missed being inside you.

He’s practically in your cervix, the angle he’s pulled you into has him slipping impossibly deep. Your clit runs against his abs, making you sob.

“Bart, fuck slow down, I-"

You can't talk, can’t think, he’s tapping into his speed. He’s fucking you so fast you can’t catch your breath, choking you on his cock.

“I can’t, fuck I’m sorry. Need you, God, won’t ever stop. Need to fill you up, need to keep you full. You feel so fucking good around me, so warm, so tight”

He’s whining, babbling into your neck, hips moving uncontrollably. You’re not listening, all his words going right through you, you can only focus on how his tip is bullying your sweet spot.

Your legs try to close in his hold, struggling to keep up with him. You shake, trembling against him, pussy dripping all over his dick.

Your vision whites, legs locking uncomfortably, mind going beautifully numb. You try to gasp for air, your stomach feeling weird and hot.

You squirt against his stomach, practically sobbing into your orgasm. Your pretty head is too blank to think, let alone feel embarrassed.

“Yeahhh, there she is. Fuck, I need you to do that again. Never seen this pretty pussy drip so much.”

Before you can catch your breath, your suddenly face first into the bed, hips getting pulled up harshly.

Your disorientated again, you never get used to him throwing you around in super speed. The buzz of the force still under your skin, you turn your head to look back at Bart.

He’s pushing inside again, his stomach glistening in your slick. He’s still so deep, his hands pulling your hips up at the perfect angle to have him pushing against that sensitive spot again.

He’s slamming into you like he never stopped, just as fast and harsh. One of his hands comes to shove your head down again, holding you down.

“Stay still, fuck- be a good slut for me. Just take it. All mine, never gonna let you leave again. Keep you on my cock, you’d like that wouldn’t you.”

It’s like he doesn’t even care if you get off, he’s just fucking his hips into you at a speed that makes you lose track of time. Your brain can only focus on how good his cock feels inside, warm and curving in a perfect way.

It feels like hours, an eternity, that he’s been fucking you. You’ve cum again, you think, he’s cum too. It’s hard to tell now, your body pleasurably numb, tingling and hot.

Your stomach cramps from just how much he’s cum, he's shoving it back in, angling your hips higher to keep it all inside.

His leg is raised up against your hip, letting him push in deeper. It’s too much, the pleasure has taken over all your senses.

One of your hands swings back, shaking and uncoordinated. You try to slap at his hips, sobbing into the sheets, trying to push him away.

He grabs your wrist tightly, pushing it against your back, hips still bullying into you.

“No, we’re not fucking done yet.”

Him pinning you in place has you clenching tighter, begging for him to stop, pleading with him to keep going.

The way his balls slap against clit, cock nuzzled into your womb, cum seeping deeper inside with every push, has you creaming around him again.

He fucks you right through it, moaning harder at the way you’re squeezing him, praising you for being so good.

You try to claw at the sheets, pulling your hips forward to pull away slightly, but he drags you back into him. His hands grab your hips hard enough to bruise, keeping your hips slamming back into his.

“Don’t run away from me. I’m going to make you cum for every time I fucking couldn’t while you were gone. Fuck- gonna keep you full until morning.”

Your body goes beautifully slack, just letting him do whatever he wants, drooling into the sheets. He’s still fucking you like he’ll never get tired, his speedster stamina letting him go for hours.

“I’m going to keep you on my cock for days baby, won’t let you go. Gonna make this pussy only want me, remember me forever.”

His hand trails down your spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck.

He pulls, tugging you back until your ear is right neck to his lips, pushing your back into a mean arch.

“Gonna keep you on my cock until you pass out, filling you up till you’re pregnant. Maybe that’ll keep you from leaving.”

"Scoot over," you say, though it's less a command and more of a warning as you drop yourself onto the couch right beside Bart. He yelps. He's startled (which you find hilarious, considering his lighting-fast reflexes and inhuman perception) but catches your hand regardless, tugging it away from the remote with an indignant huff.

"Hey! My turn for movie night, remember?"

"I was just gonna change the volume!" you protest.

"Uh-huh. Likely story." Bart snatches up the remote, feigning indignation. As the crease in his brow gives way to a wide smile, you promptly realize that he's still holding your hand.

Your gaze falls to the bowl of popcorn on the table in front of you. Should you move your hand? Should you leave it? Is it bad that you like it?

There's been several moments like this as of late — moments where you and Bart toe the line of 'friendship' in the traditional sense of the word. You'd grown close within weeks of your first meeting, he's one of your best friends, you spend probably too much time with him, and even though you've been seeing him in a new light you're convinced nothing should change. He's your bestie, first and foremost, and you're not yet sure if you're willing to risk it... especially when it's not clear whether he feels the same or not.

Last week, the two of you had gone to a smoothie place. When the cashier assumed you were dating, you'd flushed so hard you thought you'd catch on fire.

(Bart had launched into a rapid-fire monologue explaining that you were just friends. It lasted for thirty seconds and probably would've gone on for thirty minutes had you not grabbed the receipt and physically dragged him away.)

A month before, you and Bart went rollerskating with Tim, Kon, and Steph. You'd picked it up quickly, but Bart's balance was decidedly miserable, causing him to cling to your side for the better part of an hour. At least you'd been able to blame your heated cheeks on the physical activity.

Bart struggled with boundaries on a good day, but as of late, you hadn't had the slightest urge to push him off when he hugged you unannounced. Yeah, it was annoying when he ate through all the snacks in your kitchen, but it was equally endearing when he'd replenish your stock a few days later. Now, at your bi-monthly movie night, you wondered if this was a date or a friendly get-together. And Bart was only complicating matters by still holding your hand.

"...Did you pick a good one?" You finally ask, trying to distract yourself from his warm palm on the back of your hand.

"Please. All of my picks are good."

"And what about the time we watched Cats?"

"That's the only exception," he continues, teeth gently biting into his lower lip as he focuses on cueing up the movie he's selected. "I distinctly recall picking it to mock it."

You lean back into the couch cushions. How was the furniture in Bart's apartment so much more comfortable than yours? "Still a terrible pick."

He hums dismissively and you take note of the way his perpetually messy hair falls across his forehead. He's wearing an oversized t-shirt, but it's rumpled, and you can make out a sliver of skin from where it's hiked up his abdomen.

Look away.

"So it has good reviews," Bart says, and your eyes snap back to his face. You needed to get a hold of yourself! "And it can't be worse than Cats."

You nod. Bart holding your hand has your pulse racing before the generic action thriller even starts. Maybe he doesn't notice he's doing it! He probably doesn't! He's flighty, and you're reading into this far too much!

He stands, stretches, and promptly speeds across the room. By the time you've blinked he's turned off the lights, grabbed a blanket, placed the popcorn in your lap, pressed play, and put his hand right back on top of yours.

So, yeah, he's probably doing it on purpose.

You swallow thickly. Focus on the movie.

An hour later, you've concluded that 1) the movie truly is generic, and 2) Bart is most definitely holding your hand on purpose, because he fidgets more than anyone you know and yet his hand is still on yours and it's not moving. The movie is scarily average, but you make a game out of it, the two of you going back and forth about story beats and attempting to guess the next scene. As you talk, his grip tightens, loosens; his fingers dance over your knuckles when he laughs and vibrate when he gets particularly excited.

Then he laughs hard enough to gasp for breath and you allow yourself to see him as you do in your errant daydreams: he's boyishly charming, his cheeks are dusted with pink, and his smile is bright as the morning sun. He's your best friend, but he's more than that, too, and by the time you've returned to reality Bart is openly staring at you. And he's not holding your hand anymore.

Oh, you've done it now, haven't you?

Bart's jaw is tight. He matches your stare. His gaze rakes over yours, suspicion shining in his eyes.

"(y/n)?" He asks, the headlights to your deer.

You stutter out a half-baked apology. You're beyond mortified. You're sitting so close to Bart that your legs are pressed together — when did that happen? — and it's so obvious that you were just pining after him that you want to put your head through a wall.

His fingers cup your cheek, and your words die in your throat. Bart's touch is warm, you think. He's always warm. He's looking at your lips.

Fuck, he's looking at your lips!

"You don't have to apologize," he murmurs, "And it's not just you."

Bart has the sense to look at least a little flustered. The dusting of color on his cheeks has deepened into a cherry red, and he's breathing a little heavy. You lean into his touch. He leans into you. He huffs out a breathless laugh and then ducks his head and when your noses bump the movement feels as natural as breathing.

The kiss is a little salty and he tastes like buttered popcorn, but, shit, who cares if he eats his way through your pantry if it means he'll touch you like this?

Time has thickened into a honey, seconds slowing and stopping as his hands shift and move. They rest on your waist, then slide up your ribcage, then squeeze with the gentlest pressure, coaxing you into him. Your fingers skate beneath the hem of his oversized shirt and he shudders, doubling down on his attempts to pull you right up against him until there's not so much as a molecule of space in between.

The kiss ends all too soon. You're out of breath, and you've got both hands under his shirt, and the movie credits are rolling. Bart looks dazed but triumphant, grinning with slightly swollen lips.

You exhale shakily. "Who the hell taught you that?"

He blinks at you, arms firmly around your waist. "Kon."

You stifle a laugh and drop your head to Bart's shoulder. For a fleeting second, you wonder if you'll regret the kiss, but it's quickly overshadowed by the zoo's worth of butterflies that have descended on your stomach. This is good. This is comfortable. "Why am I not surprised?"

"Well, clearly, it came in handy," he says, words picking up speed as he talks. "In his words, it got 'reallyfuckingobvious' that I liked you, like, more than I did initially, like, I like liked you, and—"

You pull your head away from his shoulder. "Bart?"

"Yeah?"