#wayne! reader

"Hey, look at me." Barry spun you around with ease, cupping your cheek gently and staring at you with more devotion than you deserved. "We could spend an eternity together, and I’d still want more time."

"That’s not fair." You weakly protested, legs suddenly feeling like jelly.

"What’s not fair?"

"You saying shit like that!" Your cheeks warmed, an unfamiliar cacophony of butterflies raving in your stomach. You were a Wayne; men didn’t fluster you. You ate them alive, but here was Barry Allen — dorky, socially awkward Barry — of all people, making you swoon in your office with just a few words.

"It’s the truth, though." He murmured, thumb rubbing circles against your cheek as he continued to stare at you with those adoring eyes.

"You — Just shut up and kiss me already." You huffed, fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt none too gently.

Barry grinned, eager to obey your command, "as the lady wishes."

You don’t think you could ever tire of kissing Barry, not when each kiss had the world falling away until all what was left was Barry’s lips against yours. It’s for this reason that you think you could be forgiven for failing to notice the door to your office opening.

"amto are you— what are you doing?!" The sudden, horrified shriek had you practically leaping away from Barry swiftly, as if you were the speedster.

"Damian! What are—" You coughed, trying to calm your rapidly beating heart as you pasted a fake smile across your face, "what are you doing here?"

"Never mind that!" The teen scowled, pointing an accusing finger at a visibly nervous Barry, "What are you doing with him!"

Caught off guard by the sudden intrusion, you can't help but be deliberately obtuse, "I know you know what kissing is, Dami."

You're rewarded with an even deadlier scowl that has you wanting to coo over how adorable he is, "don't play dumb, I mean, why are you kissing him? How long has this been a... thing?" His nose scrunched as he gestured between you and Barry.

There's an uncertainty in his eyes, something you could almost call insecurity, that has you softening instantly. Stepping toward him, you ran a comforting hand over his hair, "It's still pretty new," you admitted.

"And you felt the need to hide it?" It goes unsaid, but you hear the underlying questions. Why did you keep it from me? Do you not trust me?

"Hmm, it's not that we were hiding it per se," you absolutely were, "we just wanted to make sure it was a permanent thing before we let everybody know."

Whatever Damian's initial concerns were, they were quickly shoved aside at your words. "Why wouldn't it be permanent? Is amto not good enough for you?"

"More like I'm not good enough for her." Barry earnestly stated. You could tell Damian was a little taken aback by his sincerity, pausing for a few seconds to study Barry, trying to discern any ounce of a lie.

Eventually, Damian gave a nod, satisfied with whatever it was he'd seen in Barry's eyes, "as long as you know your place."

"Damian!" You gasped, horrified at his lack of manners, but he was unrepentant.

"What? There's not a man in the galaxy worthy of you." To your surprise, Barry only laughed, nodding in agreement and unintentionally solidifying a few points with your youngest nephew.

"So... Barry's an acceptable suitor then?" You joked.

Damian simply hummed, "If Wonder Woman is unavailable, then I suppose a speedster will suffice."

"Yeah", Barry nodded along before Damian's words registered, "wait, what?"

"You heard me."

Lying in bed that night, your hand threading through blond locks, you let out a contemplative hum, "You know, today didn't go as bad as I thought it would."

A few seconds pass with no answer, and for a moment, you think he's fallen asleep under your ministrations (it wouldn't be the first time, Barry was a sucker for head rubs).

"Barry?" Looking down at him, you were surprised to find wide, worried eyes staring up at you as his cheek rested on your chest, "What's on your—"

"Please don't leave me for Wonder Woman."

Mind.

You blink, registering his plea before bursting into giggles. "I promise I won't leave you for Diana," you kissed his forehead, waiting until he relaxed enough to jokingly add, "though if she asked..."

"That's not funny!"

Though you'd sworn Damian to secrecy, you were aware that the truth of your relationship was ever in danger of being exposed. Not by your devoutly loyal nephew, who was concerningly smug that he was "the only person you trusted with your secret," but by virtue of your family being a bunch of incessant sticky beaks.

Bruce had definitely caught on to the fact that you were seeing someone, Tim was throwing you increasingly suspicious glances each time you saw him, and you were pretty sure Cass already knew.

(Cass always knew)

It had been a few months now, and you were set on Barry; hell, even before you'd started officially dating, you were pretty sure your heart wouldn't have accepted another anyway.

Which just left you attempting to psych yourself up to spill the beans. Most of the children would (begrudgingly) be happy for you at least. Damian had certainly surprised you a little with how quickly he'd come around, though the jury was still out on Jason (you'd cross that bridge when you got there).

Really, it was just your brother who was the main holdout. Which was a little ridiculous because Bruce liked Barry. Respected him even, and outside of Clark and Diana, who didn't really count, Barry was probably the next favourite.

But Bruce had always been unreasonable, especially when it came to your love life. So you'd devised a plan, a reveal in a controlled environment under Alfred's watchful gaze, in the hopes that it would force him to behave at least a little bit.

Naturally, that all went tits up the second a League-wide mission saw you and Barry split up. Separated for hours until after the chaos had settled down, and you were back aboard the Watchtower, tending to the wounded.

"Are you alright?! I hear you were in the infirmary and—" You heard Barry before you saw him, hands gently gripping you and positioning your body until he was satisfied you were unhurt, all before you could so much as blink.

Grabbing his cheeks to stop the frantic movements, you rubbed comforting circles over the unmasked skin with an amused grin, "I'm ok. Did you forget I'm one of the League's medics?"

"I-oh." He blinked, cheeks reddening in embarrassment.

"Barry Allen, you dog!" Hal exclaimed from his place on the bed where you'd just been stitching him up, abruptly reminding the two of you that you weren't alone.

Unaware of or simply ignoring your dread, Hal continued to run his mouth. "I always knew you had it in you, man!"

"Riiiight," Barry drawled, an uncharacteristic frown on his face as he looked at his friend, "I seem to remember you telling me once that I didn't have a snowball's chance in hell."

That was news to you.

It was your turn to scowl at the still grinning Lantern before you turned back to Barry, "ignore him, baby. Hal's just a bitchless loser."

"Hey—" Hal's protests are abruptly drowned out by a sudden screech that has you dropping your forehead down to rest on Barry's in defeat

"Baby?! You?! Barry?! How—When?"

"Hello, Wally." You sighed, still refusing to look at the sputtering redhead. Even without a visual, you could tell he was gesticulating wildly

"Hello? That's it?!" Mentally counting to three, you prepared yourself to face Wally's hysterics and Hal's teasing.

"Yes, hello, Wally. Are you injured?" You were, after all, still in the infirmary, and you had a job to do.

"I hardly think that matters right now—"

"Wally."

"Wally!" You and Barry let out twin exclamations of disappointment.

"I'm fine." He quickly waves off your concern before he's suddenly right in front of you, fucking speedsters, and rattling off a string of questions too fast for you to decipher.

"Yes, Wally, we're dating. I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but we wanted to keep it to ourselves for a while and—"

"And you decided to tell Hal before me?!"

"Jordan found out by accident when someone," you gave Barry the stink eye, "spilled the beans."

"Ok, so I'm the second person to know." Wally seemed to calm down a little at that, seemingly satisfied that Barry hadn't necessarily wanted to disclose your relationship to Hal.

"Well, no," Barry chuckled awkwardly as you mentally begged him to keep his mouth closed, "Damian was the first—"

"You told Damian before me?" Wally's voice had reached a pitch that was frankly a little impressive for a man his age, betrayal and offence splashed across his face.

"Told Damian what?"

Jesus Christ. As if there weren't enough clowns in the room, of course, Oliver Queen decided at that moment to enter the room.

"They're dating!" Wally and Hal instantly dobbed you in with varying levels of betrayal and glee.

"Wait? You and Barry are together? Since when?"

"That's what I've been saying!" Wally exclaimed, as if in thanks that someone was backing him up.

"Christ on a fucking cracker," you threw your arms in the air before forcing yourself to answer, "Yes, Barry and I are together. We've been together for two months. No, we haven't told anyone, because we knew you'd all react like this! Are you satisfied?"

"You and the Flash are what?" A familiar voice growled.

"Bruce!" Barry laughed nervously, subtly trying to inch his way behind you, offering you up like a sacrifice. Some hero.

Maybe it's the stress of the situation, compounded by dealing with the peanut gallery for the last few minutes. Or maybe it's just sheer acceptance and exhaustion at having to hide it from the world's most paranoid older brother. Either way, you steel your spine, feigning bravery as you give Bruce your best attempt at the icy stare reserved for Gotham's socialites, "I love him, and you're just going to have to deal with it."

A chorus of gasps rang through the room as Bruce's gaze narrowed beneath the cowl, the two of you remaining locked in a battle of wills.

"You love me?" Barry's voice is awe-filled, hesitant hope shining in his eyes as he waits for your confirmation, almost as if he hadn't believed his own ears.

Warmth fills your cheeks, embarrassment heavy in your gut at all the prying eyes. Reaching for his hands, you force down your discomfort, allowing your gaze to soften just for him, "How could I not? I love you, Barry. I think I have for months now."

"I love you too!" He practically yelled, nearly vibrating in excitement and overwhelming joy, before he pulled you in for a kiss.

For a few moments, the world stopped. It was just the two of you; nothing else mattered. Just you and Barry, in love.

At least until— "Yeah, Barry! Get in!"

"Lantern! Don't encourage them!" Bruce snapped, a twinge of hysteria that only one well acquainted with him would pick up on.

Pulling back a little, you rest your forehead against Barry's with a sigh.

"Time to go?" He murmured, fingers brushing softly over your waist and leaving goosebumps in their wake.

"God, yes."

Though he didn't hear the words, Bruce must have picked up on what you and Barry were planning, taking a step forward with an outstretched hand, "wait, don't—"

Too late.

Roy Harper leaned against the railing like he belonged there, bow unstrung, jacket half-zipped, stupid cap on backwards.

He wasn’t on duty.

Neither were you.

That should have been the first warning.

You joined him without a word, boots soft against the floor. Roy glanced sideways, the corner of his mouth tugging up in that way he got when he was trying not to smile.

“Thought you’d be in Gotham,” he said.

“Thought you’d be with the Titans,” you replied.

A beat. Then both of you laughed—quiet, shared, familiar.

From a distance, it would’ve looked harmless. Two teammates decompressing. Friends enjoying the quiet.

Witnesses later reported the way you stood too close.

Roy offered you his coffee without asking. You took it, fingers brushing his, a touch so brief it could’ve been accidental.

It wasn’t.

“You ever get tired of this?” he asked, nodding toward the stars. “Saving the world. Breaking it. Saving it again.”

“All the time,” you said. “But I like who I am when I’m here.”

Roy’s gaze softened. “Yeah. Me too.”

Witness accounts note a prolonged silence following this exchange.

The cameras didn’t catch the way Roy’s hand found the small of your back.

They didn’t catch the way you leaned into it, just slightly—like testing gravity.

What they did catch was the way both of you froze when the comms chimed.

Roy swore under his breath. You straightened, professional mask snapping into place with terrifying ease.

“Duty calls,” you said lightly.

“Always does,” Roy replied.

Neither of you moved.

Elsewhere in the Watchtower, multiple heroes independently reported “a vibe.”

Wally West: “I dunno, man, they were doing that thing where they pretend nothing’s happening while absolutely something is happening.” Dinah Lance: “Roy doesn’t look at people like that unless he’s already lost.” Oliver Queen: No official statement. Excessive smirking observed.

The mission that followed should have ended like any other.

Clean extraction. Minimal casualties. Standard comm chatter.

Instead, it ended with you pinned beneath falling debris, smoke and sparks filling the feed.

Roy was already moving before anyone else spoke.

“Nightingale’s down,” he said, voice sharp. Too sharp.

You heard it through the ringing in your ears. Heard the way your name cut through the noise.

“I’ve got her,” Roy added. “Back off.”

It wasn’t an order. It wasn’t protocol.

No one argued.

He shielded you with his own body as the last of the structure collapsed, bow discarded, arms locked around you like that was the only thing keeping the world in place.

“Hey,” he murmured once the dust settled. “You with me?”

“Always,” you breathed.

Witnesses later described the way his forehead rested against yours for a fraction of a second too long.

The live feed cut out twelve seconds later.

Official report cites “signal interference due to structural instability.”

Unofficial analysis suggests manual override.

After the mission, Roy didn’t leave your side in the med bay. Didn’t joke. Didn’t deflect. Just sat there, elbow on the bed, fingers wrapped loosely around yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You scared me,” he admitted quietly.

You squeezed his hand. “Good. Means you care.”

He huffed a weak laugh. “Yeah. Guess I do.”

Neither of you noticed the security camera rebooting overhead.

By the time the feed resumed, you were sitting a respectable distance apart.

Roy was back to smirking. You were back to composed.

Internal review classified the incident as inconclusive.

But the witnesses remembered.

The way Roy looked at you like losing you wasn’t an option. The way you trusted him without hesitation.

Some things don’t need a confession.

END OF FILEARCHIVED — ACCESS SEALED

CREDITS -

@cafekitsune

@enchanthings

@ferretmilkshakezzz

Instead, it ended with you pinned against the fractured wall of a half-collapsed warehouse, smoke curling in the air, your comm buzzing with overlapping voices you weren’t listening to—because Jaime was in front of you, close enough that you could see the faint blue pulse beneath the scarab plates on his collarbone.

“Hey,” he said quietly, visor retracting just enough to show his eyes. “You hit?”

You shook your head, breath uneven. “I’m fine.”

That was a lie. You were bleeding. He knew it. You both did.

Jaime’s hand hovered near your side, hesitating—not because he didn’t want to touch you, but because he knew he shouldn’t. Not here. Not on record. Not with the League still patched into the feed.

The silence between you stretched, thick and electric.

“Blue Beetle,” Batman’s voice cut in over comms. “Status.”

Jaime didn’t answer immediately.

You reached out first, fingers brushing his wrist—brief, grounding, a warning. Don’t.

He exhaled, straightened. “Target neutralized. We’re clear.”

The feed crackled. Static flickered across your lenses.

For exactly half a second, the live transmission cut.

Jaime’s hand was on your waist before either of you could think better of it.

Back on the Watchtower, the debrief room was too bright.

You stood at the table beside Jaime, arms folded, posture perfect—Nightingale composed, unreadable, untouchable. If anyone looked closely enough, they’d see the way your shoulder angled toward him instinctively. The way his foot brushed yours beneath the table, once, twice.

Neither of you moved away.

“Mission success rate acceptable,” Bruce said, eyes flicking briefly between the two of you. Not lingering. But noticing. He always noticed.

Jaime cleared his throat. “There was a… delay in the feed near the end.”

Barbara glanced up from her tablet. “Yeah. Brief interruption. Weird dead zone.”

Your pulse spiked.

Bruce’s gaze sharpened. “How brief?”

Barbara shrugged. “Milliseconds. Not enough to log anything useful.”

Jaime nodded once. You didn’t look at him—but you felt the tension roll off him like a held breath finally released.

Later, in the corridor outside the debrief wing, the Watchtower quieted into its artificial night cycle. Lights dimmed. Footsteps faded.

You leaned against the glass wall overlooking Earth, mask retracted, exhaustion finally catching up to you.

Jaime joined you without a word.

“Hey,” he said softly, again. Like earlier. Like it meant something different now.

You turned to him. “You shouldn’t have touched me.”

“I know.” He didn’t sound apologetic. Just honest. “But I’d do it again.”

Your laugh was breathless, humorless. “That’s the problem.”

He stepped closer anyway. “You’re hurt.”

“So are you.”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “But I don’t care.”

You stared at him then—really stared—and whatever carefully constructed distance you’d been maintaining fractured.

“You ever think about how stupid this is?” you asked quietly. “If my dad finds out—”

“I’m already dead,” Jaime said. “Scarabs don’t stand a chance against that man.”

That pulled a real laugh from you.

The quiet that followed wasn’t awkward. It was charged. Heavy with everything you weren’t saying.

When he reached for you this time, you didn’t stop him.

His forehead rested against yours. No suits. No comms. Just the hum of the station and Earth spinning slowly beneath you.

“You scare me,” Jaime murmured. “Not because you’re dangerous. Because you matter.”

You swallowed. “This can’t be real.”

“Too late,” he said. “Feels real.”

For a moment, you let yourself lean into him—just enough to count as a sin.

Then the corridor lights flared.

“—uh,” a voice echoed from down the hall. “Am I interrupting something?”

You and Jaime sprang apart like you’d been electrocuted.

Wally West froze mid-step, eyes wide, grin already forming. “Wow. Okay. I’m gonna pretend I saw absolutely nothing.”

“Please do,” you said flatly.

Jaime groaned. “We’re dead.”

Wally zipped past, laughing. “Oh, so dead.”

That night, the mission report logged clean.

No mention of proximity violations. No emotional anomalies. No unauthorised contact.

But in the archived footage, one corrupted frame remained—just static and blur and the faint outline of two figures standing too close.

Close enough to be dangerous.

Close enough to matter.

▓▓▓ END OF FILE ▓▓▓ ARCHIVED — SEALED — ACCESS RESTRICTED

CREDITS -

@cafekitsune

@enchanthings

@ferretmilkshakezzz

He tries to hide it, tries to roll his shoulder like it’s nothing, but you’ve seen him bleed out in worse places than this.

“You should be in medical,” you say.

Roy scoffs, tugging his gloves off with his teeth. “And miss the part where you tell me everything went ‘according to plan’?”

You don’t smile.

The door seals behind him, cutting the city noise clean off.

The quiet presses in.

Post-mission quiet is always the worst—when the adrenaline drains and all that’s left is what almost happened.

You turn away, busying yourself with pulling data off your gauntlet. Anything but looking at him too long.

“You went off-route,” you say. “Again.”

“I had the shot.”

“You didn’t have backup.”

“I didn’t need it.”

There it is.

Sharp. Defensive. Familiar.

You exhale slowly. “Roy, that wasn’t the call.”

He laughs under his breath, bitter. “Funny. Didn’t hear you complaining when it worked.”

You finally face him.

His cheek is bruised, a shallow cut at his brow already crusting over. He looks tired in a way even sleep won’t fix.

“It worked,” you say carefully, “because I covered you.”

His jaw tightens. “I didn’t ask you to.”

“No,” you snap, heat bleeding through your control, “you never do.”

The words hang between you, heavier than they should be.

Roy looks away first.

“That’s not fair,” he mutters.

You cross your arms, cape shifting around you. “Then explain it to me. Explain why you keep acting like you’re disposable.”

He stiffens. “I don’t—”

“You do,” you cut in. “Every mission. Every time. You run in like it won’t matter if you don’t make it back.”

“That’s rich,” Roy shoots back, eyes flashing. “Coming from you.”

You falter.

“That’s different.”

“Is it?” he asks, voice quieter now. “Because from where I’m standing, you throw yourself in front of bullets like you’re daring the universe to take you.”

The room goes still.

This is the glitching part—the moment where neither of you is saying the right thing, where everything hurts more because it’s half-true.

“I can handle myself,” you say.

“I know,” Roy says immediately. Too fast. Too intense. “That’s the problem.”

You swallow. “Then what is it, Roy? What are you actually mad about?”

He drags a hand through his copper lock, pacing once before stopping in front of you.

“I’m mad,” he says, voice rough, “because every time you almost get hurt, my heart tries to punch its way out of my chest.”

You blink.

“And I’m mad because I don’t get to say anything,” he continues, words spilling now, unstoppable. “Because if I admit I care too much, I lose focus. And if I lose focus, I lose you.”

Your breath catches.

“I don’t feel like enough for you,” Roy admits. “Not when you’re Nightingale. Not when you’re fearless and brilliant and everyone needs you, everyone loves you.”

Silence.

Then you step closer, slow, deliberate.

“Roy,” you say softly, “I don’t need someone fearless.”

He looks up at you, eyes glassy.

“I need you,” you say. “And you scare me too. Every time you don’t come back when you’re supposed to.”

His voice breaks when he speaks. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He lets out a shaky laugh. “Guess that makes two of us.”

The confession doesn’t come with fireworks. No dramatic kiss. Just the truth, laid bare and trembling between you.

Roy reaches out, hesitates, then cups your face like you might disappear if he doesn’t anchor you there.

“Don’t do that,” he murmurs. “Don’t make me imagine a world without you.”

You lean into his touch. “Then don’t leave me imagining one without you either.”

He nods, forehead resting against yours, breathing you in like proof you’re real.

For once, neither of you runs.