wordswehavesaidworld:

Ok, so this is a birthday fic nearly two whole weeks late for my dear friend Steff aka the awesome @empty-puppet! Happy birthday, and sorry for the lateness!

“Hey Joe?” Barry pokes his head into the living room late one evening after Iris has retired to her room for the night and he’s taken up his customary chair with a beer and the television playing softly in the background.

“Yeah, Bear?” He responds without really looking up.

“Do we…own a football?”

That gets him to raise his head, fixing the kid with a bemused stare. “Why? You need it for a project or something?”

“No,” Barry says, pulling a face as he shakes his head. He comes down off the steps to stand in the main room. “I wanted to practice. You know, for tryouts.”

He thinks his eyebrows might just disappear into his receding hairline. “You wanna try out. For football?” A laugh - just a giggle, really - slips out of him and soon he’s shaking in the chair trying to contain his laughter.

“I’m serious!” Barry says with all the righteous indignation of a sixteen year-old.

“Ok, ok,” Joe says, calming himself down. He knows it’s not right to laugh at his kid over this. Still, he has to ask, “Why do you want to try out for football Barry? You like science more than you like sports.”

“I still like sports,” Barry defends. “I watch games with you.” Those games are usually baseball, his personal favorite, but Joe still nods giving him the point. “And you always say we should get involved in as many different activities as we can so we have a lot of interests,” the teenager continues. “Iris likes football.”

“Yeah, well Iris only likes football so much cause that Dylan Johnson kid’s center-fielder,” he remarks, and watches how Barry’s face falls. He sighs heavily. “You really serious about trying out, Bear?”

Barry nods, determined.

“Alright. Think I’ve got a ball in the garage,” he says, then pushes himself up from the chair. “Let’s go.”

“You’re gonna help me practice?” Barry looks surprised, and a little pleased, by the idea, some pink rising to his cheeks. He’s like this most every time he feels that Joe is going out of his way for him - and he wishes the kid would understand nothing is ever going to be out of Joe’s way for him, not for his son.

Still now, he looks Barry up and down. Growth spurts have put Barry close to his height, but he’s no where near as broad. A good gust of wind could blow him away, Grandma Esther’s taken to saying each time she visits.

“Trust me, you’re gonna need my help.” And a good miracle, he can’t stop himself from thinking.

—

(I will probably expand on this for you later, but I wanted to get this out to you now since it’s nearly two weeks late. Apologies and lots of love!)

smittenvigilantes:

So apparently any time one set photos of my boys are released, I get cravings to write fluff drabbles. Here you go - have an Olivarry coffee date. 

Barry bites down on his lower lip, eyes focused on the warm cup in his hand as he listens to the older man talk.

He’s not sure when this became a thing – them meeting up for coffee – but over the past few months, it’s been happening more and more.

At first, they’d talk talk business – trade tips, discuss metas, problems, missions – but now it’s at the point where it’s just the two of them hanging out. And for the most part, it’s fine – it’s all friendly banter and light-hearted talk, the usual give and take that he’s come to expect when they’re alone together.

But there are times – times like this one, right now – when Barry finds himself wondering if there’s more to it than just two friends catching up. He wonders if Oliver feels the same way as they walk side by side, their shoulders bumping together – if the wide stretch to the older man’s grin and the crinkles that frame his eyes as Barry makes a quip about having to walk slow because of Oliver means something. He wonders if his heart skips a beat every time Barry’s does when the other laughs.

“Is this a date?” The words tumble from his lips before he can stop them, and Oliver freezes beside him – stops in his tracks and turns to gaze at Barry, who ducks his head, cheeks heating with embarrassment.

Of course it’s not a date. Of course not. He’s such an idiot. Why would Oliver Queen, billionaire and vigilante badass, want to date someone like Barry? He’s hardly got anything to offer, apart from his abilities. Sure, he has a great job, but to someone like Oliver, he might as well be paid in buttons. He can’t cook, can’t bake, lives with his adoptive father, spends what little free time he has curled up in front of his television indulging in Netflix binges. He is, in every sense of the word, a loser.

Plus, he’s still not entirely sure if Oliver’s into guys. There’s been a couple of times when he thought he caught the older’s eyes trailing over him, almost as though he’s trying to commit his frame to memory, but in all honesty, Barry’s pretty certain that he’s making it all up in his own head.

It seems like hours – but in reality, is probably only seconds – before Oliver lets out a chuckle, and turns to Barry. Barry avoids his gaze, until Oliver’s fingers skim his chin, tilting Barry’s face so that he has no choice but to look directly at him.

“You know, I was starting to wonder the same thing myself,” Oliver tells him, lips curving into a smirk. “But it’s a pretty poor excuse for a date, don’t you think?”

So. Not a date. Barry tries not to let his heart sink at that. But he searches Oliver’s eyes for any trace of awkwardness, or any sign of discomfort, but all he can read is a warmth radiating towards him. He swallows thickly, and waits for the other man to continue.

“Here’s what I propose. We finish these coffees, go back to my apartment, and load up Netflix and pretend that we’re going to watch something. But, in all honesty, I can’t promise I’m not going to get distracted by your lips.” At the words, Oliver’s eyes dart down, and Barry’s cheeks flush.

“Yeah?” Barry quips in return, but his voice trembles from the nerves. “Well, I- I can think of a way to solve that.”

They’re drifting closer, to the point where Oliver’s mouth is hovering just near his own, and he can feel the older man’s breath ghost over his lips.

“You can, huh?” Oliver asks, and is it Barry, or is there a slight tremble to Oliver’s voice, too?

“I mean, we could always distract each other with lips right now, and then we can pay attention to-”  He doesn’t quite get to finish what he’s saying, because before he knows it, Oliver’s lips are on his own, fingers brushing over his cheek in a gentle caress, and Barry lets out a soft groan on contact.

He’s thought about this often – for a long, long time. How Oliver would taste, how he would feel – would he be gentle? Rough? Desperate? None of the above? But somehow it’s all of those things and neither at the same time. It’s like a carefully choreographed dance – their lips moving in sync, tongues stroking together, tasting one another, and Barry attempts to pour everything into it – all of the longing, the attraction, the admiration that’s been building since before his accident – that seems to grow more and more by the day. In return, Oliver gives just as much as he does, and he finds himself optimistic that perhaps Oliver has thought about this moment as often as he has.

They break apart, and Barry can’t help the grin his lips spread into as he gazes back at the older man, who’s expression matches his own.

“Yeah, I’m sorry,” Oliver tells him, “I’m still not really convinced that I’ll be able to pay attention to a movie.”

As it turns out, Oliver’s right, of course. Some romcom that they’ve never seen before, nor hold any interest in, plays in the background when they’re back at Oliver’s apartment, and as far as the two men are concerned, there might as well be nothing. It’s all lips and tongues and bare flesh as their clothes fall away piece by piece until Oliver mumbles into Barry’s lips that perhaps they should move their business to the bedroom – and Barry can’t really find a reason to say no.

iguanamouth:

oh SHOOT well i cant swing 100 but how bout