I Just Don't Feel Incredible [a Barry Allen imagine]
Request: Hi Jules! Could I request some fluffy mess with Barry comforting the reader when she’s having a depressive episode? Like doesn’t wanna leave her house, mopey, etc and Barry just makes her feel better?? Love love love your work. No rush in this one. 💕💕💕
a/n: i need a barry…this is literALLY HOW I’M FEELING RN……..i need barry to do this ASAP
What’s the point of leaving the house? What’s the point of getting out of bed? Of eating? You’re pretty sure there is no point in doing anything. That is why you are laying in bed at three in the afternoon. It’s pointless. Everything is fucking pointless.
Holding the soft red square throw pillow to your chest, you squeeze your eyes shut at the gust of wind. Here he is, man of the hour; Mr. Barry Allen! Just who you didn’t want to see. Rolling over, you curl up on yourself, tucking your chin in your chest. Silently, you pray that the scarlet speedster will just leave you to suffer alone.
Much to your disappointment, he doesn’t. Instead, Barry flashes out of his regular button down and into a blue t-shirt and his gray hoodie. “Hey…” he mumbles in a soft tone as he climbs in bed with you. “What’s wrong, beautiful?” he whispers, playing with your hair. Ah, that sneaky bastard knows how much you enjoy when he does that.
Not a sound comes from you. It’s not like Barry’s surprised though. He… never gets a response on the first try. You exhale a sigh, moving your ‘Hakuna Matata’ tank top around when you roll on your side to face him. Ironic, isn’t it? You surely don’t feel very ‘hakuna matata’ today. For a moment, you focus on Barry’s eyes, watching how the cinnamon brown color mixes so well with the mint green.
Humming a song from his childhood, the brunette dries your cheeks with the pad of his thumb, thick eyelashes just barely touching his own cheeks. Good god, he is fucking beautiful. When he catches the sniffle and whimper that leaks from your lips, he shakes his head; not moving his eyelids. “No, no more tears, honey.” he coos in a gentle voice. “You don’t need to tell me what’s up…”
That’s one thing you love about Barry; he never pressures you into anything. Very slowly, you remove the pillow from your stomach, frowning when you set it aside. In a hesitant motion, which is really weird for a speedster, Barry snakes his thin, yet buff, arms around your waist. A small, but significant, sigh pushes past your lips and you mold your body against his. A picture perfect fit for the ages.
The speedster cracks a tiny smile, allowing his nimble fingers to curl at the back of your head, careful not to pull your hair. “I’m here, my princess…” he muses, dropping a kiss to the side of your temple, drawing you closer. You let out another sigh, lazily doodling on his slender hip; just above the waistband of his black boxer briefs. The ones that hug his thighs like a second skin and enhance his ass. “Tomorrow, I want to try to get you out of the house, okay, gorgeous?”
Instead of answering, you squeeze him tightly, muttering a barely audible ‘thank you’. Barry Allen somehow always knows just what you need. It’s amazing.