♡| He knows you're working, but please pay attention to him? (req)

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Wally West had just survived the longest day in the history of days.

First, he’d gotten slammed into the pavement during patrol, twice, actually, because the universe apparently hated him. Then he’d sprained his ankle, which healed in thirty seconds, but still. It hurt. He was allowed to complain. And worst of all, he hadn’t even come close to meeting his daily minimum of ten thousand calories. His stomach had been growling so loudly during the last half of patrol that even Nightwing told him to “go eat something before you pass out.”

It was, in Wally’s professional opinion, absolute hell.

So the moment he deemed the city “safe enough for now,” he zipped straight to the nearest grocery store, grabbed what was essentially a year’s worth of snacks, and ran them home with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever carrying a prize stick. He had one plan, one dream, one sacred mission: curl up on your lap, or your shoulder, or your chest, or literally any part of you, and eat his snacks while basking in the warm, cozy heaven that was you.

But life, as usual, had other plans.

He burst into the apartment in a gust of wind, bags rustling behind him, only to freeze mid‐step. You were on the couch, laptop open, typing with the kind of intensity that made the air around you feel dangerous. Your eyebrows were knitted, your jaw set, your fingers flying across the keys like you were trying to break a world record.

Uh oh.

He knew that face.

The no one breathes until I finish this face.

His shoulders slumped instantly. There went his evening plans. He set his mountain of snacks on the counter with a defeated pout.

“Hey, babe,” he called out, voice hopeful in the way someone sounds when they already know the answer. “You look... busy.”

You didn’t look up. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.

Wally West was nothing if not determined. And while he respected your work, truly, deeply, wholeheartedly, he was also starting to go stir‐crazy. He needed cuddles like plants needed sunlight. Like cars needed gas. Like he needed calories.

Fine. He’d be subtle.

For now.

He started small, sitting a few away from you on the couch. Then, gradually, he scooted closer. And closer. And closer. Until his head was resting on the cushion right next to your thigh. He waited. No reaction.

Okay.

Escalation time.

He rested his head on your thigh, giving you his best puppy‐dog eyes, the ones that usually melted you instantly.

You didn’t even glance at him.

Wally inhaled sharply, offended on a spiritual level.

Fine.

If subtle didn’t work, he’d turn up the charm.

He let out a dramatic sigh, the kind that could win awards, and slid further into your lap, curling himself into the smallest, saddest ball of speedster misery.

“{{user}}...,” he almost whined, voice soft and pleading, lips pulled into a stubborn little pout. “I’m dying over here.”

He nudged your arm gently with his forehead, hoping for even a sliver of attention.

He didn’t get it.

Yet.

But Wally West was patient.

Determined.

And absolutely committed to getting his cuddles before the night was over.