cybergoth1

[cybergoth1]

Hi user cybergoth1 how r u doingggg

omg hi babe:)) im currently traveling abroad!! im spending the next two months in barcelona. im learning catalan 🤠

[cybergoth1]

can you do some Jason Todd as a husband headcannon pls !! i just know that when he’s healed , he’s hauling his partner and getting TF out of Gotham , and popping out babies (GIRLDAD) and a nice job in a low-key town and maybe becomes a househusband 😋🤭(for real i’m 100% sure he would) but at the same time he is The Jason Todd . Hot , mysterious , emotional but also not , a big fat nerd in a brick body .

you know your daddy's home.

pairing: jason todd x fem!reader.

warnings/tags: fluffy, pre established relationship. my silly drabble about raising a daughter with jason todd. girl dad jason todd. husband jason todd.

author's note: hey babe i turned it into a drabble! hope you don't mind it!

"look, mommy! i'm batman!”

you suppressed a chuckle as you watched your five-year-old daughter standing tall on the couch, wearing a paper mask poorly shaped like batman’s cowl. the little girl came home from school, talking non-stop about the vigilant and refusing to take off her paper mask, even during lunch time, excitedly repeating what her teacher had said about nowday heroes.

"gotham needs me!"

she was trying to make her voice deeper as she jumped onto the floor. the cats, startled by the noise on the wooden floor, bolted away in a stampede.

"you're too pretty to be batman, baby girl".

your husband jason said as he stepped out of the bathroom. the scent of soap and shaving lotion lingered in the air as he walked down the hallway in just his sweatpants. his scars seemed more visible, glistening under the light as drops of water trailed down his bare back and chest.

“but how do you know what he looks like? he's always wearing a mask!” her childish voice rang out indignantly.

he picked her up effortlessly with one hand, while the other gently tugged the paper mask aside to look into her bright blue eyes — blue like his had been before the lazarus pit. her nose, mouth and ears were just like yours, a glimpse of you both in her youthful face.

"he sounds ugly, like a very old sad man. unlike you, princess".

"i'm not a princess, i'm vengeance!"

you laughed behind the stove.

"well, vengeance," he said, walking toward the apartment’s kitchen with her tiny legs wrapped around his hips "you can save gotham after eating your vegetables," he added with a smirk, putting her on the high chair.

she looked at him with wide eyes, as if he’d just handed her a death sentence.

"broccoli?"

"broccoli".

you placed the plate of food in front of her, the broccoli standing out between the rice and meat like a tiny, green nightmare. she looked up at you with pleading eyes, silently appealing to your good side.

you stroked her hair gently.

"if you don’t eat, i'll have to tell batman that his sidekick isn’t eating properly. you can't patrol without eating broccoli," he said, pulling out the chair to sit beside her. that was more than enough. with a disgusted expression, she began to eat, occasionally poking at the broccoli.

"hi, jay," you said, placing your hands on his broad shoulders and giving him a light massage. he softly kissed your left hand before looking up at you.

"how’s my other girl doing?" he asked with a smile, his lips still lingering against your hand. your daughter was so focused on hating the broccoli that she didn’t even notice the display of affection. normally, she would’ve made a gagging noise, followed by a dramatic, “bleh!”.

"she's missing you a lot" you said kissing the top of his head. a familiar scent makes you pause for a moment.

"you're using my shampoo again, aren't you?"

"maybe?"

©cybergoth1, 2025

[cybergoth1]

──── think i need someone older, just a little bit colder...

❤︎──── pairing: jason todd x older!reader.

❤︎──── summary: ❛❛there's nothing sweeter than you, his dad’s best friend.❞

warnings. +18. age gap. jason todd loves milfs. mommy kink. jason is whipped. switch!jason. headcanon. fem reader. reader is bruce's best friend. smut. reader is a mom. ©velvet-milk.

❤︎──── thinking about jason peter todd's weird fascination with you, his dad’s best friend and a legendary member of the justice league. you were a living myth, walking beside bruce wayne like an equal and, sometimes, more than one. he grew up watching you move through gotham like a storm disguised as a hero, sharp and untouchable. you fought side by side with his old man, but you never carried the same weight of darkness. oh, no. you smiled. you laughed. you stayed human.

❤︎──── and, even as soft and sweet as he remembers, you still the most capable person in every room you stepped into. even at those hollow, miserable galas, when the wayne manor stank of wealth and fake guests, you’d show up like sunlight cutting through stained glass. you never played politics. you never pretended. and when you noticed him, the teenager with a rough past trying too hard to be brave and mature, you didn’t condescend. you didn’t ignore him. you saw him.

❤︎──── you offered small things. advice, praise, quiet conversations in corners when no one else cared to ask how he was doing. things that shouldn’t have meant so much. but they did. they still do. you slowly became his ideal, his unreachable fantasy, long before he understood what that even meant. he looked for glimpses of you in every single girl he dated in his teenage years. and in his adult life too. but none of them were ever you.

❤︎──── they were too young. too unsure and insecure like young girls often are, still searching for who they were, while you had always seemed so certain, so fully formed, like you’d stepped out of some myth he was never meant to truly touch. he wanted that certainty. that power. that stability. he wanted your lovely hands and voice guiding him, praising him, touching him, telling him how good he was doing. god, he wanted you to use that same commanding tone that used to keep him focused in the field and now it just makes his dick throbb.

❤︎──── and even now, years later, after the grave, the pit, his death, he sees you and feels something raw twist in his gut. you look older, sexier, your cheekbones cut cleaner now, your gaze even steadier. he sees faint lines around your mouth when you laugh too hard, the way a few gray hairs peek through from stress, ones you sometimes try to hide with a bit of dye. he's twitching in his jeans just watching you walk across the damn room.

❤︎──── he wonders if you’ve noticed the way he looks at you now. he wonders what you’d say if you caught him staring like that, if you realized that the boy you once mentored, once patched up and encouraged, now wants to get on his knees for you. wants to bend you over and see if those laugh lines deepen when you scream his name because his cock feels just a little too good while bullying your cervix.

❤︎──── jason's gotten off to the thought of it more times than he’ll ever admit. your voice in his ear, soft and knowing, whispering, "that’s it, baby. just like that." you calling him a good boy while he falls apart on your tongue. he wants a chance to prove to you that he’s a grown man now, a man who can make you laugh, who can protect you, who can make you cum over and over until you’re nothing but a sobbing mess. nothing like the civilian loser you married years ago, the one you settled for.

❤︎──── and jason would be so good to your kids, a patient, cool stepdad. and unlike your man, he’d be strong enough to protect them. he’d work hard to be a good role model. he imagines himself tying their little shoes, helping with homework he barely remembers, listening to them ramble about cartoons and school drama like it matters. jason would even sit through every terrible school play and every parent-teacher conference. all for you.

❤︎──── he thinks about your age constantly. not in a mocking way. but in a worshipful way. you’ve seen shit in your many years as a vigilant. fought gods and aliens. you don’t flinch from violence, don’t coddle him. you’re smarter than any woman, any girl, he’s ever met, tougher than most men he’s fought. you don’t need anyone, and that’s exactly why he wants to be the one you choose. the one you look at.

❤︎──── and if you ever let him close enough, he’d show you exactly what kind of man he’s become. what kind of man you helped shape. he’d thank you for every soft word and firm lesson with his mouth between your strong legs, making out with your sweet cunt, or with his cock buried deep inside, with his hands gripping your hips like you belong to him. he’d call you "ma’am" or "ma", soft and reverent in your ear, even as he pounded hard into you. he'd kiss every inch of your body, and made you feel like a giggling, breathless highschool girl all over again. you just had to give him a chance.

©velvet-milk. ⸺ thank you for reading!

[cybergoth1]

GUILTY PLEASURES

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

divider by: cafekitsune & omi-resources word count: 1.8k synopsis: You cheat on your boyfriend Jason with the Red Hood a/n: To my anon who requested this hope you liked it! I had to rush through editing so apologies for any grammar errors y'all might find. warnings: 18+ mdni, use of the words whore & slut, a little rough.

Jason Todd had been tailing a weapons deal all night, dressed in full Red Hood gear, helmet and all. The scum he’d come to intercept were already zip-tied and unconscious in the back of a stolen van. Meanwhile, you had told him you were going out with your girlfriends and had stopped texting him about an half hour ago much to his worry, so instead of going home like he planned he decided for Red hood to make a pass by the club you had went to.

Which was why he was leaning against his bike, by the alley across the street watching the people entering and exiting. He straightened up as you stumbled out giggling with your friends and he huffed both annoyed and amused at the sight. You were in the middle of saying something, hands waving animatedly when you suddenly paused at the sight of him.

You said something to your friends before you began staggering towards him.

“Reeeeed!” you sang—sang—as you stumbled closer, high heels clacking on the wet pavement, your dress slightly askew and hair tousled from what looked like a hell of a night out.

Jason froze. “Y/N?”

You beamed, oblivious to his tension. “Youuuu know my name,” you hiccuped, staggering toward him with a grin that could short-circuit every neuron in his brain. “God, its not fair that your voice this hot.”

He coughed, straightening. “You shouldn’t be here. It’s late. And dangerous.”

You only grinned, as you staggered closer hand clutching his arm as you pressed yourself up against him. “Mhmm good thing I have a big bad crime lord to keep an eye on me.”

Jason cleared his throat unsure whether he should be amused or offended that you were flirting with him—well Red Hood.

You, meanwhile, were utterly unbothered.

In fact, you leaned closer, pressing up on your toes like you were about to tell him a state secret. “You know,” you whispered conspiratorially, breath warm against the edge of his helmet, “I think about you. Like… a lot.”

Jason swallowed. “Is that so?”

You giggle. “Mhm hm,” Your wandering fingers begin to trail up under his shirt, smile growing as you felt his muscles tense. “All those hard muscles, that sexy voice, you’re like every bad decision I’ve ever wanted to make all rolled into one.”

Jason sucked in a slow breath, jaw tightening behind the helmet. The feel of your fingers skating up his abdomen sent a jolt through him, and he hated—loved—how easily you could fluster him like this. Especially dressed like that. Especially talking like this.

You took advantage of his frozen state, your grin downright wicked as you nudged him backward, step by step, deeper into the alley’s shadows. His back hit the brick wall with a dull thud, but he didn’t resist. He just watched you, tense beneath the armour, like a predator unsure if he was about to pounce—or be devoured.

Your fingers slipped out from beneath his shirt, nails grazing down his chest plate before trailing lower—lower still—until they flirted with the waistband of his tactical pants.

“Y/N—” His voice was a warning. A plea. A prayer. He wasn’t sure which.

“Just relax, Hood… no one’s gotta know,” you purr, voice velvet-draped sin, your smile all teeth and temptation.

Jason’s jaw clenched, his breath catching as your fingers danced at the edge of his restraint—and his patience. He had fought crime lords, torn through ambushes, taken bullets without blinking…but you? You were something else.

The second your fingers brushed against him, Jason snapped.

In one fluid, furious motion, he spun you, pressing you up against the cold brick wall. His chest pressed hard into your back, the weight of him pinning you effortlessly in place. One gloved hand flattened against your stomach to hold you still, and the alley suddenly felt claustrophobic with heat and tension.

“Is this what you want?” he growled against your ear, voice rough and ragged. “To be bent over in a filthy alley and be taken by a criminal like some cheap whore?”

You let out a soft, breathless noise in answer—needy, aching—and pushed back into him deliberately, rubbing back against him. The sound he made in response was low and guttural, somewhere between a curse and a prayer.

The hand not holding you still began to unbuckle his belt as he unzipped himself just enough to set his throbbing length free. Then he gripped the hem of your dress and shoved it up with no patience at all, his fingers trailing fire against your bare skin. You felt the sharp tug as something tore, heard the hiss of his breath as his hand disappeared into his pocket of his jacket—where he stashed your now-ruined panties like a trophy.

The cold air brushing your exposed pussy had you whining, your voice breaking into a desperate whimper. “Please,” you breathed, unable to hold back. “Please.”

One gloved hand reached for your throat while the other wrapped around his hard length, lining himself up before thrusting into you in one smooth motion. You were dripping wet and offered no resistance as he slid inside you with ease, your eyes rolling back as a low groan rumbled from his chest. He was was so long and thick that he filled up every inch of you.

A loud whine tore past your lips and his hand moved to muffle your mouth as he pulled out. “You gotta be quiet doll, you don’t want everyone hearing me ruin you now do you?”

You tried to say something through his hand, but he chose that exact moment to thrust sharply back into you. Whatever words you had died in a needy moan as your cunt clenched down around his cock. The last of his restraint snapped at the sensation, and he began pounding into you in earnest.

Part of him knew how wrong and fucked up this was—you were technically cheating on him with the Red Hood. But at the same time, he was the Red Hood. So were you really cheating? The complication of it all only made him thrust into you harder,  taking you rougher than he usually did.

He might’ve felt guilty—might’ve—if not for how much you seemed to love it. His hand shifted from your mouth, gloved fingers curling at your lips. You didn’t hesitate, taking them in eagerly, sucking around them, gagging and drooling as he pushed them deeper.

“That’s it, doll. Take everything I give you,” he groaned, voice low and cooing—a gentle contrast to the brutal pace of his thrusts. “Such a good girl, lettin’ me use your holes.”

The sounds echoing through the alley were utterly obscene—from the wet squelch of your pussy to the sharp slap of skin on skin, and the broken moans spilling past your lips as you begged for more.

“Mmmf—feels… s’good—fuck…” you mumbled around his fingers, the words wet and barely coherent, spit trailing down your chin where his hand kept your mouth stretched open.

“Look at you… so fucked out on my cock” He groaned, “You’re such a little slut taking it so well.”

The bruising grip around your waist shifted to your clit, his fingers rubbing fast, harsh circles that made your hips jerk as you cried out. But with his cock still buried deep inside you and his strength anchoring you in place, there was nowhere to go—no escape—as he worked you toward your orgasm.

It hit you hard and fast—your head falling back, your entire body tensing before collapsing into trembling aftershocks as stars danced across your vision. He kept pounding you through it, relentless, until he finally followed, burying himself deep as he came with a broken curse, emptying himself inside you.

For a long moment, the only sound that filled the silent alley was the sound of both your heavy, ragged breathing as you both fought to catch your breaths and calm your racing hearts. Your palms pressed flat against the brick wall, still trembling, while his body remained close behind—forehead resting against your shoulder, chest rising and falling against your back in rhythm with your own.

Neither of you spoke. Not at first.

Then, finally, the quiet was broken by the low rasp of Red Hood’s voice, “You know,” he drawled, still breathless, “I don’t think your boyfriend would approve of what we just did.”

You let out a breathless, incredulous laugh, your head tilting back just enough for your eyes to find him over your shoulder. “Oh no,” you murmured with mock concern, “you think he’ll be mad?”

Red Hood huffed as he carefully began to pull out of you, his cum immediately dribbling from your well-used hole. “Well, he certainly won’t approve.”

You turned to look at him, your eyes wide with faux innocence, lashes fluttering like you hadn’t just been thoroughly fucked against a brick wall. “Really?” you said, voice light, teasing—dangerously sweet. “Even after the mind-blowing orgasm we both just had?”

Jason froze. “What.”

You tilted your head, your grin only growing. “I know it’s you, Jason.”

Silence.

He blinked, eyes searching yours, as if he’d misheard. “What… how—”

“Baby,” you cut him off with a laugh, soft and incredulous. “You seriously thought I wouldn’t figure it out?”

Jason just stared at you, lips parting slightly. You could see the moment it fully registered, the sharp shift behind his eyes as his mind caught up.

“You knew this whole time?” he asked, almost in disbelief.

You huffed and rolled your eyes as you tug down your dress. “I wouldn’t cheat on you, Jason. Come on. I’ve known for months. You’re not exactly subtle.”

His mouth opened, but you kept going, voice now edged with affection and amused exasperation. “You leave your gear everywhere. Under the bed? Really? That’s your big secret hiding spot?”

Jason let out a groan and dragged the helmet off his head, revealing sweat-mussed hair and a flushed, stunned expression caught somewhere between impressed, exasperated, and undeniably aroused.

“You are such a menace,” he muttered as he pulled you in, his voice low and full of something torn between amusement and affection.

Your hands came up to cup his face, fingers brushing along his jaw, thumbs stroking gently across flushed skin. His eyes flicked shut at the touch, just for a second—like he couldn’t help but melt into you, even after everything.

“Yeah,” you murmured, a soft smile tugging at your lips, “but I’m your menace.”

Your lips met softly, a gentle contrast to everything that had come before. When you finally pulled away, your expression shifted into something sheepish.

“You’re gonna have to carry me,” you mumbled, still breathless. “I don’t think my legs are working after how hard you fucked me.”

He snorted, the sound low and amused, as he smoothly lifted you into his arms without so much as a grunt of effort. “We still have all night,” he said, glancing at you with a wicked glint in his eye. “And trust me… you won’t be walking properly for a week.”

And with that, he carried you off to his bike, so he could take you back to the apartment to get started on round two.

[cybergoth1]

jason who drives fast but never when you're passenger. not that he's a careless driver normally, he just cares much more about what could happen to you than what could happen to him. normally he's the type who accidentally runs a red light because he misjudged the distance and thought he could pass a yellow. maybe he's went over a couple curbs here and there when turning, and maybe his stops aren't the smoothest either. what could he say? it's not like he ever took a drivers ed class. however, when his everything is sitting right next to him, how could he not be careful? he's slowing down into his stops, eases into his turns, and doesn't speed before the yellow light could turn red. he takes passenger princess literally in the way he makes sure you're comfortable and cared for.

he was much more precautious about his motorcycle. jason hesitated for months to finally let you on. he originally wasn't going to let you on at all, but unfortunately for him, he's susceptible to your pleading and gave in eventually. he gave you a lecture about the proper clothes and making sure your helmet was on at all times beforehand, setting a clear rule that could not be broken. there's nothing he's more serious about than your safety. he keeps your arms wrapped his torso and gently taps your thigh when he feels you're not hugging him tight enough. he even got a custom helmet made to fit you perfectly, despite him rarely letting you join him. that's not to say he doesn't like it when you're with him. he likes feeling you behind him, likes the way your hair is tousled by the wind and helmet combo. but best of all he likes the way you smile afterward, a toothy grin with stars in your eyes and adrenaline still coursing through your veins. he loves making you happy most of all, and if a late night ride on his motorcycle does the trick, he can be persuaded.

[cybergoth1]

──── everybody knows that i'm a good boy, officer...

❤︎──── pairing: dick grayson x officer!reader.

❤︎──── summary: ❛❛as the newest cop on blüdhaven’s force, you hated masked freaks. nightwing, the masked freak himself, wants nothing more than your delicious, sweet approval. and maybe your naked body.❞

WARNINGS. dick wants your pussy so much he looks fucking stupid. 18+, jerking off. authority kink on his part. he loves a hot woman in uniform. flirting, charming nightwing. female reader. officer reader. ©velvet-milk.

❤︎──── The first time he saw you, he had just taken down two armed robbers outside a liquor store — easy work, nothing fancy. A normal friday night for him. Dick was still catching his breath, escrima sticks holstered, the night wind tugging at his suit as he turned toward the flashing lights of the approaching squad car.

He muttered something to Oracle about the cops in the area and cut his comms. The flashing lights bathed the street in red and blue, casting just enough glow to catch the look you gave him — bored, patronizing, and vaguely amused. But the moment the window rolled down, he got hit with your full pretty face. And rude tone.

"Sweetheart, I know times are hard and stuff, but soliciting’s still a crime in this part of town."

Nice.

Your partner let out a strangled noise beside you. She leaned toward you like she could physically stop the words from coming out of your mouth, but it was far, far too late. You didn’t flinch. Just blew a bubble with your gum and popped it. Dick glanced down at himself — the skintight suit, the very iconic symbol across his chest — then looked back up at you.

"I literally just stopped a robbery."

You shrugged, unimpressed. "Cool. And I just filed a report. We all have hobbies."

To his credit, Dick didn’t get mad. Just gave you this slow, stunned little laugh, like he wasn’t sure if he was offended or intrigued.

"Wow. And here I thought I had a decent relationship with the BHPD after all these years."

You smiled sweetly, razor-sharp. "Oh, don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against sex workers."

Your partner in the passenger seat looked like she wanted to crawl into the glove compartment. She pressed a hand to her face and whispered, horrified, "Oh my God… that’s Nightwing."

You didn’t even flinch.

"Night-who?" you said, glancing at her like she’d just made up a word. "Why would I know his stage name?"

She turned to you, pale. "He’s, like… famous. National superhero famous."

Yeah, he fucking was. Thank you very much.

He took one last look at you — still lounging behind the wheel, smirking like you hadn’t just verbally curb-stomped a national hero. The other cop couldn’t even meet his eyes. Poor woman looked like she wanted to dissolve into her seat from secondhand embarrassment.

"Have a good night, officer," he said, voice clipped but smooth.

Then he turned on his heel, tapped his comms. "Oracle, remind me to review Blüdhaven precinct relations tomorrow," he muttered, raising his escrima stick and firing the grapple line. "Preferably before I set myself on fire again."

The line snapped taut, and he vanished into the night sky.

❤︎──── Of course he kept tabs on you after that night. You called him a hooker, straight to his face, and somehow looked obscenely hot while doing it. What was he supposed to do after that? Move on?

He was a simple man. A simple man with a morally flexible sense of privacy and way too much access to high-end surveillance tech. At the moment, he had four tabs open on the BHPD’s internal database. When Babs and Tim asked, he muttered something about "tracking a person of interest in the department."

Which, technically, wasn’t a lie. You were very interesting. You had a sharp mouth, a mean stare, perfect lips, and the kind of tits that made even the Nightwing suit feel a little tight.

"Yeah," he mumbled to himself, eyes fixed on your ID photo. "That’s the suspect. Definitely her."

He kept digging. It wasn’t enough to memorize your patrol schedule and ID badge, no, he had to go deeper. He found your Police Academy files. Graduated top of your class. Commendations in firearms, tactical response, and, of course, disciplinary reports for "insubordination" and "excessive sarcasm."

Then came your field test footage. Blurry body cam recordings. One of you talking down a suspect at gunpoint with zero backup. Another of you pinning a guy twice your size to the hood of a cruiser.

Very sexy of you, officer.

So he kept in close contact with the BHPD — closer than he needed to, if anyone was being honest about it. It had been years since Dick hung up the badge. But as Nightwing, he still had full access to department files, incident reports, internal memos, almost everything. All the tools of his former life, right at his fingertips.

And lately? He’d been using them for one very specific reason. You.

Every report you wrote, every arrest logged under your badge number, every disciplinary note with your name at the top, he read them all. More than once. It wasn’t intel gathering anymore. It was something else.

Something worse.

And you looked at him like he was a freak, every single time he showed up at a crime scene near your precinct. Last time, there was a body on the floor, half a dozen uniforms already securing the perimeter, and you crouched low, gloves on, examining blood spatter like it was just another tuesday. He tried to offer something helpful, something sharp, something detective-y.

You didn’t even look up.

"Sure thing, doll," you said, tone dry as bone. "Let me know if you wanna borrow a flashlight."

Then you stood, brushed past him, and kept working. He was still standing there ten seconds after you walked away, jaw tight, pride stinging, wondering what the hell was wrong with him that that turned him on. The dismissal. The uniform. The way your hips moved when you walked.

Jesus, he hadn’t been that hard in months.

Later that night he found himself alone in his apartment, right after patrol, hand wrapped tight around his cock, jerking off with embarrassing urgency to the mental image of your thighs straining against those uniform pants. He moaned softly, his thumb touching his leaking tip.

Dick could almost see it when he closed his eyes with a tiny whimper.

You, officer, climbing into his lap in the backseat of your cruiser, straddling him like you owned him. Belt undone, holster still strapped to your thigh. His hands cuffed behind him, helpless to do anything but take it.

You’d ride him so fucking hard, your pretty little pussy gripping him tight, warm and soaked around his cock. One hand tangled in his black hair, yanking when he got too mouthy, the other braced against the fogged-up glass of the squad car window as your hips slammed down, again and again, using him like he was yours.

He’d choke on a groan, eyes rolling back, biting the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood, because you wouldn’t let him finish until you were done. Until you were shaking on top of him, breathless and spent, nails dragging down his chest.

He came faster than he wanted to. Pathetic, really. He groaned your name like a fucking prayer, teeth sunk into his own wrist to keep quiet, while hot, messy cum spilled over his fist, his stomach, his shirt — hips jerking up off the mattress, desperate for more.

Desperate for you.

He looked up at the ceiling with a sigh, hands still sticky with his own cum like some desperate, horny teenager who’d never even touched a woman.

What the hell had you done to him, officer?

[cybergoth1]

𝒔𝒆𝒆 𝒚𝒂 𝒔𝒑𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒘𝒃𝒐𝒚… ch. 2

ᴀɴ ᴜɴᴛᴇɴᴀʙʟᴇ ᴛʀᴜᴄᴇ!

Ch. 1 here

❣ Dick Grayson x F!reader

❣ cowboy bebop au; neo-noir space western crackfic, loosely follows the plotline of the anime; animal(s) with human-engineered intelligence; science fiction ❣ cw: angst, romantic and existential; begrudging friends to lovers; eventual smut; graphic depictions and themes of violence; mentions of death; nightmares, cop corruption; stress crying ❣ MDNI ❣ Word Count:  6.5 k ❣ Ch. 2 Summary: Dick and Jason welcome pick up meet a mysterious girl who knows more than she lets on, with a connection to their father. As they make room for each other on the Bebop spacecraft, Dick tries to make the best of a mess you’ve dragged him into, despite Jason’s disapproval. You desperately need a goddamn nap and some food. As for Haley, the grey dog with three legs... she just hopes that you’ll buy her some of the name-brand dog food for her next meal.

❣ Author’s Note(s): 

→ [Spike Spiegel, I see you in everyone I’ve ever loved.] → This chapter is more personal than I wanted it to be, but I am too tired to edit. Maybe it’s more dialogue heavy than I’d like it to be but hey, I’ve never written a plot this complex before.  → Mysteries abound! What the hell is everyone hiding? And who’s going to betray who? How badly does Dick wanna fuck you? Stay tuned to find out, babes!

Chapter 2: an untenable truce

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　　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　 　　 　　　　    ੈ✧̣̇˳·˖✶   ✦　　

.⋆⭒˚.⋆☾ .🪐˖☽⋆⭒˚.⋆

One foot in front of the other, you chant to yourself. You’ll be there soon. The light is just in the distance, there has to be shelter over the next hill. You keep forcing yourself forward, but it was as if your arms and legs were stuck in a thick sludge. Time felt like a dense, gelatinous ooze and the more you tried to pump your legs, the farther the light seemed to drift. You don’t know where you are, but you know that the darkness around you is expansive, only more so the longer you try to run toward the light. Keep running. No matter how long you ran, you never got tired, the threat of darkness seemingly fueling your determination to keep moving.

.⋆⭒˚.⋆☾ aboard the Bebop, somewhere in the Solar System˖☽⋆⭒˚.⋆

Two brothers sat idly on a scratchy sofa, face aglow by the television’s blue light. The obnoxious clang of  a cowbell ricochets off of the titanium spaceship, intermittently punctuated by static; no guarantee of service when you’re near the asteroid belt.

“Stop chewing on the cable, Haley,” whistles the shorter, leaner brother, snapping his fingers to call attention to a three-legged, pitiable creature. He lounges back in an insufficiently sized loveseat, eyes scanning the screen with a lit cigarette hanging in the balance, right between his lips. Occasionally, he sneaks a glance over the coffee table to see his brother, larger and bulkier and reclined in what was usually his own sofa of choice. Streaks of hair, tussled vivid white under the harsh fluorescents framed a rugged face, mouth set in a firm line as he focused on the screen, sulking about their predicament chained up in his lab.

Judy, the buxom blonde of Big Shot (For the Bounty Hunters) stood clad in plaid, lewd squeals grating against the eardrums. The grey dog whines and hides its snout under its remaining front paw, canine distress now joining the cacophony. On the TV, Judy is unceremoniously pushed aside by her gratuitously violent costar, voluptuous curves rippling in the wind, barely contained by minimal clothing. Punch starts rattling off active bounties, mug shots scrolling through the screen as he shoots off his pistol, aimless.

“All 300,000 bounty hunters in the star system and not a single one o’ ya coffee-boilers has caught our mighty fine dame of the ‘our…”

When the mugshot wrap ends on a glowering face framed by ginger hair, the younger brother starts muttering under his breath.

“Coulda had her.” 

Irritation floods the man on the loveseat, and he takes a slow inhale. He slams his thumb on the remote control’s power off button, and the Bebop living room is plunged into darkness, lit only by the flaming end of a cigarette. 

.⋆⭒˚.⋆☾ .🪐˖☽⋆⭒˚.⋆

Waves of pounding pressure in your skull. That was the first thing you were aware of when you came to, mouth desert dry and muscles aching with a frozen soreness. Goosebumps rupturing on your skin alerted you to the frigidness shaking your bones. Fighting against your eyelids, crusted shut by the most unrestful sleep, the blur in front of your eyes slowly focuses under the glow of a lamp somewhere in the corner of the room. A weight on your ankle is the second, coherent thing you noticed; a cuff chained to the steel bed frame, igniting a spark of fear. Somber tension reverberated throughout the halls, eeriness bounding off of the metal walls.

Sitting up way too fast, a dizzy rush unsettling your head, you whip your eyes down, making sure that all of your appendages were intact, that you were clothed in the garments you put on this morning — Was it even this morning? How long have I been out? Your spine skitters under your skin, and you taste the bitterness of unfamiliarity. 

Or was it bile? Where the fuck am I?

Panic creeps up alongside every thump of your heart, fighting to overtake reason even though you do everything in your power to focus — assessing your surroundings, reflexively locating an escape route, something to break the shackle. Your gun! You look around the room, seeing your keys and jacket laid out neatly on the solid steel table in the middle of the room. The most important three items, though, were missing. No gun, no rolls of film in sight, no wallet. Bile makes its way up your esophagus as hyperventilation threatens to overwhelm you. You look at the cold metal table, bright medical lights blaring down on it from above. A few tools were lined on a tray next to your belongings: you spy a scalpel and surgical tongs. Fuck. The bile is clawing its way out now. You couldn’t reach any weapons. 

Stupidly, you yank at the chain a few times with all your might. Skin straining against the thick metal of your shackles, your rigorous yanking only leaves you groaning, an anklet of bruises that were sure to cause you hell when you got out of here. If you got out of here. Maybe if you could pull on the chain with your arms? Was the bed frame attached with nails or was it welded? Fuck. You felt the tears sting your skin as they escaped, a desperate sob along with them.

Water, you needed water. You couldn’t scream yet. Your eyes dart around the room, up the walls, tracing the ceilings. There was only one entrance, and maybe a vent behind that industrial shelf? You could crawl through it, probably… There was no way out, though, if you couldn’t get that fucking shackle off of your ankle.

There was a nightstand next to you, with a reading lamp, a cup of water, and some painkillers. Outside your room, you could hear the sniffling of a dog, its snout making whiny little sounds as the sound of blunt nails scratching metal mixes with the general discomfort of the entire situation.

You’d have to face it.

So you scream, every last bit of energy you have left in you put into a brokenly vicious, bloodcurdling scream.

☄. *. ⋆

“This is your fault, Richard,” Jason growls at his older brother, “I am not the one who deviated from the plan and brought some stranger along. A stranger who has a gun and enough contraband to send us to Pluto.” The steam from Jason’s ears was palpable, almost reminding Dick of their father when he was seething but trying to keep a lid on his temper. He keeps his hands busy, cleaning both Dick’s and his guns with practiced precision and muttering under his breath, “Fucking PLUTO, Richard.” 

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Dick attempts to assuage his brother, “I’m sorry, but what was I supposed to do? Leave her there? We don’t even know what Ivy threw at her, she could have died, Jason.” Hands on his hips, giving his brother the “I know best by virtue of seniority” look and waiting for an answer, cigarette in one hand while the other gestured his own frustration.

“You drop goons like maggots on the daily and this is the one person you want to save?” Jason makes no effort to hide his scorn as he glides the microfiber cloth over the barrel of the gun he was cleaning. Your gun.

Quite honestly, Dick doesn’t really know yet why he threw you over his shoulder and back into the safety of the Bebop. Dick and Jason had been a team for years, never letting eyes pry into their partnership, carefully evading ISSP and the Syndicate alike. He had no idea who you were, but he didn’t want to admit to recklessness. 

“First of all, she’s not a maggot. Don’t be rude. She helped me escape, technically. Second, she’s got a fuckton to answer for when she wakes up.” Maybe turning the conversation toward the more interesting matter at hand would distract Jason from being mad at him, Dick reasons. “I don’t know about you, but aren’t you even the least bit interested in what’s on those rolls of film?”

“Nope,” Jason makes sure his voice sounds sufficiently clipped. “Not interested in being executed by ISSP firing squad. None of those pigs can aim, it’d take too many shots to kill me and I’d rather it be done in one go.”

“What’s done is done,” Dick says, allowing a note of contrition through his words. “But better we have her than ISSP, no? And how does she know dad?” Both brothers had combed through your belongings, and found your medical emergency contact card that stated, neatly in print: ‘In Case of Emergency, contact Bruce Wayne at ISSP.’

 Jason’s scowl deepens, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he focuses on wiping the fingerprints from each gun and knife laid out on the coffee table in front of him, his back aching from the lumpy old loveseat. 

“Fuck if I know,” he says stonily, a white streak of hair falling over his eyes as he concentrated on running a cloth over the trigger. “All I do know is that I’m calling ‘not it’ on calling Dad about this.”

“Huh?” Dick’s stony face morphs into one of slight bemusement.

“You know we have to call him. And it ain’t gonna be me, Richard.”

Dick snorts, coming to sit down next to Jason and reassembling his own gun with practiced dexterity. 

“Do we know what she got dosed with? Is it contagious?” Dick’s mind flashes back to the moment Ivy blew a handful of dust into your face, the fluidity with which your body collapsed — your head would’ve split open if he hadn’t lunged to ensure your skull would hit his hand instead of the pavement. It wasn’t an active decision so much as a reflex. He hadn’t inhaled enough of that powder to feel anything other than a slight headache and dizziness, but he’d recovered in less than a few hours. You, on the other hand, had slept through the night and through breakfast. Dick had made sure to check in on you every so often, just to make sure you hadn’t died on them.

 “I took a look at the shit Ivy threw at her – it’s a neuromuscular blocker; paralyzes the victim for a few hours depending on dosage. But this one didn’t seem to be particularly high in concentration,” he pauses and looks pointedly at Dick, “So you can monitor her condition. She’ll need lots of fluids and food when she gets up,” he looks down at his watch, “Which should be soon.” 

Only a few seconds later did a blood curdling scream rip its way through the Bebop.

“LET. ME. OUT!” Dick’s eye twitches as your screeches repeat, gradually increasing in volume by the demand. Jason figures that his capacity for tolerating his brother’s antics knows no bounds. “ONCE I’M FREE I’M GOING TO KICK YOUR ASS.” Your threat echoes down the hall, reverberating off of the metal walls of the spaceship. Your sonic assault continues for several minutes.

“Make sure you ask her where she got this little number,” Jason adds calmly, holding up your gun and looking at it with the tiniest hint of admiration. 

“What do you mean? I have to question her?” Dick seems to doubt himself for a moment, your wails disturbing the mundane peace of the Bebop’s living room, a profound intimidation keeping him from seeing the pretty girl in Jason’s lab.

“I’m not the one who brought her here,” Jason runs a hand through the white streak in his hair, “and honestly what I did hear during yesterday’s bust doesn’t make her sound like a walk in the park.” 

“Fair,” Dick doesn’t refute his brother. He turns the conversation toward more pressing matters. “She has to stop eventually, right?” he reasons while wiping down one of his switchblades before clipping it back into his left-hand pocket. It’s not like you could keep screaming forever, you’d lose your voice eventually. Haley hides her snout under a large paw and whines, ears cowered as your screams continue.

“I HAVE ENOUGH C4 IN MY SHIP TO FUCK UP THE NICE HANGOUT YOU GOT HERE!” Another ear splitting screech follows.

“Just—,” Jason closes his eyes, breathing through his nose and pointing angrily toward his quarters, where they had you resting on a bed in his lab. “Just go deal with it, I have enough of a headache as is.” Jason grits through his teeth, huffing through his ruffled feathers and silently cursing his luck as he stands up and disappears into his bedroom, leaving Dick to rummage through the fridge for something suitable to give someone who’d just been turbo-dosed by an anesthetic nerve agent. Haley continues to whine, desperate for an end to your distress.

Dick mindlessly wonders if Jason could possibly recreate it in his lab on the second floor of the Bebop; it’d come in handy. Then they wouldn’t have to expend so much energy chasing after violent goons with bounties on their heads and arsenals that only the worst kinds of people possessed.

☄. *. ⋆

You crouch into a defensive position on your bed the second you hear the hydraulics of the steel door slide open, the hoarse scream dying in your throat. 

“Quiet, please!” a man’s voice breeches the entrance before his form, deep, and friendly,  “You’re scaring Haley.” The handsome guy who had intruded on your bust strolled into the room, his boots colliding with the steel floor and doing nothing to calm your nerves. You scoped him, trying to take note of everything, anything you could use to your advantage. You had to escape. 

“What the fuck am I doing here? Uncuff me.” Your voice was vicious under its hoarse strain. As threatening as you could muster in your weakened state.

In his hands was a tray lined with a sandwich, an apple, and a glass of water. No metal utensils for you to grab and use. 

The man was muscular, much larger than you, but you think you could last long enough in a fight with him to escape; especially if you could get your hands on that scalpel. You’d just have to dodge him, dodge every attack until he tired himself out. You clocked the knife in the pocket of his pants, holster under his jacket. 

“Can’t do that just yet, sweetheart,” he flashes you an apologetic smile, placing the tray on your night stand. You look at the food and drink apprehensively, eyes flitting back and forth across the room. “It’s not poisoned,” the guy says gently, lifting the glass and waterfalling a sip into his own mouth. 

You look up at him, watch his Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallows, readying yourself to smash his nose in if he comes any closer.

“Let. Me. Go.” You demand again, slower. Hoping to God you sounded menacing enough that he’d think at least twice before touching you.

You keep conducting your desperate, pointless search, head swiping back and forth as you look around as you try to find yourself a weapon - maybe if you broke the ceramic lamp in a really specific way? The glass of water? 

“I wouldn’t,” the man says again, amused. You whip your gaze toward him again.

“Why am I here? What happened to me?” Oh god, you were going to hurl. A few breaths in. A few breaths out. Breathe, you reminded yourself. An anxious weight pulls under your chest.

“You’re safe. You’re on the Bebop. We took you here after you got dosed with a paralyzing agent by Poison Ivy.” 

You knew better than to trust a good-looking man who assured your safety. 

“Why didn’t you take me to a hospital? Are you perverts? Oh my god, I’m gonna be murdered by perverts,” you wail, near hysterics.

“What? No! You just got dosed with a strong anesthetic — you’ll recover,” he explains. “Probably will be groggy and sore.” He sounded patient, confident in his ability to handle himself. He didn’t seem threatened by you at all as he recounted the events of the past 36 hours to you.  “It was hardly acceptable to bring you into a hospital, I figured you wouldn’t want people to find out about your contraband.” He flashes a winning smile at you, seemingly proud of himself for thinking that far ahead. 

You just stare. Stone still. 

Fuck, were they going to rat you out? Slit your throat and take the rolls of film for themselves? It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s tried.

You let yourself slowly pick up the glass of water, eyes never leaving him as you sip, desperate to quench the dry burn in your throat. The man stood there the whole time, just looking at you with such patience that it made you want to start screaming again. After a beat, you ask:

“If you’re not a pervert, then why am I chained up here?” You could tell he was ISSP, or maybe former ISSP, by the way he fired a gun, the way he shifted his weight before pulling the trigger. You remember telling yourself to take note of that as the both of you tried to escape from the basement of C’est La Vie. Maybe you could persuade him to call Bruce to vouch for you.

“I mean, we couldn’t exactly let you loose once we treated you, could we? You had some interesting items in your possession that I’m sure you’d rather stay out of the wrong hands.” 

You could tell he wanted more information, so you kept your mouth shut, trying to think of ways to keep his mind off of the illegal trove caught under your possession.

“What did you say your name was, again?” you start, sipping slowly at your water and calculating your chances of getting out of here alive.  

“I’m hurt you don’t remember, baby,” he runs a hand through his hair, kind of scratching the back of his scalp, a sad excuse for a smolder shot your way.

You sort of sniff, lip curling in menace instead of a response.

“Anyway, my name is Dick,” he continues. “Yours?”

“You took my wallet, you know who I am. Now let me fucking go.”

You have a hard time containing your rage when his grin just grows.

“I’ll let you go once you’ve answered a few questions,” Dick offers.

“Fine, what?” You practically snarl at him, secretly glad for more time to search for a weapon. Keep him talking. 

“Well, first, why does such a pretty girl carry around her death warrant? Second, I lost a pretty penny because you stuck your nose in my business. Third—” He’s cut off as another pair of boots approach your direction. Your head whips toward the door when you hear its telltale hydraulic breath of air. A burlier, taller man with a streak of bright white hair against black, stalks into the room, your gun in one hand, a mug of tea in the other. He couldn’t have been much older than the present company, grey mutt excluded.

“Third,” the man finishes for Dick, “how do you know our father?” He tosses what you recognize to be your emergency contact card you thought you’d hidden deep in your wallet. “Hi, I’m Jason,” the stranger waves to you, coming to tower over Dick.

“You’re Bruce's sons?” Your eyes flit between the two brothers, the way you’re giggling is a little off-putting to them given your state. Your ankle cuff clangs as your body wracks in fitful laughter. “I’d have gone with ‘Richard,’ by the way,” you shoot at Dick, wiping a mirthful tear from the corner of your eye.

“What's so funny?” Dick’s eyebrows furrow, lip pouting though you don’t think he meant to.

“Answer the damn question, girlie,” Jason commands, a little more threatening than his brother, though you don’t think he really means it.

“Thought you’d be quicker on your feet is all, considering you’re the spawn of Bruce Wayne.” You have a hard time getting the words out amidst your giggle fest. Both men look at you like they couldn’t quite process what was happening. 

“Look, I’m not the one chained to a bed with no hope of escaping. Now, how do you know Bruce?" Jason demands again. 

“He’s my handler,” you shrug, struggling to regulate your breath. Slowly, drawing out the action as much as possible, you sip from the glass Dick had sent next to you.

“What do you mean ‘handler’?” The agitation tightens around Jason’s eyes, and you decide it’s best to take him seriously. You heave a sigh, figuring that the only way you could possibly get out of this situation is to reveal more about yourself. Just enough to get out of the situation, but no more. Your situation was tenuous, and it was impossible to ignore the adrenaline pumping through you with each beat of the heart; steady thunder within a body sore and in need of recuperation. 

“Look, I’d rather not get into it. Quite frankly I’m not allowed to. Just call him yourself, tell him my name — he’ll vouch,” you offer. At least you’d hope he’ll vouch; this was a unique situation. “You can let me get back to my business and you can get back to yours.”

“What makes you think that we’d trust someone associated with ISSP?” Jason questions again. 

“He’s ISSP,” you nod toward Dick, whose eyebrows furrow in confusion. “I can tell by the way you shoot a gun — all technique, no raw intuition.”

Dick’s eyes narrow; at once struck by the acuity of your attentiveness and simultaneously displeased at the critique.

“What do you mean, ‘no raw intuition’?” he asks, sour note reverberating off of the metal walls of the room.

“You’re just…” you eye him up and down, this time taking a moment to process his 

“Oh, come on, spit it out,” Dick crosses his arms.

“...stiff.”

You just leave it at that, snooty and shrugging as if you hadn’t wounded Dick’s pride. 

Jason grunts in frustration.

“Fucking Christ, focus, Richard.” 

“Yeah Richard,” you mock Dick, figuring you’d better get on the good side of the larger one; he’d be harder to fight off. Jason’s demeanor loosens just a tad, seemingly amused  as he looks between the two of you with a raised eyebrow. You think that despite being adoptive brothers, they looked strikingly alike standing next to each other.

Truth be told, you had a feeling that Dick’s devil-may-care affability was a carefully constructed façade, the way the hairs on the back of your neck raised when you first met him on that sidewalk with the three-legged mutt. It was a gut feeling confirmed when the two of you laid eyes on each other under C’est La Vie. And ever since, your nerves had been alight with a sense of foreboding — not end-all-be-all foreboding, but a feeling that you were hurling toward something inevitable. And no matter how much you tried to quash it down, it kept fighting its way to the surface. 

“Call Wayne, I won’t say anything else until you do.” Your tone is resolute.

“Alright,” Dick agrees smoothly, “We’ll call him right now.” He turns toward Jason and nods a silent command at him, and Jason, sticking his tongue out at his brother in annoyance, walks over to the two giant computer screens taking up the space of one wall. You hear a few clicks of a keyboard, before a female AI stilted voice calls out:

“Calling: Bruce Wayne, Chief Director, Inter-Solar System Police.”

Silence, save for the dial tone and Haley panting. All eyes were glued to one of the gigantic screens, waiting for an answer that you prayed would get you out of this situation. No weapon in sight, no way out.

“Dick, Jason — what’s going on?”

Bruce Wayne is a formidable figure, imposing in size, but ever so polite. You hated his guts. 

No one has uttered a peep.

“What’s going on?” He repeats his question with the authority befitting his rank, eyebrows arched just the slightest bit when his eyes land on you.

“Yeah, nice to see you too, Bruce,” Jason mumbles to his adoptive father, stone cold. 

“Bruce, hi — sorry we haven’t called in a minute,” Dick starts off… pausing to figure out how he wants his words to come out.

“Well, lads,” you sneer, looking between the brothers, “which one of you geniuses wants to explain to Daddy what happened?” You try to keep yourself calm, stop the panic just as it tries to force its way to your tongue.

Jason raises his palms, shrugging like his job was done and he was off the clock. He makes his way to the exit, a childish smile on his face as he taunts his elder brother. “You can deal with this one, Richard.” 

“I am going to ask you one more time,” the man on the screen says patiently over the metal of Jason’s boots clanking on the floor. Too cool and ready to strike, he says with finality, “I am not going to ask you a third time. What’s going on?”

Would he admit he knows me? Or would he deny association? You felt your cheeks flush with an anxious anticipation.

“You tell me, Bruce,” Dick crosses his arms in a defensive stance, “She has an ID that lists you as an emergency contact. Says she’s your handler and that you’ll vouch for her.”

Bruce just glowers in thought, eyebrows furrowing expressively — a habit that clearly transcend genetic inheritance. You wait, nerves pounding in your skull, the suspense of meeting your end dangling right in front of your nose. Too much time passes before he speaks. 

“Dick,” Bruce sighs, tone much more genuine and somber, “She’s doing work for ISSP.”

Dick freezes, and even in the dim glow of the fluorescence, you see the stiffness that contours his silhouette.

“What work?” Dick barks, causing you to jump.

“That’s classified, son.” 

“What fucking work, Bruce?” He moves closer to the screen, gripping the computer in both of his hands, a stoic panic radiating from his shadow, plunging you even deeper into the hopelessness of your situation. You keep your mouth shut, watching the scene play out.

“Classified. I’m not even supposed to acknowledge her existence.” You couldn’t believe your eyes, but the Big Scary Pig might actually be speaking earnestly in the three years that you’ve known him. “But it’s not what you’re thinking,” Bruce adds, as if it was a secret between the two of them.

Dick just stands there, stone still. You were facing his back, but you didn’t need to see his face to feel the tension in the air.

Finally, he just scoffs at his father, shaking his head as if trying to clear unwanted thoughts flooding into his brain. You knew what that felt like.

“Fine. She says you can vouch for her — can you?” Dick turns back to you, giving you a sardonic, hard look before turning back to his father, the harshness in his features still apparent as he returns Bruce’s severe glower.

“She’s my responsibility, yes. You can trust her,” Bruce confirms in a measured tone, clearly not wanting to upset his son. Despite the viciousness of your hatred toward Bruce, your heart was going to jump out of your throat from relief. 

“See? Now let me go, lunkhead,” you pipe up loudly. Your ankle was bruised underneath the metal of the cuff: a result of your attempts at escaping.

Dick just lifts one pointer finger, and you falter. “Not quite yet,” he says.

“But — “ you start protesting, only for him to cut you off.

“What about the rolls of film she’s carrying on her?” Dick asks bluntly, letting annoyance seep into his tone as he stares down his father. You freeze.

“She is authorized by ISSP for possession of the film. You need to let her go. Do not interfere with her mission. I cannot say anything else.”

Dick shakes his head, annoyance having grown into a simmering anger.

“If she’s ISSP, why is she out bounty hunting?”

Bruce gives another sigh of frustration, like he was dealing with a petulant child.

“She is not an agent. She is under a classified contract. Stop asking any more questions, Dick.” 

“They don’t pay me,” you add, a falsely serene stroke of venom lacing your words. “A girl’s gotta survive somehow,” you shrug when Dick swings around to look at you in disbelief.

“Her mission is not on record. I need your discretion, son.”

Being called “son” only seemed to enrage him.

“Gotta give me something in return, old man,” Dick attempts to bargain.

“Her interactions with Jason will be off record. Jason will have immunity,” Bruce offers, his figure looming on the screen, intimidating to nearly everyone he encounters. Nearly. “That’s all I will give you.”

“Fine.” Dick moves a finger to hover over the keyboard.

“Oh, and, son?” Bruce calls his son to a pause with a dead serious demeanor.

“Hm?” Dick looks like he’s about ready to clobber his father all the way to Pluto, about to hit the disconnect button.

“If for some reason this conversation ever comes to public light, I will deny it ever happened.” The line goes dead before his finger could smash the “end call” button, plunging the room into a dimmer tension than before.

“Yeah, whatever. See ya, old man.”

☄. *. ⋆

“Oh, thank god.”

An almost sensuous sigh of relief escapes you breathlessly the second Dick unlocks the cuff around your ankle. You massage the ache, bruises already getting nasty and puce on your skin. Dick plants himself at the end of your bed, twirling the cuffs in his hands, deep contemplation seeming to have taken over his attention.

“Keys.” Your hand is out, palm up in petulant demand. The handsome man sitting at the end of your bed, makes no move to go and fulfill your command. Instead, he just looks at you, takes you in under the scrutiny of his deep blues. That foreign exhilaration in your nerves light aflame again, and you don’t know what to make of it.

“Keys and the rest of my shit. Now.” You are getting impatient. Desperate to get the fuck away from here and back to your own business. Maybe check yourself into a motel and get a hot shower. You could splurge. A treat for having endured this fucking episode from hell.

“Well, you see,” Dick laughs, more nervousness pouring into his cheeks the more he grasped the gravity of the situation at hand. “You can stay here until you’ve recuperated…”

“Where are my keys, Dick?”

“It got kinda damaged… when we were chasing Poison Ivy…” He’s ready to flinch in defensiveness, afraid you’d deal him the same hand you dealt the goon back at C’est La Vie.

“No, my baby!” you wail, attempting to get up from the bed. No can do; you collapse back down on the bed, struggling to sit as your vision blurs and a dizziness takes over.

“Woah, take it easy.” You feel a pair of hands ease you back to rest in a comfortable position. Warm, large hands. “You can’t be going anywhere in this state, anyway. It’s gonna take a minute to fix your baby given the damage. Time and a hell of a lot of Woolongs.”

You wanted to cry. God, you were going to cry. Cry and humiliate yourself even further in front of these two.

“How much money?” Do. Not. Fucking. Cry. You command yourself internally, silent prayer that things wouldn’t get worse.

“You don’t have enough. We checked through your bank statements.” 

You just let out a wail, face drooping into your palms. 

Dick sits there, awkwardly bringing the plate with the sandwich and apple closer to you, placing it gingerly on the bed in front of you.

“Finish your food.” His request is so soft, as if he was fearful of your next reaction. “I’ll be back with your stuff and I’ll show you around. Come on, Haley Time for a walk.” 

You don’t let a tear fall, but you do follow Dick’s instructions, vision only focusing when you see him exit the room, his trusted dog hobbling after him.

☄. *. ⋆

After he returns your possessions — inspected by you, with everything intact — and shows you to the guest quarters of the Bebop, Dick slumps onto his familiar lumpy couch, an exhale of exhaustion sinking into his bones as he flicks open his lighter. He squares his shoulders and gets ready to explain the situation to Jason, who was perched over a portable microscope and labeling samples from the shit Ivy had used to incapacitate you. Dozens of slides neatly lined the coffee table. Too organized. Meaning Dick was in for a conversation with an agitated former drug lord. Fucking fantastic.

“We need to let her stay for a bit, to rest up,” Dick starts with the least offensive topic first.

“Obviously.” Jason’s voice is clipped, like he was biting his tongue, not wanting to tear  Dick a new asshole until he heard the whole story. “What else?

“She’s working on something for Bruce.” Dick takes a drag of his cigarette and exhales before he continues. “Off the books.” 

“Are you fucking me? She’s ISSP?”

“Keep a lid on it, she won’t report you. You have immunity.” Another drag before he whistles for Haley. “And she’s not an agent. Contracted hire.”

“For what?” “Old man wouldn’t say. Classified. But he vouches for her. Says we can trust her,” Dick muses over this influx of new information, brain processing with heightened clarity with every hit of nicotine hitting his lungs. Jason grumbles, the same bemused expression gracing his rugged features as he scrutinizes his brother.

“What else? Spit it out, Dick.”

“We need to convince her to stay,” Dick’s request pushes through the plume of secondhand smoke. Haley’s wagging her tail next to the couch, ready to appease each and every direction Dick threw at her to the best of her ability. “Grab me a Pippu, girl, go on!” 

Jason carefully sets down the slide he was labeling, then turns off his microscope light before he addresses his brother with measured impatience.

“And why the fuck would we want ISSP anywhere near us? I thought we had an agreement.” 

Dick just shrugs, unable to find more complex words to articulate his compulsions.

“She knows something our father doesn’t want us to know.” Dick just shrugs, unable to find more complex words to articulate his compulsions. “Plus, she needs a place to stay before she can pay for the repairs on her cute little ship, if we’re gonna be practical about it.”

Jason considers the whole damned situation, cursing Dick under his breath. Always disturbing their blissful Bebop peace. Nearly three years since they’d teamed up. Not a day goes by where Jason wasn’t grateful for his partnership with Dick, but fuck if they hadn’t gotten into some rotten situations because his older brother couldn’t resist a pretty face.

“You said you wanted to fix up a ship, learn how to reconstruct the newer models. Fix up hers. It’s rumored to be quite faaast.” Dick dangles that last part mockingly in front of Jason, knowing that his younger brother couldn’t avoid a fast number like the one you owned.With resignation, the white streaks in his hair follow his exasperatingly slow shakes of his head, annoyed with himself because he knew that Dick’s decision would be immovable.

“I’m trusting you on this. She better not try anything when she’s here or I’m dropping you both off on Pluto.”

Dick feigns sarcastic horror at the threat, silently relieved. Not a day went by where Dick didn’t thank his lucky stars for his brother. Haley comes back with a can of soda between her rather menacing teeth, placing it next to Dick’s leg on the couch; cool condensation of the metal almost seeping through his pants and onto skin. He gives his dog an appreciative scratch behind the ears, and she settles her head on her front paw, readying herself for a snooze.

Meanwhile, under the steaming beat of water against your skull, you rub your skin harshly. Red and raw all over, tears indistinguishable from the scald of the shower, you let yourself drown in self-pity, just for the duration of the shower. You think about your situation, chained to ISSP as a disposable assassin, doing their dirty work for them, leaving their hands scott free. And for fucking what? The question is one you’ve struggled to answer since Bruce had pulled you out from one prison and into another. Bruce had what you wanted. The only purpose you could latch onto, held as a bargaining chip by the fucking cops. So long as you completed this mission, he’d give you what you’re looking for.  You think about stupid things you’ve read in books, like transience, the ephemeral. Dreams — you had a fixation. The in-betweenness of your life, everything and everyone simply a pathway to the next stop, but what you’re looking for is never there. 

It’s the same feeling you’d felt since you were defrosted, taken in by Deathstroke. The despair that could wrench right at the heart because of avoided inevitabilities. Seeing two lovers who were destined never to touch — that was how you described this particular sadness. 

By the time you’d emerged from the steam, cheeks plump and red, reality started seeping back in, demanding that you move, continue on with the necessary motions. Immediately, a distraction lays down in front of you, like a black cat begging you to halt in your path, give it a little scratch on the chin.

“GRAYSON!” You use your revived strength to inject as bloodcurdling a scream as you could into the night. “RICHARD DICKLESS GRAYSON. REPORT TO MY QUARTERS!!!”

“You know there’s an intercom system in every room, babe.” You hear his voice over through the speakers in the sealing. “I’ll be there in a second.”

You’d have to admonish him for the pet names.

He calls your name, and it’s the first time you really register his voice. It sends a shiver to your nerves, right to the edge of your fingertips.

“I need a towel.”

“You can have one if you let me sneak a peek at the goods, pretty girl.”

“I’m not in the mood, Grayson,” you warn him. All you wanted to do was sleep for a few days. Reset your body. He doesn’t wither under your stare, despite your expectations.

“Can’t blame a guy for trying,” he just offers a crooked smirk.

“You’re a pervert. I knew it.” 

Dick just chuckles, all boyish charm as fetches your towel. He swears he catches the quickest flash of red ink on the smooth skin of your back before you slam the door in his face.

☄. *. ⋆

[cybergoth1]

WHEN LOVE MET WAR

Greek God AU | Reader x Jason Todd

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto word count: 2k synopsis: The goddess of love. The god of war. A love that even death couldn’t end. a/n: Still working through requests! Work’s been kicking my ass lately, and for some reason, my brain decided to spiral into a Greek mythology mood. A little different from my usual writing and sorry if it feels rushed.

On the marble steps of your rose-draped temple, you the goddess of love stood still as stone, watching the sun bleed across the sky. It set in streaks of gold and crimson—colours that once reminded you of warmth, of flushed cheeks and tangled limbs, of whispered promises spoken beneath starlight. Now, they only reminded you of blood. Of his blood.

Jason.

The name still ached when it crossed your thoughts, still clung to the edges of your immortal heart like the scent of a dying flower. Jason, the mortal born so beautiful even the gods were jealous. Jason, whose laugh rang like bells in your ears. Jason, who looked at you not with awe, but affection. Not like a deity, but a woman.

The two of you had danced in fields of lavender, lay beneath silken skies, whispered secrets into each other’s skin. you, divine and eternal. He, gloriously human. And though you both knew the tragedy of that pairing, you dared to hope. Dared to love. For he was promised by the head of the pantheon, Bruce the God of night and Justice that he would be ascended to godhood.

But mortals die. Even beautiful ones.

Before he could be ascended, he fell—brutally beaten and cut down by a jealous god who dared believe that, in his absence, you might turn your affections elsewhere—you wept until rivers rose and gardens withered. The earth mourned with you, the skies dulling to ash, as though the heavens themselves recognized the injustice of his death.

The other gods whispered that you’d gone mad. That you were foolish to mourn so deeply for a mortal man.

But none of them had known Jason like you had.

The centuries passed like mist—soft, aimless, unbearably hollow. No touch warmed your skin. No glance stirred your spirit. No heart called to your’s the way his once had.

And for that arrogant god who thought you so fickle, so shallow, as to discard the truest love you had ever known…You made him pay for his foolishness.

Death, you decided, was far too kind. Instead, you wanted him to suffer eternal torment and cursed him with a mania so strong he would never know peace. Never to know what the warmth of love would feel like yet forever aching for it, forcing him to search for it like a man in a desert parched for water. 

He burned offerings at temples you never visited. Tore open his own chest seeking your favour. Begged the stars, the sea, the wind—to return what he had destroyed.

But love had turned its back on him.

Because he had defiled it.

His passion became prison. His desire, disease. And you watched from afar—silent, unblinking—as mania bloomed like a vine around his soul and slowly choking away the god he once was because compared to you, he was nothing. Seldom was a force stronger than love and he scorned the very embodiment of it.

No god dared to go against your punishment. The gods, in all their hubris, had all forgotten that love and war were not so different. Passion. Devotion. Ruin. Your soft beauty and lilting laughter had made them forget that beneath the silks and sweetness, you too were considered to be apart of the deities of war. Just as capable of wrath as you were of love. Your's was the battlefield of hearts, and you had long since learned that love—real love—was worth waging war over.

Yet, no amount of vengeance could fill the hole left in your heart, forcing centuries you grieved. Because even with your enemy broken, it did not bring him back.

Jason was gone.

Your temples faded into shadow. The world moved on, colder now, more empty. You wandered through centuries draped in sorrow, a goddess without purpose. Love came and went in mortals like tides against the shore—brief, fleeting, insubstantial.

Until one day, the earth rumbled with a new name.

The mortals whispered it in fear. One unlike the other gods. A scarred brute, they said, who neither sought glory nor revelled in carnage for sport. He did not charge into battle for honour or conquest. He moved like a storm driven only by rage and something darker—revenge.

They said he was mad. That vengeance had hollowed him out and filled the void with fury.

It was in the smoke-choked ruins of a battlefield—where the sky split with thunder and the ground ran slick with blood—that the gods gathered. They came not with swords drawn, but with questions. To see for themselves the new god born of vengeance and death. To witness if he would be friend or foe. To determine whether he was to be welcomed… or destroyed.

And then he stepped through the haze.

You staggered.

Your breath left you.

Because it was him.

Jason.

But not the Jason you had known—not the boy who pressed wildflowers into your hands or traced constellations across your bare skin with laughter in his eyes. That boy had been soft in the ways only mortals could be. He had lived with wonder in his heart and warmth in his touch.

That boy was gone.

Death had stripped him bare. It had carved the softness from his bones and replaced it with steel. It had turned his heart into something fiery and full of anger. Whatever mercy had once dwelled in him had long since been buried beneath the weight of pain.

He had been reborn in divine fire, not as the son of justice he was meant to become, but as something else entirely—something terrible, something untouchable. The boy you had loved was now a deity of war, the God of Death and Vengeance.

He hadn’t remembered his past at first. Not fully. Dreams came in shards—flashes of golden fields, of laughter and soft hands, of a voice that called his name with devotion. Yet, the sight of you brought forth more of the shattered remains of what life he once had lived.

You whispered his name, no louder than a breath, the one word filled with shock and reverence. The gods fell silent. None dared speak as you stepped forward—toward the once-mortal, the boy who had been your undoing, the man death had remade. You didn’t wait. Didn’t care what it meant or how he came to be. 

You crossed the blood-soaked earth barefoot, unflinching. The ruin of war clung to your feet, but you moved as if drawn by fate, as if the threads of your soul had never stopped pulling toward his.

Your gaze devoured him, taking in the new divine version of him. Your hand lifted, trembling, and you pressed your palm to his cheek. He was taller now. Armoured. Broad-shouldered and blood-streaked, his golden skin was no longer unmarked—burns curled along one arm trailing up to his neck, a jagged scar traced up from cheek to brow, and his once-gentle mouth was a hard, unsmiling line. His eyes, once the soft shade of summer storms, now burned like steel in winter.

His jaw tightened beneath your touch.

Among the gathering of gods stood four figures, two of which who had once considered Jason as family.

At the forefront stood Bruce cloaked in shadows and silence. His face betrayed nothing, but the air around him felt taut, like a bow pulled too tight. He had not spoken since Jason stepped through the smoke. He only watched.

It was said Bruce had found Jason in the ruins of a battlefield long ago—an orphaned mortal with enough fire, he dared to steal the wheels of Bruce’s midnight chariot. It was this fire that made Bruce choose to raise him as his own bringing him to Olympus where he eventually met and fell in love with you. 

Dick, Bruce’s eldest son, the god of light and duality, also once a mortal ascended to godhood stared at Jason with a gaze was bright with disbelief.

Beside him stood Tim, god of foresight and knowledge, lips pressed thin. His brilliant mind, always quick to calculate, struggled now to reconcile the impossible. His eyes flicked between Jason, you, Bruce, and Dick as if trying to read a history long before his time.

And then there was Damian, youngest and most volatile—god of wrath and beasts. His green eyes narrowed, not in malice, but suspicion. Like Tim, he had never truly known Jason. Not the boy with a crooked smile or the mortal brother with a quick temper and a quicker wit. Jason existed to him only in fragments—in stories passed down in whispers.

And the figure standing before him was no story.

This was the god who ravaged lands, who left cities smouldering in his wake, who painted rivers red with blood. The war-born storm whose fury bent steel and scattered armies.

Not one of them said a word. Because in that moment, they knew, only you would be able to reach him.

“I thought I’d lost you,” you whispered, your thumb brushing gently over the jagged scar that marred his cheek like a bolt of lightning etched into flesh. “He took you from me.”

“He did,” Jason rasped, voice low and raw, torn from somewhere deep inside him. “That man you remember… he’s dead. I remember little of him—just flashes. But one thing has never left me…” His gaze darkened, steel-hard. “…I want the head of the god who killed me.”

You didn’t hesitate.

“He’s yours, if you want him,” you said, voice calm, almost casual in its finality. “Though I already ensured he would suffer eternally for the pain he caused you and I.”

Jason’s eyes slid past your shoulder, lingering on the looming figure of Bruce—the god of night and justice—his divine father. There was a flicker of something in Jason’s gaze, some buried expectation, as if Bruce might protest or claim otherwise.

But Bruce said nothing.

Only his jaw clenched, ever so slightly, as he looked away.

Jason’s focus returned to you. “You would give him to me so freely?”

“I would rip out his heart and place it in your hands if that is what you wished,” you answered without pause, your voice low, unshaking. “I would die for you. I would give you anything you desire.”

Something shifted behind his eyes. A storm, held back for centuries, calmed at the edge. Never would it be fully gone but something about your presence was stilling it. And in that moment, with war’s fire in his blood and your hand on his face, Jason realized one thing. He had been reborn not just by rage, not only by death—but by the echo of a love so powerful, it had called him back from the ashes.

His expression cracked. Just barely. A flicker of the man he had been.

“The man you once knew is gone,” he said quietly.

You lifted your chin, defiantly, beautifully. “Then I’ll love what rose in his place.”

His eyes flickered, but his tone remained cold. “I’m not gentle anymore,” he warned, voice darker now, coiled tight with the weight of all he’d become. “I don’t feel softness. I don’t remember how to be… that.”

“Then be war itself,” you said fiercely, “I’ll still love you.”

Because while you had loved him at his most radiant, this version, forged through pain and fury, was no less worthy. He was not the same—but neither were you. Love had never asked for perfection. Only truth.

His hands—bloodstained, trembling—rose slowly, hesitantly, as though he feared you were a mirage. He caught your wrists, holding them with reverence, with desperation. Then his forehead touched yours, and in that simple gesture, something ancient and sacred passed between you. Something that neither time nor death had managed to sever.

A goddess born of love.

A god reborn of war.

And in his arms, when he finally pulled you close, the goddess of love found her heart again—not in beauty, not in peace, but in ruin and rage, in the bloodied hands of war itself.

They had taken him from you once.

But not again.

You had crossed eternity to mourn him.

Now, you would cross it again to stand beside him.

Because whether mortal or divine, broken or whole, he was still yours.

And you were still his.

[cybergoth1]

step 1 to writing is always remember to have fun! in step 2 begins the agony

[cybergoth1]

i want to.... write another batfam series.... but making it reverse harem... with spoiled reader... im losing my mind

[cybergoth1]

beyond the cowl | chapter 02 | batfamily x isekaide!reader

masterlist | chapter 01 | chapter 03.

synopsis: ❛❛you're just a normal twenty-one-year old girl trying to navigate life with a shitty job and a useless degree. life isn't easy, and between expensive therapy sessions and the constant feeling of failure, you suddenly wake up in a body that wasn't yours, with a past that wasn't yours. now, in another dimension, you're dealing with the fact that you're a crucial part of the caped crusade that shaped bruce wayne's life. you're the second robin, the former girl wonder, and the vigilant gotham needed so much.❞

warnings/tags: +18. roy harper being hot. swearing. batfamily group chat. 2.5k words.

You eat your dinner in total silence, a little surprised that Alfred knew about your deadly olive allergy, your plate the only one carefully cleared of them. The food in front of you was so fancy your broke ass couldn’t even pronounce the name of it, so you decided to keep your mouth shut and take in the room and the people around you instead.

Everything screamed old money. From the antique chandelier overhead to the kind of silverware that probably cost more than your rent, it was like stepping into a museum you had no business being in. The people, too — elegant, composed, practically born knowing which fork was for the salad. Even Damian, the demon spawn, knew how to use the cutlery in front of him. You stuck out like a sore thumb, but no one said anything.

They probably assumed your last concussion was the one to blame for your lack of manners.

Fine by you. A win is a win, right?

Just hours ago, you were feeling miserable at your dead-end job in another reality and now here you are, eating mystery French cuisine in Wayne Manor, pretending you weren’t hyper-aware of every awkward move you made.

You reached for your glass and nearly knocked over a tiny spoon. Why was there a spoon that small? Was it decorative? Symbolic? Rich people were weird.

Across the table, someone cleared their throat.

You glanced up and instantly regretted it.

Bruce Wayne was looking at you. Not judging, exactly. Just… observing. Like you were some kind of puzzle he hadn’t decided whether to solve or ignore.

You froze halfway to sipping your water. "What?" you asked, maybe a little too defensively. You were absolutely shitting yourself. It was horrible not knowing what kind of relationship the two of you had. You had no idea how to act around him, and that uncertainty clung to you like sweat.

He raised an eyebrow. "Nothing. Just… haven’t seen someone look at a bouillabaisse like it personally insulted them."

"That’s a bouillabaisse?" you muttered, looking down at the bowl. "Thought it was a seafood crime scene."

There was a pause. Then, from your left, a quiet snort followed by full-on laughter from Dick. Your lips twist into a smile as you take another bite. Making handsome men laugh is your specialty, especially as a barista. Or, well… It was. In your actual life. The one you went to sleep in.

Across the table, Bruce, actual billionaire, actual legend, actual Batman, you have to remember, looks at you again. "We should discuss your new position at Wayne Enterprises," he says, as if that sentence makes any kind of sense.

Your brain short-circuits. "My what now?"

Without missing a beat, he slides a black folder toward you. It lands by your plate with a soft thump, heavy with something terrifying. Responsibility.

"This outlines your role, department assignments, project overviews, and benefits package. Alfred mentioned you prefer early mornings. We can accommodate that."

You stare at the folder like it just sprouted fangs. Position? Projects? Benefits?

What position? You’ve been here, what — a day? Half a day? You woke up in a room you didn’t recognize, in a reality that isn’t yours, wearing silk pajamas and the weight of a whole new identity.

You’re just a barista. You don’t belong here. But you’re in this body, her body, and no one seems to notice the swap. Dick raises his glass in your direction with a crooked grin. "Damn. Look at you, finally putting that business degree to use."

Your head jerks toward him. "How do you even know I have a business degree?"

What the hell?

You didn’t have a business degree.

Your dumbass majored in History.

"Uh, because we grew up together?" he laughs. "And we were in the same econ class. You slept through most of it and still got a better grade than me. I never let it go."

You force a smile, nodding slowly, trying not to show the full-body panic crawling up your spine. "Right. College."

You have zero memory of that. But clearly, in this version of reality, you and Dick Grayson went to college together. Shared classes. Possibly beers. Maybe even notes. You were part of his world long before this dinner, before this moment, and now you have to play along like this isn’t all brand new.

You open the folder, half expecting gibberish or maybe Monopoly money. Instead you saw real documents. Real salary. Health insurance. Stock options.

"What the hell is happening," you mutter under your breath, not even pretending anymore.

Damian, still buttering his roll with all the menace of a Bond villain, doesn’t look up. "You’re being absorbed into the machine," he says flatly. "Welcome to capitalism."

You turn your head too fast to glare at him and a sharp sting blooms at your temple like a firecracker going off under your skin.

"Shit," you mutter, hissing as your hand flies up instinctively. Your fingers brush gauze and medical tape. There’s a bandage there, snug, slightly crusted at the edge with dried blood. You hadn’t even noticed it until now. Dick’s chair scrapes back before you can process much more. "Easy," he says, already moving toward you. "Let me take a look."

You blink up at him. He crouches beside your chair, all calm focus, like this is routine, like he’s patched you up a hundred times before. Maybe he has. Maybe she has.

His hand is warm and steady as he gently brushes yours aside. "You’re supposed to let me know when it starts hurting again," he says, voice low. A quiet scolding. Gentle, but real.

You don’t know what to say. You didn’t even know it was hurting. You didn’t know you had a horrible head wound until ten seconds ago. Dick crouches beside you, eyes scanning your face with the kind of attention that makes you feel like maybe she, the version of you that belongs here, is someone important to him.

"Come on," he says gently. Before you can ask where ‘come on’ is, he helps you up with one hand at your elbow and starts guiding you out of the dining room, quietly, without making a scene. Bruce barely glances over, Alfred gives a slight nod, and Damian doesn’t bat an eye.

Apparently, this is normal. You’re normal here. The hallway is cooler and quieter, the buzz of dinner fading behind you. Your footsteps are unsteady, and Dick notices. He slows his pace, staying close.

"You’ve had worse," he says, trying for lightness, but you can hear the edge of worry behind it.

You glance up at him. "You keep track of my injuries?"

He smiles, not his usual cocky grin, but something softer. "Somebody has to."

He leads you into a small sitting room tucked at the end of the corridor, high ceilings, dark wood, old books. It’s quiet here, thick with the kind of hush that only mansions seem to have.

"You wanna sit?"

You nod, and he helps you lower onto the edge of a leather sofa. Then he disappears briefly into the adjoining room and comes back with a first aid kit tucked under one arm.

He kneels in front of you again, opening the kit with practiced fingers.

"Still can’t believe you walked away from that fall," he murmurs, peeling off the tape with gentle precision. "You’re tough. But stubborn as hell."

You laugh, dry and confused. "That does sound like me."

He pauses, looking up. You meet his blue eyes, and for a moment it feels like he sees you, not just the version of you that belongs here, but you.

"You’re different," he says quietly. Not accusing. Not suspicious. Just noticing.

You panic. "Different how?"

He shrugs a little. "Not in a bad way. Just… quieter. You’re usually mouthier."

You almost smile. "I’ll try to insult you more next time."

Dick grins and tapes a fresh bandage in place, his touch careful. "There she is."

He stands, brushing his hands on his jeans, then looks down at you with a fondness that leaves you breathless.

"Sit tight, little wing. I’ll bring you some water."

There it is again, little wing, and it hits just as hard the second time. You nod, trying not to look like you’re unraveling from something as simple as kindness. He leaves the room, and you’re alone. Sitting in someone else’s life, wearing someone else’s name and skin, trying to breathe through the ache in your head and the weight in your chest.

What the hell are you supposed to do now? Keep pretending? Keep lying to these people and yourself? But, hey, little did you know, the worst was yet to come.

Dick didn’t just hand you a glass of water. He handed you a phone.

"It’s finally ready. B asked me to give this back to you," he said, holding it out.

Your phone.

Except it wasn’t your cracked Android with the glittery case. No. This thing was sleek, matte black, probably bulletproof, the kind of phone that could hack into satellites or call the president.

You took it hesitantly, like it might detonate.

"Thanks," you said, holding the high-security tech brick like it was a cursed object. Then, awkwardly looked at his pretty face, "I mean it. Thanks for… uhm, everything, Dickie."

The nickname slipped out so naturally it startled you. Like muscle memory. Like you’d been calling him that your entire life.

Dick looked at you with the softest blue eyes and a shy smile that made your stomach twist. There was something unbearably gentle in the way he looked at you, like he was watching someone he’d nearly lost. It was so much love, it made you want to look away.

"Sleep tight, girl wonder".

"You too…"

You wait for him to leave before unlocking the phone, praying there’s not some retina-scan protocol you’re about to fail.

It opens. The wallpaper it’s a selfie, your face… Well, her face, laughing in the sun, sunglasses perched on her head like life is just a montage of beach days and brunch. In the background, the water is crystal clear, turquoise, and absurdly picturesque. You can see Stephanie Brown striking a dramatic pose behind you, half-submerged and very sun-kissed.

It looks like Bali. Or the Maldives. Or some other place you’ve only seen on travel vlogs during your break at the café. Who knows. You were too broke in your actual life to even understand that kind of luxury.

You blink at the photo like it might shift into something you do recognize. But it doesn’t. It’s just this happy, glowing version of you, surrounded by beauty, friends, wealth, and none of it feels real. None of it feels like you. But you decided to dig it deeper. You slide to the Messages app like it might slap you and—

Wow.

The sheer number of messages waiting for you was actually insane. Wild, even. Especially considering your only friends in your real life were your mom and your older sister, and neither of them even texted that often.

You hesitated, then opened the family group chat.

Jason: hey quick q @yn

Jason: can i borrow like 5k

Jason: u rich now

Jason: also u still owe me from that one time i saved ur life from ur own bad decisions

Steph: Which time? Be specific.

Tim: Can we not start this again? I’m literally trying to sleep.

Cass: ….

B: Don’t lend Jason the money.

You scrolled, already snorting, until you found your last contribution to the chaos:

You: fuck off jason r u allergic to an honest day of work or smth

Jason: or smth

Yeah. That tracks. You back out of the group thread and scroll through your private messages. Dick’s texts are frequent and sweet, full of check-ins and bad jokes. He’s clearly your soft spot, and it’s mutual. You two clearly shared something special.

Dick: Stop flirting with death and answer your phone.

Dick: Just ate an entire pie. Alfred is judging me.

Dick: Miss your dumb jokes. Come home soon.

Then there’s Bruce, and he’s somehow the driest and weirdly affectionate person alive.

Bruce: I’ve reviewed the patrol reports. Acceptable.

Bruce: I left your favorite tea in the study. Drink it. You need rest.

Bruce: Proud of your work last week. You’ve grown.

And then you stare at the most recent one like it’s a hallucination. Things went downhill fast. Because there’s Roy Harper. And the Titans group chat, nice. Apparently, you were part of another superhero team. Because being Bruce Wayne’s ward and part of this weird ‘vigilant cult’ wasn’t enough existential horror. No. You were also a titan.

Fuck.

And again… There’s Roy Harper.

Roy: Thinking about you in that stupid little outfit you wore to training. I hate you.

Roy: Look what you did to me.

Roy: You’re gonna have to fix this, doll.

You tap the attached file before your common sense can kick in and your soul immediately leaves your body. That’s a dick pic. A nice one.

There is a literal dick in your phone. Right there. Center stage. No warning. Roy Harper. Fully committed. Your eyes go wide. Your face drains of color. You sit frozen, paralyzed by a full-frontal crisis. And as if the universe hadn’t humiliated you enough, you watch in horror as the typing bubble appears.

Roy: I can see you online, pretty girl.

You let out a strangled sound somewhere between a dying bird and a scream. And it didn’t stop there, God clearly wasn’t giving you a single moment of peace. Because right after the unsolicited anatomy lesson from Roy Harper, your new phone started ringing.

In a panic, you answered it without even checking the name. Your voice came out small and uncertain.

"Hello…?"

"Yo, I need to crash at your place. I’m in the Narrows and some dickhead just broke two of my fingers. I’m sleeping there tonight," Jason Todd said casually, like he was asking to borrow sugar, over the sound of definite gunfire, someone screaming, and what might’ve been a Molotov cocktail.

You froze. "Wait, what—?"

"Don’t worry, I’m fine," he cut you off, breathless, followed by a bang that sounded way too close to his face. "Your place still got the fire escape window unlocked?"

Your place?

You lived at Wayne Manor now. Right?

"Jason, I’m literally in the manor."

"Yeah, I know," he grunted, like you were the idiot here. "I’m breaking into your apartment. Just figured I’d let you know in case you left a taser in the fruit bowl again."

Another bang. Another yell.

Then, almost as an afterthought:

"Oh, and I saw your new photoshoot in Vogue. You look hideous, by the way. Like someone deep-fried a socialite. Bye."

Click.

You stood there, phone still pressed to your ear, staring into the abyss.

Roy’s nudes. An apartment you didn’t know existed. A Vogue spread?!

"What the actual fuck is my life," you whispered.

tag-list: @rosescarlettx, @btsloveer07-blog, @rainbowstar, @xingyunny, @mikyapixie, @sheep-from-rad, @fandomly-obsessed, @migilore, @natsukicookies, @candlewitch-cryptic, @socialmess-jery, @mona1704, @dieforcoffee26, @stupouid, @astrelz, @dind1n, @cxcilla, @mimi-sanisanidiot, @ceridwyn3, @sunako50, @lilithquillete, @rainbowstar, @ninihrtss, @dind1n, @blondwhxrewrites, @rosiita-fresita, @lovely-maryj, @vxsire, @navs-bhat, @notwhoy0uthink, @capswife, @siriuslyobsessedwithfiction, @nickey-diano, @eyeless-kun, @corvoqueen, @electronicmuffinstudentmake-blog, @irenehart02, @0sunnyside01, @mapletree999999999, @iamapotatoe, @smithieandy, @skcj24, @melaninqueen04

[cybergoth1]

im still amazed by how much kindness and support ive received here. it truly means the world to me. thank you to everyone who sends dms, shares ideas, reblogs, leaves comments... you make the whole writing process feel so meaningful and rewarding. im really grateful for you. 🧎🏻‍♂️‍➡️

[cybergoth1]

﹟— ❛❛cause when you know you know. part 1.

☆﹟— paring: fem!reader x dick grayson.

☆﹟— summary: you've always had dick grayson's heart in your hands, since you were just sixteen.

☆﹟— warnings/tags: dick grayson x fem!reader. reader is an awkward dork. fluffy. dick is yearning. spiderwoman!reader. best friends to lovers (?). these two mfs are the same person in different fonts. reader is a mix of tom holland’s spiderman and the comics. rip uncle ben. the amazing divider was made by @bernardsbendystraws, thank you!. some spiderman: homecoming lore. ☆﹟— MASTERLIST. NEXT.

WAYNE GALAS WERE ALWAYS THE SAME — stiff, over decorated affairs where assholes shook hands and smiled fake smiles over champagne. At sixteen, Dick Grayson knew the routine like the back of his hand. He also knew how to blend into the background when he wasn’t in the mood to charm the crowds. It was from that vantage point, leaning casually against a marble pillar, that he first noticed you.

You stood a few steps behind Tony Stark, looking wildly out of place among Gotham’s elite. Wrapped in a simple blue dress that couldn’t quite decide if it wanted to be fancy or modest, you shifted your weight awkwardly from foot to foot, clutching a small purse like it might save you from drowning in a sea of tuxedos and designer gowns.

Dick’s lips quirked into a small smile. Adorable.

Tony Stark, of course, was in full showman mode, gesturing animatedly as he spoke with Bruce Wayne. The two billionaires were discussing the latest partnership between Stark Industries and Wayne Enterprises — a massive clean energy project meant to transform both Gotham and New York. The media was already drooling over it.

"…game-changer for the East Coast, Bruce," Tony was saying, his voice easily cutting over the soft hum of the orchestra. "Your tech, my tech — it’s like peanut butter and genius. Together, unstoppable."

Bruce nodded, ever the composed businessman. "It sounds promising. If we can get the logistics right."

"And we will," Tony said with his usual effortless confidence. Then, spotting Dick nearby — or maybe just looking for an excuse to brag — he turned slightly and gestured toward you.

"And speaking of genius," he said, "I’d like you to meet my brilliant intern. Absolute prodigy. I’m basically babysitting her before someone smarter steals her."

You blinked, startled by the sudden attention, and gave Bruce a stiff little wave, your fingers curling awkwardly halfway through. Dick had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

Bruce, gentleman as ever, extended his hand. "It’s a pleasure to meet you."

You hurried forward, shaking his hand a little too quickly. "Um — thank you, Mr. Wayne. It’s, uh, an honor to be here."

Tony clapped a hand on your shoulder, nearly knocking you off balance. "Kid’s working on tech that’ll make arc reactors look like antique junk. Don’t let the nerves fool you — she’s the real deal."

Bruce raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Is that so? I’d love to hear more about your work sometime."

You flushed bright red, mumbling something about polymer synthesis and energy conductivity — something brilliant that Dick couldn’t entirely follow, but he caught enough to be impressed. And amused. You were so obviously genuine — completely different from the polished, self-important guests around you.

Bruce must’ve picked up on your nerves too. With a small, reassuring smile, he glanced to the side.

"Allow me to introduce my son," he said, motioning to Dick. "Dick Grayson."

At the mention of his name, Dick pushed off the pillar and approached with an easy, charming smile — the kind that made Gotham’s elite swoon. But the second your eyes met, you visibly froze like you weren’t sure whether to shake his hand, run away, or throw up.

"H-hi," you said, voice quick, bright — and unmistakably thick with a Queens accent. "It’s, uh, real nice to meetcha."

Dick grinned wider, immediately charmed. "Pleasure’s mine," he said, reaching out.

You hesitated for a beat, then took his hand. Your grip was surprisingly firm, even if your face was screaming pure panic.

Tony almost chuckled. "She’s from Queens," he explained. "You know — where people actually say what they mean and don’t take an hour to do it."

You gave an embarrassed little shrug. You looked like you want to throw up.

That earned a real laugh from Dick, warm and easy. You smiled too — a real smile this time, the kind that crinkled your eyes and hit him somewhere he hadn’t expected. Bruce’s phone buzzed discreetly in his pocket. He glanced at the screen, then gave a small, apologetic nod. "If you’ll excuse me," he said. "Duty calls."

He slipped away, leaving you, Tony, and Dick standing awkwardly together by the marble column.

Tony, never missing a beat, gave Dick a mock-serious look. "Why don’t you two go mingle? God knows she needs more friends."

You groaned under your breath. "Oh my god, Mr. Stark, please don’t."

Dick just laughed again. He fell easily into step beside you as Tony wandered off to schmooze with some politicians. You walked stiffly at first, hyperaware of every move you made in the ridiculously fancy heels Stark had bullied you into wearing.

"So," Dick said, shooting you a grin as he offered you a glass of sparkling water from a passing tray, "Queens, huh? That explains the accent."

You accepted the drink with a sheepish smile. "Yeah. Born and raised. It’s pretty different from all this… you know, money and marble columns."

Dick laughed. "Trust me, you’re not missing much. All it means is you get invited to boring parties like this one."

You laughed too — a real, snorting laugh that made a couple of nearby socialites glance over disapprovingly. You barely noticed.

"So, what’s it like working for Iron man?" Dick asked, tilting his head in that way that made his hair fall a little into his eyes. He probably practiced looking that effortlessly cool in the mirror.

You shrugged, taking a sip of your drink. "Kinda like babysitting a genius toddler with unlimited money and no fear of death."

Dick barked a short laugh. "Sounds about right."

You hesitated, then added, "But seriously? He’s been good to me. Not a lotta people would take a chance on some random kid from Queens."

Dick raised an eyebrow, interested. "Random? C’mon, Stark made it sound like you were about to solve the energy crisis or something."

You snorted again, feeling a little more at ease. "I mean, maybe. Eventually. If I don’t blow up a lab first."

He grinned at that, the easy kind of grin that made you feel like you could tell him anything. So, without really thinking, you shrugged and said, "Plus, I kinda get it. I grew up pretty rough, y’know? Not a lotta money. Lost my folks when I was little."

You said it so casually — like you were talking about the weather — that it took a second for Dick to process.

His smile softened, the cocky edge fading just a little. "Yeah?" he said, voice a little lower now, a little more real. "Me too."

You blinked, surprised. "Wait, really?"

He nodded, tapping two fingers against his chest lightly. "Orphan club. Lifetime membership."

You gave him a crooked smile. "Guess that makes us, like, trauma buddies or something."

Dick chuckled, but there was a warmth in his eyes now that hadn’t been there before. "Guess so. But hey," he added, nudging your shoulder lightly, "at least you’re smart enough to build your way outta Queens."

You shrugged again, feeling your face heat. "Yeah, well. You’re the one who looks like he belongs in a magazine."

Dick gave you a mock-offended gasp. "Are you saying I’m just a pretty face?"

You bit your lip, trying not to laugh. "I’m just sayin’, you definitely got the rich kid smile down."

He laughed, full and bright, and for a second it felt like the two of you were the only ones in the whole stupid, glittering ballroom.

SIX MONTHS PASSED WITHOUT you or him even noticing. Long-distance friendships were supposed to fade, or at least get awkward. Yours didn’t. Despite being hundreds of miles apart — you in New York, Dick in Gotham — you and him texted, called, and memed at each other like your lives depended on it. Some nights you stayed up until 3 AM talking about everything and nothing at the same time. School drama. Terrible cafeteria food. The best ways to take down a guy twice your size when you were stuck in a tight suit.

It didn’t take long before the truth slipped out.

You were Spiderwoman. He was Robin.

The discovery was a complete accident — a FaceTime call cut short when you had to swing off mid-conversation to stop a robbery, your phone falling out of your pocket mid-swing, the screen still open as Dick watched wide-eyed.

You expected him to freak out.

Instead, he just texted:

"dude... that's so sick. also ur form was trash lol. we’re training next time ur in gotham."

When Homecoming season rolled around, you weren’t even planning on going. Crowded dances weren’t really your thing. But then Tony Stark, with his usual flair for the dramatic, said something like, “Kid, you gotta have at least one normal high school experience before you get arrested by the feds or something,” and signed you up himself.

The only problem?

You didn’t have a date.

Which is why, two weeks later, you stood frozen on the sidewalk outside Midtown Tech, wearing a dress that you had panic-ordered online, while Dick freaking Grayson leaned casually against a rented black car looking like he’d just stepped out of a fashion magazine.

Sleek suit. Easy smile. Blue eyes that sparkled when they landed on you.

You gawked. He whistled low under his breath.

"You clean up nice, Queens," he said, offering you his arm.

You shoved his shoulder lightly, face burning. "You’re literally Bruce Wayne’s kid. You clean up by existing."

Still, you took his arm.

Inside the gym — decorated with cheap streamers and a truly tragic DJ — heads turned immediately. Whispers broke out like wildfire.

"Wait… is that Bruce Wayne’s son?"

"He’s so hot in person. I just saw an article about The Flying Graysons-"

"Eww, isn’t that weird ass chick from the Decathlon Team?"

Enhanced earring. Sometimes you hate that. You spotted Ned across the room near the snack table, eyes wide as saucers. He threw you the most aggressive thumbs-up you had ever seen.

You nearly burst out laughing.

Dick, of course, noticed everything — the stares, the whispers — and just tightened his hold on your arm, leaning down to murmur in your ear: "They’re just jealous they didn’t think of asking you first."

You rolled your eyes, grinning. "Shut up, Gotham."

"You love me," he teased, winking.

You tried to play it cool.

Tried to act like your heart wasn’t punching itself in the face.

Instead, you just said, "Whatever, rich boy. Let’s dance before I regret this."

And somehow, with Dick’s hand wrapped around yours and the gym lights flickering overhead, you realized you were having the best night of your life — cheap decorations, judgmental classmates, bad punch and all. No crimes, no tight suits, just the arms of your best friend around you.

SOME YEARS LATER...

NEW YORK CITY SMELLED LIKE hot dog stands, wet pavement, and cheap coffee. It was comforting, in a weird way — grounding, like an old song you never forgot the words to. It smelled like home.

You had just finished your doctorate at Empire State University — biophysics, the degree that had nearly broken you with sleepless nights and endless labs. Four years of undergrad, another six buried under papers and research grants, all while swinging through the city rooftops under a different name.

You were proud, sure. But pride didn’t pay rent, which meant you were still picking up gigs at the Daily Bugle, still hustling freelance science writing jobs, still showing up at FEAST with boxes of canned goods, just trying to help where you could.

You huffed, adjusting the box in your arms as you kicked open the back door. Aunt May had been working at FEAST full-time now ever since she retired, and somehow, you always found yourself drawn back here too. Helping people — it was kind of your thing. Always had been.

What you didn’t expect was to walk into the kitchen and see him—

Leaning casually against the counter like he owned the place, grinning like he hadn’t just crossed two state lines without so much as a warning.

"Hey, trouble."

You blinked, nearly dropping the box.

"Dick?!"

He flashed that damn movie-star smile at you — the one that should’ve come with a warning label. "Miss me?"

"What the hell are you doing here?" you cried, laughing as you dropped the box on the table and practically launched yourself at him.

Dick caught you without hesitation, his arms wrapping around you in a warm, easy hug. You hadn’t realized how much you needed it until right now. Twelve years. Twelve years of growing up side-by-side, saving cities, teasing each other over coms, late-night phone calls just to vent about patrol. And yet somehow, seeing him in person after a few months apart hit you harder than you expected.

You pulled back. "You idiot! You’re supposed to call before you show up in my city."

"What, and ruin the surprise?" he teased, ruffling your hair — which earned him a murderous glare from you. "Besides, I figured Aunt May could use some extra hands around here."

May appeared in the doorway at that exact moment, wiping her hands on her apron. Her face lit up when she saw Dick. "Richard, honey! It’s so good to see you!"

"Richard," you snickered under your breath, watching Dick grimace in horror as May pulled him into a hug.

"She’s the only one allowed to call me that," he grumbled as he shot you a look over May’s shoulder.

You grinned. God, you’d missed him.

There was a way Dick fit into your life that no one else could replicate — like he was the missing piece to a puzzle you hadn’t even realized was incomplete. Maybe it was the history. Maybe it was the fact that you understood each other in ways that no one else ever could — the grief, the pressure, the guilt that came from trying to save people and knowing it would never be enough.

Maybe it was just him.

Because somewhere along the line, Dick Grayson had gone from Gotham’s golden boy to Nightwing — the heart of Blüdhaven, the hero everyone loved. He wasn’t just a sidekick anymore. He was the blueprint.

Kids in Blüdhaven wore Nightwing shirts and told stories about how he’d saved their dad or helped their aunt or dropped off Christmas gifts at the shelters. He was the hero people wanted to be — not just because he was good with his fists, but because he never stopped believing the world could be better.

You were proud of him in a way you couldn’t even put into words.

And looking at him now — a little older, a little more worn around the edges, but still him — you realized how much he still made you feel like you weren’t alone in any of it. He was your best friend and your family.

You saw May kissing his left cheek before going back to the main room, it was time to serve lunch.

"So," he began, leaning against the counter with that casual drawl he used when he was trying way too hard to sound chill, "how’s your thing with MJ going?"

His tone was careful — soft — like he knew exactly how much of a train wreck your love life had been lately. How you always ended up back at square one: alone.

You shrugged, shooting him a half-hearted smile.

"Eh. How’s your thing with Babs going?"

You tossed the question back at him without missing a beat, raising your brows pointedly.

Dick mirrored your shrug, lips twitching.

"Eh."

There was a brief pause — the kind only two people who knew each other too well could slip into without it feeling awkward — and then you smirked.

"Well, there’s your problem. You’re into gingers."

He snorted. "You’re into gingers."

You pointed at him like you just cracked the code of the universe.

"Exactly. That’s why we both have commitment issues. Everyone knows gingers are secretly evil."

Dick barked a laugh, shaking his head.

"Evil and dangerously attractive. It’s a lose-lose."

"Honestly," you sighed dramatically, "it’s not our fault we keep getting attached to soulless, beautiful monsters."

He grinned wide, that stupidly charming Nightwing grin.

"Soulless monsters — sounds like half the people we fight too."

"At least fighting bad guys doesn’t leave me crying into a tub of ice cream at two a.m."

Dick’s eyes twinkled with mischief.

"I guess you forgot your little friend Felicia Hardy in this sentence."

You gasped, smacking his arm — not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make your point.

"That was one time and she tricked me!"

"Uh-huh," Dick said, smirking as he rubbed his arm dramatically. "And then she ghosted you and stole your watch. And your wallet".

You groaned.

"I told you that in confidence, you traitor."

He grinned even wider, clearly enjoying himself.

"You’re lucky I’m your best friend and not, you know, selling these stories to the tabloids."

You gave him a half-hearted glare before letting out a snort.

"Yeah, because Nightwing Reveals Spiderwoman Got Played by Cat Thief would really earn you some credibility."

Dick shrugged, unbothered. "Might finally knock me off GQ’s ‘Sexiest Heroes Alive’ list. Honestly, it’s getting exhausting."

You laughed, the sound bursting out of you before you could stop it. God, you missed this. The easy rhythm of you and Dick — how he could drag you out of any dark place with just a few dumb jokes and a mischievous glint in his eye.

"But come on now, sexiest hero alive," you teased, nudging him lightly with your elbow. "Why are you truly in New York?"

Your face ached from how much you’d been smiling. It was almost enough to make you forget the three broken ribs healing under your shirt and the nasty wound stitched up on your left thigh. Almost.

Dick just shrugged, the corner of his mouth tugging up into a half-smile.

"Nothing at all," he said lightly. "Just missed you."

You squinted at him, unconvinced.

"Missed me enough to leave your city to crumble without Nightwing?"

"Don’t be dramatic," he said, rolling his eyes fondly. "Tim’s covering me this weekend. Blüdhaven’s in good hands."

You studied him again — really studied him — noticing how his bright blue eyes suddenly dipped away from yours, shyness creeping into his expression. Dick sighed, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, like he was bracing himself.

"It’s May fourth," he said quietly.

You froze for a beat. Of course.

You didn’t need him to say anything else. You knew exactly what that date meant.

Uncle Ben’s death anniversary.

You were so burried into your Spiderwoman's stuff last night that you forgot all about Ben, you didn't even noticed how sad May was this morning. A lump formed in your throat. The pain was still there, buried deep. It always was. Even with all the miles between you and that night, the guilt, the regret — it never quite left. You thought you had it under control, thought you had it buried in the same corner where you stashed all your unresolved issues. But not today. Not with Dick here, looking at you like that.

You were about to say something, anything, to push the conversation somewhere else. But Dick stepped closer, the usual teasing smirk gone. His gaze softened, his voice quiet, steady.

"You still blame yourself, don’t you?"

The question hit harder than you’d expected, like he’d plucked the thought right from your mind. You met his eyes for the first time since he’d dropped that bomb. The guilt, all of it, was there — clear and raw. You didn’t need to say a word.

He sighed, stepping closer, until his body was just a breath away from yours. His hand brushed against your arm, the touch warm, gentle.

"Hey," he murmured, his voice low and comforting. "You can’t save everyone. I’ve been doing this long enough to know that."

You almost laughed at how ridiculous it sounded coming from him. Dick Grayson — Nightwing, a hero, a Titan — was the one who saved people, who did the impossible. He was the one who made sure no one fell through the cracks. He was everybody's safety net.

"I’m not like you," you whispered. The words sounded bitter in your mouth. "I’m not like him. I could’ve done more, should’ve done more. I—"

"Stop," Dick interrupted, his voice firm but caring. "You did everything you could. But you can’t do it all, especially not alone."

You looked up at him, his blue eyes meeting yours, soft with understanding. There was no judgment in his gaze — only the kind of acceptance that made your chest tighten. He’d seen your worst moments. And somehow, even in those, he still cared.

He was always there, wasn’t he? Even when it felt like the whole world was crashing down around you, he was the constant you could rely on. He didn’t need to say a word — he just was.

"I’m sorry," you muttered, shaking your head. "I should’ve been better, Dick. He deserved better. He would be alive—"

Dick’s hand moved to your shoulder, his grip solid, like he was holding you together in a way no one else could.

"You don’t have to carry that on your own," he said quietly. "And you don’t have to keep punishing yourself, either. Ben wouldn’t want that."

You clenched your jaw, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. But the dam was breaking. Slowly, painfully, the tears you didn’t realize were there started to well up. And Dick — always, always there — pulled you into his arms without hesitation.

"Hey," he whispered into your hair, his voice soothing, "You’re not alone. I’m here, alright? And so is May. We’re all here."

You clung to him for a second longer than you probably should’ve, your hands gripping the back of his shirt like it was a lifeline. Maybe it was. You hadn’t realized how badly you needed this. You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your forehead into his shoulder, trying to swallow the emotion threatening to spill over.

Eventually, you pulled back, just a little, blinking away the tears. Your chest felt lighter, like the weight of the years had shifted just a little.

"Thanks," you said, voice thick. "I really needed that."

Dick’s thumb brushed carefully along your jaw, grounding you. You stared up at him, the breath catching in your chest, and for a long moment, he just looked at you — like he was memorizing you, seeing every crack, every bruise, and not turning away.

Then, without a word, he leaned in and pressed a soft, steady kiss to your forehead. Just like many others he gave you in these past twelve years. He lingered there, letting the touch say all the things neither of you could voice out loud.

When he finally pulled back, he dropped another kiss, featherlight, to the tip of your nose — the smallest, softest thing — and it broke something inside you in the best way. It wasn’t romantic, not in the big, sweeping way movies liked to show. It was better. It was pure, steady, real. The kind of love that had nothing to prove and nowhere to go. It just was.

You closed your eyes for a second, breathing him in — the faint smell of his cologne, the leather of his jacket, the clean sweat of someone who lived moving, fighting, surviving. When you opened your eyes again, he was still there, hands steady, smile small and genuine.

"You’re such an ugly crier, Webs," Dick said, voice full of teasing warmth as he wiped your cheeks with his thumbs. "Is that snot? Seriously?"

You let out a wet, broken laugh. "Fuck off — my uncle died, you asshole."

"I know, I know," he said, his grin tugging at the corner of his mouth even as his eyes stayed soft, careful. He cupped your face between his hands like you were something fragile and precious, his thumbs brushing away the tears and — yeah, maybe a little snot too. "You’re allowed to cry. Even if you do it… extremely unattractively."

You hiccupped a miserable sound and buried your face in his shoulder. Dick just laughed under his breath and tucked you closer, like he could shield you from the whole damn world if you let him.

"You’re the worst," you muttered thickly into his neck.

For a minute, you just breathed together. No words. No expectations. Then you heard the familiar shuffle of footsteps and Aunt May’s voice coming from the kitchen doorway.

"Well, isn’t this the cutest thing I’ve seen all week."

You jerked upright, immediately wiping your face. Dick just threw an arm lazily around your shoulders, pulling you into his side like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Hey, May," he said brightly, like you weren’t two seconds away from crumbling.

Aunt May just smiled knowingly, walking over to kiss your temple and then ruffle Dick’s hair, making him squawk in protest. "Always good to see you, honey. But next time, you know, call first".

"Yes, ma’am," he grumbled, fixing his hair like some offended cat.

"Come on, you two," she said, already turning back toward the kitchen. "There’s leftovers from dinner. You can eat and then help me serving lunch. We have new people here needing help and Miles is really anxious about meeting your friend".

Ah, Miles. He's a great kid and hero. Dick's probably gonna like him. Dick squeezed your shoulder gently. "Race you to the table, ugly crier."

You elbowed him hard in the ribs, but you were laughing. Really laughing. Later that day, standing in front of Uncle Ben’s grave, the city felt quieter and worst than usual. Maybe it was just the way your heart was beating — slow, heavy, a little cracked around the edges. You stared at the headstone until the words blurred, the lump in your throat too thick to swallow.

Without a word, Dick stepped closer and pulled you against his side, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. His fingers found yours easily, lacing them together like they belonged there, like they always had. He squeezed your hand and then, without any hesitation, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

It was so soft it made your eyes sting all over again.

You leaned into him, letting his strength anchor you, feeling his heartbeat steady against your side. The sun dipped lower, the air turning cooler, but neither of you moved. You could always hear his heartbeat, even when he wasn't in the same room as you. Nice part of having powers. You have the sound memorized in your head.

Dick didn’t rush you. He didn’t tell you it was time to go, or that you had to be strong, or that Ben was in a better place. He just stayed — solid and silent and sure — holding you. He spent the whole evening there with you, never once letting go of your hand. May was in front of you, mourning in her own way. In silence.

When the city lights finally started to blink on in the distance, you turned your face into his shoulder and whispered, voice cracking, "Thank you."

Dick just squeezed your hand tighter, pressing another kiss to your hairline.

"Always, Webs," he murmured against your hair. "Always." like they belonged there, like they always had.

©cybergoth1, 2025

[cybergoth1]

IF WALLS COULD TALK

Pairing: Tim Drake x Bruce Wayne's daughter

Warnings/tags: stepcest, suggestive content, damian being a dramatic king.

Synopsis: Tim and his stepsister hate each other. That's a fact, a reality since she was forcibly moved to the room next to his and he was, in return, forced to play babysitter for her. They argue and fight to the point the family prefers to clear away from them. Damian thinks they bring the worst out of each other....until he accidentally comes across the darker, more dangerous truth. A secret that could destabilisize the family as a whole.

He sees it embarrassingly late.

Damian Wayne prides himself on his superior skills above the average people. His fighting, his intelligence, his lineage. He means it when he claims to be the best of all his brothers. The Demon's heir. The son of the Bat.

And yet, he missed something so painfully obvious. Something that was there, right in front of him all this time. Barely concealed. Something he should've seen from the beginning.

It doesn't make him feel better knowing he's not the only one. That everyone else missed it as well. In fact, it only deepens his shame and rage because of how stupid they've all been. Them, a supposed family of world-class detectives and strategists, even the oh-so-called world's greatest detective, somehow failed to notice this. A major, concerning affair going on under their roof.

The worst part? The embarrassment lasted little, for it was quickly replaced with anger and a really strong need for revenge. But not for himself. No. For the person who had been so unfairly wronged by this.

His half sister. His only blood sibling.

They've never been on the best terms, and granted, a great part of it has been his fault. He's not ashamed to admit it. Not anymore. They've been taking turtle steps to fix the gap between them. He's had to prove himself, and while their relationship isn't as close as he wishes, they've advanced a lot since then. They bicker, hang out sometimes and she doesn't look at him with hatred in her eyes anymore. They're good now. And he's come to feel responsible for her, because they're the only ones who understand the weight of the legacy they carry in their veins. Plus, as her brother, it's his duty to look after her, even if she's older.

So, how could he miss this? How could he let this happen? How the hell did a whole family of great detectives fail so spectacularly?

It started slow, after his sister's freaky accident that landed her on an hospital fighting for her life. It was a waking call for all of them, he guesses. As soon as she came back home, Father determined the four of them were to move to the east wing of the manor, where Damian and the others had always lived. His stepmother was to sleep in the same room as her husband for the first time, and her eldest daughter was moved to the room next to Drake's. Father claimed it was to "strenghten familial bonds" and keep Ukhti* close to them as she recovered.

But Damian and the others knew the underlining reasons. It was surveillance. A strategic move, assigning each of them a "handler". Who better to watch Mrs Wayne than her own husband? Who better to handle those unsufferable twins than Damian himself? And of course, Father trusted Drake to keep an eye on his daughter.

Tim Drake. The dutiful, loyal, genius, perfect Tim Drake. The oh-so-obedient Robin, who never fails, never falters, and always knows what's best. Father's trusted soldier.

That fucking Tim Drake.

Damian should've murdered him long ago.

Everything was normal at first. Well, besides that his stepmother and the girls made it very clear they didn't want to be there, sharing space with the rest of the family, and showed their discontent by sabotaging their daily routines to the point of near madness, disrupting the order completely. His stepmother purposedly displaced stuff in Father's office and their bedroom, while Ukthi went out of her way to annoy Drake, which more often led to loud fights. All in foolish hopes that everyone would get so sick of them that they would be sent back to their former rooms.

Naturally, it didn't work, because Father doesn't bend, and so when they realised Father wouldn't relent, their antics gradually stopped.

But what didn’t stop… was them. Tim and his Ukthi.

When they weren't arguing for the whole hallway to hear, they were annoying each other by stealing clothes, changing the locks of their bedroom's doors, even getting physically violent sometimes. She played her obnoxious music and pressed the speaker against the wall they shared while he was working, and he locked her in the bathroom while she was showering after turning the lights off.

"She's a pain in the ass, a damn brat who can't stand not getting her way." Tim said. "Someone has to put her in her place."

"He's unsufferable." She snapped. "I hope he trips down the stairs and breaks his neck."

It became routine. The status quo. The sky is blue. Gotham is corrupted. Tim and his sister hate each other.

Looking back to it, Damian only feels dumber for not having picked on the clues.

The tense silences between arguments. The stolen clothes. The bathroom lock-ins. The music blaring through shared walls. The outright shoving. The bruises that everyone chalked to their wrestling.

How many of those had nothing to do with wrestling at all?

He should've known. From the moment Drake got too involved in her life, beyond what Father even asked him to do. Tracking her movements, standing too close to her when they argued about how she shouldn't go out so late or hang out with certain people. Grabbing her by the arm, fingers digging in just a little too tightly. Looking at her with an intensity that didn’t match the conversation. When both one of their bedroom's doors was slammed closed and they didn't come out until dinner.

They should've all known.

Like when they got a call from a kidnapping incident she had been involved. She’d been missing for hours, and when they finally found her, Drake practically shoved Thomas aside while he was helping her, as if his presence was a nuisance. He cradled her face in both hands, checking for injuries, whispering something only she could hear. And he didn’t stop until she said, more than once, that she was fine. He glared at whoever tried to intervene, as if he only he was allowed to handle her.

"Geez, he's taking his bodyguard job too seriously. He knows Bruce won't kill him if she has some scratches, right?"

Like when she wears his shirts sometimes and Drake doesn't so much complain. Just stares. His gaze lingering a bit too long. Sometimes, his lips would twitch in a way that looked suspiciously close to a smile.

Like when they're alone in the kitchen or the hallway, and there's no arguing. More like bickering. But they're standing too close to each other, and they speak in hushed voices. Breathing a little too heavy.

Staring too long, too directly. The air around them impregnated with something he can't name.

It always feels like they're on the edge of doing something.

But Damian didn't find out by these painfully clear signs. He didn't pick up on the hints they barely hid and put them back together eventually, as a detective would. Oh no. He found out because it was thrown at his face.

It wasn't his fault. The door should've been fully closed. His ukthi had gotten injured during practice and had to stay at home, resting by doctor's orders. And as expected, Drake was assigned to stay behind and make sure she actually followed the orders, as her unofficial babysitter.

He remembers Alfred commenting in passing that Drake was going to stay with her anyway, that he told Father about it before he was even asked. Insisted, even. Damian had thought it weird, but didn't question it.

Damian wasn't even supposed to return to the manor yet. He forgot something and had to retrieve it. It would be just a quick trip. Come, take it and leave again. But on the way, he decided to also check on his sister too, see how she was doing.

Except her room was empty. And Drake's door was half-open. Voices came from his room.

And so, in his curiosity, and an instinct that something was off, he approached just enough to overheard.

He heard her voice first. Saying something he couldn't discern.

Then Drake’s.

"Can't I be worried? You could barely walk when I picked you up, and you'll have a scar from it."

He sounded annoyed, as usual when he spoke to her. But something in his tone was off. It sounded vastly different than Damian ever heard. Almost soft. More personal.

"You're just mad that someone else left a mark on me".

...what?

He then heard Tim scoff, muttering.

"The only marks you should have are mine."

What the hell?

He then took a step forward, quietly to not be heard, to get a glimpse of them in the room. See what was going, a sense of mysterious dread creeping up to him. Already sensing something was wrong. Very wrong.

She was laying across Drake's bed, legs stretched out, with the injured one resting on his lap. His fingers ghosting over the bandage, gaze dark and a frown in his lips, as if the sight offended him.

Meanwhile, she was looking at him with a smile. Not a fake or guarded one. It was almost...soft. Fond, even.

She sighed and nudged his side, making him snap out of it to look back at her. His stance inmediately changed when their eyes met, visibly relaxing.

She tilted her head at him.

"Are you mad at me?"

He blinked at her, then exhaled slowly and shook his head, leaning in closer until their faces were inches away. An innapropiate distance.

"I'm always mad at you," he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "It's like you live just to make my life difficult."

She chuckled, quiet and natural. Her eyes still fixed on his own with a mischievous glint.

"You wouldn't want me any other way."

He huffed, but his lips quirked up in the softest smile Damian ever saw from him.

A soft, gentle smile. From Tim Drake. Directed at her.

What was happening??

"I'll neither deny nor confirm that statement."

And then, he committed the most outrageous act of treason. The biggest offense to their family Damian ever witnessed. An insult, a spit to the concept of honour and loyalty.

He kissed her.

Right there. On his bed. With his arms caging her against him. Without a drop of doubt or hesitation. As if it was normal.

As if it wasn't the first time.

And she didn't try to fight back or push him away. No. She let him do it. Even worse, she wrapped her arms around his neck and cut the distance between their bodies. Her fingers grasping his hair and his neck simultaneously, letting out a content sigh as the bastard's hands grabbed her healthy leg and put it around his hips.

Damian forced himself to turn away from that horrendous scene before he could see anything worse. What he saw already would definitely haunt him for the rest of his life.

His mind was running at hundred, no, a thousand per hour. Trying desesperately to process and understand what he just saw. What had just been going right behind everyone's backs. Behind his back.

As the shock passed once the realisation settled in, it came the anger. The righteous, murderous rage. He saw red, visualising all kind of creative ways he would spill Drake's blood all over the same bed he defiled his sister in under their noses.

Because Damian knew, just by seeing them, hearing them, that it hadn't been their first time. That they already had done worse than kissing. At that moment, all the hints that he foolishly brushed aside for months came at him like bullets, painfully hitting him over and over as the picture of the cold truth formed in his head. Forcing him to acknowledge what he missed right in front of him all this time. Suddenly, it all made horrible sense.

How dare he?, he thought. How dare this bastard, this unworthy worm, touch his Ukthi like that? Like he had any rights? Like someone like him was worthy of her?

Damian's blood sister, a legitimate member of the Wayne lineage, an heiress, for god's sake. If anything, Damian believed nobody was worthy of her. She carried the Wayne blood in her veins. She deserved someone who matched her standing. Preferably, someone he, Stepmother and Father approved of first.

He was filled with thoughts of storming into that room and kill Drake right there, but he composed himself. Took time to think. Ukthi would most likely be upset if he did that, and such thing would ruin the progress they've made. Besides, the blood would ruin her clothes and the sheets Alfred took so much care in cleaning.

Drake wouldn't die. Not yet. Instead, Damian ran to his own room to reflect. Come to terms with the secret he just uncovered.

He's sharpening his sword, an activity that usually helps his mind relax, but now it's not enough to curve the storm in his head and heart. He keeps thinking on what he should do now. Tell Father and his wife, Ukthi's mother? This affair with Drake has clearly been going on for a while, probably shortly after the arrangement with the bedrooms. It's an insult such thing has been hidden from the family, but if he exposes it now, it would mean not just punishment for Drake, but also shame for Ukthi. Despite everything, Damian can't be mad at her. Of course not. It must've been all Drake's fault, who corrupted her and took advantage of Father's trust to manipulate her into giving herself to him. That must be it. Therefore, it's not fair she goes throught the public embarrasment because of that bastard's undeserving greediness.

That means it falls upon Damian to not only keep this secret, but handle the situation accordingly. He won't bother Father with it. He has far much more pressing matters at the moment, and this affair will definitely shake him enough to distract him from his already demanding duty. Telling Stepmother is not an option either, less she takes matters into her own hands and murders Drake herself. Not like Damian would stop her, but regardless, the worm can't die. Yet.

No, this is his duty. As the blood son, he shall be the one who avenges his sister's honour and saves her from the malicious snake.

He just has to wait. Sooner or later, one of them are bound to make a mistake. Drake might be a prodigy, but he's not perfect. He's made mistakes before. He'll make them again. And Damian will be there to enact his revenge. Make him pay for his crime.

For now, he'll wait and observe. Watch their interactions in a new, much darker light. Biting his tongue with their "accidental" touches. Holding himself back when Drake's face leans in too close. Rolling his eyes at the family's foolish blindless to all of it.

Sooner or later, Drake will learn the consequences of taking what's out of his reach.

Ukthi: "Sister" a/n: I know next to nothing of Arabic, so I searched up how people refer to their sisters and this one seems to be the most common. If it's wrong, pls let me know. this would be part of the Tales of Bats and Wolves universe, but it fits my au for any of my Bruce Wayne's daughter aus in general, unless said otherwise. remember, if you don't like, don't read or comment. nobody is forced to interact with this

@cybergoth1 (here's your sneak peak 💖 hope you enjoy! btw i blame you for my motivation to write more morally questionable pairings, so expect more in the future)

[cybergoth1]

imagine having 25 in this economy (its coming for me im getting bald and my back hurts so bad

[cybergoth1]

I love that they've got all their vigilante names and then there's just Dick Grayson

[cybergoth1]

Please, I need more of the Deadpool reader and red hood stuff, like it doesn’t even need to be smut I just need that dynamic🙏🙏🙏

the way i screamed!! im so, so, so happy you liked it 🧎🏻‍♂️‍➡️🧎🏻‍♂️‍➡️🧎🏻‍♂️‍➡️i really poured a lot of love into that aaaa :(( id absolutely love to write more about them! im finally on break from college and have a lot of free time now (though first im planning to clean out my drafts... starting with all my "jason todd being a hubby and a girl dad" oneshots. and we also have a lot of dick grayson being a girl dad in my drafts too)