corvoqueen

[corvoqueen]

Scary dog Jason’s so pretty 😍

let me shatter into you

— aka jason knows better than to let anyone get away with hurting you

———

your eyes trace the brown-yellow bruise forming on your wrist, the consequence of some asshole on the street too drunk to remember it isn’t polite to grab pretty girls. you would’ve let it go, really, it’s gotham, this kind of thing happens. unfortunately for the poor bastard, he had the misfortune of forgetting his sense in front of jason todd.

you try to hide the bruise before your boyfriend can see it, sliding the tarnished patch of skin under the sleeve of your jacket with haste— but he catches it anyways. of course he does. you can faintly see shocks of green lightning crackling in his ocean blue eyes, a precursor to the white hot rage stemming from his chest to the rest of his body.

you gently squeeze his arm, noting how tense the muscles in his bicep are. you know jason. you know he loves you differently— like you���re something fragile. he worships you, taking care of you like you’re a marble statue and he’s terrified of finding cracks. so something as small as a bruise, no matter how tiny or how minor, it makes him lose control.

he gently removes your hand from his arm, pressing a chaste kiss against your bruise. “why don’t you go back to that café, yeah? i’ll join you in a minute.” he says, looking down at you with a soft smile. if you didn’t know him any better, you’d think he’d completely gotten over the situation, happy as a clam.

but you do know him, and you know that the way his shoulders are tensed and his free hand is fisted in the pocket of his jacket means that he’s enraged.

“jay—“

he presses a soft kiss to your forehead, giving you a gentle smile. “please, baby. i don’t want you to see this.”

you should stop it. you should try. but he’s looking at you like that and your morals suddenly become incredibly loose. you hesitate, remembering the waves of repulsion you felt moments ago when that idiot bastard yanked you towards him. “just… don’t hurt him bad.”

jason nods, turning you around and guiding you forward, watching until you turn towards the cafe before he focuses his attention on the man, who is still too piss drunk to comprehend how badly he had fucked up. you hear jason before the door fully closes behind you, an echo of “so you think that’s how you should treat a woman?”

he’s terrifying. that drunk idiot must be terrified.

and he’s yours. scary dog privileges and all that. it makes you feel warm, safe, loved, protected— you’re irrevocably in love with that. with him.

he comes back in a few minutes, maybe fifteen? the wait stretched on for hours in your mind. his knuckles are bloody, but none of it is his. he cleans up in the bathroom before sliding next to you on the cushioned side of your half-booth, wrapping an arm and your shoulder, breathing you in like a man starved.

“he’s fine.” he says quietly, so only you can hear it. “just made sure he learned to keep his hands to himself.”

you close your eyes, leaning into him, into his warmth. you don’t say anything— you don’t have to, the way you bury yourself against him is admission enough. his arms wrap around you and the bruise fades back into your skin. your heart beats with more love than you thought it capable of producing, your chest swelling like it’s about to burst.

you press a gentle kiss against his chest and everything makes sense again.

———

it’s always when i say i’m not gonna write that inspiration strikes

[corvoqueen]

I think Jason is the type of wedding guest to only look at you throughout the entire reception. And oh, if you’re a bridesmaid, you’re in trouble because he’s locked in on you everywhere you go. You in your pretty dress, hair styled perfectly- even when you cry at the exchanged “I do’s”, you look so pretty. And as the groom and bride are reciting their vows- and your eyes start to well up with tears, you turn your head in search for the pair of pretty bluegreen eyes to find them already watching you. This look he’s giving you, it almost knocks you off your feet- the intensity of it. You feel caught in his gaze. He looks absolutely gone, like he’s just realized something you haven’t yet. His eyes, usually so guarded, now full of awe and devotion as he mouths “I love you”. Meant for you and only you.

[corvoqueen]

Jason after crashing at Roy’s place after a rough night patrolling

[corvoqueen]

My Heart — Part Four

summary | your family realizes how much they have missed. the problem is that you are a grown up by now, and terrible hurt by their neglect.

pairing | platonic yandere batfam x batsis!neglected!reader. future conner kent x reader.

warnings / tags | angst, hurt/little comfort, y/n is mentioned as a female, trauma, family issues, mostly trust and daddy issues. they all love each other (PLATONICALLY) they just don't know how to feel it and express it correctly. it gets darker. you are a bit of a yandere later as well. make out with conner, a bit steamy.

word count | 6k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :) please vote <3 dick is 28. jason is 23. reader will be 22 in a few months. cass is 21. tim is 20. duke is 18. damian is 13. conner looks 22 as well.

taglist | @cebrospudipudi @jjoppees @corvoqueen @nirvanaxx1942 @lilyalone @aixaingela @lettucel0ver @time-shardz @pix-stuff @galaxypurplerose @cupid73 @theproblemisthatimnotfictional @vanessa-boo @timebomb1101 @chemicalwindexbottle @chiizuluvr @ihavenomuse @mat5u0 @thismessyshe @lovebug-apple @myjumper @angwlart @esposadomd @nisarelle @mrmacwaffles @mazixxss @ememgl @naomi-xxi @bbmgirll @ash0-0ley @rowan-no-rizzz @hearts4mica @sillyheartmoonnyx @crumbs-and-covers @nininehaaa @ironsaladwitch

previous. next.

Cassandra has always spoken a language sharper than words.

It weaves in the crook of a wrist, in the subtle twist of a shoulder, in the precise slope of someone’s spine when they think no one is watching. Where others stumble over syllables, Cassandra reads the sentences of bodies with ease. Your discomfort? It screams at her. Louder than any broken sentence ever could.

You stand by the bar, your weight shifted onto one foot, arms crossed in a deceptively casual way that only someone like her could recognize for what it is: armor. You laugh in measured bursts, calculated, like the sound is another layer of silk draped across your ribs to hold you together. Your eyes? They dart, tracing the exits, the shadows, the spaces between your siblings like you’re searching for gaps in enemy lines.

You are a castle made of glass. Polished, glittering, beautiful. But one good stone, one poorly-aimed word, and you’ll crack.

She sees it. She always has.

Your weight shifts slightly, never fully planting your feet, like you’re poised to bolt the second the walls breathe too close to you. Like you’re still half feral. Like you never came back to stay.

And yet, she doesn’t move immediately. She watches instead — the way a panther observes a wounded sibling, patient, waiting for you to settle, to understand that the threat doesn’t lie here. Not tonight. Not with them.

Because you are theirs.

Even if you’ve forgotten how to speak that language.

Cassandra approaches quietly, her heels barely clicking against the marble, her mask a delicate thing that frames her sharp eyes without hiding them. You’ve never been good at reading people the way she does. You speak in music, in color, in the stretch of silk across muscle as you soar on aerial ribbons. She speaks in the curl of a lip, the tremor of a hand, the tension braided tight across your shoulders.

When she stops beside you, you don’t flinch. You never flinch for her.

You glance over, your expression smooth, carefully blank behind the pearlescent lace of your mask.

“Cass.”

Your voice is cool. Detached. But there’s warmth coiled underneath, the remnants of late nights spent side by side as teenagers, both of you tucked into the shadows of the Manor, too aware of your ghosts, too quiet to disturb them.

Cassandra studies you for a moment longer, reading the precise angle of your spine, the tight pull of your knuckles as your hand curls around your drink. Her own mouth tilts in the smallest, subtlest of smiles.

“You hate it here.” The words are low, soft, unassuming. Observational, not judgmental.

You huff a breath, the corner of your mouth twitching faintly. “I’ve always hated galas.”

Lie. You both know it.

You loved them once. You loved the attention, the glint of curiosity in strangers’ eyes, the performance of perfection. You loved the music, the cold crystal glass against your palm, the fleeting illusion that maybe, maybe tonight, your father would look at you the way he looked at Dick or Jason. That he’d see you.

But years carve new truths out of old bones.

You swirl the remnants of your drink, voice slipping into dry amusement. “I hate this gala.”

Cassandra tilts her head, raven-dark hair brushing her shoulder, eyes steady. “Because we’re here.”

It isn’t a question.

You don’t answer immediately. Your gaze drifts across the room — the swirling crowd of Gotham’s elite, your siblings clustered in their careful constellation. Dick standing close, just not enough to hear. Jason watching with guarded eyes, Tim already halfway buried in his phone, Stephanie laughing too loud, Duke leaning into every conversation, Damian glaring possessively from a corner like he owns the air around you. Bruce… distant, observing, a stone sentinel no mask can soften.

They are a pack. A unit.

And you? You’ve been orbiting too far for too long.

You shrug, the movement delicate, brittle. “I don’t belong here.”

“Wrong.” Cassandra’s voice is gentle, firm. A blade wrapped in velvet.

You meet her gaze properly then — your sister, your shadow, the girl who speaks better with her hands than her tongue, who reads the battlefield written across every tendon and muscle like scripture.

For a moment, the noise of the gala fades — the hum of music, the click of heels, the soft murmur of old money exchanging lies. It’s just you and her. Two daughters of a man too broken to love properly, two women who know the ache of silence and the sharp edges of being overlooked.

Cassandra reaches out, fingers brushing lightly along your wrist — a question disguised as touch.

You let her.

Her hand settles briefly against your forearm, steady, grounding. “You are uncomfortable.”

You exhale, a soft, rueful laugh. “That obvious?”

“Only to me.” Her mouth quirks faintly. “They don’t see yet. Too… distracted. Too loud.”

Your eyes flick back to the others, their orbit still spinning, conversations layered over possessive glances, overprotective edges buried in strained smiles. You recognize it now — the panic beneath their excitement. The desperation coiled beneath their bravado.

They want you back. They need you back.

And Cassandra can’t help but think maybe you don’t know yet. Maybe you don’t understand how needed you are. How tightly they are tethered to you. How much of their lungs you quietly occupy.

So she waits.

Because you will learn. Slowly. Gently. When they wrap around you tight enough, when they stop letting you escape between the cracks.

You can claw, you can bare your teeth, you can run.

But you are still theirs.

Cassandra’s fingers press lightly against your wrist, pulling your focus back to her.

“You’ll get used to it,” she says simply. “When you remember.”

You arch a brow. “Remember what?”

Her eyes soften, unwavering. “How much we love you.”

The words land with more weight than they should.

Love.

The concept coils around your ribs, unfamiliar, half-withered, like a foreign language you used to speak fluently before neglect turned your tongue to stone.

You scoff, half-bitter. “You all have a funny way of showing it.”

Cassandra shrugs, the movement small, unapologetic. “We’re not good at… showing.” Her gaze sharpens, reading every flicker of doubt in your posture. “But we feel.”

You hesitate, the words lodging like splinters in your throat. You want to believe her. You do. But years of silence, of invitations unanswered, of milestones ignored, of empty chairs and colder rooms — they weigh heavier than sentiment.

“We hurt you,” Cassandra says quietly, reading the protest in your stance before it leaves your lips. “But we didn’t stop loving you.”

You hate how easily she strips you bare, how precisely she deciphers the language you’ve tried to bury beneath silk and sharp words. Your walls — glass. Your armor — transparent.

You hate how much you missed her.

“Cass…” Your voice falters, softer now, the facade cracking at the edges.

She leans in slightly, her touch still featherlight on your wrist.

“You’ll get used to it,” she repeats gently. “When you see it.”

You glance back at your family — their glances lingering, their conversations fractured, each of them orbiting you even when they pretend not to.

Possessive. Broken. Desperate.

But love? Love might still linger beneath the wreckage.

Cassandra steps back, her hand slipping away, her posture loose but coiled, patient as ever.

“We’re not letting you disappear again,” she says simply.

You huff a breath, wry. “Is that a threat?”

Her eyes glint, the faintest smirk curling her lips.

“No. Promise.”

And the worst part? You almost believe her.

And it sends a shiver down your spine. 

You glance at her, eyes half-lidded behind your mask, glass tapping against your bottom lip.

“I don’t like performing,” you say simply.

“You’re not performing.”

You scoff lightly. “Aren’t I? Look at me, Cass. Look at us. Look at this.”

You motion vaguely toward the room — the golden pillars, the chandeliers heavy with old money, the sharp black suits and sparkling gowns, the curated smiles and the clink of crystal.

“This is a stage,” you murmur, voice tasting like a distant ache. “It always has been.”

Cassandra tilts her head slightly, absorbing the cadence of your words, the small tremors in your throat when you swallow.

“But you love the stage.”

Your lips twitch faintly. “I loved my stage.”

She steps a little closer, a pulse of gravity pulling her to you like an orbit she can’t escape.

“This can be yours again,” she says, voice steady, smooth.

Your shoulders stiffen, but you don’t pull away. Your body betrays you though — your heartbeat hiccups, the shallow breath slipping a fraction too quickly.

“Why now, Cass?”

Cassandra shrugs lightly. “Maybe it’s because you came back.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have.”

“Maybe you had to.”

You look at her fully now, studying her calm posture, her hands resting loosely against the bar, her gaze unwavering. “Did they send you?” you ask, the bite in your tone dulled by exhaustion.

“No.”

You quirk a brow. “Not even Dick?”

“He knows I see things he doesn’t.”

You hum. “I’m not staying.”

“You will.”

You laugh, dry and low. “You’re sure of that?”

“Yes.”

Her certainty is a strange comfort and an irritation all at once. The music swells, the floor shifts, the lights catch on the curve of your mask.

You don’t run. Not this time.

And maybe — maybe — you’ll let yourself stay, if only for a little while longer.

The song changes. Slow, heavy. Something old and familiar that wraps around the ballroom like velvet, soft and suffocating all at once.

You’re still on the floor with Cass when you feel it. The shift. The ripple of eyes turning, attention coiling tighter, a new presence anchoring itself to your space.

You don’t need to look to know.

But you do.

Bruce stands at the edge of the dance floor, dark and polished in that way only he can be, mask settled over sharp, unreadable eyes, jaw clenched faintly beneath the shadow of his cowl.

He’s watching you.

Your heartbeat falters for half a second, years of muscle memory and buried instincts prickling under your skin. You see the faintest crack in his armor—the tightness at the corner of his mouth, the stiffness in his stance that tells you this isn’t Bruce Wayne, billionaire philanthropist, standing before you.

It’s Batman.

And yet, tonight, under the golden haze of the chandelier, pressed into a suit and bowtie, that armor looks laughably thin.

Cassandra follows your gaze, her eyes sharp and knowing.

You feel her hand brush your wrist, a subtle pressure of comfort, but she doesn’t say anything when Bruce takes a slow step forward, cutting through the crowd with the quiet command of a man who has never been denied a thing in his life.

The orchestra’s strings hum, the floor parts, and your shoulders pull taut without your permission.

“May I?” His voice is low, almost too steady, a thread of tension buried beneath each word.

It’s not really a request.

There are eyes on you.

Of course there are.

The Gotham elite never miss a Wayne. Never miss a show. Never miss the subtle shifts in power or affection or loyalty written in these carefully curated performances.

It’s all a performance, isn’t it?

So you swallow the knot in your throat, force your expression flat, and nod.

“Of course, father.”

The title tastes foreign, jagged, but it rolls off your tongue with the grace you’ve spent years cultivating.

Cass slips away, melting into the crowd like smoke, her dark eyes lingering on you one last time before vanishing into the sea of black and gold.

Bruce’s hand hovers, waiting, and you place yours in it with reluctant precision.

His palm is warm. Familiar. Calloused from years of work that only you and a select few will ever know. The pressure firm but not crushing, guiding you to the center of the dance floor with the kind of confidence that has always belonged to him. He was never unsure in these spaces. Not in the boardroom, not in the battlefield, not in a waltz.

Except maybe now.

Maybe here, with you, there’s a tremble under the armor he forgot to shed.

The other hand settles lightly against your waist, and you suppress the instinct to tense again.

You’ve danced with him before. Countless times. Gotham galas, charity benefits, stiff family events when you were still young enough to believe you had his full attention. 

But nothing ever felt like this.

The music pulls you into motion. You fall into step without thought, the years of training, of posture, of silent grace slipping over your bones like muscle memory refusing to die.

It’s almost funny. You’ve fought beside him more times than you can count. Shadow to his shadow. The Huntress at Batman’s side.

Your blades carving through alleyways, your fists silencing threats, blood escaping villain's noses, mouths, always respecting your father's code, your shared glances in the dark. The quiet, unshakable language of partners.

You remember the feeling of your boots scraping against wet gravel, the sweet sting of exhaustion in your muscles after nights chasing Gotham’s monsters, the brief flashes of pride you used to catch in his eyes when you landed a perfect strike, when you solved a puzzle before he could.

Those memories burn, bright and cruel.

Because no one here — no one but this family — knows the truth of who you were, of what you meant to this city in the shadows.

You have always been his sharpest blade. Always been the daughter who bled to be seen.

But here, in this room? Under the crushing weight of crystal chandeliers and champagne laughter?

This is where the cracks show.

It’s not your territory. Not really.

“I forgot how heavy your hand is.”

His grip eases immediately, his jaw clenching. “Sorry.”

You don’t offer comfort. You never learned how.

“You didn’t have to come,” Bruce says, his voice low, carrying only to you beneath the hum of strings.

You let out a quiet breath, eyes fixed over his shoulder. “You didn’t have to invite me. Well, Dick did. Suppose you don't have anything to do with that.”

His hand tenses fractionally at your waist, almost imperceptible, but you catch it.

You catch everything.

“I wanted you here.”

You arch a brow, letting your gaze drift back to him, sharp and cool behind your mask. “And now that I’m here, what? We pretend everything’s fine? You smile for the cameras, I play the good daughter, and we dance for the press?”

His jaw clenches, the muscle ticking at the corner of his cheek. “It’s not for the cameras.”

“No?” Your voice lowers, bitter amusement coiling under your ribs. “Then who’s it for?”

He hesitates. That alone is rare enough to sting. “I wanted to dance with my daughter,” he replies finally.

The words are quieter than you expect. Honest. Stripped of performance.

And you hate how much they twist something in your chest.

“You remember how to call me that?”

His gaze flickers briefly to the crowd, to the watchful vultures pretending to sip champagne while their ears sharpen like knives.

“Lower your voice,” he murmurs, guiding you into a smooth spin.

You want to look away, to sneer, to cut the conversation off at the knees, but the pressure of his hand guiding you into the next turn forces you to stay.

The crowd around you blurs. It always does, when it’s just the two of you.

The same way it used to blur when you stood shoulder to shoulder on Gotham’s rooftops, cape and cowl shrouding you both, the city sprawling beneath your boots, yours to protect, yours to conquer.

But those nights feel like a lifetime ago now. Like someone else’s memories.

Your throat tightens.

“Don’t do this,” you whisper, voice cracking despite your best efforts. “Don’t pretend.”

“I’m not.” His eyes soften, only a fraction, but it’s enough to rattle your defenses. “I’ve made mistakes.”

You scoff under your breath, bitter and brittle. “That’s one way to phrase it.”

“I should’ve been there.”

Your steps falter for a heartbeat, but he adjusts, guiding you seamlessly back into rhythm.

You hate how easy it still is. How perfectly you move together when words fail you both.

“I waited,” you murmur, the confession slipping free before you can stop it. “I waited, and you were always looking somewhere else.”

“I know.” His voice is tight. Heavy. Guilt coils between you like smoke. You feel the weight of it, old and sharp, pressing against your ribs.

“For them,” you continue, unable to stop now. “For the city. For your mission. For your sons.”

Bruce’s grip doesn’t waver, but the cracks show in his eyes, stormy blue flickering with regret.

You almost laugh.

“But never for me.”

The words settle like ash between you, bitter and final.

You expect him to deflect. To deny.

But he doesn’t.

“I failed you.”

It’s not loud. It’s not grand. But it’s the closest thing to an apology you’ve ever heard from him.

Your fingers curl faintly against his shoulder.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

The music carries you through the dance like nothing’s wrong, like your skin isn’t itching to pull away, like your heart isn’t clawing at your chest, desperate and aching for something you lost years ago.

And yet…

Part of you—small, foolish, feral—still begs for him to look at you the way he did when you were a child.

When you were his. Before the missions. Before the masks. Before you became just another soldier in his endless war.

You swallow hard, blinking away the sting in your eyes.

You speak low, your voice coated in something sharp. “You only see me when I’m useful.”

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?”

His hand shifts slightly, tightening at your waist like he can anchor you there, keep you from slipping through his fingers again.

“You’ve always been important to me.”

Your lips twitch into something faintly cruel.

“‘Important’ isn’t the same as loved.”

His steps falter for half a second — a crack in the perfect choreography — but he catches it before the crowd can notice.

“You think I don’t love you?” His voice dips, lower now, rougher, threading frustration and something dangerously close to desperation.

“I know you don’t know how to.”

Your body stays cold, distant in his arms, your eyes catching the flicker of your brother's at the edge of the floor — Dick’s frozen stare, Jason’s clenched fists, Tim’s worried glances, Damian’s livid, possessive glare, Duke on full alert. Cassandra is the only one who just expects, knowing what could and possibly would come out of all that.

They can’t hear you. Not fully. But they feel the tremble in the air.

The weight in your throat thickens.

“You loved the Huntress,” you murmur, your fingers curling tighter in his. “You loved the soldier. You loved the weapon. But me? The daughter? You didn’t see her.”

“I did,” Bruce says, barely breathing.

“You weren't there.”

“I was—”

“Busy?” Your teeth flash, sharp and humorless. “I know. Saving Gotham. Carrying the weight of the world. I know.”

His silence cuts deep.

Your chest tightens as the music sways around you, your steps precise, your face carefully unreadable for the vultures still watching.

But inside, you ache.

You ache like you did as a child, waiting on cold marble steps for a father who never showed.

“You don’t get to show up now,” you whisper, your throat thickening. “You don’t get to pretend this is normal. You don’t get to waltz me around like you remember who I am.”

“I never forgot you.”

Your laugh is low and cold.

“I forgot me.”

His brow furrows, his grip firm but not suffocating.

“You’re still my child.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

The desperation flickers again, barely restrained under the mask.

“I missed too much,” he says, the words pulled from somewhere raw. “But I want to—”

“To what? Make up for it now?” You sneer softly, the bitterness clinging to your ribs. “You want to be my father again? You want to start over? You can’t.”

His chest rises and falls slowly.

“I want to know you.”

“You knew me.”

“I didn’t know enough.”

“You didn’t want to know.”

“I was afraid.”

That — that makes your breath catch.

You hadn’t expected that. You glance at him, really glance at him, your mask a faint shimmer against your skin. For the first time, he sees your shiny eyes, full of tragic tears. 

“Of what?”

“Of what I’d see.” His voice is quiet, honest in a way that strips you bare. “Of the cracks. Of the things I couldn’t fix. I didn’t want to fail you.”

You shake your head, blinking back the sting behind your eyes. “You did anyway.”

His throat bobs with the weight of what he can’t swallow.

You don’t raise your voice. You don’t shatter the fragile picture they’re all watching, but you don’t soften either.

“You missed so many things,” you murmur, gaze slipping to the golden chandeliers. “You missed the shows. The exhibits. The nights I sat at the piano because I thought maybe this time you’d come in and just… just sit. Just watch me be something that wasn’t a weapon.”

“I should’ve been there.”

“But you weren’t.”

“I can be now.”

You close your eyes briefly, the music pulling you through the motions like it always has.

“You don’t know how to love people who don’t fight for you.”

“I love you.”

You breathe out, trembling, trying to keep the cracks from surfacing.

“You love the version of me you built in your head.”

“I want the real you.”

You look at him finally, fully, the aching part of you — the part still thirteen, still small, still desperate — begging to see that spark in his eyes again. That warmth. That father.

You search his gaze. You search it like you’re searching for a home you locked yourself out of.

“You don’t know me,” you whisper, your throat tight.

“Then let me try.”

The song fades.

The silence between you doesn’t.

But you don’t pull your hand from his.

Not yet.

Not until Clark Kent appears, accompanied by the one and only Wonder Woman.

You spot them weaving through the crowd like gravity itself parts the air around them. The gods walking among mortals, and everyone in this room knows it — though most pretend otherwise, lifting champagne flutes with tight smiles and practiced indifference. The only ones foolish enough to believe they belong in the same echelon.

But you? You’ve seen them without the glamor, without the press conference glow. You’ve seen them bone-tired after fights, bruised, battered, laughing softly under dim Watchtower lights, their capes draped over chairs like discarded armor. You’ve seen the cracks beneath the myth.

And they’ve seen you too.

Their eyes light up the moment they spot you, their smiles — honest, unfiltered things — cracking through the heavy air you’ve been drowning in all night.

You remember the warmth.

And you remember how you clung to it, how you were always orbiting their presence like a child desperate for gravity.

You straighten your shoulders as they approach, brushing your fingers along the edge of your mask like it could shield you from the sudden, raw tenderness that swells in your throat.

Diana is the first to reach you. Her hand finds yours without hesitation, fingers warm and strong, curling around yours like an anchor.

“You look breathtaking,” she says, her voice low and velvet-smooth, like the steady hum of storm clouds promising rain. “Though, I expected no less.”

A faint, genuine smile tugs at your lips despite yourself. “Flattery from a literal goddess? Dangerous territory, Diana.”

Her eyes sparkle, amusement clear as water. “You’ve always been dangerous. Even at twelve, shadowing the Watchtower halls, wearing that Huntress suit far too big for you.”

Your cheeks flush lightly at the memory, and Diana’s thumb brushes the back of your hand, soothing, familiar.

“I thought it made me look taller,” you murmur.

“It made you look fearless,” she corrects, her gaze softening with something achingly maternal, threaded with pride. “You were always curious. Always watching. Always so sure of your place, even when the rest of us weren’t.”

Clark joins the circle then, his presence as gentle as it is commanding — all broad shoulders and boyish charm wrapped in the mild-mannered facade that never quite hides the steel beneath.

“You’ve grown,” he says warmly, eyes crinkling at the edges as they sweep over you. His voice is the same — low, steady, threaded with the kind of fatherly concern that makes something tight coil behind your ribs. “Not that I expected anything less. You were never exactly… subtle.”

You raise a brow. “Says the man who wore his underwear over his pants.”

Clark chuckles, the sound low and familiar. His hand settles briefly on your shoulder, grounding, gentle, the kind of touch you always wanted from your own father and never quite managed to receive.

“I see your sense of humor’s still sharp,” he says. His eyes soften as they linger on your face, quiet memory flickering there. “I remember when you were shorter than my belt.”

“I remember tripping you in the Watchtower training room.”

“Still have the bruises to prove it.”

The easy banter slices clean through the weight pressing against your chest, letting your lungs expand for the first time tonight.

It’s Diana, though, who reaches deeper — always has.

Her hand brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, her thumb grazing your cheek, her expression so openly fond you almost flinch.

“You used to cling to my lasso,” she teases gently. “Tug at it during debriefings. Sit beside me while I braided my hair and begged for stories.”

Your throat tightens. You remember that. Too vividly.

You remember curling at her side, wide-eyed, marveling at the myth spun from her lips — Amazonian battles, distant islands kissed by gods, the weight of justice worn like a crown.

She had made you feel seen. Small, yes, but capable. Curious. Full of fire.

You clear your throat lightly, swallowing the ache. “You never made me feel like a kid.”

Diana smiles, radiant and proud. “You never were.”

And it doesn't feel good hearing it.

Clark’s gaze lingers a little longer, soft, reflective, and then — a glint of amusement sharpens his expression.

“Conner’s around,” he says casually, but his tone carries the weight of knowing, the faintest nudge hidden beneath the words. “Have you seen him?”

Your brows lift, the reaction too quick to mask entirely. Your lips twitch in betrayal of your cool facade as the memory of the bar — the sparkling smirk, the teasing words, the shameless flirtation — slides uninvited through your mind.

You nod slowly, fingers wrapping around the stem of your forgotten glass.

“Briefly,” you say, careful, measured.

Clark’s smile deepens, equal parts teasing and gentle warning — the same look he used to shoot you when he caught you dangling too close to Conner’s orbit as teenagers.

“Good,” he says simply, but the implication curls around the space between you.

Diana chuckles under her breath, her sharp eyes not missing a thing.

“I see some habits are hard to break,” she muses, arching a brow at you.

You shrug, feigning innocence. “Some people grow up,” you counter lightly. “Some people…”

Clark’s chuckle interrupts. “Conner still hasn’t figured out how to act his age.”

“He’s Kryptonian,” Diana adds. “Time never sits still for them.”

Your lips curve, the weight on your shoulders easing slightly under their warmth.

The conversation drifts, gentle, filled with quiet stories, brief updates, subtle glances that reassure and ground you. You listen, you smile, you let the nostalgia curl around your ribs like soft smoke.

But even as they speak, even as Clark’s familiar cadence fills the space, as Diana’s hand rests lightly at your arm, your father's voice turning serious once again, your gaze slips.

Across the room, past the glint of crystal chandeliers and silver-threaded gowns, you catch sight of him. Leaning casually against one of the marble pillars, drink in hand, eyes fixed unashamedly on you. His mouth quirks into that cocky, knowing grin that always made your pulse skip when you were younger — the same grin that’s sharper now, older, more dangerous in its charm.

Clark follows your gaze, hums softly, and doesn't say anything. But he smiles once you slip, orbiting towards Conner without a warning behind.

Conner stands there, smile curling lazy and confident at the corner of his mouth — but there’s something else, too. Something softer tucked behind the bold lines of his expression. Familiarity. Nervousness. The quiet sting of unspoken years.

“Could’ve sworn I saw you hiding,” he says, voice smooth as aged bourbon, that small Kansas lilt still lingering beneath the practiced ease. “But you? At a Wayne gala? Hiding? Doesn’t sound like the girl I used to know.”

Your brow arches automatically, muscle memory pulling the teasing into place. “Maybe you never knew me.”

“Unlikely,” Conner says, taking a slow step closer. His gaze sweeps over you, not leering — just… cataloguing. Memorizing. Like he’s re-learning old territory. “You were everywhere back then. Practically glued to my side.”

You roll your eyes lightly, but the ghost of a grin betrays you.

“You were lost,” you counter. “I’m a sucker for lost things.”

His smile deepens, warm and genuine, softening the edges of his sharp jawline.

“You were a sucker for projects,” he corrects, gesturing to the bar with his drink. “Wanna make me one again? Come grab a drink, Birdie.”

The nickname, stolen right from Dick’s vocabulary, makes something twist low in your stomach. From anyone else, it’d be obnoxious. From him? It rolls easy off his tongue. Teasing. Comfortable.

For a moment, you hesitate.

But it’s Conner. And with Conner, it’s always been different.

There’s a rhythm there. A flow. A space that never quite closed, even when distance, time, and your own stubbornness shoved everything else to the side.

You sigh dramatically, feigning reluctance.

“Fine,” you relent, brushing past him with enough proximity to let your shoulder graze his arm. “But only because I pity you.”

“Pity,” he echoes, falling into step beside you as you approach the bar. “Harsh.”

“True.”

The bartender barely blinks as you order — your drink, crisp and familiar, sliding across the marble with ease. Conner orders the same, his grin cocky but his eyes never straying far from yours.

“You clean up nice,” he says after a beat, his gaze drifting, lingering just long enough to make your pulse skip. “Not that I didn’t know that already.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“Bold of you to assume I need help.”

You snort softly, sipping your drink, the burn a welcome distraction as you tilt your head, studying him properly.

It’s unnerving, almost, how little he’s changed — and how much.

The broad shoulders, the sharp jawline, the easy charm that never fully disguised the insecurity curled behind his bravado — it’s all there. But there’s more weight now. More quiet steel in the way he carries himself. The recklessness tempered, if only slightly, by time.

“I thought Smallville boys were supposed to have manners.”

Conner grins, sharp and easy. “I was born in a lab. I missed the memo.”

You click your tongue, feigning disapproval.

And it’s too easy, slipping into the old rhythm, the way your shoulders settle, the way your tongue sharpens, how the years between you flicker and collapse like they were never there to begin with.

You remember the early days — how quickly you let him in, how you made it your mission to make him laugh, to teach him that he didn’t have to be a shadow of someone else.

You remember sitting too close on rooftops, fingers brushing when you passed him comms, pretending not to notice the flush that followed.

You remember wishing for something to happen. You remember how nothing ever did.

Until now.

Until you find yourself backed against the cool marble of the bathroom door, his breath warm and unsteady against your mouth, his hands splayed against the dip of your waist like he doesn’t quite know how to hold you but refuses to let you go.

It spiraled so quickly you barely remember leaving the bar.

One look, one lingering touch, one too-long stare that told you both exactly where this was heading.

Your fingers knot in the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer, daring him to press in like you’ve wanted him to since you were both kids playing dress-up in a world that always asked too much.

His mouth is rough against yours, all heat and unspoken years crashing together in the sharp clink of his belt against the counter, your breaths coming too fast, too close.

You bite his lip, hard enough to make him grunt against your mouth, and he laughs through it, a low, breathless sound that sends heat crawling up your throat.

“You kiss like you fight,” he mutters against your jaw, his hands sliding up your back, pressing you closer, anchoring you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish again.

You tilt your head back, breath ragged, the faintest smirk curling your lips despite the heat twisting under your skin. The mask not longer in your face, neither the one in his. Both of them thrown in the counter.

“And how exactly is that, Kent?”

His mouth finds your pulse, the scrape of his teeth making your knees threaten to buckle, the low rumble of his voice vibrating against your skin.

“Sharp,” he breathes. “Stubborn. Dangerous.”

Your laugh catches, breathless and sharp, your nails scraping lightly along the nape of his neck, threading into the short, slightly curled, dark strands of his hair. 

Conner’s body hums against yours. His hands shift, one trailing up your spine until his palm corners around your shoulder blade, the other sliding lower, anchoring against your hip. His grip is neither timid nor assured — more like remarkable desperation distilled into two hands trying too hard not to let go.

“I should be offended.”

“You should be flattered.”

You don’t get a chance to retort — his mouth captures yours again, more certain now, like the floodgate’s been ripped off its hinges and he’s done pretending this isn’t happening.

The kiss is everything it shouldn’t be.

Messy. Unrestrained. All teeth and tangled promises never spoken aloud.

His hands skim your ribs, the warmth of his palms steady through the thin fabric of your dress, fingers spreading along your sides like he’s trying to memorize every inch, every curve, every soft line you’ve spent years perfecting beneath layers of distance and pride.

You fist your hand in the collar of his jacket, dragging him impossibly closer, your teeth catching his lower lip again — softer this time, deliberate — and the sound he makes is nothing short of sinful.

“Years,” he mumbles against your mouth, his forehead pressing to yours between rushed kisses. His voice is rough, strained, frustration bleeding through. “Do you have any idea how long—”

“Yeah,” you interrupt, breathing hard, your other hand sliding along his jaw, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “I do.”

You kiss him again before he can speak, shutting him up with the easy, reckless confidence that’s always defined your connection — all edges and unspoken history threatening to spill over.

His tongue traces yours, exploratory, familiar and new all at once, the kiss deepening with every second you let yourself sink into it until you’re dizzy from lack of air, from the heat coiling low in your belly, from the years of pretending this didn’t simmer beneath the surface.

The marble at your back is cold. His hands are not.

One slips to your lower back, the other tangling in your hair, and he pulls you to him with that careful, near-desperate possessiveness that makes your chest ache in places you thought you’d fortified long ago.

You break apart for air, your foreheads pressed together, your breaths tangled, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth — smudging lipstick, maybe, but you don’t care.

“God,” he breathes, grinning despite the mess of you both, eyes dark, pupils blown wide. “You’re… still impossible.”

Your lips quirk, your fingers lightly tapping his chest.

“And you’re still predictable.”

He chuckles, the sound soft, his thumb ghosting along your cheek.

“Wanna do something predictably stupid and kiss me again?”

You don’t answer.

You just yank him back down, mouth slanting over his with practiced ease, your teeth nipping playfully, your laugh muffled against his lips as he groans, his grip tightening just enough to remind you exactly how much he could crush you if he wanted — how much he doesn’t.

Because with you? It’s always been careful chaos. Messy, reckless, but never cruel. Never careless.

He kisses you like he’s spent years waiting to.

Like he’s making up for lost time with every scrape of teeth, every hurried press of lips, every breathless noise that slips between you.

It’s addictive — the weight of him pressing you to the wall, the warmth of his hand at your hip, the certainty in the way he moves now, all hesitation stripped away.

And for all your bravado, for all your practiced indifference, you let yourself sink into it — let yourself feel him, familiar and dangerous, the one person who ever made you forget the Huntress mask and the Wayne name and the fractured pieces that came with both.

Your fingers slide along the edge of his jaw, memorizing, grounding, your nails scraping lightly along his skin as you pull back just enough to breathe.

His eyes stay locked to yours, intense, blue, unwavering.

For a beat, neither of you speak.

Then, softer, quieter, his thumb brushes your cheek again.

“Missed you,” he says, the words slipping out like confession, raw and honest and untethered.

You swallow hard, throat tight, years pressing heavy against your chest.

Your hand curls into his shirt, fingers tightening slightly.

“Don’t make this complicated, Kent.”

His smile is small, but it never reaches his eyes.

“With you?” He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, the words a ghost of a promise. “It’s already complicated.”

You don’t kiss him again.

Not yet.

But your hand doesn’t move. And neither does he. And the space between you? Still dangerous.

You don't think you care.

[corvoqueen]

My Heart — Part Three

summary | your family realizes how much they have missed. the problem is that you are a grown up by now, and terrible hurt by their neglect.

pairing | platonic yandere batfam x batsis!neglected!reader. future conner kent x reader.

warnings / tags | angst, hurt/little comfort, y/n is mentioned as a female, trauma, family issues, mostly trust and daddy issues. they all love each other (PLATONICALLY) they just don't know how to feel it and express it correctly. it gets darker. you are a bit of a yandere later as well.

word count | 5.3k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :) please vote <3 dick is 28. jason is 23. reader will be 22 in a few months. cass is 21. tim is 20. duke is 18. damian is 13.

conner makes his first appearance :pp

taglist | @cebrospudipudi @jjoppees @corvoqueen @nirvanaxx1942 @lilyalone @aixaingela @lettucel0ver @time-shardz @pix-stuff @galaxypurplerose @cupid73 @theproblemisthattimnotfictional @vanessa-boo @timebomb1101 @chemicalwindexbottle @chiizuluvr @ihavenomuse @mat5u0 @thismessyshe @lovebug-apple @myjumper @angwlart @esposadomd @nisarelle @mrmacwaffles @mazixxss @ememgl @naomi-xxi @bbmgirll @ash0-0ley

previous. next.

The Wayne Manor hasn’t changed.

Not really.

The city evolves. The world turns. Gotham devours itself, spits itself back out, over and over again. But this house… this house stays the same.

The marble under his shoes still holds the faint scuff of childhood racing feet. The wood panels still creak in the same spots — the third stair from the landing, the right edge of the west hallway. The heavy scent of aged paper, fireplace ash, and expensive polish lingers in the walls, impossible to scrub out no matter how often Alfred tries.

Bruce breathes it all in as he steps through the front doors, loosening his tie with one hand, briefcase heavy in the other. Even here, the work follows him. The meetings, the shareholders, the endless faces wanting his attention. None of it ever really stops. It never has.

The Enterprise board meetings bleed into the evening now. They always do. Stacked hours of power suits and shareholders, of dry numbers and brittle conversations, while Gotham simmers just outside the tower walls.

It leaves him tired in a way the cowl never could.

He heads for his study on autopilot, steps measured, jaw tight, already sorting through the files in his head.

But he pauses in the living room.

The faint, flickering glow of the television spills across the dark floor. A faint hum.

His brows furrow.

The television should be off. Alfred is meticulous about the house’s order. Damian never leaves a screen running. Tim is in the city tonight. Jason—well, Jason rarely sets foot in the Manor unless he’s forced. And Dick…

Bruce’s frown deepens when he thinks of his oldest son.

He crosses the threshold into the living room, the quiet hum of static and aged video speakers meeting his ears. The living room is dimly lit, shadows curling across the furniture. The television sits against the far wall, the soft glow of an old video playing, the grain of the footage unmistakable — aged, imperfect, preserved.

The timestamp in the corner reads Gotham Academy Auditorium – March 2019.

And you’re there.

You are not there when he finds the tape. You are far from the manor. Far from Gotham. Far from him.

But you are there on the screen.

Frozen in time.

Dancing.

White.

Ethereal.

Your teenage frame moves with the precise, aching grace of someone born for the stage, wrapped in the soft shimmer of a Swan Queen's tutu, the tulle layered and crisp against your thighs. Your hair is pulled tight into a bun, not a single strand out of place. The stage lights cast a pale glow over your skin, highlighting the sharp, elegant lines of your arms as they stretch and flutter, the ghost of a bird in flight.

Your expression is serious. Focused. But vulnerable in a way Bruce can’t tear his eyes from.

He doesn’t remember this.

The realization roots him to the spot, chest heavy, heart sinking deeper with every note of Tchaikovsky that trickles from the old speakers.

You were— what, fifteen there? Sixteen? Barely holding yourself together behind a mask of effortless poise. And he— God, what was he doing that night? A mission? The Board? Chasing criminals in an alley while his daughter performed like this… and he didn’t even remember.

He studies the video as if his eyes can retroactively imprint it into his mind, as if enough staring will make up for the absence in his memory.

Your movements are flawless. Perfect control. The edges of your face still round with youth. But Bruce knows better than anyone how much pain hides behind discipline.

It’s written all over your face — the stubborn set of your jaw, the ghost of uncertainty behind your practiced eyes, the tightness in your shoulders.

You’re magnificent.

You’re hurting.

And he wasn’t there.

The tape is old. Not from a phone. Not from some bystander’s recording. This was filmed deliberately. Carefully. Preserved as if whoever held the camera wanted to keep you forever.

Bruce takes a few steps closer, his briefcase lowering to his side, forgotten.

His eyes trace the curve of your arms, the extension of your neck, the slight quiver in your breath as you leap, as you land, as you fight to stay within the perfection of your craft.

There’s no memory in his mind that matches this. Not a single one. He’s seen you at galas, at fundraisers, at piano recitals. He’s seen you in training rooms, balancing yourself on beams, sharpening your strength.

But a tutu? Ballet shoes? A studio filled with mirrors?

Nothing.

It’s like a life you had that he never noticed. Like a whole world you lived in while he was busy watching other shadows.

His throat tightens.

You are his daughter. His first daughter. He remembers your birth, born from a weeping mother who loved him too much, who loved you so much. How the red of her face went away, pale to the bone. 

He didn't cry her death, but he cried with your first word. He remembers your first steps. Your first trophy in Chemistry. How much you loved to chat his ear off, and how much power you held always above the others. 

You move across the stage with flawless control — shoulders high, chin poised, arms unfolding with the softest grace he’s ever seen. Your expression doesn’t falter. Not once. Not even as the music swells and your body pirouettes, weightless, fragile, untouchable.

The video has no crowd noise. No clapping. No background voices.

Only the music.

Only you.

And your face — that perfect, painful blend of determination and sadness. The one he’s learned to recognize far too late.

How many hours did you spend practicing this? How many times did you look for him in the crowd?

He takes a slow step forward, his hand brushing against the back of the couch, eyes never leaving the screen.

You were so small then.

Not a child. Not anymore. But still so… unfinished. Still trying to carve yourself into the version of you that they would finally see.

Finally be proud of.

His throat tightens, a rough exhale breaking free as your final pose holds, the swell of music lingering, your chest rising with practiced, shallow breaths. There’s a flicker of nerves beneath the confidence in your face — like you’re searching for something in the crowd.

You looked… flawless.

Untouchable.

But utterly alone.

The sound of quiet footsteps behind him breaks the trance.

Alfred stands at the doorway, his hands folded neatly in front of him, his expression as composed as ever but his eyes soft, distant, as if he too is caught somewhere between then and now.

The butler clears his throat softly, eyes landing on the screen.

“My apologies, sir,” Alfred says gently. “I meant to switch it off before you returned. It was… keeping me company while I tidied up.”

Bruce doesn’t look away from the screen. “How old was she there?” His voice is low, rough around the edges.

“Sixteen,” Alfred answers, stepping to his side. “The Winter Gala performance. Her first lead role.”

Bruce’s brows furrow deeper.

“I don’t remember this.”

Alfred tilts his head, a hint of something unreadable flickering through his eyes. “No,” he agrees softly. “You wouldn’t.”

Guilt knots tighter in Bruce’s stomach.

“She danced,” Bruce murmurs, more to himself than to Alfred. “She danced. I didn’t know she—”

“She was quite fond of it,” Alfred interjects, gently. “Ballet, specifically. It was not a hobby, not a passing fancy. It was… vital to her. For quite some time.”

Bruce’s chest tightens. “Why didn’t I know?”

Alfred tilts his head, his eyes soft with something like sadness.

“She sent invitations,” Alfred says, his voice careful, not accusing. “Quite a few of them. They were never demands. Only… hopes.”

Bruce swallows hard.

“I’ve watched this more times than I care to admit,” Alfred confesses quietly. “She never saw me filming, of course. But I thought… perhaps one day she’d want the memory preserved.”

Bruce’s eyes darken with something complex — guilt, longing, helplessness.

“She shouldn’t have had to perform for a camera when her family was supposed to be in the audience.”

“Quite right,” Alfred agrees, but there’s no venom in his voice. Just quiet, well-worn sadness.

The video loops, restarting, and there you are again — poised, perfect, heartbreakingly young.

“She was good,” Bruce says, as if that’s the only thing keeping his throat from closing.

“She was remarkable,” Alfred corrects, soft pride threading through the words. “Is remarkable.”

Bruce’s eyes narrow slightly. “You’ve seen her?”

Alfred hesitates for only a moment. “I’ve… kept in touch.”

That shouldn’t surprise him. Alfred always did what the rest of them couldn’t seem to manage.

Bruce runs a hand over his mouth, his eyes heavy with the exhaustion that no amount of hours at the office can replicate. He should’ve been there. At that performance. At all of them. Instead, he’s watching it now — through a screen, through years of distance and absence that not even money or apologies can erase.

“How did I miss it?” The words are barely audible.

Alfred exhales slowly, his posture softening. “You were… occupied. As you’ve always been.”

“Occupied,” Bruce echoes, bitterness curling around the syllables.

He looks at the screen again — your form mid-spin, graceful, celestial, untouchable.

“She was always right there,” Bruce says, voice hoarse, more to himself than to the butler. “Always… there.”

Alfred’s eyes soften further. “Children often are. Until they no longer are.”

The implication twists in Bruce’s stomach like a knife.

“I didn’t… I didn’t see her.”

The butler’s expression softens, but he does not let Bruce retreat into his guilt without resistance. “You loved her, sir. You still do.”

“That doesn’t mean I saw her. I don't know her favourite colour. Don't know if she likes to paint or to draw more. I don't even know her dreams. If what she's doing is actually what she wants.”

Alfred crosses the room, his footsteps light, precise, as they’ve always been. “You were not an easy man to reach, Master Wayne.”

Bruce’s throat bobs. “No.”

“She tried.”

“I know.”

Alfred’s gaze is patient but not forgiving. “Do you?”

Bruce’s breath catches.

He remembers the box Dick threw at him.

The letters.

The tickets.

The invitations.

The recitals.

The soft, desperate handwriting.

He knows now.

He should have known then.

“She wrote to me,” Bruce murmurs, his voice thin, frayed around the edges. “More than I realized.”

Alfred’s silence is answer enough.

“She wanted me there.”

“Yes, sir,” Alfred confirms. “She did.”

“She wanted all of us there.”

“She did.”

Bruce’s hands curl into fists, a familiar tension threading through his muscles.

“I failed her.”

Alfred doesn’t argue.

He doesn’t need to.

“She won’t come home.”

“Would you?” Alfred counters, one brow arching faintly.

Bruce exhales, his eyes dragging back to the video.

“You raised her,” he says after a moment, quieter now. “More than I did.”

Alfred’s shoulders lift in a small shrug. “As I’ve done for all of you.”

“You shouldn’t have had to.”

“Perhaps not.” The older man offers a faint, sad smile. “But I’d do it again. For her. For you.”

The room falls silent again, the soft static hum of the old video filling the space.

Bruce studies your younger self — your graceful posture, the way your fingers float like feathers, the quiet tragedy tucked behind your poised, serious eyes.

You were always trying to be seen.

And he never looked.

“I didn’t even know about this performance,” Bruce admits, the guilt dripping from every word.

Alfred inclines his head, the faintest trace of sympathy in his voice. “She sent invitations. More than one.”

His stomach twists. He remembers the box now — the old letters, the unopened envelopes. The things Dick shoved into his chest like an accusation. His daughter’s quiet, desperate attempts to earn his attention.

“How many?” Bruce asks, though he already fears the answer.

Alfred’s gaze sharpens faintly. “Enough.”

Enough to break your heart.

Enough that you stopped sending them.

Enough that you left.

“She’s angry.”

Alfred sighs, correcting gently. “She’s hurt.”

“It’s the same thing,” Bruce mutters.

“Not with her.” The butler’s voice lowers, steady, knowing. “She’s hurt, sir. But she still loves you.”

“She doesn’t want to come home.”

“Would you, if you were her?” Alfred’s brow lifts again, repeating it with enough hardness that it seemed protective.

Bruce presses a hand to his mouth again, shoulders rigid, jaw tight, eyes burning in a way that surprises even him.

“You think it’s too late?”

Alfred considers that, gaze steady, voice level. “It’s never too late to see your children, sir.”

Bruce exhales slowly, turning from the television, the weight of years clawing down his spine.

But your ghost lingers.

Dancing, weightless, frozen in the grain of an old recording.

Unreachable.

But not gone.

Never gone.

“Keep it on,” Bruce says quietly, finally moving toward his study. “I… want to watch the rest.”

Alfred inclines his head, a quiet pride hidden beneath the lines of his face.

“As you wish, Master Wayne.”

Galas have always been your thing.

It’s ironic, considering how much you claim to hate them.

You’ve always liked the ridiculousness of them — the glimmer, the grand chandeliers that hang like artificial constellations, the free food (god, the free food), the freshest champagne you could possibly imagine, crisp and cold on your tongue. And most of all, you’ve always liked being seen without really being seen. People looking at you like you’re a fixture. A diamond. A Wayne. But never looking close enough to see the cracks. It was predictable.

You’ve always liked that.

You’ve never missed a Wayne Gala.

Well, except the ones over the last four years. But that doesn’t really count, does it? You always had an excuse — busy exhibitions, international commissions, gallery showings too far from Gotham to justify the trip. It’s not like anyone ever reached out to convince you otherwise. Alfred sent a few reminders. A few check-ins. A few invitations in handwriting you’d recognize even if you were blind.

But from the rest of them? Silence.

Not even a half-hearted message from Bruce. Not even a poorly typed text from Tim. Not even Jason, who used to drag you to the dessert tables when you were kids.

Four years.

Four. Years.

And now? Now Dick talks about an invitation, carefully worded, with a little kiss to the forehead, like that’s enough to close a chasm that’s been bleeding open for nearly half a decade.

It took a lot of thinking.

Too much thinking.

It took pacing around your New York studio for hours. It took pouring over the invitation like it was a goddamn riddle. It took staring at the flight options for three days straight without booking anything. It took your manager nearly bribing you with the most luxurious hotel she could find near Gotham’s Diamond District — “You deserve to spoil yourself,” she’d said, “It’s not like you’ve ever stopped enjoying the perks of being rich.”

And she was right.

Why would moving away from the Manor, from them, mean you had to stop living like a Wayne?

You pack light. Just enough. Enough to look like the Wayne daughter you’ve always been, even if you don’t live like one anymore.

You don’t tell anyone you’re coming. Not even Alfred.

Let them be surprised. Let them think you wouldn’t show. Maybe you wouldn’t have, if not for the stupid way your chest tightened when you thought of Alfred standing alone in that sea of Gotham’s glittering snakes.

You check into the hotel the day before. The best suite. Floor to ceiling windows. Egyptian cotton sheets. The kind of place that feels like you’ve stepped into someone else’s life.

And that night, when the gala arrives, you dress like you belong in the stars.

The gown clings like it was crafted on your body — a river of silver and glimmer that hugs every line, the back nonexistent, with a dangerously low neckline that might’ve made Bruce faint if he still bothered to police what you wore. You wear your wealth without apology. You wear it like armor.

And of course, the only rule for tonight — the masquerade.

You slide the pearly lace mask over your face, delicate and sharp at the edges, just enough to soften your features but not enough to truly hide you. It settles against your nose, just right. Just enough for you to choose who gets to recognize you.

It doesn’t take long to find the pulse of the party when you arrive.

The ballroom is suffocatingly familiar, but you slip through the throng like you were born to haunt these halls. They don’t know you’re here. Not yet. You watch them from the corners — all of them.

You spot Dick first, of course — tall, broad-shouldered, radiant in the way he always is, in tailored black, mask dark as his hair, laughing at something Kori says beside him.

Jason lingers near the bar on the other side, glass of scotch in hand, sharp in a dark suit with no tie, his mask sleek, simple, leather probably — watching the room like it’s a battlefield.

Cassandra drifts near the edges, quiet, observant, a shadow that blends in until you know where to look. Stephanie’s at her side, bright and careless in silver sequins and an obnoxiously large feathered mask, grinning as she talks to Barbara, who’s leaning on her chair with a beautiful green dress that compliments her.

Tim’s buried in a conversation with Lucius. Duke laughs with some younger faces you don’t recognize.

And Bruce…

Your eyes catch him like a thread pulled tight across your ribs.

There, near the grand staircase, suited in sharp, quiet black, his mask more symbolic than necessary. Gotham’s unshakable stone.

Selina prowls near him, sleek as ever, her gown a slinking cascade of onyx and emerald, her mask feline and faintly amused, scanning the room like she’s already picked her next mark.

They don’t see you.They’re all here.

They’re all here and they don’t even know you’ve arrived.

You hide at first.

Not because you’re afraid. But because it’s… amusing, in its own way. To slip around them unnoticed. To watch them, burning, oblivious to the weight still hanging between you.

You slip to the bar, sighing in relief at the familiarity of the setup. “Double martini. Two olives. Don’t go easy on me.”

His gaze lingers — not inappropriate, just… curious. Your dress, your mask, the way you carry yourself. You can practically hear the assumptions churning behind his eyes.

You don’t care.

The first sip burns beautifully down your throat, the familiar taste grounding you more than any polite conversation or shallow compliment ever could.

It’s only when someone settles on the stool beside you that you spare them a lazy side-glance, fully prepared to ignore whatever socialite or trust-fund brat is looking for conversation. But the air shifts.

A familiar hum of power. A warmth that prickles under your skin like static.

And then you see them.

Bright blue eyes. The same sharp jawline, same black curls, same Clark Kent perfection watered down with just enough edge to make your pulse stutter.

Conner Kent.

And fuck.

The years have been good to him.

You remember him being cocky when you were younger — flirting like it was his job, making the most of those ridiculous Kryptonian genetics and his boyish charm. You remember finding him obnoxious, occasionally tolerable, sometimes fun.

You also remember how much he looked like Clark back then. But now? Now it’s worse. He’s grown into that face. That jawline. Those broad shoulders. The cocky tilt of his mouth.

His mask is dark, simple, framing his eyes in a way that makes you briefly forget why you’ve spent years avoiding these kinds of nights.

“New York’s finest, huh?” His voice is smooth, playful. “Didn’t expect to see you here, princess.”

You arch a brow, twisting your glass between your fingers. “You recognized me that fast?”

Conner shrugs, his grin widening. “Please. You think a mask and a fancy dress can hide you from me?”

You hum, pretending to think. “Worked on your father just fine.”

His eyes glimmer, leaning in just slightly. “Clark doesn’t look at women the way I do.”

“Oh?” You sip again, not breaking eye contact. “And how do you look at women, Kent?”

“Like they could wreck me if they wanted to.”

You chuckle, resting your chin on your hand. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Not bad at all,” he murmurs, his voice dropping just a touch. “I think I’d enjoy it.”

You tap your nails against your glass, amused. You forgot how fun this little dance was with him — the teasing, the unspoken challenges, the heat that lingers just under the surface.

“You’ve grown up,” you comment, gaze dragging slowly down his figure before sliding back up.

“So have you,” he counters, voice light but eyes serious. “Didn’t realize you’d turn into this though. Kinda dangerous for someone like me.”

You smirk. “You’re bulletproof, Conner.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m not weak to something else.”

You laugh, genuinely now, and maybe it’s the first time all night that your chest feels a little lighter.

“Flirting, Kent?” You raise a brow, leaning in just enough to let your words curl between you. “Already?”

“Wouldn’t dream of missing the opportunity.”

His elbow nudges yours. “So what’s the plan? You hiding here all night or you gonna let your family know you’re back from the dead?”

You pause, rolling your martini between your palms.

“Not sure yet.”

He leans closer, voice dipping low. “Can I buy you a drink?”

You hold up your half-finished martini, unimpressed. “Already covered.”

His grin is shameless. “Dinner, then?”

“Bold of you to assume I’m available.”

“You just got back. You haven’t made plans yet.”

“Maybe I have.”

“Maybe you should cancel them.”

Your lips curl, a sharp glimmer in your eye. “You’re still cocky.”

“And you still love it.”

You don’t deny it.

“You filled out, too,” you allow, smirking faintly. “Congratulations. You finally look your age.”

“Technically, I’m still figuring out what my age even means.”

“You and me both.”

The banter is effortless, dangerous. The kind that makes old walls slip, familiarity weaving between syllables before you even think to stop it.

Conner leans in slightly, voice lowering conspiratorially. “You planning to reveal your identity to the masses tonight? Or just me?”

You swirl your glass, silver rings catching the light. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Whether you make it worth my while.”

His laugh is low, warm, frustratingly attractive.

“You’re playing with fire.”

You lean in just enough to whisper, “I’m the one who taught you how.”

The air between you hums with something complicated. Heavy. Unspoken.

The banter continues, an easy, familiar rhythm neither of you have to work for. Conner’s good at this — at playful deflection, at toeing the line between harmless and dangerous. You’re better. You’ve been playing this game since you were old enough to balance a champagne glass without spilling.

You barely notice how long you’ve been talking — the subtle shift of your legs crossing, the tilt of his body angling closer, the way your laughter slips out easier than you intended.

It’s comfortable.

It’s dangerous.

It’s—

“Y/N.”

The voice cuts clean through the haze of conversation, small but sharp, like a blade sheathed in velvet.

You turn.

Damian.

All stiff posture and narrowed green eyes, black mask perched perfectly across his face. He’s young — far too young to pull off the possessive, territorial glare aimed squarely at Conner — but he tries.

His arms are crossed behind his back like he’s holding himself perfectly still, but you know him — you know the coiled possessiveness thrumming under his skin, the restless edge of a boy who can’t yet control how deeply he feels everything.

You blink, the amusement slipping slightly as you meet his gaze. “Little Bat.”

His eyes flick to Conner, sharp, dissecting. “You’re late.”

“To the party?” You glance around lazily. “Or to disappointing the family?”

“You shouldn’t be speaking with him.”

Conner snorts softly. “Nice to see you too, little Wayne.”

Damian’s shoulders straighten, chin lifting, the scowl deepening. “Your presence isn’t required.”

“I’m a plus one.”

“To whom?”

Conner grins. “Jon. Of course.”

You sip your martini, hiding a smirk. Damian’s glower only intensifies. Conner’s brows lift, but you wave a hand, sighing.

“Damian.” You say his name like an exhale, soft but firm. “It’s fine.”

His eyes cut to you, expression faltering — just a little — the jealousy bleeding into something more familiar. Sadness. Longing. That quiet desperation to know you. To pull you back into the orbit of a family that doesn’t know how to hold you.

You soften, just barely, your fingers tapping against your glass.

“Go terrorize someone else,” you murmur, leaning back. “I can handle myself.”

“You shouldn’t have to.” His words are low, too old for his age, too heavy for his shoulders.

For a second, the noise of the party dims — the hum of music, the clink of glasses, the distant murmurs of the wealthy. It all fades under the weight of his voice.

You meet his eyes again, steady.

And for once… you don’t deflect.

You see him. Your brother. Your blood. Possessive. Flawed. Hurting.

But still yours.

“Go find Dick,” you tell him gently. “Tell him I’m here.”

Damian hesitates — poised between stubbornness and reluctant obedience.

Finally, he exhales sharply, turning on his heel without another word, disappearing into the crowd like a shadow.

Conner whistles low beside you. “Protective, isn’t he?”

You sip the last of your martini, gaze lingering on the space where Damian vanished.

“Seems like it,” you answer, dry. “Planning to hover all night, Kent?”

“Only if you make it worth my time.”

You sip your drink again, letting your eyes trace over him, your smirk sharp.

“Trust me,” you purr. “I always do.”

He keeps his gaze on you, even when you step away, already knowing Dick's on your way. Conner's hand trembles when you are far enough.

You've always had that power over him.

The flow of the gala presses people into motion — like waves shifting you from one current to the next — and before you can slip away, you see him.

You should’ve stayed at the bar.

The thought strikes you the second you catch sight of him weaving through the crowd — tall, broad-shouldered, the sharp lines of his tuxedo crisp against the glow of the ballroom lights, mask perched slightly crooked as if he forgot it was there entirely.

Dick Grayson.

Golden boy. Gotham’s first darling. Your older brother.

His eyes land on you like a homing missile, the weight of recognition hitting him square in the chest. You see the way his whole expression shifts — from polite party smile to something cracked open and raw — and you have precisely three seconds to brace yourself before he’s barreling through the sea of bodies.

You barely manage to set your empty martini glass down when his arms close around you.

“Birdie!” Dick smiled, achingly fond.

Your body stiffens, shoulders locking as he pulls you in tight — crushing, familiar, suffocating.

You don’t hug back.

Not entirely out of malice. More… discomfort. Half reluctance, half uncertainty. The kind of uncertainty that comes from years of space wedged between you, built brick by brick by neglect and distance and a silence none of them ever really bothered to break.

Your hands make a vague gesture against his back — a touch, not an embrace — more of an acknowledgement than a return. You don’t melt into it, you don’t lean your head on his shoulder like you used to when you were younger and still believed he would always notice you. You don’t really want to be in his arms now.

You want to breathe.

You want to escape the knot forming in your throat.

“Hi, Dick,” you manage, voice cool but not cruel, your arms hovering at your sides.

He doesn’t let go. If anything, his grip tightens, fingers curling against your back as if sheer proximity will undo the years you’ve spent away, as if your presence alone might stitch the fractures shut.

“You came,” he says, pulling back just enough to search your face — to really look at you. His eyes glint behind the mask, blue as ever, full of that frustrating, unbearable love that knots low in your chest. “You actually— Jesus, look at you.”

You resist the urge to step away, tilting your head, expression unreadable. “Looking’s all anyone’s done tonight.”

“Yeah, but they don’t know you,” he says pointedly. “Not like we do.”

You nearly laugh.

Before you can, though, the rest of them close in. Stephanie’s practically vibrating at Cass’s shoulder, bright and eager, grin wide even beneath her delicate blue mask. You catch the subtle way her hand tugs at Duke’s wrist, grounding herself as her eyes flick across you, cataloging every detail.

It starts with Jason — tall, broad, dressed in a black suit sharp enough to cut glass, his own mask sleek and minimal, jaw tense as his eyes drag over you like a silent, protective scan.

“Took you long enough, dove,” he mutters, crossing his arms. His voice is rougher than you remember, older, carrying the weight of too many second chances and not enough time. “Thought you’d ditched this city for good.”

You shrug, noncommittal. “Almost did.”

Jason’s lips twitch, the barest ghost of a smirk cracking through his walls. “Figures.” But there’s relief there too. 

Tim clears his throat, stepping forward, hands shoved in his pockets. His mask doesn’t hide the flicker of cautious joy when he steps beside Jason, shoulders loose but eyes sharp. “Hey.”

You raise a brow. “Hey.”

It’s awkward — painfully so — but you let it hang, let the silence linger just long enough to make him squirm before Stephanie bursts in, smile wide, voice bright.

“You look insane, by the way,” she gushes, eyes sparkling. “Like— like movie-star insane. I almost didn’t recognize you.”

“You always did outshine us, though,” Duke adds, his grin easy, his voice warm.

You give them both a faint smile, but your heart thrums tight, your pulse skipping at the weight of so many eyes, so many family eyes, trained on you after so long.

“Four years’ll do that,” you reply smoothly, though your grip tightens slightly on your own skin.

Cass steps forward, close enough that her presence hums at your side — quiet, steady, eyes soft. She doesn’t speak, but she doesn’t need to. Her gaze lingers on your face, your dress, your mask — and something like relief flickers there, sharp and fleeting. 

A quiet understanding passes between you, wordless, raw.

“Welcome back.” Barbara’s voice cuts gently through the haze, her smile warm but cautious. “We’ve… missed you.”

Your lips twitch faintly, too practiced to let the bitterness leak through.

Duke gives you a small nod, eyes sharp beneath his mask. “You picked a good night to crash the party.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you murmur, though the lie tastes sour.

Damian steps forward, shoulder brushing your side, posture tight. “You didn’t tell anyone you were coming.”

Your eyes slide down to him, amused. “Didn’t think I needed permission.”

He scowls. “You should’ve told me.”

You chuckle softly, unbothered. “Upset, aren’t we?”

“You’re my sister,” he snaps, quiet but fierce, green eyes dark under his mask. “I’m allowed.”

You grab a glass of champagne when one waiter passes by your side, and sip it almost immediately, the bubbles cold against your tongue, but your gaze never leaves his.

“This is so cool,” Duke says, almost a little breathless. “You’re like a legend in our circles, y’know? The Huntress, the prodigy, the one who got out. We used to trade stories like—”

“Duke.” Tim’s quiet warning is a shade too late.

But you just tilt your head, amused, not angry. You flick a glance at him, voice a little cooler now. “Got out? Is that how you talk about me now?”

Jason’s jaw flexes, guilt flickering briefly across his face, but Duke just looks caught, nervous but not apologetic.

“Didn’t mean it like that,” Duke mutters. “I just— you know, you’re like—”

“A ghost?” You offer, arching a brow. “A story the family tells?”

Duke’s grin falters. “No. More like the one that got free.”

Finally — predictably — the weight of the room shifts again.

You feel it before you see him.

Bruce.

Stoic, untouchable, tall enough to part the crowd like smoke as he steps into the loose circle your siblings have unintentionally formed around you. His mask is simple, sharp black against the silver at his temples, but his eyes — dark, unreadable, exhausted — land on you like a goddamn hammer.

The air tightens.

You square your shoulders.

For a moment, no one speaks.

Your father — the reason you learned how to hide your heartbreak behind pearls and piano keys — stands there, watching you like he’s trying to memorize every inch of your face.

Finally, you speak, cool and distant.

“Father.”

His jaw tightens. “You look well.”

You offer a sharp, humorless smile. “Money tends to have that effect.”

“You’re here,” Bruce says, quiet, low, like he doesn’t quite believe it.

You shrug again, keeping your voice level. “It’s a party.”

Dick’s arm slides back around your shoulder, fingers curling lightly, his grin more subdued now, softer.

“Birdie,” he murmurs, almost chiding. “Let us have this one.”

You shrug beneath his hand, not quite leaning in, not quite pulling away.

The others hover, circling like hawks, their excitement simmering beneath the awkwardness, their possessiveness sharper than you remember. It coils through the group like tension on a tripwire — subtle, constant, impossible to ignore.

But your gaze flickers. Not for wishing to be in another place.

Just for wishing to be in another's arms. 

[corvoqueen]

Jason Todd and sugar mommy reader ╱ suggestive sfw ꩜ fem reader x Jason Todd .ᐟ ⠀mommy kink Jason ︴

------

The knock was impatient—sharp, hurried, like he didn’t want to be here but needed to be. You didn’t look up from your book. You were settled deep into the chaise, silk robe parted just enough to be comfortable, the quiet rustle of turning pages the only sound in the room.

Jason let himself in. You heard the door shut, the weight of his boots on the hardwood, the subtle clink of whatever he was carrying. Then silence—him standing there, waiting for you to acknowledge him.

You didn’t.

“I just need a few things,” he said, tone clipped, trying to sound cool. “Couple guns. Ammo. Armor plate. In and out, I swear.”

Still, you didn’t look up. You licked your finger, turned another page.

He shifted. You could hear the tension in his breath, the way frustration curled around the edges. “I wouldn’t come to you if I had any other option. I’ll get the money back to you by next week. Just front it for now.”

Nothing.

You kept reading like he was nothing but background noise.

That broke him.

“Fuck’s sake,” he hissed—and then you heard it. The sudden drop of his knees against the rug. The shift of his body as he moved closer. You didn’t flinch when his head pressed to your thigh, arms wrapping around your leg like it grounded him. Like it was all he had left.

“Please,” he murmured, voice raw now, stripped down and vulnerable in a way he’d never let anyone else hear. “Please, I need this. I need you.”

Still no reaction. You could feel his breath against your skin, warm and shaky.

His fingers dug into the plush of your thigh as he looked up, eyes blown wide and glossy. “Mommy… please.”

That earned him a flicker of your gaze.

“I’ll be good, I swear,” he whispered, breath hitching. “I’ll do whatever you want. I just need this, I need you to take care of me. Just this once. Please, mommy.”

You closed the book slowly, thumb marking your place.

Finally, you looked down at him—Jason Todd on his knees, clutching your leg like a lifeline, lips barely an inch from your skin.

Your smile was slow and indulgent.

“I’ll take care of it,” you said, voice calm and sweet like a reward. Your fingers slipped into his hair, petting him gently. “Good boys get what they need, don’t they?”

Jason didn’t move. Just let out the softest, shakiest little breath against your thigh—and held on tighter.

-----

[corvoqueen]

nsft, afab!reader x jason todd. uhhhh size kink, breeding kink, jason todd kink. me waxing on about what a big boy jason is. reader enjoys being held down. clueless jason (at first). get him inside of you!!!

thinking about how absolutely flabbergasted jason would be at your reaction the first time he's fully on top of you and holding you down.

he was trying to be playful, climbing onto you while you were on your stomach on your phone. he meant to kiss your neck a little and ask what you wanted for dinner. but as soon as he's on you with his weight and warmth, you're soaked. and jason... well, he senses that something's different because you get unusually quiet and limp, so he starts to get off and that's when you choke on a whimper because his hips are pressed against your ass and all you can think about is his fat cock inside of you while he holds you down.

and jason doesn't remind you very often of your size difference but it sneaks up on you sometimes, when he pulls you closer like it's nothing or when he leans down to hear you better. but you've never been fully confronted with jason's size and strength like this. jason's always been very careful to avoid that sort of thing, never wanting to scare you. he knows he's big and stocky and can do a lot of damage with his brute strength. and then on top of that, jason's highly competent and skilled in different types of combat. he doesn't take it personally if it's crossed your mind just who exactly you're dating and how offputting that might be. he gets it. that's why he tries to make himself as small and gentle as possible.

well, fuck that. your pussy throbs so hard it hurts. you're dizzy from how quickly blood rushed down to your clit. if jason's dick hardens against you like this, you're going to start whining. and if he pushes into you like this, chest to your back, legs trapping yours, mounting you inch by inch, you might black out from how hard you'll cum.

you're getting wetter just thinking about it, how jason's got a huge cock and fat balls and all you've got is a gushy little cunt that's so easy for him. so easy indeed that whenever he pulls your panties down and pushes the tip in, you start whining and gushing even more. you get lightheaded when jason pulls you flush to his chest and fucks you like that, molds you to his body so he can be as close as possible. when he's got his mouth by your ear, moaning and kissing you, it's the peak of your bliss. you'd let him do anything he wanted.

this is that except now you feel like prey, like you let yourself be caught. your breath is a little thin from being trapped against the floor and your ears are hot from the pressure. you want more.

and jason doesn't get it! doesn't get that he could mount you like a stud and empty his balls into you for hours and all you'd do is brace yourself on your knees and spread wider and let him. doesn't get that all he has to do is enter you from behind and keep you pressed against him and you'll squirt and squeeze him while he takes what he wants from you. he's always so damn gentle, even timid at times, wary of hurting you. you want him to turn his strength onto you.

you think of the time jason maneuvered you without a hitch from a sitting position on his dick to fucking you very tenderly on your back. the thrill of his strength rushes back to you and you imagine him trapping your arms against your sides and lifting you however he wants like you're a cock toy. just a vessel for him to dump all his cum.

"y'okay? should i get off, honey?" jason asks, and why the fuck is he still soft? you're about to cream your shorts and jason's still soft and careful, stuck and confused by your reaction.

"get hard," you beg, trying your best to wiggle around and help the process. you need jason hard. need his fat dick pressing into you. jason can't hide it when he's hard, and that embarrasses him, having a cock and balls so big that he can't hide when his body is aroused. you can picture it now, jason swelling up in his sweats, straining against the fabric. he'd leave a wet spot if you rubbed against him for a while, too eager to stop himself from leaking through his briefs. he's always so flustered when you grind on him and let your pussy catch on his dick, let him know how badly you need him inside of you.

"huh?" he asks, genuinely bewildered. "wait, baby, wh—"

"c'mon," you whine, dragging out the word. you're desperately rubbing against his cock while he's on you. "my clit's hard. want your dick inside. hold me down and stick it in."

and it works. jason's hardening against your ass, blood swelling him up. it takes a minute and you're relentless as jason gets bigger and bigger. you're panting now, gagging for it. jason slides a hand under your stomach, unsure. you rut against him, so eager to be fucked.

"a-ah," he hisses, wondering how it got to this point, how there's friction from your wet panties rubbing against his sweats. now he's dizzy too. "hold you down?"

you practically purr.

"yeah," you say, blindly wrapping an arm around his neck so he knows not to go anywhere. "yeah, yeah, hold me. fuck me." you wiggle under him, impatient. why isn't he grabbing your hips and breeding you already?

his pubic bone is pressed against the slope of your ass, chest to your back. he's so goddamn big, all muscle and fat and strength. you test his weight on you and you can't move. the realization makes you whine, high and long.

"hm? want me to let you up?" jason asks, sweet as always.

you shake your head. "no, no, fuck me. stay on me. make me feel it."

slowly, jason rests more of his weight on you. you whine, arching against him as much as his weight allows. you bump his cock with your ass and he groans.

"fuck, what—how'd you get like this? what'd i do?" he asks, breathing hard.

you whine. "nothing. that's the problem! start fucking me, jason."

so he does, because if there's anything jason is good at with you, it's doing what he's told. what a good dog.

he pushes in slowly, carefully, and you yowl like you're in heat, fingernails scraping against the carpet. as soon as he's in all the way, you're thrusting back and forth a little, your stomach to the floor, legs bent and spread as far as they'll go. it's like a nice little yoga stretch, except you're stuffed full with a cock that was made to breed. if it was up to you, you'd keep jason tied up and hard, ready for you to sit on him whenever you want.

and then you start to feel it. his fat balls are slapping against your cunt. you get so wet when you spot the imprint of them in jason's sweatpants or through his towel. how he walks around without a second thought, you don't know. if you had a horse's cock like his, you'd be pushing it into a drippy little cunt whenever you could.

maybe that's what's so good, the fact that you know jason's pleasure is overwhelming, that it's hard to think when he's straining against his zipper and he's cupping himself in desperation, humiliated by his obvious arousal yet unable to do a thing about it. and yet he always shows self-control. he won't even mention how hard he is to you unless it's you pushing against him like you are right now, cunt hot, mind cloudy, your body throbbing at the idea of jason pushing into you.

jason starts whimpering, moans clenched tight. you know he's embarrassed about liking you under him so much. he's supposed to be this hulking mass of control and intimidation and sharp wit, and then you start rubbing against his dick, and all of that goes out the window.

jason's still holding back. you know he can do more.

you drag his hands to cup your tits. jason whines like this is the first time he's getting to touch you.

"see how big you are?" you say. "i can't do anything, you're so big. all i can do is take it while you get hard and fat and hold my tits and fuck my pussy. how does it feel, being this strong, knowing you can knock me up whenever you want?"

"don't–don't wanna take you," jason pants. "just wanna give ya what y'want—"

"what i want is for you to give in," you snarl, squeezing jason. he keens, babbling for mercy. "stop holding back."

his breath is hot on your neck. he grunts as he adjusts himself, bracing his legs. big hands fondle your tits, flicking the nipples with his thumbs. you're his.

"'kay, baby," he says, your shoulder blades pressed to his pecs. "gonna give you what you want. anything. give ya anything."

and then jason starts to fuck you. and he doesn't hold back. you scrabble for purchase with your hands but it doesn't matter because soon, jason shifts so one arm is trapping your arms to your front. his other hand goes to your clit, rubbing ferociously. you're gasping and jason's breathing hard, his teeth resting on your neck.

you wish you could see yourself in a mirror right now, getting bred by your boyfriend. you wish you could see the sweat on your face, the way you're dwarfed by him on you. you imagine the visual of your helplessness; all you can do is let jason give you your pleasure while he takes his in the process.

"c'mon, baby, c'mon, c'mon," he's saying, muscles rippling with effort. you can feel his stomach on your back, his legs on either side. you're completely engulfed by him. your tits are squished under his arm, and every other part of you is sandwiched between him and the floor.

"c-close, close," you choke out, and jason makes a low, satisfied noise.

"good. wanted this so bad? got wet and soft thinkin' about it?"

you nod, eyes squeezing shut. the pleasure is so acute and sharp, it almost hurts. your body pulls tighter and tighter until—

jason growls when you go limp from your orgasm, like you're prey that's been bitten into submission. he isn't far behind, and when jason comes, it leaks out of you like it always does, always too much. your cunt is thick with his cum and yours, messy and so relaxed, you can't control how it spasms as jason shifts inside of you.

he kisses your jaw, giving you both a moment to breathe and come down from your high. "wassit good?" he asks, genuine as always.

you laugh like the breath has been knocked out of your lungs.

[corvoqueen]

My Heart — Part Two

summary | your family realizes how much they have missed. the problem is that you are a grown up by now, and terrible hurt by their neglect.

pairing | platonic yandere batfam x batsis!neglected!reader. future conner kent x reader.

warnings / tags | angst, hurt/little comfort, y/n is mentioned as a female, trauma, family issues, mostly trust and daddy issues. they all love each other (PLATONICALLY) they just don't know how to feel it and express it correctly. it gets darker. you are a bit of a yandere later as well.

word count | 4.4k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :) i plan on making this a series. please vote <3 dick is 28. jason is 23. reader will be 22 in a few months. cass is 21. tim is 20. duke is 18. damian is 13.

taglist | @cebrospudipudi @jjoppees @corvoqueen @nirvanaxx1942

previous. next.

The paint stains your fingers in shades of umber and charcoal, seeping into the skin beneath your nails, filling the creases along your knuckles. You’ve stopped noticing how it feels—the slight stickiness of oils, the bite of turpentine on raw fingertips. It’s part of the process. Part of the mess you’ve accepted as your life.

The studio smells like linseed oil, rain-dampened brick, and faint candle smoke from the altar of used coffee cups near the window.

You haven’t eaten. You never do when you’re in this state.

The canvas towers in front of you — a human torso, cut open and reassembled with impossible precision, gothic window tracery bleeding from the muscle, spine bent beneath the weight of cathedral motifs. A ribcage crowned with delicate arches. Veins following the curve of stained glass.

It’s grotesque. It’s sacred.

It’s yours.

You push the brush across the canvas, smoothing the crimson edge of one carved shoulder, teeth digging into your lower lip. It’s not done. It never feels done. You don’t know what compels you to keep building cathedrals inside people. You just can’t seem to stop.

You don’t notice the knocking at first.

The sound seeps through the fog of your focus, faint and rhythmic, knuckles tapping wood. You groan under your breath, setting the brush down beside the palette, fingers sticky with paint. 

It’s probably Pam again. She’s sweet, too sweet sometimes — hovering, asking if you’ve eaten, if you’ve slept, if you’ve seen the sun in the past forty-eight hours. It’s not her fault, but you’ve been very clear today.

“Pam, for the love of God,” you call, not turning away from your work. “I told you, I’m not hungry. You don’t need to hover like a worried mother—”

You turn then, irritation curling your mouth as you wipe your hand absently on the hem of your oversized paint shirt, ready to face the soft-eyed persistence of your assistant.

But it’s not Pam.

It’s Jason.

He stands near the door, arms crossed, helmet clipped to his hip. His eyes are fixed on you, unreadable, sharp like they always are when he’s too quiet, watching you like you’re still the kid he used to mess with, still the little sister too easy to fluster.

Behind him, Damian is already wandering through your studio, his hands clasped behind his back in that overly formal way he’s always had, posture unnaturally straight for a thirteen-year-old, his eyes tracing every painting, every sculpture, every unfinished sketch with the kind of reverence that makes your skin itch.

“What the hell are you two doing here?” The question comes out sharper than you intend.

Jason shrugs. “Nice to see you too, princess.”

You roll your eyes, but your pulse stumbles. Childhood memory pulls behind your ribs, unwelcome.

“You didn’t answer the door,” Damian remarks, calmly, as though this is the most natural place for him to be. His tone doesn’t match his age. He’s a teen but speaks like a soldier twice his years. “We assumed you would not appreciate us arriving with excessive fanfare.”

You stare at him, stunned. “You broke into my building?”

Jason lifts a brow. “Didn’t know we needed an engraved invitation to check on our sister.”

You grip the rag on your desk a little too tightly. “You can’t just show up here. This is my space.”

Your older brother strolls further in, his steps deliberately slow. “Yeah? You didn’t really leave us much choice, you know. You’re hard to get a hold of.”

“That’s the point.”

“You invited us.”

“I meant the gallery, Jason,” you snap. “Not my apartment.”

Jason clicks his tongue, mockingly. “Bit touchy, aren’t we?”

“Studio,” Damian corrects quietly, still inspecting the room. “This is not merely an apartment. It’s an artist’s space.”

Your gaze flicks to him. His tone is formal, precise, the way your father speaks in boardrooms, the way assassins speak before they strike.

You know that cadence. You used to wear it too. Before you remembered how tired you were of being sharp-edged.

His focus drifts from canvas to canvas, lingering on the darker ones, his expression carefully neutral. He walks as though he’s in a museum — slow, controlled, absorbing everything. For a second, you think he would enjoy the gallery much more, and you quickly get rid of the thought.

Damian finally turns to face you, his green eyes unsettlingly direct. “We came to see you.”

You cross your arms, suddenly conscious of the paint-streaked shirt, the disheveled hair, the exhaustion under your skin. Your space feels invaded. Claustrophobic. Like they cracked the sanctuary you built around yourself and stepped right in without asking.

“How did you even know where I live?”

Jason’s grin is infuriating. “Come on. Did you really think you could keep that from us?”

“I moved across the country.”

“Yeah. You’re not as stealthy as you think.”

“I used aliases.”

“Cute.”

Damian’s voice cuts through, quiet but deliberate. “Tim found you.”

You blink.

Jason’s smile falters slightly. “Yeah, that helped.”

You glance between them, irritation flaring in your ribs. “Tim hacked into my stuff?”

“Only the necessary. We didn't see any of your dirty stuff,” Jason makes a grimace, completely disgusted. "God, I hope you don't have that stuff 'cause that just made me sick."

“Choke in your vomit while you are at it,” you reply back, eyes narrowed.

Jason pushes off the doorframe, wandering deeper now, hands in his pockets, gaze sliding over your unfinished works.

“You’ve been busy,” he notes casually, though there’s a flicker in his expression you don’t miss. Something thoughtful. Guarded.

“I didn’t ask for company,” you say evenly.

“No, but you sure as hell needed it,” Jason mutters under his breath. “Did you eat? And don't lie. Cause I can and I will talk to Pammy over there. Surely blondie could answer that as well as you.”

You roll your eyes. Damian interrupts, stepping toward a sculpture perched on a pedestal near the back of the studio. His voice is smooth, formal. “This one is exquisite.”

You stiffen immediately.

Jason follows Damian’s line of sight, curiosity dimming into something else when he focuses on the piece. His posture locks, his smirk gone.

The sculpture isn’t large, but you’ve kept it protected, guarded in the corner like it was something precious.

Because it is.

Two figures, with faces that merely touch by an ear to a cheek, no bodies, just faces and necks and only a bit of chest. Her arm protects him, crossing to his shoulder. There is no paint. Just faces. Blank faces that are too sad.

You and Jason.

Younger. Before death. Before he was gone.

Jason steps closer, his lips parting like he might say something, but nothing comes out. He’s staring at the chipped edge where your fingertips almost touch his neck.

The moment feels too exposed, too raw, too much.

You rush forward, grabbing the draped cloth from a nearby chair and hastily covering the sculpture, heat creeping to your cheeks.

Jason’s eyes stay on you. Quiet now. The teasing’s gone. What’s left is… complicated. Damian, meanwhile, has stepped closer, watching the whole exchange with unnerving focus. His eyes are greener up close. Sharper. Too observant for a thirteen-year-old.

“Why is that hidden?” he asks simply, as if the question isn’t a blade twisting in your ribs.

“Because it’s not for display,” you answer curtly, adjusting the cloth, the warmth in your cheeks refusing to fade.

Damian steps beside you, quiet but watching. Always watching.

“You should come home,” he says, direct as ever, eyes locked on yours. “To the Manor.”

The words slam into your chest like a steel door.

You bark out a hollow laugh, shaking your head as you retreat back toward your canvas, grabbing your brush with shaky fingers.

“I’m not going back there.”

“You should,” Damian insists, his voice low but firm, carrying the same command your father always wielded — only softer, more desperate under the surface. “You belong with us.”

“No,” you reply, knuckles whitening around the brush. “I belong here.”

Jason leans against the wall, kicking a stray paintbrush with the toe of his boot. “Look, you don't have to move back into the Manor. No one’s trying to suffocate you. But you don’t have to be alone all the time.”

“I’m not alone.”

“Yeah?” His mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “You’re talking to a brick wall, painting holes in people, and eating nothing but coffee and stubbornness. Sure doesn’t look like you’ve got a full house in here.”

You scowl. “That’s rich coming from you.”

He shrugs. “Fair.”

The studio falls into a thick, tense silence, the quiet hum of city traffic beyond the window the only sound.

Damian breaks it, voice colder, but not unkind.

“We miss you.”

You stare at him, at the strange, complicated little brother you barely know, the only one who shares your blood — half, yes, but more than enough for him to treat you like you’re his.

Your heart wavers. Because you were always like that with your siblings. Always too soft, too easy to catch. It was not your fault; how could they look at you like that and expect you not to fall?

But you still retreat behind your work, turning your attention back to the cathedral-ribcage and the arches blooming from muscle and bone.

Jason exhales slowly, fingers tapping the edge of a nearby shelf.

“Alfred asks about you, you know.”

Your spine straightens. You don’t look at him.

“Yeah,” he continues, softer now. “Old man’s been stuck with nothing but bats and brats. Pretty lonely in that big house.”

The words knife into your chest.

Alfred.

You swallow hard, brush faltering mid-stroke.

“He misses you,” Jason adds, voice rough with something that sounds too much like guilt. “The others— they’re stubborn. But him? He just wants you home.”

Your eyes sting, but you don’t let the tears rise. You breathe through your teeth, steadying yourself as the memories press against your ribs — Alfred’s gentle hands bandaging your bruised knuckles, his voice soft in the dark after failed missions, the way he saw you when no one else did.

“He’s… fine?” Your voice is fragile.

Jason nods. “Tired. Old. Still making those goddamn scones no one likes but you.”

You huff a quiet, broken laugh despite yourself.

Damian steps closer, the stiffness in his shoulders easing as his eyes soften — still sharp, still possessive, but open now. Waiting.

“We’ll leave,” he says carefully. “But you should consider it.”

“I’m not going back,” you repeat, but it cracks more than you intend.

Jason sighs, shrugging on his jacket again.

“Yeah,” he mutters, eyes lingering on you, old regret buried under forced nonchalance. “Didn’t think you would.”

But they don’t push.

They leave the studio quietly, the door clicking shut behind them, the echo of their presence curling in the corners like smoke you can’t scrub away.

You stare at the unfinished painting, the gothic ribs and spires reaching out like a cathedral begging for worship.

And for the first time in hours, your hands shake too much to keep painting.

2021

You are Gotham’s darling.

You glide through the gala like a practiced storm, a smile stretched soft and convincing across your painted lips, pearls heavy against your collarbones, a custom dress clinging to your figure in all the right ways.

You know what they see.

They see elegance. Charm. The precious Wayne daughter — the pianist, the prodigy, the golden girl.

But they don’t see the cracks. No one ever does.

You know exactly how to play this game.

You lift a flute of champagne from a silver tray — you won’t drink it, of course. You just need to hold it. It’s part of the image.

Your eyes flick across the room, cataloguing politicians, socialites, investors, foreign dignitaries, all humming in the same stale rhythm.

It’s always the same.

And it’s so easy.

A charming laugh here. A delicate touch on the arm there. The perfect tilt of your head, the perfect compliment, the perfect distance. You flash a smile, soft and warm, as another politician’s wife tells you how radiant you look tonight. You accept the compliment like it’s your birthright. You have learned to wear praise like perfume — light, intoxicating, gone in a moment.

They eat it up.

You are exceptional at being what they want you to be.

Across the room, you can see them.

Your family.

Your father. Bruce Wayne, always the shadow, always the gravity around which you all spin. Talking to someone from the Mayor’s office, brow furrowed, jaw tight, not looking at you.

Dick — always moving, always orbiting. Laughing with some acquaintances, tipping his glass toward them, that golden boy glow turned up to full wattage. He hasn’t looked your way in over twenty minutes.

Jason — unfamiliar to these parties, still stiff in his tailored suit, leaning against a pillar with his arms crossed, eyes darting toward the door like he’s already plotting his escape. You catch him staring at you briefly, but he looks away too quickly, feigning disinterest.

Tim — glued to his phone, tucked in a corner, nodding absently at the older men who mistake his silence for reverence. He won’t make it through the night without ducking out to work on whatever case is currently eating him alive.

None of them are looking at you.

And yet, you are here.

You are always here.

The daughter.

The musician.

The delicate thing to be paraded in pearls.

You love them. You hate them. You love them. You hate them.

It’s always both.

They forget you. They adore you. They neglect you. They would burn the world for you.

But not tonight.

Tonight, they’ve already forgotten.

You remember the first time you played for the public — twelve years old, barely tall enough for your feet to brush the pedals. You’d glanced toward the side of the stage, hoping, aching to see your father there.

He wasn’t.

But Alfred was. He always was.

You play like you’re starving.

You play like it’s the only way you know how to be loved.

Your fingers fly across the keys, weaving through the rises and falls of the piece you’ve practiced to perfection. Every note is a plea. Every shift in tempo is a crack in the armor.

See me.

See me.

Please, see me.

The crowd is enraptured.

Gotham adores you. You know how to keep them in your palm.

When you finish, the applause swells, thunderous, pressing against your ribs.

You find Alfred near the kitchens of the Manor. His face softens the moment he sees you.

“My dear.”

You step into his arms without thinking, without needing to guard yourself. He holds you tightly, his hand gently cradling the back of your head like he did when you were a child.

You were always a child in his arms.

“You played beautifully,” he murmurs.

“Did you listen?”

“Of course I did.”

“You stayed the whole time?”

“Always.”

You swallow thickly, pressing your face into his shoulder.

Alfred has always stayed.

“You should be the one they parade around,” you whisper.

He chuckles softly. “I’m far too old for that now.”

“You’re the best of all of us.”

“You are part of that ‘us,’ you know.”

You pull back, but his hand lingers on your cheek, thumb brushing away the hint of tears.

“I see you,” he says, voice warm and steady. “Even when the others don’t. I see you, my girl.”

You nod, the lump in your throat too heavy to speak.

Alfred gives you a knowing look. “Your father is not always as clever as he pretends to be.”

“I’m not looking for clever.”

“Perhaps not. But I suspect you are still looking.”

You don’t answer.

You’ve already learned that some searches never end.

But you smile for him anyway.

Because you can’t bear to let him see how much it hurts.

PRESENT

The world feels better upside down.

You’ve decided that much after the third drop, when your body spirals through the air, silk ribbons biting into your thighs, your wrists, your waist, the floor disappearing somewhere below.

There’s freedom here, wrapped tight in fabric and gravity’s quiet threat. Up here, it doesn’t matter what your last name is. It doesn’t matter whose eyes you inherited, whose legacy you abandoned. It doesn’t matter how many invitations you wrote that no one showed up for.

It’s just you.

Your body.

Your strength.

Your silence.

The silk coils like a lover around your legs, keeping you suspended a solid twenty feet off the ground. You hang there, breathing slow, the city bleeding in through the open studio window — car horns, distant chatter, the faint wail of sirens that sound far too much like home.

You hate how your chest tightens at that sound.

The pressure wraps across your ribs as you climb, muscles burning, silk cool under your palms. The deep blue fabric coils like water as you flip, twisting your legs, pulling your body upside down, your hair trailing toward the floor twenty feet below.

For the first time all day, your head spins in a way that makes sense.

Up here, it’s just you.

Not the invitations you stupidly wrote.

Not the unanswered questions from Damian.

Not the quiet ache Jason left behind.

Not Alfred’s face, worn and tired, haunting the back of your mind.

You’ve spent hours here, in the studio that isn’t your art studio—the other one, the hidden space in the upper floor you converted into your training room.

“Okay,” comes a voice from below, too familiar, too soft with that unbearable warmth. “Now that’s impressive.”

Your eyes snap open.

Dick Grayson stands beneath you, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, blue eyes glinting with quiet awe — and a pride you’ve never seen aimed at you before. Not like that.

“Birdie,” he says, grinning up at you, that old nickname curling off his tongue like honey over a blade.

Your stomach flips, the nickname scraping through your ribs with bitter nostalgia.

You were never a Robin. Never wore the cape, the tights, the too-big legacy that was supposed to mold you into their perfect image.

But you were a bird too.

His bird.

Once.

“You’re supposed to announce yourself,” you say flatly, ignoring the way your pulse skips at the sound of his voice.

“I did,” he teases. “You just didn’t hear me over all your death-defying tricks.”

You exhale through your nose, keeping your face blank as you shift in the silks, body still upside down, legs tangled securely.

“What are you doing here?” Your voice is even, practiced, but your heart stumbles anyway.

Dick rocks back on his heels, gaze still glued to you, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Is that any way to greet your favorite brother?”

You arch a brow. “Favorite? Bold assumption.”

“Ouch.” He presses a hand to his chest, mock wounded. “Right through the heart.”

You twist in the silks again, limbs coiling expertly, giving him your back for a moment as you let the tension in your core guide your position. You love the feeling — controlled, steady, detached from the floor, from all of it.

When you finally pivot back toward him, his eyes haven’t left you.

There’s a gleam there — pride, yes, but something heavier buried beneath. Guilt. Sadness. That quiet, unbearable Grayson softness that makes you want to run in the opposite direction.

Or scream at him.

Or both.

“You shouldn’t sneak into people’s studios,” you tell him flatly. “Some artists are territorial.”

Dick chuckles. “Yeah, well, I figured it was safer than knocking and getting the door slammed in my face.”

“Tempting.”

“You gonna come down?” he asks, tilting his head. “Or are we having this whole conversation with you playing Cirque du Soleil?”

You smirk faintly, fingers loosening your grip on the silks.

“Suit yourself.”

Before he can argue, you drop — fast, controlled, the silks unraveling in a fluid blur, your body spinning toward the floor at breakneck speed.

You hear him curse under his breath.

The moment before your feet hit the mat, you hook your legs, slowing the descent, landing clean and balanced with barely a whisper of sound.

Dick’s eyes are wide, hand halfway extended like he thought you might splatter across the floor.

“Jesus,” he mutters, hand scrubbing down his face. “You’re trying to kill me.”

You shrug, peeling the silk from your wrists. “Just keeping you on your toes. You’ve seen me do worse, anyway.”

His eyes roam your frame — not with scrutiny, but with that quiet, admiring calculation you remember from years ago, back when you were smaller, younger, chasing after them in the halls of the Manor with too-big eyes and a heart desperate to be seen.

“I didn’t know you got this good,” he observes, tone dipping softer now. “The aerial stuff.”

“I’ve had time.”

His gaze sharpens, and you know he hears the bite beneath your words.

Of course he does. Dick’s always been good at hearing what people don’t say.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says, softer now, the teasing edged away, replaced by something closer to… awe? Pride? Guilt? You can’t tell. It’s always layered with him. His eyes stray to the scattered equipment, the crash mats, the window cracked just enough to let in the faint summer breeze.

“It suits you,” he admits, tapping his thumb against his palm. “The silks. The… flying.”

You fold your arms, stepping back toward the silk rig, giving him space — and putting distance between yourself and whatever sentiment he’s about to throw at you.

“Let me guess,” you exhale, sticky hair clinging to your neck. “You’re here to talk about the Manor. About coming home. Just like Jason. Just like Damian.”

Dick’s jaw flexes.

You straighten, rolling your shoulders, tugging the silks aside as you wipe your palms on your leggings.

“If that’s the case,” you add, sharp and controlled, “save your breath.”

“Birdie—”

“I’m not going back.”

His face flickers, the usual effortless charm faltering under the weight of your words.

He watches you for a long, measured moment.

You cross your arms, leaning against the nearest support beam, heartbeat still settling from the adrenaline of the silks, though the real tension in the room comes from him.

“Did they put you up to this?” you ask quietly. “Bruce? The others?”

“No,” he says firmly, shaking his head, stepping closer. “They don’t know I’m here.”

Your brow lifts. “So what, you just… showed up?”

His lips curl faintly, crooked and boyish. “You’re hard to track down when you don’t want to be found. But I’ve had practice.”

A bitter smile tugs at your mouth. “Yeah. Surveillance and interrogation. Real family values.”

“Okay, that—” Dick laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I deserved that one.”

You sigh, dropping your head for a moment before meeting his eyes again.

The weight of his gaze settles heavily between you. Pride. Longing. Regret.

It’s all there, barely hidden beneath the years of distance.

“I’m not coming back,” you repeat, quieter now, but no less certain.

Dick’s expression softens, his shoulders lowering as he closes the last few feet between you, stopping just far enough that you still feel you have room to breathe.

“Look,” he starts gently, voice dipping into the same soothing cadence he used when you were little—before everything cracked. “I’m not here to drag you back. I’m not even here to lecture you.”

You snort. “That’s new.”

He gives you a dry look, but his smile returns, faint and a little sad.

“I just wanted to see you,” Dick admits, glancing around the studio. “See how you’re doing. How… this life is treating you.”

Your chest tightens, unexpected warmth blooming under the guard you’ve spent years building.

You want to believe him. Part of you does.

But the other part—the part that remembers every missed recital, every unopened letter, every time you stood on the edges of family dinners while they laughed without you—knows better.

“I’m fine,” you lie easily.

He frowns, eyes drifting over you, reading you the way only he can.

“You don’t look fine.”

You roll your eyes, turning back toward the silks, fingers tracing the cool fabric as a distraction.

“Don’t start playing big brother now, Dick. It’s been years.”

“I never stopped being your brother.”

Your throat tightens, but you mask it with a shrug, grabbing the silk, twisting it idly around your wrist to keep your hands busy.

“This isn’t the Manor,” you whisper. “You don’t get to show up and play big brother.”

His expression fractures — just a little, the mask slipping.

“I’m building something here,” you say, gesturing vaguely to the studio, the silks, the life outside Gotham’s shadows. “It’s mine. No capes. No patrols. No… disappointments.”

His face twists with something complicated—guilt, frustration, maybe even admiration.

“I get it,” Dick says softly. “I do.”

You arch a brow. “Do you?”

He hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. I ran from it too, remember? Blüdhaven. The circus. It’s not so different.”

“It is,” you counter, stepping forward, close enough now that your voices stay low, private. “You had the option to visit. To come back whenever you wanted. Me? I didn’t know if I even belonged there in the first place.”

Dick’s jaw clenches, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

“You always belonged,” he says, fierce and broken, eyes burning into yours. “We were just too damn distracted to show you.”

The admission punches the air from your lungs.

You look away, throat tight.

“Jason mentioned Alfred,” you murmur after a beat, the memory of the old butler’s face ghosting over your thoughts. “How… is he?”

“Still the only one holding the Manor together,” Dick answers, his voice soft with fondness. “Tired. He misses you... Everyone does. I do.”

You shake your head, pulling the silks through your fingers, grounding yourself in the familiar texture.

“It’s not that easy.”

“I know.”

“It’s not like I can just walk back in and pretend nothing happened.”

“Trust me, birdie, I’m not pretending.” He pauses. “We screwed up. I screwed up.”

You glance at him, wary.

His eyes meet yours, steady, open.

“I should’ve been there. More. Better. I thought— I thought you’d always be there. That there’d always be time.”

You swallow around the ache in your throat.

“Don’t pull the ‘we were kids’ card.”

“I wasn’t going to,” he says quietly. “I was going to say I wasn’t paying attention. That I thought being your brother meant just… showing up for the big stuff. The galas. The battles. I didn’t realize it was the little things that mattered.”

You look away.

“I used to send you letters,” you murmur, voice tight. “Invitations. Notes.”

“I know.”

“I used to save you seats.”

“I know.”

His voice is thick now.

“I didn’t think you wanted me there,” you whisper, fingers tightening on the silks. “I thought you had better things. More important people.”

He steps closer, not touching, but near enough to feel the warmth of him.

“You were always important,” he says. “I just… didn’t act like it.”

You blink rapidly, trying to hold back the stupid, stinging heat behind your eyes.

“I’m still not coming back.”

He smiles softly. “Okay.”

You glance at him, surprised. “Okay?”

“I’m not here to drag you home,” he says. “I’m here to see you. To remind you that you still have a home. That you still have a brother who’s proud of you.”

Your throat tightens.

“Don’t say that,” you whisper.

“It’s true.” His smile grows. “You were always a bird, you know. Not like me, not like the Robins. You were something wilder. Something I always wanted to fly like. My little birdie.”

He gets close, and for the first time you let him, chest aching for the love he once gave you. Dick kisses your temple, looking down at you for a moment.

“There's going to be a gala in four days. Because of the anniversary of the enterprises. Just . .  . think about it. You have my number. And take care of yourself, please.”

[corvoqueen]

Awww

CHRONOLOGICALLY INCORRECT

Age regressed!Dick Grayson ft batmom! reader x batman

divider by: @cafekitsune word count: 1.5k synopsis: When an age regressed Dick Grayson wreaks havoc on the Justice League. a/n: Wanted to write something light and humorous, this idea is inspired by a ideo I saw on tik tok giving a similar scenario.

The Watchtower medbay looked like a warzone.

“—How the hell is he still moving?!” Barry Allen exclaimed, clutching his ribs as a small, dark blur zipped past him and slamming a fist into his knee before launching himself at Hal Jordan.

“Ah—ow! He bit me! He bit me!” Hal yelped, clutching his arm.

Earth’s greatest defenders—gods, aliens, meta-humans—stood in disarray, thoroughly outmaneuvered by one small, barefooted terror: Nightwing. Or rather, a ten-year-old, age-regressed version of him with no memory of the team and no mercy to spare.

“Did he just throw a bedpan at me?!” Barry cried out, ducking behind Hal as a metal object flew past his head and shattered against the wall. “Was that filled?!”

“Focus!” Diana barked, deflecting a flying needle with a sharp clang of her bracers. The boy dove straight through the air like a missile, teeth bared and expression wild. “He’s a child! Contain him, don’t kill him!”

“The little shit’s trying to kill us!” Hal snapped back, clutching his forearm—now sporting a fresh, red crescent from a vicious bite.

“Language,” Superman muttered absently. He hovered midair, cape billowing, eyes carefully tracking the boy as he darted like a wolf through shadows. “He’s de-aged and disoriented. Likely under psychic regression. But—”

A sudden blur of blue and black shot from the ceiling like a launched arrow.

With a feral yell, the boy dropkicked Hal Jordan square in the back of the head.

“SON OF A—!”

The Lantern hit the ground with a heavy crash.

“Do not swear at the child,” J’onn said calmly from the corner, watching with the detached exhaustion of someone who had already tried and failed to telepathically soothe him.

“Child?!” Hal sputtered from the floor. “That’s not a child. That’s a miniature assassin in spandex! He's worse than Robin!”

“I’m surprised the suit shrunk down to fit him,” Barry commented, peeking from behind a toppled stretcher. “Who knew Nightwing was this feral as a kid? Where the hell did he grow up—the circus?! He’s like a deadly little raccoon.”

“And armed,” Diana added, eyes narrowing as a third batarang embedded itself in the wall just inches from her face.

Another smoke bomb detonated.

Thick grey fog billowed out, blanketing the medbay in a choking haze. Even with enhanced senses, thermal vision, and metahuman reflexes, the League found themselves disoriented. The child was too quick, too unpredictable—a wraith of his own, slipping through their fingers every time they thought they had him cornered.

“…You know what?” Flash coughed, waving smoke from his face. “I think I prefer having a bedpan flung at my face.”

“Fantastic,” John muttered grimly. “Why did the bloody Bats have to be in Gotham today?”

Superman finally exhaled. “That’s it. I’m calling him.”

“No!” Hal and Barry both snapped in unison, panic clear in their voices.

“We can handle the kid!” Hal added quickly, just as another tray came flying from the smoke and narrowly missed his head.

They could not, in fact, handle the kid.

After another five minutes and three minor injuries—plus one deeply bruised ego—J’onn and Clark made the call.

It didn’t take long.

The Zeta-Tube flared to life behind them with a mechanical chime and the light blue glow of teleportation.

“ZETA-TUBE ACCESS: BATMAN. ZETA-TUBE ACESS—”

The moment Dick saw the glow, he froze mid-swing—one hand still holding a scalpel, the other mid-throw with a stolen IV pole. His head whipped toward the portal with an almost animalistic instinct. Before the system could even finish the second name, the boy bolted like a bullet, launching off the medbay bed and leaping over Diana’s shoulder.

“MOM!!!”

Every head turned.

And who they saw wasn’t Batman.

It was you.

Still dressed in full gear—sleek black tactical armour molded to your frame, twin daggers crossed on your back, and a black half-mask framing your sharp eyes. You had only just stepped onto the Watchtower floor, barely blinking in the artificial light, when a small body slammed into you at full force, arms and legs wrapping around you like a vice.

You staggered back a step under the momentum.

But old instincts had you swiftly catching the small body mid-air.

“Hi, baby,” you breathed with a soft grunt, arms tightening instinctively around the ten-year-old clinging to your front like a baby koala. “I’ve got you.”

Dick buried his face in your neck, panting, heart racing against yours as he trembled in your arms. You just rocked him gently, hand sliding up to cradle the back of his head, thumb stroking through his sweat-damp hair.

Behind you, Bruce stepped out of the Zeta Tube in his full Batsuit, gaze sweeping the Watchtower, assessing the stunned and dishevelled  heroes, the utter destruction of his multi million dollar medical bay, and finally to his son, perfectly still in your arms.

He turned back to league, levelling them with a disapproving glower that could freeze blood.

“…What did you all do?”

No one answered at first.

Superman blinked. Green Lantern’s mouth opened and closed. Flash lifted a hand and pointed limply at his bruised knee.

“He’s—he’s been like this for three hours,” Barry finally blurted. “He got hit by some rogue spell, de-aged to, like, ten, and then just snapped. We tried to sedate him, but he kept dodging and fighting—he made traps, Bats! He booby-trapped the medbay with firecrackers and fishing wire!”

“The little—” Hal started, then faltered when Bruce’s gaze narrowed on him. He cleared his throat, backpedaling quickly. “The kid bit me.”

“Almost knocked him out too,” Barry added helpfully.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Hal muttered, cheeks flaring red as he tried to hide his bruised pride.

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose.

You said nothing.

Your entire focus was on the boy in your arms—no longer Gotham’s golden prodigy, no longer Nightwing, or physically the eldest of your brood, but once again your baby boy. You gently smoothed your fingers through the back of his hair, rubbing slow, comforting circles at the nape of his neck, just like you used to when nightmares woke him at the manor. You could feel his breathing ease, chest no longer heaving with panic, lashes fluttering against your collar.

“Are you okay?” you whispered against his temple.

“’M okay now,” he mumbled sleepily, his voice muffled but laced with comfort. He was crashing, worn out from the adrenaline and the confusion, but safe.

Bruce stepped in beside you, his presence relaxing Dick even further now that both his parents were in his sleepy sight. Something in Bruce’s stance shifted as he looked down at his first son— the shift was small, nearly imperceptible—but you saw it. You always did. No one else would’ve caught the way his shoulders eased, the faintest softening his mouth as he continued staring down at Dick.

“Wait…” Diana’s voice broke through the quiet, her eyes looking at the three of you in confused curiosity. “Why did he refer to you as his mother?”

You glanced up, arms instinctively tightening around Dick before glancing at Bruce who gave a barely perceptible shrug, clearly telling you it was your choice whether or not you wanted to share the truth.

“Because he’s my son,” you said simply.

Hal blinked. “Wait, I thought he was one of Spooky’s brats…” He paused. His gaze pinged between you and Bruce, taking note of how close Bruce stood beside you and the subtle way his arm almost brushed yours. Something clicked behind Hal’s eyes. His jaw dropped. “Wait a second—are you and Spooky a thing?!”

You tilted your head slightly, teeth catching the inside of your cheek to suppress the smirk threatening to break loose. Still, you couldn’t resist shifting a little closer to Bruce, letting your shoulder bump his.

“Sev— What?!”

Diana looked genuinely stunned. “I… How did none of us know this?”

“I knew,” J’onn said calmly.

“You always know,” Barry muttered under his breath.

“So did I,” Clark shrugged.

Hal was still flailing. “No. No way. You two have been on the team for years! How did we not know this?!”

“Because the two of us know how to be professional,” you replied smoothly, one brow raised in amusement.

Diana turned back to study you both again—more carefully this time. Her gaze sharpened, eyes narrowing slightly. And then her expression shifted, something else dawning. “…How many children do you have?”

Bruce grunted.

Your smirk widened. “Define ‘have.’”

“HOW MANY?” Hal all but shouted, throwing his arms into the air.

“Too many,” Bruce muttered tiredly. “And they’re all worse than him.”

“I heard that,” came a muffled, sleepy protest from your arms.

“Of course you did,” Bruce said dryly.

J’onn stepped forward, his tone calm and even. “He has calmed in your presence. Your bond appears to stabilize his regressed state. I recommend removing him from the medbay. For everyone’s safety.”

Bruce gave a short nod. “John, contact Zatanna. Have her meet us at the cave.”

“Alright. Just bloody get that demon out of here,” Constantine muttered, exhaling a puff of smoke and glaring at the scorch marks on the floor.

You adjusted your grip on Dick, who had already begun to drift off against your shoulder, then turned toward the Zeta-Tube.

Hal found his voice again—just in time. “Wait—what else have you been hiding from us? Do you have a dog? A Bat-cave under your Bat-cave?”

You didn’t even glance back as you stepped into the light.

“We also have a Batcow,” you called over your shoulder, voice light with mischief before you vanished, Bruce following a moment later.

[corvoqueen]

Quick reminder that it's always morally correct to punch nazis.

[corvoqueen]

My Heart — Part One

summary | your family realizes how much they have missed. the problem is that you are a grown up by now, and terrible hurt by their neglect.

pairing | platonic slight yandere batfam x batsis!neglected!reader. future conner kent x reader.

warnings / tags | angst, hurt/little comfort, y/n is mentioned as a female, a bit of trauma, family issues, mostly trust and daddy issues. they all love each other (PLATONICALLY) they just don't know how to feel it and express it correctly. it gets darker. you are a bit of a yandere later as well.

word count | 4.9k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :) i plan on making this a series. please vote <3 dick is 28. jason is 23. reader will be 22 in a few months. cass is 21. tim is 20. duke is 18. damian is 13.

New York never felt like home, but it became the closest thing you could hold on to.

You’ve built a life here — tall, untouchable. You’ve shaped it with your own hands, your own colors, your own breath. Nothing about it belongs to the Waynes. Not the apartment nestled above a quiet coffee shop in the Lower East Side, not the canvases drying in the corners, not the framed articles about your exhibitions, not the soft hum of the city seeping through your open window at dawn.

You’ve never liked the quiet.

Which is ironic, considering how desperately you’ve built your life around it.

It follows you now, trailing after you like a shadow, as you pad barefoot across the creaking floorboards of your apartment. Your studio smells like turpentine and old coffee, acrylic paint staining your fingers, charcoal smudged beneath your fingernails. The city hums below you—cars honking, people yelling, life happening. But up here? It’s quiet.

You carved out this life for yourself—a life apart from Wayne Manor’s echoing halls, the Bat‑family’s midnight discipline, the nosey of Alfred, even your father’s distant pride. You’d rather have these narrow, straight streets than that cavernous mansion filled with ghosts.

Eye to eye, the portrait looks at you, analyzing, judging. It's almost like you are the prey, and she is the hunter. Huntress. Hadn't that been your name once? That stupid nickname that only your family knew about? 

With that, you decide that that piece is never going out to life. 

Here, you’re Y/N Wayne, and people know you because your paintings make them feel something. They know you because your words drip off pages like slow, sticky honey, because the chords you compose linger like ghosts. They know you. Not her.

Not the Huntress.

Not the child who spent her teenage years leaping across rooftops in desperate silence.

Not the kid who wanted, so painfully, to be seen.

“Y/N, are you listening?”

You blink, eyes pulling away from the list of upcoming press engagements your manager slid across the table. Ms. Morley — always Morley, never her first name — has her arms crossed, her expression calm but expectant.

You offer a polite, measured nod. “Yes, I’m listening.”

Her mouth twitches, something between a sigh and a smile. She’s used to this version of you: distant, composed, pleasant, but just far enough away that she’ll never get in.

“This showcase is the most important event of your career. You know that.”

You do. You know it in your bones. You’ve spent a decade painting your way here, clawing through the cement of your own insignificance to find something — anything — that could be yours.

It’s a refined gallery in SoHo. Exclusive, prestigious. People from the Met will be there. Patrons from across the Atlantic. Journalists whose words can either fold you into legend or erase you like you never existed.

“This is the kind of night that defines an artist,” Morley continues, sliding her tablet toward you, the event details highlighted in sharp white. “And the kind of night the press eats up.”

You keep your back straight, your breathing steady. “I understand.”

Her gaze sharpens, thoughtful. “We need your family there.”

The name curls in your stomach like bad wine. You lower your eyes to the tablet, as if rereading the date will change what she’s about to say.

“They should be there. All of them.”

Your throat dries, but your voice doesn’t falter. “They won’t come.”

“Maybe not. But the invitation matters. Publicly.” Her fingers tap softly against the glass table, a steady beat. “Their presence will shift the entire narrative around you. It gives your work weight in their circles. It’ll make people pay attention.”

People already pay attention. That’s why you moved here. That’s why you don’t sign your paintings with your last name. That’s why you carefully, deliberately, separated yourself from the empire back in Gotham.

“I don’t want to invite them.”

Morley doesn’t flinch. She never does. She’s not unkind, but she is immovable.

“You don’t have to want it,” she says simply. “You have to do it.”

You hate that she’s right.

You hate that part of you — the small, broken part — still wants them to come. Still craves to be seen. Still aches for Bruce’s approval, even now, even after you’ve stopped asking for it.

You press your fingers together, folding them tightly until the knuckles burn.

“They won’t come,” you whisper.

“They might surprise you.”

They won’t.

You’ve lived your entire life in the spaces they didn’t bother to fill. You remember what it felt like to sit in the Manor’s library, waiting for Bruce to come home, waiting to tell him about your mission, about how you stopped a robbery on your own. You remember how the words curdled in your throat when he brushed past you, eyes already on the next crisis, the next son, the next city to save.

Dick was the golden child. Jason was the loud one, the troublemaker, the broken boy everyone wanted to fix.

You were just… there.

You grew up alongside them, but you were never that much with them. Of course, your older brothers are much of your favorite part of your childhood; Dick teaching you about gymnastics before he became Robin. Jason being just one year older than you, close as nail and dirt before he died. You two became heroes together.

He, the second Robin. You, the only Huntress. You remember the night you saved a group of hostages from a deranged gunman. Sixteen, trembling, adrenaline high — Dick found you afterward, mascara bleeding, but alive. He didn’t say much. Just put his arm around you. That was the only time you felt he believed in you, briefly.

You remember, too, being a child in the manor: cold corridors, even colder glances, father absorbed in his mission, brothers leaving home, returning with scars. Your own scars—emotional, silent, winding through your teenage years.

You weren’t the strategist like Tim, or the quiet weapon like Cass. Your mind wasn't as fast as Barbara's. You weren’t the prodigy like Damian. You weren’t even the spirit like Stephanie.

You were just the girl who tried. The one who stayed polite. The one who made her own costume, patrolled the streets no one cared about, picked up the pieces the rest of them left behind.

The one they forgot to love properly.

It's not that they don't love you. A small part of them must have to love you, as you love them, as much as you hate them. Your father loved you, once, you surely remember that; and he did love you, you were sure of that, just not as much as you really wished. 

You spent your teen years similar to the image he gave. Spoiled, charming. The public loved you, still does, you are more than confident of that. Intelligent, sporty, an artist. Someone who loved Gotham, despite all.

“I’ll send the invitations,” you say at last, voice steady. “One for each.”

Morley gives a small nod of approval. “Thank you. It matters.”

You offer her a polite smile, but inside, something crumbles, quiet and familiar.

When the meeting ends, you walk back to your apartment in the gray afternoon haze, the memory of rain clinging to the pavement. You don’t want to write to them. You don’t want to remember.

But you do. You always do.

You sit at your desk — the one you built yourself, the one with the scratches from moving it too many times — and you pull out eight envelopes.

One for each of them.

You start with Bruce. The paper stays blank for a long time. What do you even say to the man who shaped your entire life by not showing up to it?

You remember him in fragments — his voice, his scent, the way his cape would brush your shoulder when you were little and you’d sneak into the Batcave just to see him. His soft smile when you rested by his side in the couch. You remember the big parties he threw at every single one of your birthdays, but you can't remember enjoying them.

Father,              I’m showcasing a new collection in three weeks. You are welcome to attend if you wish. It will be at the Holburne Gallery, in New York. I imagine your schedule is full, but I wanted you to have the information.

You hesitate.

I hope you’re well.

That’s all you write. That’s all you can.

You sign your name — just your first name — and fold the letter carefully.

You seal the envelope, knowing he probably won’t come. Knowing that if he does, he’ll stand at the back of the room like a stranger. Knowing he won’t say he’s proud. But you send it anyway.

The eldest of your siblings was next. You adored Richard. He had been the one you had most envied and admired at the same time. You were always just a step behind him. Always the little sister, never the partner.

Hi, Dick. 

                I’m presenting a new collection soon. It’s in New York. I thought you might like to know. You don’t have to come, of course. But you’re invited. Hope you’re well.

You sign it.

You try not to think about the Christmas he forgot to call. The birthday he skipped. The voicemail he never answered.

You and Jason always understood each other in a way that didn’t need words. Which is why the silence between you now feels like betrayal. His death had been . . . harsh on you. And then he came back. Nothing like the boy you remembered. Nothing similar to your rebellious yet sweet brother.

Jason,             You can leave early. You’d probably hate it.

You sign it.

You remember when you were kids, and he called you his “annoying little shadow.” You remember the first time he died. You remember visiting his grave every week, even when no one else did.

You remember when he came back, and didn’t call you.

Cass was the quiet one, but she was always the first to notice when you were drowning. She never said much, but she looked at you like she saw you, and maybe that’s why her absence cuts the sharpest. 

Cass,          There’s an exhibition. In New York. In three weeks. I think you’d like the paintings. They’re about what we don’t say. I’d like it if you came.

You don’t need to say more. She’ll understand.

She always did. You understand a bit less than her, but you were the first who learned sign language for her, and you resent her a bit when your father's eyes look at her.

Tim was younger than you, merely by two years. The brilliant one. The one who could solve everything except the rift between you. You don't really remember a time where you two actually got along. You were too hurt by Jason's death when he arrived. When your father replaced him.

There’s a show. I don’t know if you’d want to come. It’s not your scene. But you’re invited.

You almost don’t send his letter.

But you do.

You and Stephanie were always too similar in the worst ways — the loud, overlooked ones who made themselves easy to forget.

But you liked her.

Art show. New York. Three weeks. Come if you want. There’ll be wine.

You sign it.

You remember the time she hugged you after a mission and told you that you were her hero in her eyes. 

You remember that you stopped trying to be a hero that time.

Duke and you really don't know each other that much. You call him your brother, because in a way he is, but you are not really sure how much of a sister you are to him. If he calls you that or simply by your name. Probably the latest.

I’m having a show. You’re invited. You don’t have to come. Just thought you should know.

It feels strange to write to someone you barely knew. But he’s family. Whatever that means.

Damian was the hardest of them all: your blood, his blood, all the same. You share some gestures, gestures you both have from Bruce. You carry on your veins the same liquid that runs through his. He carries with his twisted hate to you. You do with tangled love.

Damian,                You probably have already read the other letters by now, but I thought you should be sent one too. I formally invite you to the presentation. Please, don't bring knives or any weapon if you are going to come. 

You sign that one with less happiness. 

You write one more. For Alfred.

Alfred,            I would love it if you came to my show. It would mean everything to me. You’re the only one I really want there. There is a painting dedicated to you. Hope you can see it with your own eyes and not in a photo.

You hesitate. You seal it.

For the first time all day, you allow yourself to feel the weight of it — the years you spent chasing them, the ache that never quite went away. The child in you still wants them to come. Still wants to believe they’ll show up.

But you know better.

You send the letters anyway.

Wayne Manor has never really been quiet.

Not in the honest sense.

The walls hum, always. The distant rattle of the grandfather clock, the soft padding of Alfred’s shoes against marble, the slow groan of old staircases. Even when no one is speaking, the house breathes.

Dick’s never minded that. Silence always had a weight in this place. And right now, it sits heavy on his shoulders as he drags himself down the long hall, wiping dried blood off the side of his chin with the edge of his sleeve.

The night had been rough. Long patrol in Blüdhaven. Longer arguments with Bruce over the comms. His knuckles still ache from where they met a thug’s jaw a little too hard, and his ribs burn with every breath.

He wants nothing more than to shower, crash in his old bed, and pretend—just for tonight—that the world isn’t asking him to carry it.

But as he turns the corner toward his room, something sharp cracks against the wooden floor down the hall.

It’s faint. Small. A box, maybe.

Dick pauses, body tense out of habit, head tilting toward the sound. No one should be up here. Damian with Titus, outside; Jason god knows where, Cass deeply asleep, Tim’s probably holed up somewhere with three screens on, and Alfred—well, Alfred would never let something fall.

Curiosity edges in, overtaking the tiredness. Carefully, quietly, he turns the knob. The door creaks softly as it swings open, revealing a space frozen in time.

It takes him a second to realize where he is.

The walls are bare now. The bed is made, but unused. The shelves are mostly empty except for a few scattered photo frames, one or two stuffed animals slumped in the corner, a cracked mug filled with stiff, dry brushes. It’s not as full as he remembers — a few boxes stacked neatly in corners, the bed made with precision that screams “Alfred.”

But what gives it away—what pulls the air straight out of his lungs—is the pale pink ribbon draped over the desk chair, with “Y/N Wayne” written in the soft, looping scrawl he remembers.

His sister’s room.

Or what’s left of it.

It’s not the warm, cluttered mess it used to be. He remembers tripping over sketchbooks here. He remembers her sitting cross-legged on the floor, hands smeared with charcoal, beaming at him as she shoved a half-finished drawing in his face.

He hasn’t stepped foot in here since…

God, when was the last time? Her high school graduation? No, even before that.

The faint smell of old books and faint perfume lingers — something subtle, floral, long faded. On the floor, near the desk, a box has fallen open. Papers, notebooks, and loose photos spill across the hardwood, an unintentional mess.

Dick sighs, rubbing a hand across his face.

“Alfred’s gonna kill me if I leave this here,” he mutters to himself, crouching down.

He starts gathering the scattered pages, stacking them neatly back into the box. Some papers are doodles — quick pencil sketches of rooftops, city skylines, birds. Some are old school essays, a few folded letters never sent.

Something flicks against his thigh. A small, thick card. He picks it up absently, ready to tuck it away—until his eyes land on the handwriting.

His name.

“For Dick” written in familiar, elegant cursive letters.

It’s an invitation. To a theater. The date is from years ago—2016. He flips it, heart thumping unevenly.

Hi Dick!! I know you’re busy but maybe you could come????????????Please. I got a solo part this time! I’d really like if you saw me play. It’s Saturday at 7pm. I saved a seat in the front row for you, just in case. :)

It’s signed simply: Y/N ❤

Dick’s stomach twists, a slow, sickening pull.

He doesn’t remember this.

He doesn’t remember any of this.

His fingers tremble as he gathers the rest of the papers. More invitations spill out — to gallery showings, poetry readings, little charity events. Some directed to him. Others to Bruce. Some marked for Cass, Steph, Tim.

Names written with hopeful, awkward loops. Names underlined, circled, doodled with little hearts or stars. All gathering dust in a forgotten box, untouched, unopened.

He can only vaguely remember you at galas, tucked behind the grand piano, fingers gliding across keys while the adults talked business. He remembers your drawings stuck to the fridge when they were younger, Bruce pinning them up absentmindedly like they were grocery lists. He remembers thinking you’d be an artist one day.

But he doesn’t remember these shows. These letters. These invitations.

And he missed them.

He missed you.

His throat closes around the guilt rising fast and sharp in his chest. He runs his thumb over the soft paper of the invitation, reading your bubbly handwriting again and again, as if somehow, maybe, he’ll remember being there.

Maybe, if he reads it enough, the memory will appear.

But it doesn’t.

The silence wraps tighter around him.

The box is still half-full. Beneath the papers, beneath the scribbled notes and dried-out pens, there’s a small stack of worn journals, their corners frayed from years of use.

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows it’s not fair to read them. But he’s already failed you in so many ways.

His fingers hover over the top one. He closes his eyes for a brief moment, then pulls it into his lap and opens it. It feels like an invasion. It is an invasion. But the guilt is heavy. The ache to understand her, to know the sister he most knew once, roots itself deep.

The pages are filled with your handwriting — messy, cramped, sometimes smudged with faint water stains. He thinks it's not water.

The first page is a sketch—a rough, childish drawing of a girl in a cape, standing next to a tall figure with a sharp cowl and a billowing cape. The girl is grinning. The figure is not.

The words underneath: I’ll make you proud someday.

“Shit,” he breathes softly, staring at the faded paper.

“I made a new piece today. I wanted to show Dad but he’s busy. Always busy. It’s okay. Jay says that’s just how he is. But maybe next time…”

Dick’s stomach knots.

He flips further.

“I sent Dick that invitation today. I hope he comes. I’m nervous. It’s dumb, I know, but it matters to me.”

His vision blurs, breath catching.

The pages bleed with more.

Frustrations. Dreams. Lonely nights in the Manor while the others trained or patrolled. Quiet resentment tucked behind polite words. The slow, steady heartbreak of being overlooked — not hated, not ignored on purpose, just… forgotten.

“I think if I’m good enough, they’ll come.”

“I think if I save enough people, Father will see me. Not just the mask. Me.”

He flipped to another entry, years later.

“They forgot again. It’s fine. I’m fine. I’ll just try harder next time.”

His throat burned.

Another.

“It’s not that they don’t love me. I know they do. They just don’t see me.”

“Maybe I was never supposed to be seen.”

Dick grips the pages so tightly his knuckles go pale.

He reads until the words blur, until the guilt curdles into something heavier — shame, self-loathing, frustration.

He doesn’t know how long he stays there, but eventually, he shoves the notebooks back into the box, his chest aching with every inhale.

His feet move on autopilot.

The halls blur past.

Bruce is in his study — where else would he be at midnight — reading files, probably preparing for tomorrow’s crusade, like always.

Dick doesn’t knock. He pushes the door open, the box balanced in his arms.

Bruce barely glances up. “Dick.”

He drops the box onto the desk with more force than necessary. Papers spill slightly, the old invitation landing near Bruce’s hand. Bruce’s eyes flick down. His brow furrows. He picks it up.

The silence stretches.

“What’s this?”

“Her room,” Dick snapped. “Her life. All the things we missed.”

Bruce’s hand hovered over the box for a second, as if touching it would burn him. “Y/N’s?”

Dick folds his arms, jaw tight. “You ever remember getting that?”

His father studies the invitation. The date. The handwriting. Something flickers across his face — not recognition. Regret, maybe.

“I… no,” Bruce admits quietly.

Dick’s teeth grind.

“Yeah. Me neither.” His hand slams against the side of the box. 

“These? They’re all hers. Invitations. Shows. Letters. You know where I found them? Gathering dust in her old room. You know what else I found? Journals. Years of them.”

Dick’s voice cracks, low and bitter. “She wanted us there. All of us. You. Me. The others. You ever wonder why she left, Bruce? Why she never came back?”

Bruce’s jaw clenches.

“Don’t,” Dick warns, pointing a sharp finger. “Don’t give me some crap about her ‘needing space.’ I read it. I read every word. She wasn’t asking for space. I thought patrols, missions, saving the world — I thought it was enough. I didn’t realize I was walking right past her the whole time.”

“She made her choices.”

“She didn’t choose to be invisible to us.”

Bruce flinched at that, just a flicker, but Dick caught it.

“Did you even read any of her letters? Did you see how many times she reached out? How many times she tried?”

“She distanced herself,” Bruce said, softer now. “She left.”

“She left because we gave her nothing to stay for.”

The words cracked in the air like gunfire.

Silence settled between them, heavy and suffocating.

Bruce’s gaze drifted to the box, to the memories packed haphazardly inside. His fingers traced the edge of the cardboard, lingering.

“I never meant—”

“I know,” Dick cut in, voice tight. “None of us did. That’s the problem.”

Damian heard everything.

It wasn’t hard, not in this house. Wayne Manor was old — creaking floors, thin walls, ventilation shafts that turned into hallways for sound. He wasn’t eavesdropping, not really. If they wanted privacy, they shouldn’t argue where the walls carried every word like a confession.

From his place crouched in the shadowed corner near the study entrance, Damian listened.

Dick’s voice came sharp and raw, slicing through the heavy air like a blade.

“…Your daughter. My sister. The one we’ve all been too damn busy to notice.”

Damian’s mouth flattened into a tight line.

Your daughter. My sister.

It shouldn’t sting. But it did.

Because no one ever included him in sentences like that. Not when it came to you.

His sister.

His daughter.

As if you weren’t his, too.

You are.

More than them.

You’re his only blood sibling. His only biological sister, even if the “half” in front of that always tasted bitter. It never mattered to him. Not the technicalities. Not the lineage arguments. Not the fact that you were gone before he ever got the chance to prove it.

You’re his sister.

His.

The others forget that. Dick forgets that. They all do.

He pressed further into the shadows, arms crossed, watching the tension unfold between Grayson and Father like a slow-burning fire.

He didn’t make a sound when the box hit the desk, when the contents scattered like broken memories across the wood. His eyes narrowed as papers slid free — letters, notebooks, old invitations — all marked with your name, your handwriting, your quiet, forgotten hope.

His jaw tightened.

So that’s what this was about.

You.

It always circles back to you, doesn’t it? Even when you’re not here. Especially when you’re not here. He’s thought about you more times than he’ll admit. Even when he pretends not to. Even when he wears his indifference like armor.

When he was younger, maybe ten, he’d wander the Manor searching for you.

Father told him you were away. Grayson said you were busy. Todd didn’t answer the question. Drake looked uncomfortable every time Damian asked. And Alfred?

Alfred always hesitated before replying.

“She’s finding her own way, Master Damian. Some paths are quieter than others.”

But your absence wasn’t quiet. It screamed.

You were a gap in the family photo. A missing piece at the table. A chair left cold at holidays Damian never liked anyway.

And the worst part?

You were the only sibling he wanted to know.

The others? They were fine. Useful, even.

But you?

You were supposed to be his.

His sister. His blood.

“Did you even read any of her letters? Did you see how many times she reached out? How many times she tried?”

Dick’s words echoed, and Damian’s throat constricted.

No, Father didn’t.

No, the others didn’t.

No, he didn’t.

But he has his reasons. Reasons the others wouldn’t understand.

You were already gone when he arrived. When the League sent him, when Talia made the arrangements, when Father reluctantly opened the doors of the Manor to his assassin-blooded, anger-wrapped child — you weren’t there.

They told him about you in passing. In clinical, detached terms.

“Y/N? She doesn’t live here anymore.”

“Y/N? She’s in New York.”

“Y/N? She’s not part of this.”

But you were. You always were.

Even if they didn’t see it, even if you didn’t want to be, you’re a Wayne by blood. And his only sister.

The Huntress.

He knew the stories long before he saw the evidence. They spoke about you — the siblings, Father, even Alfred and all the fucking villains he has encountered — like you were a myth stitched into Gotham’s history.

The vigilante who walked away.

The Huntress with the flawless reputation.

The sister who vanished before Damian could measure himself against you.

But he did, anyway.

He watched the tapes. Studied the case files. Collected every fragment of your old life like it was a puzzle only he deserved to complete.

He mimicked your movements when no one watched him train. He sharpened his stance, just like yours. He mastered the same grappling techniques. He replicated the calculated grace you carried on rooftops — the footage never lied, and neither did the ache of admiration buried deep beneath his ribcage.

No one had to tell him you were better.

He knew.

You’re the only one he compares himself to. Not Drake. Not Todd. Not even Grayson, for all his accolades.

Only you.

His sister.

His blood.

It’s why he’s always hated how distant you’ve stayed. How effortlessly you carved your place outside the family — like you didn’t need them. Like you didn’t want him.

You never came back.

You never called.

You sent birthday letters, even to him. You once sent a present: a beautiful robin, carved with your hands, created by your heart, an exquisite sculpture he stills has in his room, right next to where he sleeps, and no one can touch it. No one.

He knows he shouldn’t resent you for it. You never knew him. You were gone before his feet ever touched Gotham soil. But logic rarely softened jealousy. And the hollow, possessive ache in his chest when they whispered about you never faded.

It burned brighter, seeing your name scrawled across those invitations.

It twisted cruelly, hearing Dick’s broken anger crack through the room.

Would you even recognize him as yours? As your brother? As your blood?

He doubted it.

Still— still, a flicker of want buried itself deep in his chest, like a thorn impossible to pull free.

You should be here, not in New York.

You should’ve stayed.

You should’ve seen him, known him, claimed him as yours before the others did.

Possession tasted ugly in his mouth. But it was all he had left of you.

He slipped away from the doorway before they noticed him. His steps were soundless, as always. The halls felt colder as he walked. The Manor’s walls whispered memories that weren’t his — childhood laughter, quiet piano keys, the soft scratch of pencil on paper — echoes of a sister he never got to grow up beside.

You were a ghost here.

But to him?

You were a benchmark. An obsession. A sister in absentia who still defined him in ways the others couldn’t.

In the privacy of his room, Damian closed the door and sank onto the edge of the bed. His fingers twitched toward the small, hidden stash in the drawer — your old case files, outdated footage, grainy photos from years past.

A shrine built out of frustration and longing.

He flipped one of the photos over. It was you, half-hidden in shadow, your Huntress uniform sleek and sharp, posture flawless. Untouchable. Perfect.

He envied that version of you. Admired you. Resented you. Wanted you here.

It was unfair, how easily you left. How the others pretended they could move on. How you carved a life far from Gotham, far from him, with your paintings and music and words that never found him.

But it was more unfair how badly he still wanted to follow you.

His sister.

The only blood sibling they shared. Not that anyone ever reminded you of that. Not that you ever stayed to show him what that meant.

“She’s mine,” he muttered under his breath. “My sister. My blood.”

And he wasn’t letting you go again.

That's when he remembered Alfred's words. Your favourite brother had always been Jason. Closest to you: in age, in relationship, in language. That had made him burn before. But not . . . He saw clearly where he could get you again.

Who could.

[corvoqueen]

˗ˏˋ ★ Little Dove ★ ˎˊ˗

winter soldier x empath!reader

summary: Hydra sends you — a broken empath — into the Winter Soldier’s cell to keep him calm. You’re supposed to soften him. Control him. But instead, something starts to unravel. In both of you.

word count: 6301

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI— disclaimer: contains dark themes. read at your own discretion! angst, slowburn, captivity, tortures, hydra, violence, brainwashing, non-consensual experimentation, hurt/comfort, trauma, possible smut in future chapters? we’ll see.

Chapter Two | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

You still sit with him. You don’t break the silence.

You can’t.

Not when it feels like the air is finally holding something fragile between you — something that could crack open if you breathe too loud.

But then… it does crack.

Not from him.

From you.

Your voice comes quiet. Almost too quiet.

“…Can I touch you?”

The words surprise even you. Not because they’re sudden — they’ve been building, trapped behind your ribs for days — but because you said them out loud. Because you let the ache slip through.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

You press on, a little shakier now. “I just—” You swallow hard. “It’s hard to explain. But when I… when I touch people, I can feel more. It’s like something opens. And with you, it’s…” You hesitate, breath catching. “It’s pulling at me. Like it wants to happen. Like it’s already happening and I just — I need it to be real.”

Still no answer. But his breathing has shifted. Slower. Deeper. Not cold. Not distant. Listening.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” you add. “I don’t want to take anything. I just… I need to feel something. I need to know I’m still me. That you’re still you. Even if it’s just for a second.”

A beat.

Two.

You think he’s going to say no. Or worse — nothing at all. But then… his metal hand shifts slightly on the chain. Just enough to give you space. Just enough to say if you want to, you can.

Your breath hitches. You inch forward, slowly — not rushing, not pushing. You lift your hand with care, like you’re holding a thread of glass.

And when your fingertips graze his palm —

The world quiets.

It doesn’t explode. It doesn’t burn.

It settles.

A warmth pulses through you, slow and deep — not from him, not from you, but something that lives between you. Something buried and broken and barely stitched together.

You close your eyes. Just for a moment. Let yourself feel it. Let yourself have it.

His hand stays still in yours. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t pull away.

Your fingers rest lightly in his metal palm, and it’s not warm — not like human skin — but it’s solid. Real. The ridges and cool plates beneath your touch make your throat tighten.

You think you might cry.

But you don’t.

You can’t.

Not here.

So instead, you just stay like that — half-curled in front of him, knees aching, bones cold, but your hand held open against his. Like an offering. Like a prayer.

He could crush you. You know that. If he wanted to, he could break every bone in your hand before you had time to gasp.

But he doesn’t. He lets you touch him. Lets you stay.

And slowly — so slowly — the edge of tension in your body starts to ease. Not vanish. But soften. Settle. The way your power settles when you stop trying to contain it — humming low, like a second heartbeat in your spine.

His head tilts. Barely. Like he’s trying to understand you better. Like he’s watching your expression for something you haven’t said yet.

“Why do you want this?” he asks. His voice is quieter now. Not just low — gentle. Unfamiliar in his own mouth, like it hasn’t been used for softness in a long, long time.

You look at him. He’s beautiful in that terrifying way — all sharp lines and bruised silence and eyes that don’t know how to lie. But under it — under all the programming, under all the control — there’s a man. A soul. Hurt, maybe, but still there.

And for some reason… he’s letting you see it.

“I don’t know,” you admit. Your voice wavers. Your fingers tighten just a little in his hand. Not possessive — grounding.

“I think I’m just… tired. Of being nothing. Of pretending this doesn’t affect me.”

A pause. Then, even softer:

“When I’m near you, it’s like I can breathe again. Like something’s pulling at me, asking me to remember who I was before all this. Before them.”

You lower your gaze, suddenly unsure if you’ve said too much. If you’ve broken something sacred by naming it out loud.

But he doesn’t pull away.

Instead — unbelievably — he moves.

His thumb shifts slightly. Just enough to press against your knuckle. Not a squeeze. Not even pressure. Just presence.

Your breath shudders. And when you look up — his eyes are already on you.

Not blank.

Not empty.

Not the soldier they sent to kill.

But something else. Someone.

“You don’t feel like them,” he says quietly.

You blink. “What?”

He shakes his head once. A flicker of something — confusion, maybe. Vulnerability. The echo of a man trying to understand the light you carry into his darkness.

“You don’t feel like Hydra.”

Your lips part — not with a reply, but with the sharp pull of emotion in your chest. He felt that. He knows that. Somewhere deep inside, past all the noise, he knows you’re not like them.

You want to cry again. But instead — you whisper:

“Neither do you.”

A long silence stretches between you.

But this time, it’s not heavy.

It’s full.

And for the first time since you were thrown into this nightmare — you don’t feel alone.

Not completely.

Not while his hand is still in yours.

———

The lights are brighter in this room.

Not warm. Not comforting. Just clinical. Exposing.

You sit in the same chair as before, wrists folded neatly in your lap, trying not to show how badly your hands are shaking.

Agent Kern watches you across the metal table — same pristine uniform, same gloved fingers laced together, same sharp, unreadable stare. But there’s something different in him today. A tension. A stillness too exact to be casual.

He knows something.

You force yourself to keep breathing. One in. One out.

“You were with him for twenty-seven minutes,” Kern says calmly, reading off a clipboard like it’s scripture. “That’s longer than usual.”

You nod once. “He didn’t push me away.”

Kern doesn’t react. Just scribbles something. The scratch of his pen feels louder than it should.

“Did he speak?”

You hesitate. Just a second.

“Yes.”

Kern looks up at you. Not dramatically. Just a flick of his eyes — like a knife glinting in a dark hallway.

“And what did he say?”

Your throat tightens. “He asked why I touched him. I told him I needed it.”

Kern tilts his head. “Needed it?”

“Yes,” you say, a little too fast, “I can feel his emotions clearly this way. Being near him calms the noise. Makes me more stable.”

He watches you for another beat. You can almost hear the wheels turning behind his eyes.

“And what did he say to that?”

You hesitate again. Not for dramatic effect — just because you don’t know how much truth to offer before it becomes dangerous.

“He said I didn’t feel like them.”

Kern’s eyes narrow.

“That’s not an operational phrase.”

“No.”

“That’s not part of his language bank.”

You hold his gaze, heartbeat ticking hard against your ribs.

“I think it means he’s starting to… separate. Between who’s part of this and who isn’t. Between threat and non-threat.”

You expect a reaction — surprise, interest, anything… But Kern just leans back in his chair.

“Interesting,” he says finally. His voice is smooth. Too smooth. “And what do you think you are, exactly? Threat? Or tool?”

You blink. The words hit harder than you expect.

Tool. You’ve heard that one before. From the nurses. From the scientists. From your own mouth, whispering reminders to yourself in the cell when you forgot how to breathe.

Be useful. Be soft. Be what they need.

“I think,” you say quietly, “I’m the only one who sees him as a person.”

Kern’s expression doesn’t change.

But something shifts. His fingers twitch slightly — a restrained movement. A flash of something just below the surface. “You’re getting attached,” he says flatly.

“I’m doing my job.”

“Your job,” he echoes, eyes narrowing, “is to keep him stable. To soothe his aggression. Not to indulge your own need for connection.”

You flinch. Just slightly.

But it’s enough. He sees it.

“You were selected because you’re malleable,” Kern continues, voice colder now. “Not because he likes you. Not because you matter to him.”

You lower your gaze. The shame flares hot in your chest, but beneath it — quieter — there’s anger. A slow, steady ember.

You don’t answer.

He stands. “Session in two days. We’ll skip a day, let you reset.” he says. “We’ll be monitoring every heartbeat.”

You nod without looking up.

He leaves.

The door seals behind him. And once again, you’re alone. Alone with the weight of what you can’t say. With the memory of the Soldier’s hand in yours — unmoving, unreadable, but not rejecting.

You stay there for a while in the silence… And somewhere inside, beneath the shame and the exhaustion, you feel something curl in your chest and dig its claws in.

You matter.

You know you do.

Even if they don’t want you to.

Interview over.

———

They drag you back to your cell, drop you on the floor — the way they always do.

Your fingertips are digging into your palms now. Hard enough to leave half-moon shapes behind. You don’t even realize it until your vision starts to blur.

You’re not crying. Not exactly. It’s not tears. It’s… pressure. Like something behind your ribs is pressing too hard against the inside of your bones. Like if you exhale too much, you’ll break.

They want you calm.

They want you quiet.

They want you to walk back into that room in two days like nothing is wrong. Like it’s all working.

You rise stiffly and move to the sink in your corner cell. The water is cold, almost sharp, when you splash it on your face — but it doesn’t help. The shake in your hands doesn’t stop. Your reflection stares back, hollow-eyed and pale, like a ghost wearing your skin.

You shouldn’t go there.

The thought comes soft, unspoken.

You could say you’re sick. You could fake a fever, a tremor, anything. Kern wouldn’t risk losing control of his precious asset. They’d delay. They’d reschedule. You could buy yourself time.

Time to breathe.

Time to forget the weight of his hand in yours. The way his thumb moved — just slightly — like he was real. Like he was choosing to stay.

You grip the edge of the sink tighter.

Because the truth is… you’re not scared of him.

You’re scared of what you’re becoming.

You’re scared that the silence between you was the first time in months you’ve felt like a person. That the sound of his voice — low, cautious, gentle — has been playing on a loop in your mind ever since.

“Why do you want this?”

“You don’t feel like them.”

You press your fists to your chest like you can push the memory out.

You’re not supposed to feel this. You were meant to soothe him. Anchor him. Be a tether, not a mirror.

But something’s shifting now. You’re starting to see him. Not just the shell. Not just the Winter Soldier. The man underneath.

And worse — he’s starting to see you back.

You lean your forehead against the cold concrete wall, breath shallow.

Don’t go, you tell yourself. Just this once. Just rest. Tell them you’re unwell. Keep your distance. You don’t need him. You don’t need anyone.

But the truth slithers through you, dark and shameful.

You want to go back.

You want him to look at you again.

You want the silence. The stillness. The impossible safety of a man who could kill you in a heartbeat choosing not to.

You want to hear his voice again — not the blank voice they gave him, but the one that shook when he said your touch felt different.

Your knees give a little. You slide down the wall slowly, curl in on yourself.

And for the first time since you were dragged into this hell — you admit it.

You want him to choose you.

Not because he was ordered to. Not because you’re useful but because something inside him — something broken and forgotten — knows you.

You bury your face in your arms.

You won’t pretend to be sick.

You’ll go back.

Because you’re not afraid of the Soldier. You’re afraid of the way your heart beats quieter when he looks at you like you’re real.

And you don’t know if it’s love.

But it’s something.

And it’s already too late to stop it.

———

You step through like always — silent, steady, trained — but your heart is doing something wild behind your ribs. Like it’s trying to throw itself forward. Toward him.

He’s sitting exactly where he was all these times before. Ankles shackled, arms loose at his sides, head tilted slightly forward.

And again his eyes lift the moment you enter.

Not slowly. Not by accident. He waited.

Again.

You freeze for a half-second. Just long enough to catch it — the flicker in his face. The smallest change. A softening at the corner of his mouth. It’s not quite a smile.

But it’s close.

It’s gone in an instant — like he didn’t mean to let it slip.

But it happened.

And your breath catches like a wire pulled tight.

He saw you.

He sees you.

You sit across from him — slower than usual — not because you’re stalling, but because your body is listening now. Waiting to feel that strange stillness again. That hum between you. The one that doesn’t belong to Hydra.

For a few seconds, he just watches you. Not hostile. Not guarded. Just… present.

You wet your lips. Your voice is a whisper when it finally comes.

“Hi.”

His brow twitches. Not a reaction, not really — but not neutral, either. His head tilts just a little. “Why didn’t you come yesterday?” he asks.

You blink. You weren’t expecting that — for him to actually care this much about your presence. Or maybe you did?

I—” Your voice falters. You swallow. “Kern said so. Said we need time to reset”

“Kern?” His brow raised slightly.

“One of the agents.”

“Ah,” he nods, lightly. He’s quiet. Then, softly — softer than anything you’ve heard him say yet:

“I was waiting for you yesterday.”

The words hit you like a wave.

He missed you.

He doesn’t know it, maybe. Doesn’t have the language for it.

But his presence — his choice to say that — it’s everything.

Your hands fidget in your lap. You don’t reach for him this time. You don’t want to scare it off.

“You remembered I wasn’t there,” you say quietly, smiling softly at him, somehow with pride or maybe just pure happiness.

His eyes don’t leave yours.

“I remember you.”

The room tilts. You exhale shakily, eyes burning. You shouldn’t feel this much. You shouldn’t let it in. But the way he says it — like it costs him something — like every word is carved from stone and still he offers it to you. You nod. Just once. Like a vow.

He shifts slightly. The chains clink. Not threatening — just… movement. Adjustment. Like he’s trying to find where to put this feeling.

“I don’t know why I want you to come back,” he murmurs, eyes lowering. “But I do.”

You close your eyes. Just for a second. The pain in your chest is unbearable. Not because it hurts — but because it doesn’t. Because for the first time, you feel safe.

Not with the guards.

Not with the cameras.

Not with Kern.

With him. With the weapon they said could never be human again.

You don’t touch him this time, you don’t have to because when he looks up again — that not-quite-smile is back. Just a flicker. Just for you.

It stays there for half a breath longer this time before his face shutters again. There’s a thrum deep in your chest. Like something waking up. Something old and afraid and starved.

For connection.

For gentleness.

For someone who looks at you like you’re not a tool, not an asset, not a ghost in someone else’s war.

Just a girl.

Just a presence.

Your throat is dry, but you ask anyway — softly:

“What do you mean? About wanting me to come back.”

He doesn’t answer right away. His gaze drifts — down to your hands in your lap, to the floor, to the flicker of light overhead like it’s too bright now. Like he’s remembering something he’s not supposed to.

“I… don’t know,” he admits. “It’s easier when you’re here.”

The words are so quiet they could vanish. But they don’t. They land between you like a secret. You study him, unsure how to breathe around the ache blooming in your lungs.

“Easier?” you echo.

He nods, almost imperceptibly. His jaw tightens. You can tell it costs him something — not just to say it, but to feel it.

He shifts again. The metal chain tugs softly at his wrist, and his voice drops lower. “Everything else is loud. The missions. The resets. The voices.”

Your heart cracks.

“And me?”

He looks at you.

This time, really looks — not like a soldier cataloging a target, but like a man trying to remember what peace looks like.

“You’re quiet,” he says. “Not in your voice. Just… in here.” He taps a finger to his temple.

You blink. He means your mind. The place no one else ever touches without breaking something. You blink again, and tears threaten — hot, unwelcome, dangerous. You look away fast. You don’t want him to see.

But he already has. His metal hand shifts, inching forward on instinct — not close enough to touch, but almost. “I just… I don’t like when you’re gone,” he says, and it sounds raw. Unfiltered.

It cuts straight through you. You lift your eyes again. “Neither do I.”

There’s silence. Thick, heavy silence.

But it isn’t empty.

It means something now.

You feel it — like the gravity in the room changed. Like you could fall into him if you let yourself.

His eyes are still on you.

“You should touch me again,” he says suddenly.

It knocks the wind from you. Your lips part. “What?”

“Like last time,” he says, low. “When you asked.”

Your pulse spikes. You hadn’t thought he would ask you that. Not that.

“Did you like it?” you whisper, heart pounding.

He nods once. “Didn’t hurt,” he says.

Then, softer: “Felt real.”

Your hand moves without thinking — slow, careful — like you’re reaching for a wounded animal and when your fingertips brush his metal hand this time, he doesn’t flinch.

He watches the contact. Watches you.

And then — impossibly — he turns his hand over, offering the palm.

Letting you hold it.

Like he’s ready.

Like he wants it.

You curl your fingers into his and lets out a breath.

And that smile — that flicker — returns. Still small. Still almost nothing… But it’s there for you.

His hand is heavy in yours — cool metal, impossible strength — but it doesn’t scare you.

Because he gave it to you.

Because he chose.

And now he’s watching you again — not the way he did before, sharp and assessing — but like he’s trying to understand something. Something inside you he doesn’t have words for yet. You stroke your thumb gently across the metal. He glances down at the contact.

Then — his voice, low and strange:

“Do they hurt you?”

You freeze. Your breath catches. He doesn’t look up right away, like he’s afraid of the answer. Or what it’ll do to him and you don’t answer at first. You can’t. Because something in your chest is splintering. Not from fear. Not from pain. From being seen.

You swallow hard. Try to speak. “Why are you asking me that?”

He finally lifts his gaze… And his eyes — god — there’s something new in them now. A tension. A fury, quiet and coiled. Still buried deep beneath all the conditioning, but there.

Because you didn’t say no.

Because you hesitated.

His jaw works. “I know what it’s like. To be used.”

Your lips part, you want to say something but the words don’t come because he’s still speaking. Still unfolding.

“They hurt me,” he says, voice flat. “Strap me down. Run wires through my skull. Rip out what they don’t like and fill it with noise.” His jaw clenches. “I hate them,” he says. The words are soft. Final.

Then he glances at your hand still wrapped in his — as if realizing it’s the only gentle thing in the room. “I don’t want them to do that to you.”

Your throat is too tight to answer.

He leans forward slightly. Just an inch. Just enough for you to feel it — the weight of his concern. The shield forming where no one taught him to build one.

“Did they hurt you?” he asks again, quieter this time.

And you realize: he isn’t asking to know. He’s asking so he can remember. So he can stop them. So he can keep that one piece of you safe — whatever part they haven’t already broken.

You try to smile. It trembles. “Not the way they hurt you,” you say. “But… it’s not easy.”

His eyes narrow slightly. A flicker of emotion — one that doesn’t belong to Hydra. Not discipline. Not calculation.

Something almost… feral.

You squeeze his hand gently. “They tell me I’m here to help you,” you whisper. “But it doesn’t feel like that.”

He tilts his head. “What does it feel like?”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Because what it feels like — right now — is this:

You, sitting across from a man who was turned into a ghost, who was stripped of everything soft — and still, somehow, he is trying to protect you.

And that makes you feel something so devastatingly human, you don’t know what to do with it. So instead, you whisper the only truth that doesn’t hurt:

“I like it better when it’s just us.”

His gaze lingers on your face.

“Me too.”

You’re still holding his hand when the door creaks open. You both flinch — not from fear. From instinct.

You don’t know how long you sat there, it didn’t feel real. You snap back to reality the moment you hear the door open.

The spell breaks.

Kern enters like he always does: clipboard in one hand, a pen tapping against his thigh. But this time, he doesn’t approach with tests or notes. He stays near the door. Watching.

You straighten slowly, tense. The soldier shifts too, eyes flicking from you to the intruder. His fingers tighten around yours.

And that’s when you know something’s wrong.

Kern’s expression is too calm. Too still. He tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing.

“Let’s run a little test,” he says. “Shall we?”

You open your mouth. “Kern—”

But it’s already too late.

His voice is low. Deliberate. And Russian.

“Желание.”

Soldier jerks. His breath hitches — not a gasp, but close. Like something inside him just twitched.

You turn sharply. “Stop it—!”

Kern’s voice is louder now. Crisp. Measured. “Ржавый. Семнадцать. Рассвет.”

“No—!” You lurch to your feet, but Soldier doesn’t move. He can’t.

He’s shaking now — barely. Like his muscles are locked in a war you can’t see.

“Печь. Девять.”

His jaw clenches. The metal hand curls into a fist.

“Kern, please!” you snap.

But Kern doesn’t even blink. “Добросердечный. Возвращение на родину.”

Soldier lurches forward like he’s being pulled. His breath is ragged now — almost a growl.

You reach for him. You try, you so desperately try to stop this, whatever this is. You try to hold it together. You turn to The Soldier, you try to speak to him through it. “It’s okay. You’re okay—”

And then, softly, Kern finishes it:

“Один. Грузовой вагон.”

Silence.

He rises.

Like a shadow.

Like something unchained.

Your breath catches as you stumble backward.

He’s looking through you now. Like you’re not there. Not really. The Soldier’s breathing is fast now. His eyes dart — not to Kern. Not to you. To the floor. To the air. Like he’s somewhere else.

Kern watches like a scientist in a lab.

You know what this is — what he wants. He’s trying to break it. Break you. Wants to see if he will hurt you. Wants to prove you’re wrong to believe he’s something more than a weapon.

Your voice trembles. “Please…”

He steps forward. Slow. Measured. His eyes are wide but empty. Hollow.

“It’s me. Little Dove. You remember me.”

Nothing.

You don’t move. You don’t run. You just breathe — slow and steady — even though your body is screaming. “Please,” you whisper, “don’t let them take this from you.”

His metal arm lifts. You flinch—but don’t close your eyes.

He stops. His hand shakes. Hard. Like he’s fighting it. Like there’s something else screaming inside him, too.

And then everything snaps.

The Soldier grabs you by the throat. You don’t even have time to scream. The cold of his metal hand is the first thing you feel — the pressure second. He pins you back, not slamming but shoving, calculated and brutal. Your feet skid against the floor. Your hands claw at his wrist.

You can’t breathe.

Your vision starts to blur.

But you don’t fight him. You look at him and your lips move even without air. “Please.”

For a heartbeat, nothing happens.

Then — his expression cracks. His eyes widen. Blink. Blink again.

And then he sees you.

The Soldier’s grip falters.

He looks down at his hand.

At your throat.

At the bruises already forming.

And he stumbles back like he’s been shot.

He releases you so fast you hit the ground coughing, air burning in your lungs. His gaze is still fixed on his own hand.

Like he doesn’t understand how it got there.

Like it betrayed him.

He backs up. Shaking. Trembling. His mouth opens like he’s going to say something — but nothing comes out.

Kern, still standing by the door, clicks his pen.

“Interesting,” he says mildly.

You look up at him, eyes burning. “You did this,” you rasp.

But he’s not even looking at you anymore.

He’s watching the Soldier — who’s still staring at his metal arm, like it’s no longer a part of him. Like it’s a weapon that acted on its own.

And maybe it did.

Kern smiles faintly, glancing at you.

“Good to know the programming still works on you.”

You’re still gasping when the door bursts open again. Two guards sweep in like a storm — faceless, armored, efficient. You barely lift your head before they’re on you.

“Wait—” your voice is hoarse, broken. “Don’t—”

Gloved hands seize your arms.

You thrash, cough, try to hold onto the floor, something, but they’ve done this too many times. You’re yanked to your feet with such force your knees nearly buckle.

The Soldier jerks forward. Not far — the chains stop him. But his body reacts on instinct. Like he’s going to stop them.

And then he doesn’t.

He freezes.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t reach. Doesn’t fight.

He just stands there, watching.

Frozen in horror.

Like if he moves again, he’ll hurt you worse.

Like he already believes he’s a monster.

“Let me go!” you cry, struggling hard now. “He didn’t mean to—”

The guards don’t care. They drag you out anyway.

Your feet scrape against the floor. You’re coughing and pulling and twisting, but the Soldier’s eyes never leave yours — not even when you disappear through the door, not even when Kern steps into his line of sight again.

That shattered look stays. Even when you’re gone.

And Kern?

He just laughs under his breath.

“Attachment,” he says casually. “Always the most fragile weakness.”

———

The cell door slams behind you like a gunshot.

You stumble forward, landing hard on your knees. The air still won’t come right — your throat burns, every breath a jagged edge.

You’re not crying.

You won’t.

Even if your hands are shaking, even if your neck is raw and purpled, even if your chest feels like something has been torn out — you refuse to give them that.

The heavy click of boots follows. You don’t need to look to know it’s him.

Kern.

He lets the silence stretch long, lets it crawl into the corners of the room like mold.

“I warned you,” he says at last, voice calm. Too calm. “You get too close to fire — you’ll get burned, little dove.” He lets out a dark chuckle. “Such a nickname he’s got you, huh?”

You press your palms into the floor. You want to rise. You want to scream.

But you’re still trying to breathe.

“Don’t look so surprised,” he continues. “That was always going to happen. It’s what he is. What he was made to be.”

Your voice is hoarse when it scrapes out. “You did it on purpose.”

He crouches beside you, one hand on his knee, the other tapping a cigarette against a silver case he hasn’t even opened.

“I reminded him,” Kern says with mock patience. “That’s all. A few simple words. And look how fast he remembered who he belongs to.”

You look up at him now — eyes burning.

“That wasn’t him.”

Kern grins, small and smug. “No? Then who was it choking the life out of you?”

You don’t blink. “You.”

That wipes the grin clean off his face for a second. But he recovers fast — steps back with a small exhale, like you’ve amused him instead of landed a blow.

“Sentimental attachment makes you sloppy,” he says. “We needed to reset expectations.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your voice is fraying.

But your glare says enough.

Kern taps his cigarette case once against the bars before turning for the exit.

“Rest up. You’ll see him again soon. Maybe next time he’ll finish the job.”

And then he’s gone.

The door slams shut again. This time it sounds like the end of something.

But you pull yourself up slowly, hands trembling, blood singing in your ears.

Because it’s not the end.

Not even close.

———

You step into the room like always.

But nothing feels like always.

Your throat still aches — not from the pressure, but from the silence that followed. From the sound of his voice gone flat. From the feel of cold metal where warmth had started to grow.

Your skin blooms with bruises — stark against your collarbone and the fragile stem of your neck. You tried to cover them. Kern didn’t bother. Maybe he wanted them seen.

Maybe he wanted to see them.

But the Winter Soldier doesn’t look at you.

He always did. Every time before, the second you crossed the threshold, his gaze found yours — sharp, searching, strange.

Now? His head is down. Eyes low. Shackled hands limp in his lap.

And the silence is unbearable.

You swallow — wincing at the pull. You take slow, careful steps towards him and sit down on the ground next to him without a word. You try not to flinch when the chains rattle. Try not to remember the sound of them dragging as he stood and reached for your throat.

His voice, when it finally comes, is hoarse.

“I told them I didn’t want you back.”

Your heart doesn’t break.

It sinks — cold and slow, like it’s being drowned.

You don’t answer right away. You don’t know how.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says next — quiet, broken. “I told them. I told them.”

His hands flex in the cuffs. Not violently. Like he’s checking they’re still there. That he’s still bound.

“I would never—” He cuts off. Shakes his head like the words don’t belong to him.

You sit still. You have to — not out of fear, but something deeper. Something aching. You see it on him. In him.

He’s afraid.

Not of you.

Of himself.

“It wasn’t you,” you say softly.

He flinches. “I hurt you,” he mutters, barely audible. “I saw the marks. I felt it.” He glances at your bruised neck. “I still see them.”

You want to reach for him — god, you do — but you don’t because you know — even your kindness could cut him now.

“I wasn’t afraid of you,” you whisper.

His head lifts just slightly — not all the way. Like he wants to look, but can’t bear what he’ll see.

“Then what were you afraid of?” he asks, voice splintering.

You meet his eyes — because someone has to.

“Of losing you to them.”

That gets him.

His jaw tightens, eyes burning with something he doesn’t have a name for. His whole body goes still, like if he breathes wrong, he’ll shatter.

“I don’t want to be theirs anymore,” he says, and it’s a confession. A plea. “But they live in me.”

“They don’t have to win,” you say. “Not if you fight.”

“And if I lose?”

“You won’t lose me.”

He looks at you now and there’s so much pain in it — but something else, too. Something like hope.

You sit in the quiet, watching him. His face is unreadable again — the stillness of a weapon, not a man.

But you know better now. Slowly — so slowly — you lift your hand. Just an inch off your thigh. Palm open. Gentle. Not demanding. Just offering.

He sees it.

And flinches.

“Don’t.”

It’s sharp. Not loud, but final. Like he’s choking on glass.

Your hand falls. Your throat closes and then — because you can’t just leave it there — your voice cracks open.

“Please.”

He shakes his head. Not at you. At himself.

“I can’t… I don’t trust what I’ll do.”

You blink through the burn in your eyes. You don’t look away.

“I do.”

He exhales through his nose, bitter and broken.

“You shouldn’t.”

You inch closer, your fingers trembling in your lap.

“They made you do it,” you whisper. “Not you. Not the man who waited for me. Who remembered me.”

He looks at you — and it’s unbearable. His eyes are wild with guilt. With panic.

“They’ll do it again,” he rasps. “You don’t understand. They live in me.”

“I don’t care,” you say, and the truth of it rocks through you. “They can live in you. They can whisper and push and break you in every way — but they don’t get this.”

He’s frozen.

“This thing we built?” you whisper. “They don’t get it. Not unless we give it to them.”

His breath is ragged now. Like he’s drowning. Like every word you speak is pulling him toward the surface and he doesn’t know how to breathe up here anymore.

“I don’t have anyone else,” you say. “It’s you. It’s always been you.” You reach for him again. Hand open. Shaking. “Please,” you whisper. “Let me remind you.”

And this time — this time — he doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t move, either. Doesn’t lean in or meet your touch. He just lets it happen.

Your fingers brush the back of his hand — barely there. Just skin against metal. Warmth against cold.

His eyes close like it hurts. Not the pain of impact. The pain of trust.

You just sit there, hand resting lightly over his. He just feels human and he lets you hold what little of him is left.

You don’t mean to say it.

Not here. Not like this.

But the words have been sitting in your chest too long, and they hurt more staying quiet.

“I’m not sure what I feel toward you,” you whisper.

His head shifts slightly. Just enough to show he’s listening — but he doesn’t look at you. Not yet.

Your fingers curl against your knees. You stare at them like they might hold the rest of the sentence.

“But it’s… something.”

He still doesn’t move.

“And I know I shouldn’t feel anything at all. Not for you. Not in this place.” You let out a dry, quiet breath. “But I do.”

The silence stretches — and for a second, it feels unbearable. Like you might shatter inside it.

“I don’t know what to call it,” you murmur. “But I keep thinking about you. Not just when I’m here.”

You glance up. His jaw is tight. Shoulders locked. Like he’s holding something back with all the force he has.

“And I know it’s stupid,” you go on, voice cracking. “I know they could rip it away at any second. But what we’ve built — this thing between us — it means something.”

He flinches like it hurts to hear that.

But you keep going. Because if you don’t say it now, you never will.

“You said you remembered me.” Your throat tightens. “Even when you weren’t supposed to. Even when you probably didn’t want to.”

You lift your eyes to him again. This time, he meets them.

And the look he gives you — it wrecks you.

Because it’s not blank. It’s not cold.

It’s grief.

“I don’t want to lose that,” you say softly. “I don’t want to lose you.”

And for the first time in too long — he reaches back.

Slowly, like he’s not sure if the moment is real — like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he touches you wrong — he leans forward.

You barely breathe.

His metal hand rises first. Hesitates midair.

Then it cups your cheek — careful, gentle, reverent.

You don’t move. You don’t flinch.

And when he leans in — when his lips brush yours — it’s not with hunger. It’s not control.

It’s longing. It’s fear. It’s hope.

And you kiss him back like it’s the only real thing in the world.

Because maybe it is.

Next Chapter 🕊️

[corvoqueen]

a package deal

contents ౨ৎ ⋆ dick grayson x fem reader. fluff. — 2.7k words ⭑ haley’s the sweetest dog you’ve ever met. her dad’s… pretty cute too, you guess. not that you’re thinking about him. a lot. or at all. he only hired you to dog-sit. but he keeps asking for you back, even on nights he stays home. and when nightwing starts showing up, you don’t realize you’ve been falling for the same man twice.

You sit cross-legged on the hardwood floor, sunlight streaming through the loft windows, brushing down the back of Haley’s fur in long, gentle strokes. She makes a soft huffing noise of contentment and flops onto her side, tail swishing.

“Perfection,” you murmur to her, scratching behind one of her soft ears. “That’s what you are.”

“I know,” comes a smug voice from behind you. “She takes after me.”

You glance over your shoulder. Dick Grayson is leaning against the doorway with a mug in hand and that ever-present glint in his eye. He’s in a loose henley and joggers, his dark hair still slightly damp from a shower. Completely unfair.

“You’re too cute for your own good,” you mutter.

He raises an eyebrow, looking almost proud.

“Thank you. I’m blushing.”

“I could not have been more clearly talking to the dog.”

He walks past you to set his mug on the coffee table, reaching down to ruffle Haley’s head. “We’re a package deal.”

You bite back a smile. “Shut up.”

“Yes, ma’am. Shutting up now.” He bends down and kisses your cheek like it’s nothing. It doesn’t make your heart stutter slightly in your chest. Totally. Not. Because you’re super professional and it doesn’t matter how handsome or nice to you Dick is, it’s just… routine. Absolutely nothing more. Just business as usual.

Haley stretches out with a yawn and rolls onto her back, begging for belly rubs. 

“Haley,” You whisper conspiratorially. “I think your dad needs to get his hearing checked.”

She lets out a soft sneeze that feels a little too much like agreement.

Later, Dick finds you in the kitchen, struggling to twist open a stubborn jar of pasta sauce.

“Need some help?” he asks, appearing behind you. You jump and nearly drop the jar. This man was sneakier than a shadow sometimes.

You glance over your shoulder, narrowing your eyes. “Why should I listen to you? Last time you tried to help, you almost broke the blender making smoothies for Haley. I still don’t think she’s forgiven you.”

He shrugs, grinning. “I’m her dad. Of course she does.”

You roll your eyes and hold the jar tighter. “Do I have to let you do it?”

He leans in, flashing his dimples at you. Ugh. Of course he has dimples. “Yes. Because I’m ridiculously handsome and impossible to resist.”

“Excuse me?”

“You were staring.”

“I was squinting. Glaring-adjacent.”

“Still counts.”

He leans in just a little, and you catch the faint scent of his cologne—clean and warm, with a subtle hint of vanilla and citrus. You hate how much you like it.

Without a word, you hold out the jar.

Dick takes it and opens it in one smooth twist, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Show-off.

—

The night you stay over, you’re tucked into his ridiculously soft guest bed, wearing a tank top and cute, tiny pair of cotton shorts. Haley hops up beside you, pacing once or twice before settling at your feet like a miniature guard dog with fierce loyalty.

You hear a soft knock at the door.

“You decent?” Dick’s voice filters through, lazy and amused.

You crack the door open just enough to peek out. “Define decent.”

He leans against the wall, arms crossed, a fond smile playing on his lips as he looks you over. Your insides squirm from the attention.

You scoff and reach down to scratch under Haley’s chin. “Your dad is—”

“Trouble?” Dick finishes for you with a raised brow.

You nod solemnly. “That.”

He chuckles quietly, eyes flickering to the tank top you’re wearing—his logo clear and unmistakable. Cute. 

“Nightwing fan, huh?” he asks, amused.

You shrug. “Who isn’t?”

For a moment, his usual confident posture falters—his gaze drops briefly, and there’s a faint flush coloring his cheeks before he clears his throat and looks back at you.

He chuckles quietly, breaking the moment. “I asked you to stay tonight because Haley gets anxious when I’m working late or on those random emergency calls. I know she’ll be okay with you here,” he says, voice softening. “And honestly? I don’t mind the company either.”

He’s never mentioned work in front of you before, and you’ve always wondered what his job was. Maybe a firefighter? Modeling? You’ve definitely seen him on a few magazine covers, and you’ve only known him a few months, but somehow, you’re convinced no normal job could fully contain his personality. You glance up at him, surprised by the honesty.

“Besides,” he adds with a crooked grin, “someone’s got to keep me from binge-watching bad crime dramas all alone.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “So I’m just your dog-sitter slash bad TV watchdog?”

He shrugs, stepping back with that familiar cocky grin. “Yup. Lucky you.”

“Don’t be silly,” you say, nudging the door open a little wider. “I’ll watch them with you.”

He blinks, just once, like he hadn’t expected you to say yes so easily. But then that grin of his deepens—real, quiet, warm. You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. 

Haley’s already curled up and snoring like she owns the place, and you realize that maybe this night, awkward or not, is exactly where you’re meant to be.

—

A few days later, you’re walking Haley around the block just after sunset, the sky still streaked in fading purples and deep blues. The air is warm, the quiet hum of cicadas buzzing in the background as you tug your hoodie tighter around yourself. It was supposed to be a short stroll, just some light post-dinner exercise. Haley’s trotting happily beside you, leash slack in your hand, until–

A hand clamps over your mouth.

Your heart spikes as arms hook around your waist and haul you backward. You try to scream, but it’s muffled against a gloved palm. Haley barks as you drop her leash, sharp and feral, No, no, let her go!, her nails scrabbling against the pavement as she tries biting at legs that you can’t see, but you’re already being dragged toward a dark van parked just out of view beneath a flickering streetlamp. 

You hear her soft whines fade as you’re dragged away, and you clench your jaw angrily.

They picked the wrong dog sitter.

You’re shoved into a dark van under a streetlamp that flickers weakly, like even it knows something shady’s going down.

The guy in the passenger seat pulls out a phone and dials, practically giddy. “Yeah, we got her. The girl. Pretty one with the dog. Yeah. Nightwing’s girl.”

You blink, disoriented. “Wait—what?”

He covers the phone, peering down at you. “Don’t play dumb.”

“I’m not playing,” you say, still trying to orient yourself. “Is this about the one time I accidentally shoplifted, like, twenty packs of mozzarella string cheese from Trader Joe’s because I forgot they were at the bottom of my cart?”

There’s a beat of silence.

“What?” says one guy. The other just stares at you like you’ve grown an extra head. 

“I went back the next day and paid for them, by the way,” you add, because, even under the threat of possible death, your moral compass refuses to shut up.

“No,” the first guy says slowly, like you’re the idiot here. He lifts the phone to his mouth again and mutters under his breath, but still loud enough for you to hear:

“Yeah… Nightwing’s girl is kinda stupid. Real cute, though.”

You blink. “Wow. Rude. And for the last time—I’m not Nightwing’s girlfriend!” you shout, equal parts annoyed and terrified, somehow still managing sarcasm from inside a van that looks like it moonlights as a mobile organ-harvesting operation.

“Wait, you’re not?” one of your kidnappers asks in confusion.

“She’s not?” echoes another, the disbelief so stupid it almost makes you laugh.

“Never mind, you can shoot me now,” you mutter.

Except you don’t give them the chance.

You drop your weight low, twist your hips the way you learned years ago in that self-defense class, and drive your foot between the leader’s legs with more precision than a brain surgeon. He drops like a stone.

The van door bursts open in the same breath, a crack of air and motion colliding as a streak of blue and black descends from above.

Nightwing lands in a crouch and as he stands up his hand flies to his mouth, the white eyes of his mask widening to a comical degree while surveying the scene of three grown men groaning and curled on the floor around him.

His gaze lands on the one gasping for air with his hands between his legs, and then on you—panting, but standing tall.

“Ouch,” he mutters under his breath, blinking once. “Even I felt that.”

Afterward, you sit dazed on the curb, wrapped in a blanket courtesy of some poor local EMT. Nightwing crouches beside you.

“You did good,” he says, voice lower than you expect. Kind of familiar even, but there’s no way. That’d be weird. Your head is just jumbled up from being kidnapped earlier. “Quick reflexes. Nice kick.”

He pauses, voice softening. “You’re safe now. That’s what matters.”

Your eyes widen as panic suddenly strikes you. “Wait—Haley. Where’s Haley? Sweet little pitbull, big blue eyes, softest ears—please tell me she’s okay.”

Nightwing’s lips twitch into something between a smile and a smirk. “I checked. She ran all the way to the nearest police station. Smart girl. She held her own.”

Relief rushes through your chest so fast it makes you a little dizzy. “God. I can’t believe I left her—”

“You didn’t plan on getting kidnapped,” he says simply, his tone steady and reassuring. “She’s safe. You’re safe. That’s what counts.”

Then, as if on cue, Haley barrels into view, leash trailing behind her, tail wagging wildly as she launches herself into your lap.

“Haley!” you gasp, practically crushed under the weight of her excitement as she covers your face in frantic, sloppy kisses. You laugh, blinking through tears. “Okay, okay, I missed you too—”

“She’s the reason I found you so fast, by the way.” Nightwing adds, standing beside the two of you now. “Not that you needed me.” He grins sheepishly, scratching his cheek.

Haley lets out a happy little huff, tongue lolling out as she turns to Nightwing expectantly. He crouches down and pats her head, and she melts into his hand like she’s known him forever.

You squint at the sight. A weird wave of deja vu washes over you. Like you’ve seen this scene before. But no, that couldn’t be. This is the first time either of you have ever met Nightwing. Then again, Dick did say she loves everyone. Even strangers.

Still. The way she looks at him—tail wagging with a pat-pat-pat against the ground, body relaxed, happy—it scratches at something in the back of your brain.

But you’re too tired to chase it. For now.

He offers you a lollipop, holding it out with a small, boyish smile.

You blink at him. “Do you always carry candy in your utility belt?”

“Usually for kids,” he says, voice softer than usual. “You earned it.”

You hesitate, but take it from him. Your fingers brush his glove—warm, steady—and it lingers just a second longer than necessary.

“You calling me a baby?” you ask, popping the lollipop into your mouth. Yum, strawberry. 

His gaze doesn’t waver. “If the shoe fits,” he murmurs, voice rich with something unreadable.

Your pulse stutters and you smirk, trying to shake it off. Haley wags her tail faster, sat between the two of you. “That supposed to be flirting, or are you just bad at compliments?”

His lips twitch as he raises a hand to scratch Haley behind her ears. “Why can’t it be both?”

—

You’re in your kitchen, the warm smell of chocolate chip cookies filling the air as you carefully pull a tray from the oven. Tonight, you’re bringing them over to Dick’s place. It’s a small peace offering—or maybe just an excuse to see him.

Before you can wipe your hands on a towel, a familiar voice comes from the doorway.

“Ah, love that smell,” Nightwing says, leaning casually against the frame like he’s done it a hundred times. 

You freeze, eyes wide. “Dude. Did you just break into my house.”

He shrugs sheepishly, an infuriatingly charming smile playing on his lips that was unfortunately working on you. “Can’t a guy visit his baby?”

Your jaw drops. “Excuse me?”

You flash back to that night — the rush of adrenaline as he dropped from the shadows, the men who grabbed you, Haley’s sloppy kisses on your face, the sweet taste of strawberry candy, his voice low and steady as he told you you were safe now.

He winks. “I remember how much you liked my lollipops.”

You blink as your cheeks warm. The sheer audacity. “Okay, first of all, gross. Never say that again. Second—what?”

“You’re cute when you’re flustered,” he says, wandering over like this is normal behavior and not highly illegal. Guess rules don’t apply to superheroes when they're too busy fighting people who break them. His gloved hand reaches toward the tray of still-steaming cookies.

“Do not touch those, they’re—”

“Hot, hot—!” he yelps, shaking his hand after you, predictably, let him grab one. He blows on the cookie dramatically, then takes a bite. “Mmm. Five stars.”

You narrow your eyes, trying to smother a smile. From the way his eyes twinkle and the not-so-guilty grin on his face, you can tell this isn’t his first time pulling this exact stunt. You shake your head.

“You’re ridiculous.”

He beams at you, still chewing. “If you give a mouse a cookie…”

You sigh, jug in hand already pouring. “...he’s gonna ask for a glass of milk.”

Nightwing accepts it with a chuckle and a soft thank you, the sound warm and achingly familiar.

Something akin to home.

—

It happens slowly, like the puzzle’s been coming together in the background without you even realizing.

The lollipop.

The voice.

The subtle bruises he brushes off.

The way Nightwing always shows up when you’re in trouble.

The way he takes off during weird hours of the day, calling you if you could watch Haley for him while he’s gone. 

You lie awake that night, staring at the ceiling.

You hear movement from the living room.

Quiet footsteps. A rustle of fabric. The soft click of a window closing.

You sit up.

Your heart pounds.

You step out and see him standing by the window, pulling a hoodie on over—

Blue.

Black.

Gloves.

His hair is mussed. His cheek has a shallow scrape. He freezes when he sees you.

“…Oh,” Dick says.

You blink.

“No,” you whisper, realization blooming like a sun flare behind your ribs. “You’re Nightwing?”

He rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “In my defense… I never said I wasn’t.”

Your jaw drops.

“You absolute—!”

“Before you yell,” he says, hands raised in surrender, “I’d like to remind you I just saved your life. Again.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

You stalk toward him and jab a finger into his chest. “You flirted with me as Nightwing.”

“Technically, I flirted with you as me. You just didn’t know it was both. Also,” He grins, “Doesn’t my ass look great in spandex?”

You groan. Then collapse against his chest.

You can’t even fight back at that.

“…I’m going to kill you,” you mumble into his hoodie. He smells so good. Too good. Damn him.

“Please wait until after I take you to dinner.”

You shove at him. He laughs.

Later, curled up on the couch in his arms, Haley snuggled happily between you, you stroke her velvet-soft ears. The movie's long forgotten, the room washed in the warm, quiet hush of almost-sleep.

“Has there ever been a time when you didn’t expose me to danger?” you murmur.

Dick hums thoughtfully. “About... eighty-seven?”

You elbow him. “I’m thinking of a number between one hundred and infinity.”

“You wound me mortally,” he says with a grin, voice lazy against your hair.

Then he adds, “What about that time I tried to make pancakes and accidentally set your smoke alarm off three times in one morning?”

You lift your head just enough to glare at him. “That counts.”

He chuckles, smug and unrepentant.

You smile drowsily and nuzzle into his shoulder again, Haley’s soft snores grounding the moment.

“I meant what I said,” he murmurs, brushing his lips to your temple. “We’re a package deal.”

You glance down at Haley, who kicks in her sleep, then sighs with the contentment of someone deeply loved.

You snuggle closer. “Works for me.”

[corvoqueen]

— Grayson's Girl - Dick Grayson & Wally West

Pairing: Dick Grayson x f! reader (has a pussy + she/her pronouns) x Wally West

Genre: smut/nsfw, angst

Word Count: 11.8k

Summary: Wally swears he’s fine with you and Dick’s new relationship… and if he says it enough times, maybe he'll actually believe that

CW: established relationship (Dick x reader), fem reader, wally is the flash here, plot w porn, jealousy/insecurity, masturbation, sex fantasies, fear toxin, yearning, mutual pining, threesome (mmf), fingering, oral (m! receiving), p in v, cuckolding, outdoor/semi-public sex, unprotected sex, eiffel tower (kinda), aftercare!!

the longest thing ive ever posted on tumblr, by far the most detailed/complicated...and it was the dick/wally sandwich of all things that brought this on. also HUGE thanks to my fellow gotham pothead for helping me brainstorm + for listening to me yap about this for days. anywaysss enjoy!! (banner stolen from Nightwing #90 (Tom Taylor) title may or not be a rick springfield reference (im so corny) yes my nerd ass made special dividers for this

“Wally, help me!” You shout, playfully hitting your fists on Dick’s back. “Dick, put me down!”

The former Robin ignores your pleas, continuing his path straight to the pool. You squirm on his shoulders, kicking your legs frantically, but he’s simply too strong. 

Wally watches, suppressing a sigh. He’s not jealous—how could he be jealous? His best friend is dating his other best friend, and he’s in love with both of them. What’s there to be jealous about? 

You look at him with sparkling eyes and a glittering grin, the sun on your face. You’re gorgeous, practically ethereal, and you always have been in Wally’s eyes. And Dick? Years of training with the Bat and being a vigilante have left him looking like a Greek god. It doesn’t help that the summer heat has him rocking a glowing tan. 

Wally can’t help but think back to that night a little over a month ago. When you and Dick had showed up to his apartment for your weekly game night, and broke the news. You seemed so happy together, and it’s not like either of you knew about Wally’s feelings. All the boy could do was smile and nod and congratulate the two of you, no matter how bitter the word tasted on his tongue. 

“Dick!” You slap his shoulder, “come on! If you throw me in there, I’m not swimming back up! Enjoy your homicide charge!”

Wally laughs at your stupid joke. “Don’t worry, Rob. I’ll help you hide the body.”

You put on a fake hurt face and flip him the finger before erupting into giggles. Wally returns your gesture, grinning back at you. Dick makes it to the edge of the pool and tosses you in, giving you a half-assed salute as you fall. 

Of course, Wally can’t let this stand. He’s on his feet in a microsecond, dashing towards the two of you at the edge of the water. He shoves Dick into the water, tugging his phone out of his pocket before he falls in. Wally manages to grab you just before you hit the surface of the water, lifting you into his arms. 

He stands still and watches his best friend surface, the water droplets on his tanned skin making him look even more god-like. 

“I’ll get you back for that, Wally.” Dick threatens, but with the grin on his face and his sopping wet hair, it’s hard to take him seriously.

You hate to admit it, but you secretly enjoy the feeling of Wally’s warm skin on yours. His bare abs and strong arms glisten with sweat and banana scented sunscreen—you swallow hard and force yourself to look away.

“Thanks for the save,” you flash a grin at him and hop out of his arms. 

“It was worth it,” he shrugs. He looks down at the melted rubber of his flip flops and sighs, “good thing these were only $3.”

Dick hoists himself out of the pool, his biceps dripping wet and glowing in the sunlight. He grabs his towel off of his foldout chair, towel drying his hair. The ends curl where it’s started to dry, and you want to tug on the strands with your fingers. 

Wally retreats back to the chair he was laying on. “That’s enough sun for me for the day,” he jokes. “One more minute and my skin would’ve matched my suit.”

“You and your delicate ginger skin,” you smirk. “Poor, delicate Wally.”

He rolls his eyes at you. “I’d watch it, unless you want a swim in the pool.”

“Okay, okay, I surrender.”

Dick comes up behind you, pressing his wet body to your warm back. You shiver and attempt to shove him off but he clings onto you. 

“What?” He pouts, “you don’t want me, baby?”

Wally scrunches up his nose without meaning to. He wishes he was either one of you right now, in the middle of you two. Anything but this.

Dick spins you around, keeping his hands on your waist, and pulls you in for a kiss. The water from his hair drops onto the top of your head and runs down your temples but you don’t care. You’re too focused on tasting him, his familiar flavour muddied with the taste of chlorine and lemonade.

It takes a minute for either of you to notice that Wally’s gathered his things and left.

You frown. “He didn’t even say goodbye.”

“He’s had a long week.” 

Dick offers you a half-hearted smile but you can’t help but look beyond that to the steely look in his eyes. The same one he gets when he knows more than he’s letting on.

—

Wally’s scorching by the time he gets home from the pool. Running mile after mile in the blazing summer heat is not for the faint of heart—especially for someone who already runs hot. 

The heat is only made worse by the ache in his groin. He’s never felt more relieved in his life than the relief he feels at dropping his swim shorts and letting his cock spring free. 

He spits in his palm, smearing it up his shaft along with his precum. A shiver runs up his spine. God, he needed this. 

He squeezes his eyes shut and falls into an easy rhythm. Up and down, up and down. And then the images of you and Dick come flashing through his mind and he knows it's wrong and he knows he should stop—but he doesn’t. 

He thinks of your mouth, how warm and wet it would be. Lips wrapped around his cock, pretty eyes looking up at him. He thinks of how Dick would be by your side, a hand in your hair to guide you and the other hand petting Wally’s thigh. 

He could make you feel so good, he could make both of you so happy. Why didn’t either of you think of him, why didn’t either of you want him? 

The frustration gets to him, his fist clenching his cock tighter. He imagines his hand fisting Dick’s cock while you ride him, soft moans slipping from your lips with every bounce. With his eyes closed, he swears he can almost feel your pussy around him. 

It’s wrong, it’s so wrong, and he’s not sure he’ll be able to look either of you in the eyes after this. But he keeps going, imagining it going further while his cock twitches in his hand. 

The heat consumes him and his hand only moves faster. He can’t help but think of how you’d squirm beneath him, how you’d whine about it being too much. He pictures Dick being beneath you, his cock stilled in your walls, talking you through it while Wally fucks you so good. 

A gasp slips from his throat, his mouth dry with the heat of the day. He needs you so bad, and for one torturous second, he contemplates calling you. Throwing caution to the wind and confessing to you and Dick. 

And then he’s finishing, hot ribbons of cum bringing him back to reality. It coats his abs, his thighs and his hands—but he wishes so badly it was you instead. 

He hasn’t even had a chance to wipe up his fluids when his phone is buzzing and your contact is popping up. Even the sight of your smiling photo in his phone has his face burning in guilt. 

He lets it go to voicemail, and the reality of his situation washes over him. 

He can’t help but stare at himself in the mirror while he washes his hands. A million thoughts race through his mind but more than anything: what can Dick give you that he can’t?

He’s tall, he has abs, and he’s funny, or at least, you laugh at all his jokes. So why don’t you like him? 

And though Wally puts up such a confident front, he crumbles before himself in the mirror. He’s all that, and maybe more, but one thing he will never be is Dick. He’ll never be that confident, trustworthy leader that you’d follow anywhere. 

While Dick is a hero through and through, Wally can’t help but think he’s a cheap copy that could never compare. 

-

Dick stills inside of you, the hand he had between your shoulder blades relaxing. Your walls clench around him in need but the vigilante remains still as stone. 

“What—“ You swallow, your voice breathy with unspoken moans. “What’s wrong?”

His voice is raspy with sex. “You’re distracted.”

You open your mouth to protest but suddenly his hands are on your hips and he’s manhandling you onto your back. A giggle slips from your lips, your knees automatically folding into your chest. 

Dick watches you with a smirk and resists the urge to make a joke about how well-trained you are. “What’s on your mind, sweetheart?”

“I’m worried about Wally.”

Dick rolls his hips into yours. Whether he’s satiating his need or yours, you’re not sure. 

“Why’s that?”

You reach up and tangle a hand in his curls, a frown forming on your face. “He’s been distant lately. I-I don’t know. I’m worried.”

He offers you a few lazy thrusts, tilting his head into your chest so you can knead your hands deeper into his scalp. The head of his cock bullies its way through your walls and forces a gasp from your lips.

“He’s been busy.” Dick plants a kiss to your collarbone, “but if you’re really worried, why don’t you give him a call?” 

“I don’t want to pry.”

“Don’t get shy now.”

For emphasis, he snaps his hips into yours again and an embarrassingly loud moan rips its way from your throat. Heat rushes to your head and you find yourself burying your face in your hands. 

“Okay, okay,” you concede, and reach for your phone on Dick’s nightstand. “I’m calling him, so pipe down.”

“With my cock still inside of you? That’s bold.”

You playfully slap his arm before shushing him, pressing dial on Wally’s contact. It rings once, twice, three times, and then you’re greeted by his voicemail. 

‘Hey, you’ve reached Wally. I’m probably busy right now, so shoot me a text and I’ll get back to you in a Flash.’

You purse your lips and drop your phone in frustration. You look at Dick seriously, “do you really think he’s fine?”

“Wally might bite down his feelings sometimes, but when he wants to talk, he’ll talk. Just let him come to you.”

You sigh. He has a point. Wally may seem confident and brazen, but you know that beneath that suave surface, there’s an entire undertow of emotions waiting to be uncovered. 

“You’ll see him for game night this week, anyway.” 

“I know, I know. You’re right, I’ll leave it alone.”

“Now,” Dick grins and presses a chaste kiss to your lips, “can I fuck you, or what?”

You tangle your fingers on the back of his neck and tug him into you, letting his taste distract you from your concern. 

-

Dick’s away helping family by the time game night rolls around, leaving you no choice but to change it to a movie night instead.

Wally tries to protest that Catan is totally playable with two players but after some light pushing, agrees to come over and watch movies for the weekend. On the condition he gets to choose the movies, of course.

“You’re gonna love this one,” he says through a mouth full of popcorn. “It’s like Groundhog Day if it was a horror movie.”

Wally plops onto the couch next to you, slinging an arm across the back of the cushions. He doesn’t even think about how close he is or how there’s only inches between you two. You’re best friends, you’ve been best friends for years—this is totally normal, right? The memories of his evening after the pool flash through his mind as if to say no. 

You press play on the remote before reaching across Wally’s lap to set it on the side table. Your arm brushes his chest and you swear you see him blush but suddenly the movie is starting and your attention is carried away. You settle back into your spot next to him, so close you can feel the heat radiating off his body.

Wally tries to keep his cool and focus on the movie but his attention keeps drifting back to you. You’re gorgeous, he can’t help it. And it doesn’t help that you’re so reactive to the movie—jumping into his side, gasping at the gory parts, laughing at the jokes.

Every time you move, it’s like a stitch in his side. You’re so close to him that he could just wrap his arms around you and pull you into his lap. It takes everything in him not to. 

At some point, you rest your head on his shoulder, the soft skin of your cheek brushing the spot where his tanktop meets his skin. He swallows hard, taking shallow breaths like he’s afraid you’ll move away.

“Is it—” He scratches the back of his neck, “is it hot in here?”

You sit up and Wally bites back his disappointment. “I can turn the air conditioning on if you want. I know you run hot.”

He nods, fanning his face to keep his ears from glowing red. When you pull your legs out from under yourself and stand, Wally can’t help but miss the feeling of you against him.

No, he berates himself. She’s not yours.

Wally forces himself to his feet, following the familiar path to your bathroom. He only feels like he can breathe again when he locks himself inside. He runs the tap on cold, splashing the frigid water over his face and into his hair.

Through the water on his lashes, Wally makes eye contact with himself in the mirror. For the first time since your day at the pool, he lets his thoughts wander to a place he’s been refusing to go. What does Dick have that he doesn’t?

He wonders what would’ve happened if he’d asked you out first, or if he’d been open to either one of you about his feelings. Maybe things would’ve been weird as he’d always feared—but that what if in the back of his mind wonders if it could’ve turned out better than he could possibly imagine.

He dabs his face dry with a nearby towel and hates the way he can recognize your scent on it. He hates even more the way it has heat rushing to his groin, his cock shifting awkwardly in his boxers. Calm the fuck down, man.

When he settles back down on the couch, concern riddles your features. “Are you okay?”

“Just hot,” he lies. “Speedster genes and all.”

You squint at him and though you don’t believe him for a second—especially given it’s a brisk 18 degrees celsius in the apartment—you nod slowly. Wally presses play on the remote and forces himself to focus on the movie.

You can’t focus, though. Your mind runs laps, thinking of his odd demeanour at the pool, his distance this week and now his sudden jumpiness today. You glance at Wally, who’s keeping a generous six inches of space between you two, and frown.

“Are you sure everything is okay?”

He pauses the movie, drawing in his legs to sit criss-crossed on your couch. He opens and closes his mouth, the gears turning behind his green eyes. He doesn’t know what to say to you. He knows he can’t keep lying and avoiding his feelings, but what the hell else is he supposed to do?

“You’ve been…off lately.” You pick at your cuticles. “You didn’t even say goodbye at the pool and honestly, it felt like you were trying to blow me off this week. Did I—did I do something wrong?” 

Wally’s heart cracks inside his chest. He wants to hug you and kiss you and tell you that you couldn’t possibly do anything wrong in his eyes, but he doesn’t. He sits on the couch like a fucking statue, his mouth falling open in shock. 

He’d considered that Dick might’ve noticed something was off—the insightful bastard—but never for a second did he think you would notice. It was stupid, really. You’ve been friends for years, and he knows you can read him just as well as he can read you.

His voice cracks when he speaks. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You sit in silence, waiting for him to elaborate. Every feature on your face, every movement of your body tells Wally you’re listening. Waiting.

It’s a trap, every bone in his body screams. Don’t do it.

“I just—” He swallows, knowing the dam is going to break and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. “You guys started dating and I-I feel so awkward. We hang out and I watch you be so happy together and I wanna—I wanna be happy too. I know I could be happy with you guys if you just gave me a fucking chance and—”

He stops himself before he can take it any further. The blood rushes to his ears and for a minute he questions if he really just said all of that out loud. The stunned look on your face tells him all he needs to know—he fucked up.

“Wally…”

He shakes his head, messy red strands bouncing off his temples. He shuts his eyes, hoping if he hides long enough, this whole mess will go away. 

“Sorry, I should go.”

He goes to stand but you catch his wrist tightly in yours, beckoning him to stay. He turns on his heel, watching you with careful eyes. The adrenaline barrels through him, your fingers on his skin only edging it along. 

“Stay. Please.”

The words send electricity up his spine like a bolt of lighting. Blood roars in his ears and suddenly he’s a man possessed. He’s dropping to his knees in front of you on the couch, hands cupping yours. And then his hands are wandering, trailing higher.

They brush up your arms, to your shoulders and linger on your neck before cupping your cheeks. You don’t dare breathe, don’t dare make a sound. And then he’s leaning in and his lips are crashing against yours and you’re stuck there in shock.

He squeezes his eyes shut and with your soft lips against his, he can almost pretend like this is normal. Like this is something he’s allowed to do and not something he’s taking. 

Reality hits him like a brick wall. He forces himself away from you, arms falling flat at his sides. He looks at you, his mouth fallen open in shock. 

You stare at him, his green eyes darkened. You’re not sure what to say, what to do. Your heart hammers against your ribs. What the fuck just happened?

“Wally—”

He’s running out the door before you finish saying his name, a trail of lightning in his wake.

-

It takes an hour from when Wally kisses you for you to call Dick.

“Hey, sweetheart.” His voice is hushed and it’s only now that you realize he’s probably on patrol with one of his brothers.

“Wally,” your voice shakes, “Wally kissed me.”

There’s silence on Dick’s side and you brace yourself. You just shared a worryingly passionate kiss with your mutual best friend, and even though Dick rarely gets jealous, you expect the worst.

There’s an amused undertone to his voice. “How was it?” 

You blink. “How was it? How was it?”  You can’t help but laugh—what the fuck is he going on about? “You’re not seriously asking me that.”

“At least you know now why he’s been distant.”

He says it so casually that it leaves a sour taste in your mouth. You think back to that day at the pool and that look in his eyes. You knew there was more than he was letting on. 

“Did you know?” Your voice is quiet, “did you know he had feelings for me—us?”

“I suspected it.”

He’s using that annoyingly calm voice that makes you want to throw your phone at the wall. Your heart races with barely suppressed frustration. He knows, and he’s possibly known this whole time, and he hasn’t said a damn thing?

“And you said nothing?”

“I knew he’d say something eventually. It wasn’t my place.”

You swallow back tears of frustration. Wally’s been hurting this whole time, hurting because of you, and Dick didn’t say anything. He let you continue on being happy knowing Wally was miserable—knowing you could do something about it.

“How could you?”

“Y/n,” the phone crackles with his sigh. “It’s not like that.”

“I don’t—I can’t hear it tonight, Dick. I’ll talk to you later.”

You hang up before he can protest.

Your apartment is impossibly quiet when your phone call ends. Conflict lines every cell in your body—frustration with Dick and sympathy for Wally battling it out. Even after you curl up back on the couch and start the movie from where you left off, silence seems to blanket the apartment.

You don’t even realize you’re dialling Wally’s number until it goes straight to his voicemail.

‘Hey, you’ve reached Wally. I’m probably busy right now, so shoot me a text and I’ll get back to you in a Flash.’

You can’t remember the last time you heard his voicemail, and yet you’ve heard it too much this week. Wally always, always answers your calls. The sound of his prerecorded voice is only a monument to how fucked up things have gotten.

With nothing else to do, you turn off your phone and watch the rest of the movie.

- 

Wally’s never felt guilt like this before. It weighs on him, hangs over his head like storm clouds. The sight of your shocked face—all swollen lips and wide eyes—stays burned in his mind. The fantasies he’d once had about you have faded away and all he can feel is your shock and sadness when he’d pushed his lips onto yours. 

He’d called you the second he’d got back to his apartment only to hang up before the first ring. He’d done the same to Dick, only to realize there was no one he could talk to about his. At least, no one he wanted to talk to about it. With nothing else to do and nowhere else to go, Wally suited up and hit the city, hoping to burn off some energy. Unfortunately for him, it’s a horribly slow night in Keystone city.

After running a dozen laps around the city, he settles down on the tallest building he can find and opens his phone. He stares at his lock screen—a photo of the three of you at the beach from last summer—and sighs. He considers calling you again, or calling Dick.

Then his phone lights up with your contact and panic swells in his chest. He slams his finger on the decline button. He can’t bear to face you right now.

While any other day he’d be grateful for such a slow night, the evening passes achingly slow, and he can’t help but be grateful when the burglary alarm sounds at a nearby bank.

Finally, something he can’t fuck up tonight.

-

Your week passes agonizingly slow. 

On a good week, your evenings are spent with either Dick or Wally or both. Your apartment is filled with laughter and stupid jokes, and your fridge is found emptied of its contents more often than not. 

It’s not a good week, though.

Dick calls you almost every day. It’s typical of him to try and fix things before they’re ready to be fixed. He’s always forcing the pieces back into place before the glue has had time to set.

Wally also calls you. Only once and you declined the call as soon as you saw his contact. Regret filled you the second your finger had touched the decline button but that stubborn side of you couldn’t bring itself to let go and allow you to call him back.

So you sit in silence every night, wondering if when Friday comes Dick will show up with board games and Wally with pizza. 

When Friday does roll around, your group chat is a ghost town. You type out a message on your lunch break, just a quick ‘hey, we still on for tonight?’ before immediately deleting it. No matter how bad you want to, you can’t bring yourself to send it.

You buy yourself takeout after work and settle in at your apartment for a quiet night. You queue up Wally’s other choice of movie despite the bitter taste it leaves in your mouth. 

A part of you still wants to call him back and ask him if he really meant what he said. If he really meant to kiss you that night. Another part of you is too scared to hear the answer—scared he’ll say it was nothing.

And that part scares the hell out of you.

You think about calling Dick, too. You want to ask him where you go from here, why he was so okay with another man—his best friend of all people—kissing you. Still, you don’t, because you’re not ready to hear Dick’s answer, either.

You’re only part way through the movie when your front door is slamming open so hard dry wall rains from the wall where it impacts. You cringe—your landlord is not going to be happy. You rise to your feet and grab the heftiest book off your coffee table, ready to face your intruder. 

The Flash stands in your living room, his chest rising and falling so fast you’re worried he’ll go into cardiac arrest. Nightwing is draped over his shoulder, half limp and breathing just as fast. You freeze at the sight of them, the book clattering from your hand onto the floor.

Dick’s hair is matted to his forehead with blood, a trail of it leading down to his mask. His muscles are tense and twitching, and his pupils are almost entirely blown out. You take a step towards them only for him to flinch, cowering in Wally’s arms.

“What the hell happened?”

You glance from the costumed men to your broken door, unsure of what you should tend to first. Wally rips off his cowl, taking a deep gasping breath. His cheeks are nearly as red as his suit, his hair coated in sweat and his pupils nearly as big as Dick’s.

They can’t be seen like this, you decide, and make your way to the door. The deadbolt is broken and the door makes a horrible screeching noise when you force it back into the frame, but at least it closes. You frown and make a mental note to have them fix it when there’s not a crisis on hand.

Wally coughs, muscles twitching in pain. “Got ambushed with—” He’s cut off through another coughing fit, adjusting his grip around Dick. “Fear gas.”

Your eyes shoot wide. Though you’d never had any run-ins with the substance, you knew just how volatile it could be. The last time Dick had encountered it, his nightmares had lasted over twelve hours and it took him days to recover. You can only pray this dose wasn’t that potent.

You rush to Dick’s other side, wrapping his arm around you to help Wally bear his weight. He trembles against you and you can feel his heart hammering in his chest. At this rate, he’s going to faint.

With Wally’s help, you manage to get him to your couch. Dick weakly protests as you lay him among your plush blankets and throw pillows but in this state, there’s not much he can do to fight back.

Wally stands on shaky legs by Dick’s side and you can’t help but notice he’s still hanging onto Dick’s hand. Though he’s better off than Dick, it’s not by much. You see the way he cringes at the shadows on the wall cast by passing cars, the way fresh guilt floods his eyes.

You frown at the thought of him running all this way here with Dick. His enhanced metabolism is enough to fight off the worst of the effects but not fast enough to keep the nightmares from setting in.

You nod to the couch. “You too, Red.” 

“I’m fine.”

“That’s a lie and you know it.” You rest a hand on his shoulder, your other hand cupping his to gently coax him onto the couch, “just sit down for a minute while I bring you water, yeah?”

Wally’s too tired to protest, something you’re secretly thankful for. While you fill up two glasses with water, you can’t keep yourself from wondering what he’s seeing right now. You know that in the past Dick’s nightmares have ranged from horrible monsters to the zombified corpses of his loved ones.

You only hope that with some rest, Wally will at least be up and running again soon. 

Wally greets you with a weak smile when you hand him his water. His hands shake as he takes it from you and greedily gulps the entire cup in one go. You can’t help but stare at the wetness around his mouth and the bob of his throat as he swallows. 

It’s terrible, really, to stare like that. He’s your best friend and he’s hurting and your boyfriend is right there—but clearly the kiss has left you with some unresolved feelings. 

“Something wrong?”

You snap back to reality to find Wally staring at you with a lopsided grin. He knows you’re staring. Shaking your head, you gesture towards Dick. “Are you feeling up to helping me give him water?”

Immediately, you feel guilty for asking because you know he’d never say no to you or Dick. Wally nods and rises to his feet slowly, following you to Dick’s side. He stands next to him, cupping the back of his neck to raise his head just enough so he won’t choke.

You raise the glass of water to his lips and gently pour in a couple millilitres. His eyes snap open and fear lines his features. The usual blue of his eyes has been almost completely washed out by black, a heart-wrenching sight.

His arms thrash out to fight you off but the toxin has made him sluggish and Wally catches his wrists before he can touch you. “Dick,” he says seriously. “Dick, it’s just us. We’re trying to help you.”

He only fights for a few more seconds before his arms relax and his eyes flutter closed. With Wally still holding him, you slowly peel his mask from his face and set it on the side table along with his glass of water. 

You’re tempted to grab a cloth and try to wipe the blood off but you know it’ll only cause him to fight harder. Besides, Wally needs rest almost as much as Dick does and it would be unfair to ask him to wrestle his best friend again.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “Do you need anything? More water?”

“I can get it.”

You level him with a serious look. Sweat still beads his temples and though his breathing has slowed, it’s still not at his normal rate. “You need rest. I’ll grab it just…hang tight for a sec.”

You can feel Wally’s eyes on you the whole way to the sink. Even when you turn around to fill up his empty glass, you feel him watching. A shiver runs up your spine, your hand clenching the cup tighter.

“Y/n, watch out!” He shouts.

You spin around, expecting Scarecrow himself to be behind you. In your panic, you drop the glass of water. You don’t even finish your turn before Wally’s arms are around you and suddenly you’re in the corner of your living room.

Your heart is frantic in your chest and your eyes dart to the place you’d just been standing only to find…nothing. Wally clutches you tighter to his chest, defending you from unseen monsters.

“Jesus, Walls.” You press a hand to your chest as if that will slow your rapid heart rate. “You scared the hell out of me.”

His grip around you loosens slightly. “Sorry, I—I thought I saw something.”

It’s his tone that really grips you. Relief. True, genuine relief. Like he really thought someone was about to hurt you, to rip you right out from under him, and he’d gotten to you in the knick of time.

You rest a sympathetic hand over his and it’s only now that it dons on you how close he is. His body heat feels so nice against your skin and you can smell his deodorant with just a hint of sweat, and—God, has he always been this tall?

“You really should rest, Wally.”

In spite of your words, you make no move to leave his arms. It’s comforting and warm and familiar, and though he’s hugged and carried you before, it’s never been quite like this. Wally makes no move to let you go, either.

“I’m fine like this.”

You’re not sure how long you stand with Wally pressed behind you, his arms around your waist. It feels like only seconds but based on the waning darkness outside, you know it’s been much longer.

“You guys are cute,” Dick rasps out.

You swear Wally flinches behind you. He drops his arms from your waist and you force your face to remain neutral despite your disappointment.

You tear yourself away from him and immediately miss his warmth. “How’re you feeling?”

Dick’s eyes are open now, most of the blue having returned. His breathing’s returned to normal, too. Shit, how long were you guys standing there?

Dick ignores your question. “Would’ve been so cute to see you guys kiss.”

Scratch that—he’s clearly not back to normal yet.

Wally goes white as a sheet, green eyes darting between you and Dick. “Shit, you told him? You know?”

“Of course I told him. I tell him everything.”

A million emotions flash across his face. Confusion, guilt, betrayal. You reach for him but he shuffles back, his gaze suddenly steely. You see him glance at the door and realize he’s planning his escape route again.

“I‘m not mad,” Dick mumbles. “I’ve kissed her too.”

If you weren’t so concerned, you’d probably laugh at that. Instead, you step directly in front of Wally, sizing him up. “Don’t leave again.”

Wally’s not sure what prompts him to stay—whether it’s the sad look in your eyes or his sick best friend—but he does. When you reach a hand to guide him to the couch, he has no choice but to take it.

Your apartment falls into silence once more. Not the comfortable silence you’d grown used to this week. No, this silence is thick and awkward and threatens to choke you at every turn. 

Dick just sits there, staring ahead and processing how he got to your apartment. Wally taps his feet like he always does when he’s uncomfortable or has too much energy. You play with your hands, trying to think of anything to break the ice.

It’s not you who gets the first word in, though. It’s not even Wally. 

It’s Dick who speaks first. “She’s a good kisser, right?”

You laugh, if only in shock and embarrassment. “Okay, that’s enough for me for the night.”

You glance at Wally whose face has turned an impossible shade of red. His brows furrow at your statement, his mouth falling open as if to speak but no words come out.

“You two should get some rest. Come and get me in about 8 hours, okay?”

“But—” Dick protests, stopping in his tracks when you shoot him a serious look. “Okay, goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Wally parrots.

“Goodnight,” you say. “No one die in my apartment, please.”

-

You’re thoroughly unsurprised when you wake up sandwiched in the middle of your bed. Sweat coats the back of your neck, heat seeping into every pore.

Dick lays on your left, having traded his sweaty Nightwing suit for a pair of old sweatpants you’d stolen from him months ago. There’s a gash on his forehead and the skin along his torso is lined with bruises but the blood is gone. He must have showered. Wally lays on your other side in nothing but a pair of Calvin Klein boxers. He has an arm slung over your waist, his freckly skin glowing in the early morning light streaming through your window. There’s a massive, purpling bruise on his side that makes you wonder what, or rather who, had been able to hit him that hard. 

You can’t help but lightly trail your fingers over it, as if your touch alone could heal him. Goosebumps raise across his skin where you touch him and suddenly his eyes are opening, the sight like grass on a foggy morning.

You withdraw your hand before he can notice, pressing it tightly to your side. Wally blinks a few times, his eyes adjusting to the light, before he notices his arm draped over you. Pink dusts his cheeks.

Wally takes in slow, deep breaths. At one time he had dreamed about this—being in bed with you and Dick. But now that he’s actually here, he’s exhausted and his heart is beating way too fast, and man, do you have to wear that to bed?

“Sorry,” he mumbles, and pulls his arm back. 

“It’s okay, I’m just gonna—” You keep your voice a whisper as you untangle yourself from the mess of sheets and limbs. You gasp in relief when the cold morning air hits your skin. “I’m gonna go sleep on the couch.”

It’s too much. Between the heat of their bodies against yours and the events that’ve transpired this week, it’s enough to leave you dizzy and confused.

You shimmy your way out of the bed, stopping only when Wally rests a hand on your shoulder. 

“I can go,” he says. “I’m not going to kick you out of your own bed.”

You risk a glance down at his bruised abs. “No, you’re hurt. I’m not gonna make you run all the way home.”

“And I’m not going to make you sleep on the couch.”

“Then neither of you go anywhere.”

Both your attention snaps to Dick laying perfectly still with his eyes still closed. There’s a knowing smirk on his face and the morning light gives him an ethereal glow. 

Wally narrows his eyes. “Have you been awake this whole time?”

“What can I say, I’m a light sleeper.”

Wally watches you nod slowly in agreement. He feels dizzy with whiplash, thinking of all the nights he’s spent alone in his bed, thinking about a moment just like this. He lets himself fall back into the plush sheets of your bed, fighting the rising blood rushing to his face.

You stay sitting up, staring at the window just behind Dick’s head. “I’m too hot.”

Without another word, Dick reaches over and blindly feels around for the latch to your window. It takes a few tries but then he’s clicking it open and the room is flooded with fresh air.

“No excuses to leave now,” he says.

You press your lips into a line, knowing he’s right. You’re hesitant to lay between them again, as comfortable and safe as you felt. Something about it feels off, like you’re doing something you’re not supposed to. 

You’re torn between pretending to use the bathroom and just going back to sleep when Dick wraps an arm around your waist and tugs you back into the bed. You hit the pillows with a soft thud, shifting on top of the sheets until you’re comfortable.

Well, that settles that.

-

Wally is gone before you wake up, Dick following suit not much later. At least the latter kissed you goodbye—Wally couldn’t even be bothered to send a text. You hate how much the thought upsets you.

You go about your Saturday morning the way you normally would. Coffee and breakfast somewhat soothes your racing mind from the confusing, dizzying blur that was your Friday night. Still, the events from last night echo in your mind.

For a moment, in the fog of the early morning, waking up between Wally and Dick just felt right. There was no uncertainty, no shame—just you and two men you love resting after a considerably long night. 

And then the weight of your thoughts hits you and your stomach drops because you love Wally, in the same way you love Dick. You remember the way your heart hammered in your chest when he kissed you, the butterflies in your stomach when he held you. God, what have you gotten into?

You force yourself into the shower before you can think about it anymore. Your skin still smells like Wally’s cologne and Dick’s sweat. The water runs across your skin, washing away their scents and the associated feelings that flood and threaten to drown you. 

You stand under the water much longer than you mean to, only getting out when your phone starts buzzing enough to send it tumbling off the counter.

Shit, you’re quick to rinse off and hop out of the shower, dripping water all over the floor on the way to your discarded phone. You grab it, your wet palm smearing water all over the screen, and squint at it through water logged eyes.

Batboyfriend: Pool day? 👀 Speedy + Clingy = This Guy: OMG YES.  It’s hotter than me out here and that’s saying something.

Speedy + Clingy = This Guy: dibs on throwing her in the pool this time

Batboyfriend: what? you literally saved her last time

Speedy + Clingy = This Guy: and? I contain multitudes bro.

Batboyfriend:  y/n? you in? I swear I won’t let him drown you 

You can’t help but smile as you flip through the messages. After a week of silence, the normalcy feels good—even if you are still worried about Wally.

You: sure, why not

Batboyfriend: great, see you in an hour?

Speedy + Clingy = This Guy: YAY!! 💪😎 👊🤠✋

Batboyfriend: what??

You: what??

Speedy + Clingy = This Guy: ⬆️ that’s literally me rn

With your afternoon spoken for, you go to get ready.

-

You’re nervous when you pull up to Dick’s, wringing your shirt in your hands. You’ve been here a thousand times, swam at the pool more times than you can count, but still your heart flutters in your ribcage. 

You thought you were ready to face them again but then the memories of Wally’s hair messy and glowing in the early morning light come bleeding back. Dick’s voice echoes in your ears with every step you take: She’s a good kisser, right?

You’re tempted to duck away, to go back home and pretend like you got caught up in something. And then Wally is calling your name and Dick is coming skipping down the parking lot. 

You swallow at the sight of them—this pool day is going to be the death of you. Wally is shirtless and wearing only a pair of green swim trunks and cheap flip flops. Sweat glistens across his bare chest, highlighting the dark bruise on his side.

Dick offers you a wave, tan skin peaking out from under his tank top. A pair of aviators sits on top of his head and holds back his mess of dark curls. Your heart wrenches at the gash on his head.

Wally grins at you from behind his sunglasses. “Took you long enough.”

Dick comes right up to you, wrapping his arm around your shoulders and kissing the side of your head. You glance at Wally nervously but the redhead looks completely unbothered. 

“How long have you guys been here?”

Wally checks an imaginary watch. “Pretty much since Dick texted.”

You glance at your boyfriend with raised eyebrows who only nods to confirm. Despite their lighthearted attitudes, you can’t help but feel hesitant. Suspicious, even. 

“You guys aren’t actually planning on drowning me,” you glance between the two, “right?”

“No,” Dick says. 

“Only if you deserve it.”

You roll your eyes only for sweet relief to hit you when Dick unlocks the gate and gestures you into the poolyard. The water catches your eye, sparkling as if to say hello. 

Dick and Wally have already set up the tanning chairs, the cooler, and laid out towels for each of you. You smile at the sight, shimmying out of Dick’s reach to sprint towards your favorite chair.

“You guys have been busy.”

“Duh, we’ve been waiting for you.” 

You settle in on the chair, dropping your stuff and claiming your territory. It’s already warm from being in the sun—prime tanning real estate, as you always called it. You sprawl out across the chair and bask in the afternoon sunlight with no intention of getting up anytime soon.

“Straight to the chair as always,” Dick laughs. “There’s drinks in the cooler. I got your favorite.”

“Ugh, you’re speaking my language right now.” 

You slowly strip out of your shorts and t-shirt, letting the sun rays wash over your almost naked figure. You try to ignore the way Wally looks at you, instead focusing on Dick digging through the cooler to grab you a drink.

-

“What’s the point of going to the pool if you don’t go swimming?” Wally teases.

“I’m tanning.” You glance at his pasty figure, “you should try it sometime.”

“Hey, you know I burn easily!”

“Poor, delicate Wally.” You tease.

“That’s it,” he says, and suddenly he’s grabbing you from the chair and tossing you over his shoulder. “You’re going in.”

“No, wait, Wally!”

“Nope, bad girls get thrown in the pool.” 

You hate the way that phrase has heat pooling in your core. You glance to Dick, currently floating on his back in the water, for help.

“Don’t look at me,” he shrugs. “He literally told you ahead of time this would happen.”

Some help he is.

You look at Wally pleadingly. “I concede. I apologize. I surrender. Just—please, do not throw me in.”

It must be the way you’re looking at him or the desperation in your voice, but Wally actually puts you down. Relief floods you when your bare feet meet the concrete lining the pool. You’re inches away from him, you can see every bead of sweat, feel the heat radiating off of him, see the burn forming across his neck and shoulders.

“You and your delicate skin,” you say quietly, reaching out to touch the bruise along his ribs. You stop yourself from touching him.

Wally just stares at you. No retort, no threat to throw you in the pool. Just pure unabashed staring. You shrink beneath his gaze, pulling your hand back to your side. 

“You guys gonna kiss again?”

The sound of Dick’s voice has you realizing you’re standing entirely too close to him. You risk a glance only to see him smiling wickedly in your direction. Oh god, you know what that smile means. He’s planning something.

You take a step back only for Wally to catch your hand in his. “Don’t,” he breathes.

You look at Dick once more, though you’re not sure why. Are you waiting for him to rescue you, to tell you what to do? To give you permission? You shy away from the thought.

Dick takes a sip of his drink. “Well?”

He’s looking at you expectantly, like he somehow thinks you’re going to kiss Wally right here in front of him. The very idea has your face going hot—and not from the sun. You try to meet his eyes from here and it’s only then that you find he’s not staring at you at all.

He’s looking directly at Wally.

You snap your head up only to find the redhead blushing, his mouth set in a hard line. Your gaze follows the length of his arm—his skin turning pink in the sun—all the way down to where his hand rests on yours.

You’re entirely too hot, now. 

“Don’t you remember what we talked about?” You look at Dick again as he speaks.

What we talked about? You frown, suddenly feeling vindicated at your hesitancy earlier. Something isn’t right here.

Your voice cracks when you go to speak. “Am I about to be drowned?”

Your attempt to lighten the mood falls on deaf ears. Dick smirks, looking at Wally with raised eyebrows, while Wally’s eyes are entirely focused on you. Oh god.

“We had a deal.” Dick prompts, and that undertone in his voice sounds eerily similar to the one he uses when he’s commanding the Titans. An order—not a request.

“Fuck it,” Wally mumbles under his breath, and suddenly he’s tugging you into him, closing the gap by gripping the back of your neck.

All of the breath leaves your body as you collide with him, the warm skin of his palm beckoning you closer. His other hand wraps around your waist and before you can even think to question him, his lips are slamming against yours.

There’s no hesitancy, no soft shyness. You can’t feel guilt and anger radiating off of him the way you could last time. There’s passion, now. Intent.

You fall into him, letting all of your own confusion and fear melt away. Your hands trail up his spine like they have a mind of their own. They run up against his bare skin, flickering like lightning until they meet at the back of his neck, tangling up in his hair and tugging him closer to you.

Wally gasps, his hand on your waist tightening until his fingers dig in hard enough to bruise. The sting of it all doesn’t phase you, it only drives you to want more.

And then there’s a different hand on your back and you’re brought back to reality. You pull away, lips swollen and eyes wide, dizzy with lust. You look behind you and meet Dick’s eyes and your vertiginous new reality falls over you.

“I—”

Dick’s hand trails down to the small of your back, rubbing circles on your bare skin. “How was it?”

“How was it?” You repeat, your voice barely a mumble. 

You press a hand to your chest. The world is too hot, your heart beating too fast. If it weren’t for their hands on you, you’re sure you would’ve passed out by now.

“Good.” Wally takes the words right out of your mouth. “You were right.”

It’s the way he says it that catches your attention. His words are void of bitterness, just pure breathless curiosity. 

He looks at Dick, his green eyes sparkling in the sunlight. “Can I—can I do it again?”

“It’s not me you need to be asking.”

His eyes fall on you and you swear your heart hits terminal velocity. You look at him through your lashes, the whole world bright and dreamlike. 

“Can I?” He swallows, “please?”

It’s the sheer need in his voice that makes you nod, not trusting your voice to be any sort of stable right now. Wally doesn’t waste a second to pull you against him and press his lips against yours. It’s less desperate this time, but just as needy, just as passionate. 

For a second, it almost feels like the world is shaking. Like the ground beneath your feet is vibrating at the exact frequency you are. And then Wally rips himself away from you to take a deep breath and you realize the world wasn’t vibrating—he was.

“Fuck,” he says through a laugh.

“Easy, Wally.” Dick lays a hand on his shoulder, clasping tight until the speedster slows down. “You alright?”

He blinks a few times before offering a weak thumbs up, his hand still shaking. It’s only now that you realize what a number you’ve done on him. His red hair is tangled and messy, his cheeks and ears a shade of vermillion you’ve never seen before. It would be laughable if you didn’t feel equally as frazzled.

“And how are you feeling?” Dick asks.

“I just kissed Wally,” you say slowly. “Twice.”

“And?”

“And you watched.” 

Dick just laughs. “It was definitely a sight, I’ll give you that.”

You’re not even sure what to say to that. Dick’s never been considerably possessive but you never pegged him as the kind of man to share. You think back to that first night Wally had kissed you and the initial worry you’d felt while waiting for Dick to pick up the phone.

You never expected it to turn into this.

“Was that really okay?” Wally’s tone is serious in a way you’ve rarely heard before.

“We had a deal,” Dick repeats. 

The statement has your eyebrows raising. You open your mouth in question, ready to ask your boyfriend what the actual fuck is going on, but stop dead in your tracks.

You blink a few times, making sure the sight isn’t just a heat-driven mirage. But no, what you’re seeing is entirely correct. Wally West is kissing your boyfriend, and Dick’s kissing him back.

You watch in surprise, your jaw hitting the floor. Is this how Dick felt when you kissed Wally? Are you supposed to feel this turned on by it? It feels like the world around you is on fire and you’re caught right in the middle of it all.

Dick pulls away entirely unphased and wholly unaware of the state he’s left Wally in. Meanwhile, Wally looks like he’s about to faint. And though you’ve done such a good job holding in your incredulous laughter up to this point, Wally’s messy state finally drives you over the edge.

“What the actual fuck is going on?” You cackle, “what are we even doing?”

“We’re helping Wally.”

Dick states it like it’s the simplest thing in the world and it’s enough to have you doubting your own overcomplicated thoughts. You glance at Wally, hoping for some insight.

“Do you not want this?” He asks.

You’re not even sure what “this” is but something in the way he asks it has you saying you do. It’s Dick and it’s Wally and they’ve always taken care of you, so why wouldn’t you trust them now? 

“Good,” he says and then he’s closing the gap between you, his fingers finding their way to the nape of your neck as if they have a thousand times before. “Because I do too.”

Then Wally’s lips are on yours again and you swear the world falls away from your feet. Your knees shake and your body threatens to tumble forward but then Wally’s holding you, bracing you against the perfectly strewn muscles of his body. 

You gasp into his mouth when you feel Dick press himself against your back, his lips attaching to the side of your neck. One of his hands rests over Wally’s on your hip, the other trailing up your spine to fiddle with the string of your bathing suit top.

It’s almost too much, being between them this way. You’ve never felt so contained, you’ve never felt so free. Wally’s tongue slips into your mouth at the same time Dick unties your top. You barely have time to cover your chest before the useless garment falls limply to the ground.

You pull away gasping, an unbearable heat in the pit of your stomach. “Dick.”

For a moment, both men just stare at you like deer in headlights. You tighten your arms around your chest, awkwardly shifting to cover your bare tits from their prying eyes.

Dick finally hums in acknowledgement. 

“You took my top off.”

“I know.”

You look over your shoulder at Dick, and then to Wally, and you’re not quite sure who’s staring harder. All you know is that Wally’s shorts suddenly look tighter and you’re now a little too curious about what he’s packing beneath them. 

Dick rubs himself against you, the bulge in his shorts catching on your skin. You take a deep breath and brace yourself. 

His mouth brushes against your ear. “Why don’t you move your hands, hm? Let Wally take a look.”

He’s using that damn voice again. The ‘I’m not asking, I’m ordering’  voice that he uses when you’re being a brat. You don’t even think twice before you force your arms away from your skin, letting them fall limply at your sides.

Wally coughs like there’s something stuck in his throat, reaching a hand down to adjust his shorts. His mouth falls open, a hand reaching out and stopping midway as if he’s about to ask permission.

Dick rests a hand under each nipple, cupping your boobs like he’s putting them on display. “Well?”

“Hot,” he breathes. “Fuck—gorgeous, I mean. Pretty.” He cracks a smile, rubbing the back of his neck, “I’m gonna stop talking now.”

Your heart flutters at his praise like you ever thought he’d say otherwise. He reaches out again, more confident this time, and brushes a hand across your nipple. You shiver, backing up into Dick without meaning to.

Your boyfriend holds you still, planting soft kisses on your shoulder to keep you calm while Wally’s hands explore your chest. Goosebumps raise in every place he touches, the heat of the day soothing them down almost as quickly as they form. It’s a tantalizing cycle.

Heat pools in your centre and you’re grateful that you’re wearing something waterproof. You clench your legs together without meaning to, hoping for some friction. Dick knows what you need before you even ask for it, dropping a hand down to rub slow circles on your clothed clit.

Wally dips his head in, flicking his eyes up to silently ask for permission—met with a curt nod—before attaching his lips to your skin. His hot mouth leaves a trail of marks wherever he kisses you, your skin turning shiny with his spit.

“How’re you feeling, baby?” Dick asks while he slips his hand into the front of your bathing suit bottoms. 

“G-good.”

Wally laughs against your skin and for the first time in a while, you see sunshine behind his eyes. His happiness almost feels better than the combined pleasure they’re giving you. 

A whine slips from your lips when Dick’s fingers meet your bare pussy. Wally’s quicker than that, though. He presses his mouth against yours and greedily swallows up your moans.

Dick crouches behind you to get better access and pulls your bottoms down to your knees. You stumble slightly but Wally catches you, his mouth moving away from your lips down to your jaw. He kisses lower and lower, sucking dark marks against your neck, your shoulders, your chest.

It’s his way of claiming you, you think. You may not be his girlfriend and he may not be your boyfriend, but it’s his small way of saying Wally was here. 

Dick slips a finger inside of you, pushing it up to the hilt, and another moan is ripping through you. You grip at Wally’s shoulder, trying to keep yourself stable while the two men ravage you. You squeeze your eyes shut and try to focus on the moment—on the way Dick’s finger curls inside of you, the way Wally’s teeth graze your nipple, the way you can feel your juices running down your thighs.

He dips another finger inside of you, pumping them deeper. You press your body fully against Wally’s, his cock pressing against your stomach through his shorts. If it wasn’t for him, you’d probably be tumbling to your knees by now.

You run your fingers across his abs as a way to distract yourself from Dick’s fingers inside of you. You dip your hand lower and lower with each pass until you’re just barely grazing the top of his swimshorts. 

Wally gulps and that’s the only reaction you need before you’re sliding your hand into his pants to grab his mostly hard cock. He’s solid in your hand, a little longer than Dick but not any thicker. You give his cock a playful squeeze before collecting the precum from his tip and using it as lube to glide along his shaft.

“F-fuck,” Wally gasps. He glances at Dick kneeled down behind you, “she’s good.”

Dick nuzzles his face between your thighs, drinking up the slick that drips from his fingers. “You haven’t even tasted her yet.”

The way they talk about you like you’re not even there just turns you on more, that pressure in your lower stomach building with every thrust of Dick’s fingers. You tighten your grip around Wally’s cock, trying to match Dick’s pace inside of you.

Wally brushes a finger under your chin, tilting your head up so he can kiss you again. His lips slam against yours and you part yours to welcome him. His tongue dips into your mouth and suddenly his taste is everywhere.

A familiar heatwave hits you and suddenly you’re finishing all over Dick’s fingers, your orgasm washing over you in waves. You squirm, your knees shaking and your pussy fluttering around his fingers. Dick pulls his face out from your achy, needy pussy, watching you with hearts in his eyes as you cum all over his hand.

Wally pulls away from you too, watching the spectacle you’ve become. His hand reaches for yours, stroking his thumb along your knuckles in a way he hopes is soothing. It only takes a few seconds before you come back to yourself, panting and messy and hot.

“God, that’s a sight I’d pay to see.” Wally laughs.

Dick rubs a hand up and down your thigh before rising to his feet. “Good thing you don’t have to.”

He wraps an arm around Wally and tugs him in for a kiss. You watch them through bleary eyes, your ears perking up when Wally moans at the taste of your pussy on Dick’s lips. Then Dick is turning to you, beckoning you in and pressing his lips to yours. You swear you can taste Wally on him, too.

“Let’s get you over to your chair, hm?” Dick mumbles against your lips.

You don’t even think, you just obey. You shuffle over to your chair on shaky legs, laying on your back. “Like this?”

The two men follow you over, Dick settling on the chair next to yours while Wally shuffles over to you. You watch him through half-closed eyes while he shimmies out of his swim trunks, letting his cock spring free. 

He’s rock hard, his tip glistening with precum. You trace his body from his muscly thighs to his throbbing cock to his kinda-but-not-really groomed hair. It’s almost exactly what you were expecting, and so incredibly Wally.

He gives himself a few strokes before kneeling on the chair with you, testing his weight. “Man, I hope this thing doesn’t break.”

You gently hit his arm. “Don’t say that, now I’m gonna be paranoid.”

“Don’t worry, baby.” He tests out the nickname, watching you for a reaction. “I’ll protect you.”

He grabs your legs, hooking them around his waist on either side. You take a deep breath and brace yourself, your eyes finding Dick’s for a glimpse of comfort. 

He smiles at you reassuringly. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, sweetheart.”

“I-I want to.”

“Then let us take care of you.”

Wally hums in agreement, rutting his cock through your folds. The head of his dick catches on your clit, eliciting a gasp from your lips that brings a smile to his. You shift lower in your chair, trying to close the gap between his tip and your entrance.

He leans into you, bracing a hand on the chair behind your head. His lips ghost over yours, “you ready for me?”

You mumble a quick yes and then his lips are pressing against yours, his hand guiding his cock inside of you. A moan falls from your lips the minute his length splits you open. You squirm beneath him but Wally’s other hand presses into your hip, holding you against the chair.

He’s surprisingly slow to bottom out, like he’s savouring every inch he pushes into you, every second he gets to be inside of you. He moans shakily once he’s all the way in, the warmth and wetness of your walls almost has him finishing then and there.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders and draw him in closer as he starts to thrust. His hips move out painfully slowly before snapping back in, forcing his length into you all at once. The breath leaves your body, his motions leave you gasping for more.

He falls into a steady rhythm, his movements fast and to the point. His head moves away from your lips to nuzzle into the crook of your shoulder, his breathy moans directly in your ears.

You can’t help but dig your nails into his skin, marking him the same way he marked you earlier. Your eyes flutter open, glancing over to Dick only to see him staring straight at you guys and stroking his cock. You clench at the sight, reaching out a shaky hand to beckon him closer.

He shakes his head, holding up a finger as if to say “give me a minute.” You nod weakly in acknowledgement, letting your head lull back and eyes close again. The pressure in your stomach only builds with every thrust, Wally’s hand only adding to it.

“Is he watching?” Wally rasps.

A cross between a moan and a yes is all that you manage, but Wally seems to get the picture. He snaps his hips harder into yours, each thrust punctuated with a sort of showiness that only Wally himself could pull off. You cling to him tighter, holding on for dear life.

And then there’s a tap at your shoulder and Dick’s cock is next to your face. You don’t even think to question it, only opening your mouth to give him access.

He’s gentle to start, slowly pushing his length into your mouth and letting you get used to it. You hollow your cheeks, letting the saliva build up in your mouth as you bob your head up and down his length. Dick’s thumb rubs the area beneath your lips and brushes away any of the drool leaking out.

Wally shifts his grip on you, his hand almost completely resting on your tummy now. The sudden change has you crying out, arching your hips into his which only drives his cock deeper. You whimper onto Dick’s length, looking up at him through your lashes.

“Doing so well,” he says breathlessly. “Taking such good care of us.”

His praise is what keeps you going, clearing your fuzzy head just enough to keep bobbing on his cock. His salty, somewhat chlorinated taste keeps your tastebuds on their toes, each inch you take of him driving you further and further.

Wally’s thrusts start to get slower and sloppier and your pussy aches with your impending orgasm. Wally pushes a little harder—whether on purpose or not, you’re not sure—and then you’re coming undone beneath him. Wave after scorching wave of pleasure rolls over you, your pussy spasming around him.

Wally is hard pressed to pull out but somehow manages to tear himself away from you, cumming in spurts on your pussy and tummy. He watches you writhe beneath him, your mouth still full of Dick’s cock, and thinks he can cum again from the sight alone.

You pop your mouth off of his cock and finally catch your breath, opting to jerk him off instead. You only get a few strokes in before his hand is covering yours.

He looks at Wally. “Mind switching places?”

Even though he phrases it like a question, you all know he really isn’t asking. Wally’s up on shaky legs and taking Dick’s place at your head before you can even process what’s happening. And then Dick is crouching between your legs and sliding his cocks into your slick, overstimulated folds.

It’s hot and you ache, but Dick feels too good inside of you to stop now. He leans closer to you, pressing his lips against yours while he thrusts lazily inside of you. While Wally felt amazing, Dick just feels right.

The speedster stands beside you, mesmerised by the sight of you two. He can’t help but rub at his half-hard cock while he watches—the two of you are just too sexy. 

It doesn’t take long before Dick’s finishing, only pulling out enough to have his cum pooling at your entrance. He dips his sweaty forehead into your chest while he finishes, mumbling curses against your warm skin. 

“Fuck,” is all he says.

“Fuck,” Wally agrees.

Dick takes his sweet time getting off of you but when he does, Wally is waiting next to you with a towel. You smile and thank him, sitting up and wiping his drying cum off your stomach the best you can. 

Dick, dressed back in his swim shorts, grabs fresh water out of the cooler and sits at the end of the chair. “Here,” he passes it to you. “You’re dehydrated.”

You nod in agreement. Two orgasms in the summer sun would leave anyone dehydrated. You gulp down half the bottle in one go, surprised to see Wally waiting for you with your discarded bathing suit.

You frown at the sight of it. The thought of putting on something so restricting right now is enough to overstimulate you.

“You can wear my t-shirt if you’d prefer,” Wally offers when he sees your face. “Might be comfier.”

“I—” Your voice cracks. Yep, definitely dehydrated. “I’d like that, thanks.”

Dick rubs soothing circles on your back. “Do you need anything else?”

You shake your head. Honestly, what you need more than anything right now is some clarity on what just happened and some time to process.

You wait until Wally is out of earshot, rooting through his messy pile of stuff to find you his t-shirt, before you speak. “What happens now?”

“What do you want to happen?” Dick mimics your quiet tone.

“I want Wally.”

You don’t need to clarify any more—Dick knows exactly what you mean. He laces his fingers with yours just as Wally comes back with an old band t-shirt.

You expect him to hand it to you but instead he gestures for you to put your arms up, helping you tug it over your head. The cotton feels amazing on your feverish skin.

“So, uh,” he says awkwardly. “Should I go?”

You grab his wrist. “Stay, please.”

He offers you a half smile before turning his attention to Dick. The two lock eyes, partaking in one of their silent conversations that you’re not privy to.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll stay.”

You fight the urge to celebrate, instead springing to your feet and wrapping your arms around him. Wally’s shocked, for just a second, and then he’s pulling you closer to him, holding you the way he did in your living room.

He rests his chin on your head. “Not to ruin the moment or anything but,” he looks at Dick over your head, “do you guys wanna get something to eat? I’m starving.”

(if you enjoy content like this, interactions go a long way! comments, likes & rbs are always greatly appreciated ^-^ !! thanks for reading & have a great day <3)

@4-ann1e since u wanted to be tagged >⩊<

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[corvoqueen]

You’re the mutt in the light - an angel in the night

sorry I couldn't save you I tried and I tried but you were like forest fire on forest fire til you snuffed yourself out Dick Grayson x fem!Reader | pt 1 | next... word count: 2.2K warnings: implied sexual work (nothing explicit), one use of the word whore notes: I'm working on a part 2 & 3 to this, but pt 3 is a fuse bc i'm stuck between two different endings. Yummm to let characters be happy or be consumed by themselves.

"Hey," he says, but it already sounds like goodbye.

You're smiling, lips curving and moving to clutch on to his hand as if not holding it will set the sidewalk on fire. Dark and listless eyes with smudged eyeliner on your waterline, they don't smile back, and you greet him with alcohol in your breath, a taste you're certainly conscious of but exhale in full regard, as if calling him and telling him to stay far away all the same. "Hey yourself, handsome. Missed me already?" The quick blinking, the concealer under the eyes, the tightness in your expression. There's no touching of skin from underneath his suit, but it's a ghost of a grip. You're hardly there.

"I thought I was more subtle than that," Dick plays along.

"If subtlety is your game, then you're losing, Nightwing. I like my men forward and desperate." It's a lonely alleyway, deep in Bludhaven's streets, the flickering light of the lamppost hitting the corner of your face. Early November where it's still not cold enough to see your breath. Both of you let the lie settle like a bad comedy film.

Dick's fingers twitch to hover over your eyelids, shield them from the grazing light for a lapse of rest and faux sleep. You'd pull away, he knows, and he can think about reaching out but never will. So he laughs, instead. "Good thing I’ve already booked the florists. I’ll have a field of daffodils on your porch by morning."

And you spew more lies that you both pretend are real with the prettiest smile. "My favorite." Roses or lilies or sunflowers you'd tell him, but that's too much, a grain of sand, really — the forcing of a gap that's yours too smother and mute. When you curl your arms around his bicep, letting your head rest against his arm, you do it because you don't want to. He should be stepping back or pulling away but he doesn't and you're unsure what to make of it. If you're that inconsequential or if he's turned you inside out already. "Who you stalking this time?" you ask, nothing more to say.

"Anyone by the surname DeVore, been around lately?"

You drum your nails against him, fuzzy memories molding together. "Believe so. Last night, maybe." You’re glancing at him, at the white of his mask and imagining what color eyes are behind it. For fun, not interest. "Someone important?"

"No," Dick says. "Someone he knows."

"He met some blonde guy in a checkered tie,” you start, in that tone that’s all play. “Stripes too. Like a mime got into politics. Hey, Wing — promise me you’ll never dress like that. Pretty boys like you shouldn’t waste the potential."

Dick huffs, mouth corners lifting. "I'm pretty good at keeping up with trends."

"You sound like an old man."

"Listen," Dick interjects, caution underneath how he keeps his voice steady. "He comes by again, can you talk to him for me? Nothing dangerous. He just talks. Too much, hopefully." Then, adds, emphasizes. "Only if you're up for it."

He's like a little devil whispering in your ear. You want to get as far away from him as you can. You want to give him everything he wants. "Must be bad if you're dragging me into this," you murmur, you don't know why.

"Wouldn't be the first time," Dick says.

"This is more than me slipping you some gossip here and there."

"Yeah, I know. Sorry, I won't ask again."

Dick says it with a finality that twists your insides up with uncertainty. He means it, you think. You hope. "I'll do it. What do you need?"

"You can think about it, you know." He's seeing you again — that way that makes you want to wrap your arms around him and sink your face into his chest so he has nothing to read while something to keep his hands busy in the way you're used to with men.

Instead, you say, "Nah. I’ve never been good at saying no to a pretty face. Keeps things simple, doesn't it?" Then you're letting him go, turning away to smooth down your hair and scrape off clumped cigarette ash from your heels. You're not facing him as you talk, busying yourself with fixing the clothes that stick to your skin. "Come back tomorrow just before closing. The guy was talking to Ginger. Took a real liking to her 'cause it showed she's new. Young, too. Bet you he'll be back."

With a sincerity that reels itself into your lungs, Dick says, "Thank you. Really."

And you turn your back on him because of it, palm on the handle of the kitchen door of the bar. The alley is sweltering hot, now. Every passing car and siren not loud enough to drown out the bubble you're in. "Better be important. From what Ginger told me, he's not exactly the funny type, but we gotta laugh anyway."

"Hey, wait." Dick's hand shoots out to grab your wrist, but he stops, clenches his fingers around empty air and lets his arm fall. "What about you? How are you doing?"

You laugh. You make the corner of your eyes crinkle intentionally, like that'll throw him off; as if he’s not one of the world's best detective's, mentored by Gotham's Dark Knight. "Same as the last time you asked."

"Working all night again?"

You raise a brow. Then you're teasing him, playful, full of energy in the way he knows is just to get him off your back. "If I was?"

"Then I'd ask how much do you need to take the rest of the night off." But he knows he could pay you off tonight, and you'd be right back the next. No amount of money would fix the way you think this is it for you. Still, he tries. He'll keep trying. Because that's the point, isn't it?

"Tempting," you say, almost sing-song. "But, I'll pass. I'm done at one, but I'm keeping an eye on Ginger. She's still getting the hang of things, still learning how get guys drunk enough they forget she exists."

"You're a good friend."

You don't understand why that makes you feel like a bastard. "Not friends. She's...new. To this. Still fidgety."

Here, late at night, Dick sees it. A downturn of your eye. A simpering smile, into a frown. "If you need anything—"

The smile is back on your face. When Dick really looks, he can picture the little girl fighting it out in there. "Yeah, yeah. If I need someone punched, I’ll shine a flashlight in the sky. Later, Wing."

Next time Dick sees you, you're caked in blood at the back of a police car. The red and blue lights cleave through the washed out brick sides of the building, swallowing up the pavement. A crowd's outside the bar, sealed off by yellow barricade tape. Officers talk to patrons and guests, getting statements, holding back the curious neighbors and passerby's who crowd around with nothing more to do on a Wednesday night. Paramedics are hauling a stretcher with a white sheet over a body into the ambulance, one pitstop before the morgue.

"Detective, a run down?" Dicks raking the scene with his eyes, watching the forensics department enter the building, watching the witnesses, making note of every twitch on their faces, which ones seem calm or frazzled or on the brink of running. There's a redhead sobbing on another ambulance, blanket over her shoulders.

"Solved case, Nightwing. Scram outta 'ere," Detective Swan drawls, popping a tablet of Nicotine gum in his mouth.

Dick forces on a grin. "Never seen you so excited to have me here," he says. You're in the cop car, staring straight ahead. There's blood on your collar. On your cheek. Dick can't tell how much is yours. "You sound confident."

"Murder weapon on suspect. Matchin' prints. Suspect not denying." Detective Swan pops another tablet. His fingers tap against the gum case in the pocket of his faded coat, itching and prying it open then closing it again. "Most dammin' of all, witness saw the whole thing."

"Did it come with a nice bow and greeting card?" Dick's eyes are stuck on you in the cop car. You just keeping looking ahead. Don't even care about the knot in your hair. "Sounds almost comical."

Detective Swan shoots Dick a glance from the corner of his eye, rolling his stiff neck with a drawl. "That's what I was thinkin'. Too good to be true."

"What do you have so far? Conspiracy? Have you picked up on anyone who might have reason to frame the suspect?" Dick's crossing his arms and looking back at the bawling redhead. "What did looking into the main witness get you?"

And all Detective Swan does is chew his gum, tap his foot, and exhale. The red of the sirens drowns his face in shadow. "It's a closed case, Nightwing."

Now Dick is stepping in front of him, staring him down with his eyebrows furrowed tight enough for it to read over his mask. "You're going to ignore this? That's not justice, Detective."

"And this is Bludhaven," Detective Swan replies. "That word don't always apply 'ere."

"An innocent person will end up punished."

"She didn't deny anything. Bad way to look innocent."

"Then we have to figure out why."

"And if she didn't do it?” Detective Swan opens his gum case. “Worst thing that happens is a dead crony and a jailed whore."

Dick's jaw sets.

Detective Swan meets his eyes then, from behind the mask. Tired, slouched, red in the whites. "Not everythin' gotta be fixed. Sometimes, best thing for everyone is to just let it die."

Bludhaven PD thinks its information is safe only because Dick finds it more convenient to convince them of it than have them change things up each time he needs to steal data. He's reading over your case on his handheld the minute its logged and filed, mouthing the typed words under his breath, the blue of his screen making him squint. Each detail is placed in his head like a house of stone.

A gunshot went off in the bar. Police called. DeVore shot dead in a private room, bullets match the gun with your prints on it. A gun you were caught holding. Unregistered. No fight back from you, no excuses. "He was being rude," your first statement. Ginger the sole witness, incomprehensible. All tears and snot. Dick sees her picture and it's the girl in the ambulance, same small shoulders and slouched figure like the worlds eating her. DeVore was trying something, allegedly, from her account and yours. Wound up and drunk, then you pulled a gun. Case closed.

But that's not your gun. Dick remembers: the small metal revolver that could fit in your hand, the make of it. You had slipped it out of your purse, kept it concealed by your hip, standby on your side that time you were walking down the block home from the bar during Halloween, two men yelling behind you for passing off their coy flirting. A bold one reached for your arm, and the barrel was on his side, your smile all light and fluttery like a dare. Dick had made it in time. Wrapped his hand around your wrist and lowered it gently, the sight of him sending the two men scampering away like brittle alley cats. "I wasn't going to," you'd said, stashing the gun away. You were chuckling to yourself. "My aim's so bad, I'd probably missed."

A Smith & Wesson 442, 38 special caliber. Something cheap and easily concealed. Yet the murder weapon was a Sig Sauer P365 AXG Legion, added AXG Grip Module, custom gray frame finish. Semi-Auto, 9mm Luger caliber. One thousand-fiver hundred online, higher underground and unregistered.

Crime scene photos don't give much away. Blood splatter on the bedsheets; the gun fired down at him based on the pattern. Entry wound on the side of DeVore's head. Clean exit wound. Bruising on the sides below his ribs. The autopsy hasn't been performed yet, so Dick extrapolates what he can. They're botchy and pulsing with blood underneath the skin — blunt force trauma, is his best guess. No way you'd cause that with a punch. Yet there aren't any notes of other object used to attack except for the Sig Sauer. Either the forensics team is duller than should be acceptable, or they saw little reason to search further on a solved case. It makes his jaw clench. The city doesn't want to be saved, Barbara said once. It resurfaces in the back of Dick's mind, for a second, a moment where he doesn't know what else to think about.

You're on the news come morning. No break through story, no special segment. What shows across Dick's television is a three minute report with your mugshot that he catches over a cup of earl grey while mapping out underground firearm sellers on his kitchen island. It's you from the night before; hair smoothed out now, smudged eyeliner wiped away, shoulders straight and broad. Dick pauses, sets his mug down. Over your throat, like a blossoming necklace of thorns, strangulation marks raw and sickening.

His stomach convulses. His head is in his hands, eyes closed as the bile fizzes and settles like acid. That wasn't in the file, that wasn't in the file.

[corvoqueen]

This is so... beautiful.

The Things You Say

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Summary: Jason yearning for a nerdy girl who constantly talks about her new books or new science inventions, he doesn't understand shit and they have to look stuff up constantly trying to keep up with her

requests are open

dividers by @cafekitsune

Jason knew pain. He knew the taste of blood and the sound of a heart flatlining. He knew what it was like to dig his way out of a grave with his bare hands, lungs full of dirt and rage. He knew war. Loss. Fire.

But none of that prepared him for the experience of falling for someone like you.

He also knew two things for certain:

One: he was not, and never would be, a science guy.

Two: he was completely, helplessly in love with the weird girl who never stopped talking about subatomic particles like they were fairy tales.

He met her in a bookstore, because of course he did. Gotham’s oldest secondhand shop, tucked between a closed-down deli and a tattoo parlor. She was in the nonfiction aisle, holding a hardcover titled Quantum Entanglement and the Fabric of the Cosmos, murmuring to herself while frowning at the margins.

Jason should’ve walked away. Should’ve grabbed his Hemingway and gone.

But instead he found himself saying, “Is that English?”

She looked up.

Big glasses. Hair half-up, half-falling. A tiny scowl, like he’d just insulted her childhood dog. “It’s physics.”

He blinked. “I gathered. Still looks like math’s evil cousin.”

That got a laugh. Or something like it. A half-smile, crooked and unsure, like she didn’t laugh often and wasn’t sure she should now.

Jason tilted his head. “You work with this stuff?”

“I study it.” She pushed the book against her chest. “I’m trying to understand quantum coherence in biological systems. Mostly theoretical. I bore people.”

“I don’t mind theory,” Jason said, which was a lie, but a nice one.

She stared at him for a long second. “You’re trying to flirt with me.”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “How am I doing?”

“Terribly.”

He grinned. “You want coffee?”

She hesitated.

“Not a date,” he added quickly. “Just... if you want someone to listen while you explain quantum thingies.”

“Quantum thingies,” she repeated. “Tempting.”

It was supposed to be one coffee. It turned into four. Then dinner. Then late-night texts, where she sent him screenshots of new studies and he replied with bad memes and pictures of books she’d made him read.

Jason wasn’t used to this—whatever this was. There was no game here. No dramatics. Just this girl with a constellation of freckles and a mouth that moved too fast when she got excited.

She’d sit cross-legged on his couch, hair up, socks mismatched, spouting things like:

“Did you know cephalopods can edit their own RNA in real time?”

Jason, who was halfway through re-reading The Count of Monte Cristo, would look up and go, “Cepha-what?”

“Octopus brains. They’re insane.”

He had a notes app. No joke. It read:

Quarks (ask which one is the cute one)

Octopus RNA = science magic

Don’t say atoms are tiny planets—she hates that

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to understand. He did. Desperately. Because her eyes lit up like stars when she talked, and Jason wanted to know what it was like to hold a universe like that in his head.

Because you talked about neutrinos over coffee. Neutrinos. Subatomic particles. And you said it with a smile like it was common small talk, like most people spent Sunday mornings curled up reading quantum mechanics papers instead of the funnies.

Jason pretended to get it. He even nodded sagely.

He did not get it.

"They're fascinating," you said once, feet tucked under you on his old beat-up couch, eyes lit like they held galaxies. "Like these ghosts of matter. They pass through everything, almost impossible to catch. It's like trying to bottle a secret."

"Uh-huh," Jason said, staring at your lips. Not because he was being disrespectful. But because they moved when you talked, and sometimes he understood those more than your words.

He googled them later. Spent two hours falling down a scientific rabbit hole so steep he got a headache, just so he could maybe ask the right question next time. So he could deserve to be in the same room as your mind.

You never made him feel stupid.

You never made him feel like he had to prove himself. But Jason was built of sharp edges and pride. He came from alleys, from blood-streaked streets and textbooks that were ten years too late. You were made of stardust and curiosity, of words that leapt like fire from your tongue.

He wanted to meet you there.

So he read. And re-read. Fell asleep listening to science podcasts he barely understood. Texted Tim questions like, “What the hell is a muon?” and got responses like, “Why are you asking me this at 2AM?”

You were working on something new. Something about microfluidics, which sounded made-up but wasn't. Your whiteboard was filled with squiggles and Greek letters, and Jason stood behind you one afternoon just... watching.

"You know," he said finally, leaning a shoulder against your wall, "I'm starting to think you might be the smart one in this relationship."

You turned, brow quirked. "Only just starting?"

Jason laughed. It cracked something open in him. "You know what I mean."

"I do," you said, crossing to him. You had ink on your fingers. Pen behind your ear. Your shirt was inside out. Jason thought you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. "But I'm not in love with me. You are."

He blinked.

You kissed his cheek, then went back to your board, humming. As if you hadn't just sent his soul straight out of his body.

Jason spent that night learning about laminar flow.

Sometimes, you talked so fast you forgot to breathe. You’d get this wild look in your eyes, like the whole universe was cracking open and only you could see it.

Jason lived for that look.

You told him about CRISPR once, gesturing wildly with a fork in a shitty diner, eggs going cold.

"It’s gene editing," you said. "Like molecular scissors! You can cut DNA—literally edit life. Isn’t that insane?"

Jason chewed his toast. Nodded. Took a mental note to google "molecular scissors" the second you hit the bathroom.

He didn’t get it. Not really.

But he loved how your face lit up. Like discovering was your religion and you were halfway to ascension.

He wanted to believe in something like that.

The problem, of course, was that he kept falling harder.

It hit him slow at first—like rain soaking into the collar of your coat. He’d look up in the middle of a lecture she didn’t know she was giving and realize he hadn’t heard a word.

Because she was smiling. Because she was alive in that moment in a way that made the world blur.

And then one night it hit him all at once.

They were on his fire escape, watching the sky turn blue-black over Gotham. She had her legs pulled up to her chest, hoodie sleeves covering her hands, talking about something called CRISPR and how gene editing could eventually reverse certain degenerative conditions.

Jason lit a cigarette. Didn’t smoke it. Just let it sit in his hand.

“You ever wonder,” he said, “how you ended up where you are?”

She blinked. “All the time.”

“I used to think I was supposed to be something. Like... some big cosmic screw-up happened and I got turned into this.” He gestured vaguely. “A walking wreckage.”

“You’re not a wreck.”

Jason didn’t answer. Just watched her through the smoke.

“You read the books I send,” she whispered. “You ask questions. You try. That’s more than most.”

He looked away. “You make me want to try.”

She leaned into his shoulder, quiet.

That night he dreamed she was stardust and he was gravity. Always falling toward her.

Jason didn’t call it love. He didn’t know if he deserved to.

But he was the one who brought her soup when she got sick, even if he burned the rice.

He was the one who asked her to explain particle spin six times and still got it wrong.

He was the one who, during one of her meltdowns about failing a grant application, cupped her face and said, “You’re brilliant. If the world can’t see it, that’s not your fault.”

She cried into his shoulder for an hour.

One night, you fell asleep with your notes scattered across his bed. Jason gathered them carefully, reading snatches as he did.

"Theoretical modeling of fluid behavior in low-gravity environments..."

He smiled.

You’d joked once that you were building something for NASA. He wasn’t sure if you were actually joking.

He sat beside you, brushing hair from your forehead. You sighed in your sleep.

Jason Todd, child of Gotham's gutters, held your research like it was sacred.

He didn’t understand the math. But he understood what it meant to love something so fiercely you stayed up nights chasing it.

He understood what it meant to chase you.

It wasn’t easy.

You didn’t always get his silences. His scars. The way he sometimes drifted mid-conversation, haunted by a past he couldn’t shut up.

But you waited.

You asked.

You never made him feel like a puzzle to be solved. Just a story worth reading slowly.

One day he caught you reading War and Peace. Not for class. Not for work. Just... because.

"You know that’s, like, a thousand pages, right?"

"Only 1,225," you replied without looking up. "You should try it."

Jason chuckled. "You trying to turn me into a nerd, sweetheart?"

You looked at him then, all sharp eyes and soft affection. "You already are. You just don’t know it yet."

When you said "I love you," it was after explaining something about black holes.

Jason had no idea how you got from "gravitational collapse" to "I love you," but he wasn’t complaining.

He’d spent so long being angry. Being alone. Being something sharp and armored.

You cracked through it all with equations and post-it notes, with quiet mornings and whispered facts about tardigrades.

You made him laugh. Think. Google shit.

You made him feel.

He didn’t always understand what you said. He never fully grasped string theory.

But he learned her favorite coffee order, and the way she curled her toes when she was focused, and how to tell when her anxiety was starting to spiral.

He learned how to love her without needing to understand every atom.

Because she made him feel like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t a cosmic mistake after all.

He was just a man. With a girl. And a heart that beat a little faster every time she said, “Hey Jay, guess what I learned today?”

And that?

That he understood perfectly.

And that was enough.

[corvoqueen]

Oh please expand on your thoughts about Dick being obsessed with reader’s hips and love handles!! What happens when he leaves Jason to go find them???

Initial thought a little suggestive so MDNI 18+ONLY

“You’re fucking whipped!” Jason calls after him as he watches Dick rush off behind you.

Jason doesn’t need to be looking at his brother to know that he’s flipping him the bird.

“I’m leaving, don’t break the bed again.”

“Baby,” Dick walks into the bedroom to find you sitting with your scrapbook and your colourful pens and markers all spread out on your table.

“Yes?” You spare him a quick glance and then look back at your book. You’re trying to arrange your cuttings and scraps from your days in the city with Dick nicely but you’re just not getting the right look.

“C’mere a second,” he’s leaning on the door jam, watching you as you sigh and stand. He gives you a once over and bites his lip. “Fuck.”

“What?” You look down at yourself and then back up at Dick. He doesn’t say anything and you frown. “Richard, what is it?”

He only shakes his head. “You just,” he inhales harshly and he’s got you pressed up against him suddenly; his hands cemented to your hips kneading the fat there. “You’re unbelievably attractive.”

“I’m only in lounge clothes.” You’re trying to not let the effects of his attention be too evident but it isn’t working because Dick can see your pulse tick under your jaw.

“Yeah and you’re stunning. I swear it’s your fucking hips I don’t know what about them but they’re so fucking,” Dick trails off as his hands grope your hips and waist a little harder.

You don’t mind. His nose brushes along your jaw, his mouth nipping at the sensitive skin under it making you shiver.

“Jason is right outside.” Despite your efforts, your voice is breathy and your head cranes back just a little to give Dick more room.

“He went home, just you and me here.” His teeth sink into the column of your neck making you gasp.

“I’m scrapbooking.” You try to deny the way your stomach pools, the heat that pours right into your centre and crawls up your chest making your breath heave.

Dick licks against your neck, sucking a bruise right above your collarbone. “Too busy for me, then? Should I stop?” He’s only teasing, Dick knows that won’t be what you want. He’s proved right when your arms sling around his neck and you pull him closer.

“No, no. Keep going.”