endlessdreaam

[endlessdreaam]

Iced Coffee (Jason Todd x Reader)

Summary:

In which Dick Grayson tries to give Jason some relationship advice. And ends up learning a few new things about his little brother.

Pairing:

Jason Todd x Reader

(AO3)

Imagine Dick Grayson wanting to talk to Jason about his new girlfriend. That is, you.

Imagine Dick Grayson, talkative Dick Grayson, whose laughter and words bubbled easily from his throat, like air released from an opened soda can.

Imagine Dick Grayson, who's used to going into any situation utterly confident in his ability to coax a smile and a story out of even the grumpiest civilians.

And now imagine him being utterly on the back foot ever since Jason came back.

The smile that's more reliable to him than his own mask now feels more like a grimace whenever Dick is around his little brother. His jokes and short little stories meant to put people at ease dry up on his tongue, and he's often left with his mouth hanging stupidly open like a fish washed-up on Gotham Bay.

For all of his hard-earned people skills, Dick Grayson simply couldn't find the right words to reach his little brother.

Perhaps it's because his last image of Jason Todd was that of a prepubescent boy, growing so fast that their father barely had enough time to put clothes on his back before he's outgrown them again.

And now, in his place was a hulking giant that Dick had to crane his neck to look in the eye.

Perhaps it's Jason's voice, and the fact that before his kidnapping, he hadn't come into adult voice yet. It was still high-pitched and bright and excited whenever they bent their heads to look over maps of Gotham. This new Jason, on the other hand, had the voice of a man, harsh and gritty, like stone grinding against stone.

One that often made him seem far too old than his actual age.

Or perhaps it's the simple fact that a decade ago, the Joker took away Dick Grayson's little brother.

And the man who came back was now a stranger.

Dick tried, of course.

He tried his best, like anyone would, given his position. After all, how many people were given a second chance to make their family whole again?

It's just that he didn't know how.

While the previous Robin had been talkative and curious and hung onto every word Dick said as if it was gospel, this new Jason was quiet, taciturn.

He spoke with a wince, as if every word hurt him, and Dick had to work hard not to wonder why this was.

He wasn't usually interested in drawing up battle plans, often choosing to do missions alone.

Now imagine Dick Grayson, crammed in what feels like the world's tiniest Jetta during a stakeout, quietly trying not to go insane. He had never done well with silence, even before Jason had been kidnapped. He hated the idea of sitting in it, stewing in his own thoughts until he could feel them scratching along the inside of his skull.

But try as he might, Dick just couldn't draw his little brother into conversation. His answers, when he bothered to give them, were short and irritated. As final as a door slammed shut.

"So, you know much about this guy we're staking out?" Dick tried.

"About as much as you. Wanted for human trafficking." Jason paused, massaged his throat as if speaking two whole sentences hurt him.

Someone's phone pinged. They both looked at theirs.

After a minute, Dick tried again.

"Barbara said he used to work out of Peru. I wonder what made him move to Gotham. Got any ideas?"

Another ping. Jason looked down at his burner phone. Caught Dick's expression out of the corner of his eye and mutely shook his head.

"Well," Dick pretended to stretch, more to have something to do than anything else.

He decided to try a third time.

"Seen the Bloodhounds’ game last night?"

Jason looked at him as if he was speaking in tongues, and Dick decided that it was high time he tried shutting up for a while. He tapped his fingers on the wheel, fidgeted with the radio, trying to decide which station was the least likely to drive him insane over the course of what seemed to be a very long, very boring stakeout.

Dick settled on easy R&B. Leaned back in his seat, or at least pretended to, as he watched Jason fiddle with his phone.

"Barbara got any updates for us?" he asked as Jason read over a text.

There was an awful moment when Jason startled, and the first thing he did was reach for his guns. It must have been instinct, his hands flowing smoothly from one location to the next. And it was only the quiet click of the safety turning off that seemed to bring Jason back to himself.

Dick could practically see his little brother forcing himself to relax: the visible unclenching of his jaw. The conscious decision to let go of his guns.

And Dick tried, very, very hard not to think about how he must have spent the past few years, if his first reaction to being surprised was violence.

If he could somehow revive the Joker just so he could kill him again, Dick would do it. He could have sworn he could hear his own teeth grinding. The air in the car suddenly felt thick, the silence suffocating, as both of them tried not to acknowledge what just happened.

And just as Dick was mentally rehearsing his speech to get coffee and stale donuts from the shop across the street, Jason spoke.

"It wasn't," he said.

Dick blinked. The number of times that Jason initiated conversation was few and far in between.

"Pardon?" Dick said, wondering if he heard it right.

"It wasn't Barbara on the phone," Jason clarified, this time slower, as if he was talking to a particularly dim child.

"Alfred, then," Dick guessed.

"No. And I didn't."

"Didn't what?'

"I didn't watch the Bloodhounds' game last night. I was on patrol and must have missed it."

"Oh."

Dick wasn't even sure if Jason watched baseball anymore. It was just another conversational Hail Mary he threw out there. But at least Jason seemed willing to talk, even if it was in broken fragments. But if Jason was on patrol the night before, and he was on stakeout tonight then he must not have gotten much sleep.

"Want to get some coffee?" Dick said, jerking a thumb at the corner store he was eyeing earlier. "My treat."

While Bludhaven didn't have the abundance of street vendors and overnight kiosks that Gotham City offered, it at least offered similar 24-hour joints that could offer the same overpriced, watered-down coffee that one could get in Gotham City.

And in its own small way, it was like Dick Grayson never left home.

Josiah Johannes Salazar was almost certainly the made-up name of the man they were staking out. A small-time thug, at least by their usual standards, he mostly dealt in human trafficking and came under Barbara's radar after a rash of missing person reports were linked back to him.

A gifted art student from the local college.

A stand-up comedian who often performed to packed bars on rowdy weekends.

A used-car salesman from the Burrows.

Nothing out of the ordinary, really. Just your usual run-of-the-mill scumbaggery. Kidnapping people to be bought and sold on the flesh market. Or so, that was Barbara's current theory. An easy enough case. Sure to be closed by the end of the week. In fact, Tim already had several hopeful leads on the victims' possible locations.

Which was why it was such a mystery that Jason insisted–insisted!–on accompanying Dick on this particular stakeout.

It wasn't like he was unwelcome–Dick would jump at any chance to bond with his little brother again–it was just unexpected. Certainly, when he had rounded the parking spot where he kept the second hand Jetta, he hadn't expected Jason to be there, a duffel bag slung across his shoulder and a scowl on his face.

And as soon as Dick unlocked the car, Jason opened the door and planted himself so firmly in the passenger's seat that for a moment, Dick wondered if they really did have a prior agreement he forgot about. But now in the garish yellow light of the donut shop, one fact was becoming increasingly obvious–his little brother was tired. The lighting made him look positively jaundiced, and the shadows under his eyes were as fat as bruises. His clothes were rumpled, and Dick found himself wondering if he had changed into them immediately after his patrol.

The scar on his face looked more terrible than ever.

There was a sudden tension in Jason's shoulders that made Dick realize he was staring.

He immediately dropped his gaze.

Only to find an even more incredible sight.

"Hey, Jason..."

Jason frowned at him, and glanced around the shop to see if anyone was listening. But apart from the cashier, a pimply teenager flicking through skin magazines, the place was empty.

Jason never did like hearing them use their real names while out on missions. And it was only after careful assessment of the area did he finally speak.

"What?"

His response was short and irritated, a clear sign that he was beginning to weary of conversation. But Dick couldn't help himself.

"Are you drinking iced coffee?"

The cups in their hands were nearly identical, condensation beading on the cheap plastic surface, although Dick was sure that Jason didn't have the same obscene amounts of caramel syrup pumps in his. But back when he lived in the manor, Dick was sure that Jason was strictly a hot coffee kind of guy.

A hot black coffee and cigarette type of guy. The result of spending most of his childhood in East End. Alfred despaired at the state of his diet, and Dick would often hear him lecturing Jason on the dangers of nicotine and caffeine addiction.

Jason glanced down at his drink, seemingly unbothered. "Yes."

He seemed content to leave it at that, despite the fact that this new information had hit Dick with the force of a bombshell.

Jason drank iced coffee now?

What else did he like?

Did he like matcha? Chai? Perhaps those overpriced flattened croissants dipped in chocolate? Did Jason still like soft tacos from food trucks? Or did he prefer burritos now?

For a moment, Dick envisioned inviting Jason to go shop-hopping with him and Barbara, the way they used to back when Jason was Robin. Maybe even invite Tim along, now that Jason was finally speaking to him.

Eat questionable street food until their stomachs roiled with grease. Or even better, haul it all back to the Clocktower and make a movie night out of it.

He could even imagine Alfred, somehow unchanged, hovering at the edges, making sarcastic comments about everyone's cholesterol level.

Maybe he could even convince him to try a fry or two.

Maybe Bruce–

The ping of Jason's phone broke Dick out of his thoughts.

"Not an update," Jason muttered at him, before opening his phone to take a look at it.

There was the barest flicker of emotion on his face before he was deleting the message and pocketing it. But not before Dick caught a glimpse of what was on the screen: a grainy image of the interior of a pizza parlor outfitted like it was from the 70s. A bottle of cheap beer and what looked like someone's Scrabble tiles were front and center.

Dick blinked. "Jason..."

The iced coffee. The constant texts from someone.

How could Dick Grayson, son of the world's greatest detective, had missed it?

"Jason, are you texting your girlfriend?"

It was like an explosion had gone off in Dick's chest, like someone had shaken a can of soda and pulled the tab to watch the glorious release of carbon dioxide and sugar. Finally, after struggling all night to find something that he and Jason could talk about, finally Dick found something that he could relate to his little brother about: women.

"Fuck off, Dick," Jason muttered, but he knew his little brother enough to realize there was no heat in it. "It's none of your business."

"Holy shit, you totally are. And while on a stakeout, too!"

Dick felt giddy.

It was unfamiliar, this ribbing. But it was welcome. It felt like the sort of thing that a big brother should do.

"You know Bruce wouldn't approve," he prodded.

He made his voice sound deep, mimicking their father, "Distractions on the field can be a fatal mistake."

"I don't give a rat's ass about what Bruce approves of," Jason said with a shrug, but he failed to hide the amusement in his voice.

"Besides,” he added. “He flirted with Selina Kyle all the time. In full costume, the hypocrite."

Dick laughed, partly because it was true, partly because he was actually bantering–bantering!–with his little brother again.

Jason's phone pinged again, and this time Dick couldn't resist another jab.

"She's got you over a barrel, huh?" Dick said.

"What?"

"Are you in the doghouse?"

Jason frowned at him, and Dick decided to elaborate. "Whenever I took missions one after the other, Barbara would let me have it. Especially if it made me miss date nights. She used to send me these walls of text..."

Jason shook his head. "She's not angry with me."

"Oh." It was nice of you to be such an understanding girlfriend. "It's good that she understands. How long has it been since you took her on a date anyway?"

Jason looked uneasy, shifting his weight from one foot to the next.

"Two weeks," he muttered.

"Two weeks?" Dick was flabbergasted. "Dude, Barbara would definitely have put me in the doghouse for that."

A night on the couch at the minimum.

"I've been busy," Jason said defensively. "We're nearly closing in on this case."

Right. Dick nearly forgot. Josiah Johannes something.

"Well, maybe you should do something nice for her, at least," Dick insisted

"You know, remind her that you care."

He thought of his father, who used to buy bouquets of flowers for his mother, to give to her after every successful performance. The night of her death, there had been a large bouquet of orchids left in front of her dressing room mirror that went unclaimed.

Dick shook his head, dusting away the mental cobwebs.

"Got any ideas?" he asked.

Jason shook his head mutely.

"Come on, give me something," Dick said. "You must have some idea growing up."

Bruce, he knew, was notoriously tight-lipped, so it was unlikely that Jason got any ideas from him. But maybe, once upon a time, Willis Todd did something nice for his wife.

"The men in East End would tip an extra five dollars to whores they like,” Jason snapped.

Dick felt his heart drop to his stomach. He could feel a flush rising to his cheeks.

"Yeah, don't...don't do that..." he muttered.

They grow quiet for several minutes, sipping their coffee and occasionally throwing glances at the building they were supposed to be staking out. It was Jason who eventually spoke first.

"She's not upset," he said quietly. "I just...feel like I should do something for her."

It struck Dick then, that Jason looked woefully young. It was likely that this was Jason's first real relationship. And he had nothing to go on except what he had seen men do to sex workers in East End.

And Bruce...wasn't exactly a model for healthy relationships.

"How about flowers?" Dick suggested gently. "Those are always a classic.

Do you know what kind of flowers she likes?"

A pause.

"No."

"I used to date a girl," Dick began. "Bit of a gardener. She loved roses. She'd snip the ends and put them in water to make them last longer. She loved white roses best of all, because she'd try all sorts of experiments with dyes."

Jason didn't answer, fiddling with the straw of his drink. And when he next spoke, it was in a painfully unsure voice.

"Is that...something I should know?" he asked quietly. "Her favorite flowers?"

Suddenly, Dick hoped–wished–violently that this wasn't Jason's first relationship. That sometime after the Joker and before the Arkham Knight, he carved some semblance of peace for himself. Maybe met a girl or a guy during those few sunlit months in Santa Prisca. Dated. Fooled around. The kind of things that he should have done growing up. The kind of things that Joker stole from him.

"Not necessarily," Dick said, his voice soft. "But it doesn't hurt to pay attention. Girls like that sort of thing. Well, people, really. If she ever mentions something like that, just make sure to take a note."

The nod Jason gave him was oddly solemn, and Dick realized, with heartbreaking clarity, how much his little brother wanted to make this work with you.

"What about chocolates?" Dick suggested again, not wanting to dwell on darker thoughts. "I'm sure we can find a confectionary here somewhere..."

Jason snorted. "Sure. In Bludhaven, the peak of romance."

He grew quiet again, before saying, in hesitant voice: "She likes old movies. There was that one about an urban legend..."

"There you have it," Dick said, trying not to let the relief show in his voice.

"You can have a movie night or something! Hell, you can even go now. Make a surprise out of it–”

But the contemplative expression on Jason's face–the one that made him look so young–suddenly fell away, and what was left now was pure Red Hood.

"Can't," he said, in a tone that brooked no argument. "We're on a mission."

"For some two-time smuggler? Please, I can solve this case with my eyes closed."

Jason looked at him as if he was insane.

"What?" Dick asked.

"Dick," Jason said slowly, with gravity. "What do you know about Salazar?"

"Hm?" Dick was still mentally going through the catalogue of nearby confectioneries the two of them could go to. "Some human trafficker...don't worry we got Tim tracking down his victims."

"A sculptor who's selling out entire galleries as a student because her work is so lifelike," Jason said, a bite of impatience in his voice. "A comedian who's always performing to packed crowds because everyone says his jokes make their entire week. A used-car salesman who never misses a sale."

Jason paused, waiting for Dick to put the pieces together.

Dick had never thought of the victims that way, and now that Jason was pointing it out, it all did sound rather strange. The realization came to him with slow dawning horror.

"Jason..." he said. "You think he's trafficking metas?"

Jason sighed, and there was something weary in it. Dick remembered that his little brother hadn't seen you in two weeks.

"You think he might target her," he concluded. "That's why you're working so hard on this case."

Jason didn't answer. He didn't have to.

"Does she know?"

"No." Jason's answer was immediate. "It's just...a working theory, anyway. I don't want her scared over a theory."

"It might make her a little more careful if you told her," Dick nudged Jason with his shoulder. "It wouldn't hurt. Plus...well, it's not nice to keep her in the dark, you know?"

Jason looked at him, and for a moment, Dick could see the boy from the manor. The one that used to hang on to his every word as if it was gospel.

He pulled out his phone.

And sent you a quick text.

"Thanks," Jason said quietly. "I'm still...getting used to...all this."

And he gave Dick a small, grateful smile. Just the barest quirk of the corners of his mouth.

But it was there.

Dick smiled back. "You're doing great. Besides, working for two weeks straight on a case to keep your little girlfriend safe? You're a regular romantic. She's going to think you're from one of those old movies she likes."

The smile was gone. The scowl back in place. Jason shoved him, with perhaps more force than he intended to, but Dick rolled with it, laughing.

Maybe getting to know his little brother all over again wouldn’t be as bad as he thought.

[endlessdreaam]

just a shirt drabble before bed — literally nothing but fluff

•─────⋅☾⊱♰⊰☽⋅─────•

He never expected to know peace, not until he met you.

He knew who he was, a man, an acrobat, a hopeless romantic, a performer. Other people knew who he was, a man, a hero, a brother, a safety line. He was all and none, too much to be contained to a single lake, more like a rushing rapid.

He was still the same person, he would always be the same person, but constantly changing, he would never truly be still.

And he knew that. He knew who he was—he was a man who knew what he wanted.

Desperate for love, he was good—he was good at giving, at attending, he was present and attentive and kind and considerate and he knew how to be a partner. And he whole-heartedly loved every person he had ever been with.

They had been his stone, his anchor—they had been strong, self-sufficient, immovable objects—he loved their tenacity, their strength, their power.

It was simply unavoidable they would eventually collided.

It was nobody’s fault. They were all beautiful people, but there was nothing he could do about his currents.

He’d accepted it, made peace with it.

Even when he met you, fell for your smiles and giggled snorts, he knew, he didn’t hope.

He resigned himself to selfishly enjoy the time you’d have together and hopefully remain amicable when it all came crashing down in a couple of months.

But it never did.

You’d come to know exactly who he was, a man, a lover, a traumatised boy, somebody who was simply trying.

And you stayed.

Now, he laid in your bed, content, in love. His hand splayed across your back as you laid against him, skin against skin; you were naked, you were gorgeous, and he had enjoyed ravishing you just moments prior, but resting in this moment between time, he was home.

He opened his mouth when you tapped his lip, humming happily as the grape crunched under his teeth, bleeding sweetly across his tongue as he watched you pick another fruit from the bowl and take a slow bite of it.

“Oh, this is apple,” he looked at your face more properly as you spoke with your mouth full. You looked back up at him, chewed apple slice in your cheek. “I’m allergic.”

He never bolted upright so fast, bringing you with him.

“Spit,” he held his hand out and you complied, falling into soft peels of laughter. “Are you okay? Do you need an Epi?” he asked, rubbing your back with his clean hand, more preoccupied by your health than the chewed fruit in his palm.

You assured him you were fine, you would just get a little itchy and he sighed before finding a tissue to wipe his hand on.

“Don’t ever scare me like that again,” he chuckled, although a little breathless.

“Sorry,” you weren’t. You were smiling far too wide and he couldn’t be blamed for staring, enamoured by the simple sight of you.

You stayed.

You stayed, became his peace and his heart, the dirt and sand and rocks to his white rapids, unchanging but accommodating.

And the source of a couple of grey hairs around allergens.

He kissed you softly, like a sculpture held their art, too afraid to blemish what they was an imperishable, perfect marble.

“I love you.” A confession, a promise, a request.

You smiled as you brushed your nose along his.

“I love you too.”

(“Are we done kissing? I’m going to eat all the apples now.”

“I want one-“

“I will smother you.”)

•─────⋅☾⊱♰⊰☽⋅─────•

not my usual style but I like it, anyways, requests closed at this date but here’s the master list

[endlessdreaam]

In The Quiet Hours

A/N; I woke up with baby fever

Warnings: post birth/postpartum anxiety(?), stressed and tired reader

☆

The rain had started again.

You couldn’t tell when, it must have been during the last diaper change or sometime in the middle of the fourth lullaby. The nursery light cast a gentle amber hue over the room, soft enough to keep the baby half-drowsy, bright enough to remind you that morning was still far away.

She was still crying….

Not loud. Not panicked. Just the whimpering, fussy sound of a newborn who refused to sleep unless the universe tilted just right. You rocked slowly in the old chair, arms aching, eyelids heavy. You’d tried the white noise, the swaying walk, the pacifier. She spat it out with dramatic flair, like a tiny critic rejecting your entire performance. Your shirt was damp from milk and tears—hers and yours. You weren’t even sure when you started crying.

“I can’t—I don’t know what else to do,” you whispered into her soft hair, voice cracking. “Please, Mary. Please just sleep.”

She squirmed again. Your throat tightened. The sharp, guilt-soaked voice in your mind started up again.

She’s still crying because I’m not enough. I’m too tired. I’m not doing it right. I’m already failing her.

The door opened with a soft creak. You didn’t look up. You already knew the pattern of his footsteps, the way he walked barefoot across the nursery floor.

“Babe?” Dick’s voice was low, thick with sleep and worry.

“I’ve got it,” you mumbled, too fast. Too defensive. “Get back to bed…..please…”

“I know,” he said gently. “But I’m her father ya know….that means we’re supposed to do this together,”

You finally looked at him. His eyes were puffy, hair flopping over his forehead, and his shirt was rumpled like he’d bolted upright as soon as he realized you were gone from bed. The concern on his face made the tears rush up again.

“I don’t want to keep waking you up.” You sniff feeling your eyes sting and leg start to bounce from the anxiety

“You’re not,” he said, crouching beside you. “I wake up anyway. I just wait to see if you need me. And I think you do.”

You clutched your daughter a little tighter, trying to blink away the sting. “I just—I’m supposed to know what to do, right? Isn’t that how it works? Instinct or something? But I feel like I don’t even know my own body anymore, and I’m tired all the time, and I keep thinking—what if I mess this up? What if she doesn’t feel safe with me?”

Dick didn’t say anything at first. He just brushed your hair back from your damp forehead, gently, as if touching porcelain.You hiccuped out a breath.

“Because you’re not supposed to carry that fear alone. I see you—every single night, every feeding, every change, every moment you think you’re failing? I see how hard you’re fighting for her. That is instinct, babe. That’s love.”

He reached out. “Can I hold her for a bit?”

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat as you passed her off. She fit perfectly in his arms, and somehow—of course—her little body went limp with contentment within seconds. It made something twist in your gut. You rubbed your eyes with the sleeve of your shirt.

“She always sleeps better with you,” you said quietly.

“No,” he whispered back, rocking gently. “She just needed a shift in energy. That’s all. She still feels you here. She knows you love her, but she also knows you’re exhausted,”

You leaned into his side when you stood up beside him to look at the sleeping babe, your head resting against his shoulder, feeling your muscles finally start to relax.

“I’m scared,” you admitted. Your voice was soft and fragile, like a dam about to burst.

“I know,” he murmured. “So am I sometimes. But if we’re scared together, then we’re in this together. You don’t have to be perfect—you just have to be here. And you are. You always are.”

The rain kept falling, soft and steady. The baby sighed in her sleep. And for the first time that night, your heart stopped racing long enough to breathe.

The baby’s quiet breaths matched the soft rhythm of the rain outside. You stayed nestled against Dick’s side for a while, the weight of your body finally surrendering to the safety of his presence. his arm around your shoulders, his other hand cupping the back of your daughter’s tiny head, felt like anchoring yourself after days of drifting.

“Come on,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

You started to protest out of habit. “I should—what if she wakes up again?”

“She might,” he said calmly. “And I’ll handle it. You’ve been running on fumes. Let me take this shift, okay?”

Your jaw tightened. That old guilt crept in again, whispering you’re supposed to be the one up with her, you’re the mom, you can’t just tap out—but he caught it before you said a word. Almost as if he could read your inner dialogue,

“You’re not failing her by sleeping,” he said gently, as if reading your thoughts. “You’re human. And you’re healing. Let me take care of you, too.”

He moved slowly, careful not to wake the baby in his arms. Gently laying a kiss to her head and laying her small body into her crib. He makes sure the monitor is set before taking your hand and leading you out of the nursery. Your legs were sore, your eyes stung, but the feel of his hand wrapped around yours, warm, solid. It was enough to keep you moving.

Back in the bedroom, he helped you slip under the covers, tucking the blanket up around your shoulders like he had the night you first came home from the hospital.

You blinked at him through the low light. “What if she cries and you can’t—”

“I’ll come get you if I really need to,” he promised. “But you’re allowed to rest without waiting for something to go wrong.”

You opened your mouth again, only for him to lean down and kiss your forehead, soft and slow.

“You’ve done more than enough tonight,” he murmured. “Let me do the rest.”

The door clicked gently behind him as he padded back toward the nursery. You stared at the ceiling for a long moment, the quiet suddenly feeling overwhelming. But then—you heard him through the baby monitor.

A low, gentle voice.

“She’s asleep now. Mama needs rest, but we’re still right here. You’re safe.”

You bit your lip, overwhelmed with love and something close to relief. You didn’t fall asleep right away—but when you finally did, it was to the sound of Dick’s voice quietly singing a lullaby from down the hall.

-

The next morning you woke with a start.

The sun was already pouring in through the curtains, golden and warm, and for a disorienting moment, everything was too quiet. You sat up fast, heart already pounding.

The baby. Why didn’t I hear her? Did I sleep through her crying? Did something happen?

You fumbled for your phone on the nightstand—7:46 a.m. Your mouth went dry. That was at least five hours of uninterrupted sleep. You couldn’t remember the last time that happened. You tossed the blanket off in a panic and swung your legs over the edge of the bed only to freeze.

There was a faint sound drifting from the kitchen. A soft hum. And the unmistakable crackle of a skillet. You padded down the hallway, feet silent against the floor. As you turned the corner, you stopped.

Dick stood at the stove, barefoot and shirtless, wearing soft plaid pajama pants and Mary wrap snug across his chest. Your daughter was tucked inside it, her head resting against his sternum, fast asleep, her tiny fist curled against the fabric like she owned the world.

He was humming something—one of the lullabies you’d been whispering all week, but slower, lazier, like a love song. He flipped a pancake one-handed, the other resting gently on the baby’s back. You leaned against the doorway, warmth blooming in your chest. You already had an attractive husband. Now strap your baby to his chest, and it’s doubled.

“Is it weird that this is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen?” you said sleepily.

Dick turned, grinning. “Good morning, beautiful. Sleep okay?”

You nodded, a little dazed. “I slept too okay. I feel like I time-traveled.”

He crossed the kitchen and kissed you softly. “You needed it. She stirred around four, so I fed her, changed her, and we had a little father-daughter chat about letting mama rest.”

You looked down at your daughter, still peacefully asleep in her baby sling. “She actually listened to you?” You raised a brow at him

Dick gave a dramatic shrug. “I’m very persuasive.”

You reached out, brushing a finger along your daughter’s chubby cheek. “I feel…human again, in a strange way…..I feel like I can function for a couple of hours.”

“I was hoping a stack of pancakes and coffee might help ease the transition.”

You laughed, hand resting on his arm. “Thank you. For last night. For this. I know I haven’t been the easiest person to—”

“Stop,” he said, kissing your lips. “You’re doing amazing. It’s okay to need help. You don’t have to carry every second on your shoulders.”

You blinked against the sting in your eyes, this time from something closer to gratitude than exhaustion. He squeezed your hand.

“Now go sit. Coffee’s already poured, a spoon of sugar, and creamer. And your pancakes are almost ready.”

You took a seat at the table, watching as Dick moved around the kitchen with practiced ease—your daughter sleeping soundly against him, the house finally calm, and for the first time in weeks…you let yourself enjoy it. Not as a break before the next breakdown.

But as something real. Something you deserved.

-🧚🏼

[endlessdreaam]

if reqs are still open

dick grayson x reader where the reader is a fellow vigilante close with the batfam who gets seriously injured and targeted while patrolling and he has to take care of and keep safe

Dick Grayson x Vigilante!Reader

Warning : Hurt/Comfort • Protective Dick • Tension and care

A/N : Dick Grayson? You’ve picked the gentleman of Gotham's shadows, and I must say, this has all the ingredients for the perfect cocktail: tension, care, loyalty, danger, and a dash of undeniable chemistry. Allow me to set the scene, as if I were whispering it into your ear over candlelight

The night had started like any other in Gotham. Cold wind slicing through the buildings, clouds swallowing the moon like the city swallowed hope. You’d been on patrol, confident in your own rhythm, as always. You weren’t new to this life. You weren’t reckless. But tonight? Tonight, it felt like someone knew you’d be there.

The ambush was precise. Brutal.

It wasn’t just a mugging. No. They wanted you.

You fought like hell, of course. You always did. But numbers are numbers, and a crowbar to the ribs doesn’t care how skilled you are. You didn’t even know you hit the ground until you felt the cold concrete against your cheek.

And then..

A familiar shadow cut through the chaos. Nightwing.

"Damn it, stay with me!" Dick’s voice cracked, part fury, part terror. He took down the remaining attackers with that ferocious grace only he possessed, and suddenly, you were in his arms.. fast but careful, like you were made of glass.

"You're burning up" he murmured, checking your pulse with hands that shook, just barely. His mask couldn’t hide the tight line of his mouth, the storm in his eyes.

"You weren’t supposed to be here" you rasped, wincing as pain bloomed sharp and hot in your side.

He almost laughed, breathless and bitter. "Neither were you."

He took you to one of his safehouses.. not Bruce’s, not the cave, his. His sanctuary. If that wasn’t intimate enough, the way he laid you down on the couch and worked with surgical precision to treat your wounds sealed it.

"This wasn’t random" Dick muttered, stitching your side with steady hands but frantic eyes. "They knew your route. Your habits."

"Guess I’m popular" you joked, weakly.

His gaze snapped to yours. Intense. Piercing. "Don’t."

That’s when you saw it. Behind the perfect mask of Gotham’s golden boy vigilante, there was something raw. Uncontrolled. Fear... not for himself, but for you.

"You’re staying here" he declared, not leaving room for argument. "No solo patrols. Not until we find out who’s behind this."

"Dickhea-"

"I mean it" he interrupted, his voice low, heavy with something deeper than just worry. "You think I’m going to let anything happen to you? After tonight?"

His fingers brushed your cheek, surprisingly gentle after all that rage. His mask was off now, discarded somewhere between panic and determination. His blue eyes, earnest and burning, never left yours.

"You’re not just a fellow vigilante to me" he admitted, voice dropping. "You're... mine to protect. Even if you hate me for it."

You let out a soft breath, half a laugh, half a grimace of pain. "Guess I’m under house arrest, then?"

A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. "Call it protective custody. And I’m not letting you out of my sight."

And true to his word, he didn’t.

That night, Dick sat beside you, vigilant as ever. Not as Nightwing, but as the man who refused to lose you. His fingers never strayed far from yours. His presence was your shield. And beneath the quiet hum of the safehouse, you swore you could feel it... the silent promise in every heartbeat.

He would burn the world before he let anyone take you away.

[endlessdreaam]

IS IT THAT SWEET? I GUESS SO !

d. grayson x f!reader

CATEGORY : SMAU ( SOCIAL MEDIA AU )

𝓢ynopsis: what's it like to have a dramatic, whiny boyfriend?

𝓦arnings: ooc(?)

𝓝otes:

001. for the one & only @dntaed !! bucky blurb will be out soooooooooonnn

002. vi posting smth dc related for the first time in a while???? no way! ( who's proud? )

© minorlyatfault

[endlessdreaam]

LET ME IN

Pairing: Dick Grayson x Female Reader

Plot: You don't cry. Not anymore. No matter how heavy the weight of the world gets, no matter how much it hurts, you swallow it down and keep moving. Because if you don't acknowledge it, it doesn't exist, right?

CW: angst, emotional breakdown, parental neglect/emotional abuse mentions, stress, exhaustion, reader bottling up emotions, crying, hurt/comfort

A/N: This one's for the bestie who wanted the reader to be in desperate need of a good, soul-crushing sob, and for Dick to be the one to help her let it all go. Hope it hits right 😭 sending you hugs 🫂

The day starts bad and only gets worse.

You oversleep, which means you're rushing from the second you open your eyes. The coffee machine decides today is the perfect day to break, so you leave the kitchen already irritated, running on nothing but fumes.

You rush through your morning routine, skip breakfast—no time—then practically run out the door, only to step straight into a deep, grimy puddle from last night's rain. Cold, murky water soaks through your shoe and sock instantly. A bad start, but whatever. You can shake it off. It's fine.

Except it's not fine, because traffic is a nightmare, and by the time you make it to work, you're twenty minutes late. Your boss is watching, you can feel it, but he doesn't say anything. Just a glance, a sigh, and then he keeps moving. That's almost worse.

Work isn't any better—your inbox is flooded, your computer freezes mid-task, a coworker "forgets" to credit you on something you worked your ass off on, and it feels like every single person in the world suddenly needs something from you.

By noon, you've barely eaten because your lunch order got mixed up, and you're stuck with some sad, soggy excuse for a sandwich that you could barely stomach. Your head is pounding, your eyes hurt, and the weight of it all is pressing down on your shoulders like a vice.

And then, to top it all off, the printer jams.

It's stupid. Small. A fixable problem. But when you stand there, pressing buttons that do nothing, trying to yank the damn paper free while the red error light mocks you, something ugly flares in your chest. Your hands shake. Your throat feels tight. And for the first time in a long time, you feel like you might snap.

But you don't. Because you never do.

You shove it down, smooth it over, and try to push through the rest of the day with that same forced steadiness you always do. But the universe isn't just unkind today, it's downright spiteful. The bus is late, and when it finally arrives, it's so packed the driver barely glances at you before shutting the doors in your face.

You wait for the next one, shivering as the wind picks up, slicing through your jacket like it's nothing. When it comes, the only available seat is damp—why, you don't know, and you don't want to.

So you stay standing, crushed between a drunk who reeks of cheap whiskey and a woman who glares at you like you personally ruined her life. You try to ignore the occasional, too close brushes against your ass, chalking it up to the crowded space, but every stop, every slight jostle, makes your stomach twist tighter with unease. The bus ride feels endless. By the time your stop comes, your skin is crawling, and the air outside feels suffocatingly thick, the city pressing in on you from all sides.

Then, just as you're almost home, a car speeds through a pothole, sending a filthy, ice-cold wave of street water straight up your legs. You're soaked. Freezing. Teeth clenched so hard your jaw aches.

And as if the universe is actively laughing at you, your bag suddenly feels lighter when you grab your keys. You check, and yep, your wallet is gone. Either you dropped it, or someone swiped it in the mess of the commute, but either way, you're officially screwed.

Then, just to twist the knife a little deeper, the elevator in your building is out of order. Again. Because of course it is. So you drag yourself up five flights of stairs, legs burning, breath coming in short, frustrated huffs, each step making the day feel heavier, pressing down on you until it feels like your body might give out entirely.

By the time you finally make it upstairs, you're exhausted. Dick isn't there, but you already knew he wouldn't be—he mentioned yesterday that he had to meet Bruce today.

That's fine. It's fine. You're fine.

Except the apartment is too quiet, too still, and for some reason, the silence makes everything worse. You toss your bag down and scrub a hand over your face, exhaling slowly as you make a plan.

A shower. A meal. Maybe then you'll feel human again.

Your phone rings before you can even move. You don't want to look. You already know who it is.

But you do, and when you see your mom's name on the screen, you hesitate, staring at it like it might burn you. You could ignore it. You should ignore it.

But that little, nagging voice—the one that says it's better to just deal with it, to get it over with, to be the bigger person—wins out, and you answer.

The first thing out of her mouth is a sigh. Disappointed. Irritated. Like she's already exhausted by you, and you haven't even spoken yet.

"You never call," she says. "I have to be the one to reach out. Again."

You grip the phone tighter. "I've been busy."

"Too busy for your own mother?" she tsks. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised. You always have been selfish like that."

The words hit harder than they should, and you swallow against the sudden sting in your throat. "I'm not—"

"Don't start," she cuts in. "I don't have time for your excuses. I just called to remind you that your cousin is getting married next month, and it would be nice if you could, for once in your life, show up looking presentable. You embarrassed me last time."

That last part is what does it. Something in you cracks, just a little. A hairline fracture along something you've spent years reinforcing.

"Right," you say, voice clipped, because if you say anything else, it's going to shake.

She keeps talking—about how you don't visit, about how you've always been difficult, about how she doesn't understand why you can't just be normal, how she can't stand Dick—but you stop listening.

You tune out halfway through, staring blankly at the wall as her voice drones on, sharp and cutting. Your fingers dig into your palm, nails pressing into skin. You shouldn't let this get to you. You don't let this get to you.

You've trained yourself not to, but by the time she hangs up, you feel hollowed out. Stretched thin. Like there's nothing left inside you except the sheer force of will keeping you upright.

And when you put your phone down, your hand is shaking. You swallow hard, try to breathe through it. You won't snap. You don't snap. That's not who you are. You've held it together through worse.

You sigh, shaking your head as if you can physically dislodge the thoughts swirling inside it. Your whole body feels heavy, weighted down with something you can't name, and all you want is to shut it all out. To turn your brain off, even if it's just for a little while.

You toe off your shoes, letting them drop carelessly by the door before shrugging your jacket and dragging yourself to the bathroom. The mirror catches your reflection as you pass, but you don't stop. You don't want to see yourself. You don't want to acknowledge the exhaustion painted into your face, the tension in your jaw, the dullness in your eyes.

The water is warm when you step under the spray. Hot enough to sting a little, to prickle against your skin, but you don't adjust it. You let it wash over you, standing there with your head bowed, arms wrapped loosely around yourself. It should help.

It doesn't.

You're warmer, sure, but your mind starts to drift. Funny, really, how you always put others first. How you bend over backward for people who wouldn't do the same for you. How you let yourself become a doormat, over and over, because it's easier that way. Because it keeps the peace. Because if you don't, people leave, and isn't that worse?

Life has never been kind to you. Not as a child. Not as a teenager. Not now.

You were born into Gotham's cruelty, into its teeth and its grime and its cold, uncaring hands. You learned early on that you had to be strong or you'd break. That if you wanted to survive, you had to swallow down the hurt, the anger, the exhaustion, and keep moving.

So you did.

And you kept doing it, even when things got worse. Even when life knocked you down again and again, taking pieces of you each time, until you weren't sure what was even left. You haven't cried since you were a teenager.

Not since that one time, when you were younger, when everything had finally piled too high, and it all came crashing down. You'd sobbed until your chest ached, until your body shook with it, until you could barely breathe. And someone had found you—your mother, maybe, or some authority figure who was supposed to care, you don't remember—and their response had been disgust.

"You're making a scene."

"Enough already."

"You're being dramatic."

So you stopped. Because they were right, weren't they? Crying didn't change anything. It didn't fix anything. It didn't make you feel better, it only made you feel exposed, raw, like an open wound waiting to be picked apart.

Are people who cry weak? No. Of course not. But you? You've always been the exception.

It's okay. You're fine. Stop worrying. If you don't acknowledge it, it doesn't exist, right?

So instead, you focus on other people. Because they matter more. Because if you make sure they're okay, you don't have to think about the fact that you're not.

You sigh and think about Dick.

About the life you've built together, the only good thing you've ever truly achieved. It's solid, unshakable in a way nothing else in your life has ever been. A foundation you never thought you'd have, something stable and warm and safe. A love that isn't conditional, isn't a burden, isn't something you have to work yourself to the bone to earn.

And with him came the rest. His friends, who are now yours. People who hype you up, who care about you, who make you laugh, who make you happy. You never thought you'd have that either.

A real support system, people who look out for you just because they want to, not because they have to. It still feels foreign sometimes, like something you don't quite know how to accept.

But that's what should matter, right?

Not a shitty day. Not your mother's words digging into your skin like hooks, pulling at every old wound you've tried to ignore. Not the exhaustion coiling tight in your chest, suffocating and sharp.

You should be able to swallow it down like you always do.

You tell yourself that as you rinse the soap from your skin, as you turn off the water and step out. The steam clings to the air, swirling in the dim glow of the bathroom light, wrapping around you like a weight. You grab a towel, drying off with slow, heavy movements, trying to shake off the feeling.

It doesn't work.

Your hands move on autopilot, tugging open a drawer, reaching for something comfortable. Something soft, warm. You grab one of Dick's shirts, slipping it over your head, and for a second, the scent of him surrounds you.

It should make you feel better.

It doesn't. Your throat feels tight, your limbs sluggish, like the day is pressing down on you, sinking into your bones. You know you should eat something—at least something small—but the thought of moving, of going into the kitchen, of putting in the effort, feels impossible.

Instead, you drift into the bedroom.

The sheets are cool against your skin as you drop onto the bed, but you barely register it. You don't bother with the lights, don't bother pulling the blankets over yourself. You just lay there, staring at the ceiling, mind blank but buzzing all at once.

You don't know how long you stay like that.

Minutes. Hours. Long enough for the room to grow darker, for the quiet to settle too deep, for the heaviness in your chest to spread until it's all you can feel.

Dick rushes home, his heart pounding harder with every unanswered call, every text that sits on "delivered" without a response. You always answer, even if it's just a quick I'm busy or a little voice note letting him know you'll text back later. But tonight? Nothing. Radio silence.

He tells himself not to panic, that maybe you just fell asleep, but the unease sits heavy in his gut, twisting tight as he takes the stairs two at a time. By the time he reaches the door, he's bracing for the worst.

Then he steps inside. Darkness. No lights, no TV humming in the background, no movement. The apartment is eerily still, and for a split second, his heart stops.

But then he flicks on the hallway light and spots your shoes by the door. Your bag. Your jacket draped over the back of the chair. A slow exhale leaves his chest. You're home. You're safe.

Still, the unease doesn't leave him.

He moves through the apartment, searching for you, until he reaches the bedroom. And there you are, lying on your back, eyes open, staring at the ceiling like you're not really there. Like you've detached from the world completely.

Dick flips the switch to the bedside lamp, flooding the room with soft, golden light, but you don't even blink.

Kicking off his shoes, he moves toward you, plopping onto the bed next to you. "Hey," he says, nudging your arm. "Hi, baby."

You hum. That's it. A noncommittal sound, barely even an acknowledgment.

His brows furrow. "You okay?"

"Yeah."

It's flat. Distant. A response you could've given on autopilot. And maybe you are.

He tilts his head, watching you, waiting for something—anything—but you don't say more. Still, he tries to tease you out of it, offering that easy, boyish grin as he leans in closer.

"Damn, you just gonna lie there and ignore your very hot, very charming boyfriend?" he smirks, nudging your arm again. "Cold-blooded, sweet girl."

You don't bite. You don't roll your eyes or shove him playfully, don't give him any of your usual sass. Just another quiet, monosyllabic, "Mhmm."

It's not even a real response. That's when he knows. You're here, but you're not here.

His smirk fades, replaced by something softer, something more concerned. He knows you. Knows how sometimes, when things are bad, you retreat into yourself. How you lock yourself away like you don't want to be seen like this, like you don't want him to see you like this, and it breaks his damn heart.

He shifts closer, pressing his palm against your stomach, rubbing slow, careful circles over your shirt. "Talk to me, my love." His voice is quieter, gentler. "What's going on?"

You shake your head, barely. "Nothing. I'm fine."

Liar. He watches you for a moment, eyes softening as his hand doesn't stop moving, fingertips tracing patterns against your stomach. You're locked up tight, but he's not going anywhere.

He knows how sometimes you shut down like this. How you build walls so high even he has trouble climbing them. How you think you have to be the strong one, that you're not allowed to break.

But you don't have to do that with him, and he's not going to let you.

Still, Dick doesn't say anything for a few minutes. Just watches you in the dim glow of the bedside lamp, his brows furrowed, his lips slightly parted like he's trying to figure out the right thing to say. But you don't say anything either.

So after a few more beats of silence, he exhales softly and murmurs, "Talk to me, baby. Please."

You try. You really do.

You part your lips, searching for the words, for anything that can explain the weight in your chest, the exhaustion pulling at your bones, the way today was just one long, merciless reminder that life has never been kind to you.

But nothing comes out.

Because how do you even say it? How do you explain that you've spent years swallowing pain, forcing yourself to stand tall no matter how much life tried to knock you down? That you've built yourself out of resilience and stubbornness, that you've convinced yourself over and over that you can take it, because what other choice do you have?

So instead of speaking, you shake your head. You turn away like you always do, curling inward, trying to make yourself smaller, except Dick doesn't let you.

His hand finds your cheek, warm and steady, thumb brushing softly beneath your eye. His grip isn't firm, isn't insistent—it's just there, gentle and grounding, like a tether keeping you from slipping any further into yourself.

"Hey," he murmurs, leaning closer. "Whatever it is, you can tell me. You know that, right?"

You swallow hard, but it feels like there's something lodged in your throat.

"I don't care how ugly it feels, how messy it is. You don't have to filter it, you don't have to make it easy for me to hear. Just—just let me in, baby." His thumb sweeps up, tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "I love you. You don't have to hold everything on your own. I want to carry it with you. Please, let me in."

That—that is what does it.

Maybe it's Dick's voice, the way it softens with concern, real and there when you've spent the whole day feeling invisible. Maybe it's how he touches you—gentle but present, like he's anchoring you when you feel like you're floating away.

But something inside you shatters. It starts with a sharp inhale, shaky and uneven, and then your face crumples. The sob rips out of you before you can stop it, raw and broken, years of grief and exhaustion bubbling up all at once.

And Dick doesn't hesitate. He's there, arms wrapping around you the second you break. He pulls you into him, into his warmth, his comfort, lets you press your face into his chest as the dam bursts.

And you cling to him. The sobs wrack through you, deep and shuddering, the kind that shake your entire body, like they're trying to claw their way out of your chest. You bury yourself in him, fingers twisted tight in his shirt, holding on like he's the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely.

And maybe he is.

Your chest aches with it, like something sharp is wedged beneath your ribs, pressing down with every heaving breath. Your shoulders tremble, your whole body trembling, and it breaks Dick's heart to see you like this—vulnerable and shattered—but he's here. Holding you together.

His arms tighten around you, strong and steady, one hand smoothing up and down your back, the other cradling the back of your head, fingers weaving into your hair. He's warm, grounding, his scent wrapping around you tighter than his embrace—clean soap and something inherently him, something that's always meant home.

"I'm here, my love," he murmurs into your hair, his lips brushing against your temple. "I've got you. Let it out."

And you do let it out.

For every time you swallowed your pain and forced yourself to stand tall. For every moment you pretended it didn't hurt. For every single time someone told you to be strong and you did, even when it felt impossible.

A hiccuping sob tears out of you, your breath catching on the weight of it all, and you stutter through the words, barely getting them out.

"I—I h-hate everything." Your fingers curl tighter into the fabric of his shirt, knuckles white. "I hate t-today."

"I know, baby," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "I know. Let it out, it's okay."

And you do. It pours out of you like a flood, years of buried hurt and exhaustion spilling over all at once, and he holds you through all of it. His hands never stop moving, never stop touching, a constant, grounding presence. His palm moves over your back, his fingers brushing along your arm, his lips pressing against your temple, murmuring soft reassurances between every shaky breath.

And he doesn't tell you to stop. He doesn't tell you to breathe, doesn't try to talk you down, doesn't try to fix it, because he knows. Knows you just need this. Knows this isn't something that can be solved with a few soft spoken words.

So he just holds you. Lets you break, lets you cry until your body sags against him, exhausted, your breath still coming in uneven gasps, but the weight inside you slowly, slowly beginning to lift.

You sniffle, breath still hitching as you tilt your head up to look at him. Your eyes are red and puffy, lashes damp, tear tracks streaked down your flushed cheeks.

You feel wrecked, raw, stripped down to nothing but emotion, and you swallow thickly before whispering, "I'm s-sorry."

His reaction is instant.

His big, gentle hand cups your cheek, warm and steady, thumb brushing away some of the lingering tears. His expression softens, brows knitting together in that familiar look of concern, like the very idea of you apologizing for this physically hurts him.

"Baby," he murmurs, voice so tender it makes your chest ache. "There's no need to be sorry."

You shake your head, another sob catching in your throat, your whole body still trembling from the weight of everything crashing down at once. "B-but I—"

"Listen to me, please," he interrupts, voice firm but gentle, like he needs you to hear this. His thumb traces soothing circles against your skin, anchoring you, grounding you in his presence. "There's nothing wrong with crying. There's nothing wrong with feeling like crap sometimes. Shit happens, but it doesn't mean you have to bottle it up until it breaks you."

Your lips tremble, eyes still shining with unshed tears.

"You're not weak for being vulnerable," he continues, voice steady, unwavering. "You're human. And there's only so much you can take and bury before it snaps."

You stare at him, wide-eyed, like you're not sure if you should believe him. Like no one has ever told you this before.

His grip on you tightens, pulling you closer, until your foreheads nearly touch. His blue eyes stay locked onto yours, filled with nothing but love, nothing but understanding.

"I don't love you less because you show emotion," he says, voice softer, but no less sure. "I don't think you're weak. I think you're strong as hell for carrying so much on your own. But, baby, you don't have to."

He brushes another tear away, his touch so gentle, so intentional, like he's trying to soothe every hurt you've ever buried inside yourself.

"You have me," he murmurs. "You'll always have me."

And something about the way he says it—so honest, so real—makes your breath hitch, another wave of emotion swelling in your chest. Because you believe him. You believe him with your whole heart.

You sniffle, fingers still curled weakly into his shirt, as he presses a warm, lingering kiss to your forehead. His hands don't leave you—one stays cradling your cheek, his thumb brushing slow, steady strokes beneath your damp lashes, while the other holds firm at your back, keeping you here, anchoring you against him.

Then, softly, he asks, "Do you wanna talk about what happened today?"

His voice is careful, quiet. Not pushing, just offering. And you hesitate, swallowing past the lump in your throat, because... where do you even start? And would it even matter? Would saying it all out loud change anything?

Your breath shudders. You think about shaking your head, about brushing it off, like always. But before you can spiral, his arm tightens around your waist, a steady, grounding squeeze that pulls you back before you get lost in your head again.

"If you don't wanna talk, that's okay, my love," he reassures you. "You can take your time. I just don't want you to carry it alone."

God, that alone almost makes you start crying again. Because when has anyone ever said that to you?

Your throat feels tight as you shake your head, voice barely above a whisper when you murmur, "Not yet."

He doesn't hesitate. Just nods, like that's perfectly fine, like there's no rush, no expectation. And then he shifts, moving just enough to pull you in properly, his arms wrapping around you, guiding your head against his chest. You go easily, pressing into him, into the slow rise and fall of his breath, the steady thrum of his heart.

And for the first time all day, you breathe.

He holds you like he has no intention of letting go. Like it's the only thing he wants to do. And maybe it is, because he strokes your back in slow, soothing circles, presses a kiss to the top of your head every so often, murmuring little things between breaths.

"I've got you, my love. I'm right here."

"It's okay. Just breathe."

"I love you. I love you so much."

And it helps. It doesn't fix everything, doesn't erase the weight of the day, but it makes it bearable. Makes it lighter. Because his voice is steady, warm, and his arms are strong around you, and for once, you let yourself lean on him instead of trying to carry it all alone.

Your breathing slows. Your heartbeat evens out against his.

After a while, he shifts just slightly, just enough to glance down at you, voice gentle when he asks, "You wanna stay like this for a while? Or is there something else I can do for you?"

It takes you a second to answer. Not because you don't know, but because it feels like so long since someone's asked you that and meant it. Like really meant it.

And when you finally do murmur, "I'm... kinda hungry," you feel sheepish about it.

But Dick just smiles, presses another soft kiss into your hair, like that's the easiest thing in the world to fix. "Yeah?" he hums. "What do you want to eat, sweet girl?"

You shrug a little, because you don't know, not really. You're just... hungry. And maybe a little drained. And maybe just overwhelmed by the simple fact that he cares enough to ask.

But Dick doesn't push. Just tips his head slightly, considering, before he says, "What if I get us some ramen, baby?" he mpauses, tilting his head so he can catch your eyes, even in the dim light of the bedroom. "It's comforting, and you like it. But if you want something else, just say it, and it's yours."

The way he says it, so matter-of-fact, like it's not even a question, like your needs are just as important as anything else, makes your throat feel tight all over again.

But you swallow past it and shake your head, voice small but certain when you murmur, "No. Ramen sounds good."

His smile softens. "Yeah?"

You nod.

And he doesn't make you move. Doesn't untangle himself from you, doesn't try to pry your arms away from where they're still clinging to him. He just shifts enough to grab his phone from his pocket, orders your usual beside his without a second thought, then sets it down again and pulls you right back in.

You exhale. Sink into him a little more, his warmth, his scent, his steady, steady presence. And when you inhale again, it feels easier. Lighter.

The sound of the doorbell barely registers, but Dick shifts against you, murmuring, "That'll be our food, baby."

You don't want to move. You just started feeling okay again, cocooned in his arms, warmth pressed against warmth, steady heartbeat anchoring you like a lifeline. But he coaxes you up, not far, just enough to let him stand, just enough for him to pull you along with him.

"Come on, sweet girl," he murmurs, leading you into the living room. He sits you down on the couch, grabs your favorite fuzzy blanket from where it's draped over the back, and tucks it around your shoulders with such care it makes your chest ache. "Stay here, okay? I'll get it."

You nod. Just barely. And he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your hair before stepping away to answer the door.

You hear the quiet murmur of thanks as he takes the bags, the shuffling of his wallet, the door clicking shut again. Then he's back, setting the food down on the coffee table, unbagging it, portioning things out before handing you your bowl and chopsticks.

"Here you go, my love," he says, sitting beside you. "Eat."

You glance down at the ramen, warm and fragrant in your hands. You don't even realize how long you hesitate until Dick nudges your knee with his.

"Hey," he says softly. "You gotta eat, baby."

You sigh through your nose but take a bite, and the moment the warmth hits your tongue, you realize just how hungry you really are. How empty your stomach has felt all day.

Dick watches you, smiling faintly as he takes a bite of his own. But between every few bites, his eyes flick toward your bowl, making sure you're still eating. And when he catches you pausing again, staring into space, he taps his chopsticks against your bowl with a little clink, clink and raises an eyebrow at you.

"Eat," he says again, teasing this time.

And you do, because he's here, because it's warm, because—despite everything—this is the safest you've felt all day.

After dinner, you don't move much. Just curl into Dick's side, your head on his chest, his arm wrapped around you, fingers lazily trailing up and down your spine. The TV is on, some random show playing in the background, but neither of you are really watching it. It's just there, filling the quiet spaces.

And at some point, you tilt your head slightly, press your cheek against his shirt, and let it out. The words come slowly at first, a little hesitant, like you're still deciding if you should, but Dick doesn't rush you. Just listens.

You tell him how you slept too much this morning, which threw everything off. How the coffee machine broke before you could even get a sip. How you didn't have time for breakfast, how you stepped straight into a puddle as soon as you walked outside, how the traffic was hell, how you were late to work.

And work itself? Awful. Demanding. A million things to do, not enough time to do them. And then your lunch got mixed up with someone else's, so you had to go the whole day on nothing but stress and frustration.

And then the bus was late. And the driver ignored you. And you had to wait for the next, which was full and uncomfortable. And when you were almost home, a car sped through a pothole and splashed cold, filthy water on your legs. And then, your wallet.

Your voice is a little rough as you tell him that someone must have lifted it because when you went to grab it, it was gone. No cash, no cards, nothing.

And then... your mom called.

Dick stiffens beneath you. Because that—that—explains so much.

He's always known. Always known how much she weighs on you. How nothing is ever enough for her. How no matter what you do, how hard you try, it never seems to make her happy. How you keep reaching for something you'll never grasp, keep hoping for things to change even though you know they won't.

And it makes him angry. Because how could she not see it? How could she not see how much you try, how much you give, how much you love? How could she not see how amazing you are?

How could she not treasure you?

But he doesn't say any of that. Not when you're still curled into him, voice soft and tired and frayed around the edges. He just holds you a little tighter and keeps listening.

The words taper off into a sigh, soft and tired, like the weight of the day has finally settled into your bones. And Dick—he's quiet for a moment, just holding you, fingers tracing slow, absentminded shapes against your back as he processes everything you've just said.

Then, he exhales. Steadies his voice. Keeps it gentle, keeps it steady, because this isn't about him. It's about you.

"She's wrong," he murmurs. "She always has been."

You shift against him slightly, but he doesn't let you pull away. Just holds you close, presses a kiss to the top of your head.

"You're enough," he says. "You always have been."

His voice is firm, but it's soft, too. Not an argument, not a debate, just a fact. A truth he needs you to understand.

"You try so hard, baby. You give so much, and I know she'll never see it the way she should, but I do." His fingers brush up, tangle lightly in your hair, thumb sweeping gentle over your temple. "I see you. And I love you. Just as you are. You don't have to prove anything to me."

You close your eyes, pressing closer, breathing him in like you need it, like it's the only thing keeping you grounded.

"And I wish she could see it," he murmurs. "I wish she could love you the way you deserve, but if she won't—" He exhales sharply, shaking his head. "That's her loss."

A pause. Then, "You are everything to me."

And God, he means it. Every word. Every syllable.

He can feel it in the way you exhale, the way your body melts against his, how the tension finally starts to ebb away. And then you shift, just enough to tilt your head, to glance up at him through red-rimmed eyes and damp lashes, and you whisper, voice still rough with emotion—

"I love you so much, baby."

His chest aches. A slow, easy smile tugs at his lips as he leans in, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead.

"I love you too, sweet girl."

You sigh at that, soft and warm, nuzzling back into his chest as he wraps his arms around you again.

A quiet beat. Then he murmurs, "Better?"

And you nod, a little sheepish, but you mean it this time. Maybe for the first time in your life, you believe that it's okay to let go.

[endlessdreaam]

the bet — jason todd

synopsis. it’s harder to keep your relationship with jason a secret from the world greatest detectives than you thought. (3 times each wayne family member tries to prove that you and jason are together and 1 time they actually do.)

notes. ooc. tooth. rotting. fluff. like 3k words of it and im sick. my first time writing for jason ever yay!

“You know, if you stare any harder, you might actually burn a hole through her head.”

Dick’s teasing voice slices through the comfortable silence between the two brothers, save for the distant sirens and the low hum of Gotham’s never-ending nightlife below them. They’re perched on a rooftop across from an upscale bar, the neon sign casting a soft glow on their suits. Through the massive glass windows, you sit at the bar, leaning in with an easy, disarming laugh as the suspect, some sleazy drug trafficker falls right into your trap.

Jason, crouched beside Dick with his elbows on his knees, grumbles beneath his mask. “I’m not staring.”

Dick lets out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Right. Then I must be hallucinating.”

“I thought we got you checked out for that already,” Jason shoots back, his voice sharp.

Dick winces, placing a dramatic hand over his heart. “Low blow.”

“It was pretty funny.”

Dick doesn’t argue, just settles into a knowing silence, watching as Jason’s hand unconsciously flexes against the holster at his hip.

Jason exhales through his nose, his jaw ticking. “I don’t understand why she has to flirt to get intel. We could just beat the answers out of these guys. Hell, we’d probably get it faster.”

The older vigilante shakes his head. “Yeah, because nothing says ‘covert op’ like bashing heads through walls.” His voice is light, but his eyes flicker to the way Jason’s fingers tighten around the grip of his gun. “Relax. Your sweetheart can handle herself.”

Jason freezes, but only for a fraction of a second. His heart, though, does that annoying thing where it skips a beat, both traitorous and stupid.

Your sweetheart.

Not that anyone knew. Not that anyone could know. As much as he wanted to grab you by the waist and kiss you breathless after missions, he wasn’t about to hand his family more ammunition for their relentless teasing.

Dick, for one, was proving exactly why this relationship stayed a secret.

The silence should have been Jason’s first warning. The way Dick just sits there, absently swinging a batarang between his fingers, watching the bar with an all-too-pleased expression.

“You know,” Dick hums, as if lost in thought, “it’s important to let that special someone know how you feel. Your twin flame. That one person you’ve been pining over since– oh, I don’t know, your youth.”

Jason doesn’t move.

Dick pauses for dramatic effect, then casually props his chin in his hand, his gaze flicking to Jason. A slow grin tugs at his lips.

“Hm. You’re blushing.”

Jason’s breath stills. His eyes snap to Dick, but his head remains stubbornly forward.

“I am not blushing.” His voice is gritted steel. “And I haven’t been pining over her for that long.”

Dick tilts his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Huh. Funny.” He leans back with an exaggerated stretch. “I never said who.”

Jason’s fists clench.

Damn it.

His mask covered his whole damn face. There was no way Dick could have seen a blush, no way he could have known.

Jason grits his teeth as realization dawns.

He walked right into that.

Like a lovesick fool.

The next time Jason’s nearly caught is at one of Bruce’s galas.

Jason had grumbled and rolled his eyes when you insisted on attending—something about not wanting to spend the night in a “stuffy ass ballroom pretending to care about Gotham’s elite.” You had countered that it was for a good cause, something you actually cared about, and that Bruce would appreciate the support. Begrudgingly, he agreed.

But, of course, he couldn’t just let you go without making things complicated.

“Matching colors,” Tim observes, arms crossed, his sharp blue gaze flickering between you and Jason.

You school your expression into something neutral. Jason, standing entirely too close to you, does no such thing.

“What a coincidence,” Tim drawls, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“It really was,” you force out a laugh, silently screaming at Jason for his careless mistake.

He had seen your dress before the gala, made a gruff noise of disapproval, and then—without a single word—had left only to return an hour later with a tie in the exact same deep shade of red.

You had almost thrown a shoe at him.

As endearing as the gesture should have been, it was infuriating. He was the one insisting that your relationship remain under wraps, but he was awful at hiding it.

Right now, you can practically feel his warmth radiating onto you, his fingers twitching at his side, itching to settle on your waist. His entire presence screams possessive, yet he’s standing there trying to play it cool.

“Right, Jay?” you prompt, hoping begging he plays along.

“Total accident,” he deadpans.

You mentally facepalm. He is not selling it.

Tim’s smirk deepens, thriving off Jason’s obvious discomfort.

“Well then,” Tim shrugs, barely suppressing his amusement. “If she’s not your date, do you mind if I steal a dance?”

Jason’s shoulders tense. His jaw clenches so tight you’re surprised his teeth don’t crack.

“Go ahead.”

His tone is flat, but you know better. His hands may be in his pockets, but you can see them clenched into fists. His entire body is rigid, like he’s forcing himself to not grab your wrist and pull you back to his side.

You want to laugh. It’s so obvious.

Tim takes your hand and whisks you away onto the dance floor before Jason can change his mind.

He’s is a smooth dancer, you’ll give him that. He moves with confidence, leading you effortlessly through the slow, sweeping steps of the waltz. The ballroom around you is a blur of glittering gowns and dark suits, the music swelling in a soft, romantic rhythm.

You try to focus on the dance, but you can feel Jason’s stare.

It’s burning into you from across the room, a weight against your spine that makes your pulse spike.

Tim notices. Of course, he does.

“I know I have a grand total of one song before your guard dog comes back,” he murmurs, tilting his head slightly as he spins you. His fingers press lightly against your back, his mouth close to your ear. “So, between you and me… you can just tell me if you’re dating.”

You groan. “Why is everyone so obsessed with this?”

Tim pulls back just enough to give you a pointed look. “Because the two of you have been dancing around each other for years. I’m in pain just watching.”

“You’re so dramatic.” You roll your eyes, trying not to laugh. “Buzz off and focus on your own romantic life, Drake.”

Tim just grins. “Yours is so much more interesting.” He spins you gracefully, his smirk growing as he catches sight of Jason still watching. Still fuming.

He tugs you back in, dropping his voice to a whisper. “So tell me… are the two of you together? Because I’ve been sensing–”

“You’ve been sensing jack shit, Drake.”

The voice is low, sharp, and pissed.

You barely have time to process Jason’s arrival before you feel a hand—his hand—on your waist, warm and grounding and claiming.

Tim barely gets a breath out before Jason smoothly steps in, seamlessly taking his place as if he had planned this from the start. His movements are precise, natural, possessive. The transition is so smooth it’s like the dance was meant to end like this—with you in his arms.

Tim watches, looking utterly delighted.

“Wow,” he muses. “Not even a full song? Possessive much?”

Jason doesn’t acknowledge him. His grip on you tightens, and you feel his breath against your temple as he leans in just enough to send a shiver down your spine.

You should step back. You should do something to break the illusion.

But you don’t.

Because his hand is on your waist, his other hand holding yours just right. His body is solid and warm against you, moving with you effortlessly like he was made for this. The scent of leather lingers on him, comforting and intoxicating.

He is looking at you like you are the only person in the room.

And you don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing until he speaks.

“I don’t like how low his hands were.”

The words are gritted out, low and quiet, meant just for you.

Your heart stumbles. You should not find that as attractive as you do.

“Jason–”

He exhales sharply through his nose. “He knows. He’s just trying to het under my skin.”

You blink up at him, heat rising to your cheeks. “Jay, it was just a dance.”

His fingers flex against your waist.

Your breath catches in your throat. The words send something electric through you, something dangerous. You don’t have time to respond.

Because Tim, damn Tim, is still standing there, watching the whole exchange with way too much satisfaction.

“Well,” he muses, rocking back on his heels. “That was interesting.”

Jason finally acknowledges him by glowering in his direction.

“Get lost, Drake.”

Tim grins. Because while he may not have gotten a confession, he definitely got confirmation.

After your encounter with Tim, you and Jason had agreed to lay extra low. No unnecessary risks, no slip-ups. No feeding into their suspicions. That plan, of course, went up in flames, quite literally when you almost lost a damn arm.

Jason had nearly lost his mind.

Now, standing in the training room with Cassandra, you tug absentmindedly at the hem of your sleeve, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in your arm.

Cass, however, does not.

“That’s one nasty burn,” she winces, crouching slightly to get a better look at the angry, blistering wound.

You shift uncomfortably under her scrutiny. “It’s nothing, really,” you say, waving a dismissive hand. “I was just reaching into the oven to grab some muffins, and my arm accidentally hit the hot rack.”

Jason, standing beside you with his arms crossed, snorts.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Told you to be careful this morning.”

The second the words leave his mouth, his body goes rigid. His eyes widen slightly, realizing his mistake.

Shit.

Cass doesn’t even blink before zeroing in.

“What was that?”

Jason schools his expression into mock confusion. “What was what?”

“Don’t play coy, Todd.” Cass’s voice is sharp, her dark eyes locked onto him with an intensity that could crack glass.

Jason ever so stubborn and entirely unwilling to admit defeat, doesn’t back down.

“I don’t know what you mean.” He doesn’t flinch.

Cass tilts her head, unconvinced. “I heard the two of you were on patrol pretty late last night.” Her gaze flickers between you and Jason, noting every shift in body language, every subtle tell. “So tell me, Todd… what were you doing with [Name] this morning too? Did you, perhaps, sleep together?”

Silence.

The tension in the room thickens, settling over you like an impending storm. Your pulse spikes. Jason’s jaw locks. Cass’s eyes remain unmoving, sharp as a blade.

The stalemate stretches too long.

Before Cass can press further, you jump in.

“What Jason meant,” you say quickly, forcing an easy laugh, “is that our patrol ended at around six in the morning. I invited him over for a snack, is all.”

You will her to believe it.

Jason exhales subtly beside you, relaxing ever so slightly at your quick save.

Cass, however, is not satisfied.

“You never invite me over for snacks,” she states, arms crossing over her chest.

You frown. “I’m sorry, Cass. How about next time?”

She considers for a moment, expression unreadable, before nodding.

“I’ll be there at sunrise.”

You smile, nudging her shoulder. “It’s a deal.”

Cass eyes the two of you for another long second before finally, finally, grabbing her bag and exiting the room.

The moment the door clicks shut, Jason lets out a heavy breath.

Without warning, his large frame topples over yours, his solid weight pressing against your back as he buries his face into the crook of your neck.

“You’re gonna kill me one day,” he mutters, lips brushing the sensitive skin near your ear. His voice is low, gravelly, full of something raw and unguarded.

His arms encircle you, pulling you flush against him.

You bite back a smile, leaning into his warmth.

“Have I told you how much I love you?” His lips graze the nape of your neck, lingering.

“Not nearly enough,” you murmur.

It’s a lie.

Because Jason tells you every single day.

If not with his words, then with the way he looks at you. With the way he touches you like you’re the most precious thing in the world. With the way he freaks out over every little injury, over every near miss, like the thought of losing you would be enough to unmake him.

And God, if he wasn’t so damn obvious about it.

Your charade finally comes to an end on a rare night. The entire family gathered around the Wayne Manor dining table. It had taken weeks of convincing, countless rescheduled plans, and Alfred’s unshakable will to make it happen. You silently applaud him, watching as he moves seamlessly around the table, topping off glasses and making sure everyone eats.

The conversation is lively but controlled, an unspoken agreement hanging in the air: no fights. Bruce was actually eating rather than brooding, Damian had only thrown out two insults so far, and Tim was at least half-awake. For a Wayne family dinner, this was practically peaceful.

No one notices that you and Jason are sitting a little too close, they’re all too engrossed with the hearty meal and a rare opportunity of having a civil conversation with each other.

Jason, ever the attentive boyfriend, wordlessly reaches for the serving platter and places another thick slice of roast onto your plate. Then, he carefully spoons asparagus onto your dish, making sure it’s coated just enough with hollandaise sauce just the way you like it.

“Eat up, sweetheart.” His voice is low and smooth, meant just for you.

Your heart does a little flutter at the name, and your lips tug into a smile as you pick up your fork.

But then a familiar voice turns the entire night around.

“Forgive me if I’m wrong,” Damian’s voice cuts through the table, as sharp as one of his throwing knives, “but doesn’t ‘sweetheart’ have romantic implications?”

Silence.

A few forks hover mid-air. Bruce pauses as he cuts into his steak. Dick, who had been talking to Cass, freezes mid-sentence. Tim, who had been half-heartedly scrolling through his phone under the table, suddenly looks very awake.

“No, you’re absolutely right,” Dick leans back in his chair, grinning like he just hit the jackpot. His eyes flicker with amusement as he clasps his hands together. 

Jason’s chewing slows. Your eyes flicker to his face, trying to gauge his reaction. This was it. The moment he always dreaded.

“Todd just called [Last Name] ‘sweetheart,’” Damian supplies, ever helpful, pointing at the two of you with his fork.

Cass and Tim share a knowing glance, both nodding in quiet confirmation.

Dick gapes. “In front of my salad?”

Jason, rather than looking panicked, looks entirely unbothered. Too unbothered. His jaw moves as he stuffs another carrot into his mouth, chews deliberately, and then–

“It’s our one-year anniversary next month.”

Chaos erupts.

“WHAT?”

“I KNEW IT!”

“Called it.”

“Took you guys long enough!”

Tim smacks the table, rattling the silverware. Dick throws his hands in the air. Cass laughs silently, shaking her head as if she’s just been vindicated after months of waiting.

Stephanie, meanwhile, grabs Tim’s arm and shakes him. “You owe me fifty-bucks, Drake.”

Bruce, to his credit, looks unfazed, save for the slight twitch of his eyebrow. He sets his knife down and looks at Jason with a measured expression.

“Well done, son.”

Jason stares at him for a moment before giving him a single nod, as if they’re discussing business strategy rather than his romantic relationship.

You’re still flustered under the sheer weight of all the attention, but then Jason’s fingers interlace with yours under the table. Warm. Steady. Protective. He gives your hand a light squeeze, and just like that, your nerves settle.

The chatter continues, voices overlapping.

“I suppose that means I won the bet?”

The room stills.

Jason’s head snaps up. “Wait. What?”

Tim, not even looking ashamed, shrugs. “Technically, nobody won. We all knew already.”

Damian scowls. “The condition was that someone had to prove it. I did that tonight. Therefore, I win.”

Jason straightens in his chair, voice dangerously low. “Hold on. You had a bet?!”

You grimace, bracing yourself as the night takes a turn.

Tim leans back in his chair, smirking. “Oh, yeah. This has been going for months.”

“How much?” Jason demands, his eyes narrowing.

Dick, grinning, raises his glass. “A hundred bucks.”

Jason turns to you, betrayed. “Did you know about this?”

You shake your head furiously. “I would’ve rigged it to win if I had.”

“Unbelievable,” Jason mutters, rubbing his temples.

But then he feels your thumb brush gently over his knuckles, and suddenly, the noise fades into the background. He turns to you, the frustration melting from his features as he takes in the warmth of your smile, the way your eyes are only on him.

You squeeze his hand. “Well,” you say softly, just for him. “At least we don’t have to sneak around anymore.”

Jason exhales a low chuckle, shaking his head before turning to you fully. There’s adoration in his eyes, open and raw and entirely unguarded. His lips form the silent words, ‘I love you,’ and though no sound escapes, you hear it in the way his eyes soften, in the way his fingers tighten just slightly around yours. Your breath catches, warmth blooming in your chest, and without thinking, you smile radiantly, mirroring the love on his face.

thank you for reading! comments n reblogs are appreciated 💋

[endlessdreaam]

hey so can I have scenario with dick grayson where his s/o has a husky and the dogs normally so well behaved, happy, playful and good whenever dick’s not around, but as soon as dick’s around, the dogs grumpy, eats his underwear, coat and shoes so he has to go commando on way home, if Dick talks to the husky, the husky mocks him by being chatty husky barking, growls and howls, somehow looks at dick like he’s saying: The audacity of this human speaking to me. If he brings up dogs behaviour to s/o is like “I noticed… I don’t know why he’s doing that. I think we should start putting your stuff on top of my kitchen shelves so he can’t reach”. One day though when dick’s injured the dog comes up to him and licks his face as like a truce and sits with him and lets him pet fur?

The drama, the feuding... And watching them amusedly to see who'd cave first. Peak entertainment tbh 😂. Hope you like it.

Dick Grayson vs. One (1) Husky

Dick Grayson prided himself on being charming—he could talk his way out of most situations, flip his way out of the others, and had a pretty solid track record of making a good impression.

Except on your husky.

Your usually well-behaved, sweet, and affectionate dog transformed into a full-fledged menace the second Dick stepped into your apartment.

It started with small things. A grumble when Dick sat too close to you. A side-eye when he dared kiss your cheek. Then the destruction began—Dick’s favorite sneakers? Gone. His jacket? Shredded. His underwear? Vanished into the depths of your husky’s stomach.

One too many times, Dick had to ride home from your place commando. He didn’t even complain about it anymore. It was just his reality.

"Look," Dick said one night as he held up what remained of his tattered sock, "your dog hates me."

You tilted your head, genuinely confused. "I don’t know why he’s doing that. I’ve noticed, but… maybe we should start putting your stuff on the kitchen shelves where he can’t reach?"

Dick groaned. "I’m a grown man. I shouldn’t have to baby-proof my belongings against a dog."

Meanwhile, the husky sat nearby, eyes squinted as if he understood every single word. Then, just to add insult to injury, he let out a long, dramatic, and unmistakably mocking howl.

Dick narrowed his eyes. "You have the audacity to backtalk me?"

The husky tilted his head, huffed, and trotted off, leaving Dick to glare after him.

This went on for months. Dick tried everything—winning over your dog with treats (denied), belly rubs (rejected), and even speaking softly to him (mocked with more howling). The husky was not impressed.

This lasted until things shifted one day.

Dick came over, moving slower than usual. A rough patrol had left him bruised, scraped, and limping just enough that even he couldn’t hide it from you. The husky, who had been curled up on the couch, perked up and padded over.

Dick tensed. "What? You gonna trip me now?"

Instead, the husky sniffed him, huffed, then—before Dick could react—licked his face once.

A peace offering.

Stunned, Dick blinked. "Did you just—"

The husky sighed, plopped down beside him, and rested his head against Dick’s leg.

You arch a brow in amusement.

Dick smirked, cautiously running a hand through the thick fur. "Finally decided I’m worth something, huh?"

The husky let out a soft boof—not quite a growl, not quite a bark, but an acknowledgment. A truce.

You laughed. "Guess you just had to nearly get yourself killed for his approval."

Dick grinned, rubbing the husky’s side. "Worth it."

The husky, ever dramatic, let out one final groan, as if saying: Don’t push your luck, human.

[endlessdreaam]

I KNEW YOU WERE TROUBLE.

Pairing: Jason Todd x Female!Reader

Summary: You knew he was trouble when he walked in.

Warning: This story contains attachment issues, strong language and some of the things might be upsetting to some of my readers. Please read it at your own risk! (I really need to learn how to write warnings 🫵🏻)

A/N: ughh, i have a hate and love relationship with this fic!!

The first time you met Jason Todd, you weren’t looking for trouble you were just trying to get home. You never look for trouble but somehow you were attracting it. Every. Damn. Time.

It was late—too late for your own liking even, and you knew better than to be out this time of night. Gotham was always worse after dark, the streets turning into a playground for trouble. Bad smelling streets, horrible people and wet weather. But you had been at a friend's place, one drink turned into three, three turned into six, and before you knew it; you were drunk as fuck and the last bus had already left the station. And your stubbornness made you believe that you could walk eight kilometres, after dark, in Gotham. Alcohol could make some people funnier, some people sadder and for you; it was making you bolder.

So you walked.

Red hood up, hands deep in your pockets, footsteps quick but not too quick. You knew how Gotham worked. If you looked lost, you were lost. If you looked scared, someone would give you a reason to be. So you were trying to be confident, just enough to make people think they shouldn't mess with you. But not too much for them to wonder where this confidence is coming from.

The alley wasn’t your usual route home, but it was a shortcut. A dumb idea, probably, but the alternative was another fifteen minutes in the cold, and you had already made one reckless decision tonight—why not make more?

The first sign of trouble was the way the hairs on the back of your neck stood up. You felt like the weather just got colder. Maybe it was because of the alley, maybe it was because of the wet streets or maybe, just maybe you felt the danger coming up

The second was the sound of footsteps.

Not yours.

You kept your head down, fighting the urge to look over your shoulder, to see who was following you. 'Keep walking' you said to yourself 'keep moving'. But the footsteps behind you didn’t fade at all. They grew louder, scarier.

Your stomach clenched with fear.

Shit.

You were fucked up.

"Hey, sweetheart."

You froze.

The voice was rough and old. You turned your head slightly, just enough to see the silhouettes of the three guys behind you. They were spread out, blocking the view of the alley. Not wasted, but drunk enough to be reckless. Just like you were.

Your pulse kicked up.

"Where you headed, love?" one of them asked, stepping forward. The nickname gave you a disgusting feeling, almost making you vomit.

You shifted your weight on your legs, trying to calculate if you could outrun them. Maybe, probably not, most likely not, actually not really.

"Nowhere." you said, keeping your voice steady.

They grinned. Those disgusting beings.

"That's perfect," the tallest and the broader one said. "’Cause we ain't got nowhere to be either." They laughed, like he said the funniest thing ever.

And that was when you knew—this wasn’t just some drunken mistake.

They had been waiting. Waiting for a girl, a woman to show up. To do unspeakable things.

Your muscles tense, mind racing through every possible exit strategy. Could you scream? Gotham was louder probably and no one would care, at least you wouldn't if you heard one. And now you were begging for someone to do what you wouldn't do, such a hypocrite you were. Could you fight? You knew some self-defense, but three against one? And they were probably stronger than you. You cursed yourself for quitting your classes. Could you talk them out of it? Yeah, you probably couldn't.

You were about to do something stupid—maybe run, maybe fight when it happened.

A blur of movement.

Then a sharp crack of bone against bone. A gross voice flesh hitting a flesh.

One of the guys hit the ground before you even processed what was happening in front of you.

You turned...

And there he was.

Dark jacket, hood down, eyes flashing dangerously. He was tall, he seemed strong and he had black hair with a white streak in front of it.

Jason Todd.

Jason Fucking Todd.

You didn’t know his name then though. Didn’t know who he was, what he had done, or why he was so damn fast. All you knew was that one second, you were even now.

And the next?

Jason had already taken one of them down and was rolling his shoulders like he hadn’t even broken a sweat. His dangerous smirk appears on his lips.

"Three against one?" he mused. "Tsk. Not very fair now, is it?"

The two guys still hesitated, exchanging a glance.

Jason grinned. "Don't let me stop you." He waved his hand like it was nothing. He seemed effortless, too effortless even.

The second one lunged forward.

It was over in seconds.

A fist to the gut. A sharp elbow to the jaw. The guy crumpled, groaning, begging him. It was pathetic, really.

The last one didn’t even try. He took off running, boots slamming against the road as he disappeared down the alley.

Jason watched him go, then exhaled sharply, shaking out his hand to release the pain on his knuckles. "Cowards."

You were still standing there, heart racing, your mind struggling to catch up.

Jason turned to you.

"You're welcome."

And that was the moment.

Not the fight. Not the rescue. Not even the disgusting blood that came from their mouths.

This.

The way he looked at you, like he was waiting to see what you’d do. The way he smirked, so casual, so unbothered, like he hadn’t just wrecked two guys in under a minute. Like he hadn't just saved your damn life.

"Who the hell are you?" you asked before you could stop yourself, backing up just in case.

Jason tilted his head like he was calculating something.

"No one important."

Liar.

After that night, you told yourself it was a one-time thing. You weren't going to see him again.

Jason Todd had saved you, wrecked two guys like it was nothing, made one of them run away most probably shitting his pants while doing it and then disappeared into the night with a cocky smirk and a half-assed answer.

Except you were in fact going to see him again.

You started noticing him. Or maybe he started noticing you. Or maybe, you know, when life points out something that is already there you start to notice it more.

The first time after the alley incident, you saw him at a diner on 10th Street. You knew the owner, she was an old sweet lady. You had gone in for coffee like you always do, saying hi to waiters and the owner with a big smile and there he was, leaning against the counter, black leather jacket, fingers tapping lazily against his cup. He didn’t look like he belonged there, too sharp, too dangerous. Although the red decor in the diner was resembling him, the polka dots on the counter most definitely weren't.

You hesitated to say hi. Maybe he didn’t remember you. Maybe this was a coincidence. But then, without looking up, he spoke.

"You are following me, sweetheart?"

You almost choked on your breath. Him? Calling you out? Like you would actually follow him like a fucking creep?

"Excuse me?" you shot back, crossing your arms, furrowing.

Jason finally turned his head, blue eyes shining with something amused, something challenging. He looked you up and down, slow and lazy. He was so different from that night. Much more relaxed and on ease. "Didn’t take you for the type to get hooked on a savior complex."

Your face burned and you scoffed while raising your hands as you surrendered. "You’re insane."

"And you’re predictable." He leaned in, lowering his voice. "Tell me, did you walk down that street again, hoping you’d see me?"

You hadn't. Not on purpose. And why would you anyway?

But the accusation clung to you long after you left. His cockiness, his smugness.

And that was only the beginning.

Because you kept running into him.

Gotham was huge. You never run into your childhood friends or even your relatives yet somehow, Jason Todd was everywhere.

You saw him at a different diner two weeks later, which turned out to be his usual place. Then a bookstore, your favorite one to be specific. Then once, at midnight, when you were walking home from the store, buying cigarettes you heard footsteps behind you once and whipped around only to find him strolling past like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Each time, he had something to say.

"Gotta stop looking at me like that, sweetheart."

"You scared? Thought we got past that stage."

"If you keep staring, I'm gonna start thinking you actually like me."

And somehow, some-fucking-how this back-and-forth became a thing. Your usual thing with him.

You never planned it. But Jason Todd had a way of making the world smaller, of making it impossible not to notice him.

It was annoying. So annoying at some point.

But also... thrilling in a way.

Because with Jason, everything felt like an edge. Like he could kiss you or ruin you, and you wouldn’t know which one until it was already too late. Life felt more brighter.

The streets were shining with neon reflections. You stayed out too late with your friends once again. And you were going back home once again. Being drunk made you mad this time. Mad was the right choice of word because although you knew it could be dangerous, you still took the shortcut. Hoping to see him, putting yourself in danger.

Then you saw them.

Two guys, leaning against the wall, talking in low voices—too low. The kind of voices that meant trouble.

Your stomach twisted, you couldn't help but smile.

You tried to walk past fastly. Hoping that he would show up, again.

They didn’t let you.

One of them stepped forward, blocking your way. "Hey, cutie. You lost?"

You took a step back—right into the other one’s chest.

A hand grazed your arm, too casual, too familiar. You knew this game.

"Don’t—"

"She’s cute," the first guy murmured, ignoring you completely. "Bet she tastes even cuter."

Your breath hitched. He wasn't going to show up, not in time. You were dumb, DUMB.

Everything that could happen runs in front of your eyes like a movie.

Then—

A movement. A dull crack. A choked noise.

And suddenly, Jason was there.

Not just there. Everywhere.

One second, the guy was smirking—the next, Jason had him by the collar, slamming him into the brick wall so hard the impact echoed through the alley. His blood is staining them.

The other one moved—Jason struck. A sharp hit to the ribs, another to the jaw, movements so fluid and violent you barely registered them before both men were down.

Jason didn’t even look winded.

He turned to you, rain dripping from his hair, eyes dark with something unreadable. There he was, your knight in shining armor. Although he probably preferred leather. "You really need to stop walking into trouble, sweetheart."

You shivered.

Not from the cold. Not from fear.

From him.

From the way he looked at you. From the way his body was so close, heat radiated off him in the chilled air.

"I—"

Jason exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. Then he grabbed your wrist—gently, but firmly. Like you were a glass that could break any moment. "Come on. I’m walking you home."

You should have pulled away. Should have protested but wasn't it what you wanted from the beginning

So you didn’t.

You let him pull you into the rain, your fingers tingling.

And maybe that was the moment it really started because after that, Jason Todd never really left your side.

Jason Todd kept showing up. More like a shadow. A presence. Someone who was there even when you weren’t looking for him.

You’d see him leaning outside a bar, cigarette between his fingers, watching you with that lazy, knowing smirk.

Or—most dangerous of all—you’d feel him, close, when you were walking home late, just far enough away not to startle you, but near enough that you knew. Your movements were becoming more sloppy, trusting he would show up. And every damn time he did.

He was watching. He was waiting.

And you hated it because it was working.

Jason Todd had infiltrated your life, slowly, methodically, like a damn virus and you let him.

It was a stormy night.

A real one, thunder rolling over the city, the streets are glossy with reflections. Gotham was more tolerable when it was raining. You've always felt like the raindrops were erasing every filthy corner and giving the city its well-deserved break for once. You were soaked by the time you reached your building, fingers trembling as you searched for your keys in your bag. A little walk, a night walk to be more specific was so worth it.

Then a voice, his voice, was heard behind you.

"Need help, sweetheart?"

You turned so fast you almost slipped. Raindrops falling from the tip of your hair.

Jason was there, leaning against the brick wall, hood up. His smile was astonishing but his eyes—God, his eyes—were the real treasure. He was like a fire and you wouldn't mind burning.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

He tilted his head like he couldn't understand your snarky behavior. "Keeping you company. You tend to get yourself into trouble when I'm not around."

Your pulse was already a mess because of him. It's been months now, months of this weird game. "Jason—"

He moved. Too close, too quick, too knowing.

One second he was leaning—next, he was right there, barely a breath away, one hand braced on the wall beside your head. You've seen him move this fast before, when he saved you that night and the other night. But seeing it this close made you wonder, where the fuck did he learn this stuff.

Heat. So much heat coming off of your body.

"You should really stop making it so easy for me to find you," he murmured.

Your stomach dropped. You blinked blankly.

"You—"

"You keep running into me," he corrected the words before you even said it. And the weird thing was, you were actually going to say that exact same thing."Or maybe, sweetheart, you just don’t wanna admit you’ve been looking."

Your throat went dry.

Because he wasn’t wrong. He was rarely wrong.

Because every time you see him, your heart skipped. Because you were addicted, like a gambler would. Seeing him was your highest bet and being right every time made you want more.

Jason saw that realization forming across your face—because his smirk deepened.

"Thought so."

His fingers brushed yours. Soft. Almost teasing. You could feel his calloused skin on his hand. He was working hard, you know it.

Your breath hitched.

He leaned in, lips barely a whisper from your ear. "You gonna let me in, or are we gonna keep pretending?"

And that was it.

That was the moment you made the worst decision of your life.

Because instead of walking away—instead of telling him to leave—

You unlocked the door.

And let him in.

Jason Todd was a bad idea.

You knew that.

Hell, even the next door neighbor knew that.

The universe was sending you signs and you were avoiding them, drastically.

But there was something about him—something extremely impossible to ignore.

The way he looked at you, like he was waiting for you to figure him out, like he was challenging you to do so, like he was waiting for someone, someone like you, to do it. The way he vanished sometimes, out of the blue, without a reason; only to reappear like he’d never left.

The way he teased you.

"You keep showing up in my life," you told him once, trying to sound unimpressed or sad because of the long disappearances.

Jason smirked. "Funny. I was thinking the same thing about you." Like you were the one with random bruises, broken arms/ribs.

He made you laugh when you didn’t want to. Even the weirdest situations, like that one time when you had a fight with the lady down the block who accused you for being an uneducated rat because you didn't let her steal your spot in the grocery line.

Made you curious when you shouldn’t be. About his past especially. He loved listening to your music about your family but when you asked about his family he would dismiss it.

And, most of all...

He made you wonder.

If he’d ever let you in.

If you’d survive it if he did.

Because Jason Todd wasn’t just a bad idea.

He was a bad habit.

And you were already getting addicted.

Jason, on the other hand, didn’t know when it started. The habit of walking the same street, lingering on the same rooftops, always ending up in the same damn place, watching your apartment from the shadows. Yes fate had a funny way with people but most of these encounters weren't coincident, not entirely.

He could tell every place you had been since both of you met, he could tell your coffee order although you guys never had a coffee together, he could tell your favorite hobbies although you never mentioned them. He knew every damn little thing you do. He was watching, watching for a long time now.

Maybe it was the quietness that drew him in. You had this way of existing so effortlessly, a life untouched by the kind of filth he dealt with every night in that fucking city. You never thought to be careful because you didn’t have to be. Your world was simple, safe. And Jason? He was neither of those things.

Yet he kept coming back.

He told himself it was just caution at first. You lived in Gotham, and Gotham could eat you alive. It wasn’t about you. It was about the city, about crime, about anything but you. You could be a target. Anyone could. He couldn't keep an eye on everyone he saved but you were in need so that's why he was just looking out for you. That’s all it was, a fellow vigilante looking out for the city's citizens.

That was a lie.

Because he knew damn well this had nothing to do with Gotham and everything to do with the way you curled up with a book by the window, the book he bought for you. Or the way you sipped your coffee slowly like you had all the time in the world in your hands. Or the way you would pause on the sidewalk to give money to the man (who wasn't even poor anyway, Jason saw him getting into his big mansion multiple times) on the corner every single morning, with a big smile on your face. He could watch you for hours, he could talk with you for hours, hell he could even sit in silence and he hated himself for it. For making you his problem when you never asked to be.

And yet, Jason kept coming and going like a ghost.

Some nights, he left without a second thought, instinctively. Others, he lingered too long one time it was a whole fucking week. Stood beneath a streetlight just to be closer. Walked past your building with his helmet off like some part of him wanted to be seen, to be known. Like maybe—maybe—if you saw him, he wouldn't have to explain all this vigilante life to you and you would just accept the fact that every damn night when he's going out he can die and never return. Maybe he’d remember what it felt like to be something other than this.

But that was reckless, stupid. He’d never let himself get close enough to be recognized, and he never let himself think about why.

It was stupid that he thought he could do this on and on.

Until the night everything came crashing down.

It happened fast, too fast even. A setup, he should’ve seen it coming. Jason barely had time to process before his enemy was grinning at him, tossing a handful of glossy photographs at his feet. The world was about to go black just a little as he recognized what he was looking at.

You.

Reading by the window, drinking coffee, shopping. Living your daily, normal, safe, unremarkable life.

The life he just shattered by being selfish.

By thinking that he could have something normal for once.

Jason forced his face to stay blank, jaw tightening as he looked up. He couldn't let them think you were important to him. That they could do something to you to make his entire world upside down. That your pure soul leaving this world would make him believe that no one else's worth saving."I dunno what you’re talkin’ about."

The ugly guy in front of him chuckled, pulling out a phone, tapping the screen. "You don't know, you say? So you wouldn't mind my boys having some fun with her?"

Jason stilled. Even the thought of that made him sick. The phone screen flickered, there was a video feed, grainy but clear enough. A timestamp from minutes ago. Your apartment. You were inside, curled up on the couch, completely unaware of the men standing outside your building. Watching you completely unaware of the men standing outside your building. Watching you like a predator, waiting you like a predator.

His fingers twitched toward his gun, but he forced himself to stop. If they knew this much, if they were watching you like this…

"Call them off." His voice was low, dangerous, and angry.

The villain smirked. "Oh? So you do know her."

And that was it. That was the moment Jason knew he had to disappear. That was the moment he realized he could never, ever have something in his life as long as he was the infamous red hood.

He stopped visiting you after that. No more rooftops, no more lingering in the dark, no more coming out of nowhere to save you things, no more encounters. You couldn’t be his problem anymore. He couldn't be your problem anymore. He’d been selfish, stupid, putting you in danger just by existing near you. So he made sure to stay away. As much as it was possible.

You noticed. It was here and there. You didn't see him anymore, you didn't encounter him, you didn't feel safe. You didn't try to find him because you were sure you wouldn't find him.

The way you’d glance out of your window a little too long some nights. The way you hesitated before unlocking your door during the nights, like some part of you was waiting for something, even if you didn’t know what.

Jason had to grit his teeth and force himself not to care.

You were safer this way. You had to be.

Even if it meant you'd never see him again.

[endlessdreaam]

Jason doesn’t know how to say “no.”

Yes, he complains. Yes, he has opinions. But despite all the talk, he always gives in.

You need a ride? He always reminds you not to tell him last minute and how he can’t stand to be in traffic, but as he complains about it he is putting on your personal motorcycle helmet on your head and taking off to drop you wherever you want

Craving a specific food? He can't believe it's right when they are closing and the only available place that sells it is on the other side of town. But you know what, he's pulling out pans, pots, anything to make it right in your apartment after he got the ingredients at the store. if that fails, he's already on his way in the morning as soon as it opens

You liked one of the shirts he's wearing? He starts on about how he has a shortage of shirts and he can't seem to find anything to present himself as a civilian anymore AS HE'S CURRENTLY TAKING OFF HIS SHIRT TO GIVE TO YOU

so yeah, he's a complainer but he will not tell you 'no'

[endlessdreaam]

LADS Men React a Picture of You with Another guy

Request: Hii!! I love your writing so so much (pls never stop)!!! How do you think the lads men would react to the following scenario: mc makes one of her girl friends dress like a guy and post that on her story/moments (to ward off an annoying co-worker, like what Caleb did in uni, but mc didnt want to bother the guys with this request so she asked Tara or another one of her girl friends). The picture, though, is convincing enough to make even the lads men question if she actually does have a partner and who tf is he. I think Xavier would absolutely malfunction since they are also neighbours lol

AN: I am taking a break from the ship event to gather some inspiration. But this was super fun to write. Thank you for sending in such an amazing idea.

Warning: Potential Spoilers. Be Mindful 👺

Pairing: Lads boys x fem reader

Genre: fluff and angst

(I do not own these characters)

Summary: Waking up after an amazing girls' night, you and Tara spent the morning taking silly photos, making all kinds of concerning faces, until inspiration struck.

"Wait, wait, hold on," Tara grinned, pushing her short hair back. "What if—"

Moments later, you were both giggling uncontrollably, staging fake hard launch photos in your bed. The blurry, cozy results? Surprisingly convincing.

"Oh, this is gonna blow up at work."

Tara rested her chin on your neck, wrapping an arm around you for the final shot. The picture was better than you imagined, so naturally, you posted it to your story before the two of you rushed to get ready for work.

And just like that, your social media went up in flames.

Rafayel:

623 missed calls. 200 texts. 82 more missed calls.

All hours after your post.

Who is he? Why are you in bed with him? Is he your boyfriend? What is his name?

You barely have time to breathe after your meeting before the onslaught of texts floods in. Even the comment section of your post hasn’t been spared.

Thomas is already on the case. Rafayel is whining, sobbing, crying and absolutely not afraid to play dirty to get you back.

He's already planned a hundred ways to nip this budding romance at the root.

He thinks he has the upper hand, feels kinda smug about it too.

Still… there’s a twinge of heartbreak. A little ache for having to wait longer for you, for the idea that you might have chosen someone else. But if nothing else, Rafayel is persistent.

So, of course, he’s already forgiven you.

But don’t think, even for a second, that he won’t complain about it.

He’s still mulling over it, dramatically painting all his canvases black, getting ready for his villain arc, when you finally call him back.

"A prank?"

He is indignant.

He cried over a prank.

All that effort… for nothing.

"IT’S BEEN 800 YEARS. JELLYFISH ARE WALKING. NAKED SEA TURTLES ARE CLIMBING TREES. SHARKS ARE EATING GRASS—FOR FREE. "

AND RAFAYEL?

RAFAYEL CRIED OVER A PRANK.

HE WENT FULL VILLAIN ARC FOR A LIE.

HIS CANVASES ARE BLACK. HIS PLANS FOR REVENGE? RUINED.

ALL BECAUSE YOU AND TARA WANTED TO PLAY GAMES.

He might never recover. Might. But first, he needs to call Thomas back before his "investigation" starts a national crisis.

Xavier:

He had just returned from a long night of fighting Wanderers when his phone chimed with an alert.

Half-asleep, he smiled at the sight of your name, already thinking of how he'd respond once he changed and collapsed into bed.

That smile froze the moment he saw the picture.

The phone slipped from his fingers, landing on his face. But he didn’t even wince. Too numb to feel it.

His vision blurred. His chest ached. Tears welled, unbidden.

Genuinely heartbroken. So weary. So tired. For a moment, he was shattered.

Did he have the strength to wager another lifetime?

His time was already running out. His strength faded with each passing day. He had selfishly wanted this spring with you...but this was better for you. You were too kind, too caring to bear his loss.

Perhaps this was for the best. His lips trembled at the thought.

You had someone now, someone who would not bring you grief. And you looked so happy in that photo. He stared at the blurred curve of your smile, tracing it with his gaze.

Somehow, he managed a small smile too.

And then he folded into himself. And slept.

For days.

So long that you started to worry, noticing his absence at work.

Until, finally, you barge into his apartment, breathless and frantic, only to find him asleep, moonlight spilling across his face, eerily still.

Your heart plummeted.

"Xavier." Your voice trembled as you rushed to him, fingers shaking as you took his hand.

For a terrible, suffocating second, he didn’t move.

And then, his brow twitched.

Air rushed back into your lungs.

Zayne:

This was to be expected.

He was never what you needed.

He often failed at words. His gestures, too vague to be understood.

You deserved someone who loved you. Someone who had the courage to say those words out loud.

Not him.

Not someone who could hurt you. His scars only grow deeper with time.

So he accepts it. Buries himself in work.

If he could not be your lover, then he would play his part as a friend.

Pays extra attention to your health. Pours over your reports. He must. Because he is no longer close enough to watch over you himself.

And weeks later, when you finally visit him, he keeps up the act—cold, distant, unbothered.

He does all the tests. Runs all the checks. Everything is routine.

But you see it.

The dark circles, deeper than ever. His skin, paler. Cheeks, sunken. His shirt, unwashed.

"You're coming home with me."

Your voice leaves no room for argument as you take his hand. "You never call. You only text about my reports and nothing more. We need to talk."

You tug him forward. He follows, until he stops.

"Your boyfriend won’t like it," he murmurs, staring anywhere but at you.

Silence.

"What boyfriend?"

You blink at him, dumbfounded.

Sylus:

Sylus spits his coffee, choking as he stares at the pictures.

Does not buy it.

That’s clearly not a man.

Yet somehow, he keeps going back to it, again and again.

It’s only when Luke and Kieran peer over his shoulder that his denial starts cracking.

"Ooooh, boss has got competition," Luke chimes.

One minute, they’re laughing. The next, they’re outside the mansion, the door slamming shut behind them.

Luke blinks. "That explains..."

Kieran yanks him into a chokehold for getting them banished for the day.

Inside, Sylus switches to wine.

The day has been too much.

Not a man, right? he muses, scrutinizing the photo, before accidentally pressing the heart button.

And then, he all but chews the glass in his hand.

He’s not worried.

He just suddenly feels the urge to burn his entire closet because nothing looks good enough.

He doesn’t care.

He’s just made a few calls, just to make sure you’re not involved with anyone sketchy. Unless, of course, it’s him.

Then, like an absolute idiot, he gets a panicked call from an associate.

The only person who’s been in your apartment? Tara.

Sylus stares at the image. Facepalms.

That evening, when he picks you up from work, he looks exhausted.

As if a few hours have aged him years.

When you ask, he waves you off, dodging every question.

You raise a brow. "Are you sure? You look—"

"I said it’s nothing," he snaps, before sighing, dragging a hand down his face. "...Can we just go home

Caleb:

Storming to Linkon.

Geared up to blow up the entire apartment complex.

Spends five minutes struggling with the locked door before finally getting it open.

Marches in.

Stops. Sighs in disapproval at your empty fridge.

Good thing he packed snacks. Leaves them on your counter. You’ll thank him later.

Then, back to the mission.

Collects all forensic evidence needed. Marches out.

No time to waste.

Supervises the DNA administration.

Hair sample. Used coffee mug. Both next to yours.

He will find the bastard. He will take him out.

And then, he will whisk you away to Skyheaven, to console you once you learn of your tragic, mysterious loss.

Grief will bring you closer.

Every intern running tests is sweating.

So are the lead scientists, who have been personally forced to oversee this insanity.

No one is messing with the colonel today.

And then, finally, the results land on his desk.

Caleb stares. Dumbfounded.

Is he to fight both men and women for you now?

You better watch out for Tara because he does not discriminate.

[endlessdreaam]

CALEB FIC RECS // mdni!

good enough - @/cinnamorollcrybaby

jealou$y - @/tojicide

just a man - @/cutiefulism

do you want more? - @/luvcaleb

caleb, the farspace colonel - @/aomiiine

killshot - @/lalunanymph

shh… we can’t get caught - @/luvcaleb

first time - @/aeyumicore

making you feel me - @/aomiiine

snap and break - @/lalunanymph

in his hands - @/highdefhoetry

you’re mine - @/luvcaleb

watch my 9mm go bang! - @/cinnamorollcrybaby

save a plane, rawdog a pilot - @/aomiiine

held close - @/prisjean

come home? cum home! - @/aomiiine

quickies - @/1-800-adore-me

morning after - @/seasidebubbles

my beloved boys - @/unintentionalseductress

in bloom - @/lalunanymph

somno - @/swytdoll

I DONT OWN ANY OF THESE FICS!! // CREDS TO THE WRITERS!! <3

[endlessdreaam]

you give jason todd a scare

(inspired by this post).

author's note — what’s this? another post about jason? wild.

You should have been home three hours ago.

Jason’s hands tighten around the handlebars of his motorcycle. The leather fabric of his gloves crease, slick with rain and pinching around his fingers. It’s not often that you hang back for so long afterhours, though Jason is well aware that you offer your help without second thought, often forgetting about everything else in favour of assisting where you can.

But it’s been three hours since your usual closing time, and you haven’t sent him a text yet. You always send him a text.

Clenching his jaw, Jason wipes his arm across his face harshly, brushing away the rain that lingers on his lashes. It’s not the vibrations of the engine beneath him that’s sending his thighs subtly shaking—no, it’s the adrenaline slowly inching into his system, the panic he can feel twisting inside his chest.

What if you’re alone in the pouring rain? Soaked to the bone?

The traffic light blinks green, and Jason squints through the sheets of rain while kicking back the stand. The line of cars jolt forward, brake lights dimming as tires roll across rain-soaked asphalt.

Exhaling sharply, Jason’s eyes constantly search around him, feeling as if he’s some sort of cop looking for the slightest infraction. None of Gotham’s cops do that here, but it’s what he’s seen in the few movies you’ve made him watch.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” Jason murmurs beneath his breath, body leant forward as rain pricks against his skin, tapping violently against his leather jacket.

“Where? Tell me where…”

The traffic lights ahead glow a bright red, blurred by the onslaught of water, and Jason holds down several curses and a groan. He can feel the dread in his stomach, wrapping around his intestines as he slowly comes to a stop behind a white KIA.

He needs to reach your workplace—he has to see if you’re still there, and that, maybe, your phone is just dead. It must be, because he tried to track down the location of your mobile, but nothing had come up. No blinking blue dot on his screen revealed your location to him, and nothing on Earth would get him to ask Oracle to step in. He has this under control. He’s not going to panic. Not yet.

As cars rumble around him and the bike’s engine rattles beneath him, Jason silently berates himself for not having some sort of conversation about things like this with you. He should have given you instructions on what to do if your phone dies, or if you can’t get home for some reason—he could have prevented all of this if he had just given you the right steps to take. And what if you’re in more danger than he thinks? Wouldn’t it be his fault if you weren’t prepared at all or trained to some small degree in order to defend yourself? If anything bad has happened to you, that would fall on him. Without a doubt.

A horn blares behind Jason, echoing painfully in his ears. The lights have flashed green, the neon colour reflecting off the cars as they lumber forward again. He would have sent the guy a rude gesture over his shoulder, but you’re running through his head—bright eyes made gentle when they lock with his, and your words quiet and low like always. He’s sure that you speak quietly for him personally, like it’s your mission in life to never speak abruptly around him, and he’s never been able to explain to you why that matters to him.

But you’ve never needed him to explain anything. You’re too intuitive for your own good. Too understanding. Too good.

“Jason!”

His heart stops. Beats once. Skips a beat. Beats erratically again. That couldn’t have been…was that…you?

Swivelling his head around frantically, Jason pays no mind to the driver behind him angrily blaring his horn, the sound filling up the street. He knows he just heard you, however faint it was over the rain.

“(Name)! Baby!” Jason calls out, voice thick with worry.

“Jason!”

Yes, that’s you—that’s you.

And you’re flailing your arms above your head, jumping up and down on the side of the curb.With his pulse drumming inside his ears, Jason barely gives it a second thought as he floors it, weaving through the moving cars and crossing lanes to reach you.

People surrounding you glance at him wearily as the engine roars, but you don’t pay them any mind as Jason screeches to a halt directly in front of you.

You barely blink and Jason’s kicking the stand and hopping off his bike. For a moment, you think he’s angry as he strides up to you, with his brows pinched together and his jaw clenched.

Your mouth opens pitifully as you prepare to stumble out your rehearsed apology, but your words die on your tongue as strong hands wrap around your biceps, and Jason grapples you to him. A huff of air escapes you as you’re shoved against his chest, but the shock instantly melts away, and you grab fistfuls of his jacket in your hands.

“I’m so sorry,” you say into his shoulder. Guilt gnaws at your stomach, and you let him tighten his grip around you, even if it feels like your ribcage might snap.

“My phone died.” Your voice shakes, and you squeeze your eyes shut as rain taps against your scalp. “And Meggie wanted me to help her with something after closing, and then her ride ditched her so we were trying to figure out an uber for her cause the taxis are terrible and—”

“Stop talking.”

You inhale sharply. “Okay.”

The silence feels tense, and the rain pricks into your skin like needles, sharp and relentless. But it’s nothing compared to the turmoil you feel on the inside, the guilt that’s threatening to send you into tears—but you can’t cry. No, this isn’t about how you feel, this is about Jason.

“Sweetheart,” Jason murmurs against your scalp, and you catch the tremor in his voice.

“Yeah?”

“I—baby, don’t do that again.” Jason pulls away, and he brings his large hands to cradle your face. You’re reminiscent of a wet alley cat, your hair sticking to your skin and your coat hanging from your frame, heavy with water. But he’s never seen you look as remorseful as you do right now. Any anger or frustration lingering in the back of his mind vanishes within an instant, as if it weren’t even there to begin with.

Purple and pink light from the overhead billboards reflect off your face, haloing your hair. You look beautiful, but more importantly, you’re okay. You’re safe, and he’s holding you in his arms. Despite the rain, despite the chill that clings to the air, your skin is still warm with life.

And that’s more than enough for Jason.

Shaking his head, he brings a hand to gently push against the back of your head and press you closer to him again. He presses a firm kiss to your temple, as if to hammer into your skin the relief surging through him.

Bystanders glance your way, eyeing what simply looks like two people embracing each other with an overwhelming amount of emotion. Feeling the panic in his chest slowly start to ebb away, Jason lets his lips fall to your cheek where he presses featherlight kisses.

You hum softly, fingers tightening around the creases in his jacket.

“I love you, Jay,” you say quietly, because you know he needs to hear it.

Jason’s heart rampages against his ribcage.

“Let’s go home, sweetheart.”

Thank you for reading, God bless <3

[endlessdreaam]

Past the Cemetery Gates

I haven't written ak!red hood in a while so here he is! This was originally for a request but I read the ask wrong and didn't realize until it was too late cause I'm mostly running off cough medicine and coffee  CW: You get chased and harassed by some creeps, and then there's some possible murder ~6.2k words

Every Sunday at three in the afternoon, you have a routine. You walk to the train station, take the six train four stops north, and, if the weather is good, you'll walk exactly six blocks to get to Gotham Cemetery. (If the weather is bad, however, you're more inclined to wait for the three-thirty-five bus, which stops almost exactly in front of the old, iron gates that lead into the graveyard)

This is the routine you have followed for every week of your life since Jason Todd died, ripped from your side by a cruel twist of fate. They called it a disappearance, an accident, a runway, all things you knew it wasn't. But it was Dick, after months and months of begging for the truth, for crumbs of anything to help ease your grief, who called it for what it was. A murder. A life ended by the bloodstained hands of the Joker.

It became a fact that engraved itself to the very core of your soul. Jason Todd was murdered. Jason Todd was murdered, so every Sunday, you find yourself standing six feet above where he should lay resting, where he should be resting forever. But the coffin you helped bury is empty, devoid of anyone or anything to care if you appear on Sundays or not.

Even so, visiting him, visiting the headstone with his name, just feels like what you have to do. He was your best friend, your foundation, and no matter how many months or years pass, it doesn't change that he is at the core of who you became. Your jokes mirror his humor, your favorite color was his too, your room is still littered with trinkets that remind you of him. You still throw punches just the way he taught you.

You couldn't just move past Jason, it never felt right to even try. So when you do go see him– his grave– you tell him about your week. Scrub the marble rock and leave flowers while you ramble about whatever is going on in the world, share jokes, relive memories, spill secrets, all to the boy who can never answer again. 

This is what you do, rain or shine, whether the city is in havoc or in some semblance of peace, in a rare calm before the next storm of mayhem whatever rouge designs to inflict on the streets of Gotham. (You've missed this tradition only once. Only the week Batman was revealed as Bruce Wayne, only after Batman died, and you had another empty coffin to stand by as it was lowered into the dirt)

It's something you're so used to, a task you know like the back of your hand. Every other Sunday, you'll run into a family with flowers, the ones that stop at a pristine white headstone to tell their grandmother about how big her grandchildren are getting. Every third Sunday, the flowers and gifts you leave behind are cleaned up by the caretakers once you leave. Every Sunday, save one or two, you smile at the elderly woman who walks in with a coffee and newspaper in hand.

These are all things that you're used to, facts known in your soul. It's why you notice him. The man in the ball cap and hoodie that hovers two rows and seven headstones behind you. The one that's been standing there before you arrive, and stands there no matter how long you stay, for the past three Sundays you've been visiting Jason. 

It's not exactly wrong for him to be there. It's just new. Different. And ever since Bruce died– ever since Dick disappeared without a whisper– you've been on edge. The whole city has been, really, but you can't help but feel like there's still a price you have to pay. That your time is somehow up. That after years of knowing who Batman is– after losing Jason and being able to do nothing about it– you're going to face something. 

You think it might be karma. Or maybe it's retribution. But there's a score to settle with the universe–  with something or someone out there. After all, knowledge has never been free in Gotham, and the weight of being associated with Batman always comes with a cost. 

It's not like you were a hero, or even the slightest bit a vigilante, but it wouldn't take a genius to figure out that you cared for Jason, and that Jason was Robin, Batman's protege.

And with no heroes left in Gotham to exact revenge on, why wouldn't they look for the next best thing? Why wouldn't that eventually make you a target? 

The paranoia isn't exactly your notion, but Tim's last, frantic warning before he went dark. But his words ring true, you've seen how everyone who's ever even talked to Bruce Wayne has been put under a microscope but the media, the GCPD, the world. And even if they haven't gotten their claws into you, it's only a matter of time before they, or someone with a score to settle does.

(Tim wasn't even the only person to warn you to watch your back, The GCPD's very own commissioner mentioned his own hushed concerns at Bruce's funeral. You had thanked him, and tried not to think too hard about what Babs not being there meant)

It should scare you, but all you feel is a vague sense of resignation. You just hope, that if whatever's coming finally catches up to you, if the slow creeping dread and feelings of being watched catches up to you, you'll find your way back to Jason.

You're snapped out of your thoughts when a voice speaks lowly behind you, you jolt, scolding yourself for getting caught off guard. But then his words register, and you whirl around, fuming, "What did you say?"

The stranger jerks his head towards the gravestone– Jason's headstone– "He was a stupid kid."

"He was not–" You start to hiss, huffing up in defense of the boy that meant everything to you, before he cuts you off.

"He was. He got himself caught. Caused a lot of problems. Trusted the wrong people. Did everything wrong and for what," he scoffs.

Your glare hardens as you step forward, trying to see under the ballcap and hood drawn low over his face, "He helped people. You can't just come here and spew whatever you feel like–"

He cuts you off again with the sound of your name, almost a warning, almost a threat. "Why are you really here," He asks, and you feel a chill creep up your spine as he digs his fists further into his pockets.

"I– always come here," you settle on. You know Bruce would chastise you for giving away your routine, but you can't find it in yourself to care when he already knows your name, with your blood simmering beneath your skin. 

"It's a waste of time. There's no one here to care," he protests, lips curling into a sneer.

"I care," you mumble, the fight draining out of you. You know that, in a way, he's right. There's no body. No Jason. No reward or salvation in your weekly visits. But you come anyway. It's just what you do. 

He stares at you for a moment more, you assume if you could see under the shadow of his ball cap he would be scowling. He doesn't say anything more, just turns and leaves you to a silent headstone and an empty grave. 

You don't mean to stay as long as you do, after he leaves. But you linger among the marble and granite gravestones for a long time, lost in your own thoughts, the feeling that, even in death, you find new ways to fail Jason Todd. It's not a feeling that makes sense, but grief rarely is. 

It's not until you realize you've missed your usual train home, that you finally find your bearings, that you force yourself to smile and wave to someone that's not there. Never there. Never will be there. 

The walk to the train station is fine, if not a bit windy. The train ride is normal, if a little quieter than normal. But the problem comes as you step off the stairs of the subway and onto the streets, and a low whistle breaks the strange silence that's been cast over the city just as the sun begins to set. 

"Come join us, sweet cheeks," a voice drawls, stumbling and slurred as he trips over his feet and words, "You look like you need the company." Four equally drunk men follow him, grins leering as they take you in and lewdly gesture for you to come closer.

Dread settles in your stomach, far worse than it did when the stranger approached you in the cemetery. Night is falling, and everyone knows that there's no solace in the shadows anymore, no watchful eye in the dark to save you. You drop your gaze and start walking, steady, but quick as you ignore their groans of annoyance and agitation. 

"Hey, hey, where are ya going," one of the men calls after you, and their pace quickens to match yours, "No need to be all shy. We just wanna be friends."

Another of them snickers, "Oh, yeah, close friends."

A gust of wind blows through your clothes, and you suppress a shiver, every nerve on edge as you focus on putting on foot in front of the other. 

The teasing tone in the air shifts, and a rough hand grabs your shoulder, turning you around– you hadn't realized just how close they'd gotten. 

"Would ya look at that? Knew I recognized you from somewhere. Yer one of the Bat's little friends. Why don't ya tell us what it was like cuddling up to old Brucie, " he leers, grin wide and menacing. 

"Back off," you snap, fed with strangers who think they have a right to your past.

"Don't be such a killjoy," He huffs, half playful, half a real, honest threat, "Just give us a chance to get to know ya. We only wanna have some fun, is all." His hand starts to drop along your shoulder blade, and his voice goes vicious, "It'll be a good time, baby, promise." 

Instinct takes over before you can think better on it, and you aim a hook right for his chin. It's one of your better punches, one that sends him stumbling back into the arms of his drunken friends. 

Everything freezes, their gazes dart between you and the reeling man pushing himself back to his feet. There's a snarl on his face, a manic look in his eyes, and all it takes is for him to open his mouth and start hissing cusses at you for you to turn on your heel and run. 

It takes less time than you'd hope for them to realize you're running, even less for them to start following you. 

You're going to die, is what runs through your head as you duck around corners and rush through the darkening streets. You're going to die and they're going to hide your body and no one is ever going to find you and you're going to rot at the bottom of Gotham Harbor and you'll just be another statistic in the never ending plague crime that always seems to win.

Laughs and jeers sound behind you as you run, the sound of heavy feet hitting concrete follows you down the twists and turns of Gotham's alleyways. They're close, too close. You don't know how a group of drunken catcallers could be so fast, but they are. 

"Come back here," They snap at you, practically breathing down your neck. You can feel fingers brushing against your back, hear their taunts in your ears. But you just need to keep running, if you can make it to your building– make it to other people– 

A hand catches your arm painfully, cutting your thoughts short and throwing you to the ground. "Caught you," the man sneers, grabbing the back of your shirt to drag you in an isolated alley. The other four men follow behind, panting and jostling each other as snide grins fill their faces.

You kick, claw at the hands pulling you into the alley, but it only makes them laugh harder as he hoists you up to slam you into a wall. You wince, head spinning as you push and shove at his arms, but he hardly seems to notice as his friends creep closer, eager and excited. 

"Shouldn't have done that, there ain't anyone here to save ya" he grumbles, the air rancid with the smell of alcohol as he grabs at your jacket, "We coulda had a good time, but ya had to go be difficult and run the fun for–"

The weight is ripped off you in an instant, you barely have time to process the relief that floods your senses when you're jarred to stillness by the blood red bat that meets your eyes. There's not supposed to be any bats left in Gotham, but your mind is quick to supply the faint recollection of whispers you've heard of a new vigilante. Rumors made fact by the truth in front of you, Red Hood.

"You're dead," he says, even and tight, even though the modulator. He says it not to you, but to them, the men backing up wearily and uneasily. "You're all dead," he repeats, voice dropping as they exchange glances, not knowing what to make of him. 

You don't quite know what to make of him either. His fists are clenched, his muscles are tense, but the set of his shoulders is confident, self assured that he can deliver on his threats. He's steady and shaking all at once, and you have the distinct feeling he's shaking out of sheer rage, of holding back from whatever he's planning on doing. 

The air is heavy, you're practically holding your breath as you press back against the wall, unable to look away. They're afraid. You can't help but be too. Red Hood– hero or not– is dangerous. You can feel his anger vibrating against your skin, taste his vow to kill them in the air.

One of the men laughs, "You can't take all of us–" he starts, and the tension snaps, Red Hood snaps.

You know you should run. You know you should turn away, but you can't. You watch every punch that meets flesh, every splatter of blood that hits the concrete, every limb that twists in a way that it shouldn't. You hear every plea for mercy, every sickening crunch of bone, every gasp and wheeze for air. 

You witness it all, every time his boot comes down onto mangled limbs, every time his gloved hands drags back a man that tries to flee. He doesn't stop, doesn't offer a hint of compassion until the alley is silent, save for his heaving of his chest beneath his armor. 

Only then does he turn back to you. You regret not running while you had the chance. But even as your knees shake and you curse your frozen state, you have the feeling he would have followed you if you had run. 

He walks closer, your mind goes blank in fear, and he gently brushes his fingers over your cheek, observing the wetness that soaks into his gloves when he pulls his hand away. You didn't even realize you were crying.  

"Did they… hurt you," he asks, words short and clipped and not at all comforting. 

It takes all of your strength to will yourself into shaking your head. You're scratched up from being dragged, your head hurts from when it hit the wall, but telling him any of that? You're afraid of giving him any excuse to stay.

He studies you, judges you, and you do the same. His helmet glows eerily in the dim light of the alley, as red as the crimson bat on his back. He's not shaking anymore, but he doesn't seem calm either. You imagine he's still feeling the same adrenaline that's coursing through your veins. But you doubt he feels the same urge to get as far away from the situation as possible.

The silence drags on for too long, and you feel like you have to break it, get him to stop staring at you. Especially when it feels like he's picking you apart, like he knows exactly what's going on in your head. "Thank you," you settle on, words careful and quiet as you do your best to wipe the tears from your face.

He straightens out, a huff of a laugh filling your ears like he can't believe what he's hearing, "You're thanking me for killing them?"

"I'm thanking you for saving me," you correct, focusing your gaze on a random brick of the alley, doing your best to avoid looking at the carnage he laid waste behind him, to ignore the unnatural silence save for you and him. 

He hunches back into himself, and you can't help but feel uneasy that he's still here, like he's waiting for something. "You shouldn't be out here," he tells you.

You think that's obvious enough and you almost want to roll your eyes, but your knees are still shaking, and you can't find the strength to push off the wall yet. So you nod instead, hoping he'll leave you to figure it out alone, to have a moment where you can let it all wash over you and just break down. 

"I can take you home," he says, after another long moment of silence, voice flat without a hint of emotion to betray his true feelings. 

That grabs your attention, pulling you out a spiral you didn't even realize you were in, "No, it's–" you start. 

"You're scared of me," he cuts you off, demanding.

You think that this is obvious too. "Anyone would be," you admit reluctantly, and you hate that you feel like you're answering wrong, like he expects something different from you. 

You watch as his fists clench than unclench, and his head ducks like he's lost in thought, "Fine. You're scared. Be scared," he lifts his head again, tone almost accusing, "It doesn't change that it's not safe for you to stay here, or that I'm taking you home."

"I can get myself back–" you begin, pushing yourself off the wall as your heart rate spikes. The last thing you want is for him to know where you live, for you to get involved in anymore people that wear the symbol of the bat. But your protests count for nothing when pain shoots up from your ankle, making your knees buckle under your own weight.

You wince, expecting to hit the cold concrete, but it's warm, leather covered arms that catch you instead, cradling you against sturdy armor. 

You freeze, you think he freezes too, until he exhales softly, tension draining from his body, "You said you weren't hurt."

"I didn't think I was," you mumble, almost embarrassed as you brace your hands unsurely against his arms trying to push yourself back up onto your uninjured foot. You roll your ankle slowly, wincing quietly at the pain that radiates when you move it. You must sprained it at some point, you realize.

Red Hood just holds you tighter when you try to move, silent as if he's weighing his options. "I'll carry you," he tells you, already maneuvering you to lift you into his arms.

It just makes you squirm, uneasy over this stranger, how easy this all seems to be for him, "I don't need to be carried."

He sucks in a breath through his teeth, a noise you can only hear because he's holding you so close, and says your name like he's trying to find all the patience in the world to deal with you, "You didn't used to mind being picked up."

Your world tilts on its axis and he lifts you into his arms like his words didn't change everything– like the fact that he knows you means nothing at all. You should be scared, should be terrified of him, but you just feel resigned. It was only a matter of time before the consequences of knowing Batman– knowing Robin– caught up to you. Really you're just surprised it didn't happen sooner.

But something about his words itches at your skin. It's not far-fetched for him to know your name. What is strange, what's wrong even, is that he thought you wouldn't mind being carried. Because you didn't used to.

"Why do you know that," you ask, surprising yourself with how steady your voice sounds.

He doesn't answer for a moment, just carries you through the dark twist and turns of Gotham's alleyways, "Lots of people know your name," he decides on telling you, once you start to squirm in his arms.

"That's not what I asked," you protest, but even as you press him for details, you're starting to get more concerned about where he's bringing you than why he knows your name.

"I keep track of all of Batman's associates," he says, voice more strained than truthful, even through the modulator of his helmet.

"Is that why you wear the bat," you prompt, curiosity making you speak before you can think on your words, "Did you know him?" Honestly, while you don't claim to know all of Bruce's vigilante friends, you'd like to think you would have known about someone like Red Hood. (and really you would feel safer if he was a friend of Bruce)

His grip shifts on you, the only indicator that he's uncomfortable with your line of questions, "It's a reminder."

You both ignore how he avoids your second question. Even if he saved you, you still haven't gotten comfortable with the vigilante that attacked those men with such ruthlessness and precision. You start to ask another question, torn between wanting to know what it's a reminder of and wanting to know where he's taking you, before he cuts you off.

"Do you always interrogate the people trying to help you," he sighs out, head tipping down as if he's trying to get a look at your face.

"Only when I don't know where they're taking me after," you snark out, with more bite than you probably should have. 

"I'm taking you home," he supplies, picking up his pace like he can't get rid of you fast enough.

"Whose home? My home? You know where I live," you rapid fire at him, throat tightening with panic.

He stumbles a little, a noise of alarm escapes the back of your throat, but he doesn't drop you.

"I– my home?" he tries, but you know it's a lie. He knows that you know he's lying, and his shoulders deflate a little when you start accusing him of it.

"You know where I live," you say slowly, voice sure and steady despite your fear.

"I know where lots of people live," he grumbles, and goes right back to his quickened walk, just shy of jogging and nearly jostling you in his arms.

"Is this some kind of revenge plot," you start, finality sinking into your bones, "Because if you're trying to get back at anyone– at Batman– I'm not gonna try to–"

He snorts, cutting off your words, and you note that it sounds unpracticed. His grip softness before he speaks again, "No, been there, done that. Didn't help. I really am just trying to get you home safe."

A part of you believes him, but a bigger part of you just wants to grab his helmet and rip it off his head. He's frustrating, and even as your apartment building comes into view, even as the ordeal comes towards an end, you find yourself wanting to know him. 

It's a feeling in the pit of your stomach that you can't explain. He knows you. He knows– knew– Batman. And you want to know him, or at the least, how he's aware of all of it. 

"Who are you," you breathe out, the sound barely a whisper. It's the one question that's truly been plaguing you since he said you didn't used to mind being carried. You can count the people who knew that on one hand. And for him to say it so casually, to say it like he's experienced it first hand, you don't like what it implies. 

"Red Hood," he answers gruffly, voice clipped, "Do you think you can get up to your place by yourself?"

"No," you huff out, annoyance creeping into your face. In truth, you probably could limp your way up to your apartment, but you're not willing to let this go. Not when there's more to this– to him– than he's willing to share with you.

He stands still outside your building for a full thirty seconds before mumbling, "Fine," and carrying you inside. Neither of you try to start a conversation. You don't dig for answers when he presses the correct number for your floor in the elevator. You don't even get angry when he walks right to your door without asking for directions.

He starts to put you down, but even with the clear unease and tension in his body, he's still careful.

"Wait," you say quickly, "I need help wrapping my ankle."

"You know how to do that," Red Hood sighs out, annoyance clear as day in his voice.

"I forgot how," you lie. You know you're being stubborn, you know inviting him in is dangerous, but every part of you feels like you need answers from him. That knowing will solve something. 

His silence is enough to pick up on that fact that he doesn't believe you in the slightest. But he doesn't try to pull away or leave when you lean into him and unlock your door. He doesn't even seem upset when you look up at him expectantly when the door swings open, he just loops an arm around your waist and guides you to the couch.

"Where's your kit," he asks once you've settled and seated.

"Bathroom," you supply easily, and he turns and walks in that direction without another word. It unnerves you that he knows where it is without you needing to guide him, but you can't say you're surprised. 

He comes back with the first aid kit quickly, and kneels in front of you to carefully take off your shoe. Red Hood observes your ankle for a moment before he tugs off his gloves and starts to dig through your first aid kit for bandages.

It gives you a chance to observe him. His armor looks strong enough, but his jacket is full of rips and tears. His hood hides most of his helmet, but what you can see seems more technologically advanced than you expected. There's guns and knives strapped to his thighs and you think you see a grenade hooked to his waist. It all radiates danger.

You turn your attention to the rest of him. Even with the hunch in his shoulders, he's big. You think he might be as tall Bruce is– was. You get the distinct, strange feeling that you would like the color of his eyes. 

His voice breaks the silence as he starts to wrap your ankle with calloused, warm hands.

"What," you ask dumbly, so lost in studying him, in the feel of his steady hands ghosting over your skin, you've missed what his words were. 

"You should keep ice on it, about thirty minutes at a time. And elevate it until the swelling goes down," He repeats, movements practiced as he finishes tending to your injury, "You got that?"

You remember that well enough, Jason had more than his fair share of sprained ankles when you were growing up, but there's no point in sharing that when you're meant to be playing dumb. "Got it," you say confidently.

"Good," he murmurs, standing up faster than you expected, like he can't wait to get as far away from you as possible.

"Wait," you startle, grabbing his wrist, "You still never told me who you are."

"I never said I would," he half-growls at you, but he doesn't tear his arm away from your hold.

"What if I need to contact you," you counter, fingers tightening into the fabric of his jacket.

He lets out a heavy sigh, and for the first time he seems genuinely annoyed. Red Hood levels you with a glare you can feel even through his helmet and grits out, "Why would you need to contact me."

You almost drop your grip on him, feeling as uneasy as you did watching him beat your attackers, "Well– those men went after me– they knew who I was. That I knew Batman, I mean, Bruce. And if they can figure it out–"

"You don't have to worry about that," he tells you, voice softening at the nervousness you don't quite mean to show him, "I took care of it already."

That does get you to drop his wrist, "But there's more people out there than them. What if Two-Face decides I'm an easy target? Or Penguin gets out of jail. Or–"

He says name sternly, cutting off your rambling, "I took care of it already."

"You– what" you question, confusion and surprise spreading across your face.

"I took care of it," he repeats again, nothing but fierce, decisive truth in his voice, "Anyone who thought they could get to you. Anyone who wanted to use you because of your connection to– to them. I took care of it."

It stuns you, and half expect him to leave you to your shock. But he stands there waiting, patient as if he's ready and willing to face your fury or your understanding. "Why," is all you manage to ask.

"I owe you," he murmurs, like it's his greatest secret, "If it wasn't for me… If I hadn't– If we didn't–" he cuts himself off with a pained groan, "It doesn't matter. It's too dangerous for you to be involved in this."

"I'm good at keeping secrets, and I'm already involved," you breathe out, feeling like you're at the edge of the abyss, "I might as well have a bat branded on me, you know."

He shifts uncomfortably, and you feel like with just one push, everything will change. You need to know. You need to know why he's gone out of his way to keep you safe, why he's offered you so much help, why his fingers lingered over your skin while he wrapped your ankle. 

His shoulders slump, defeated and drained, "I know. It'd be better if you just got out of the city."

"There's nowhere to go, even if there was, Batman has enemies everywhere," you say gently, shifting forward on the couch. "Please? I'm just– so tired of being in the dark." And it's the truth. You're exhausted by the radio silence from Dick and Tim and Barbara. You're sick of jumping at shadows, and you know it's not wrong to reach for something real– a raft in a storm. 

His head snaps up at your plea, and he lets out a low, almost inaudible curse, "You won't like the answer, sweetheart. They say ignorance is bliss."

"Ignorance is a curse," you counter, eyes meeting the blank red of his helmet in quiet defiance. 

"Just– don't freak out," he mumbles after a strained, heavy moment. You nod, and it takes a long, long minute for him to finally move. He reaches up, and the air disappears from your lungs. You expected him to tell you how he knew Batman, why he feels like he owes you, what he's been through to even want to care about your safety– not to reveal his identity. (Even if you had asked for it)

He removes his helmet, letting it hang loosely in his grip. And suddenly everything makes sense. Desperate, clear blue eyes stare right back at you. Red Hood– Jason Todd– clenches and unclenches his fists gaze unwavering as he waits for your judgement. When you offer none but silence, he speaks, "Do you understand now? Do you get why I took care of it? Why I'll keep taking care of it?"

"Jason," you finally manage to choke out, not bothering to hide the way your vision blurs with tears, "They said– I thought– I thought you were dead."

He cringes slightly, a pained look that scrunches his nose the exact same way it did when you were kids, "Yeah."

"You're not dead," you gasp and you don't mean to cry in front of him again, but your tears spill freely as the entire night, every awful thing that's happened since you've lost him, crashes over you, "You're not dead."

That breaks something in him, and he's back on his knees before you, cradling your face and wiping your tears with his thumbs without you even really registering that he's moving, "Yeah," he repeats, like it's the only word he can find in his vocabulary to say.

You press your palms to the back of his hands, distraught and frantic to keep him there, "I missed you."

A myriad of emotions flick over his face, disbelief, hurt, guilt, and a few you don't quite catch before he squeezes his eyes shut and mutters your name with such pain you want to scream, "I'm not– what you remember. I'm not good. You saw first hand what I'm capable of."

"I don't care," you stumble out quickly, "If you hadn't been there– if you didn't save me they would have–"

Your voice trails off when his finger tighten for the briefest second against your face, and his eyes open, flashing with a darkness you don't recognize, "I wouldn't have let them. It won't happen." His voice is hard, firm with certainty, and if the rage simmering under his voice was directed at you, you think you would have run.

But it's Jason, and the anger disappears as quickly as it comes once he starts drying your tears again. You exhale shakily and lean into his touch, relief outweighing any nerves settling in your stomach, "I'm glad you're here."

His fingers still over your skin for a moment before his fingers continue their soothing pattern against your cheeks and under your eyes, "Me too," he says softly, like admitting it too loudly will break something. His gaze darts to the window, and your heart drops in your chest. 

"I don't want you to go," you plead, and before you think better of it, you push off the couch to bury your face in his throat, arms hooking around his neck like they're your last life line.

He stiffens, and you freeze. You messed up, you messed up and now he's going to hate you and he's going to leave and never come back and you're an awful person for even thinking he'd want to hug you and– and his arms come up to hug you back, crushing you to his chest. 

He runs his hand up and down your spine, soothing you the same way he used to, "I'm not going anywhere, unless you want me to. Okay?"

You nod into his shoulder, the tension draining from your body. He's warm. You have no idea how you didn't catch on to the fact that it was him sooner. He still smells the same– save the gun powder– and he's still as gentle as he's always been when he touches you. 

"I'm so sorry–" you choke out, pressing yourself as close as you can to him, wanting to hold him against you forever, to prove to yourself again and again that he really is alive.

"We don't have to do that," he murmurs, and you nearly melt when he presses a kiss to your temple, "We can save the apologies for later."

You find yourself nodding again, wanting to savor him, the moment, the feeling that for the first time in longer than you can remember, something like hope is blossoming in your chest. You giggle a little when an absurd thought crosses your mind, unable to stifle it.

"What is it," He– Jason– asks quietly. 

"I need something new to do on Sundays now," you say into his shoulder, a smile forming on your face, "I used to– it's not funny– but I'd visit your grave then and now you're not dead and now I–"

"Don't have to," he finishes for you, gentle and almost fond. 

You hum in agreement, even if it wasn't what you were going to say.

"We can do something," he offers, tucking you closer. 

The suggestion makes you feel like you're floating on air, and longing wells in your throat, "Yeah?"

"Yeah," he echoes, and this time you do melt when he presses a kiss to the crown of your head, "We'll make a tradition of it."

"I'd like that," you admit, shy to reveal how much that means to you.

Jason squeezes your waist in answer, voice as tender as yours, "Me too." 

Your smile grows wider despite yourself. You still have more questions that you can form right now, but Jason is rubbing slow, soothing circles against your back, and you can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours. So, Red Hood can wait. Gotham can wait. Everything else can wait until you both start to stitch yourself back together in each other's arms. 

[endlessdreaam]

🩸FRACTURED🩸

Characters: Dick Grayson x Female Reader, Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson (bonding)

Words: 4,5k

Plot: When a casual night turns into a nightmare, you fight to stay alive, but all you can think about is the one you can't bear to lose.

CW: established relationship, angst, mention of blood, violence, injury, near-death experience, hurt/comfort

It happens so fast.

One moment, you're walking to your car, lost in your own head, thinking about nothing important. What you're gonna make for dinner, whether Dick's already home, if you should stop for coffee on the way. Just the usual thoughts that fill the quiet in between moments, the kind that don't really matter but keep your mind occupied.

And then? Then everything changes.

The sound of footsteps echoes behind you, too close, too deliberate. At first, you don't think much of it, just another person walking to their car, heading home for the night. But then the steps don't slow, don't waver, and something shifts.

A bad feeling creeps up your spine, settling in your gut, a prickle of unease spreading over your skin. It happens so fast you barely have time to process it, barely have time to react before—

Impact.

Something slams into your side, hard, shoving you forward with brutal force. The air is knocked from your lungs in an instant, your body lurching forward as your balance tilts dangerously.

You stumble, hands flailing for something, anything to catch yourself on. Your breath comes in short, ragged gasps as your mind scrambles to catch up, to understand what's happening, to see who—what—where—

Pain.

Searing, hot, and sudden. It rips through your side with an intensity that steals the ground from beneath you, burrowing deep, tearing through muscle, sharp and wrong. Your nerves scream, your body jolting from the shock of it, and for a split second, it doesn't even feel real. It's too fast, too brutal, a kind of pain that doesn't belong in the quiet of a normal evening.

Oh. Oh, fuck.

Your brain stalls, takes a second too long to catch up, a second that stretches endlessly, feels like forever. It isn't until you feel the warmth spreading across your skin, wet and slick, that the reality of it finally sinks in. By the time your gaze drops, by the time you see the blade—gleaming, stained red, still buried in your side—it's already too late.

You're already falling.

Your knees hit the pavement first, jarring against the rough concrete, sending another sharp jolt of pain through you. Your hands follow, weak and trembling, barely catching you before your body fully collapses. Your palms scrape against the ground, but you hardly feel it over the white-hot agony radiating from your side.

It's spreading too fast, a sickening pulse of heat that won't stop, that won't let you breathe. Beneath your fingers, something warm pools, thick and sticky, soaking into your skin.

Blood. Your blood.

The guy, whoever he is, mutters something under his breath, but the words are lost to you. Your ears are ringing too loud, drowning out everything else.

You can't move, can't react, can barely think, and for a terrifying moment, you can't even breathe. Your chest tightens, your lungs refusing to expand properly, and it's not just the pain now. It's fear.

You're bleeding. Fuck, you're bleeding.

And then? Then he's gone.

Vanished into the night like he was never even there. No hesitation, no second glance, just a shadow slipping away, leaving you behind, crumpled and gasping on the cold pavement.

And you? You're alone. Alone, bleeding out, the night stretching wide and empty around you, swallowing your shuddering breaths. The cold creeps in faster than it should, seeping through your clothes, through your skin, making everything feel distant, unreal.

No. No, you can't.

Your phone. You need your phone. Your fingers fumble weakly at your pocket, shaking too hard to get a proper grip. Everything feels sluggish, your body fighting you, but you force yourself to move, to breathe, to focus.

You can't stop, not now, not when the weight pressing against your ribs feels heavier by the second, when your vision is already starting to blur at the edges. You need to—

You need to call—

Dick.

It takes everything in you just to press the button. Your hand barely cooperates, slippery with blood, but you manage. You barely have the strength to hold the phone to your ear. And when he picks up? The second you hear his voice, warm and familiar, filled with that easy confidence that's always made you feel safe—

That's when you realize. You're not gonna make it home. Not without him. His phone buzzes once. Twice. And then he picks up immediately.

"Hey, pretty girl," he says, voice warm and easy, like he's been waiting for you to call, like he's already smiling, ready to tease you for taking your time. There's a lightness to his tone, the kind that makes it sound like nothing in the world could be wrong, like this is just another night, another conversation. "You heading home?"

And then—

Then he hears it.

The way your breath hitches, sharp and unsteady. The way the silence stretches just a second too long before a shaky inhale rattles through the receiver. The way you suck in a gasp—pained, uneven—before forcing out something so small, so fragile, it makes his stomach drop.

"Dick—"

And just like that? His heart stops.

"Baby?"

His voice is different now. The warmth is gone, replaced by something sharper, something tense. His whole body goes still, instincts kicking in, every nerve suddenly alert, his muscles locking as if bracing for impact.

A pause. A tiny, pained inhale. "I—"

Then a whimper. Soft, broken, like it barely made it out at all. And then, barely above a whisper—

"I need you."

And just—

Fuck. That's all it takes. His body moves before his brain can catch up, muscle memory kicking in, pure instinct driving him forward. He's already grabbing his keys, already shoving his comm into his ear, barely registering the click as it connects.

His pulse slams against his ribs, loud and insistent, drowning out everything but the sound of your breathing—too shallow, too unsteady—on the other end of the line. He throws open the door to the garage, doesn't bother with the lights, just moves, grabbing his helmet, swinging his leg over his bike in one fluid motion.

"Where are you?" His voice is tight, controlled, the edge of panic barely restrained.

A sharp inhale. A weak, wobbly breath.

"I—fuck, I don't—" A choked noise, a shudder. And then, so fucking small, so fragile it makes his throat close up, "I think I got stabbed."

And everything inside him freezes. No. No, no, no—

His grip tightens on the handlebars, fingers pressing into the leather so hard they ache. He swallows back the immediate rush of panic threatening to claw its way up his throat, forces himself to move, to breathe, to act. His free hand fumbles for his comm, shoving it deeper into his ear before his fingers flick over his GPS, pulling up your location—

Thank fuck for the tracker on your keys. There. There you are. His blood runs cold when he sees how far.

"Stay on the line," he breathes, voice barely holding together, his other hand turning the key, the engine roaring to life beneath him. He doesn't even think, just goes, peeling out of the garage so fast his tires screech against the pavement. "I'm coming, baby. Just—just stay with me, okay?"

And then? Then he drives. Fast. Too fast.

Because Gotham is too fucking big. Because you're too far away. Because every second that passes is a second too long, a second where you're bleeding, where you're hurting, where you're alone, and he can't let that happen. His body is running on pure adrenaline now, hands gripping the handlebars so tight his knuckles go white, jaw clenched so hard it aches. He doesn't care.

All that matters is you. By the time he gets there, you're barely conscious. Sprawled on the pavement, one hand pressed weakly to your side, blood pooling beneath you, your phone discarded just inches away—

And for one, horrible second, he can't move. Because this... this is his worst fucking nightmare. But then—

Then he's off the bike, barely registering the way it skids as he drops it, his feet hitting the ground hard as he runs, closing the distance between you in a breath, a blink, a heartbeat. His knees hit the pavement beside you, hands shaking as he reaches for you, grabs your face, tilts it gently toward him.

"Baby," he breathes, voice wrecked, raw, barely able to force the word out.

His fingers brush over your cheek, warm despite the chill settling into your skin, desperate to find you through the haze of pain, to ground you in him.

Your eyelids flutter. Your lips part. And then, so soft, so fucking weak—

"Dick."

And just—his heart shatters.

"I know, baby, I know," he whispers, voice tight, pained, barely holding on. His hands press firmly against your wound, trying to stop the bleeding, to keep you here, to—

"Fuck," you whimper, body twitching, and just—

His throat closes. "I'm sorry, my love," he breathes, barely above a whisper, pressing his forehead against yours, his grip gentle despite the way his hands shake. "I know it hurts, baby, I know, but you have to stay awake, okay?"

A pause. A weak, trembling inhale. Your fingers curl into his sleeve, barely able to hold on. "So cold," you mumble, voice so quiet it nearly gets lost in the night air.

And just—fuck. His jaw clenches.

"I know," he whispers, voice cracking, slipping his jacket off in one swift motion. He tucks it firmly around you, making sure it covers every part of you, his arms wrapping around you like it'll be enough to keep you warm, to keep you here. He presses a kiss to your temple, soft and lingering, his breath unsteady, his chest aching. "Help's almost here, baby, just—just hold on."

A shaky, tiny breath. A ghost of a smile. "Knew you'd come."

And just like that, he breaks. His arms tighten around you, pulling you closer, his breath shuddering as he buries his face in your hair, lips pressing against your forehead, against your temple, his grip desperate, aching, pleading.

"Shhh, I got you," he whispers, voice wrecked, breath shaking. "I got you, baby."

You barely nod. Just the faintest tilt of your head against him. And then... then your body slumps. And Dick? Dick falls apart.

He doesn't even realize he's shaking as he stares at your unconscious form, the life draining out of you too fast, too violently, and there's nothing he can do to stop it. His hands are slick with your blood, staining his gloves, seeping into the cracks of his fingers, and for the first time in a long time, he feels helpless. Utterly, terrifyingly helpless.

The entire ride to the hospital is a blur—he remembers shouting, pushing, running, people yelling at him to step back, but he doesn't, he can't, not when you're barely breathing in his arms. It's only when the ER doors swing shut, when you're wheeled away from him, disappearing behind sterile white curtains, that reality slams into him like a freight train.

And then he's left in the waiting room. Pacing. Restless. Agitated.

His boots echo against the linoleum as he stalks back and forth, jaw clenched so tight it aches. Every muscle in his body is coiled, wired with adrenaline and fear and something deeper, something primal that he can't shake. His hands are still stained, and no matter how many times he scrubs them against his suit, he still feels it—your blood, your warmth, fading, slipping, and he can't fucking breathe.

"She's been in surgery for hours," he mutters, voice raw, almost hoarse. He's barely stopped moving, his fingers threading through his hair, gripping at the roots, chest rising and falling too fast. "Why is it taking this long?"

Bruce is there. Silent at first. Watching.

"Dick," his voice is calm, measured, but firm, that same tone that used to keep him steady when he was a kid, when the world felt too big, too cruel. "She's going to be fine."

Dick laughs, but it's humorless, breathless, shaking. "You don't know that," he snaps, and immediately regrets it. He exhales hard, pressing his palms against his face, dragging them down like it'll somehow ground him. "Sorry. I just... she was right there, Bruce. Bleeding out. And I—I couldn't do anything."

Bruce doesn't flinch, doesn't let the words shake him. Instead, he steps forward, places a heavy hand on Dick's shoulder, the weight of it solid, grounding.

"You got her here."

Dick swallows hard, his throat burning. "What if it wasn't enough?"

Bruce squeezes his shoulder. "It was."

Dick shakes his head, jaw tightening. "You don't know that—"

"I do." Bruce's voice is unwavering, steady in a way that makes something inside Dick crack wide open. "She's in the best hospital in Gotham. The best surgeons. The best care. She will make it through this."

Dick wants to argue, to push back, to say but what if? But when he looks at Bruce, really looks at him, he sees it—an unshakable belief, the same certainty that carried them through years of impossible odds, of near-death escapes. Bruce isn't just saying it to calm him down. He means it.

And that? That makes it a little easier to breathe.

Bruce exhales softly, a rare moment of warmth breaking through his usual stoicism. "I know what it's like to sit in these rooms. To feel powerless." His voice drops, quieter now, something heavier laced between the words. "I've done it too many times with you."

Dick's throat tightens, his breath catching.

"I know it's terrifying," Bruce continues. "But she's strong. And she's got you to fight for."

Dick's legs finally give out beneath him, and he drops onto the chair, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He doesn't even realize he's shaking until Bruce sits beside him, a steady presence, and—God—before he can stop himself, Dick turns into it, leans against him just enough to feel something solid.

Bruce doesn't push him away. Doesn't lecture him. He just rests a firm hand against the back of Dick's head and stays there. Silent. Steady. There.

And when the doctor finally comes out, when they say you're stable, that you're out of surgery, that you're going to be okay—Dick breathes for the first time in hours.

When you wake up, it's to warmth. A steady weight, something solid, something real, wrapped around your hand, grounding you, keeping you from slipping back into the dark. It's the first thing you register, the soft press of fingers against yours, the way they tighten slightly, as if making sure you don't drift away again.

And then—

A voice. Soft. Shaky. A murmur of your name, so quiet, so hoarse, like it's been spoken a hundred times before you even heard it. Your eyelids flutter, heavy, sluggish, but you fight against it, pushing through the lingering haze of unconsciousness. And when your vision clears, the first thing you see is him.

Dick. Sitting beside your hospital bed, his fingers clinging to yours like a lifeline, like if he lets go, you'll slip right through his grasp again. His eyes are red-rimmed, exhaustion painting dark circles beneath them, his face wrecked, jaw tight, like he hasn't slept, hasn't eaten, hasn't even breathed since you collapsed in his arms.

And when you stir, when your fingers twitch the tiniest bit in his grip—

His breath catches. "Baby?"

It's barely a whisper. Barely even a word. Just a breath of hope—raw, desperate, aching. You swallow, throat dry and sore, and part your lips. It takes a second. It takes effort. But then—

A pause. A shaky, slow smile. "Hi."

The way his breath shudders out of him, the way his entire body sags forward, forehead pressing to the back of your hand, his grip tightening like he's trying to memorize the feeling of your skin against his. He exhales hard, like he's been holding it in for hours.

And then, so soft, so fucking wrecked, "You scared me."

And just—fuck. Your heart cracks. Because you've never seen him like this. Never seen him so wrecked, so raw, so utterly drained in a way that has nothing to do with sleepless nights and everything to do with you. With the fear of losing you.

So you squeeze his hand. Just the tiniest bit. Just enough for him to feel it, to know you're still here, that you're real, that you're alive. And when he looks up, his eyes are glassy. Red. Wrecked. So full of love, of relief, of something too heavy to carry alone.

And you whisper, small, so fucking gentle, "But you found me."

And just like that? He melts. A quiet, wrecked laugh escapes him, something wet and breathless, something that sounds like it's carrying the weight of every single fear he's ever had about losing you. His fingers tighten around yours, holding on, grounding himself in the fact that you're still here.

Then he leans forward again, pressing his forehead against your hand, against your knuckles, against anything he can reach. His voice—

His voice breaks. "Of course I did," he breathes, so soft, so full of something you don't even have a name for.

And in that moment, there's only one thing that makes sense to him. "You're my home."

Because you are. Because you're the one thing that always pulls him back. Because without you, he's lost.

Fuck. You don't even get the chance to say anything back, to let him know that he's yours, that he's the one thing you always come back to, because—

There's a soft cough from the corner of the room. And when you blink, when you manage to turn your head, you finally notice.

You're not alone. Bruce is here. Standing near the window, arms crossed, his entire posture so tense, so rigid, like he's holding something back. His eyes are sharp, serious, but gentler than you've ever seen them.

And when you meet his gaze, when he sees the way your breathing steadies, the way your eyes focus, the way your fingers are still wrapped so tightly around Dick's, his shoulders relax. Just a fraction. And then, finally—

"You gave us quite the scare."

His voice is even. Neutral. But there's something underneath it, something warm, something grateful.

Something that tells you he was worried. That maybe, just maybe, he was scared too. And God. That's when it hits you. Bruce wasn't just here for you. He was here for Dick. Because Dick—

Dick is his son. And he almost lost you. And for Bruce? That's almost the same thing. Losing you would've been almost as bad as losing Dick himself.

Because you're not just someone to Dick—you're everything. His home. His safe place. The person who grounds him, who keeps him from feeling lost. And Bruce? He knows that. So when Dick almost lost you? It wasn't just your life on the line. It was his son's heart.

Bruce watches you for a long moment, his expression unreadable, but his silence says more than words ever could. His shoulders are stiff, his stance unyielding, but there's something else beneath it now—something hesitant, something restrained, like he's holding back more than just exhaustion.

And when he finally steps closer, it's not much, just a fraction of a movement, but it's deliberate. Intentional. Close enough that you can feel it, that you know he's here.

His eyes flick down to where your fingers are still tangled with Dick's, to the way his son is gripping you like he's afraid you'll slip through his fingers again. And when he looks back up, there's something tight in his expression, something carved into the set of his jaw, the pull of his brows. He doesn't say anything at first, just watches, and you can't tell if he's searching for something in your face or just making sure you're really awake, really here.

And then—your voice. Quiet. Guilt-ridden. An apology you don't even realize cuts deeper than any wound ever could.

"I'm sorry."

Bruce exhales, slow, measured, but something flickers in his eyes. Something sharp. Something that almost looks like anger—but not at you. No, never at you.

Because why the hell would you even think to say sorry? Why would that be the first thing out of your mouth after nearly dying? After everything?

He hates it. Hates that you feel like you have to carry that weight, hates that it even crossed your mind to apologize for surviving. Because it wasn't your fault.

Because you were the one bleeding out in Dick's arms, and yet here you are, looking at him, at Dick, like you need to make it up to them. Like they wouldn't burn the whole damn world down just to make sure you stayed.

His jaw tightens. His fingers twitch at his sides, like he wants to reach out, to do something, but Bruce Wayne has never been good at this—at softness, at warmth, at saying what he actually means. So when he finally speaks, his voice is quieter, steadier than before, but there's an edge to it. Something firm. Something final.

"There's no need to apologize." A slow exhale through his nose. And then, quieter, like it's the only thing that really matters, like maybe if he says it, you'll believe it, "I'm glad you're back with us."

It's not much. Not flowery, not emotional, not even close to the way Dick is looking at you like you hung the stars in the sky, but for Bruce? It's everything. It's as much as he'll allow himself to say. And somehow, that makes it hit even harder.

Then, just like that, his entire demeanor shifts. The warmth, the hesitation, the careful softness—it's gone, replaced by something sharper, something colder, something that leaves no room for hesitation. His expression hardens, his jaw sets, and when he speaks again, his voice is steady, firm, like he's already made up his mind about what's coming next.

"I just want to know what the guy looks like. If you remember."

Dick stiffens beside you. And you—you do remember. Clear as day. So you swallow. And you tell him. Everything. Every detail. Every scar, every feature, every fucking thing you can recall.

And Bruce? Bruce just nods. Once. Then turns and walks out the door. And just like that? You know. It's over for him. Whoever he is. The room feels quieter when Bruce leaves.

Like the air has settled, like the weight of everything that just happened is finally catching up to you. You breathe in. Slow.

And Dick—Dick doesn't move. Doesn't shift, doesn't loosen his grip, doesn't even blink as he stares at you, like if he looks away for even a second, you'll disappear again.

And then—soft. A press of warmth against your forehead. A kiss. Gentle. Lingering. Just his lips, just his breath, just the quiet weight of it grounding you in a way nothing else could.

And when he pulls back, his thumb traces over your knuckles, slow, careful, like he's memorizing them. Like he needs to. You exhale, try to shift, and fuck—pain lances through your side, sharp, hot, and you flinch, sucking in a breath through your teeth. Dick reacts immediately.

"Hey, hey—"

His hands are on you in a second, firm but careful, steadying you, stopping you from moving too much.

"Baby, don't—just... stay still, okay? You need to rest."

And just, God. The worry in his voice. The way it wavers, the way he looks at you like you might break all over again. It makes your chest ache.

You swallow. Blink up at him, slow, tired, voice small, "I'm a little thirsty."

And Dick, God. The relief on his face, like he's so grateful that the only thing you're asking for is water and not a damn doctor—it's almost heartbreaking.

"Yeah," he breathes, voice lighter, steadier, "I've got you, baby."

But he doesn't let go. Not really. One hand stays wrapped around yours, tight, secure, while the other reaches for the water pitcher on the table beside you. He pours you a glass, careful not to spill a single drop, and then he shifts.

Braces an arm behind you, supporting your back, keeping you steady as he helps you upright, soft, softer, like you're the most fragile thing he's ever held.

You wince in pain, a sharp jolt shooting through your side, and his heart clenches at the sound. The way you flinch, the way your body tenses, it breaks something inside of him. He'd give anything, everything, to take that pain away from you. But all he can do is hold you, steady you, whisper words that feel too small for the weight of the moment.

"Easy, pretty girl," he murmurs, voice soothing, so full of something warm. "I've got you."

And then—he brings the glass to you, cool against your fingers, the coldness of it a small comfort. He's right there. Watching you. Close. So close, his presence a steadying force as he tilts the glass toward your lips. You take a sip, your throat aching slightly as you swallow, but his careful hands keep the glass steady, guiding it just the right way.

When you lower the glass, his eyes are still locked onto you, taking in every little movement, every little shift, still taking in everything, still not letting a single thing slip past him. And you... you can't help it. Your lips twitch.

"You know," you say, voice still hoarse, still exhausted, but teasing all the same, "you can blink, baby. I'm not gonna disappear."

And Dick—his breath hitches. Then, a small, wrecked, quiet laugh.

"Yeah," he breathes, pressing another kiss to your knuckles, voice so fond, so full of relief, "I know."

But you pout, just a little, because even though you're tired, even though you're sore, you just want to curl up against him, feel his warmth, let it chase away the ache in your bones.

"Wanna snuggle with you."

Your voice is small, laced with exhaustion, barely above a whisper, but he hears it. He always hears you. His face crumbles. Just a little. Just enough that you see the way his jaw clenches, the way his throat works around something thick, something painful.

"My love," he murmurs, shifting, brushing his knuckles along your cheek, so soft, so careful, like you're something fragile, something precious. "You need to rest. I don't wanna hurt you."

But then, softer, like a promise—"Soon, okay? As soon as you're a little stronger. I'll hold you all night."

And then, like he can't help himself, like he needs you to believe it, he leans in, pressing the gentlest kiss to your lips. Just a soft, lingering peck, warm and tender, filled with everything he can't say yet. Then another, and another, the barest brush of his lips over yours, like he's trying to soothe something deep inside you.

And when he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, breath warm against your skin.

"I'm right here," he whispers. "Not going anywhere."

And just like that? You believe him. Because he never has. And he never will.

@ellesthots, your man comforting my man is everything to me ✋🏻

[endlessdreaam]

beast of burden

a valentines weekend event fic!

fwb!dick grayson x reader: canceling your valentine’s day plans before they even start, a romp with your sneaky link turns into..cuddling with a box of chocolates and a rom com?

content level: hurt/comfort, 18+. NSFW.

opening your eyes, you already know what day it is. you want to scream into your pillow, kick your feet like a toddler throwing a tantrum. but you have classes today, and neither professor is very lenient when it comes to unexcused absences. whatever. 

coffee in hand, you drag your feet to and from each class, dreading the date you have planned with that guy from that app. god. you’re not sure why you even open them anymore, it’s always the same thing, or the same people with different pictures for different apps. you just don’t have it in you to get all dressed up just to go to some bar and get either stood up or have to make small talk for an hour. you walk past a couple making out on a bench, another couple walking with their hands in each other’s pockets. why can’t you just snap your fingers and have that? skip all the texting, the ghosting? snap your fingers and run into the person you’re supposed to be with, dropping your papers as they help you pick them up, apologizing profusely. your hands would touch. and you’d ‘just know.’ snap and see them across the room at a party, making eye contact, and then spending the rest of your lives together. but unfortunately.. 

you sigh when another couple passes, swinging hands as they walk. 

you find yourself texting him, canceling. you’d been meaning to walk to the cafeteria, but you ended up here. in front of his place. god, coming here on valentine’s day must look so pathetic. you turn, deciding you shouldn’t, not today, but you’re too late. 

he opens the door, and turns around before he sees you, snapping like he’s trying to remember what he forgot. a warm feeling spreads into your chest, tingling into your fingers and toes. dick grabs his keys off the hook by the door, shaking his head. 

he stops, saying your name as he startles at your presence. 

you blink, cursing yourself for even coming to dorm in the first place, putting on a sheepish smile. 

“..hey, dick.” you could not believe today was going to get any worse, and yet, here you are.

“hey, what’s up?” he leans against the doorframe, his blue eyes staring down into yours. 

“not much.” you say, trying and definitely failing at feigning nonchalance. “wanted to see what you were up to.” 

he nods, a small smile turning up the corners of his lips. “i was gonna go for a drive.”

“oh.” you reply, mindlessly. 

“..it can be rescheduled.” he’s got an amused look on his face as he opens the door wider, nodding you into the room. 

“who gave you these?” you ask, your tone incredulous. 

“i–uh. a girl in one of my classes gave it to me today.” 

“well, happy fucking valentine’s day to you, huh?” you raise an eyebrow, hand on your hip. 

“yeah, i’d say it has been.” he crosses his arms, returning your look. you sigh, relenting. 

“i’m..happy for you, dick.” you throw him a lackluster smile, and he smiles back, pulling you over to sit on his bed with him. you lean into him, and he maneuvers you into falling back behind him. you make a surprised noise as he lays back next to you, propping himself up on an elbow. 

“how happy are you, really?” his presence over you reminds you what you usually get up to on his bed. you get flustered as he runs a hand through his hair, his bicep on full display. you feel so off your game.

“..what?” you didn’t even realize there was a conversation going on still, a bit mesmerized by the way his thighs feel pressed up against yours. 

“forget it, babe.” the last thing you see is his smirk before you’re lost in his arms, his lips on yours. your tongues meet, and his swipes at your lips before pushing in to bite your lower lip. you moan into his mouth, running your hands up his body. the arm he has curled around your waist goes lower, his hand gripping your ass. you open your legs around him, letting him in as your heels press into his lower back. his cock presses into the junction of your thighs, the combined heat sending your hips rocking against his for some hope of friction. dick’s one to one hundred, and he leans back, whipping his shirt off. it sails to the ground, and you giggle, letting him take yours off next. 

you watch as he rolls the condom on, admiring the line of muscle stretching from his hips to the tuft of hair at the middle. you don’t think you’d be able to handle eye contact, so when he’s ready you turn over, onto your knees and elbows. he notches his tip at your hole, smoothing a hand over your lower back as he deepens your arch. you take deep breaths as he slowly enters you, hearing the groan he tries to stifle from behind you. relaxing, you lay your head down onto the mattress, braced by your forearms. you whimper once he’s bottomed out, feeling the smooth skin of his stomach pressed against your ass, his balls flush with your pussy. leaning over you, going impossibly deeper, he moves your hair away from your face. 

“feeling good?” he says, his voice a little tight with need. 

“yes,” you sigh out, your hands gripping the sheets as he pulls out, coming back with a hard thrust. his pace quickens, the cheap dorm bed creaking slightly in time with the movement of his hips. 

“probably not gonna last, baby,” dick starts, pulling you into him, his cock buried deep inside of you. 

“look so gorgeous on my cock like that,” he groans, lifting a leg to get more leverage.  

the way he’s talking to you feels so nice, so simply nice, that you can’t really wrap your head around it. 

you feel a prickle in your eye, and you try to ignore it, try to swallow down the lump in your throat. it feels amazing, like it always does, but your head just isn’t in the right place. 

“you’re takin’ it so good, love,” dick coos to you. it sends you over the edge. tears burn along your waterline, threatening to fall. you sniffle into the comforter, and dick slows his pace, his brow furrowed. he pulls out, and you start sobbing into your hands. 

“woah, woah,” dick sits you up, wrapping you into his arms. it feels so nice, you feel so safe, but you can’t help the shame weighing your shoulders down as big, fat tears slide down your cheeks. his hard length presses into your hip and you feel guilty somehow. you know nothing’s your fault, but that’s not always what you’ve been told in the past. he whispers reassuring words to you as he lets you cry it out, rubbing your back. dick listens calmly as you start blubbering about the date you didn’t want to go on, the exhaustion that is dating in general. 

“i just have horrible fucking luck with love, okay?” you swipe another tear away. “pathetic, right?” 

at your mirthless laughter, dick shakes his head, vehemently. 

“don’t say that.” he grabs your hands away from your face, holding them tightly. “seriously.” 

you sniffle as he rubs his thumbs across the back of your hands, his expression almost laughably concerned. 

“i didn’t exactly have valentine’s day plans either, you know?”

“i just—campus just gets so lonely! i’m not exactly like you, people don’t just hand me chocolates because i’m pretty and in their class.” you cover your face with your hands again, scrubbing at your eyes. you know you probably look a little crazy right now, but you feel a little crazy. so it works, in some roundabout way. continuity. dick’s eyes are bright as he looks at you, probably giddy that you went and called him pretty. 

“you’re not alone. you got me. that might not be enough for you, but it’s enough for me.” 

“it is enough for me, dick.” you reply, and his heartbeat is so loud he wonders if you can hear it. pretty ridiculous of him, considering you’re just supposed to be someone he messes around with. 

you glance down. you’re not really sure when he took the condom off, but it’s by you two on the bed. noticing he’s still pretty erect, guilt blooms in your chest again. he was having a grand ‘ol time before you ruined it, it’s the least you can do.

“i—just, dick, i feel bad. let me take care of it.” you say, brushing  your hair out of your face, hands on dick’s thighs, about to lean down.

“no, honey.” he says softly, his tone making you almost cry again. gently he moves your hands, patting your knee. he gets up from the bed, grabbing his shirt from off the ground. but instead of putting it on, motions for you to raise your arms, sliding it onto you instead, pulling it down over your head. he grabs your underwear, hooking them onto your ankles and sliding them up your legs until you finish the job, slipping them onto your hips. dick wanders over to the trash, disposing of the empty condom. he dresses too, going commando in a pair of sweats (after he throws you a smaller pair with a smile) and a different shirt from his drawer. 

he grabs the box of chocolates, settling back into bed with you. dick brushes hair out of your eyes, kissing your temple. his arm falls around your shoulders, and you lean into him, your head tucked into the crook of his neck.

“what sounds better, legally blonde or she’s the man?” 

you smirk, grabbing a chocolate from the box as he turns his TV on. 

“what, like it’s hard?” 

dick sighs, rolling his eyes, and you suppress a smile as you bite into the candy. he laughs when you groan, wrinkling your nose. as you cough, he raises an eyebrow, and you swallow with a grimace. 

“..cherry.”

“drama queen.”

post divider courtesy of @saradika-graphics

[endlessdreaam]

bullet - d. grayson

dick grayson x fem!reader

summary: during a mission, you get injured but hide it from Dick until he finds out because you've passed out.

w/c: 2.8k

The van sped down the road, streetlights flashing in and out of view through the rain-streaked windshield. Dick was driving, you in the passenger seat next to him, Rachel wedged between Gar and Kory in the back. Your eyes drifted between the road and Dick, his jaw clenched in concentration as his hands gripped the wheel, his knuckles practically turning white. No one spoke. The mood in the van was tense – another mission, another fight. You didn’t dare speak up.

You had finally gotten a lead on Deathstroke’s location and you were determined to get to him before he got to you. You wouldn’t let him win this time. Last time, you, Dick, and Kory had barely gotten away. Deathstroke had quickly overpowered you all; with his skills, his powers, and his weapons, he was just too strong.

BANG!

Out of nowhere, the sound of a deafening gunshot echoes down the nearly empty street. Sparks erupt from the hood of the car, causing Dick to swear under his breath. “Everyone down!” Dick barked, to which everyone of course listened. The van lurched forward, however, it wasn’t long before the van seized all movement — stopping in the middle of the road. You all knew who it was. Deathstroke. It seemed like he knew you guys were coming and decided to just meet you halfway.

Kory opened the van’s door, and stepped out, her hands glowing with power. There he stood, Deathstroke, perched on the hood of a wrecked sedan up ahead, his rifle trained on the van. The second Kory stepped out, he fired again. She barely dodged, rolling behind cover as the asphalt sparked where she’d just been standing.

Dick glanced over at you, then back at Gar and Rach, “We have to move!” Dick shouted, voice filled with urgency.

The gunfire died down, and you all pushed the doors open. Gar and Rach sprinted out, using the van as cover. As you were about to follow suit, Dick grabbed your hand, making you turn around to look at him. You locked eyes, instantly recognising the look of worry his gaze held. It was a look you’d seen many times before on these kinds of missions. “Stay close to me,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. You nodded, responding “Yes, sir,” as a joke.

The corners of his mouth quirked up in a small smile before his face hardened and he left the van, you following close behind, grabbing your weapon. It was a sleek bow with arrows made of refracted light (the light would disperse and reform in your hand after hitting a target).

Yet, the second you left the van, pain tore through your side. You let out a small gasp at the sudden sensation but luckily, no one had heard you and for that, you were glad. You didn’t need them worrying about you at that moment. Glancing down, you noticed the blood starting to stain your clothes — ‘fuck’ you thought. The bastard must’ve shot you. But you chose to ignore it for the moment, the adrenaline already numbing some of the pain. You couldn’t let this slow you down.

Dick was already closing in on Deathstroke and Kory hurled a blast towards him, forcing Deathstroke to leap back. He was fast, unnaturally so, but not fast enough to dodge Kory’s attack. Deathstroke fired a grappling hook, and in an instant, he was yanking himself up to a nearby rooftop, his escape swift. Where had he even gotten a grappling hook from? You were sure that guns and blades were more his thing.

“No way he’s getting away,” you muttered to yourself, ignoring the growing pain in your side. You could barely hear your own voice over the pounding in your chest, your heart struggling to pump blood as more and more of the sticky red liquid was leaving your body through your wound.

Dick was already scaling the fire escape, making sure he wouldn’t let Deathstroke get away this time. But as he’s climbing the stairs, he turns back to you, noticing the way you faltered behind him. He shoots you a look of concern and slight confusion, as if to ask if you were fine. You just gave him a small “I’m okay,” before catching up with him, ignoring the way every muscle in your body basically screamed for you to stop. You gritted your teeth and pushed forward, determined to keep up, to be by your boyfriend’s side. Every instinct told you to push harder, to not let Deathstroke win again.

You’d fought beside Dick countless times, but tonight, something felt different. Maybe it was the way his back was a little straighter, his movements a little sharper, as if he was aware of your every breath. His face held a look of scepticism — he didn’t believe you but there wasn’t really any time for arguing right now.

Dick reached the top of the fire escape in seconds, pausing to look back down at you. His eyes locked onto yours, a flash of something passing between you before he turned his attention back to Deathstroke. You made it to the top only mere seconds after Dick, now stood side by side with him.

Deathstroke stood at the far end of the rooftop, his stance relaxed despite the fact that he was outnumbered. He held his sword loosely at his side now. “You’re persistent, I’ll give you that,” he mused, voice distorted by the modulator in his helmet. “But you should’ve learned by now, Grayson. You don’t win against me.”

Dick didn’t answer, just adjusted his stance slightly, his escrima sticks slipping into his hands with practised ease. You drew an arrow, the energy vibrating slightly in your grip. The pain in your side was intensifying, but you pushed it down, keeping your breathing even. You weren’t about to let this bastard see any sort of weakness you had.

Deathstroke took a step forward. “And you,” he tilted his head toward you, as if he could sense the injury you were desperately trying to hide. “You don’t look so good.”

Those words basically confirmed Dick’s worries. You weren’t okay, and even Deathstroke had realised. Dick looked over at you next to him and shifted closer to you out of pure instinct — he wasn’t going to let Deathstroke harm you and you knew it. He’d protect you until his last breath.

“You’re stalling,” Dick said, voice tight.

Deathstroke chuckled. “Maybe. Or maybe I just like watching you all struggle.”

And with that, he lunged towards you, his sword clashing with Dick’s escrima sticks in a shower of sparks. You forced your body forward, drawing an arrow despite the way your vision swam at the edges. You fired. The arrow sliced through the air, light bending as it honed in on its target. But Deathstroke was already shifting, dodging at the last second. The arrow grazed his shoulder, leaving a searing scorch mark on his armour. You could feel the warmth of your blood spreading in a stain across your clothes but you paid no attention to it.

Suddenly, Deathstroke pulled out a device and as you looked closer, you realised it was actually a grenade. However, Dick still hadn’t noticed because he was too busy engaged in battle with him and you had to alert him.

You shouted out, “Dick, watch out! He’s got a grenade!”

But as soon as you warned him, Deathstroke pulled the pin and threw the grenade in your direction. In an instant, Dick pulls you away from the grenade and to the ground, shielding you from the explosion with his body on top of yours.

Dick looked back but Deathstroke was nowhere to be seen. He sighed and his brown eyes locked with yours, concern evident on his face. “Are you okay?” he asked, grabbing your hand and pulling you to your feet.

You swayed a little as you stood, the blood loss finally catching up to you. You began to respond, “Yea-” but before you could continue, a wave of exhaustion washed over you, causing you to pass out. Your knees buckled underneath you and gave out but before you could fall, Dick caught you, his arms instantly wrapped around your waist to hold you securely. He gently lowered you to the ground, putting your head on his lap. “Baby?” he called out, gently shaking your shoulder in an effort to wake you up. “Y/N?” he called out again, shaking you more firmly this time. But still, no response. That’s when he noticed it — the wound in your side. It had been hard to see before as it was dark and rainy but now that he’d finally noticed it, he cursed at himself for not noticing sooner, and at you for hiding this from him.

Dick’s breath hitched as he pressed his hand against your wound, his fingers quickly growing wet with your blood. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath, his pulse hammering in his ears. You were losing way too much blood, way too quickly.

Dick’s hands trembled as he pressed harder against your wound, trying to slow the bleeding. “Come on, stay with me,” he muttered under his breath, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. The rest of the team was already rushing up the fire escape, their footsteps echoing against the metal.

“Dick? What happened?” Kory was the first to reach him, her eyes widening as she took in the sight of you unconscious in his lap.

“She’s hurt – bad,” Dick said through clenched teeth, his voice tight with worry. He glanced down at your face, the rain making your skin feel even colder beneath his fingertips. His jaw clenched. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He was supposed to protect you.

Gar dropped to his knees beside him, his hazel eyes full of fear. “We need to get her out of here,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. You were like an older sister to him and it hurt him to see you like this.

Rachel was already at your side, her hands hovering hesitantly over your wound. “I can help,” she whispered. Her powers might’ve still been unpredictable, but she couldn’t just stand by and do nothing. She closed her eyes, her dark energy slowly creeping toward you, surrounding your wound with an eerie glow.

Dick barely registered Kory and Gar keeping watch for Deathstroke; his entire world had shrunk down to you, barely breathing in his arms. He gently brushed a strand of wet hair away from your face, his own expression torn between guilt and fear. “Just hold on, okay? You’re gonna be fine,” he whispered, his voice almost breaking. He knew you probably couldn’t hear him in your state but he so badly wished you could.

Your body shuddered slightly at Rachel’s healing attempts, a faint groan escaping your lips. Dick’s breath hitched. “That’s it. Stay with me,” he urged, his grip tightening on your hand.

Rachel’s energy flickered as she gritted her teeth, struggling to mend the wound fully. “It’s… it’s too deep. I can slow the bleeding, but we need to get her actual help,” she admitted, sweat beading on her forehead from the effort.

Dick didn’t hesitate. “We’re getting her back to the Tower. Now.”

Without another word, he scooped you up into his arms, his grip firm but careful. His mind was racing. Deathstroke had won this round but that didn’t matter. Right now, all that mattered was getting you back in one piece.

As the team hurried back toward the van, which Kory had somehow managed to mend, Dick held you closer, his heart hammering against his ribs. “You’re gonna be okay,” he murmured again, almost like a promise. “I’ve got you.”

The drive back to Titans Tower was a blur of flashing streetlights and the distant hum of sirens. Dick sat in the back with you, his arms wrapped securely around your unconscious

form. The others sat tensely, throwing worried glances your way, but Dick barely noticed. His entire focus was on you, on the shallow rise and fall of your chest, the way your skin felt ice-cold against his own.

“Faster,” he urged Kory, who was driving. His voice was strained, barely controlled.

Kory didn’t argue, pressing harder on the gas.

Rachel sat beside him, her hands still glowing faintly as she did her best to keep your wound from worsening. “I don’t know if I can do more until we get back,” she admitted, her voice small.

“You’ve done enough, Rach,” Gar reassured her. “We’re almost there.”

Dick barely heard them. He leaned down, his forehead nearly brushing yours. “Just hold on, okay? We’re almost home,” he murmured, as if saying it enough times would make it true.

By the time they reached the Tower, Gar had the door open before the van even fully stopped. Dick didn’t hesitate, lifting you into his arms and sprinting inside to the elevator.

As soon as you were there, “Get the med kit,” he barked, his usual calm completely gone.

Rachel and Kory ran ahead to prepare the medical bay while Dick carried you inside, his grip tightening as he felt just how limp you were against him. The second he laid you down on the examination table, he was already working to stop the bleeding. His hands were stained red, and it made him feel sick. He was used to blood but this was different. It was your blood.

“Come on, baby. Don’t do this to me,” he muttered under his breath.

Kory returned with the supplies, and Rachel immediately moved to help. Dick forced himself to stay steady as he worked, pressing gauze against your wound, helping Kory clean it, listening as Rachel directed them on what she could and couldn’t heal.

“She’s lost too much blood,” Rachel said after what felt like an eternity. “But she’s stable for now.”

Dick let out a slow breath, but the relief was short-lived. You were stable, but barely. Now, all he could do was wait.

Hours passed. The others had long since drifted in and out, checking in but giving Dick space. He hadn’t moved from your side. His hands were still covered in dried blood, but he didn’t care. His fingers curled around yours, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles.

“You scared the hell out of me, you know that?” he murmured, his voice hoarse.

The room was quiet except for the steady beeping of the heart monitor. Dick swallowed hard, his free hand running through his messy hair. “You should’ve told me you were hurt,” he said, his voice dropping lower. “I would’ve- dammit, I don’t know. I would’ve done something.” He sighed, leaning forward so his elbows rested on the edge of the bed. His forehead nearly touched your hand. “I should’ve seen it sooner. I should’ve protected you.”

Silence.

Then, a small, barely audible groan.

Dick’s head snapped up just as your fingers twitched in his. His heart nearly stopped. “Y/N?” he whispered, his grip tightening slightly. Your eyelids fluttered, and after a few seconds, you finally opened your eyes. They were hazy, and unfocused, but they were on him. A weak smile tugged at your lips. “Hey, Boy Wonder,” you rasped, your voice hoarse from exhaustion.

A breathless laugh escaped him, more out of sheer relief than anything else. “Hey,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

You blinked slowly, taking in his exhausted face. “You look like crap.”

Dick let out another soft laugh, shaking his head. “And you’re one to talk?” He squeezed your hand gently, his thumb brushing against your palm. “You scared the shit out of me.” Your smile faded slightly, and you squeezed his hand back, weak, but reassuring. “I’m okay,” you whispered.

Dick exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for hours. “Yeah. Yeah, you are.” He glanced over at the machines monitoring you before looking back into your eyes. “But you’re not allowed to do that again. Ever.”

You chuckled softly, but it turned into a wince. Dick was immediately alert, his hands moving to support you. “Hey, easy,” he soothed.

You looked up at him, eyes laced with exhaustion but filled with warmth. “You stayed.”

Dick’s expression softened. He reached up, brushing a damp strand of hair from your forehead. “Of course I did.” His voice was quiet but firm. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

You squeezed his hand again, your grip a little stronger this time. “Guess I’ll have to keep scaring you just to get you to admit how much you care,” you teased weakly.

Dick shook his head with a small smirk. “You don’t have to get shot to get me to admit that, idiot.” He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “You mean everything to me.”

Your eyes fluttered shut again, this time out of comfort rather than unconsciousness. Dick stayed right where he was, his hand never letting go of yours. For the first time since the mission started, he allowed himself to breathe. And he wasn’t letting you out of his sight ever again.

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