ｒｅｖｅｎａｎｔ －ｓｉｘ

DC ✢ What scares them and how you help them cope

Characters: Bruce, Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian and Clark.

B R U C E W A Y N E

Bruce, for as long as he can remember, has always suffered in silence. A perpetual brooder.

People have come and gone in his life, but he has never been comfortable opening up to them.

And for the longest time, you were no exception.

Though, as time passed, and an intimate familiarity grew, you began noticing a shift in his behaviour. Where he normally would have isolated himself in the Batcave, overburdened himself with his work, he instead began seeking you out.

In those moments, he would gently approach you, and you would offer him comfort. That was when he finally opened up about his deepest fear, losing the people he loves, especially you.

He is terrified that, despite all his vigilance, one day he will be unable to protect those closest to him and the thought of losing anyone, of them being taken from him, is something he cannot bear to face.

He still does not show his vulnerability easily, but when you are there, he is not as afraid to let his guard down, even if only for a brief moment.

He will never admit it, but he is always so grateful for your presence. Whether it is a quiet moment holding your hand, your steady voice in his ear, or simply leaning against you, he finds comfort. He lets you sit with him, no words necessary, knowing you will stay with him.

D I C K G R A Y S O N

Dick has always been the life of the party, the one who could crack a joke to break any tension in the room, always for the benefit of others.

But as you spent more time with him, you began to notice how he would sometimes go quiet, how his smile fell a bit too easily when he thought no one was looking.

You would see the insecurity flicker across his face; like he was afraid he was not good enough. He was afraid that one day, he would let you down, it would push you to walk away from him and he would be alone.

On the rare occasions that Dick opened up about his fears, it was never in big, dramatic moments. It was during quiet, vulnerable times when you were curled up on the couch, or after a mission where he had felt everything had gone wrong.

He would admit to you, softly, that he worries he is not enough for the people he cares about. That maybe, despite all his effort, he could fail them.

When you reassure him, he would brush it off with a laugh, but deep down, it comforts him more than he lets on. And from that moment, he tries harder to show you just how much he values you.

J A S O N T O D D

Jason’s tough exterior had always seemed nearly impenetrable, to everyone who knew him and you had not been an exception to this rule.

When you first met him, Jason did not want to let you close. He pushed you away. Any attempt at trying to comfort him was futile.

Beneath this façade, there is a deep-rooted fear of being forgotten and unimportant, as though his death had been just another part of Gotham’s tragic history, another statistic.

Slowly, you began to perceive beyond his mask of resentment. During late-night conversations, when he allowed his frustration to ebb away, Jason would reveal just how much he fears that Gotham — or worse, his family — will not remember him as the person he is now, the person behind his carefully constructed veil, the boy he once was.

When Jason lets his walls down, it is never in public. It is solely within quiet, private moments with you, his eyes soft and vulnerable in a manner only you have ever known.

Over the years, you have learnt that showing patience and care, letting him know you are there even when he is at his lowest, is one of the most important ways to help him feel like he matters, to prove you see him for everything that he is, to prove you love the man beneath the veil. 

T I M D RA K E

Tim has always been the strategist, the planner; constantly running scenarios in his mind to ensure things go right.

However, with that constant need for control comes an intense fear of failure and not living up to the expectations he has placed on himself.

Early on, when you spent time with him, you noticed how tightly wound he always was; always thinking, and nearly always overthinking.

There were nights when he would finally collapse into bed, eyes wide with worry, unable to rest. You would feel this unease radiate from him throughout the night.

Tim never truly usually let his fear show, but one night, after a particularly difficult mission where he felt responsible for things that had gone wrong, he finally admitted how much pressure he felt to always be perfect.

You comforted him with a soft smile, telling him that it was okay to not have all the answers and that he, like everyone else, was allowed to make mistakes. You helped him realise the unrealistic expectations he had placed on himself. 

Since then, Tim still overthinks, he still plans, but, at the very least, he has learned, with you by his side, that it is okay to let go sometimes.

D A M I A N W A Y N E (Aged up as Batman)

Damian was fierce and proud, he never outwardly showed weakness if he could help it. His fear was simple, he was terrified that someone would see through this, that he would be perceived as feeble or unworthy of his name.

When you first met him, he wore his arrogance and pride like armour, it was designed to keep people at a distance.

However, as time progressed, you began to notice cracks in this façade; moments where he looked at his family and felt like he was not measuring up.

Damian never directly opened up, but you saw it in the way his shoulders tensed when his father praised others or when he failed at something that he believed should have been effortless.

One day, you found him alone, practising relentlessly in the training room. His frustration was palpable, and when he finally stopped, he turned to you, admitting woefully that he was afraid he would never be as good as his family and never live up to his father’s legacy.

You had been shocked, you had yearned for him to be open with you and had already resigned to the fact it likely would not happen. Despite this, you were quick to reassure him, reminding him that his worth was not measured by perfection, but by who he strived to be.

Over time, he began to trust you more, slowly letting you see the person beneath his well-constructed bravado. Though he would never admit it, your support meant the world to him.

C L A R K K E N T

Clark, the ever-hopeful, never-giving-up superhero, covertly harboured a deep fear of losing control — specifically, of accidentally hurting those he loves with his less-than-ordinary abilities.

His fear was embedded in the idea that his immense capabilities could go terribly astray, causing harm to someone he holds dear.

It is a quiet fear, one he does not often voice, as he does not want to burden you with it. But you can sense it in the way he is constantly holding back, constantly choosing to act in ways that minimise risk, even if it means sacrificing your mutual need for physical affection. 

One evening, after a particularly difficult escapade, where unbeknownst to you, his powers had nearly hurt an innocent bystander, you found him standing in front of the window, his hands clenched in silent frustration. He had been bitterly reminded of how dangerous he could be. If he lacked control for even the briefest of moments, you could be lost to him forever. 

You walked up behind him with the intention of loosening his hands with your own. At first, you made no impression on his unyielding frame, but eventually, he melted into your touch and let you intertwine your fingers. You gently asked him about it, and he admitted his fear, his voice softer than usual.

At this you embraced him, hoping you were not pushing any boundaries after this particular admission. You let him know that you trusted him entirely and that you believed he had an unwavering ability to protect, despite the weight of his fear.

From that night on, while Clark still remained cautious and vigilant, he knew that you were there to support him and, at the very least, you were not afraid of him. 

This is my first-ever attempt at a Headcanon, so any advice would be much appreciated <3

The Day Before ✢ Damon Salvatore ✢ Part Two

Synopsis: The reader knows she is dying, and to save Damon from the pain of her death, she makes an extremely difficult decision. However, the aftermath of this decision takes a great toll on Damon and the people who know him. Damon Salvatore x Reader, female pronouns. Platonic!Stefan Salvatore x Reader. Platonic!Caroline Forbes x Reader. Warnings: Angst, Death.  Notes: This is part two to a one-shot I posted a while ago, this piece will not make much sense without having read it. 

Masterlist |Part One

Words: 1,859

Stefan could tell something was awry the moment he stepped through the doors of the old boarding house. The air inside was palpable, as if every molecule was weighed down with a tension — a stillness that pressed against his heightened senses, thick and unnatural. Damon was sitting in front of the fireplace, his silhouette stark against the warm glow of the flames, though there was nothing warm about this scene. His posture, Stefan noted, usually so full of restless energy, was eerily composed. Too composed. His gaze was fixed ahead, unblinking, the light flickering in his eyes was like a dull echo of something that had long since burned out.

Stefan took a careful breath; he was not sure why, but his instincts screamed that something was wrong.

The blood on Damon’s hands was subtle at first, easy to miss, but it did not take long for the dried crimson to catch Stefan’s eye, it crept up Damon’s knuckles, stark and seeped within the crevices of his pale, illuminated skin.

‘Damon?’ 

Stefan called out, his voice cautious, wary, like he was approaching a predator lying in wait. But there was no answer. Damon did not so much as flinch, his expression a mask of chilling indifference, eyes as lifeless as the logs slowly burning to cinder before him.

Stefan swallowed hard, the dread inside him growing heavier by the second. 

‘Damon,’ he repeated, stepping closer, his shoes tapping softly against the hardwood floor. He kept his voice calm, but he struggled to hide the tension underneath. 

‘What happened?’

For a moment, it was as if Damon had not even heard him. He remained silent, his face void of any feeling; it was as if he was not even present in the room—like his body was there, but his mind, his soul, had retreated somewhere unreachable. The lack of reaction was more terrifying than any outburst, more unnerving than any fit of rage. Damon, who thrived on conflict, on drama, was sitting there… deadened.

Stefan clenched his fists, trying to keep his voice steady, but he couldn’t suppress his rising panic. 

‘Damon, talk to me. What did you do?’ 

Stefan’s gaze shifted, once again glancing at the blood-encrusted upon the hands of his brother. 

Still nothing. It was as though Stefan’s words were dissolving into the suffocating silence of the room. And then, finally, Damon’s eyes flickered, just barely. He turned his head slowly toward his brother, his movements languid, almost robotic. When he spoke, his voice was hollow, stripped of the usual sarcasm and wit that would linger in his tone. It was flat and mechanical. 

‘I did what I had to.’

Stefan’s heart pounded in his chest, his mind racing. That lifeless tone, the vacant look in his eyes—it was all too familiar. He had seen this before. Damon had turned it off. He had flipped the switch, shut down his emotions, locked away everything that made him… him. Stefan’s stomach twisted with dread.

‘No,’ Stefan whispered, more to himself than to Damon. His pulse quickened, the realisation like a slap to the face, stinging and sharp. Damon had turned it off, but why? What had driven him to this point? What had happened?

He took a step closer, his voice firmer now, though his urgency seeped through. 

‘Damon, what did you do?’

Damon did not respond immediately. His gaze drifted lazily back upon the flames, as if Stefan’s question was of no consequence, as if nothing mattered anymore. 

‘What I had to,’ he repeated, his voice cold and empty, devoid of the fire that usually burned beneath his words. 

‘What I needed to. It doesn’t matter now.’

Stefan’s hands twitched, frustration boiling beneath his skin. He could feel Caroline approaching behind them, her presence like a ripple disturbing an already tense atmosphere. He did not turn to look at her, but he could feel her eyes on Damon, wide and fearful.

‘Damon?’  She whispered, her voice soft, hesitant, as though she was afraid to speak too loudly. She took a cautious step forward, her gaze shifting between the brothers. 

‘What’s going on? Why—' She broke off, noticing the dried blood on his hands. Her face paled. 

‘Why do you have blood on your hands?’

Stefan shook his head slightly, his thoughts racing. He felt sick; unease crawled up his spine in an icy shiver.

‘He’s turned it off,’ he muttered, his voice barely audible.

Caroline’s breath hitched, her eyes growing wide with alarm. 

‘No…’ Her voice was thick with fear as she looked at Damon, whose expression remained indifferent as if none of this concerned him. 

‘Why? Why would he do that? What happened?’

Stefan’s heart dropped. The pieces were falling into place, but he did not want to believe it. He did not want to accept what Damon’s cold demeanour was screaming to him, wordless. He needed to see Y/N.

Damon stood up slowly, his movements deliberate, his eyes not even bothering to focus on Stefan or Caroline. 

‘I wouldn’t wait for her,’ he said, his voice flat, devoid of any emotion as he turned toward the door. Stefan shuddered, it was as though Damon was in his head, maybe he had been. Then his body tensed, Damon's words registering with him; a rush of panic flooded his system. 

‘Damon, what did you do?’

He did not answer. Without another word, Damon disappeared in a blur of supernatural speed, the door slamming shut behind him with an ominous finality. The room fell into a suffocating silence once more, but now the silence was darker, heavier with the weight of what they did not know. What they did not want to know.

Caroline’s voice trembled as she turned toward Stefan.

‘What does he mean? Stefan, what happened?’

Stefan clenched his jaw, his chest tightening as dread settled over him. They needed to find out.

The sun was setting as Stefan and Caroline approached Y/N’s home, as they got closer, it became apparent what was wrong, it hung in the air like an unspoken fact, they knew there was only one thing that could push Damon to this state, one event that could force him over the edge. Neither of them wanted to admit what it meant; they evaded this truth so its awful pending reality could not hurt them, but the silence around the house was heavy with foreboding.

‘Do you smell that?’ 

Caroline asked, her voice shaking as she stepped inside the house, the faint scent of blood hitting her like a physical blow.

The knot in his stomach tightened as they ventured deeper into her house, everything was still and quiet; his senses told him no one was there, but the lingering smell of blood stood in sharp juxtaposition, unmistakable and overwhelming. Every creak of the floorboards, every gush of the wind against the windows, seemed so much louder with the absence of life; it felt like a warning.

The bedroom door was left slightly ajar, and Stefan hesitated, his palm on the handle, before pushing it open. 

His breath caught in his throat.

There, crumpled on the floor, lay Y/N’s confronting form, still and cold, her skin as spectral as the moonlight now filtering in through the curtains. Her hair was splayed out across the floor, and her eyes were gently shut, as though she were only sleeping, but the sight was uncanny, they would never open again. Her limbs were unmoving, her chest motionless, and the scent of blood, stronger now, lingered around her like a haunting reminder of what had happened.

Caroline gasped, stumbling back as tears sprang to her eyes. They had already known this, but they did not want to believe it; the confrontation had been too much to behold.

“No... no, no, no...” she whispered, her voice breaking as she brought her hands to her face. 

“Oh my God, Stefan…”

Stefan could not speak. He stumbled forward and dropped to his knees beside the girl, his hands shaking as he reached out to touch her. Her skin was cold, by now, the warmth of her vibrant life was long gone, perpetually a memory. His throat tightened, his chest heaving with a deep, aching sense of loss. 

Not only was she his brother’s love, but a friend of his own, and he had cared for her deeply. Y/N had made his brother happy in a way he had never known, a fact he was grateful for, but she had also been there for him, her kindness and compassion knowing no bounds. 

He stroked her hair and tucked it behind her ear, while a terrible burn at the base of his throat rose and shifted into a choked sob. He realised at once that she must have died alone.

And Damon had found her like this, horribly sallow and confronting.

He must have tried to save her; Stefan’s eyes numbly caught the dried blood upon her lips. He had given her his blood, but it had been too late. The emptiness within Damon’s eyes, the cold detachment—it made more sense now. Damon had not just lost her. This was not just death. 

He had failed her.

‘She was trying to leave,’ Caroline whispered through her tears, her gaze locked on the half-packed suitcase on the bed. She was trying to look anywhere but the girl lying lifeless on the hard floor.

‘I think she knew she was dying... and she didn’t tell us.’

Stefan closed his eyes, the weight of this truth crashing down upon him, she had knowingly left without a goodbye. Damon had found her like this. He had tried to save her. And when he was unable, when he finally realised he was too late, it had ruined him. The love he had for her, the hope he had surely held onto—only made this so much worse. Stefan found himself wishing he had been there for him, even if it did not change anything, and he imagined it would not have, Damon would still be gone now. 

His chest ached with the knowledge that his brother, despite not being there at the time, would have felt every second of her death because he could not save her. Damon had turned off his humanity because the idea of living without her had been too painful. It had destroyed him.

Caroline wiped her eyes, and her voice trembled with fear. 

‘What are we going to do? If Damon has no humanity... Stefan, he’s dangerous.’

Stefan’s fists clenched, and his mind raced. Damon had always been volatile, but this was different. He had nothing left to lose now. 

‘We have to find him,’ Stefan said, voice steady despite the turmoil inside him. 

‘Before he does something he can’t take back.’

But his words were meaningless, as he glanced towards Y/N’s desolate corpse, Stefan could not shake the gnawing fear, or rather, the fact that it was already too late. Y/n was dead, and Damon had gone with her. He leaned down, placing a soft kiss on her forehead in farewell, knowing full well that he was kissing his brother goodbye along with her.

Every comment and piece of advice is welcomed and appreciated <3

Disarray ✢ Jason Todd

Synopsis: She had become his sanctuary, the one unshaken constant in a life fractured by violence and resurrection — the only person who saw beyond the wreckage and chose to stay regardless. Jason Todd returns to the person he considers his home, only to find it in disarray.

Jason Todd x Reader, female pronouns. Warnings: Angst (with comfort).

Masterlist

Notes: I set out to write a short piece, nothing over a thousand words, I was successful! Normally I write way too much.

Words: 923

Jason never knocked, never felt the need to announce his arrival; he did not possess the disposition for this courtesy, and he already knew she would be anticipating him, with an easy smile, as though she relished his company. Jason could not compel himself to understand, to comprehend why a person so pure, so gentle, would allow themselves to be tainted by someone so burdened, someone like him. 

He reached out, the old window yielding with a decrepit creak as he moved it upward, and climbed through the aperture without grace. 

The room was fractured. His hands began to tremble.

This space, so wonderfully hers, had rapidly become his sanctuary; the one place on this sphere where he felt truly at peace, where he felt he could be himself. Now, it lay in ruins before him, a body of motion and disorder. Cushions were sprawled across the expanse of the room, drawers were cracked wide open, and papers lay scattered across all surfaces. 

The breath he had been holding sputtered out; he was gasping, fighting for air. Jason’s eyes swept through it all, not taking it in, not registering; he needed to snap out of it, to make sense of it. He unwillingly looked up, stomach crumpled with the realisation that the clasp of the front door had been left unlocked. Her name claws at the back of his throat, but he does not call it. He cannot get himself to name her absence, to solidify it in his reality.

The place was not big, and yet it felt like lifetimes had passed as he scoped through it, shattering with every room that failed to offer her silhouette. His dread grows not in a line, but in every conceivable direction, fractal and fast; erratic. The fragment of him that still knows reason suggests she went out. The rest of him, the person carved hollow by Lazarus and consequence, had already begun to grieve.

The unlocked door is a wound. A violation.

Someone knows. Someone traced the pattern, mapped their connection, and found the one seam he should have reinforced. He pictures her hands, how unarmed they are, how gentle, how tender, and it is unthinkable to entertain that they are subject to a stranger’s mercy.

His mind does not race; it plummets. The catastrophe is palpable; he can almost taste it. It cuts sharp against his tongue and sears like acid. She is gone. Y/N is gone. The word nests in his chest like a cancer, malignant and burgeoning, defiling everything in its wake. He dropped to his knees. He had always been so sure of himself, so confident in his resolve, but he knew he could not overcome this; his dread left him immobilised, obsolete.

And then —

The door opened.

Y/N stands calm in the frame, flushed from exertion, keys in hand, with a ghost of a smile on her lips, until she sees him. Or rather, perceives what was left of him; feeble upon the floor.

‘Jason...?’

Her voice is quiet at first, tentative. The light that had been in her eyes began to dissipate, concern filling the place it left vacant in its departure. She moved to him, quickly, dropping the keys somewhere behind her.

‘Are you... Are you hurt? What’s wrong? What happened?’

But he only shakes his head, eyes wide, breath shuddering, he felt it quake in his chest. Then he pulled her down to him, taking her in his embrace. His arms tightened with something akin to desperation, like a man who had already begun to bury his world. She feels it in the tremor of his breath. In the way his jaw locks against her shoulder.

‘I thought... ’

He does not finish, he cannot. The words collapse on the edge of his tongue.

Y/N pulled him in tighter, beginning to trace his scars where she knew they lay underneath his shirt, a ritual that brought him great ease.

‘I thought someone took you,’ he whispered against her shoulder, again and again, as if the repetition might bleed the terror out, extricate it from where it festered beneath his skin. ‘I thought they knew. That they connected you to me. I thought I’d gotten you hurt.’ 

Or worse, he wanted to utter, but the notion was too revolting, too vile.

‘No,’ she murmured, hands on his face now, grounding him. ‘Jason, no. I’m fine. I just... I couldn’t find my keys. I tore the place apart looking for them.’ She motioned around her, to the disarray encircling them, the catalyst of his anguish. He looked into her eyes, savouring the sensation of it, of having her in his arms.

‘I left to check my car, I didn’t think... I’m so sorry... ’

Jason did not respond, for he no longer possessed the capacity to commit thought to speech. He simply pulled her closer, burying his face in the crook of her neck like a man anchoring himself to the last artifact capable of keeping him afloat. His breath was still uneven, ragged with the aftershocks of a panic that refused to fade. She was here; warm, real and speaking, but his body had not yet caught up with the truth of it. All he could do was hold her, tighter than he ever had before, as if that force alone might keep his world from collapsing. Because some part of him, raw and relentless, still feared that if he let go, she would vanish, not in a torrent, but quietly, like sand through his fingers.

Every comment and piece of advice is welcomed and appreciated <3

Thank you ❤️

DC ✢ When he realised he loved you

Characters: Bruce, Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian and Clark.

B R U C E⠀W A Y N E

The moment had been a quiet revelation, in a silence so profound it frightened him. The kind of silence that followed the first crack of thunder, one moment loud and undeniable, the next building with tension, waiting for it to strike again. 

You were sitting in the library of the manor, an arcane book resting open upon your lap, the fire crackling softly behind you. He had just returned from patrol — broken, bloodied, and defeated.

You looked up, eyes wide, alarmed at his state and asked, ‘Bruce?’ You had spoken as if he were not the Batman, not an emblem of vengeance and grit, but a man, just a man, whose hurt mattered.

Something in him gave out. Not in an ostentatious, cinematic collapse, but in the subtle yielding of defences too long held taut. His mind, a fortress of rationale and boundaries, fell silent.

She sees me, for all I am, it whispered. And yet she stays.

He had not believed in unconditional love since the alleyway. But in that moment, with the stench of blood from his suit and the leaden weight of the city upon his back, he saw love for what it was — not a sanctuary, but a quiet understanding, and a choosing. And she had chosen him.

It terrified him. Because now he had yet another thing to lose, to protect, something that was not abstract. It had a name. A voice. A laugh. It sat in his home and softened his world.

He had never been the same since.

D I C K⠀G R A Y S O N

It crept up on him — not a wave, but rather a tide. Quiet and constant and utterly irreversible.

You had fallen asleep in his bed, still holding a game controller, your brow furrowed even in your unconsciousness. He watched you in the blue glow of the screen and thought, God, I’d die for her.

And then came the laugh — low, bitter, surprised. Because of course he would. He was always ready to die for someone.

But this felt different. This was not a compulsion, a sense of duty. It was not about legacy or guilt. It was about you. And the way your presence grounded the part of him that had always been just suspended above the world, half-grieving, half-trying.

He remembered kissing your forehead before leaving for patrol that night. Slow. Lingering. The kind of kiss that was not about want, but reverence.

That was when he knew.

Love was not a thrill. It was a weight. And he had never wanted anything to anchor him, to tether him to this sphere, more than you.

The realisation made him smile. And then it made him ache.

J A S O N⠀T O D D

Jason felt it like the first rays of sun upon his back after a piercing winter, it flooded his system, warm and compelling. It struck him all of a sudden — new, unfamiliar, and… unwelcome. He did not want it. He had not asked for it.

You were brushing your teeth, half-asleep, wearing one of his old shirts, humming a song under your breath as though nothing was wrong in the world, as though it were not in a state of disrepair just beyond the window. And while watching you, he could believe it for a moment too.

Jason stood in the doorway, paralysed. Because he had seen too much tragedy, too much carnage. He could hardly believe that a quiet instant of peace, like this, could even exist, let alone in his reality.

His first instinct was to run. Not literally — he could never leave you. But to emotionally retreat, to steel himself for the moment this fleeting softness was stolen from him.

But you looked at him. Just looked — toothpaste foam and all — with a kind of amused concern, and asked, ‘You okay?’

After everything he had been through. He was not sure he had ever been less okay.

He loved you. He loved you with a passion that made him feel unworthy, as if he had tainted something holy.

A voice in him protested — said it was weakness. Said this would end in catastrophe. But he ignored it, just this once. He stepped forward and kissed your temple.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Just tired.’ But he was not. This was a lie. His mind was reeling.

He did not sleep that night. He lay awake memorising your breathing.

T I M⠀D R A K E

It was a question you asked that did it. Something ordinary, like, ‘Did you eat today?’

Tim wanted to laugh because it was such a cliché, wasn’t it? But clichés exist because they are true. No one ever asked him that, not like you had, not like it genuinely mattered. 

Then you brought him a coffee, one of those orders so tailored it was essentially an identity. You did not need to ask what he wanted. You simply knew.

He blinked down at the cup, then at you, and suddenly the task he was completing meant nothing.

He felt the world tilt. Quietly. Like the axis of his orbit had shifted. And it had.

Love, to Tim, had always been a puzzle he did not have time to solve. A thing for normal people, with normal lives, for people who lacked the responsibility he had garnered.

But there it was — simple, unassuming and irreversible.

He did not tell you. Not for a long time.

But he began cataloguing what made you smile. The way your face changed after a laugh, crinkled and carefree. He noticed the way your eyes sparkled just a little brighter when you spoke of things that made you passionate, and how the corners of your lips turned up when you were lost in a quiet thought.

This love became his sustenance, it was the first time in years he feared forgetting something.

D A M I A N⠀W A Y N E (Aged up as Batman)

It had infuriated him. The sheer idiocy of it.

Love was chemical, juvenile, a distraction. Or so he had been taught. So he had believed.

And yet there he stood — across from you in the garden, where you were speaking to a stray dog as if it were royalty, and something in his chest pulled.

At first, he mistook it for contempt — annoyance at your softness in a moment where he was attempting to be serious. But then you looked up, grinned, and said, ‘I think she likes me.’

And the words caught in his throat. Not because he did not believe them, but because he liked you. Against every grain of his upbringing.

He wanted to scold you, retreat, build walls. But instead, he asked the cat’s name.

That was the beginning. The fracture.

He loved you. In an old, mythic sense. In the way poets spoke of their love — fierce, unyielding, as though it could bend the very fabric of time. 

And that it did, time slowed every time you entered his concentration.

He began to dream of futures — a concept once as foreign to him as mercy.

He has not told you. But he will. In his own time. For now, he will continue to relish in it, and continue in this alluring descent. 

C L A R K⠀K E N T

He did not realise. Not at first. Because what he felt for you was too immense, too intrinsic, to label with as small as a word as love.

It was not until you fell asleep in his arms, mumbling about a stressful day, completely unaware of the god you were held by, that it hit him.

You did not see him as Superman. You saw him as Clark Kent. You simply saw him. The man. His hope. His grief.

And he realised then — you are his tether.

He thought of Krypton. Of its loss. Of the gaping emptiness it had left as soon as he had learnt of it. And for the first time in years, he did not feel hollow. He felt… full. He realised, that the planet could never have been home to him like she was. 

You snored softly. He laughed. Then cried.

Love, he realised, was not loud. It was simply your hand over his heart. It was your laughter in the next room. It was your body next to his.

He had not fallen in love. He had found it, unexpected and irrevocable, and for all the power he had been bestowed, this force had left him helpless to resist.

And now he guards it with everything he is. Because you are not just his world.

You are his home.

I'm going to post a follow-up called 'When he admitted he loved you' sometime soon, if you want to keep an eye out. Every comment and piece of advice is welcomed and appreciated <3

DC ✢ When he admitted he loved you

Characters: Bruce, Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian and Clark. This is a companion piece to another headcanon called 'When he realised he loved you' linked here. Though, you can still read it independently.

B R U C E⠀W A Y N E

Bruce did not say it in a quiet moment — for such moments were rare. Though, when they did find him, he spent them with you in silence. Not with words but simply by being near, by existing in your presence.

No. It came during an argument. One of those arguments that shakes the very foundations of a relationship — not because of what was said, but because of what had never been, what was expected.

You had asked him — raw, wounded — what you meant to him. What all this was. Why he kept forming barriers between you, when all you had ever wanted to do was break through.

His answer had been frigid. Precise. Calculated and sharpened. A blade forged from old habits, Bruce wielded it with an unconscious mastery, a last-ditch defence mechanism perfected over decades.

You left. Not in fury, but in heartbreak, disappointment — the kind that does not cry, does not scream, but simply broods into silence. Your absence rang louder than a slammed door, louder than any yell you could have mustered.

Alfred did not speak. Just passed Bruce in the hallway with the kind of look that had once made him sit straighter as a boy. And now, it made him feel small once more, as though he were still a child.

Time passed and still, silence.

He found you in the garden, beneath a sky now thick with stars, the sun had still been gleaming when you had hurried away. You had not been crying. You were still. And in that stillness, he saw the damage he had inflicted upon you.

‘I can’t seem to protect what I love,’ he said, words fractured, conflicted. ‘Not my parents. Not Jason… Not you —’ 

You turned. Not startled by the confession, but by the break in his voice. You had never seen him like this before, never so fragile. 

‘But I do. I love you. I want… I need you to know that.’

It was not cinematic. No kiss. No arms thrown around shoulders. Just him, standing before you, hollowed by an atypical honesty, praying you would believe him — even if he was undeserving of that trust.

And you did. You believed him. Bruce could see it in the ease of your countenance, in the smile that now warmed your face. But even so, he apologised as though he had committed a most heinous crime.

You pulled yourself to your feet, still wordless. And enveloped him in your arms.

‘I love you too, Bruce.’

D I C K⠀G R A Y S O N

Dick meant to say it casually — with that charming nonchalance that usually came so naturally to him. He had rehearsed it, even. Smiled in the mirror once or twice. But it never felt right, never felt adequate. It was too simple a word to describe what he felt for you. 

But love, he discovered, should not wait for perfect timing.

It came unexpectedly late one evening, while a movie played in the background — some low-budget film neither of you had been truly watching. Your head was on his shoulder. His thumb was tracing invisible shapes into your side.

And then — suddenly breathless, it had grown too large to contain, he could not hold it any longer,

‘You know I love you, right?’

You blinked like someone newly roused from a dream, and looked at him as though he had spoken in a foreign language. Dick was not confident he had not. 

When you remained quiet, he chuckled, uneasy. And brought his hand to the back of his neck, in a nervous, boyish manner. 

‘I mean — I have. For a while. I just didn’t want to ruin it by...’ He trailed off, not quite sure what he was saying. 

You remained quiet for a few moments more, contemplating. The juncture of silence stretched taut, he held his breath. And then you smiled. 

As soft as the moonlight now shining through the curtains, you whispered, ‘I love you, too.’

He kissed you gently, as though he were trying to make up for all the times he had not said it sooner. In that moment, he was not Dick Grayson, he was not Nightwing or the Boy Wonder — he was simply someone lucky enough to be loved by you.

To this day, he cannot for the life of him remember the movie that had been playing. All he could remember was that smile — the way it had already lit up your eyes by the time it reached your mouth and the enthralling, glowing warmth that had flooded his system.

J A S O N⠀T O D D

You were stitching him up again — hands steady, breath shallow, a routine so familiar it hurt. Nothing fatal. Nothing new. His form was half-draped in shadow, skin cold under your touch. You sat cross-legged before him. 

‘You’ve got to stop doing this,’ you murmured, not for the first time and certainly not the last. 

He did not answer. Because what would he tell you? Not the truth, you would not want to hear it. Every stitched-up wound felt like proof that you cared; he could not resist the temptation. He did not believe you could love a man like him, but when he felt your gentle fingers work over his skin, he let himself consider it; he let himself yearn. 

‘I’d die for you, you know?’ he muttered. Off-handed. As though it were the most obvious thing, as though it were as easy as breathing.

A frown turned your face. ‘That’s not comforting, Jason.’

And then — something unspooled. A thread that had been pulled too tight for too long. Jason sighed.

‘What I was trying to say… What I meant was… I love you —’ He looked into your eyes, gaze piercing, willing you to see the truth of it. 

The words had flooded out like a barrage breaking open. ‘That’s all I’m trying to say. I’d die for you because… I can’t picture a world without you in it. I wouldn’t want to.’ He shivered at this, at the concept of a sphere you did not grace, the very notion made him ill. 

You stilled. Hands held suspended above him, pausing their work.

He was not looking for a response — only a release; he had needed this off his chest. But you gave him one anyway.

‘I love you, too.’ You had uttered it so softly, had Jason not already been watching your lips, he may have missed it. His breath caught — not in fear, but in awe — as though his lungs had momentarily forgotten their most natural function.

Your words felt like electricity brimming beneath his skin — like every nerve had been awoken at once. A new fullness bloomed within his chest, as though the ribs could no longer host his heart; as if it had suddenly grown too large to contain.

He spoke up again, softer this time,  ‘I’ll try to live for you too. That part’s harder. But believe me when I say I want it. More than anything.’ He gave you one of his rare smiles, and your heart jolted.

You silently placed the first aid materials to the side and leaned in, placing your head against his shoulder. After a short while you shifted, leaving scattered kisses across his fading scars, lingering on each for a moment, he felt that same electricity once more. 

Your hands ghosted over him like he were something precious, as though the ruin of him was worth loving, and that was the message you were trying to convey, what you were trying to have him understand.

Jason did not sleep that night. Not out of pain or panic, but because he was afraid it had been a dream. That peace, for someone like him, was more fragile, more fleeting than any reverie; and he could not stand the idea of waking up.

T I M⠀D R A K E

You both had been working late, each focused on your own tasks, yet relishing in the silent company of one another; the peace of it. Tim sat at his desk, while you lay across his bed, legs swinging behind you with a pen in hand.

Tim had asked you to stay at the manor for the night, but you had gently refused, reminding him you had work in the morning. You got up and walked over, placing both hands on either shoulder. You then pressed a kiss to his temple and whispered in his ear.

‘I better head off now.’ He leaned his head back into you, and his eyes met yours, smiling.

And then — too casually, too instinctively — he said, ‘Okay, love you.’

The words had flowed out like a torrent. A sudden, unexpected failure in his system.

Then a silence dropped like a stone in deep water — sudden, heavy, and irreversible; absolute.

He froze. His eyes were wide, as though the phrase had been spoken by an imposter, by someone else within his skin. He had known this fact for a long time, it had only been a matter of time.

‘I didn’t — I mean — that wasn’t—well, it was, but —’ He stopped. His words crashed over each other, panicked and sputtered.

You tilted your head. Shock the dominant expression on your face.

‘You love me?’

He nodded, slowly, it would be silly to deny it; to lie. Shame crept into the corners of his expression. What if he had said it too soon? What if the word drew you away?  Then suddenly you smiled, as though you had been waiting for this exact failure, this exact slip-up.

‘Well… that’s good,’ your whisper was tender. ‘Because I love you too.’

And just like that, his spiralling mind halted. His thoughts — so often a storm of what-ifs and whys — were suddenly still.

And in that stillness, something shifted.

The tension in his shoulders eased and melted away. He let out a breath he had not realised he had been holding — shaky, but smiling. It was not his usual tight-lipped smirk, nor the polite upward curve he would give strangers — this one was real. Quiet, disbelieving and full.

You leaned downward and rested your forehead against his, your hand moving to cradle his cheek. Tim leaned into it like he had been starved of its softness. You spoke through a grin.

‘Maybe I should stick around. Was that your plan all along?’

D A M I A N⠀W A Y N E⠀(Aged up as Batman)

Damian did not like the word love. Not at first. The word felt paltry. Trite. A flippant syllable never built to hold the sheer weight of what he carried for you.

You had just bested him in sparring. You always did, but only because he allowed it — Damian would sooner impale himself on his training blade than admit it, but it was not as though you were unaware. You had thought it cute, an adjective you would never dare utter to his face. 

Damian had no shortage of self-pride. The fact he was willing to sacrifice it, simply to please you, always left you breathless. 

You extended your hand to guide him up, but he simply stared at it from his place on the mat, his gaze shifting upward. You were standing over him, a barely contained smirk donning your features. 

‘You do not understand what you mean to me,’ he said, voice low and filled with a thousand ulterior meanings, though they bled through, his tone turning earnest.

You did not speak. You simply waited.

‘This feeling,’ he tried again, ‘it disrupts everything. My training. My thoughts. My plans. Everything. It… it…’ He trailed off, not sure how to finish what he was saying, not confident that the words capable of conveying these feelings were extant across any vernacular, it seemed too implausible. 

You smiled, faintly. ‘You mean love?’

He flinched like you had cursed. But then — after a moment — he nodded.

‘Yes. That.’ It was not enough, but he figured he would concede. ‘I feel it. Unwillingly. But truthfully.’

You laughed, it was warm and bell-like. It struck something tender in him, something still learning to hope.

‘I love you too, Damian.’

How was it, that word he had held with such contempt, such scrutiny and scepticism, was suddenly so weighted, so gorgeous uttered from your lips? How was it so impactful now it was directed towards him? 

He looked away, not from shame, but from overwhelm. He had fought assassins, atrocious criminals, and the weight of his father’s legacy — but never had he felt something as all-consuming as being wanted, as overwhelming as the thought of your love.

C L A R K⠀K E N T

He had told you on a rooftop. Not because it was histrionic, but because it was distant — far above the world’s inescapable noise, yet still beneath its stars. 

You were talking about something entirely ordinary. Rent, perhaps. The cost of your water bill.

But he was not listening, not truly. He watched as your lips moved and thought only of how he yearned to kiss them, to wake up to them each and every morning. 

And then he looked at you. Really looked. And the words came like wind through the ether — soft, inevitable.

‘I love you.’ He had cut you off, but it needed to be said. He could not have lived another moment without these words held suspended between you. 

You smiled, easy. ‘I know.’

But he shook his head. Shifting closer. There was an ache in his voice, a gravity to it.

‘No. I love you. Not in the way people say when they’re hanging up the phone. Or when they leave for work in the morning. I love you like… like…’ He paused, eyebrows furrowed, ‘I’m not sure I can put it into words —’ He places his hands on either side of your cheeks. 

You stopped breathing.

‘You’ve given me something no one else has,’ he said, his voice near breaking. ‘Not because you wanted a hero. But because you saw me — as nothing more than a man. The farmboy. The one who still forgets to fold his laundry, after you’ve already asked him five times…’

You let out a sudden laugh, but it was not for his joke, your joy at his admission could not be contained; it surged out. You kissed him.

‘I love you, too.’ You murmured, Clark could hear the smile within your voice. Then he thought of the stars glimmering upon them, they shone bright, yet still somehow paled in your comparison. 

I was thinking of expanding upon the Jason Todd section and turning it into its own one-shot, would anyone be interested in that? Every comment and piece of advice is welcomed and appreciated <3

Author's Note: I have written a second part to this one-shot that I posted many moons ago, here is a quick reblog to hopefully get it into circulation again before the new part is posted. I never planned for a second part, but it kind of happened anyway and I think it works well. I thought it would be fun to explore the aftermath of this event, and how it would affect some of the characters of Mystic Falls. Keep in tune! It should be up within the next day or so.

The Day Before ➳ Damon Salvatore x TerminallySick!reader One-Shot

Synopsis: The reader knows she is dying and to save Damon the pain of her death she makes an extremely difficult decision.

Damon Salvatore x Fem!Reader

WARNINGS: Angst, Death. 

Masterlist

A/N: This is my first time writing for Damon Salvatore, hopefully this is the first of many.

Words: 1,538

Keep reading

Hey!

Can you please add me to the tag list for Revenant?

Thank you ❤️

Of course! I’m glad you have been enjoying it <3

✢ The Vampire Diaries ✢ Masterlist ✢

Just a little disclaimer, all my works use female pronouns for the reader. Besides this, I keep the reader undescribed, the only filler I use being 'Y/N' <3

D A M O N S A L V A T O R E

One-Shots:

The Day Before |Part 2 ✢ The reader knows she is dying, and to save Damon from the pain of her death, she makes an extremely difficult decision. However, the aftermath of this decision takes a great toll on Damon and the people who know him.

Series: Revenant ✢ Y/N Winchester was tired of living in her brothers' shadows; she needed to do something for herself for a change. When she heads to Mystic Falls, a town she was always warned to stay away from, she finds she may have taken on more than she can handle. Will she be able to eradicate the supernatural from the uncanny town? Or will she find herself tangled amongst it? (This is a supernatural crossover)

Drabbles:

Coming soon...

Headcanons:

Coming soon...

E L I J A H M I K A E L S O N

One-Shots:

Ephemeral ✢ Elijah Mikaelson reflects on how knowing Y/N L/N has transformed his centuries-old existence. As he battles his deep feelings for her, he grapples with the stark reality of their pivotal difference: he is an immortal vampire, and she is a fragile human.

Drabbles:

Coming soon...

Headcanons:

Coming soon...

S T E F A N S A L V A T O R E

One-Shots:

coming soon...

Drabbles:

Coming soon...

Headcanons:

Coming soon...

Enjoy <3

Enigma ✢ Bruce Wayne

Summary: Bruce Wayne has a secret that he has been keeping from the reader for over two years, fearing his vigilante escapades will only draw her away, completely unaware the reader holds a secret of her own.

This piece is not plot-specific, so any iteration of Bruce will work. Though, I wrote it with Robert Pattinson in mind.

Bruce Wayne x Reader, female pronouns.

Warnings: Slight Angst

Masterlist

Notes: I’ve seen this movie in cinemas 3 times now, and I’m going again this week, I seriously need help.

Words: 2,056

Every time he sees her the feeling of guilt low in his stomach is sickening, everything he does is to make Gotham a safer place, for the civilians; and for her. So she can walk down the street and not have to worry about the evil lurking in the shadows, the people who would hurt her. Never again.

Though his job is dangerous, it would only be too easy for someone to find her in the event of his identity being revealed. And the thought of any harm coming to her kills him.

He likes to believe that he is keeping her safe by holding information from her, if she knows nothing, the information cannot endanger her, though his better judgment knows it is his selfishness. Once the truth is out, she could very well want to leave him; and Bruce could not handle any more loss.

He hates to deceive her, always making excuses for his frequent absence, leaving her alone in his bed at night, hoping he will make it back before she wakes to his cold, empty side. He wants to spend the rest of his life with her, but the likelihood of such a thing becomes less and less believable every time he leaves his home clad in the suit of the caped crusader.

He already feels her becoming more distant, when he returns home it is often to an empty bed. Though he tries to believe she is only staying at her apartment, the idea is unlikely, it had been months since she started staying with him. And when he intends to leave a note explaining his sudden disappearance, he realises with a sinking heart that she herself is already gone.

She had not been answering her phone, he could feel his panic settling in as he scrolled through all the missed calls, Y/N had been quite distant as of late but he could always rely on her to respond. An uneasy feeling fell in his gut as he came to the conclusion that something must be wrong. It was as if he turned on autopilot, his body beginning to move without the intention to; robotic as he dressed in his suit and mounted his bike, speeding from the bat cave without a second thought.

His dread fell further when he reached Y/N’s apartment, the silhouette of a hooded figure climbing from her window and expertly making their way down from the fire escape. They withdrew quickly into the shadows. He knew he should follow them, if they had done anything to her he fears all sense of morality would be out of the window; they would not live to tell the tale. But at this moment he only had eyes for Y/N, he had to know she was safe. His thoughts were hollow as he rushed to her apartment window, climbing frantically up the fire escape the figure had just gone down. 

When he reached the window the sight halted him, not a single thing was out of place, the view no different from every other time he had been there. Though even without the signs of struggle he expected to find, he still stalked quietly through the apartment looking for the girl he loved. It felt wrong, she was neither at his house nor her own, and she was not answering her phone. Not knowing where she was or if she was okay unsettled him as nothing had before. Who was the figure? Were they the key to her sudden disappearance? 

Bruce believed he knew Y/N better than anyone, and one thing he knew for sure was her inclination of having everything in place, so when he spotted a single book pulled further than the rest, contrasting vastly with the picture-perfect view of her home, he decided to investigate.

Upon pulling the book, the shelf broke its seal from the wall, slowly turning to reveal more storage behind it. Bruce sighed at the revelation, there was nothing more obvious than a secret passage within a bookshelf. Though what he found was shocking, the walls were lined with weapons and in the middle, stood a bare mannequin, one which could easily have been holding the cloak of the figure he saw earlier. Bruce remembered news articles and stories describing the work of a new vigilante prevalent within Gotham, known only as Enigma. 

It could not be her, he would not believe it; the thought of her deliberately putting herself in danger horrified him. He pictured all the ghastly things he had seen behind his Batman façade, the idea of her seeing these things too making him sick.

He decided to follow them, to confirm the figure he saw wasn’t her, he feared they would already be too far gone; but he found himself climbing from her window and following their path anyway. His fears were confirmed true when he drew deeper and deeper into the shadows of the dank Gotham street, but no traces of the uncanny vigilante could be found.

He mounted his motorcycle once more with a sense of helplessness, with no way of finding her his only option was to make his way back and wait harrowingly for her return. It was not like Bruce to stand aside, he felt powerless. He hoped to find her sitting on the settee watching the television or laid in front of the fireplace reading a novel, but he knew this was just wishful thinking. It all seemed far too correlated, the secret storage compartment, the unknown figure stalking from her window, her frequent unexplained absences… 

Bruce had thought she was drifting away, that he was losing her. But was it possible that it was her; that Y/N was the Enigma rampant within Gotham’s media?

He derided the thought, but it was hard to dispute. He knew he was being incredibly hypocritical. Every night as his symbol shone through the murky clouds of Gotham’s night sky, he lurked in the shadows, taking it upon himself to decide the punishment for Gotham’s most heinous criminals. So why did the prospect of Y/N doing the exact same thing trouble him so much? Bruce knew it was because he could never ensure her safety, every time she would leave dressed in her alias, the possibility of her never returning home was large; it terrified him.

He entered the hidden basement of Wayne Manor Estate, a place he had reconfigured into the bat cave just over two years ago, immediately changing from his suit and wiping the makeup from his eyes. On his way to the exit, he was met with the stricken appearance of Alfred, who began to speak,

‘You haven’t seen Miss L/N by any chance? She left in a hurry earlier, and she hasn’t been responding to my calls’

‘She hasn’t been responding to mine either, Alfred, I’ve just returned from her apartment; she is nowhere to be found’ He responded curtly, careful to hide the distress in his voice.

Bruce considered telling Alfred about the silhouette he saw leaving her window, and the theory he had comprised. But quickly decided against it, he was not certain she was Enigma. He did not want to say anything in the event it all amounted to nothing.

Bruce’s eyes rested on his security footage, his heart giving a leap when he saw the face he had been looking for all day, she was using the elevator heading towards the main living space.

‘Speaking of which, will you excuse me, Alfred? I believe I should go and ask about these missed calls, see what she has been up to all this time.’ And without adding anything further he swiftly exited and made his own way to the living area.

Y/N sat reading a book on the brown chesterfield settee beside the fireplace seemingly unaware of the distress she had placed Bruce through the past few hours. She continued to read, fully engrossed in her novel and completely oblivious to his presence. He cleared his throat.

‘Jesus Bruce! How long have you been standing there?!’ Her expression was startled, her hand held above her heart.

‘Not long, I’ve only just gotten home’ 

‘Why haven’t you been answering your phone?” Bruce continued before Y/N had the chance to respond. Her eyebrows furrowed as she pulled the small device from her front pocket, 

‘Sorry Bruce, I didn’t realise you had been trying to call me… Oh, and Alfred too… I must have had my phone on silent’ She looked sincere as she spoke but Bruce knew there was more to be said.

‘Where have you been all night? You had me worried.’ He prompted, hoping she would be forthright.

‘I was at my apartment’ It was the answer he had been expecting but not the one he wanted to hear.

‘I know you weren’t there, Y/N, when I couldn’t find you and you weren’t answering my calls, which is very unlike you, I went to your home, you weren’t there 

She looked hurt, and opened her mouth to dispute.

‘Bruce, why couldn’t you have waited for me to come home? Don’t you trust me?’ Her voice was offended.

‘Trust you? I trusted you completely. But you have to understand that I have a high profile, I’m often the target of attacks by the Gotham anarchy. And our relationship isn’t exactly secret. When you weren’t responding I was terrified, I thought someone had hurt you…’

‘I went to your apartment because I needed to know you were okay. Trust me, I knew I was being irrational. But you weren’t there and you’re telling me you were, and now you’re asking for my trust?’ 

‘I don’t expect you to tell me everything, Y/N, I don’t need to know everything. But I do need to know you’re safe, can you at least give me that much?’

Y/N was taken aback, it was obvious he loved her but he had never been this outspoken before. She didn’t know what to say, she could not lie again, he would know; she hated to lie. He continued when she failed to respond.

‘Y/N… Are you the Enigma they have been talking about…?’

A small intake of breath turned into a gasp, her eyes set wide on her face. It was the only answer he needed. They continued to stare at each other, the air tense, as though it would snap at any moment. Once again Bruce spoke,

‘Please… Y/N…’

‘How?… How could you possibly know?… I was always so careful…’ She spoke softly, her tone incredulous.

‘So it’s true then? Why must you do this? It’s dangerous, you could get hurt…’ Bruce’s eyes softened as he spoke.

‘For months after I was attacked and those men got away, all I could think about were the people being hurt in my place. It’s unlikely they would have just stopped after my encounter with them. I had to do something, they weren’t the only criminals out there, the streets of Gotham is riddled with them.’  

Bruce wanted to be upset with her, but he knew he could not be, after all, was he not doing the exact same thing? Once again he thought about all the times he had left her in the night, all times he had missed her calls with no explanation as to why. He knew it was time to tell her, it simply could not wait any longer, it had been eating away at him for over two years now. But she still trusted him after all of it, it was time to test that trust. 

For the first time all evening he felt a sense of relief, he had always been worried she would want to leave him, that the revelation of this most secret pastime would be too much. Though the likelihood of that occurring now seemed doubtful.

‘Y/N… There is something I should say…’ He averted his eyes, he did not want to see her face as his hypocrisy registered with her.

‘I am The Batman…’ 

This is seriously the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. Thank you 🙏

DC ✢ When he realised he loved you

Characters: Bruce, Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian and Clark.

B R U C E⠀W A Y N E

The moment had been a quiet revelation, in a silence so profound it frightened him. The kind of silence that followed the first crack of thunder, one moment loud and undeniable, the next building with tension, waiting for it to strike again. 

You were sitting in the library of the manor, an arcane book resting open upon your lap, the fire crackling softly behind you. He had just returned from patrol — broken, bloodied, and defeated.

You looked up, eyes wide, alarmed at his state and asked, ‘Bruce?’ You had spoken as if he were not the Batman, not an emblem of vengeance and grit, but a man, just a man, whose hurt mattered.

Something in him gave out. Not in an ostentatious, cinematic collapse, but in the subtle yielding of defences too long held taut. His mind, a fortress of rationale and boundaries, fell silent.

She sees me, for all I am, it whispered. And yet she stays.

He had not believed in unconditional love since the alleyway. But in that moment, with the stench of blood from his suit and the leaden weight of the city upon his back, he saw love for what it was — not a sanctuary, but a quiet understanding, and a choosing. And she had chosen him.

It terrified him. Because now he had yet another thing to lose, to protect, something that was not abstract. It had a name. A voice. A laugh. It sat in his home and softened his world.

He had never been the same since.

D I C K⠀G R A Y S O N

It crept up on him — not a wave, but rather a tide. Quiet and constant and utterly irreversible.

You had fallen asleep in his bed, still holding a game controller, your brow furrowed even in your unconsciousness. He watched you in the blue glow of the screen and thought, God, I’d die for her.

And then came the laugh — low, bitter, surprised. Because of course he would. He was always ready to die for someone.

But this felt different. This was not a compulsion, a sense of duty. It was not about legacy or guilt. It was about you. And the way your presence grounded the part of him that had always been just suspended above the world, half-grieving, half-trying.

He remembered kissing your forehead before leaving for patrol that night. Slow. Lingering. The kind of kiss that was not about want, but reverence.

That was when he knew.

Love was not a thrill. It was a weight. And he had never wanted anything to anchor him, to tether him to this sphere, more than you.

The realisation made him smile. And then it made him ache.

J A S O N⠀T O D D

Jason felt it like the first rays of sun upon his back after a piercing winter, it flooded his system, warm and compelling. It struck him all of a sudden — new, unfamiliar, and… unwelcome. He did not want it. He had not asked for it.

You were brushing your teeth, half-asleep, wearing one of his old shirts, humming a song under your breath as though nothing was wrong in the world, as though it were not in a state of disrepair just beyond the window. And while watching you, he could believe it for a moment too.

Jason stood in the doorway, paralysed. Because he had seen too much tragedy, too much carnage. He could hardly believe that a quiet instant of peace, like this, could even exist, let alone in his reality.

His first instinct was to run. Not literally — he could never leave you. But to emotionally retreat, to steel himself for the moment this fleeting softness was stolen from him.

But you looked at him. Just looked — toothpaste foam and all — with a kind of amused concern, and asked, ‘You okay?’

After everything he had been through. He was not sure he had ever been less okay.

He loved you. He loved you with a passion that made him feel unworthy, as if he had tainted something holy.

A voice in him protested — said it was weakness. Said this would end in catastrophe. But he ignored it, just this once. He stepped forward and kissed your temple.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Just tired.’ But he was not. This was a lie. His mind was reeling.

He did not sleep that night. He lay awake memorising your breathing.

T I M⠀D R A K E

It was a question you asked that did it. Something ordinary, like, ‘Did you eat today?’

Tim wanted to laugh because it was such a cliché, wasn’t it? But clichés exist because they are true. No one ever asked him that, not like you had, not like it genuinely mattered. 

Then you brought him a coffee, one of those orders so tailored it was essentially an identity. You did not need to ask what he wanted. You simply knew.

He blinked down at the cup, then at you, and suddenly the task he was completing meant nothing.

He felt the world tilt. Quietly. Like the axis of his orbit had shifted. And it had.

Love, to Tim, had always been a puzzle he did not have time to solve. A thing for normal people, with normal lives, for people who lacked the responsibility he had garnered.

But there it was — simple, unassuming and irreversible.

He did not tell you. Not for a long time.

But he began cataloguing what made you smile. The way your face changed after a laugh, crinkled and carefree. He noticed the way your eyes sparkled just a little brighter when you spoke of things that made you passionate, and how the corners of your lips turned up when you were lost in a quiet thought.

This love became his sustenance, it was the first time in years he feared forgetting something.

D A M I A N⠀W A Y N E (Aged up as Batman)

It had infuriated him. The sheer idiocy of it.

Love was chemical, juvenile, a distraction. Or so he had been taught. So he had believed.

And yet there he stood — across from you in the garden, where you were speaking to a stray dog as if it were royalty, and something in his chest pulled.

At first, he mistook it for contempt — annoyance at your softness in a moment where he was attempting to be serious. But then you looked up, grinned, and said, ‘I think she likes me.’

And the words caught in his throat. Not because he did not believe them, but because he liked you. Against every grain of his upbringing.

He wanted to scold you, retreat, build walls. But instead, he asked the cat’s name.

That was the beginning. The fracture.

He loved you. In an old, mythic sense. In the way poets spoke of their love — fierce, unyielding, as though it could bend the very fabric of time. 

And that it did, time slowed every time you entered his concentration.

He began to dream of futures — a concept once as foreign to him as mercy.

He has not told you. But he will. In his own time. For now, he will continue to relish in it, and continue in this alluring descent. 

C L A R K⠀K E N T

He did not realise. Not at first. Because what he felt for you was too immense, too intrinsic, to label with as small as a word as love.

It was not until you fell asleep in his arms, mumbling about a stressful day, completely unaware of the god you were held by, that it hit him.

You did not see him as Superman. You saw him as Clark Kent. You simply saw him. The man. His hope. His grief.

And he realised then — you are his tether.

He thought of Krypton. Of its loss. Of the gaping emptiness it had left as soon as he had learnt of it. And for the first time in years, he did not feel hollow. He felt… full. He realised, that the planet could never have been home to him like she was. 

You snored softly. He laughed. Then cried.

Love, he realised, was not loud. It was simply your hand over his heart. It was your laughter in the next room. It was your body next to his.

He had not fallen in love. He had found it, unexpected and irrevocable, and for all the power he had been bestowed, this force had left him helpless to resist.

And now he guards it with everything he is. Because you are not just his world.

You are his home.

I'm going to post a follow-up called 'When he admitted he loved you' sometime soon, if you want to keep an eye out. Every comment and piece of advice is welcomed and appreciated <3