Tether ✢ Jason Todd
Tether ✢ Jason Todd
Synopsis: When a battered Jason stumbles into an alley and finds unexpected refuge in a stranger’s kindness, it sparks a fracture in the walls he’s built to survive. Trust was never a luxury he could afford, but as survival blurs into something more, Jason is forced to confront the most dangerous risk of all, love.
Jason Todd x Reader, female pronouns.
Warnings: Descriptions of injuries and scars. Hurt with comfort.
Masterlist
Notes: A couple of weeks ago, I posted a pair of headcanons, 'when he realised he loved you' and 'when he admitted he loved you'. A few people were interested in an extension of Jason's parts, and this is the result. So, if some moments sound familiar, that is why. It follows Jason as he meets, gets to know, and, eventually, falls in love with the reader.
Words: 5,992k
The air was thick with the acrid scent of oil and looming rain. The Gotham sky threatened a storm, as it always did, the kind that lurked but never quite arrived, it pressed down upon her shoulders; she huddled against it. Y/N did not intend to be outside long. It was just the rubbish, nothing more than a trip down two flights of stairs to the alley behind her apartment, a chore too mundane to warrant much forethought. But that is when she saw him.
At first, Y/N was not sure what she was looking at. Just a shadow, too still, too broken at the base of the brick wall. Then it moved, a sharp, pained shift, and the outline resolved itself into something unmistakably human.
He was bleeding. Not in the way of scrapes and gashes; this was deeper, darker. New wounds layered atop old scars. She froze, bin bag clutched within her grasp, knuckles white. For a moment, neither of them spoke. He did not look at her. He was watching the mouth of the alley, just past the corner, breath coming fast and shallow. Voices echoed from somewhere beyond. Sharp. Searching.
‘Where the fuck did he go?’
‘Check the rooftops. Check the damn dumpsters. He couldn’t have gone far.’
His eyes flicked up, just barely, only enough to register her. His shoulders fell slack, ever so slightly. She was not a threat. Just a girl.
Jason Todd had been in more confrontations than anyone should survive. He had bled in them, broken in them, died in one. There was a pattern to this kind of moment, the hush before pain returned, the liminal space where adrenaline gave way to his collapse. He had learned to expect nothing from strangers. No mercy. No help. Just the turning away of eyes and the closure of doors. So when she stepped forward instead of flinching, when her voice did not falter or fill with fear, something within him stalled.
‘My place is just there,’ she said, nodding toward the fire escape tucked beside the alley’s edge.
‘You can’t stay here. They’ll find you.’
He did not react, nor move; he simply watched her.
‘You need to get off the street,’ she added, lower now. ‘You won’t make it five minutes if they come back this way.’
Still, he hesitated. His whole body was coiled with his refusal. She could see it in the set of his jaw, the way his fingers hovered near his belt, ready to draw, to run, to die fighting. She dropped her gaze, it fell to rest on his boots.
‘I’m not trying to trap you,’ she said, voice quieter now, nothing more than a whisper. ‘I’m trying to help.’
That was the part he could not understand, would not let himself believe. Why would anyone help him? Especially like this, so suddenly, without demand, without recognition. She did not know who he was, not really. If she did, would she have still reached for him?
Another voice rang out nearby. Closer this time.
She stepped forward and reached for his arm without thinking. He flinched, not from pain, but reflex. The kind born of being mishandled too many times. But he did not pull away. She guided him to his feet, shocked by how heavily he leaned once upright, how much weight he was carrying in silence.
And he followed.
All the while, Jason could not make sense of it. A thousand voices in his head, Bruce’s warnings, Alfred’s caution, his own brutal sense of realism, all shouted at him to resist, to stay low, to get out. But this woman, this stranger, offered him nothing but quiet resolve. And something in him, something tired and long frayed, gave in.
Her apartment was small, neat, yet well-lived-in. Warm lights, blankets strewn unceremoniously over the couch, a kettle still warm upon the stove. He stood in the centre of her living room, stiff and vigilant, akin to a stray dog unsure if the hand reaching for it would offer food or a harsh blow.
He should not have come. He knew this was a mistake. He did not belong in spaces like this. Every breath of its domestic warmth grated against the sharp edges of his being, reminded him of everything he had lost and all he had ruined. And yet he stayed, frozen beneath the soft lighting, the aromatic scent of bergamot and quiet calm surrounding him like a haze.
‘You need a hospital,’ she muttered, though her tone already bore traces of defeat; she knew this sentiment would be futile.
He turned immediately, preparing to leave.
‘Or not,’ she amended quickly, voice grim, and stepped into his path. ‘You’re not going back out there like this. At least sit down.’
He halted. Only because the pain had lanced through his ribs like a warning. He hated this, the helplessness, the imbalance. But she did not look upon him as a burden, but simply as someone who needed help.
Reluctantly, he eased himself onto the edge of her worn armchair, its leather creaking beneath him. His mask remained on, armour still clinging to him; blood was now beginning to seep through the layers. He shifted his weight, conscious of ruining her chair.
She returned with a first aid kit, unassuming, but well-stocked. He did not stop her when she knelt beside him, did not flinch when she pulled back the material of his jacket and placed it aside, though his hands twitched at every passing sound beyond the apartment. When she reached for his armour, the woman hesitated, not wanting to overstep, though Jason understood and quickly pulled it back in parts, revealing only what was necessary.
She did not ask questions. Not the ones he had expected when he followed her here. She was not probing for his name or what he had done to deserve this, what had happened for him to pursue it. She just worked, focused and calm. Her touch was gentle, but not tentative. She bore a steadiness he had not expected, not from someone who should have recoiled, who should have been scared.
Jason found himself watching her, not with suspicion, but with something near disbelief. Why? Why was she doing this? Did she think she was helping some misguided hero? Did she see something redeemable within the blood and ruin of him?
Did she not care who he was? Did she not care about what he does?
These thoughts gnawed at him more than anything else. It bothered him that this kindness may not be the fallacy of a skewed perception, but rather a simple resolve to help, despite everything he was.
When she finished, she offered him water. He took it, fingers brushing hers. It grounded him more than he cared to admit.
‘There’s a spare bed in the study,’ she said. ‘You can rest there tonight.’
He did not answer. But he followed again as she walked away, grabbing his clothes that lay discarded on her floor. Something about her voice, soft, steady and undemanding, made resistance feel pointless.
Then she opened a door. It was a small room, books lined the shelves, and a narrow bed was tucked into the corner, with clean sheets and a folded quilt.
‘There’s a lock,’ she said, gesturing to the inside of the door. ‘If you need it. You can take your mask off. I won't be able to open it from the outside.’
He looked at her then. Truly looked. Not for weakness. Not for a motive. But for the truth. And what he saw left him stunned, not simply because it was unfamiliar, but because it was real. There was no pity within her unrelenting gaze. No awe. Just, quiet offering.
He did not say thank you. He could not. Jason could feel the words billow on the edge of his tongue; he yearned for her to understand his gratitude, and though he could not utter them, she nodded as though she had heard them anyway. His relief was palpable.
Then he stepped inside as she hovered in the doorway. For the first time, he spoke up,
‘What’s your name?’ He wanted his voice to come across as gentle, but there was a gruffness he could not quite quell. She did not seem fazed by it.
‘Y/N.’ She murmured, and when it became clear to her that this conversation would not expand beyond this simple query, she closed the door.
He remained there for a moment longer, staring where she had just been, before shifting the latch of the lock. Jason peeled back the remaining layers of his ensemble until he was left in nothing but his boxers. It was not ideal, but he could not bear the notion of crawling beneath her covers in his grimy, blood-uncrusted getup. The bed was small yet inviting, his frame hardly fit, though he could not recall the last time he had been this comfortable. He was not sure if it was the sleeping arrangement or the soft snores of the girl across the hall that acted as a reminder of someone who had been so unusually kind. Regardless of the catalyst, he fell into a quick slumber as a foreign warmth bloomed within his chest.
By morning, the door was open.
Not just unlocked, but wide and unoccupied. The bed was made, the quilt folded precisely. The only trace of him was a faint indentation left upon the pillow; if she had not known better, if she had not just thrown away his bloodied gauze, she could easily believe he was never there.
She stood in the doorway for a prolonged moment, unsure if she was relieved or disappointed. The quiet lingered around her, louder now, and she caught herself wondering if he would ever come to fill it once more.
Jason should have known better.
The notion built upon him slowly, like bruises forming beneath his skin, invisible at first, until the ache settled and colour bloomed. The morning he slipped from her apartment, he had told himself it was nothing more than a fleeting refuge. He left nothing behind. He would not burden her with the aftermath of last night’s choices. But it was not until he had cleared the block, boots light, breath even, body stitched back into shape, that the thought hit him like a bat to the ribs.
He led them to her.
Not intentionally. Never that. But reckless all the same. The alley had been a haven born of desperation, not strategy. He had not known where he was going, he only knew that he had needed to get away. And when she opened that door to him, he walked through it without so much as a second thought. Without calculating the risks.
And now the calculation was catching up with him. This kind samaritan was in danger because of him.
He returned that night. However, Jason did not allow himself to venture too close. He perched three rooftops down, crouched low in the shadows, eyes locked on the slow hum of the street outside her building. The fire escape remained still. Lights flickered softly inside.
She was fine.
But that did not soothe him.
He stayed longer than he meant to. Hours passed. Long enough that the shadows stretched and yawned, long enough that his body reminded him it had not properly healed. Still, he waited. Not for her. Not really. That is what he told himself, at the very least. He was not watching her. He would never do that. He never allowed his gaze to touch her window. He was not here for her.
He was here for them.
The ones who had chased him. The ones still searching. If they had half the sense he wielded, they would retrace his escape route. They would check for kindness. They would look for open doors and cracked windows and people foolish enough to help. He hated how plausible it was.
And so he came back again the next night.
And the one after.
It became routine, though he refused to admit that to himself. This was a stakeout. A surveillance effort. He was not lingering. He was not tethered. He certainly was not attached.
But even in the silence, even with his gaze anchored on the street, he could sense her behind that wall; he pictured her reading in that chair, sipping from the chipped mug he could envision near the sink. She did not know he was out here. She could not. He would never be that careless.
Yet, somehow, it still felt like he was trespassing, even though he had not so much as looked at her in all this time. That strange warmth she had offered him, freely, like it had cost her nothing, haunted him more than pain ever had.
He told himself he would stop. Every night, he told himself it would be the last.
He was so very close to relenting when he laid eyes on her for the first time since that night, she was not in the hazy warmth of the apartment, but under the jarring clarity of daylight. Mid-morning. A street corner in Park Row. She had a velvet bag slung over her shoulder, a paperback in one hand and half a pastry in the other. Casual and effortless.
He nearly walked past her.
Jason knew he should have.
But the moment he registered her, truly saw her, without the fog of blood loss and alleyway silence, something happened. Something ridiculous. His stomach flipped. Not in fear, but... something worse. Something more dangerous. Something soft. A breathless kind of jolt that made his chest feel too tight.
Butterflies.
He scoffed aloud at the word.
Ridiculous. Juvenile. Weak.
But they were there, fluttering behind his bruises, beating against ribs that had withstood so much worse. And the worst part? He did not hate the sensation.
Though he certainly did not trust it.
She did not recognise him. How could she? They were meeting in a new context. She stood before a different version of him. No mask, no blood, no warning in his eyes. Just a hoodie, dark jeans, hair still mussed from too little sleep. He looked... normal. That was the trick of it. That was the danger.
He could speak to her now, and it would not be an invasion. This was not some rooftop vigil. It was not surveillance steeped in adrenaline and exhaustion. This was his chance.
A chance he should not take. Though Jason felt the butterflies once more and spoke anyway.
‘Hey,’ he uttered, too rough, the word catching against a throat unused to casual conversation.
She turned. Eyed him.
No recognition.
‘Sorry, this is probably strange,’ he added quickly, stuffing his hands into his pockets, as though that could hide the nervous itch crawling under his skin. ‘You just looked like you could use a second cup of coffee. Or company. Or both.’
She blinked. Then, a slow, small smile.
‘Is that your way of asking me out?’
He froze. Not because she was wrong. But because she was direct. Unflinching. Just as she had been before. Could it really be that easy?
He laughed. A low, surprised sound that felt foreign against his tongue.
‘Yeah. I guess it is.’
She studied him for a breath longer, then nodded, easy as anything.
‘Alright. But I’ll take a tea.’
He wanted to ask her name again. Wanted to tell her his.
But instead, he fell into step beside her, quiet, casual. Just another face on the street, a casual trip to a café. He felt a blush creep onto his skin, and he turned away from her, fidgeting hands buried deep in his pockets.
It was not love at first sight. Jason did not believe in things like that, not anymore.
If anything, it was suspicion at the first conversation. Interest at second. Uncertainty for the next dozen or so. She had no idea who he was, and he preferred it that way. There was a freedom in this anonymity, in being seen without history clawing at his heels. She did not look at him like she was waiting for something to fall apart. She did not glance at his hands like she expected them to be bloodied. She saw him for who he truly was, it felt like the rarest thing of all.
And so he kept showing up.
Cafés became a habit. A tether. Once a week, then twice. Never planned, always on a whim, or so they liked to pretend. They visited bookstores and late-night markets. Together, they would walk past the same food trucks where Y/N would consistently order the wrong thing as though it were a rule, never complaining. Though she would smile sheepishly when Jason offered his much more appetising selection.
Y/N would ask him about books. Music. The kinds of questions he had not been asked in years. He did not always answer. Sometimes he just watched her talk, let the cadence of her voice steady the parts of him that threatened to fray.
She had looked different in the daylight.
Less shadowed. Still sharp, still grounded, but without the weight of the tension that had hung between them that night. She had laughed once, and the sound had startled him. It was unguarded. Open. He had not heard anything that unafraid directed at him for a long time.
He had to stop himself from reaching for it.
Jason tried to keep it casual, whatever this was. Whatever they were circling. He made sure never to cross certain lines. He would not stay too long. He would not text first. He would not touch her unless she touched him. There was an instance where she had brushed her fingers over his knuckles on the edge of a café table, he had stared down at the spot as though it had caught fire.
She did not comment. Just went back to sipping her tea, Earl Grey. He could smell the bergamot wafting from it, as he had in her apartment that first night.
He could not define when it changed. When the space between them stopped feeling like distance and started feeling like an invitation. Maybe it was the first time she made him laugh, not a small chuckle, not one of those scoffs of disbelief, but a genuine, gut-twisting kind of laugh that left him breathless. She had just looked at him with raised brows, like she was not sure whether to be proud or concerned.
Maybe it was the night she found him again, bleeding, no more than that first time. A busted lip, bruised jaw; he had already changed into his regular clothes and considered turning around. He should not allow her to see him like this. But before he could bring himself to move, she opened the door and ushered him inside without question.
Did not so much as blink. Just helped him again, only her touch was familiar and welcome now. Still careful, still steady.
And when she looked at him, saw past the blood and the scowl and the silence, she reached up and brushed his hair back from his face, her thumb resting at the corner of his temple. Nothing more. How could she accept him so willingly, without question? How could she not demand the catalyst of his newly mangled face and bloodied knuckles?
Jason had kissed her then. He had not planned it. It was simple instinct, or rather an impulse, or some failing of his exhausted restraint. But she did not flinch. Did not push away. She just leaned in, met him halfway, soft and certain.
After that, there was no use pretending.
It was not some grand explosion, not as books had made him believe. There were no bold declarations, no breathless confessions. Jason did not see romance the way others did. He did not show up with flowers. He did not call just to say he missed her. He barely knew how to say what he felt, let alone trust that it would not crumble in his grasp.
But she understood him in a language he had not known he was speaking. When he disappeared for three days and came back with split knuckles and a haunted look, she did not demand an explanation. Just held his gaze for a moment too long and set a cup of tea on the table beside him.
He would never deserve her. He knew that. This concept was stitched into every part of his being, the sense of ruin, of fracture, of being too far gone to love or be loved back. But she never asked him to deserve her. She just asked him to show up. And over time, he did. More than he thought he could.
Eventually, she saw through him.
Not all at once. But in pieces. The subtle way he scanned every room before they entered it. The half-second delay before he ever turned his back. The scars he never explained, the exhaustion he carried within his shoulders.
He realised he could not lose her, the very thought of it left him asphyxiated, left him gasping and sputtering for air. It terrified him more than anything ever had. It was worse than the crowbar, worse than the vestige of the green glow left shimmering behind closed eyelids. He remembers how he had met her, how she had helped him so unflinchingly, how he had been bewildered by her lack of fear. And he realised this actuality left him horror-struck. What if she helped someone in this manner once more? What if they were not so kind?
This is how he justified his need to remain in her orbit: that his vigilance was the only way to keep her safe from all lingering dangers, but even as the words circled his mind, a deep, gnawing doubt took root. Was he truly only here to protect her? Jason knew better, a heinous selfishness had been sown, and he stayed because he could not bear the notion of parting with her. Could he ever atone for how these mistakes had already placed her in harm’s way? The weight of that guilt threatened to crush him, but he could not walk away now; he was in too deep.
It happened with a shift of fabric. A flash of his skin. A scar.
They were in her kitchen. She had been making him breakfast. Jason, barefoot and groggy, was pretending not to enjoy the way she fussed over the frying pans. He had reached for something on the top shelf, muttering under his breath about her terrible organisational choices. Y/N had laughed and leant against the counter, trying not to watch the way the muscles in his back shifted beneath the thin cotton of his shirt.
Then the hem lifted.
Just a little. A second, maybe less. But time had a strange way of stretching in moments like this, in moments that mattered.
The scar was thin and brutal, a memory carved into his flesh. Indented above the waistband of his jeans, angled on his side. She remembered it too well. The jagged line. The way this shiny white mark had gleamed underneath blood-soaked skin, beneath dour body armour…
Her breath caught.
She did not mean to gasp. It was soft. Barely audible. But it was enough.
Jason froze.
Then, akin to a fiend caught suspended within a spotlight, his hand dropped from the shelf and yanked the shirt down with quiet, desperate precision. He met her gaze.
But it was too late.
She had seen it. And more than that, she recognised it; he could discern familiarity as it flooded her perception.
He moved toward her, slow and measured, but stopped over a metre short. He already knew what was written across her face, he had no choice but to meet it head-on.
Their eyes locked, though neither of them shifted.
Silence bloomed between them, vast, tense and electric. Though not empty. It was full of all the acts and secrets he had not disclosed to her. Visions of the alleyway, of blood and heavy breaths, the weight of him leaning against her to stay upright, and her hands pressing gauze against the cuts that circled that familiar scar.
‘You remember.’ He spoke quietly.
It was not framed as a question, it was a statement, an observation.
She swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. ‘That night,’ she whispered. ‘The one in the alley.’
He nodded once. Just once. Nothing theatrical. Nothing dramatic. But it felt like the earth beneath them had shifted.
Red Hood.
It all slotted into place, the bruises, the silence, the way he would flinch ever so slightly when she would reach for a part of him he did not want seen. She had known he carried secrets. Had made peace with the fact that some parts of him were locked behind years of pain and choices she might never fully comprehend.
But this… this was different.
‘You should’ve told me,’ she murmured, not out of anger, but the truth felt heavy against her tongue. Like it had waited too long to be spoken aloud.
Jason’s jaw flexed, a muscle twitching in his cheek. ‘I didn’t want to lose this.’ He motioned around them, motioned towards her.
‘This?’ she echoed, almost hollow.
He looked upon her as though she were deserving of reverence, as though he could scarcely believe she was his to hold, yet, even now, his manner was crumpled with wretched trepidation. Jason awaited her outburst, anticipating the command to leave; he could not bear the weight of her silence.
‘You. This place. The quiet. The version of me that you know.’ He added.
She stared at him, truly stared, and realised something terrifying: she had known. Maybe not consciously, not in the way of facts, names and alter-egos, but within her bones. In the way he moved. The way he disappeared. In the weight he bore like a shroud, constricting him with every breath.
And she had loved him anyway.
The hood, the violence, the vigilante beneath her kitchen light, none of it overwrote the man who made her tea when she could not sleep. The man who listened to her gush about books and could recall her favourite lines. Who kissed her like she was something he did not think he deserved, and treated her like she was the only real thing in a world full of spectres; Y/N was sure this was what he told himself.
Her voice was soft when she finally spoke again.
‘You didn’t have to be someone else to be wanted, I hope you know that.’
He closed his eyes, and she watched as something in him fractured, not like breaking glass, but like old tension unravelling; she could see his apprehension flow out from beneath his skin.
‘I know,’ he said, barely above a whisper. ‘But I didn’t know how to be him… and still be this.’
She stepped forward. One pace. Two. Slow. Careful. As if approaching something transient.
Jason flinched, not quite pulling away, not quite reaching out. A lifetime of rejection was hardwired into his muscle memory. Though he caught himself before he could move away, standing rigid as she closed the space between them.
Her hand found his, warm and steady. He looked down at their entwined fingers. Jason could not believe that something so simple could feel so profound.
‘You’re simply you, boyfriend by day and regrettably, vigilante by night. Knowing this won’t change how I think of you,’ she affirmed. Then she tilted her head, thoughtful, and spoke once more.
‘Though… it may just heighten my anxiety levels. Knowing you’re out there.’
And for the first time since that fateful night in the alley, Jason let himself believe that maybe this could work.
Jason felt it before he understood it, like the first rays of sun on his back after a winter that had lasted far too long. A warmth he had not asked for. Had not expected. It crept into his system uninvited, compelling and unfamiliar, thawing places he had long since numbed for survival.
It struck him suddenly, not like a realisation, but like a tempest. He thought he had not wanted it. He did not trust it. But it was there all the same, pressing against his ribs, blooming beneath his skin.
Love.
It was not loud. It was not cinematic. It was not even convenient. It arrived in the middle of a quiet evening, while she was brushing her teeth, half-asleep, one of his old shirts covering her frame, bare legs beneath the hem, humming something tuneless under her breath. A song he did not recognise.
The bathroom door was ajar. Lamp light filtered in behind her, soft and pale, painting the air gold. She was swaying gently where she stood, oblivious to the weight of his stare. And Jason, standing there in the threshold, rooted to the spot, watched her like she was something too precious for this world. As though she might flicker and vanish if he exhaled too harshly.
And in that moment, watching her in that domestic stillness, he could believe, even just for a breath, that the world was not a place of carnage. That outside the window, it was not broken. That pain was not inevitable. That this could last.
But the thought brought with it a sharp, biting panic.
It was in this moment that he knew he loved her.
His body tensed, his mind retreating into old reflexes. Not to run, not literally. He could never leave her. But something within him tried to pull away, to armour up, to prepare for the moment when this would inevitably be ripped from him.
Because that is what always happened. Moments like this, soft, perfect, undeserved, were fleeting in his world. They were the eye of the storm, not the end of it.
He did not deserve this. And even if he did, the world had a cruel way of taking beautiful things and turning them to ash.
She caught his reflection in the mirror, stilled, and turned toward him. Her eyes met his. Sleepy, soft, utterly unguarded. A small smear of toothpaste clung to the corner of her lip, and yet she looked at him like she could see through him. Not with fear or judgment, just mild concern and a gentle curiosity.
‘You okay?’ she asked, voice thick with sleep, amused by the way he loomed in the doorway like he had stumbled into a scene too fragile to touch.
It disarmed him. Utterly.
Jason swallowed hard. After everything he had seen, everything he had survived, the Lazarus Pit, the alleys, the gunfire and betrayal, he was not sure he had ever been less okay. And yet, standing there in her bathroom doorway, heart thundering like he had just survived a firefight, all he could do was step forward.
He did not speak, not at first. He just reached for her and kissed her temple, soft and fleeting, like the moment itself. It was not meant to answer her question. It was not meant to fix the chaos unravelling inside his chest. It was just the only thing he could offer that was not ruin.
‘Yeah,’ he said quietly. ‘Just tired.’
But it was a lie.
He was not tired, he was reeling.
That night, he did not sleep. Not because he was unable, but because he would not. He lay in her bed, curled beside her, her breath slow and even against his collarbone. One of her arms was draped across his ribs, anchoring him with a kind of warmth he did not dare disturb.
He memorised it. Every part of her.
The cadence of her breath. The shape that her hand made against his chest. The way she murmured in her sleep. He memorised her like a man convinced the morning would seize her from his grasp. Like this was all a dream and he would wake back in Gotham’s dirt-streaked alleys, alone, masked, and untouched by her grace.
But she was real.
And for now, it was enough.
Y/N was 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, his skin cold under her touch. She sat cross-legged before him, knees meeting his.
‘You’ve got to stop doing this,’ Y/N murmured. It was not the first time she had said this, and it would certainly not be the last. Her sorrow clung to her like a second skin; he would never stop hurting himself and, by extension, hurting her. Her fingers twitched, and she forced them steady.
Jason did not answer her. What would he tell her? Definitely, not the truth; she would not want to hear it. Every stitched-up wound felt like proof that she cared; he could not resist the temptation. It was how they had met, it was why he had allowed himself to grow close to her. Jason did not believe she could love a man like him, but when he felt her 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 her face. ‘That’s not comforting, Jason.’
And then, something unspooled. It was akin to a thread that had been pulled taut for too long, it snapped under the tension. Jason sighed.
‘What I was trying to say… What I meant was… I love you…’ He looked into her eyes, gaze piercing, willing her 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 she did not grace; the very notion made him ill.
She 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 she gave him one anyway.
‘I love you, too.’ She had uttered it so softly, had Jason not already been watching her lips, he might have missed it. His breath caught, not in fear, but in awe, as though his lungs had momentarily forgotten their most natural function.
Her 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 her one of his rare smiles, and her heart jolted.
She silently placed the first aid materials to the side and leaned in, placing her head against his shoulder. After a short while, she shifted, leaving scattered kisses across his fading scars, lingering on each for a moment. He felt that same electricity once more, humming under her touch.
Her hands ghosted over him like he were something precious, as though the ruin of him was worth loving, and that was the message she was trying to convey, what she was trying to have him understand.
Once again, Jason did not sleep at 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.
We saw small glimpses of domestic Jason here. Why is it everything I want in life? Every comment and piece of advice is welcomed and appreciated <3
TAGLIST: @aidansloth
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Ephemeral ✢ Elijah Mikaelson
Synopsis: 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.
Elijah Mikaelson x Reader, female pronouns. Warnings: Angst. Words: 1,549k Blog Masterlist
Elijah Mikaelson stood before the grand windows of his family’s ornate home, the cool evening air shifting past the open panels to brush against his skin as he gazed out into a darkening sky. He recalled the countless nights he must have done exactly this, looked out at the same unchanging ether; and he wondered how it could look so different now that he knew her.
As the day had faded, Elijah watched the stars emerge. Each one, ancient and arcane, acted as a reminder of the centuries he had lived, the countless battles he had fought; and the endless nights spent as alone as he felt in this moment.
Never in his millennia of existence had his thoughts been so entirely consumed by one person, Elijah was no stranger to affection, but he never would have thought it possible to long for someone so strenuously. Y/N L/N had unknowingly captured his heart, and it seemed to him that there was nothing he could do to emancipate it.
She was wholly unaware of the effect she had on him; he was confident of this. Their friendship was simple, filled with laughter and shared moments that left her satisfied while making his heart ache with bittersweet longing.
How could he justify what he felt?
She was human, beautiful and kind, fragile and fleeting. Elijah was a creature of the night, a thousand years old and burdened with the malice of his past; he was a monster. He had observed as the times shifted around him, and never once, through the ages he bore witness to, had he felt contempt at his affliction. Where once relished in his power and eternity, he now drowned in it.
Each day, as she grew closer to her inevitable end, he felt the smothering weight of his affections grow heavier. He could not bear to witness her aging while he remained unchanged and eternal. Their livelihoods contrasted so glaringly that it left a bad taste in his mouth; he could never have her.
Elijah could not quell a venomous voice calling for him to turn her. As much as the allure of her immortality beckoned, he felt the burden of this reality pressing down upon him. He could not shake the conviction that to grant her such a gift would be a selfish act; one that robbed her of the life she deserved. He envisioned her vibrant humanity, the warmth of her character and the fleeting moments that made her so undeniably precious. To turn her into something she was not, to take away her chance to live fully, to love and to age as she was meant to—could he truly bear that?
Elijah sighed, raking a hand through his dark hair as he took the final sip of amber liquid from his crystal tumbler. As much as it pained him, he kept his distance, aiming to shield her from the dangers that came in correlation with his world. He was a friend to her, but that is where it ended. He feared that if he were to reveal his affections, she might recoil, horrified at the thought of his love. But most of all, he feared his love would bring about her end; no one ever lasted long in Mystic Falls, and any connection to him would make her a target.
Elijah thought of when he first met her half a year earlier, a friend of people often his adversaries in this uncanny town. She had not yet known about the covert world she lived in, and he had watched as she took it in her stride amidst the disarray of Mystic Falls.
From the moment he had laid eyes on her at a gathering hosted by the Salvatores, he was struck by her effortless charm, at the time, blissfully unaware of the lurking dangers that danced at the edges of her reality.
As the weeks went, and the unsavoury pastimes of her friends became known to her, he noticed how she remained steadfast in her support, never flinching when they faced danger; an innate strength that both captivated and terrified him. Her involvement placed her in danger and he could barely stomach it, but he knew that any attempts at her preservation would break down his faux illusion of causal amiability.
What had surprised him was her sufferance towards his family, although they had her given plenty of ground for aversion, you would not have known it. Elijah found himself drawn to her, her honour and kindliness not only painting her as a person of trust and potential ally — but as someone who illuminated his perpetual existence.
He turned from the large florid windows and drowned in his dejection. Elijah closed his eyes and pictured a life with her, relishing the shimmering mirage of the woman he believed he should never have.
Y/N sat cross-legged on her bed, flooded under the dim moonlight that illuminated her bedroom from her window. A familiar warmth was blooming in her chest in the wake of her dream. She had dreamt about him again, and although she was met with nothing but hollow images when trying to recall it, Y/N knew it to be true; she could feel it. Elijah was a figure of quiet strength, his kindness genuine but conditional, his presence commanding yet tender. She understood fully that beneath his charming facade lay a man capable of heinous things, artfully concealed behind layers of warmth and grace; it was this complex duality that both captivated and unsettled her — but people would never see this side of him had they not given him reason.
Y/N pulled her knees closer to her chest and rested her chin on them, staring out the window into the dark. It was late—too late for most people, but sleep rarely came easy these days. Not when her mind kept spiralling. Beneath the surface of her admiration lay a deep-rooted ache—a longing she feared would remain forever unreciprocated.
There were moments, fleeting but sharp, where she would catch the slightest glint in his eyes—an intensity and tentativeness that contradicted the calm and collected way in which he perpetually carried himself. She could not place its catalyst — never quite conclude the reason for his apparent indifference.
She watched him with others; he was always courteous and kind, and though he extended the same civility to her, it felt hesitant — as though he was keeping his distance. Not out of aloofness, no, that did not seem right to her. He was always kind, always careful with his words. He never pushed too close, never showed too much emotion, and sometimes it made her wonder whether all the little exchanges—their shared glances, the gentle touches on her shoulder—were nothing more than an act. A way of being nice out of obligation, out of courtesy. A politeness reserved for the human in the room.
Y/N sighed and her gaze dropped to her hands, maybe she had been putting too much weight into the moments when he had leaned in just a little too close, or the times he had lingered with her in conversation — the moments that had fueled her affections. After all, he is a man who had lived through centuries… what could a fleeting human like her truly mean to him?
She loved him; a love she had no right to feel and no place to nurture. Every time he looked at her, even from across the room, her pulse quickened and her breath hitched. She loved him in the way a person loves what they cannot have— she felt it in the back of her mind, like a dream that fades from memory in the first moments of the day, real but unattainable — lingering in the crevices of the mind. It was the gentleness of his touch, the way he always seemed to know exactly when she needed comfort and the way his presence made the world feel lighter. It was the quiet intensity of him, the way he carried the weight of centuries and still found space to be kind to her.
And despite everything—the danger, the distance, the uncertainty—she could not stop loving him. It was as if her heart had chosen him without rhyme and reason — irrevocably, nothing could alter it now. Even if he never knew, even if he never returned the feeling, she would love him.
In their quiet moments, she often imagined what it would be like to confess her feelings. Would his rejection give off the same biting sting as his indifference? Would he retreat into a demeanour even more distant? Would he disappear altogether, her confession too much to entertain?
Y/N bit her lip, contemplating the stark reality of their worlds. She was human, with all the fragility that came along with it. While he was a vampire, ancient, and burdened by its accompanying history and murk.
Their disparity was overwhelming, and Y/N felt as though she were drowning in it. She closed her eyes and sunk back into her pillows; picturing a life with him and savouring the fallacious warmth it designed. She wallowed in her desolation and the reality she believed she could never have.
I'm wondering if I should do a second part for this, let me know what you think. Also, this has been posted off of a relatively long hiatus, I recently started a university course which, unsurprisingly, has chewed up all of my spare time.
Anyone waiting on the next part of my 'revenant' series, I'm sorry for the long wait, I promise I'll dive right back into it when my holidays roll around soon enough. But with a spare week between countless assignments, I felt like writing something new, and this was the result.
Every comment and piece of advice is welcomed and appreciated <3
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
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
I normally post my writing here, though I thought some of you guys might (hopefully) like to see my artwork too. Anywho, here is a portrait of my beloved, Jason Todd <3 Let me know if you guys would be interested in seeing more.
The Day Before ✢ Damon Salvatore
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 Reader, female pronouns.
Warnings: Angst, Death.
Masterlist
Notes: This is my first time writing for Damon Salvatore, hopefully, this is the first of many.
Words: 1,538
Y/N’s heart sunk as she glanced down at the beads of blood glistening on the tissue she clutched in her hand, she had received news the day before that her cancer had metastasised to her lungs, though she did not realise that her condition would worsen so swiftly.
Y/N knew she would not be able to hide it for much longer, every day she became more crippled and with every passing moment her façade threatened to unveil.
Her friends had experienced too much loss and the idea of adding to it made her stomach churn sickeningly. She would not allow them to grieve her; which is why she was leaving.
Through clouded eyes she began bundling all of her possessions into a small suitcase, she did not pay much mind to what she grabbed, it would not need to last her very long.
Though when she reached a small photo album sitting on her bedside table her heart jolted, with shaking hands she flipped open the small winsome book, and sure enough, smiling back at her were the faces of her beloved friends.
She brushed her fingers over each and everyone of their grins, smiling through her tears as she recalled the moment she had taken it. Though her hand halted when she reached the last face, she could have sworn she felt her heart beating in her throat.
Damon.
It had not yet occurred to her that she would never see him again. The pain she felt at that realisation was crippling. She would never feel his gentle caress against her body or his lips on her cheek; Damon’s touch was lost on her forever. All that she had to carry her to her deathbed was his picture and her feeble memory, and that would never be enough.
Before she met him Y/N would not have believed a love so potent was possible, though she was very agreeably proved wrong. Even while living in Mystic Falls with all its theatrical and apprehensive infamousness, Y/N had never been happier. And that was entirely the work of Damon.
Y/N knew her death would break him and she knew the kind of person Damon became when he was broken. If she left without an explanation he would eventually make his own assumptions and any assumption he made surely could not hurt him like the truth.
She knew he would try and find her, she could only wish he was never successful. The decision she was making was far from easy, but it was easier than knowing he was mourning for her; hurting because of her.
Damon was always abundantly clear on the life he wanted for them, he yearned to turn her and live for eternity at each other's sides. Though Y/N was never sure what she wanted, she did not want to be rash and he respected that. Though now any chance of her accepting his vision was lost perpetually. She could never become like him, the possibility was lost the moment she was diagnosed with cancer; vampire blood could not fix her now.
Y/N was riddled with guilt and regret, she knew she should have said yes when he first told her what he wanted; because now in the face of death, she yearned for it too. For months the abstraction of the undying life she could have had with Damon had been eating away at her. She laughed humourlessly at the malevolent irony of her situation.
Y/N could not bear to spend another second thinking of the near future and what could have been, so to ease her mind she thought of the day before. The day that, albeit unknowingly, would become their final moments together. It was not a grand affair, they had simply spent the day in each other's company.
They watched TV, had a nap and Damon had even offered to cook dinner, and even though he failed miserably it had still meant so much to her. She believes he noticed she was feeling unwell and was doing what he could to make her better.
But it was the final moment that had meant the most to her; when he wrapped her in his arms at the end of the day as he was leaving and whispered that he loved her. Tears ran hot down her cheeks at the realisation that it would be the last time she heard him say those words.
A sudden feeling of lightheadedness had Y/N rushing to sit on the edge of her bed, she should not be stressing herself out like this, she knew it would only worsen her condition. Though she could not stop the unfathomable feeling of guilt stewing within her, It made her sick; she could not leave him without so much as a goodbye.
Going against everything she had planned since her diagnosis she turned to the messily packed suitcase and began unravelling it.
Another wave of sickness overcame her, though this time disparate. Y/N felt her body go slack, her possessions slipping from her weak grasp and falling back into their places in the case. Her body slipped downwards from the bed and found itself docile against the floorboards.
She had started coughing up blood again when the realisation crushed her. This was it. Just as she decided to see Damon karma unfurled its caustic tendrils and enveloped her. She swore she could feel the life depleting from her body. Y/N felt akin to a spectre as darkness shrouded her being like a void, plunging her into nothingness. She was lost to the world. Her glassy, lifeless eyes stared above her; forever immortalised with the fear of never seeing him again.
Y/N had not been answering her phone and Damon knew the consternation he felt brewing because of it was completely irrational, but he found himself headed to her house regardless; he wanted to see her anyway.
When Y/N’s house met his line of sight the sound of a lack of life immediately registered with him, he could not hear her breathing nor the beating of her heart and there was certainly no sound of her usual bustle.
He concluded that she must not have been home, though before he could turn around to leave he noticed with furrowed eyebrows that her car was still in the driveway. He picked up his pace as he closed the rest of the distance.
He pushed open the creaking old door and when the smell of her exposed blood met him immediately, his heart was sent into a panicked frenzy. Before a second had passed he used his speed to send him straight into her bedroom. But the macabre sight on the floor halted him. He discerned that her skin was the colour of death and the stillness of her frame was much the same.
He repudiated this thought as he felt the veins grow black beneath his eyes, his fangs coming to meet his wrist. He sped to her limp body and placed his bloodied arm against her cold lips, they remained unmoving.
‘No...’ he barely gasped out, ‘You need to drink this Y/N, it’ll help you.’
He shook her shoulders, her whole body moving with the disruption. Damon’s vision dimmed through the welling of his tears. He forced her taut jaw wider trying to force down his blood. He choked down his sobs as he continued to plead with her.
‘Please drink, you need to drink… Please.’
His weeps quaked in his chest, unwillingly observing her lack of heartbeat. He removed his wrist from her lips, replacing it with his mouth and breathing air into her empty lungs. He placed his hands on her chest and tried desperately to recall the steps of resuscitation, but his efforts were futile.
With an all-consuming sense of despair, his hands fell slack from her inanimate frame and he acknowledged what he had known all along.
She was dead.
The sobs that passed his lips were inhuman in sound, with shaking hands he used the pad of his fingers to gently pull the eyelids over her glassy eyes. Damon then pulled her torso up to his chest and rested his chin on the top of her head.
For the first time since he had arrived the sight of a half-packed suitcase entered his concentration. He realised hollowly she had been trying to leave. She knew she was dying and was trying to leave anyway. He wanted to feel angry at her, but no emotion could supersede the severe sense of dejection he was under.
Who knows how long he would have been living in blissful ignorance, thinking he resided in a sphere where she still existed, a world where she still lived.
Damon knew he could not live in a world where she did not exist. This was a pain he could not overcome, a pain he would not overcome. Her death left his humanity in shreds, and Damon knew at once he could no longer function with it extant. His emotions left him like a flame getting put out, the enthralling love he had felt for her the day before all but a memory.
Here is the link to a second part if you're interested. I thought it would be interesting to write Damon with no humanity, Part two.
Every comment and piece of advice is welcomed and appreciated <3
ｒｅｖｅｎａｎｔ －ｅｉｇｈｔ
PART EIGHT OF 'REVENANT' SERIES Damon Salvatore x Winchester!Sister!Hunter!Reader The Vampire Diaries x SupernaturalMini-Series Synopsis: 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? WARNINGS: Descriptions of violence. Words: 3,351k Blog Masterlist / Series Masterlist <Previous Part | Next Part (Coming Soon) >
After three-quarters of an hour, the hairdryer was still running. Dean had been half-asleep when he registered the faint whirring sound from the bathroom and realised it had been going for far too long. He was still sitting hunched with his hands over his face, exactly as he had been when she left the room with a slam of a door; after he had spoken those dreaded words.
‘He didn’t have a choice, I would’ve died then too…’ Y/N had muttered when he had asked how this could happen. He remembered her tears as she spoke, they had made her eyes look like glass.
‘Well, maybe he should have let you…’
The words sent a chill through him; how could he have said that to her? But was he wrong? Would she not be better off?
His mind had briefly wandered back to the case — the ghouls, the bloodstains — but the moment stretched, and the realisation hit him. His pulse kicked up, sending a jolt through his body as his eyes snapped open.
Y/N was not in her bed. Y/N was not anywhere.
The grim image of her body upon the old wooden table, paired with the awful, rusty scent of her blood, made him flinch as if he had been struck.
He stood up fast, his heart lurching in his chest as his feet steadied on the cold and grimy motel floor. The room was quiet, too quiet. The only sound was the damn hair dryer still buzzing in the air.
He got up and moved toward the bathroom without thought, like a man possessed. The door was shut, and a sliver of light spilled out from under the threshold, illuminating the dusk-darkened room.
He placed his hand on the doorknob and was met with no resistance; it was already unlocked. The hairdryer’s hum intensified through the now-open door as it oscillated on the edge of the sink.
But there was no sign of Y/N.
There was no beloved sister standing there, her back to him as she dried her hair in the mirror, as she had done a hundred times prior. He hesitated at the doorway, and then his heart stopped. The bathroom was empty.
Empty. She was missing, and in transition, how could he be so irresponsible? How could he let himself drift off? She was dangerous now; she could hurt someone. He counted the hours back in his head since he had last slept and was kicking himself with the realisation of just how long it had been; he had needed to be awake and alert for her, and he failed.
He moved quickly, tearing through the small space and flipping the shower curtain aside frantically — as if he did not already know she was not there. He stared at the moulded, derelict tile walls in dismay, noticing the scent of soap still lingering in the air.
His breath came faster. His brain was scrambling to catch up with what his eyes were telling him. He spotted her old, bloodied clothes sitting discarded on the porcelain of the toilet seat, they were the only possessions of hers that remained, the room was bare. A flash of movement at the edge of his vision made him snap his head up — the window. It was wide open.
‘Shit.' He muttered, noticing the high pitch of his panic.
He spun on his heels, stumbling back into the room. His gaze darted to the bed, and for a second, he convinced himself that maybe…
No, she was not there; he knew this.
Her things were missing, her bed was made, and now he was left wondering how far away she had gotten. He flipped his phone open and dialled her number, his fingers moving nimbly as a reflex, yet still trembling horribly. He had called this number many times in the past few months, and like clockwork, each time, he would be met with her voicemail; tonight was no exception. He snapped the phone shut and threw it to her bed.
Dean’s stomach clenched and he leaned over placing his hands in his knees. No. No. He wasn’t going to let her go down this road. Not after everything they had been through. But what could he do? It was already too late for her.
‘Sam!’ His voice was sharp, frantic, the kind of desperation that hit with the force of a freight train.
Sam had been standing behind him, getting up to follow Dean in his alarm, his face already clouded with worry before the scene of the bathroom had even registered before him.
‘She’s gone,’ Dean snapped, pacing the small room, his mind running in a hundred directions at once. ‘She’s—‘ He cut himself off, eyes locking on the open window through the door. ‘She’s gone, Sam. She—‘
Sam was already moving toward the door, his face drawn, filled with a dread that was becoming all too familiar. ‘Surely, she can’t be far. We need to find her…’
Dean shook his head, his frustration boiling over. That is not what he meant. He did not mean she was missing, he meant that she was gone. ‘What the hell, Sam? She’s not some lost puppy we’re gonna find wandering down the road! She’s a damn vampire, and she…’
He had already begun to mourn her; she had died in their arms. He had stared at her decrepit corpse for hours, refusing to accept the actuality before him. He remembered the way he had pleaded for it not to be true. Now, she walked again, but it was not the same; it could never be the same as it was. It seemed like a sick, twisted joke.
‘Dean, we don’t know that. She might not have done that yet—’ Sam interrupted him, avoiding the specifics, not only to placate Dean but because he could not stomach the idea himself; he did not want to see her that way, he did not want the image in his mind.
His voice was softer but firm, pulling his brother’s focus back. He continued,
‘She’s our sister, Dean. We don’t know what she’s doing. She could be in danger.’ Sam shuddered,
She was not in danger herself now, but the one who is dangerous; Y/N was the threat now, and the notion made him sick.
‘No, you don’t get it,’ Dean’s voice dropped low, dark. ‘She’s gone, Sam. We both know it.’ His eyes burned with a venomous anger; his hands balled into fists at his sides. As his bitter words flowed, he believed them more and more. He knew if they went looking for her, she would never be found. She does not exist on this plane anymore; the girl he loved, his sister, was lost perpetually.
‘She’s lost to us. She’s a damn monster now, and it doesn’t matter what we say, or how many times we look at her like she’s still the girl we raised, the sister we loved. That’s not her anymore.’
‘She’s dead… She died — in our arms last night,’ Dean choked on his words as he desperately tried for air, why was it so hard to breathe? Why was the room spinning?
‘It was my fault, I should have died… Not her.’ The words were barely spoken, coming out in a gasp, Sam could barely make them out, needing to follow the movement of his brother’s lips.
‘That girl we saw today, that’s not her, it can’t be; she was a fake.’ Dean shook with vexation once more, with Y/N, with himself, Sam was not sure.
He froze, his heart skipping. He had not seen Dean this angry in a long time — swallowed whole by rage. Sam’s shoulders began to quake with his own agony; he registered a distant and inhuman cry, he did not have enough time to wonder where it was coming from before he realised they were his own sobs. Why did they sound so far away? Why was he so disconnected from his own body?
‘Dean…’ His voice faltered as he looked at his brother. It was not just anger that shook him. It was grief. Grief, mingled with guilt and a twisted, violent kind of regret. The kind that made you do things you would have never thought of in a hundred years.
Dean shook his head; the words tumbling out in a dangerous rush.
‘I’m not going to save her, Sam. I’m not going to pretend she’s still the person we knew. ’ He turned sharply, pacing to the door. How had he found this resolve so suddenly? Had he not yearned to find her only moments earlier? Dean struggled to recall when she had become the stranger he pictured now, the monster. She had not looked like a monster when she awoke from her death, when they had realised what must have happened.
‘She died last night, killed by those god-awful ghouls. She’s not the same. And if we don’t do something about it, people are going to get hurt. It’s time we finish this. Her case. And the supernatural problem that ruined her life. Our lives.’
Sam stepped toward him, with words already on his tongue. Surely, he could not mean that. He could not possibly be suggesting they hunt their own sister. But Dean was already halfway out the door.
‘You’re not—’ thinking straight, Sam wanted to say, but Dean was already gone.
With a moment of hesitation and a breath of bitter air, Sam followed him out.
Dean's fingers tightened around the steering wheel, his knuckles tense and pale, as he drove toward the town. That awful, revolting, loathsome town. The anger — his blinding anger — throbbed through him, it thudded in his ears and pulsed within his veins. He could feel it in his gut, a gnawing beast that told him he had to finish what she had started. He had to rid the world of whatever vile supernatural force had taken his sister away from him. And if that meant tearing Mystic Falls apart, so be it. If that meant killing the vampire who had turned her... then that is what he was going to do.
Damon Salvatore.
The name felt like bile in his throat and burned like acid. The more he thought about ‘it’, that repulsive creature, the tighter his grip on the wheel became. He knew the bastard had to die. If not for him, Y/N would not have become the thing she was now; the abomination. She would not have disappeared into the night. She would not have lost herself andhe would not have lost her. It was Damon who was to blame. Damon was the cause of all this.
He had no sympathy. No understanding. Not when it came to hurting her.
And hurt her he had.
Deep down, hidden beneath layers of wrath and chagrin, Dean knew why he was acting this way. He knew that if Y/N had truly died, he would be doing absolutely everything in his power to bring her back, and he would not have rested until he was successful. He would have done anything. But now, he could never bring her back — save her from this fate. If that abhorrent vampire had left her alone, she would be salvageable, even if it meant Dean needed to die in her place.
Dean’s jaw tightened, his gaze hardening with each passing mile. He barely registered Sam’s quiet words beside him. ‘Dean, stop. We have to think of this rationally —’
‘I’m not stopping, Sam,’ Dean cut him off sharply, his voice low, strained and cold.
‘We’re going to Mystic Falls. And we’re finishing it.’ His eyes flickered to Sam briefly, and for a moment, the weight of what he was saying hung in the air as tears filled his eyes. ‘I’m done, Sam. I’m done— ’
Sam watched him quietly, trying to gauge if there was any part of the man he used to know in the eyes staring out the windshield, his brother. But it was hard to tell, the burning in his eyes showed a stranger. Dean was consumed — swallowed whole by something darker than grief. He was already lost, and Sam feared there would be no bringing him back.
‘Listen to me for a second, would you?’ Sam's voice was heated, raised for the first time all evening. ‘She had vampire blood in her system, did you ever stop and think about what that means?’ Dean began to speak, but Sam raised his hand, silencing him with a scalding look that Dean saw in the corner of his vision.
‘She said she would have died anyway, their blood heals people, that… vampire —’ The word made him cringe, ‘obviously, saved her life.’
Though, Sam did not understand; it did not make sense. Why would he save her? A hunter. Why was she with him in the first place? How could she bear being near him? Knowing what he is. But it did not matter, it did not change what he already knew.
Dean started again, but Sam cut him off.
‘She died on the ghoul case… with us, we killed her, we did it — not him.’
Sam gazed out through the windshield as tears clouded his vision, streetlights turned to indistinguishable dots of light as they loomed closer. This realisation stung and cut his throat like small blades as he expelled ragged breaths. But he continued away,
‘But she’s still here, Dean. She’s not gone — not yet, anyway,’ He gasped out, ‘She holds the same memories, the same personality, it’s her. And if we can get to her, we can help her.’
‘Dean, we don’t even know if she is in Mystic Falls, what if we’re leaving her behind?’
But his words fell on deaf ears; Dean stared forward as if he had said nothing at all, and Sam slumped back in his seat, defeated. Staring numbly at the dark silhouettes of trees as they flew past them.
Y/N stood in front of the grand fireplace in the Salvatore boarding house, the warmth of the crackling fire barely reaching the chill that had settled deep within her. The flames danced in hypnotic patterns, casting flickering shadows on the stone walls, against her skin — yet all she could see before her were the faces of her brothers.
She let her fingers graze the mantle, her eyes tracing the cracks in the stone as if they might conceal the answers to the questions she could not bring herself to mutter. She could still hear Dean’s voice, sharp and angry, his words slicing through the distance between them like a blade.
Well, maybe he should have let you…
His words had cut off, he knew he had gone too far, but she knew it was what he truly believed. He had thought she was better off dead. He would rather she was not here.
She pondered that reality for a moment. Suppose she had died the night of the founder’s ball. Maybe it might have been easier. Maybe she would not have needed to feel all this grief for her brothers. But then she thought of Damon, and she realised, halfway content, that she was glad that did not happen, at least for him. She remembered the way he had cried over her, pleading with her to drink his blood. At least she was certain of this much; she could not leave Damon, she could not bear to hurt him. How could that dreaded night already seem a lifetime ago? It was only the night before the last.
She had believed, once, for a very brief moment in time, that this affliction might only be temporary—that there was still some thread of humanity she could cling to. That her brothers would save her. Bearing witness to years of their escapades had her believing there was nothing that they could not do. And this was just another problem, another puzzle to be solved; but she knew that was selfish — to expect so much from them.
But that did not matter now, and she had never truly believed it and the reality of what she had become quelled that fragile hope regardless. This was her reality now: vampires do not age; they never change. They did not get to go back to the lives they had before.
And she was no exception.
She could almost feel their rejection, the weight of their disappointment hanging in the air, suffocating her with every harsh breath. Deans anger had been cold, unforgiving. It was the kind of rage that came with the loss of something precious. And Sam, sweet Sam—his conflicted, sorrowful gaze had been the worst of all. She could almost hear his voice, trembling with the desperate hope that maybe he could fix her. But she knew better now.
She was beyond saving. She had not even wanted to save herself, she had been wholly ready to die, to let Damon’s blood dwindle from her system, till her death caught up with her once more.
A familiar ache of longing twisted in her chest as she thought of them. The brothers who had raised her, fought for her, loved her in ways that no one else ever had. The brothers who were now lost to her forever. How could she go back to them now, knowing the truth of what she was? How could she let them see her like this? They would hate me, she thought. They already do.
She imagined the look on Dean’s face as he looked at her—disgust. His words were harsher than the coldest winter she had known, biting at her soul. He would see the vampire she had become and reject the parts of his little sister that remained.
Nothing, she thought. He would see nothing left of me.
And yet, she would miss them more than anything. She would miss the way Dean always teased her, even when he was angry. She would miss Sam’s soft smiles, the way he would always try to protect her, even when she did not need it. She would miss being family—the thing that had once meant everything to her. It had all slipped away, and in its place was this hollow, aching void.
But she knew deep down, past her surfaced dejections, there was no void. Her love for Damon had settled into every crevice of her being, and with all her regret came a guilty, unexpected sense of relief; she was glad she had forever, an eternity to love him. He was her family now, and she could not find it within herself to regret this.
Behind her was the sound of soft footsteps. The familiar, grounding presence of Damon. She did not need to turn around to know it was him; she had grown so used to the weight of his presence, the subtle way he filled the silence between them. When had this happened? It all felt so quick.
He did not speak. Instead, she felt his warmth press against her back, his arms sliding around her waist, pulling her against him. His head found its way into the space between her shoulder and neck, and she instinctively leaned into him, the comfort of his touch a stark contrast to the cold emptiness of her loss.
For a moment, she closed her eyes, letting herself absorb the silence, the feeling of being held. But the ache inside her did not fade. It only deepened. Her brothers were gone—the life she knew was gone—and all she had left was the man who had turned her into this being.
And she could not even bring herself to regret it. She loved Damon; she loved the way he made her feel, even when it terrified her.
She stood there, motionless, with Damon’s arms around her, staring ahead at nothing. She mourned the girl she had been, but when she thought of what she had gained—when she felt the weight of Damon’s arms around her—she knew she would not trade any of it.
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@venomsvl, @serenity-fujakante, @tonystarkwifey, @lively-potter, @deanwanddamons, @wildernessflora, @fluffycoconut
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
Detective Comics ✢ Masterlist ✢ The Halloween Jack
All my DC pieces are written with different iterations in mind, but they are not plot-specific, so you can picture your favourite <3 All my works, minus headcanons, use female pronouns for the reader. Besides this, I keep the reader undescribed, the only filler I use being 'Y/N'.
B R U C E W A Y N E
One-Shots:
Asphyxiated ✢ Y/N’s once-adoring relationship with the charming Bruce Wayne begins to unravel as his nightly disappearances and distant demeanour create an insurmountable chasm between them. Unaware of his double life as the infamous Batman, Y/N is left to wonder where she went wrong, seeking solace in an old friend, Jonathan Crane.
Fleeting Moments ✢ Y/N and Bruce Wayne share quiet moments of love amidst the chaos of Gotham. In rare stolen hours between nightfall and dawn, she clings to the man behind the mask, not aware of the double life he leads. She watches as bruises form across his skin and holds him through his restless nights, grateful that, for once, he is by her side. (Prequel to Asphyxiated)
Hostage ✢ When Bruce Wayne hears of an active hostage situation the reader, his long-term partner, is involved in; he has no option but to take action as the Batman. (This is an older work, I am currently in the process of editing it.)
Enigma ✢ 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 is an older work, I am currently in the process of editing it.)
Drabbles:
Coming soon...
J A S O N T O D D
One-Shots:
Déjà Vu ✢ When the reader's comms grow suddenly silent, Jason Todd's worst fear takes shape — not just the possibility of losing someone, but the cold, inescapable echoes of a past he could never bury. As he fights his way through the grime of Gotham City, one truth becomes undeniable: some nightmares never cease, they resurface.
Disarray ✢ 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.
Tether ✢ When a battered Jason stumbles into an alley and finds unexpected refuge in a stranger’s kindness, it sparks a fracture in the walls he’s built to survive. Trust was never a luxury he could afford, but as survival blurs into something more, Jason is forced to confront the most dangerous risk of all, love.
Drabbles:
Coming soon...
D I C K G R A Y S O N
One-Shots:
Late-Night Escapades ✢ Blüdhaven, well past dusk, is irrefutably no place to wander. Though, Y/N ventures out regardless, in need of a few essentials. She knows it is irresponsible, she knows what Dick would say, but the store is just a few blocks away...
Drabbles:
Coming soon...
T I M D R A K E
One-Shots:
Coming soon...
Drabbles:
Coming soon...
D A M I A N W A Y N E
(Damian Wayne will be aged up in all my work. Though, upon request, I would be happy to write something platonic for a young Damian.)
One-Shots:
Coming soon...
Drabbles:
Coming soon...
C L A R K K E N T
One-Shots:
Coming soon...
Drabbles:
Coming soon...
H E A D C A N O N S
Characters: Bruce, Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian and Clark.
What scares them and how you help them cope.
When he realised he loved you.
When he admitted he loved you.
There is just something about DC men...
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.
If you're interested, I've since posted a follow-up called 'When he admitted he loved you' linked, here. Every comment and piece of advice is welcomed and appreciated <3
I really enjoyed reading your DC headcanons! Your characterization in particular is really really great! I'll be looking forward to reading more as you post them :)
Ahh thank you, you're too sweet!! I'm glad you've been enjoying them. Hopefully, I'll have some more out soon! <3
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𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨, 𝐦𝐲 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐂𝐚𝐭𝐞, 𝐈'𝐦 𝐚 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐜𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐭 ☀︎ 𝔪𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 ☀︎ 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐦𝐞 ☀︎ 𝐀𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧 ☀︎ 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐩-𝐭 ☀︎ 𝟐𝟏☀︎ 𝐈 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐃𝐂 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐕𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐃𝐢𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬
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