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money feels died

[creeperkiwi]

WELCOME...!

myself ﹫ im reddy, he/him, 19

— dc comics, marvel and some more

★ M.LIST — WATTPAD

suggestions/requests open for one-shots!

rules;

• please don't try to steal my work, if you do I will come to look for you at your front door and we will have a nice chat :D

• i do NOT write smut, rape or anything sexual

• I don't know what else I should say, please be kind to me and the rest :3

[creeperkiwi]

My birthday is coming up so... leave your suggestions for short fics or smau or hc or whatever you want about whoever you want, I'm not limited to DC/Marvel!

[creeperkiwi]

HEYY,

so I loved the jason one shot, and if you're okay with it, please make more parts, i need to see more of this storyline i'm obsessed😭🙏🏻

book shop | Jason Todd x Reader ᯓ★ 2

sumarry. Jason tries to fix his mistake but it doesn't go as planned, but it's not that bad either.

male reader, word counter: 1,343

masterlist prt 1

note; here you goo, sorry for the delay! I hadn't checked my mailbox...

jason's pov

I didn’t go back to the bookstore.

It wasn’t something I planned, I just… stayed away. At first, I thought it would be a few days, then a week, and before I knew it, almost three had passed. He didn’t directly write to complain, but I noticed. Every message of his carried that half-curious, half-sarcastic tone he used to hide his insecurities.

"Not coming to rescue me from my unbearable customers today either?"

"I found a first edition… but I’m not telling you of what."

"I suspect you’re buying books somewhere else, traitor."

I replied late, always with short phrases, though inside I laughed at his comments. He didn’t know it, but every notification from him made me stop for a few seconds, feeling that uncomfortable mix of warmth and nerves.

One night, while staring at his unanswered messages, I realized I was avoiding something that, to my misfortune, I wanted to face. So I decided that instead of showing up as if nothing had happened, I would make it up to him. Inviting him out sounded… risky. I wasn’t sure if he would take it as a date or just a gesture. I wasn’t even sure what I wanted it to be.

On Saturday at noon, I walked into the bookstore. He looked up from the counter and gave me a quick smile, which shifted into a raised eyebrow.

"Look who’s back from the war," he said, with that light tone he used to provoke.

"Don’t exaggerate." I leaned on the counter, trying to seem calm. "I’ve been busy."

"Busy for three weeks. Couldn’t even get me a coffee… that’s low." He adjusted a book but kept his eyes on me. "So? Are you back looking for volume four that doesn’t exist?"

I leaned in toward him a little.

"No. I came to invite you out."

A short laugh escaped him, as if he hadn’t quite understood. Then his cheeks turned red.

"Out…?" he repeated, lowering his voice. "Like… a date?"

"Like a date." I said it without looking at him too much, but with the certainty that I couldn’t take it back.

He accepted, of course. And that’s when my mistake began.

The plan was simple: a quiet coffee and then a walk through the old book fair in the square. But everything went wrong.

First, it rained. Not a romantic movie drizzle, but a downpour that turned the streets into rivers. The café was packed, full of soaked people seeking shelter, and the only free spot was next to a door that wouldn’t close properly. The icy wind hit us from behind. He tried to joke, but his teeth were chattering.

"This is… cozy," he said, curling into his coat. "Do you always choose such charming places for your dates?"

"Next time I’ll take you to a five-star hotel," I answered, half serious, half joking.

The fair was obviously canceled. We walked anyway, dodging puddles and trying to share my jacket, which he insisted he didn’t need but ended up wearing. It wasn’t what I had planned, but watching him walk beside me, laughing at how ridiculous he looked in my oversized clothes, stirred a strange feeling in me.

When we found shelter under an improvised roof in the empty square, he leaned against me, still shivering.

"If this was your way of apologizing for disappearing… I’m not sure you pulled it off."

"I think I did." I don’t know why I said it, but it came out softer than I intended.

He looked at me, as if evaluating something. Then, without warning, he leaned forward and rested his forehead on my shoulder.

"Don’t disappear for so long again," he murmured.

I stayed still. I could have told him I couldn’t promise that, that it wasn’t my style, but… I ended up wrapping an arm around him, pulling him closer. We didn’t speak for a while, listening to the rain hitting the tin roof. He let out a small laugh.

"I guess you did manage to make me like the date after all."

I didn’t look at him, but I smiled.

—☆—

By the time we reached his building, the rain had softened from a furious downpour to a steady hiss against the streets. My jacket was plastered to my skin; his hair was a messy halo of damp curls. We both looked like we’d been fished out of a river.

“You’re not walking home like this,” he said, pushing open the door and stepping aside for me to enter. His voice was soft but left no room for argument. “Upstairs. Come on.”

I wanted to say I’d be fine, that I’d catch a cab or walk it off, but there was a stubborn tilt to his chin and… I was tired of arguing with him. So I followed.

His apartment was small but warm, smelling faintly of coffee and paper. Books stacked in precarious towers along the walls, a few mugs scattered across the counter. It felt lived in, real, nothing like the sterile, spotless spaces I was used to.

“Sit,” he ordered, pointing to the couch as he kicked off his shoes. I sat, dripping all over his rug. He disappeared into the bedroom and came back with a towel, tossing it at me.

“You’re bossy,” I muttered.

“And you’re terrible at taking care of yourself,” he shot back, a flicker of a smile tugging at his mouth. “So I’m making the executive decision—you’re staying here tonight.”

“That’s unnecessary.”

“It’s happening,” he said, and vanished again before I could argue.

When he returned, he had a change of clothes for me—loose sweatpants and an oversized sweater that probably belonged to him. I didn’t ask. I changed in the bathroom, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror: hair plastered down, shoulders hunched, looking for all the world like someone caught in a situation they hadn’t planned for. Which, I guess, was true.

When I stepped out, he was already in the bedroom, tugging at the blankets. “Uh,” I said slowly. “Where am I… sleeping?”

He looked at me like I’d just asked whether the sky was real. “Here,” he said simply, patting the bed.

“There’s one bed.”

“I’m aware,” he replied, a blush creeping up his neck. “It’s big enough. Unless you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared,” I said automatically. I was lying.

He grinned faintly. “Good. Then get in.”

I hesitated, then climbed in on my side, careful to keep distance. The mattress dipped as he slid in next to me, his warmth immediately noticeable even through the blanket. I could feel him trying not to fidget. We both stared at the ceiling.

“This is… fine,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter now. “You’re warm. I like that.”

I snorted. “You’re freezing.”

“That’s why I like it.”

We lay there in silence for a while, the sound of rain filling the space between us. Eventually, I felt him shift closer, his shoulder brushing mine. “Is this okay?” he asked, voice muffled.

“Yeah,” I murmured, surprising myself. “It’s okay.”

So he moved closer still, curling against my side. His hand, hesitant at first, rested against my chest. I didn’t know what to do with that—my heart was pounding, and I was sure he could feel it. But I didn’t move away. If anything, I found myself leaning toward him.

He sighed, a soft, content sound. “You’re not as scary as you think you are,” he murmured.

I turned my head slightly to look at him. His eyes were half-lidded, his curls still damp, his expression both smug and shy at once.

“And you’re not as fearless as you pretend to be,” I replied.

He smiled, small but real, and his fingers curled into the sweater he’d given me. We stayed like that until his breathing evened out, his weight warm and solid against me. I lay awake longer, staring at the ceiling, realizing that somehow, without meaning to, I’d let him in more than I’d planned.

And that I wasn’t in a hurry to push him out.

[creeperkiwi]

ghost of you | Tim Drake x ghost!reader ᯓ★

sumarry: Tim Drake was inspecting the building where one of the most wanted villains of the last month was found. He knew there were strange things going on, but meeting a ghost boy was not in his plans, much less being smitten by his beauty.

male reader, word counter: 3330

masterlist

The building lay in ruins, abandoned to its fate like a forgotten skeleton in the heart of Gotham. Dampness clung to the cracked walls, and the echo of dripping water from a partially collapsed ceiling sounded like whispers of ancient secrets. Darkness gripped every corner, pierced only by the faint light filtering through broken windows and sagging beams. Tim Drake moved cautiously, his flashlight revealing invisible paths among the dust suspended in the air, like stars trapped in a shadowy universe.

There was something peculiar about the place. Beyond the signs of struggle and the traces of the villain captured there weeks ago, the atmosphere felt heavy, almost watchful. Tim was no stranger to the strange, but this sensation was different—an eerie chill that crawled down his spine like cold fingers.

He advanced into a room where time seemed to have stopped. A dilapidated piano sat at its center, its yellowed keys covered in dust. Around it lay fallen books, broken furniture, and air that smelled of dampness and despair. The young hero frowned. Something didn’t add up.

Then he saw it.

At first, he thought it was just another shadow, a trick of the flashlight. But as he adjusted the angle, the figure took shape—a boy, no older than himself, sitting in a corner. He seemed almost translucent, as if he didn’t belong to this world. His pale skin emitted a faint glow, and his disheveled, snow-white hair fell over eyes that held oceans of sorrow.

Tim took a step back, unsettled. There were no signs of entry or exit in the room, and his equipment hadn’t detected anyone else. Yet, there he was, a specter among the ruins.

“Who are you?” Tim asked, his voice firm but not aggressive.

The boy looked up, startled, as if he hadn’t expected to be seen. He didn’t answer. His lips quivered but formed no words. There was a void in his gaze, an absence that spoke of lost memories and an existence barely hanging on.

“You’re not alive... are you?” Tim muttered, more to himself than to the boy.

The ghost shook his head, almost imperceptibly. Then, he raised a hand and pointed to something behind Tim. The young hero spun around immediately, searching for the threat, but all he found was a wall covered in graffiti. When he turned back, the specter was no longer in the corner but standing a few steps away. He seemed to be watching Tim with a mixture of curiosity and fear, as if Tim were the apparition and not him.

“Why can only I see you?” Tim asked, narrowing his eyes, trying to analyze the situation logically. But there was something about the ghost’s presence that defied all reason. It wasn’t hostile, at least not outwardly. And yet, there was a sadness so profound in its features that Tim felt a knot tighten in his chest.

The ghost opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Frustrated, he brought a hand to his throat and shook his head. Tim understood immediately—he couldn’t speak.

“Great,” Tim muttered sarcastically. “A mute ghost. This just keeps getting better.”

The boy tilted his head, as if unsure whether to feel offended or intrigued. Then he extended a finger and pointed at Tim. The young hero raised an eyebrow.

“What? Me?” The ghost nodded slowly. “Perfect. A mute, cryptic ghost. Sure, why not.”

For some reason, Tim’s deadpan expression made the specter crack a faint smile—barely a hint, but enough for the young hero to notice. For a brief moment, something warm seeped into the icy atmosphere of the room.

“I guess I’ll call you ‘Ghost Boy’ until you remember your name, huh?” Tim said, tucking the flashlight into his belt and crossing his arms. “Don’t get too close. I still don’t know if you’re safe.”

The ghost didn’t reply, but his eyes seemed to speak for him. Tim felt a different kind of chill this time—one not from the surroundings but from something deeper. There was beauty in that ethereal figure, a fragility that unsettled him and made him want to look longer than he should.

In the days that followed, the specter became a constant presence in his life. Always nearby, silently following him like a shadow. At first, it annoyed Tim, but he soon began to grow accustomed to it. He watched as Ghost Boy observed him with a mix of shyness and growing trust, as if being close to Tim gave him something he’d long lost—a purpose.

Their conversations became a game of deduction. Tim would speak, and the ghost would nod, shake his head, or point, creating a makeshift system of communication that, though frustrating, worked. There were moments when Tim, exhausted from patrols and sleepless nights, would throw sarcastic remarks at him just to see the ghost roll his eyes or flash a fleeting smile.

“What are you doing here, following me?” Tim asked one night while reviewing documents at the Batcomputer. The ghost stood beside him, watching with a curious expression.

The boy raised a finger and pointed at Tim, as he had the first time. Then he touched his own chest, as if trying to convey something.

“You need me?” Tim ventured, tilting his head. The ghost nodded.

A charged silence fell between them, broken only by the hum of the machines. Tim, almost without realizing it, let out a sigh.

“I can’t promise anything,” he murmured, more to himself than to the specter. “But I guess I can try to help.”

The ghost didn’t say anything, but his expression spoke volumes. And for the first time in a long while, Tim felt that maybe—just maybe—his exhausting life as a hero could be set aside, only for a moment.

Days passed, and Tim’s routine became strangely shared. The ghost boy was always there, watching him with that silent calm that could be both reassuring and unsettling. Tim wouldn’t admit it, but he had started to grow accustomed to his presence. At times of utter solitude, he even found himself speaking aloud, addressing the specter as if it were a confidant.

However, not everyone in the Wayne family was as used to Tim’s new habits.

“You look worse than usual,” Damian grumbled one morning in the kitchen, eyeing his adoptive brother with a mix of irritation and poorly disguised concern. “When was the last time you slept?"

Tim barely looked up from the coffee mug clutched in his hands. The ghost boy stood near the window, invisible to the others, observing the interaction with his sad, large eyes.

“I’m fine,” Tim replied, his tone sharper than necessary.

Bruce, seated at the end of the table, set his newspaper aside and studied him with his usual analytical gaze. He said nothing at first, but his silence was more eloquent than any verbal reprimand.

“You’ve been talking to yourself a lot lately,” Dick commented from the other end of the kitchen, trying to lighten the tension. “And I don’t mean thinking out loud. I mean full conversations with someone who isn’t there.”

“What are you insinuat—” Tim began, cutting himself off when he noticed the way they were all looking at him.

“What we’re insinuating,” Bruce finally interjected, “is that you’re overworking yourself, Tim. The building case, your patrols, your work as Red Robin… You can’t do everything without consequences.”

Tim pressed his lips together, feeling frustration bubble under the surface. He couldn’t tell them the truth. How could he explain that he wasn’t talking to himself, but to a ghost? Even to him, it sounded absurd.

“I’m fine,” he repeated, this time with a tone of exasperation. He stood abruptly, leaving his mug on the table. “I just need space.”

The ghost boy followed him as he left the kitchen, gliding after him like an ethereal shadow. Tim walked to his room, shut the door behind him, and collapsed into the chair at his desk, running a hand through his dark hair in frustration.

“See what you’re doing to me?” he muttered to the specter, who hovered near the window. His tone wasn’t truly angry, more resigned. “They think I’m losing my mind from lack of sleep.”

The ghost lowered his gaze, guilt and helplessness mixing in his expression. He hadn’t meant to cause problems, but he didn’t know how to disappear either.

Tim sighed, resting his elbows on the desk and dropping his head into his hands. The connection between them was inexplicable but increasingly difficult to ignore. Sometimes, it felt like the ghost understood him better than anyone, which terrified and comforted him in equal measure.

“It’s not your fault,” he finally said, his tone softening. He looked up at the specter, who seemed relieved by his words. “Just… if we’re going to keep doing this, I need to find a way to prove I’m not crazy.”

The ghost didn’t respond, but he floated closer to Tim, as if trying to offer reassurance. Tim felt the familiar chill that always accompanied his presence, but this time, instead of being bothered, he found it almost comforting.

“We’ll figure out who you are and why you’re here,” Tim promised, leaning forward to look at him more closely. “But I need you to help me not lose my own mind in the process.”

The ghost nodded slowly, a spark of trust in his eyes—a silent promise that he would be there to uncover his truth and protect Tim from the chaos he had brought along.

The abandoned building remained a key location in their investigation. Tim had inspected it thoroughly, but the ghost boy insisted on pointing out certain places as if trying to guide him toward something important. That evening, Tim returned, fully equipped and on high alert.

“Show me again where you saw it,” Tim requested, holding a scanner in one hand.

The ghost pointed to a crack in the floor where a piece of wood jutted out among the debris. Tim knelt, carefully clearing away the rubble. His fingers brushed against something solid: a small, rusted medallion with barely legible engravings.

“Does this mean anything to you?” Tim asked, holding it up for him to see.

The specter studied the object intently, his expression shifting to one of anguish and recognition. He stepped back, as if the sight of it affected him deeply.

“Well, it’s something,” Tim muttered, sealing the medallion in a bag on his belt. He stood, observing the ghost carefully. “We’ll figure this out, whatever it is.”

The ghost looked at him with a kind of gratitude that didn’t need words, but there was also a shadow of sadness in his eyes, as though he feared what the search might reveal.

Back at the Batcomputer days later, Tim examined the medallion. It belonged to an orphanage in Gotham that had closed over a decade ago. As he read through the files, the ghost remained by his side, as silent as ever but intently focused on the screen.

“Does this place mean something to you?” Tim asked, pointing at the image of the orphanage.

The ghost nodded slowly, moving closer. Tim glanced at him, trying to ignore the cold air that always seemed to surround him.

“We’ll go tomorrow,” Tim said, leaning back in his chair. He ran a hand through his hair, tired but determined. “But I need some sleep first.”

The ghost seemed restless, as if he didn’t want to wait. He took a step toward Tim, instinctively lifting a hand toward his face. It was an odd gesture, almost as if he were trying to comfort him.

And then it happened.

For the first time, Tim felt the ghost’s touch: an intense cold that sliced through his skin like a blade of ice. He froze, eyes wide, as the ghost’s hand briefly rested against his cheek. The contact was fleeting, barely a second, but enough to make Tim’s heart race.

“How…?” he whispered, but before he could finish, the connection broke.

The ghost looked just as startled, staring at his own hand as if he didn’t understand what had happened. He stepped back, his form flickering faintly as though losing stability. Tim reached out, but his hand passed through the specter as usual.

“Great. Another mystery,” Tim muttered, lowering his hand in frustration.

The ghost watched him, guilty, but Tim just shook his head.

“It’s fine. It was… weird, but it’s fine. Just don’t try it again until we know why it happened. I don’t want you disappearing or something worse.”

The ghost nodded, his expression serious. Tim wasn’t sure what had just happened, but a part of him couldn’t shake how human that touch had felt, like there was something more to the ghost that tethered him to this world.

The next day, while inspecting the orphanage building, Tim decided to take a risk. They had found a journal among the rubble, and though the ghost couldn’t touch it, it was clear it held some importance to him.

“All right, let’s try this,” Tim said, holding the journal in one hand and extending the other toward the specter. “If you could touch me before, maybe you can do it again.”

The ghost looked at him uncertainly but nodded. Slowly, he raised his hand and reached toward Tim’s. For a moment, they both held their breath, as if the entire world had paused.

But this time, there was no cold, no sensation at all. The ghost’s hand passed through Tim’s as it always did, leaving no trace. The specter stepped back, his expression disheartened, while Tim glanced down at his own hand, frustrated.

“It doesn’t matter,” Tim said, trying to brush it off, though his voice betrayed a hint of disappointment. “We’ll figure out how it worked the first time.”

The ghost looked at him, his dark eyes filled with unspoken apologies. Tim just sighed and tucked the journal into his backpack.

“Come on, we’ve got work to do. This isn’t going to stop us.”

As they walked through the dark hallways of the building, Tim couldn’t stop thinking about that fleeting moment of contact and how something so brief could feel so significant.

The journal they found didn’t turn out to be the key they’d hoped for. Instead of revealing who the ghost was, its pages spoke of another victim: a young woman who had been trapped and murdered by the villain who used the building as his lair. Her accounts of fear and despair were like a dagger to Tim’s heart, but for the ghost, they were a brutal reminder of his own tragedy.

As they read through the journal’s final entries together, the specter brought a hand to his temple, as if something was breaking inside him.

“I remember,” he whispered suddenly.

Tim looked up, surprised to hear his voice.

“What do you remember?”

The ghost closed his eyes tightly. His form flickered faintly, as though he was on the verge of vanishing.

“My death... It happened here. He... chained us all to the walls, and every week, one of us would die and...” The specter faltered, his barely audible voice breaking into a murmur. “I don’t know who I was before that, but I remember everything. The pain. The fear.”

Tim set the journal aside and stepped closer to the ghost, feeling the air grow colder around him. The specter looked more vulnerable than ever, like a fractured reflection of something that had once been human.

“You don’t need to remember everything,” Tim said softly, his voice cutting through the heavy silence of the room. “You don’t need to know who you were before this.”

The ghost opened his eyes and looked at him, confused.

“How can I move forward without knowing?”

Tim crossed his arms, studying him with a mix of determination and compassion.

“Because you’re not what they did to you. You’re not just your death. You can start over. Be someone new.”

The ghost seemed to consider his words, his lost expression softening little by little.

“Do you really think I can?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Tim nodded.

“I believe in you.”

A heavy silence fell between them, but something had shifted. The specter took a step closer to Tim, and this time, when he extended his hand, it wasn’t to pass through him like before. Tim felt the cold yet firm touch of the ghost’s fingers against his own.

“It works,” Tim murmured, unable to hide the surprise in his voice.

The ghost pulled his hand back, looking at it as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened. Then he lifted his gaze to Tim, his uncertain expression transforming into a faint smile.

Tim slowly raised his hand and gently placed it on the ghost’s cheek, their breaths mingling as their lips met, catching the specter off guard.

The ghost let out a brief laugh—the first Tim had ever heard from him. And for the first time, the air between them didn’t feel cold or heavy. It felt, strangely, like a new beginning.

The tranquility of Wayne Manor was shattered one night when Dick decided to pay Tim a surprise visit in his room. As usual, he barged in without knocking, a carefree grin on his face.

“Tim! Did you know that—?” The words died in his throat.

There, standing by Tim’s desk, was the ghost boy. His ethereal figure glowed faintly under the light of the monitor, and his expressionless face turned toward Dick with an unsettling calm.

Dick jumped back, hitting the door with a loud thud, his eyes wide as saucers.

“WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?!” he yelled, pointing at the specter with a mix of horror and confusion.

Tim, who was sitting at his desk going through files, turned slowly, frowning.

“‘That’? He’s my… friend,” he replied, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

The ghost tilted his head slightly, staring at Dick without a word.

Dick started pointing frantically between the ghost and Tim.

“I thought Damian was lying when he said you had a ghost boyfriend! But… Oh my God, he was right! IT’S REAL!”

Tim groaned, covering his face with his hand, letting out a deep sigh of resignation.

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Then what is he?!” Dick flailed his hands dramatically, clearly on the verge of a meltdown. “Because I swear, if he moves through walls, I’m going to scream louder than Damian does when he loses a chess match!”

The ghost, completely unfazed, seemed almost amused by Dick’s overreaction—probably the first time anyone had found an adult in blue spandex so comical.

“He’s harmless,” Tim said, trying to calm Dick as he stood up from his chair. “And the whole ‘ghost boyfriend’ thing is ridiculous.”

“Sure, sure,” Dick replied, raising his hands in mock surrender as he edged toward the door. “I just want it on record that if he starts moving objects or possessing people, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Before he could leave, the ghost stepped forward and, with a smooth motion, pushed a book from the edge of Tim’s desk toward Dick. The book hit the floor with a loud thud.

“I KNEW HE WOULD MOVE STUFF!” Dick shouted, bolting out the door.

Tim watched his older brother sprint down the hallway, while the ghost, for the first time, showed a faint, mischievous smile.

“You really shouldn’t have done that,” Tim said, though his tone made it clear he was more amused than annoyed.

The ghost merely shrugged, his eyes glinting with playful mischief.

“Well,” Tim muttered, leaning forward against the desk, placing his hands on either side of the ghost, effectively trapping him. “At least now Damian won’t be able to use the whole ‘ghost boyfriend’ thing against me just to annoy me.”

The ghost didn’t reply, but something in his expression hinted that he was enjoying the closeness far more than he should.

[creeperkiwi]

book shop | Jason Todd x Reader ᯓ★ 

sumarry: Jason is a fan of a series of unknown books, there is only one bookstore in the entire city that has them so he goes every week hoping to find the next volume, the bookstore worker has a proposal in exchange for the third volume .

male reader, word counter: 2,532

masterlist

The tinkling of the bell at the door announced his arrival. Jason crossed the threshold of the bookstore with measured steps, as if he feared disturbing the stillness of the place. Despite having walked this path dozens of times, each visit was still a ritual. His cold, serene eyes shifted from the shelves to the figure behind the counter, where the worker lifted his gaze from an open book.

"Hello, Jason," he greeted with a relaxed smile, setting the book aside. His black hair was messy, as though he hadn't had time (or the will) to fix it that morning.

"Hello," Jason replied with a slight nod, emotion absent from his voice. He couldn’t remember when he had started coming to this bookstore, but the dark-haired worker always made him feel as though they'd known each other for a lifetime.

Without saying more, Jason made his way to the usual shelf. He knew exactly where the book should be, and, as always, the third volume remained a vacant spot in the collection. His jaw tightened. "Ridiculous," he thought, yet his fingers skimmed the spines of the books as if he could will the one he sought into existence.

The dark-haired worker watched him from the counter, resting his elbows on the worn wood. There was something about Jason that always caught his attention, maybe the stiff way he moved or his contained expression, as though he carried a world of unspoken words.

"So?" the worker asked, with his usual light tone of mockery. Jason turned his head.

"So, what?"

"You're not going to ask about the book?" He tilted his head, his carefree smile seeming like a challenge.

Jason sighed, crossing his arms. "I already know you don’t have it. Asking would be a waste of time."

The dark-haired worker chuckled softly, a comfortable sound, as if he had just confirmed something he had been expecting.

"That's new. You used to insist more." He straightened up and pulled something from behind the counter. Jason furrowed his brow when he saw the book in his hands. It was volume 3.

"How...?" Jason started, but the worker raised a hand to stop him.

"It’s a long story. But I’m not going to tell you here." He held out the book, but when Jason reached for it, he pulled it back. "Unless you agree to go with me for a coffee."

Jason blinked, his face remaining expressionless, but something in his eyes reflected surprise.

"What?"

"A coffee," the worker repeated, calm, as though suggesting something as mundane as exchanging a bill. "It’s the price of the book."

Jason looked at him, trying to decide if he was serious. Finally, he let out a brief sigh.

"I guess I have no other choice."

"Of course not," he replied, grinning widely while playing with the book in his hand. "I finish at 5, the café is on the corner, I’ll wait for you there."

Without another word, Jason left with an annoyed look; he couldn't believe what had just happened.

—☆—

Jason arrived at the café five minutes late. For someone like him, that was already unforgivable. He opened the door with a bit more force than necessary and scanned the place until he found the dark-haired worker sitting by a window, playing with the spoon in his cup.

"You’re late," the worker said, smiling with that carefree air that seemed to mock everything.

"Five minutes doesn’t count as late," Jason replied, sliding into the chair opposite him. He adjusted his jacket, a gesture that made him seem even more distant than he already was. "Besides, I didn’t think you'd take it so seriously."

"Of course I do." He set down the spoon and looked at him with squinted eyes, but the smile never faded. "That’s why I brought you here, right?"

Jason raised an eyebrow but didn’t reply. Instead, he turned his gaze to the steaming coffee the worker had ordered for him. He took a sip, as though needing the time to decide if it was worth continuing the conversation.

"So?" Jason finally said, placing the cup down with a slight clink. "Why so insistent on the coffee?"

The dark-haired worker rested his chin in his hand, clearly enjoying Jason’s attitude. "It’s not that complicated. I like you."

"Is that all?" Jason tilted his head, his sharp eyes relentless. "I thought there was a more interesting purpose behind it."

"Well…" The worker paused theatrically, leaning back in his chair. "Maybe you’re somewhat cute, and I knew you'd only accept if I gave you the book."

Jason stiffened for just a moment, but he didn’t let the worker see it. "Did you bring volume 3?"

"Maybe."

Jason snorted, resting an elbow on the table and looking at him with a mix of exasperation and amusement. "You’re irritating, you know that?"

"I know." The worker grinned widely, as if he took it as a compliment.

They spent a few minutes talking about trivial matters: the weather, the bookstore, the oddities of the regular customers. Jason, though cold and reserved, found himself surprisingly comfortable. After a while, his voice, always sharp, took on a slower tone.

"You know… I’ve read the first two volumes at least three times," Jason said, not looking directly at him, his gaze fixed on the edge of his cup. "It’s rare to find something so... real. I don’t know who the hell the author is, but it seems like he knows exactly how things work. It’s like he’s lived it."

The worker, who had been playing with a napkin, dropped his gaze when he heard that.

"That good, huh?" he asked, his voice softer this time.

Jason shrugged, but his expression was less indifferent than usual. "I don’t care if it’s good or not. What matters is that it doesn’t sound like all those idiots who think they understand the world. This guy... he really gets it."

A silence stretched between them until the worker finally spoke.

"Jason." His voice was laden with something Jason couldn’t identify at first. He leaned forward a bit, pulling something from his bag. It was the book. He placed it on the table, pushing it toward Jason with a casual gesture.

"Here, it’s yours."

Jason furrowed his brow. As soon as he saw the cover, he felt a mix of disbelief and relief. It was volume 3. For a few seconds, he simply held it in his hands, examining it as though it might be an illusion.

"How did you get this?" he asked, his tone more serious than usual.

The worker fiddled with the napkin in front of him, avoiding his gaze. "Let’s just say I have a certain... connection with the author."

Jason looked at him intently. There was something in the worker’s casual tone, in the way he avoided his gaze. His words started to echo in Jason’s head: "It’s like he’s lived it." He remembered the little phrases and details in the books, things that always seemed oddly intimate, as though the author was speaking directly to him.

"Connection, huh?" Jason said, his voice taking on a mocking tone. He raised an eyebrow. "What kind of connection?"

The worker shrugged, but there was a faint blush on his cheeks. "I guess you could say I know him pretty well."

Jason fell silent, observing him. His fingers drummed on the table as he processed the obvious. The worker had that same way of speaking, that same way of looking at the world with a mix of sincerity and mockery. Finally, he let out a snort, a brief laugh, but one with meaning.

"You’re the author, aren’t you?" Jason said, not breaking eye contact.

The worker looked up with a shy but amused smile. "Maybe."

Jason let out a sigh and leaned on the table, resting his chin in his hand. "So all this time, I’ve been telling you how amazing you are. Did you have fun watching me not realize?"

The worker let out a nervous laugh. "Well, it wasn’t that fun. I think this is the first time someone’s talked about my books that way."

Jason shook his head, but deep down there was a small curve on his lips, barely perceptible. "You’re an idiot."

"And you’re a passionate reader." The worker’s smile widened with more confidence.

Jason took the book but didn’t get up right away. "For what it’s worth, your books are good. Don’t change that."

The worker stayed there, looking at him, surprised by the sincerity hidden in those words.

Jason placed the book on the table, his fingers slowly tracing the spine, as though he wanted to mark every word before saying anything. The worker watched him, the tension in the air palpable, but neither of them wanted to break the silence first. Finally, it was Jason who spoke, his tone now a little softer but without losing that hint of disdain that made him unique.

"You know, I never imagined you’d be behind all this." Jason looked up, his eyes cold but with a hint of curiosity. "I thought the bookstore was just a place to... find books, not a place for someone to be both a writer and a bookseller at the same time."

The worker let out a nervous laugh, playing with the empty cup. "Well, not everyone has to be so... direct. Some people prefer anonymity, you know?"

Jason didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he observed the worker, his gaze a little warmer now. Maybe it was the proximity, or perhaps the surprise of discovering that everything he had been looking for had been right in front of him all along.

"What if one day you write something new? "Jason asked casually, almost as if he didn’t care too much, although the question had been on his mind for a while.

The dark-haired man fell silent for a moment, clearly deep in thought, before shrugging. "You never know. Though for now, the third one is the last. "He said this with a wistful smile, as if he had already accepted the inevitability of goodbye.

Jason stared at him, weighing his words. Finally, he let out a low laugh, tinged with mockery, but also a hint of interest.

"Maybe I could accept more outings with you." Jason paused, looking up and watching for the dark-haired man’s reaction. —In exchange for a fourth volume, of course.

The dark-haired man tensed, his face turning a little red, and the confident smile he had was completely gone. Something in Jason’s gaze, that almost defiant glint, made him immediately understand what the guy was truly suggesting. It wasn’t just the book that was drawing him in.

"A fourth... volume? "The dark-haired man murmured, his voice softer, hesitant. "That... isn’t in my plans."

Jason let out a small laugh, a little softer this time, and leaned forward, enjoying the other’s discomfort.

"Yeah, sure. "Jason said, his eyes sparkling with a mixture of amusement and something else, something the dark-haired man couldn’t quite pinpoint. "But, you know, we could talk about more books... if that sounds good to you."

The dark-haired man blushed even more, desperately searching for words. "It’s just that..." he took a breath, trying to maintain composure "I just... the third volume is the end, there’s... no more."

Jason leaned back in his chair, watching the dark-haired man’s reaction with a mixture of amusement and satisfaction. "Are you sure? Because you seem nervous, and not because of the book."

The dark-haired man couldn’t help but blush even more, realizing that Jason’s intentions went beyond books and reading. Jason, with his typical defiant attitude, had put him in an uncomfortable position, and now all he could do was smile shyly, unable to say anything coherent.

"It’s just... the third volume is the end, okay? " he said, his voice much softer and more nervous than before.

Jason crossed his arms, observing the dark-haired man’s reaction with a mixture of amusement and satisfaction. "Sure, sure. But maybe there’s something else you could write... in your free time." He let the phrase drop like an insinuation, enjoying watching the boy blushing in front of him.

The dark-haired man looked at Jason for a moment, his gaze thoughtful, as if he were making a decision. Then, with a soft smile, he took out his phone and slid it towards Jason.

"I think it would be a good idea for you to have my number." he said in a casual tone, as if it were something simple, but with a slight spark in his eyes that hinted at a deeper suggestion.

Jason raised an eyebrow, surprised by the offer, but in the end, he said nothing. He took the phone and, after a brief silence, added his number, handing the phone back.

"I hope you don’t bombard me with messages" he said, his mocking tone still present, but there was something softer in his voice than before.

The dark-haired man let out a soft laugh, a little amused, as he put the phone in his pocket.

"I can’t promise anything." he smiled again, crossing his arms, as if already thinking about the next conversation.

Jason made a gesture of indifference, but deep down, the idea of staying in touch with him seemed... kind of interesting. However, before he could say anything more, the dark-haired man, with his usual calmness, said in a low voice, almost like a casual observation:

"By the way, if you ever decide you’re not satisfied with just books, let me know. I’m sure you could enjoy more than one conversation."

Jason looked at him, the surprise of the suggestion briefly visible in his eyes. Immediately, he regained his posture, but the mocking tone faded a little as he tried to remain calm.

"And what do you know about my tastes outside of books?" he responded with some disdain, but there was also a touch of discomfort in his voice.

The dark-haired man leaned back with a calm smile, as if he had won the little battle. "I’ll only know if you decide to let me invite you for coffee again."

Jason snorted, turning toward the door with a half-smile. "We’ll see, then."

But before he could leave, the dark-haired man reached him at the threshold with one last word.

"Hey, Jason..." —he called, and when he turned around, the dark-haired man stared at him with a playful smile. "You don’t have to get nervous, I’m not going to do anything bad to you."

Jason looked at him, confused for a moment, until the dark-haired man, with a soft and closer tone, added:

"It’s just... you’ve already turned a little red."

Jason, surprised, put his hand to his neck, as if trying to hide, but it was obvious. The dark-haired man had already noticed, and, still smiling, turned and left, leaving Jason standing there, blushing with a mix of irritation and amusement.

Jason watched him leave, feeling an odd mixture of satisfaction and embarrassment. "You’re an idiot." he murmured to himself. But he couldn’t help the slight smile on his face.

[creeperkiwi]

I want to write some one-shots to improve my storytelling a bit... so if anyone has any suggestions please let me know I need some inspiration. I write for any character, male or neutral reader, no +18 🙏

[creeperkiwi]

02 — cool night

When someone notices you exist, the days feel lighter. They become fleeting, as if time decides to run faster when there’s something—or someone—that makes life brighter. Brooke had found that in the computer lab, among the abandoned machines, and in the teacher who didn’t know him as a Reeve, but simply as Brooke. Over time, that spark of curiosity ignited within him grew, lighting paths he never imagined possible.

Several years had passed since that first lesson—eight , to be exact. Brooke now walked through the school halls with a calmer, more focused demeanor. He no longer desperately tried to fit into his family’s mold or sought his siblings’ approval. He had learned to let go of the silences and glances that never came, reducing his interactions with them to the bare minimum. Instead of chasing after them, he had poured all his energy into something far more fascinating: creating.

In the computer lab, the atmosphere had changed. It was no longer a forgotten space; it was now his sanctuary, an improvised workshop where ideas came to life. The old monitors and keyboards, once covered in dust, had become tools for designing and building. Brooke had spent countless afternoons assembling small gadgets with recycled parts he found in thrift stores or salvaged from tech waste his teacher allowed him to take home.

One of his first achievements was a pair of night-vision goggles. Though clunky and rudimentary at first, they worked. Brooke had designed them after listening to his parents and siblings talk about nighttime patrols and the challenges of operating in the dark. The goggles became a constant reminder that he could contribute something, even if no one noticed.

Then came the small robots. The first was a simple automaton that could move in a straight line, but over time, Brooke began programming more complex movements. He spent hours fine-tuning circuits and writing endless lines of code. When the robots started responding to his commands, he felt an indescribable satisfaction. There was something magical about seeing those lifeless pieces come alive under his hands.

Though Brooke preferred to stay on the sidelines, he couldn’t help but feel excited when presenting his projects in class. There was something about his classmates’ expressions of amazement that gave him a small dose of the validation he had stopped seeking at home. The fact that his first awards were for his own creations and not because of his last name made him feel whole. However, he never revealed much about his personal life. To them, he was just a talented boy with a fascination for technology.

Mr. Mark, who had been his mentor from the beginning, continued to guide him through the process. Even though Brooke had surpassed many of the basic lessons, Mark always found ways to present new challenges.

“How about working on a drone?” he suggested one afternoon as they examined an old fax machine Brooke planned to dismantle.

“A drone?” Brooke repeated, his eyes lighting up with curiosity.

“Yes, a small one. You could use it for exploration, or even for surveillance. It would be an interesting challenge.”

The idea stayed with him. That same night, in his small room, Brooke began sketching the first designs. His space was filled with tools and electronic components, most of which he had bought with the few savings he managed to scrape together. Though it wasn’t an ideal workspace, it was enough for him.

Brooke found in his projects a peace he couldn’t find anywhere else. In those moments, it didn’t matter that his family barely noticed his existence or that his last name didn’t carry the same weight for others. What mattered to him was that the machines responded, the circuits worked, and his ideas took shape.

The drone became his obsession.

After his conversation with the professor, Brooke spent several afternoons searching for inspiration and pieces for his project. He ventured into second-hand stores and tech fairs, inspecting every dusty shelf for motors, sensors, and batteries that he could repurpose. At a local market, he found an old remote control that barely worked; at another, a batch of small propellers originally designed for plastic toys. Everything was second-hand, worn out, and often defective, but to Brooke, each piece had potential.

In his room, which now resembled more of a workshop than a space for sleeping, Brooke began assembling his drone. There were stickers on the walls with handwritten formulas, sketches scribbled on loose sheets of paper, and boxes filled with tangled wires. With each screw he tightened and each wire he soldered, he felt the project starting to take shape.

But things weren’t that simple.

The first time he tried to make the drone fly, it barely lifted off the ground before spinning out of control and crashing into the wall. Brooke carefully picked it up, examining the damage. One of the propellers was broken, and the main motor seemed to have failed. Though he had anticipated problems, the setback discouraged him more than he expected.

He spent the next few hours reviewing the design, looking for mistakes in his programming. Sometimes, the numbers and codes seemed to dance in front of him, confusing him even further. "Maybe I'm not good enough for this," he thought as he rested his head on the table.

That night, as he tried to sleep, negative thoughts began to flood his mind. "My knowledge is limited. Maybe I’m trying to do something too big. Maybe it's just not for me," he repeated to himself. But at the same time, something inside him resisted letting go.

The next morning, he returned to the computer lab with the drone in a box. The professor watched him with curiosity as Brooke sat down in front of one of the computers and connected the drone to check the system.

"Problems?" the professor asked, stepping closer.

Brooke nodded, frowning.

"I don’t know what I'm doing wrong. I think the motor doesn’t have enough power, but it could also be a problem with the code."

The professor looked at him silently for a moment before speaking.

"Let me tell you something, Brooke. Every successful invention is built upon a mountain of failures. If something doesn’t work, it doesn’t mean it’s not meant for you. It means you're learning."

Brooke blinked, letting those words sink in. With a sigh, he refocused his attention on the drone.

The following days turned into a whirlwind of tests and adjustments. Brooke replaced the broken propellers, reinforced the structure with pieces of recycled plastic, and fine-tuned the balance system in his code. Each night, after hours of work, he felt the temptation to give up, but something stronger than exhaustion pushed him to keep going.

Finally, one afternoon, the drone lifted off the ground. At first wobbly, like a baby taking its first steps, but then, with increasing stability, it began to float in the air. Brooke held his breath as he guided it with the remote, moving it back and forth, gently turning it.

"It works!" he exclaimed, not realizing he had said it out loud.

The professor, who had been watching from the door, smiled with satisfaction.

"I told you, Brooke. There’s no failure in trying over and over again."

Brooke let the drone land carefully on the table, his chest swelling with pride. For the first time, he felt he had accomplished something significant, something that didn’t depend on anyone else but him. His face lit up with a smile that had been hidden for a long time.

The cold night air surrounded the Reeve terrace, a large and gothic space with wrought-iron railings that Brooke had explored only a few times. That night, however, he was determined to push the limits of his invention. With the drone in his hands, he looked toward the city lights that gleamed like distant stars and felt the excitement building in his chest.

It was the first time Brooke felt so confident in something he had created. The drone, with its new propellers and improved structure, seemed like a reflection of his efforts. "Today will be different," he thought as he powered on the remote control and watched the small device begin to hover.

The drone ascended slowly, its hum barely audible in the night wind. Brooke smiled, moving it side to side, testing simple maneuvers before sending it farther away. From the terrace, he followed it with his eyes as it crossed the street, passing over rooftops and shop windows. "It works perfectly," he said to himself, filled with pride.

As the drone flew farther, Brooke adjusted the range on the remote, surprised at how well it responded even at long distances. He guided it toward a nearby park, watching how the lampposts’ lights cast dancing reflections on its structure. Everything seemed to be going perfectly, and for a moment, Brooke imagined a future where his inventions truly made a difference.

But then, something changed.

It started with a slight wobble in the drone’s flight, as if it had lost stability. Brooke frowned, quickly checking the settings on the remote. "Maybe it’s the wind," he thought, trying to adjust the commands, but the wobbling worsened. Suddenly, the drone stopped responding completely, its propellers spinning erratically before diving straight into a dark alley.

"No!" Brooke cried out, his voice filled with desperation.

He dropped the remote on the railing and ran down the stairs, moving as fast as his legs would carry him. The streets were quiet, only lit by the dim light of the streetlamps. Reaching the alley, he found it: the drone was lying among piles of trash, a broken propeller, and part of the body dented from the impact.

Brooke knelt beside his creation, picking up the pieces with trembling hands. His heart pounded in his chest as he examined the damage. Part of him tried to convince himself it wasn’t so bad, but the truth was undeniable: the drone was destroyed.

"Why does it always...?" he whispered, feeling a lump form in his throat.

The weight of his past failures returned like a flood, filling his mind with doubt and self-criticism. He had worked so hard, pouring hours and all his energy, only for it to end like this. Sitting in the alley with the pieces of the drone in his hands, Brooke felt tears beginning to fill his eyes.

"Maybe it will never be enough. Maybe it doesn’t matter how hard I try."

His heart raced as he carefully picked up each damaged part, examining them with trembling fingers. But something didn’t fit: an important piece, the central control module, was missing.

He furrowed his brow, searching through the debris with a growing sense of panic. "Where is it?" he thought, looking around. It was then that he heard a sound. Slow, firm footsteps, approaching from the shadows at the end of the alley.

Brooke looked up, and his body tensed as he saw a dark figure emerging from the gloom. It was a tall man, dressed in worn clothes, with a menacing gleam in his eyes.

"What do we have here?" the stranger said with a twisted smile, advancing toward Brooke.

Brooke instinctively backed away, clutching the pieces of the drone to his chest. "What do I do? Where do I run?" His mind was filled with confused thoughts as the man closed the distance.

"You don’t have to be scared, kid," the man continued, though his tone was anything but reassuring. "I just want to see what you’ve got there."

Fear gripped him, paralyzing him, when a quick movement from the roof of the alley caught his attention. A shadow descended rapidly, landing between Brooke and the man.

"That’s enough," a firm, young voice said.

His agile figure and black mask, along with the red suit and yellow cape, made him recognizable to anyone, especially someone within the hero system.

The man immediately stepped back, cursing under his breath. "Don't follow me!" he shouted before disappearing into the shadows of the alley.

Brooke stood frozen, unable to believe what had just happened.

"Are you okay?" Robin asked, turning toward him while placing one of his batons back into his belt.

Brooke nodded slowly, speechless.

"It looks like this guy had something of yours," Robin continued, extending a hand. In his palm was the missing piece of the drone, intact.

"Oh..." Brooke exclaimed, taking the piece with trembling hands and examining it carefully.

Robin smiled faintly. "I saw it fall when that guy bent down. It was a stroke of luck. I had been chasing him for a while, but the noise from your drone falling distracted me just when I was about to catch him."

Brooke lowered his gaze, clutching the piece in his hand. "I'm sorry... I didn't know I was interfering."

"Don't worry about it. If it weren't for that, I probably wouldn't have made it in time to help you," Robin replied, shrugging.

The young vigilante pointed to the pieces of the drone that Brooke was holding. "Is this yours?"

Brooke nodded. "Yeah, I built it myself... but it failed. Something went wrong, and it fell."

Robin studied him closely, noticing the clear effort that had gone into building the drone. "Can I?" he asked, extending a hand toward the pieces. Brooke hesitated for a moment before nodding.

Robin carefully examined the drone, turning it to inspect every detail. "This is impressive, especially for someone who clearly doesn't have access to a lab. But here's the problem." He pointed to one of the internal connections, where several wires had come loose.

"Your design is good, but the power distribution is unbalanced. When you tried to increase the range, the motor overloaded the system. That's why it failed."

Brooke looked at him, surprised. "How do you know so much about this?"

Robin smiled. "I have my own toys. I've spent more time fixing them than I'd like to admit."

Brooke lowered his gaze to the drone, reflecting on what Robin had said. "Do you think... it's possible to fix it?"

"Of course you can," Robin replied, with a confidence that surprised Brooke. "You just need a little adjustment and maybe more durable materials. If you made this, you can make it better."

Brooke felt a warmth in his chest, as if those words had sparked something that had been dormant. He looked at the drone with new eyes, seeing not a failure, but an opportunity to learn and improve.

Brooke looked up, still surprised by what had happened, and said shyly, "Thanks..."

Robin smiled and crossed his arms. "You know? My night patrol just ended. Maybe I could help you improve that drone, if you have a place to work."

Brooke's eyes lit up. No one had ever offered him something like that before, and the idea that a well-known vigilante would want to help him filled him with a mixture of nerves and excitement.

"Really?" he asked, almost not believing it.

Robin nodded. "Sure, but I'll need tools."

Brooke looked at the drone pieces in his hands and then at the alley surrounding them. "My room... I have some things there. We can work there."

"Perfect. Where do you live?"

Brooke pointed toward a nearby street, and Robin followed him. As they walked, Robin's tall and confident figure contrasted with Brooke's light and quick steps. When they finally reached the gothic mansion of the Reeves, Robin stopped, impressed by the imposing facade lit by the dim moonlight.

"You live here?" Robin asked, raising an eyebrow.

Brooke nodded, trying not to seem embarrassed. "Yeah... but it's better if we don't use the main entrance."

Robin looked at him curiously, but said nothing as Brooke led him to a side door hidden between tall bushes. Brooke unlocked the emergency door and pointed to the spiral metal stairs that rose along the back of the house.

"These stairs lead straight to my room. It's faster and... well, we avoid my family," Brooke explained with a nervous smile.

Robin followed him without asking questions. When they reached the small window that led to Brooke's room, the young man carefully opened it and entered first, holding the window so Robin could pass.

The vigilante looked around as he straightened up, expecting to find an improvised workshop or something similar. But what he saw took him by surprise.

"This is your room?" Robin asked, confused as he observed the small space. There was nothing more than a small bed against the wall, a desk cluttered with tools, and a shelf full of inventions and sketches.

Brooke nodded, placing the drone pieces on the desk. "Yeah, it's small, but I have what I need."

Robin didn't respond at first. His eyes scanned every corner, stopping at the small, ingeniously built gadgets, the detailed drawings of machines, and the prototypes that seemed more complex than he'd expect from someone his age.

"Did you make all of this by yourself?" Robin finally asked.

"Yeah," Brooke replied, shrugging as if it wasn’t a big deal. "I like inventing things."

Robin smiled, picking up one of the sketches from the desk. It was a design for a drone propulsion system. "You’ve got talent... um."

"Brooke... my name is Brooke."

"Brooke. A lot of talent." When Robin said his name, "Brooke," with that mix of astonishment and admiration in his voice, the boy felt like the world stopped for a moment. It was different from how his brothers or parents said it, where it always felt like a word thrown into the air with no purpose. This time, it sounded genuine, full of interest, almost as if Robin was impressed by him. Brooke lowered his gaze, feeling his cheeks flush and his breath quicken. Robin, a well-known vigilante, someone people respected, not only knew his name; he was saying it with a tone that implied something more.

Nervousness swelled in his chest, mixing with a strange emotion he couldn’t quite describe. He tried to occupy his hands by passing tools or tightening a screw, anything to distract him from the fact that someone like Robin was giving him compliments, smiling at him, and recognizing what he did. It was too much, but at the same time, it was everything Brooke had quietly wished for over the years.

The emotion in his eyes was impossible to hide. "Thank you... it means a lot that you say that."

They both got to work on the drone. Brooke pulled out tools and parts from his collection, and Robin helped him dismantle the remains of the device with precision. For hours, they adjusted the design, reinforced the electrical connections, and repaired the motors. Robin suggested adding a camera to the drone, and together they installed a small lens, connecting it to an improvised monitor that Brooke had built months earlier but had never finished using.

"This should improve its usefulness. Now it doesn’t just fly; you can see what it’s recording in real-time," Robin said, pointing to the screen on the controller.

Brooke smiled, feeling a wave of pride. For the first time, he wasn’t alone in one of his projects. Someone was helping him, and more importantly, believing in him.

When they were finished, the first light of dawn began to filter through the window. Robin stood up and stretched his arms, admiring the fully restored and upgraded drone.

"This little guy is going to do amazing things," Robin said, giving Brooke a pat on the shoulder.

The boy looked at the drone with eyes full of determination.

Once they finished assembling the drone, Brooke held it carefully, admiring its compact shape and the small improvements he had achieved alongside Robin. The camera installed on the bottom looked almost professional, and the screen on the controller flickered, showing a sharp image of the surroundings.

"Ready to test it?" Robin asked with a smile.

Brooke nodded, his nerves and excitement mingling in his chest. They went up to the rooftop again, where the cool night air welcomed them. Brooke placed the drone on a flat surface, took the controller, and took a deep breath.

"Here we go," he said quietly as he activated the motors.

The drone lifted with a soft hum, much more stable than in his previous tests. Brooke looked at the screen on the controller as he guided the device over the rooftops of the city. The camera captured everything with impressive clarity: streets lit by streetlights, cars moving in the distance, and small flashes of light in the windows.

Robin, standing beside him, watched with his arms crossed. "Not bad, Brooke. Stable flight, good resolution... I think this is more than just a simple project."

Brooke smiled shyly, focusing on keeping the drone in the air. He decided to test its range, flying it a bit farther, crossing a park and heading toward an area with small shops. It was then that he noticed something strange on the screen: two hooded figures were running out of a store, carrying what seemed to be bags full of products.

"Is that...?" Brooke started to ask, but Robin was already in motion.

"It's a robbery," Robin confirmed, his tone firm. He took a step toward the railing of the terrace and turned to Brooke. "This has been a good test, but I need to take care of this."

"What? You're going now?"

Robin nodded, quickly adjusting his mask. "It's what I do. Thanks for tonight, Brooke."

Brooke felt a mix of pride and sadness as he watched Robin disappear into the darkness, leaping from rooftop to rooftop with impressive ease. He looked at the drone, still floating in the air, and then turned his attention back to the screen. He watched as Robin swiftly approached the robbery site, his silhouette gliding between shadows until he intercepted the criminals.

Brooke deactivated the drone and carefully guided it back to its position. As he picked it up, a smile formed on his lips. For the first time, his inventions weren't just a hobby; they were a useful tool, something he could contribute to the world with. Though Robin was no longer by his side, his words still echoed in his mind, sparking a glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe, he could accomplish something big.

previous m.list next

[creeperkiwi]

01— way more cake for me

The first day of school at Westwing Primary Academy was as imposing as the institution itself. Brooke barely understood what it meant to be there, but even he could sense the difference between this place and any other school. The building, with its tall towers and stone arches, looked like a castle straight out of one of the hero tales he loved so much. The hallways echoed with determined footsteps, and the display cases were filled with trophies gleaming under the light of bronze lamps. At only five years old, the building felt immense and cold to him, and the murmurs and laughter around him seemed to form an echo that followed his every step. No one stopped to greet him. No one noticed the small boy walking behind the group, trying not to get lost.

The teachers took attendance as they entered the classrooms, and Brooke felt a small sense of relief when he heard his name. Not "Reeve," just "Brooke." No one looked up, no one whispered in awe. It was as if the surname carried no weight at all. And, in a way, that made him feel less intimidated.

When the bell announced recess, the children quickly scattered to the playground. Brooke followed the flow of students, holding his small green lunchbox in his hands. Some children were showing off impressive abilities: one froze the water in a fountain with a single finger, while another created small flames at the tips of his fingers.

Brooke sat in a corner, opening his lunchbox and watching from afar. He knew that not all the children at the school had abilities, but those who did were always the most admired. His eyes settled on a group of kids playing heroes and villains. He heard them mention names he recognized—heroes from the great list, children of heroes whose exploits he had read about in books.

He wondered if they would ever play as the Reeve family. But he quickly dismissed the thought; no one talked about him as a Reeve. At home, his family rarely mentioned his name. And here, at school, he was just another kid, invisible amid the noise of everyone else.

He stayed in his corner, carefully unwrapping his lunch as if each movement was a ritual. His eyes moved constantly, catching details that seemed to go unnoticed by everyone else.

He loved to observe. Not just people but everything around him: how the sunlight reflected off the glass windows, creating patterns that spread like golden spiderwebs on the ground; how the wind made the leaves of the trees dance, carrying distant murmurs of laughter. The playground, with its bustle, was a living canvas full of hidden stories.

He noticed how the boy on the farthest swing kicked the air in a specific rhythm, always twice before propelling himself. He saw how a girl, standing at the edge of the group playing nearby, twisted a braid around her finger, a nervous gesture that repeated every time someone spoke louder than her. Small details, but for Brooke, they were doors to something bigger.

Adults always talked about grand gestures, heroic feats, and impressive powers. But Brooke found the invisible, the subtle, more fascinating. The way someone adjusted their shoe strap before running, or how a pencil left forgotten on a bench seemed to contain the story of a rushed morning. Everything had something to say if one knew how to look.

As he ate, he spent several minutes studying the table of older kids, who seemed to laugh with overflowing confidence. One of them spoke and moved his hands as if conducting an orchestra; the others nodded, though Brooke noticed not all of them were interested. Some were merely pretending to pay attention, their eyes wandering to other points in the playground. Brooke could see those small cracks in the apparent harmony of the group, and it intrigued him.

The world seemed different when you stopped to really observe it. Brooke didn’t just see what was there; he saw what lay between the lines, what others missed because they were too busy being part of everything.

When the bell signaled the end of recess, Brooke stood up calmly, meticulously packing up the remnants of his lunch. Around him, the playground quickly emptied, footsteps echoing on the stone ground as the children ran back to their classrooms. He lingered a few seconds longer, observing the footprints left in the sand, the marks on the chairs, the remnants of the stories others had lived without realizing it.

From the moment he opened his eyes, Brooke felt that this day would be special. The faint morning light filtered through the curtains of his small room, casting irregular shapes on the walls. The air was cooler than usual, and the distant sound of birds seemed to announce something important.

It was his sixth birthday. Brooke quickly sat up in bed, his heart racing with excitement as he remembered his brother Jackson's words from months ago: "Next year, we'll do something amazing for your birthday." He had imagined this day so many times that he couldn’t help but smile as he put on his best clothes—a white shirt his brother had passed down to him.

Peeking out from his bedroom door, he saw that the house was quiet, just like any other morning. The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted from the kitchen, and his parents' voices, distant but constant, filled the air. Brooke descended the stairs carefully, his small footsteps echoing on the polished wood.

"Today is my birthday!" he thought eagerly, looking toward the living room. But it was empty.

It didn’t matter. Maybe they were preparing a surprise. His siblings were nowhere to be seen, and his parents seemed busy, but that only made his heart fill with more anticipation. He decided he should help.

He took a handful of coins he had saved for weeks—collected from streets and forgotten corners—and stepped out of the house with determined steps. He knew exactly what he wanted to do. At a small corner store, he bought a simple cake wrapped in a cardboard box with golden letters. The shopkeeper looked at him curiously, but Brooke just smiled and hurried out with his prized purchase.

Back home, he prepared everything as best he could. In the dining room, he placed the cake at the center of the table, straightening the chairs around it. He found some plates and cutlery in the kitchen and arranged them carefully. Although the table was enormous, it felt cozy with the cake and the small decorations he had managed to gather.

The hours passed slowly as Brooke waited. He heard footsteps upstairs and muffled laughter from the training room, but no one came down. Surely they were busy with the surprise. Yes, that had to be it.

The clock struck noon, then two in the afternoon. Brooke remained seated at the table, his small feet swinging beneath the chair. His smile stayed in place, though a faint hint of doubt began to creep into his eyes. By the time the clock struck five, he stood and walked to the window, watching the sky turn shades of orange.

"They're probably taking their time because they want it to be perfect," he thought, clutching the window frame with his little hands. But as daylight faded, the house remained as still as ever.

At last, he returned to the table and sat down in front of the cake. He looked at the small candle he had carefully placed in the center and lit it with a match from the kitchen. The flickering light illuminated his face as he clasped his hands together, squeezing his eyes shut tightly.

"I wish everyone would come," he whispered before blowing out the candle.

But no one came.

With a lump in his throat, he picked up a small knife and cut a slice of the cake. He took the first bite cautiously, savoring the sweetness he had hoped to share with his family. His eyes began to fill with tears he tried to hold back, telling himself they were busy, that perhaps they had forgotten by accident.

"Maybe they're planning something big for later," he said aloud, though his voice trembled slightly. He ate another slice, and then another, the taste of the cake mingling with the tears that streamed silently down his cheeks.

By the end of the night, the plates he had set remained untouched. The makeshift decorations stood undisturbed. And on the table, the half-eaten cake was the only witness to a day he had dreamed would be filled with laughter and hugs.

As he climbed the stairs to his room, his heart heavy, Brooke paused for a moment at the threshold. He turned to look at the table one last time, as if hoping someone might suddenly rush down to surprise him. But the house stayed silent. With a sigh, he closed the door and fell onto his bed, clutching his pillow tightly.

That night, Brooke couldn’t help but wonder if wishes ever really came true.

The dry sound of pages being arranged interrupted the silence of the classroom. Brooke glanced toward the teacher's desk, where the professor—a middle-aged woman with a messy ponytail and a perpetually hurried frown—gestured for him to come over.

"Hey, you, can you do me a favor? Take these documents to the computer room in the north wing."

Brooke stood up without hesitation when he realized he was being addressed, carefully taking the folder from her hands. He knew she rarely asked students for help, but her gaze carried a mix of urgency and exhaustion. He wasn’t about to say no.

The hallway was silent as he walked, the tiled floors faintly reflecting the light from the overhead lamps. The computer room was at the end of the corridor, a place he'd heard of but never visited. His heart raced with anticipation as he pushed open the heavy wooden door.

Inside, the room was shrouded in dim light. Rows of old, unused computers sat silently, like sleeping giants. Dust-covered monitors reflected the faint glow of the few uncovered windows. Despite the neglect, there was something immediately captivating about the space.

Brooke placed the papers on a table and paused to observe the machines. He approached one of the computers, running his fingers across the rough surface of the monitor. He imagined what it would be like to turn it on, how those black boxes might spring to life and respond to commands.

"They're pretty, aren't they?" a voice said, startling him.

Brooke quickly turned around. Standing in the doorway was a tall, thin man with slightly crooked glasses and a sweater that had clearly seen better days. He was the former computer room supervisor, though rumors around school said the space had been abandoned because the machines were too outdated.

"Are you interested in them?" the man asked with a gentle smile.

Brooke nodded slowly, still speechless.

"Come on, I'll show you something."

The man approached one of the computers and connected it to an improvised power source. With a mechanical click and a hum that filled the room, the machine came to life. Brooke leaned forward, his eyes alight with curiosity. The green and orange lights on the monitor flickered as lines of code appeared, typed swiftly by the man's hands.

"These machines can do far more than they seem. If you know how to use them, you can create amazing things—things you can’t even imagine."

"Things like what?" Brooke asked quietly, his eyes fixed on the screen.

"Like whatever you want. What would you most like to create?"

Brooke hesitated for a moment before answering. He had never considered that something like this could be possible for him. But now, as he watched the machine’s lights reflecting on the walls, a spark began to grow inside him.

"I want to make things that can help... like heroes do."

The man’s smile widened, as though he’d been waiting for that very answer.

"Then, kid, let me help you get started."

A curious gleam settled in Brooke's eyes.

"Well then, tell me, how would you like to begin?" the man asked, removing his glasses and cleaning them with a wrinkled handkerchief pulled from his sweater pocket.

Brooke stood still, staring at the lines of code flickering on the screen. There was something almost hypnotic about that unfamiliar language, as if each letter and symbol held secrets waiting to be discovered.

"I don’t know," he finally murmured, almost as if talking to himself. "What can I do?"

The man studied him carefully, tilting his head slightly as though trying to decipher him.

"Well, first, we need to spark your curiosity. How about we take apart one of these machines? Learning how they work from the inside out is the first step to building something of your own."

The idea made Brooke’s eyes light up. He leaned closer, watching as the man carefully opened one of the metallic towers. The internal components gleamed faintly under the dim light of the room, connected in an arrangement that seemed chaotic yet fascinating all at once.

"All this," the man said, pointing to the boards and cables, "looks complicated, doesn’t it?"

Brooke quickly nodded, moving closer to examine every detail.

"But in reality, it’s like a puzzle. Every piece has its place, and together they make the machine work. If you understand the puzzle, you can change it, improve it, make it yours."

"Can I touch it?" Brooke asked, his voice barely containing his excitement.

"Of course. Here, take this screwdriver."

With trembling hands, Brooke held the tool and began removing one of the tiny screws holding a board in place. It was difficult at first, but with some effort and an encouraging smile from the man, he managed to loosen it. He held the small piece of metal in his hand as if it were a trophy.

"This controls the machine's memory," the man explained, pointing to the board Brooke had just removed. "Without it, the computer couldn’t remember anything, like it forgets how to work every time it turns off."

Brooke stared at it in fascination, his thoughts racing as he tried to imagine how something so small could hold so much power.

"And what else can I do with this?" he asked.

The man let out a soft chuckle.

"That depends on you. You could learn to program it or connect it to other machines. You could create something that’s never existed before."

Brooke’s heart raced. No one had ever spoken to him like this, as if he could truly achieve something great, as if he had potential waiting to be discovered.

"How did you learn all this?" he finally asked, still staring at the computer's insides.

The man seemed to ponder the question for a moment, as if recalling something distant.

"Curiosity. And many hours in places like this, taking apart things no one else wanted to use. So, you already have what you need: time and a desire to learn."

Brooke nodded slowly. Though he didn’t say it aloud, he knew he had plenty of time.

"What’s your name, kid?" the man suddenly asked.

Brooke hesitated for a moment before answering.

"Brooke."

"Well, Brooke, if you’re interested, I can teach you more. This room isn’t used anymore, so no one will bother us. You could come by after classes."

Brooke lifted his gaze from the screwdriver he still held and looked at him, his expression filled with wonder.

"Really?"

The man smiled.

"Really. But you have to promise to be careful. Here, we deal with ideas, and ideas can be more powerful than any ability you’ve ever seen."

Brooke nodded eagerly, feeling a new warmth inside him—a mix of excitement and hope. For the first time in a long while, he felt like someone saw something in him.

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note; I swear it's about to get interesting 😞 I just need to give a little context before I start.  Please tell me if you like it, all opinions are welcome. tysm for the support, even if it's little it means a lot to me 🫶🫶

love ya

[creeperkiwi]

A little reminder that the story is more advanced on Wattpad, I actually come in very little here, but I promise to upload the missing chapters tomorrow 🙏

[creeperkiwi]

00 — just a few memories

In the Reeve household, everything gleamed. Golden lamps cast dancing reflections on the dark polished wood walls, and portraits of glorious victories adorned every corner, as if to remind everyone how grand the family was. For him, each morning was an adventure; hearing the laughter of his siblings echoing in the distance as he tried to reach the breakfast table filled him with an inexplicable warmth. He liked to imagine that the figures in the portraits smiled at him, as if inviting him to be part of their exploits. The aroma of coffee and the distant sounds of hurried footsteps made the house feel like a clock, running with a precision he found magical. Being surrounded by such greatness was enough for him.

His mother's voice called from the other side of the house, quick and precise as always. “Hurry up, or you’ll miss breakfast!” she said, though her tone betrayed no real urgency. He obeyed immediately, carefully descending the stairs as if afraid of breaking something in that perfectly orchestrated world. In the kitchen, the usual morning chaos had already passed; his older siblings' plates were empty and lined up by the sink. Only a few pieces of toast remained at the center of the table, along with a half-finished glass of milk someone had left behind.

He sat quietly, his legs dangling from the chair, and reached for one of the toasts. As he spread jam on it, his gaze drifted toward the window. The laughter of his siblings echoed down the hall, followed by the hurried sound of boots striking the marble floor. He watched them run toward the training room, a massive space hidden behind a steel door at the end of the corridor. He had always found it fascinating—not because of what it held, but because it seemed like a place he was never invited to enter. From the slightly ajar door, he could see his two older brothers already preparing for their daily routines.

The eldest, tall and confident, adjusted his combat gloves as a smug smile played across his face. He was the favorite to inherit their father’s legacy: strong, fast, precise in every movement. Beside him, the second brother adjusted the weight of a sword that seemed too large for him. He was smaller, less impressive, but he made up for it with a determination reflected in his every gesture. The two faced off as if each training session were a real battle, because, in a way, it was. Only one of them would be worthy of carrying the title their father had forged through years of victories.

At the other end of the room, their eldest sister landed precise blows on a training dummy. Her stance was impeccable, almost perfect, though there was something more methodical than passionate about her movements. She wasn’t competing with anyone; she didn’t have to. She trained to match her mother’s level, to equal the lethal grace everyone admired in the city’s most famous heroine.

He watched from the hallway, his head barely peeking out. He knew he wasn’t supposed to interrupt; his father always said the training room wasn’t a place to play. But he couldn’t help imagining what it would be like to step inside, grab a sword or put on a pair of gloves, and join them. Every move they made, every blow they struck, seemed part of a choreographed performance, as if they were destined to be heroes from the day they were born. And maybe they were.

As he watched them train, he felt a pang of emotion mixed with something he couldn’t identify. Perhaps it was admiration, or perhaps it was the desire to be part of that dance that felt so distant yet so close. But he didn’t move from his spot. The shadows of the hallway were his refuge, and from there, he could dream of a future that seemed written for everyone but him. In the Reeve house, everything seemed designed to inspire awe: towering ceilings that disappeared into shadows, crystal chandeliers hanging like jewels from another time, and tall windows that let in just enough light to illuminate walls adorned with portraits and medals. Brooke didn’t fully understand the greatness surrounding him, but he knew it was important.

He was only four years old, though his thoughts already felt much bigger. As he crossed the hallway, he stopped in front of one of the enormous golden-framed mirrors decorating the house. He looked at himself for a moment, with messy hair and sleepy eyes. His cotton pajamas seemed out of place in such an elegant setting, as if he didn’t belong. Even so, he leaned toward the mirror and raised his fists, imitating the heroic pose he had seen so many times in the family portraits.

“Pow!” he whispered, throwing a punch into the air. But his reflection didn’t look as impressive as his older brother’s, and he knew it.

The sounds from the training room reached him—echoes of laughter and the clash of weapons, songs from another world. Brooke sighed and continued toward the kitchen, where a plate of toast waited on the long wooden table. He climbed onto one of the chairs with effort and began spreading jam on the leftover slice.

He knew he wasn’t like his siblings. Not even like his eldest sister, whom the schoolteachers always mentioned with admiration. No one talked about Brooke. In his class, he wasn’t recognized as the child of great heroes, not even as a Reeve. Perhaps it was because his power—if he had one—had yet to awaken, or because he didn’t excel at anything.

He had tried, of course. In his room, away from the watchful eyes of his parents and siblings, he had created his own training routine. He lined up pillows and practiced throwing little punches and kicks at them. One night, he even tried to imitate the moves he had seen through the training room door. But in the end, he only ended up exhausted, with the nagging feeling that something didn’t fit.

Brooke didn’t understand why things seemed so easy for everyone else and so hard for him. As he bit into his toast, his gaze wandered to the window. Outside, the bare branches of the trees reached like claws toward the gray sky. In the garden, the statue of a forgotten hero stood tall, covered in moss. Brooke wondered if anyone would ever make a statue of him, though deep down, he already knew the answer.

He left his empty plate on the table and jumped down from the chair. He had an idea: maybe today would be different. Perhaps if he tried a little harder, practiced a little more, something would change. But as he climbed the stairs toward his room, he passed the corridor where his family’s portraits watched in silence. There was his father, in a triumphant pose, holding a trophy with a smile that seemed to light up the frame. His mother, elegant and deadly, with a saber in hand. His brothers and sister each had their place in that gallery, all captured in moments of glory. Brooke walked past those images without stopping, without looking. There wasn’t a space for him on that wall yet, but he was sure there would be someday.

Time passed like a leaf carried by the wind, and suddenly the Reeve household was more alive than ever. Duck's birthday had brought a whirlwind of visitors: uncles, cousins, and distant acquaintances, all gathered under the gothic roof of the imposing mansion to celebrate the third son of the family.

Brooke had never seen the house so full. The golden lamps seemed to shine brighter, illuminating familiar faces that had come from far and wide to congratulate Duck. The hallways echoed with laughter and lively conversations, and the grand windows seemed smaller under the weight of so many curious gazes.

In the main hall, a long table was covered with plates overflowing with food. Cakes decorated with hero insignias, trays of fruit carved into symbols of bravery, and a massive centerpiece cake crowned with a figure of a hero holding a flag. Another table rested in the opposite corner, bearing hundreds of gifts for the birthday boy, all in various sizes and bright wrappings. Duck stood at the center of it all, surrounded by admirers, his smile wider than ever as he held a shiny apprentice uniform—the most anticipated gift of the day.

"Now I’m ready for patrols!" Duck exclaimed, his voice echoing through the room. The guests applauded, some laughing heartily, and his father clapped him on the shoulder with pride.

For Brooke, it was all a fascinating spectacle. He had stayed close to the stairs, watching from a distance as the adults approached Duck one by one to offer their congratulations. He could hear snippets of their conversations: “He’ll be a great hero, like his father.” “He’s got so much potential.” “His first patrol will be a milestone for the Reeve family.”

Brooke fidgeted with a glass of juice he had taken from a precariously balanced tray. He knew Duck was excited about the patrols. Turning twelve meant he could accompany their father on minor missions, a privilege reserved for the most promising children. Though Brooke tried not to dwell on it, a small part of him couldn’t help but wonder if his turn would ever come.

He ventured closer, stopping by the doorway to the hall. His mother crossed the room with unmatched grace, carrying a tray of drinks. His eldest sister chatted animatedly with a group of visiting heroes, while his two older brothers exchanged playful banter, comparing their skills. Brooke watched them all, feeling small amidst the sea of greatness.

Duck received a cape as part of his uniform, and when he draped it over his shoulders, the room erupted into applause. Brooke clapped along, though with less enthusiasm. He knew it was his brother’s day, and he was happy for him, but the noise and energy of the celebration were beginning to weigh on him. Unnoticed, he slipped out of the room and climbed the stairs to his small refuge.

In his bedroom, shadows stretched long under the dim light of a lamp. Brooke set the glass on his desk and sat on the floor, surrounded by his training pillows. He grabbed one and gently struck it with his fists. Maybe, he thought, if he practiced more, if he tried just a little harder, there would be a party for him someday, too. But for now, it was fine. Or at least, that’s what he told himself.

The Reeve house looked different during Christmas. Despite its gothic architecture, with high ceilings and shadows that seemed to move on their own, the season filled it with warm lights and shimmering decorations hanging from every corner. Brooke loved how the snow piled on the windowsills, reflecting the light from the small lanterns decorating the garden. From his bedroom window, he could see how the whole world seemed to wrap itself in a brilliant, icy embrace.

The morning began with the usual bustle, though this time charged with a special excitement. His siblings ran back and forth, thrilled by the promise of gifts under the enormous tree dominating the main hall. It was a magnificent fir, adorned with golden and silver baubles, cascading ribbons, and a radiant star at the top. Brooke watched it from afar, his small hands clasped behind his back.

He liked Christmas. He liked watching his siblings and parents laugh together as they baked cookies in the kitchen, decorated the tree, or played in the snow. There was something magical about it all, even if, for some reason, he never quite managed to be part of the fun.

When they went out to the garden to build snowmen, Brooke wanted to join them, but his coat was torn. He had found it in his closet with the lining ripped, and he knew it wouldn’t be enough to keep out the cold. He watched from the window as his siblings threw snowballs and built white forts while their parents looked on with proud smiles. Hugging himself, he told himself it didn’t matter.

Later, in the living room, his older brothers turned on the new gaming console they had received as a gift. Brooke approached them, excited to play, but there were only two controllers. He watched from the couch, laughing and cheering as their on-screen characters fought for victory. When he tried to offer to take a turn, one of them ruffled his hair and said with a grin:

“Maybe next time, Brooke.”

The moment he looked forward to most was when everyone sat in front of the tree to open presents. Laughter filled the room as his siblings unwrapped what they had asked for: a new training sword, a reinforced cape, the best-selling hero strategy guide. His sister received a set of custom-designed weapons she had planned herself. Brooke smiled at their joyful expressions.

But when the gifts were all gone, there was nothing left for him. He looked around, hoping someone had missed one behind the tree or under the table, but there was nothing. His father stood up and, seeing that everyone was happy, said:

“Looks like Santa got it right for everyone this year.”

Brooke shrugged and tried not to think too much about it. After all, there had to be a reason Santa hadn’t brought him anything. He had overheard his classmates once say that gifts were a way to reward good children. So Brooke decided it must have been his fault. Maybe he hadn’t done enough.

That’s why he had spent weeks preparing gifts for his family. Drawings where his father, mother, and siblings appeared as invincible heroes, fighting dragons or saving entire cities. He had wrapped them carefully and placed them behind the tree, hoping they would be a special surprise. But no one noticed them.

When the living room was empty and everyone had left to continue celebrating, Brooke approached the tree and gathered his packages. One by one, he tucked them into his small desk. Maybe the gifts weren’t good enough, he thought. Maybe he would have to do better next year.

As night fell and the tree lights flickered in the dim room, Brooke curled up in his bed, hugging one of the pillows he used for training. He closed his eyes and promised himself that one day, he would find a way to make them see him. Because despite everything, he still believed there was something magical about Christmas—something that, one day, would be his too.

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note; english is not my first language so please be patient with me 😭 also this story has nothing to do with the comics or series, it's all a story created by me, I simply added some characters from the batfam because I love them so much 🫶 and dick is fine as hell yk

love ya

[creeperkiwi]

prologue — ★

Everyone knows that a child's mind is the most fragile thing there is. And even though the Reeve family thought they were aware of that, always trying to be there for each other, the youngest of the family didn't feel the same way. How could he? If he wasn't even part of it.

Controlled by their parents, taken to different training sessions, everything seemed so happy for the Reeve brothers, why couldn't it be the same for little Bug?

Why did he have to stay overtime? Why did he have to study during his few breaks? Being judged for getting a grade that was slightly lower than perfect was something that no one wanted. What had he done to have to endure all that?

In a constant race to see who was worthy of their parents' legacy, he was always the last one, no matter how hard he tried, it was never enough.

In the quiet of his room, he sits alone, loud but in silence, unknown. His heart beats fast, yet his world stands still, a longing for love that time cannot fill.

His family moves with voices so loud, While he hides his whispers beneath a cloud. He tries to smile, to shine, to be right, but it feels like a knife passing through his mouth every time he tried

Does he not matter, or just doesn't deserve the appreciation ?

Does being good mean he'll earn a name?

In the echoes of his thoughts, he fights the fight...

To be seen, to be heard, to feel the light.

He's not angry, just aching inside, To prove he's worthy, to stand with pride. Yet still, he wonders, if someday he'll see a moment when love is a gift, just for he. For now, he waits in the quietest space, hoping for a smile, for a tender embrace. In his heart, a spark, a wish so true- To be someone they love, to be part of the team.

And though the path is long and unclear, he'll keep being good, year after year. Because in the depths of his hopeful soul, He believes one day, love will make him whole.

Poor little boy didn't know that day would never come.

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[creeperkiwi]

KILLSHOT — nightwing

" Your tricks haven't changed one bit.

yours neither kitten "

¡¿ ... what were the chances that the person you hate the most is the one you end up loving the most?

nightwing x villain!oc — dick grayson x male!oc

start! — ★

00 — just a few memories

01 — way more cake for me

02 — cool night

03 — both of us

04 — got a secret

05 — eyes on me

06 — new start

[creeperkiwi]

M.LIST;

dc comics

killshot — nightwing (long fic)

book shop — jason todd

book shop 2 — jason todd

ghost of you — tim drake

[creeperkiwi]

is my page too ugly? i did my best (i didnt)

[creeperkiwi]

idk how to use this

hallo👋

i wanna post my nightwing fic here too can some1 helpp