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@graysonshittt
𝜗ৎ graysonshittt masterlist
🪼: Dick ‘Nightwing’ Grayson
The 1 - She believed they were something real. He never did. Part Two.
Seeing if he melts with a kiss… - Based on the TikTok trend "seeing if he melts with a kiss".
You belong with me - Your best friend is dating, but you don't think his girlfriend is right for him. Part Two.
Spending his money - Dick's wife decided to get back at him by spending his money.
Cellphone - You want your boyfriend to put down his phone and pay attention to you.
Great for hiding - You and Dick Grayson are finally together, keeping it a secret from the Young Justice, but it was obvious it wouldn't last, because he's a terrible liar and can't keep his hands off you.
𝜗ৎ: Jason ‘Red Hood’ Todd
Impressing the angels with your laughter. - Five years after Jason's death, he is still the only one...
Your grumpy little brother-in-law loves you. - You seem to be the only person that Damian Wayne, your grumpy little brother-in-law, seems to want around.
Timeless - Strangely, you remember all your past lives. You don't know why, or how it's possible—you just know. And in all of them, without exception, you and Jason are destined to meet. But fate isn't always kind. Because even though you meet in every life, you don't get to be together in all of them. Part Two.
Great for hiding
Dick Grayson x supergirl! reader
Summary: You and Dick Grayson are finally together, keeping it a secret from the Young Justice, but it was obvious it wouldn't last, because he's a terrible liar and can't keep his hands off you.
WC: 2.8K
It wasn’t hard for you to fall in love with Richard Grayson. How could it be? His gentle, playful, and affectionate nature wouldn’t let you stay just friends for long.
The first time you kissed was intense — as if a thousand explosions had gone off inside you all at once. For a second, you thought you might die.
—
“I think you added too much flour,” you said, watching the brownie batter get way too thick.
Dick looked at the bowl, clearly confused, like he was trying to figure out where he’d gone wrong.
Then he looked at you like he’d just had the best idea in the world. His eyebrows lifted, a crooked smile spreading across his face — clearly up to something.
“You know where else I added too much flour?” he said, holding back a laugh.
You tilted your head, confused. “Where?”
“On your face.”
And it was fast — too fast. In the blink of an eye, his hand was already full of flour, and the next second, it was all over your face.
“You asshole!” you blurted, indignant, mouth falling open as you tried to wipe your eyes, spitting out some of the flour that almost got into your mouth.
He was already laughing, not even trying to defend himself.
But you weren’t about to let that slide.
Before he had time to think, you grabbed the bag of flour off the counter, squeezing it hard.
“You’re a dead man, Richard Grayson.”
After a good while of throwing flour at each other, the kitchen was a mess — and so were you. That’s when he finally gave in.
“Okay! Okay! Drop the flour! White flag. Truce.”
You didn’t lower your guard. You just stared at him, suspicious, while he flashed that same goofy smile.
“Put the flour down first.” Your stubbornness won.
Dick raised one hand in surrender and, with the other, slowly lowered the bag of flour to the floor.
You still narrowed your eyes before moving. Only then did you pick up both bags and set them back on the counter.
“I think your face is kind of dirty,” you said, bringing your hand to your mouth to hold back a laugh.
“Yeah? Where?”
“Here.” You reached out and brushed along his jaw, wiping away the flour.
He didn’t pull away. If anything, he stepped closer. Too close.
“Your face is dirty too,” he said, more quietly, looking straight into your eyes.
“Where?” you asked, letting out a soft breath, your voice already losing its steadiness.
“Here.”
His hand came up slowly to your face. His finger brushed over your lip, carefully wiping away the rest of the flour.
He didn’t pull his hand back — he just left it there, watching you, breath unsteady, waiting for a reaction.
You didn’t think. There wasn’t time.
You just grabbed him and kissed him — hard, full of want, like everything you hadn’t said until now was going into that moment. Like he was the last man on Earth.
And to you… he is.
—
Since then, Richard Grayson simply hasn’t left you alone. He showed up all the time, came up with any excuse to be near you, always wearing that smug smile — like he already knew exactly where this was going.
And he didn’t stop.
Not at all.
He kept insisting, teasing, getting closer… until, at some point, you just gave in. Before you knew it, that was it: you had become his girl.
It had already been a month since you started dating.
The two of you had agreed to tell the League only when things were more “stable.” Not because you were afraid of making it official and breaking up the next day — that wasn’t it.
It was more selfish than that.
You wanted to enjoy the beginning, just the two of you. No comments, no looks, no one getting involved. A kind of honeymoon… even if improvised. At least three months like that felt fair.
And it would have worked. It really would have.
If Richard Grayson weren’t such a terrible liar.
And, most of all, if he weren’t completely in love with you.
—
It all started with Artemis.
You, Dick, and her were out together when the idea came up to stop by a bakery to get something for Wally. Not because you really wanted to — but because he simply wouldn’t stop complaining.
“I am devastated! I will never be happy again. A part of me has been taken away, guys, you have to understand!”
The reason?
His favorite character from the show he was watching had died.
At first, you ignored him. Then you told him to stop being dramatic. But Wally kept going — voice messages, texts, calls, all in the same miserable tone.
In the end, you gave in out of sheer exhaustion.
“How about sweet bread?” you suggested, looking at the options in the display case.
“Nah, he doesn’t like it,” Artemis replied immediately, not even taking her eyes off the sweets.
“Apple pie?” Dick tried, pointing to a neatly cut slice.
“No.” Artemis kept shutting everything down, focused, analyzing each option like it was a serious decision.
She stayed quiet for a few seconds, her eyes moving from one dessert to another… until they stopped.
A chocolate-covered cookie.
She didn’t hesitate.
“He’s gonna love this one.”
You and Dick looked at each other at the same time and laughed.
When you went to pay, the cashier handed you the bag with the sweets — but not just that. Along with it, he slipped you a folded piece of paper.
“My number’s on there. Call me sometime, gorgeous.” He even winked, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
You froze for a second, your face turning red instantly. Not out of interest — but because your boyfriend was literally standing right next to you.
Before you could say anything, Dick reacted.
“Don’t fucking start, man. My girl is just fine without your damn number.”
His hand went straight to your waist, firm, pulling you closer until you were pressed against him.
The mood shifted immediately.
The cashier lost his smile, clearly embarrassed. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking away.
“Sorry, man… didn’t know she was your girl.”
When the three of you left the bakery, the silence felt… off.
You didn’t even need to look — Artemis was holding it in. You could tell by the way she was biting the corner of her mouth, clearly trying not to laugh.
It didn’t last long.
“So…” she started, turning to look at both of you, raising an eyebrow. “Remember that time you said you and Dick were just friends? That there was nothing romantic going on there?”
“I remember…” you replied, already knowing where this was going.
“Right. Just wanted to confirm.” Her smile came instantly, full of teasing.
You let out a short sigh.
“No one knows, Artemis. You have to promise not to tell anyone,” Dick cut in, serious for the first time.
She opened her mouth, ready to respond.
“Not even Wally,” you interrupted. “Seriously, Mys. We want to tell everyone, but it’s still too soon.”
Dick made a sound of agreement, nodding.
“At least now I can kiss my girlfriend in front of someone, damn it.”
Before you could react, his arm was already around your neck, pulling you in as he pressed a loud kiss to your cheek.
“Disgusting.” Artemis rolled her eyes immediately.
—
And then, two days later, it was Megan’s turn.
Her room at the Young Justice base was calm, with that light, cozy atmosphere of someone just trying to forget about the world for a while. The two of you were sitting on the floor, surrounded by open nail polish bottles, the sweet scent lingering in the air as you painted your nails.
Artemis had promised she’d show up later — which, coming from her, could mean anything between five minutes and two hours.
Megan called your name, and you answered with a distracted little hum, completely focused on not smudging the polish on your right hand. Because, honestly, doing that with your non-dominant hand was a true test of patience.
“Oh, Dick is calling you…” Megan commented, her voice laced with curiosity as she picked up your phone.
You didn’t even look, too focused on your nail.
“Answer it for me and put it on speaker, Megs. Please.”
And then, without warning — as always — his voice came through.
“Hey, princess. I’m at the store and I remembered those candies you like. But there’s a new mint chocolate flavor… do you want me to bring some for you to try?”
The world just… stopped.
Your heart skipped, your hand froze midair, and only then did it hit you all at once: Megan. Speakerphone. Dick being… Dick.
Slowly, almost afraid of what you’d see, you lifted your gaze.
Megan was staring at you.
Mouth open.
In complete shock.
“Babe? You there?” his voice came again, soft, carefree — completely unaware of the chaos he had just caused.
You went into emergency mode.
“I do, baby! I’ll talk to you when I get there, kisses!” you said way too fast, hanging up before he could even respond.
Silence.
One second.
Two.
“WHAT? YOU AND DICK ARE—”
You were faster, covering her mouth instantly.
“Ugh, damn it, my nail!” you muttered, looking at the mess you’d just made of your freshly painted polish.
Megan raised an eyebrow, clearly not impressed with your priorities at that moment.
You sighed, defeated.
“Yeah… Dick and I are dating.”
And then her reaction came.
Her eyes lit up, and the next second she was already jumping on the bed, completely freaking out.
“Hello, Megan! It was obvious! How did I not notice?” she exclaimed, smacking her own forehead.
You couldn’t hold back your laughter.
“Don’t tell anyone yet, Megs. Only you and Artemis know.”
She froze mid-jump.
“Wait. Artemis knew before me?” The hurt look showed up almost instantly.
You laughed, pulling her into a hug.
“It was totally accidental, I swear! You’re still my best friend, you goof… I just didn’t tell you because Dick and I haven’t told anyone.”
—
Two weeks passed, and you really started to think no one was going to find out. No weird comments, no suspicion. It felt like, for the first time, you and Dick were actually managing to keep your relationship a secret.
Or at least, that’s what you thought.
That night, you were in his room at Wayne Manor, lying on the bed watching a movie. Or at least trying to, because neither of you was really paying attention. The bag of snacks kept going back and forth between you as you talked about random things.
“Okay, babe,” you started, turning your face slightly toward him. “Let’s say a spider bites you and you turn into a—”
“Spider-Man?” Dick interrupted, raising an eyebrow as he took the bag from your hand to grab another bite.
“Yes, a Spider-Man,” you continued, rolling your eyes slightly. “And then after the bite, you started shooting webs from your wrists…”
He laughed.
“I think that’s kind of impossible, princess.”
You turned more toward him, looking straight at him.
“Come on. Your girlfriend is literally an alien who flies and has super strength,” you said, raising an eyebrow. “And you still think a spider can’t turn someone into a human version of itself too?”
He went quiet for a second, thinking.
“Okay,” he said finally, shrugging. “You’ve got a point.”
You took the bag of snacks back, this time not letting him steal it so easily.
“Back to the point…” you started, turning toward him.
But you stopped mid-sentence.
Dick wasn’t paying attention to anything you were saying. He was just looking at you — with that soft, lovestruck smile, completely enchanted, like you were the most interesting thing in the world.
You held his gaze for a second… and then let out a soft sigh.
“You know what? Screw the point.”
Before he could respond, you grabbed his shirt, pulling him on top of you and kissing him.
He smiled into the kiss, like he’d already expected it, and slid his hand to your waist, squeezing and pulling you closer. You instinctively arched your body against his, closing any space between you.
“Yeah… screw the point,” he murmured, slightly breathless, before kissing you again.
The kisses trailed lower, slower, to your neck. He lingered there, pressing a few longer kisses, while his hand slid down to your hip.
And then…
The door swung open.
“Hey, man. You know that case I told you about—” Tim’s voice came into the room along with him, still looking down at his phone.
You and Dick pulled away immediately, practically jumping to opposite sides of the bed like nothing had happened.
Tim finally looked up.
Stopped.
And raised an eyebrow.
“Seriously… you two need to learn how to lock the door,” he said, crossing his arms with a knowing smile. “No one signed up to watch you making out.”
Dick didn’t hesitate. He grabbed a pillow and threw it at him.
Tim dodged it easily.
“Missed, idiot!”
“You’re the one who walked into my room, dumbass,” Dick shot back, sitting up and running a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated.
“Man, sorry to interrupt your almost-sex, but—”
“Wait!” you cut in, looking straight at him, still a little in disbelief. “You already knew about us?”
Tim let out a short laugh.
“Oh, come on. You guys aren’t subtle at all,” he replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Dick practically follows you around like a puppy.”
He started counting on his fingers.
“You go somewhere, he goes after you. You sit, he sits. You stand, he stands… If you told him to jump off a bridge, he’d do it with sparkling eyes.”
You tried to hold back your reaction, but failed.
“He’s got a point,” Dick commented, looking at you and laughing.
“Oh, shut up,” you shot back, grabbing the pillow beside you and throwing it at him, unable to stop laughing.
—
And then you finally decided to tell everyone.
Conner’s birthday ended up being the moment.
Everyone was gathered in the Tower, spread out across the couches around the table, talking, laughing, and eating. The atmosphere was light, relaxed — perfect for news like that.
You exchanged a quick glance with Dick.
This was it.
The two of you stood up almost at the same time, naturally drawing attention. Conversations started to die down one by one until everyone was looking at you.
You cleared your throat softly.
“So, guys… Dick and I have something to tell you.”
The room went silent instantly.
“We’re dating!” Dick blurted out, excited, already wrapping an arm around your waist like he couldn’t wait to say it out loud.
A second of pause.
And then…
“Oh, nice, man! Congrats,” Conner was the first to react, completely chill.
“Happy for you, dude. I always knew you two would end up together,” Wally said right after, smiling like he’d been expecting it for a long time.
“Man, you stole my ultimate crush… but I’m happy for you guys,” Gar added, tossing a piece of popcorn in your direction, laughing.
You and Dick looked at each other. Same expression. Same raised eyebrow.
You both sighed almost at the same time.
“You already knew, didn’t you?” you said finally.
“Obviously!” Gar replied immediately. “You guys are not subtle at all. I’ve literally caught you two making out on patrol. Like, seriously… have some shame.”
Another piece of popcorn flew your way.
“Not to mention Artemis told me,” Wally added, rubbing the back of his neck, a little sheepish.
“Wallace!” Artemis scolded immediately.
“Artemis!” you shot back, looking at her.
She shrugged, not even trying that hard to defend herself.
“I wasn’t going to keep a secret like that from my boyfriend,” she said, snuggling into his chest. “And honestly, he freaked out. He almost called Dick saying he felt betrayed.”
Wally let out an awkward little laugh.
“Wally told me,” Conner said simply, shrugging.
“Wally told me too,” Zatanna added, laughing.
Dick let out a sigh, shaking his head. “You and that big mouth, Wallace…”
“Sorry, man! I can’t keep a secret,” Wally replied, already turning a little red.
You could only laugh at the situation.
“At least now…” Dick started, looking at you with a smile. “…I can kiss my girlfriend anywhere.”
Before anyone could complain, he pulled you in and kissed you right there.
“Oh, come on! Seriously?” Artemis complained immediately, rolling her eyes.
“Oooh!” Gar teased, throwing a small pillow at you both.
You pulled apart, laughing.
“Please don’t be gross,” Conner commented, also rolling his eyes — though a faint smile tugged at his lips.
And in the end, the big secret…
Was never really that much of a secret at all.
🪼…
People who write (or almost do), have you ever felt disconnected from a story and just couldn’t finish it? That’s how I feel about one of mine, called Timeless. Even though I really like it and loved writing it, I just can’t feel connected to it anymore, and because of that I can’t finish it. I sit down to write, but nothing comes out. I even took a break from writing because of this. I don’t know… I just needed to vent lol.
Cellphone
Dick Grayson x Reader!
🪼Summary: You want your boyfriend to put down his phone and pay attention to you.
🪼: English is not my first language. Just something short and cute that I thought of and decided to write down.
masterlist (:
“Are you going to put that phone down?”
I narrowed my eyes at my boyfriend beside me on the couch. Dick was completely absorbed in the screen, his face lit by the glow of his phone, as if nothing else around him existed.
“Angel, you’re on your phone too,” he replied, not even bothering to look at me.
That made me let out an irritated sigh. “No, I’m not.”
I turned my phone off and set it beside me, on the empty space on the couch, as if the gesture were some kind of solemn declaration.
Only then did Dick look at me. He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by the whole scene.
I picked up my phone again and held it up between us, showing the dark screen. “I’m not anymore.”
The corner of his mouth curved into a lazy smile.
“Well… I was only on my phone because you were. Since you’re not anymore, I don’t see a reason to stay on it either.”
“Liar.” I narrowed my eyes, pretending to be offended.
Before I could react, Dick grabbed me by the waist and pulled me onto his lap. A little yelp of surprise escaped me, and my hands automatically landed on his chest to steady myself, feeling the firmness of his pec under his shirt.
“Liar, huh?” he murmured, his voice low and playful. Gently, he brushed a rebellious strand of hair away from my face and tucked it behind my ear.
An involuntary smile spread across my lips. My hands slid up to the back of his neck, my fingers lacing together there, as if that was exactly where they belonged.
“I just wanted some attention, babe…” I pouted slightly, not even trying to hide it.
Dick let out a soft laugh, the kind that always made my body relax, and tightened his hand around my waist just a little.
“And now you have all of my attention, my pretty.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He simply leaned in and kissed me, slow and unhurried, as if time itself had decided to pause just for the two of us.
Timeless. 2
Jason Todd x Female reader!
Part One! Part three coming soon!! (;
𝜗ৎ Summary: Strangely, you remember all your past lives. You don't know why, or how it's possible—you just know. And in all of them, without exception, you and Jason are destined to meet. But fate isn't always kind. Because even though you meet in every life, you don't get to be together in all of them.
𝜗ৎ: English is not my first language. I hope you like it. It involves past lives and soulmates. Loosely based on Taylor Swift's song Timeless. I think that's it.
Finding Alaric, who is now the Red Hood — whose name in this life I have no clue about — might be harder than I imagined. He really didn’t want to be found.
But I knew that if I managed to cross the barrier he had built around his life, he would have no escape. We never do. We always end up finding each other. We always end up falling in love. It’s impossible to ignore the feeling that we have belonged to each other for centuries. Because, in a way, we do.
Our souls were intertwined in a way that no distance could undo.
Perhaps, then, I just needed to wait. Let destiny take its course. Destiny is merciless, and it doesn’t like to be rushed.
Today I took the day off from the hospital. I needed to think. I needed to breathe away from shifts, white rooms, and the relentless rhythm of life that insists on going on. Since I met the Red Hood and discovered that he would be the person I was destined to love in this life, my mind hasn’t stopped. He occupies every thought, every silence, every pause between heartbeats.
That’s why I hate remembering my past lives. Every memory is a shadow that insists on stretching over the present. I wanted to live this love simply, without the pressure of destiny pushing us together as if we were predestined. I wanted to be able to love him without carrying the weight of all the versions of him I have already been in love with. As similar as they may have been, as comforting as some memories whisper, others burn like hot iron.
Some of those versions were dark, harsh, and dangerous. Others were sweet and quiet, yet all carried the same strength — all were warriors. And I… I wonder if I will ever be able to just love him, without the echo of all the others resonating between us.
I decided to go to Gotham’s aquarium. When you live so many lives and remember them, some habits are never lost. One of mine, perhaps the oldest, is to seek solace in the beauty of water. Marine animals carry silent, fascinating stories, and watching them has always brought me an inexplicable peace.
I stand in front of the tank, letting my eyes lose themselves in the dance of the fish, in the turtles gliding calmly, and in the seahorses moving as if they were delicate shadows. It’s all so perfect, so fragile, that it almost seems unreal.
My gaze fixes on a jellyfish, translucent and luminous, floating slowly. And I smile, unable to help myself. It reminds me of Julien, the soul I loved in 1500.
A quiet sigh escapes me, and for a moment, time seems to bend. Every memory, every past life, comes back in gentle waves, as if the water itself is telling me secrets only I can hear.
—
1500
“You know, princess… you’re very easy to find.”
I glance back, and there’s Julien, his arms resting on the railing, watching me with that smile that has always shattered my heart. But today, my smile is just a fragment of sadness, fragile as crystal.
“The water holds memories, you know?” I murmur, my eyes fixed on the calm surface of the lake before us. It reflects the sky and clouds, the slow movement of the wind, time that insists on passing, indifferent to our pain. I sit on the grass, letting the breeze touch my face, absorbing every detail of nature — the scent of the earth, the distant song of birds, the delicate reflections on the water. Everything seems perfect… and at the same time, impossible.
Julien approaches, each step measured, and sits beside me. A heavy silence settles between us, full of unspoken words and promises time has not yet dared to fulfill. I sigh, letting a tear slip down involuntarily.
“I am promised to marry another man, Julien.”
He doesn’t react immediately. His eyes meet mine, and I see every fragment of pain reflected there. The white streak in his hair, the corners of his mouth that once smiled lightly, now curved in an expression of restrained sorrow. Every detail makes him even more human, even more mine.
“I know.”
His voice is firm but carries a melancholy that makes me tremble inside. He lowers his head, looking at the water, at the landscape that seems eternal and indifferent to our anguish. “My grandmother used to tell me about jellyfish… They follow the currents of life, even in the darkest times. They survive. They mean renewal.”
He lifts his eyes to me, and there is fire and tenderness in his gaze. “Be strong, princess. It hurts me too. Seeing the woman I love promised to another… I don’t know if I could bear it. But you must be resilient. Be like the jellyfish: delicate, yet impossible to destroy. Fulfill your cycle, even if your heart breaks.”
His hand moves closer, gentle, and wipes my tears with the delicacy of someone touching their own soul. “Even if you are forced to marry another, you will still be mine. Our souls are intertwined, impossible to separate. Forever. Destiny may delay us, but it will never deny us. We are timeless, princess. Always will be.”
He smiles, and I feel the weight of centuries, entire lives and memories flowing through us like invisible currents. I feel love and pain intertwined, a fire that both burns and warms at the same time. And in that moment, I know that even separated by destiny, even torn apart by time, nothing — absolutely nothing — could ever take us from each other.
—
2005
It happened so long ago that now it feels like nothing more than a dream — a dream I know I lived, but one that drifts so far from reality it almost feels irrelevant. Even so, it’s a memory I carry with me, one I refuse to forget.
The jellyfish drifts slowly in front of me, and I can’t help but smile.
I’m grateful to Julien for teaching me how to be resilient. He wasn’t wrong when he said our souls were intertwined, that we were timeless, that destiny would bring us together again.
He wasn’t wrong.
Destiny truly did reunite us. Maybe not in that specific life, but in the thousands that followed. It feels as though we were made to find each other, over and over again, and to live the love we were always meant to feel.
And I’m at peace with that. Because loving his soul — even across time, even across lives — is one of the purest gifts destiny has ever given me.
I’m pulled out of my reverie by a loud crash behind me.
“Are you serious? The aquarium is being destroyed and you’re just standing there? Doctor, you’re weird.”
The robotic voice of the Red Hood cuts through the air, and I turn instantly, my heart racing.
Destiny truly is merciless.
I look around. The aquarium is in chaos. Gunshots echo, ricochet, make the glass tremble. The water churns, frightened fish swim in frantic circles, and I catch the metallic scent of adrenaline in the air. It’s not where I am, but danger is palpable, pulsing through every inch of the place.
“I was lost in my thoughts… what’s going on?” I take a step toward him, trying to stay calm, though my hands tremble.
“Better if you don’t know. Come on, I’m getting you out of here.”
Before I can protest, he grabs my hand firmly and pulls me along with a strength that allows no resistance. He leads me through a hidden route — a secret passage in an aquarium? Impossible… but there’s no time for questions.
My mind struggles to process the absurdity when I feel his firm hand on my waist. A gunshot tears through the air, and he slams me against the wall with a speed that steals the breath from my lungs. The impact makes me shudder, but there’s something comforting in his presence, as if nothing could touch us while he’s there.
He draws his gun — a quick, precise, calculated movement. The shot rings out and hits the target chasing us. For a moment, everything goes silent except for the sound of my own ragged breathing.
Then his hand returns to mine, firm and steady, signaling for me to follow him. My heart is still pounding, but there’s trust in that gesture — a silent promise of protection in the middle of chaos. With the Red Hood by my side, danger feels almost… bearable.
—
Rain lashes against my face and arms as I hold tightly to his waist, seated behind the Red Hood on the motorcycle. Every turn of the street presses my body against his, and the warmth of him against me is the only thing that gives me any sense of safety. The chaos of the aquarium, the gunfire — it all feels distant now, reduced to the adrenaline coursing through my veins.
He rides with absolute precision, hands firm on the handlebars, the helmet hiding his entire face, but his posture, the touch of his hand on my waist, every small gesture conveys protection. I don’t need to see his face to know he’s there, alert to every danger, ready to shield me.
When we stop in front of my building, he slows down, shuts off the engine, and stays there for a moment, completely still, as if assessing every possible risk before letting me get off. His hands still hold mine firmly, grounding me.
“Are you okay?” His voice comes out slightly robotic, muffled by the helmet, but clear enough to cut through the hum of the rain.
“I am… thank you. For bringing me here. For protecting me,” I murmur, feeling his hand squeeze mine gently.
He leans just enough for me to feel his closeness, and his hand shields my hair slightly from the rain.
“You didn’t have to thank me,” he says, his voice firm, almost dark. “Consider it… payment.”
“Payment?” I ask, confused.
“For what you did for me,” he says, the helmet hiding his face, but his voice heavy with intensity. “When I was unconscious. You took care of me. I wouldn’t let that go unanswered.”
My chest tightens. The memories of that night come rushing back, vivid, as if they were happening all over again.
“I just… I couldn’t let you die,” I whisper.
He grips my hand firmly, a touch that conveys more than words ever could: care, presence, protection.
“I know,” he replies. “And that’s why you’re safe now.”
He holds my hand a moment longer, making sure I truly get inside safely.
“Thank you… for everything,” I say, still feeling the warmth of him so close.
Rain runs through my hair and clothes, but I remain standing in front of him, arms crossed against the cold, sensing his presence even without seeing his face. He stays seated on the bike, helmet on, steady, the engine purring softly and blending with the sound of rain falling from the sky. The silence between us is heavy, filled with questions waiting to be asked.
“Tell me something…” His voice cuts through the rain, firm, laced with curiosity. “Why have you been looking for me? Who are you? Why are you so interested in me?”
I swallow hard. My heart races. “I… I want to be part of your life,” I say, trying to keep my voice from trembling, trying to sound resolute despite the rain and the tension.
He leans forward slightly, hands firm on the handlebars. “Why?”
“Because… because I want to,” I reply, simple and direct. “I don’t know how to explain it better. I just want to be close to you. I want to be part of who you are, of what you do, of your life.”
He falls silent, the rumble of the engine filling the seconds between us, and then lets out a short, dry laugh. “You’re… crazy,” he says, half incredulous, half amused.
“Then let me be,” I shoot back, taking a step closer to the bike, rain streaming down my face. “Just let me try. Just let me into your life.”
He takes a deep breath, still steady on the bike. “I… don’t want to care about anyone right now. I have unfinished business. I can’t tie myself to anything or anyone.”
I grip the back of the motorcycle tightly, my heart pounding. “At least… give me a contact. Just one,” I say, my voice trembling but determined.
There’s silence for a few seconds, only the engine and the rain filling the space between us. Then he reaches back over the seat and hands me a small piece of paper, damp around the edges, but still legible.
“A contact… doesn’t mean you’ll see me all the time,” he says, then adds, hesitant, almost as if speaking to himself, “I… don’t know why I’m giving you this. I’m not… sentimental. I don’t really know you, and even so… I feel something tied to you. Something I can’t explain.”
My chest tightens. His words, heavy with sincerity and vulnerability, cut straight through the barrier of the helmet and land directly in my heart. I take the paper carefully, my hands trembling. “Thank you,” I murmur.
I look at him for a moment before turning and walking toward the door of my building. Before going inside, I glance over my shoulder and see him there, seated on the bike, rain streaming over his helmet, watching me. I get the sense that he wants to make sure I’m safe, even without understanding why he feels so connected to me.
When I left his field of vision, I could still feel his presence outside in the rain, and I knew that somehow he already knew he couldn't escape me — even if he didn't yet know why.
—
He was serious when he said that giving me his contact didn’t mean I would see him all the time. And I didn’t force anything either; I didn’t try to speed up what destiny had already decided.
Six months passed. Six months without seeing him, without hearing a single word, and yet, in the silence, I still feel his presence. It’s strange, but comforting in a subtle way: as if he were still there, even from afar.
When souls are intertwined, the absence of someone important isn’t just longing — it’s a part of yourself that waits, learning to move slowly, in the rhythm of the other.
I know he needs space; I know it’s not easy to deal with him right now. So I let destiny act. I watch time pass, I go about my own routines, and yet, every little detail brings me back to him. No rush, no demand, just waiting for the moment when our love returns once again.
Many believe that soulmates are born loving each other, that everything happens instantly and perfectly. It may seem that way, but it’s not quite like that. A soulmate is not synonymous with perfection, nor with immediate love. It is a silent connection that reveals itself slowly, in gestures, in choices, in the constant presence of the other.
Soulmates are destinies that somehow cross paths. They don’t need dramatic signs to recognize each other — sometimes a look, a gesture, or simply the way the other exists in the world is enough. It’s as if time itself had prepared that meeting, and when it happens, everything fits naturally. It doesn’t mean love arises fully formed, but that an invisible bridge already exists between two lives, something beyond understanding.
In writing, a soulmate is more than a romantic character. They are the link that connects stories, that creates tension and draws characters closer even when they are apart. They are the presence that gives depth to choices, that transforms simple encounters into meaningful moments. It’s not just desire or passion: it’s affinity, understanding, and a sense of belonging that builds over time.
When two soulmates meet, there is a silent recognition. We know, without words, that a story is waiting to be written. But this story is not automatic; it demands patience, care, and respect for each one’s pace. Each chapter is built slowly, with small decisions and moments that strengthen the bond.
This is how we found each other.
Even when I was promised to another man, Julien was still mine. Even when I died in childbirth, carrying our child, Edward was still mine. Even when my love with Lorenzo was interrupted by old age, we still loved each other.
In every life, he comes back only to be mine.
And I come back only to be his.
It was the same with my Alaric. And it will be the same with the Red Hood.
Our love knows no bounds of time. It has spanned decades, centuries, entire generations. It survived wars that destroyed empires, diseases that wiped out entire families, moments when everything seemed lost. Even when life tried to tear us apart, even when death seemed final, it endured. We always come back. We always find each other.
Because destiny willed it so.
Because there is something greater than us that traced this path and kept us entwined, even when it seemed impossible.
And the Red Hood cannot — and never will be able to — fight against it. No matter how many times he tries to pull away, no matter how many times fear or doubt tries to put up barriers, destiny will always pull us back.
Every life, every era, every lost or stolen moment only reinforces that we belong to each other. Not by choice, but by inevitability. And there is a cruel beauty in that: to love someone who is yours by right of all lives, yet knowing the world will always try to keep you apart.
—
Today was a complicated day at work. I came home exhausted, my body heavy and my mind still trapped in what I had seen. Today I took care of a woman who had been beaten by her own husband. An elderly woman whose son tried to kill her.
Sometimes I wonder why humanity is so cruel. And the truth is, this didn’t start now. The world has always been cruel. In every life I have lived, people have continued to be cruel. The world evolves, cities grow, technology advances — but it feels like the more everything progresses, the more anger accumulates inside people.
It’s sad to think about that. Exhausting. Disheartening.
I hear a knock on the window and frown. The sound is sharp, out of place, almost unreal. I walk over and carefully pull the curtain aside.
Red Hood.
After six months, he decides to show up at my window.
I open it without saying a word. Cold air rushes in with him, and for a second we just stare at each other, as if six months could be reduced to that silence.
He steps inside with a quick, almost automatic movement, as if he already knows the way. He closes the window behind him carefully, but that’s when I notice it. The stiff way he moves. His hand pressed against his side. The dark red staining the fabric.
“You’re hurt,” I say, more a statement than a question.
He tries to downplay it, as always. A shrug that convinces no one.
I don’t wait for an answer. I’m already moving through the apartment, turning on the lights, grabbing what I need. I don’t ask for permission. I never have.
I make him sit on the couch. When I get closer, the smell of blood is unmistakable. My hands tremble just a little as I pull the torn fabric aside and see the wound. It’s not superficial. My chest tightens, but my mind switches to autopilot — the same one that saves me every day at the hospital.
I clean the wound carefully. He tenses, holds his breath, but doesn’t complain. He never does.
“Six months,” I murmur, without taking my eyes off what I’m doing. “Six months without a word. And you show up at my window like this.”
He stays silent for a moment. Then he speaks, his voice low and controlled.
“I told you my contact didn’t mean you’d see me all the time,” he says. “I’ve been busy.”
I lift my gaze to him for just a second. I don’t reply. I go back to tending the wound with the same careful attention as before.
He remains silent after that. The air between us stretches, heavy with memories only I carry in full.
Then, with a slow, almost ritualistic gesture, he lifts his hands to the Red Hood helmet. The sound of the clasps releasing echoes softly through the room.
The helmet comes off. And, like in every other life, there he is.
The same face. The same lines time refuses to touch. The same presence that has crossed centuries with me.
And the white streak.
It cuts through the dark of his hair exactly as it always has. Unchanging. Untouched by time. He was born like that in every life in which I knew him — a detail that never changed, no matter the name he carried, the century we lived in, or the way we found each other.
My chest tightens with the cruel familiarity of it.
My eyes trace every detail I didn’t get the chance to see the last time we met, memorizing something I never needed to relearn. I’ve seen him like this in palaces and on battlefields, on streets lit by torches and in modern cities glowing with neon. Always the same. Always him.
“You never change,” I murmur, more to myself than to him.
He tilts his head slightly, as if he can feel the weight of my gaze even without understanding everything it carries. “You look at me like you’ve seen me before.”
I return to the wound, to my hands that know exactly what to do — not just because I’m a doctor, but because they’ve cared for him in other lives too.
“You know… I don’t know who you loved,” Red Hood says, his voice low, carrying something that sounds almost like caution. “But I don’t understand why you see him in me.”
He hesitates for a moment, as if choosing his words carefully.
“Is it because of the streak?” he continues. “You said he had one just like it.”
Because you are him, I think. The answer comes instantly, cruel in its certainty. But he isn’t ready to hear that yet. Maybe he never will be.
“I’m sorry to tell you this, but I’m not him,” he adds, his voice rough, slightly broken. “Don’t project him onto me.”
“Believe me,” I reply, shrugging as I finish working on the wound. “I know you’re not him.”
I step away to put the supplies away, trying to keep my voice steady — too neutral for someone carrying centuries of memories. When I turn back, I find his gaze fixed on me.
It’s not accusation. Not suspicion.
It’s curiosity.
“What was his name?”
The question comes far too simply for what it holds. It crosses the silence and finds something ancient inside me. For a moment, I almost laugh — not out of humor, but out of cruel irony. How do you give a single name to a soul that has crossed so many centuries? How do you choose just one among all the names I’ve spoken in other lives, in other bodies, in other endings?
I take a deep breath before answering.
“Alaric.”
The name leaves my lips with a weight he can’t measure. I watch the way he listens to it, as if trying to understand not just the word, but the space it occupies between us — as if the name hides more than it reveals.
“Did you love him?”
I lift my gaze slowly. There’s something in that question that isn’t just curiosity — it’s care, hesitation, the attempt not to step onto ground he senses is dangerous. I tilt my head slightly, searching for a lighter tone than the truth deserves.
“Don’t you think you’re a little too curious?” I tease, letting out a soft sigh, as if it could dissolve what comes next.
But it doesn’t.
The smile fades before it can even form. There’s no past in that answer. No distance enough for that.
“I love him,” I say.
He thinks for a few seconds and then nods slightly, as if accepting it.
“How long has he been gone?” he asks, tossing out another question, almost casually.
“At least sixty-one years…” I shrug.
He immediately frowns, leaning forward slightly.
“Sixty-one years?” he repeats, incredulous. “Are you kidding me? You’re what… twenty-four?”
He crosses his arms, studying me closely, clearly expecting an explanation.
“I’m twenty-three.”
He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh.
“So what?” He brings a hand to his chin, thinking. “You’re going to tell me you time-traveled and fell in love with him back then?”
He tilts his head, pretending to consider it more carefully. Then his eyes light up with humor.
“Hmm… let me guess. You loved him in a past life, and I look just like him.”
He laughs, pleased with his own theory.
That’s exactly it. Literally. I have to hold back from laughing with him.
“Maybe,” I reply, holding his gaze with a restrained smile.
“You’re funny,” he says, running a hand through his hair as he laughs, the tension easing a little.
“I thought I was weird…”
“You are,” he agrees, shrugging. “But I think you’re funny too.”
I raise an eyebrow and cross my arms, playing along.
“So that’s how you fall in love with me, right?”
He looks at me for a second longer than necessary, still smiling, as if the joke has come dangerously close to the truth.
“I don’t fall in love,” he says. The sentence comes out simple, almost automatic, like something repeated so often it became a rule.
I tilt my head slightly, watching him for a few seconds before responding.
“But you will fall in love with me.”
He reacts with a half-incredulous smile, narrowing his eyes as if trying to decide whether I’m serious or just provoking him.
“And how are you so sure of that?”
I shrug, far too casually for the weight I carry.
“Because destiny wants it that way.”
He lets out a low laugh, shaking his head, like he’s just heard the most absurd thing of the night.
“Forget what I said,” he says, lifting an eyebrow. “You’re not funny. You’re… completely weird. Very weird.”
He crosses his arms, studying me with an attention he no longer tries to hide.
“You’re flirting with a vigilante you’ve seen, what… twice?” he continues. “And one of those times you brought me to your apartment.”
“You were unconscious,” I snap back immediately, exasperation slipping out. “I wasn’t going to leave you bleeding in the street.”
“You don’t bring a stranger home,” he insists, serious now. “What if I’d killed you?”
I shrug, without thinking too much. “But you didn’t. I’m still alive, aren’t I?”
He stares at me for a moment far too long, as if trying to find logic where there clearly isn’t any. Then he laughs, disbelieving, rubbing his face.
“You’re insane.”
“Wow, you’re terrible at giving compliments,” I say, feigning indignation. “Insane, crazy, funny, weird… what’s next?” I bring a hand to my chin, theatrically. “How about beautiful?”
He watches me in silence for a second. The smile that appears isn’t mocking — it’s genuine, unexpected.
“I’ve got a new one,” he says.
I tilt my head. “What?”
“Depraved.”
The word catches me off guard. I burst out laughing, the sound escaping too easily, like that moment managed to break something inside me that had been tense for far too long.
And while I’m laughing, I notice something. He’s laughing too.
Maybe he says he doesn’t fall in love. But I’ve seen this story before.
—
The time moved forward in a quiet, steady way after that. There were no major changes, no remarkable events—just a silent continuity. Red Hood began to show up from time to time, always at night, always without warning. Sometimes he needed care; other times, just a place where he could pause for a few minutes. I never asked, and he never explained. That was how we worked.
As the visits went on, he started allowing himself small curiosities. Offhand questions, almost casual, that always seemed to circle back to Alaric. He wanted to know what he was like, what he did, what kind of world we had lived in. Sometimes he asked about me too—about the hospital, my days, the things I liked when I wasn’t saving lives. They were simple questions, but they carried a new kind of attention, an interest that grew quietly, without drawing notice.
I answered without going into too much detail, choosing carefully what to share and what to keep to myself. In return, he offered nothing about his own life. He never spoke of where he came from, or where he went after slipping back out the window. When I tried to turn the questions toward him, I was met with silence or a subtle change of subject. He stayed closed off, as if that part of his life were forbidden ground.
Even so, there was something comfortable in that imbalance. He learned about me little by little, while I came to know him in the only way he allowed—through his constant presence, the way he relaxed on the couch, the almost imperceptible way he seemed to feel at ease there. It wasn’t a fair exchange, but it was enough. At least for now. And without realizing it, those nights began to carry more than silence—they carried a shared curiosity that grew slowly, at the pace he was willing to accept.
—
I open the door to my apartment and step inside, the icy air slipping in with me. I close it behind me and take off my coat, hanging it on the rack near the entrance. Gotham is especially cold tonight — the kind of cold that cuts through fabric and seems to settle straight into your bones.
I take a few more steps into the living room. Then I see him.
Red Hood is standing in the middle of the room, completely still, a box clutched in his hands.
That box.
My body reacts before my mind can catch up. I freeze.
“What the hell is this?” I shout, my voice coming out louder than I meant it to. I stride toward him and rip the box out of his hands with a sharp pull. “Just because we got a little closer, you think that gives you the right to break into my apartment and go through my things?”
He doesn’t step back. He doesn’t try to explain.
“What?” he snaps, his voice tight with restrained anger. “No. What the hell is this — I’m the one who should be asking that!”
Before I can close the box, he pulls something out of it.
A photograph.
My stomach drops.
In the image, I’m standing beside Alaric — or rather, the version of me from another life. We’re young. Close. Loving each other in a way that doesn’t need words. Smiling. In the lower corner, written in letters worn thin by time, is a date: 1940.
“What the fuck is this?” he explodes, holding the photo up between us. “Why does he look exactly like me?”
His breathing turns uneven. His eyes dart from the photograph to me, as if searching for an explanation that shouldn’t exist.
“Why does it say 1940?” he continues, his voice breaking somewhere between fury and disbelief. “And why does she—” he points at me in the photograph “—look exactly like you?”
He looks like he’s on the verge of losing control.
And in that moment, I know the past has finally stopped being mine alone.
—
1940
The camera takes a second longer than it should to fire.
“Hold still,” I complain, laughing as I try to keep my face serious.
“I am holding still,” Alaric replies, clearly lying. His arm is wrapped around my waist, far too warm beneath his heavy coat. The white streak falls across his forehead the way it always does — unruly, impossible to tame, no matter the haircut or the era.
We’re standing in front of a modest building, the busy street stretching out behind us. The world is at war, but for a single moment, it doesn’t exist. There is only the two of us.
The click happens.
I barely notice. I’m too focused on the way he looks at me — as if he’s afraid he’ll forget my face the second he looks away. There’s something urgent in his gaze, something that’s always there when time already knows it’s going to steal us from each other again.
“Done,” the photographer says.
I turn to Alaric before I even think to thank him. He tilts his forehead down until it rests against mine, a small, intimate gesture that belongs only to us.
“When this is over,” he murmurs, so softly that only I can hear it, “we’ll leave. Far away from all of this.”
I smile, even knowing that promises rarely survive time. Still, I pretend to believe.
“You always say that.”
“And I always come back to you,” he replies simply.
We walk after that, our fingers intertwined inside our gloves, sharing what little warmth winter allows. The streets are gray, crowded with posters, hurried soldiers, bad news pasted to every wall. But he walks as if nothing in the world could touch us.
We stop at a small café, nearly empty. He takes off his coat and drapes it over my shoulders before I even realize I’m cold.
“You take care of everyone,” he says, watching me over the rim of his cup. “But who takes care of you?”
I shrug. “You do.”
He smiles that crooked smile I’ve seen so many times, in so many different worlds. The same smile that crosses centuries.
That night, we lie side by side, the room lit only by a weak lamp. I listen to his heartbeat beneath my ear — strong, steady, as if it could last forever.
“If I don’t come back,” he says, breaking the silence.
I turn immediately, pressing my hand to his chest.
“No.”
“If I don’t come back,” he insists, serious now, “promise me you’ll live.”
I swallow the knot in my throat. “I only know how to live with you.”
He closes his eyes for a moment, as if that truth is both everything he wants and everything he fears.
“Then I’ll come back,” he says. “Even if it takes a whole lifetime.”
I kiss him before he can finish the sentence. A slow, deep kiss, as if I could carve that moment into my soul.
—
2005
The past dissolves like smoke.
Sound returns first. Then the cold light of the apartment. The weight of the present settles back in slowly, cruel and abrupt, the way it always does when a memory ends.
The photograph slips from his fingers and lands on the table with a dull sound.
It falls to the floor with a sharp crack, the noise echoing through the apartment in a way that feels wrong — as if it has shattered something invisible in the air.
Red Hood stands frozen for a second that lasts too long. His gaze is fixed on the paper at his feet, his breath caught in his chest. It isn’t immediate shock — it’s refusal. The kind of refusal the body enforces before the mind allows itself to accept anything at all.
“No…” The word comes out low, almost inaudible. “No. This isn’t real.”
He takes a step back, then another, as if distance alone could undo what he’s seen. He drags his hands hard over his face, rubbing at his eyes, trying to wake up from a nightmare that refuses to dissolve.
“You’re crazy,” he says, his voice louder now, sharp, defensive. “This is some kind of psychological game. A sick manipulation.”
I crouch slowly and pick up the photograph from the floor. My fingers tremble slightly as they touch the aged paper. Not from fear — from memory. That image was never just a photo. It was always a promise.
“You want to know why he looks like you?” I ask, far too calm for the storm building between us.
“No,” he snaps quickly, almost aggressive. “I don’t want to know anything else.”
But he doesn’t move. He doesn’t leave. He doesn’t come closer. He stays.
Standing in the middle of the room, as if one wrong step could make everything collapse. His gaze is no longer on me — it’s lost somewhere between the fallen photograph, the open box, and something inside him that has begun to stir without asking permission.
“Alaric was born in 1919.”
The words aren’t spoken with force. They don’t need to be.
The air shifts.
It’s almost physical — as if the room has grown denser, heavier to breathe. His body reacts before his mind has time to build any kind of defense. His shoulders tense. His jaw locks so tightly it looks painful.
“What are you doing?” he asks, suspicious, his voice lower than before. “Stop it.”
But I go on.
“He grew up believing he’d have a simple life,” I say carefully, like someone stepping onto unstable ground. “Work, grow old, die old. Like everyone believes when they’re still young.”
He shakes his head slowly, in denial. He doesn’t look at me. “You’re making this up.”
"In 1940," I continue, feeling a lump in my throat, "he was drafted. By 1945, he was gone."
The word hangs in the air. Drafted.
Something in the way he breathes changes. “Drafted… for what?”
The question slips out almost against his will, softer now, less aggressive.
I take a step forward. Just one. “For the war.”
The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s heavy. Dense. Too heavy for such a small space. He shifts back slightly, as if the floor has lost its solidity beneath his feet, as if he needs room just to stay upright.
“No,” he lets out a short, humorless laugh. “That doesn’t prove anything.”
“He didn’t want to go,” I say, my voice steady despite the pressure in my chest. “He was scared. Terrified. But he went anyway.”
He runs a hand through his hair, restless, pacing the room without direction, as if movement is the only thing keeping his head from splitting open.
“Stop,” he mutters. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“He died there.”
The words don’t echo. They sink.
He stops moving instantly, like someone slammed the brakes without warning.
“Died… how?”
The question comes almost against his own will.
“In combat.”
The color drains visibly from his face. His breathing turns uneven, too shallow, as if the air has suddenly become insufficient.
“I was never there,” I add, my throat tightening. “I never got to say goodbye. I never saw the body. I only received the news.”
He looks at me now as if I’ve crossed something irreversible. As if I’ve spoken a truth too large to fit within four walls.
“Why are you telling me this?” he asks. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“Because you asked why he looks like you.” I take another step. Now we’re dangerously close.
“Because he is you.”
He lets out a broken, nervous laugh that convinces no one — least of all himself.
“No.”
“You were born with that white streak in every life,” I continue, with a cruel softness. “Always in the same place. Always the same.”
“Enough!” he shouts, his voice echoing off the walls. “This is a lie!”
“You don’t sleep with your back to the door.” My voice is low, steady.
“You react before you think. Your body remembers things your mind still can’t reach.”
He squeezes his eyes shut, as if trying to crush the truth inside his own head.
“You’re trying to break me.”
“I’m trying to tell you the truth.”
He points toward the box on the table, his hand shaking now without any attempt to hide it.
“And that?” He swallows hard. “Why did you keep all of this?”
The answer hurts. But it doesn’t hesitate.
“Because before I died in that life, I buried that box.”
His eyes open slowly. “What?”
“I buried everything I lived with him.”
My gaze locks onto his. There’s no escape there.
“So that if I came back, I could find it again.”
He drags his hands over his face, breathing far too fast now, like he’s on the verge of losing control.
“That’s sick!”
“That’s memory!”
He steps back, grabs his helmet with force, as if it’s the only solid thing left in the world.
“I don’t believe this,” he says, his voice fractured, almost pleading for something stable to hold onto. “I don’t believe in destiny. Or reincarnation. Or you.”
He stops by the window.
For a moment, I think he’s going to leave without another word. But then his voice slips out — low, vulnerable, barely audible.
“And if… if this is true?”
The question comes out soft, almost swallowed by the silence of the apartment.
My chest tightens, but I don’t answer right away. Some things don’t need to be spoken aloud to be understood. I just look at him, letting the weight of doubt find its place inside him.
He grips the helmet like an anchor, something to keep him in the present. He takes a step toward the window, then another, still hesitating — as if part of him wants to run while another part is still trapped there, in that moment.
Before he leaves, he doesn’t look back. The window closes. Silence fills everything again.
I stay where I am, unmoving, feeling the echo of what was said — and what wasn’t. I don’t know when he’ll return. I don’t know what he’ll do with what he heard. But I know something has shifted.
There are questions that, once asked, never fall silent again.
Timeless.
Jason Todd x female reader!
Part two!, Part three coming soon!! (:
𝜗ৎ Summary: Strangely, you remember all your past lives. You don't know why, or how it's possible—you just know. And in all of them, without exception, you and Jason are destined to meet. But fate isn't always kind. Because even though you meet in every life, you don't get to be together in all of them.
𝜗ৎ: English is not my first language. I worked hard on the first chapter, I hope you like it. It won't be a long series, at most two more parts. It involves past lives and soulmates. Loosely based on Taylor Swift's song Timeless. I think that's it.
I don’t know how it’s possible for someone to remember all of their past lives. It should be forbidden. A flaw in the universe. A punishment reserved for those who dared to love too much.
To suffer for a life that no longer belongs to you. To cry over places that no longer exist. To miss people who have already turned to dust.
There is no return. There is no choice. You died.
And yet… I remembered.
I remembered every smallest detail, as if time itself had failed only with me. The colors, the smells, the weight of the air before every goodbye. I remembered every death that followed me like a patient shadow, always waiting. I remembered every hand I let go of, every pair of eyes that closed while I stayed behind — or left first.
I remembered all the happiness too. And maybe that was the worst part.
Because happiness hurts when you know it doesn’t last. I remembered everything.
But there was one memory that never faded. One presence that crossed centuries and always found me, no matter how different the world was.
Him.
Edward, with the serious smile and the silent promise of protection.
Lorenzo, who taught me that art can also be a form of prayer.
Julien, who loved me in a language that no longer exists.
And finally, my Alaric — with war‑weary eyes and a love that didn’t fit into the time we were given. My last.
Different names. Different manners. The same face. The same soul.
The love of my life, repeated in every life we lived together.
Those were his names in my past lives. The names I whispered before dying. The names I carried with me into nothingness — and back.
The name he carries in this life… I still don’t know.
And that haunts me.
Because he is hard to find. Too hard. As if fate were playing with me, hiding him among billions of ordinary faces. I’ve searched everywhere: in train stations, in overcrowded cafés, in glances that almost recognized mine.
I’ve searched in voices that made my heart race for no reason. In hands that almost felt right.
I know our meeting is supposed to be natural. It always was.
I never had to look before. He simply appeared — as if the world adjusted itself around that.
But I can’t let it happen the way it did in 1944.
Our last life. The shortest. The cruelest.
The most painful of all.
Because that time, I found him too late to live everything we were allowed to live.
And I lost him too fast.
And that is a memory I cannot allow myself to relive.
⸻
1944
“I’ll come back to you, my love. I promise.”
Alaric said it with a smile that always tried to hide the fear.
He wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me close, as if that embrace could protect me from the world — or maybe protect himself from the idea of leaving. I buried my face in his chest for a moment, breathing him in deeply, trying to save that scent like something far too precious to lose.
“You can’t make promises you don’t know you can keep, Ric.”
My voice broke. I lifted my hand to the small white streak in his hair, fixing it carefully. I wanted to memorize every single feature of his face. Every line, every detail. Before he left to fight for us.
In that damned war.
“My love…” He cupped my face with both hands, forcing me to look at him. “When I swore to protect you and love you in all my lives, at that altar where we get married… in that place where I promised you loyalty, respect, and love…”
He took a deep breath, as if the words weighed too much.
“I also promised I would always come back to you. Even if it had to be in another life.”
His eyes searched mine, almost pleading. He needed me to believe. He needed that promise to be real for both of us.
And I did.
I always knew we would find each other in another life. I always knew. That certainty had always followed me — quiet, firm. But Alaric… my Alaric. God. The idea of losing him in that life was unbearable.
“Come back to me. Please.”
I almost begged, wrapping him in a desperate embrace. My body trembled, sobs slipping out without control. I broke there, in his arms, pretending this wasn’t goodbye.
“I promise, my love.”
He pressed his forehead against mine.
“I will come back to you. I always do.”
The kiss he left on my forehead was chaste, slow, heavy with everything we didn’t have time to say.
And then he stepped away.
And left.
—
2005
Maybe I already knew I wouldn’t see him again in that life.
That I wouldn’t feel his touch, his steady hands, his quiet care again. That I wouldn’t hear his promises whispered as if the world were kind enough to keep them.
Maybe I knew I wouldn’t have him anymore. Maybe I just didn’t want to believe it.
Because admitting that meant accepting that, for the first time, he didn’t come back.
And that was the promise that hurt the most to break.
When I learned of Alaric’s death, everything around me shifted out of place. The air grew too heavy to breathe. The world tilted, as if nothing were solid anymore.
I wanted to die with him. Or at least stop existing right then.
—
1944
I heard a knock at the door.
It was a simple sound. Ordinary. Almost too polite to carry a tragedy. Still, something inside me tightened. My heart raced before I even took the first step. I knew. My body knew. Even if my mind insisted on denial.
I opened the door.
A soldier stood there. The uniform too neat, posture rigid, eyes exhausted. He avoided looking at me, as if the floor were safer than what he had to say.
“Hello, ma’am… you’re Alaric’s wife, right?”
I nodded silently, unable to form words.
He extended his hand, hesitant. “I’m Nicholas. It’s a pleasure.”
It wasn’t.
He paused for too long. Swallowed hard. I saw the exact moment he decided to speak, even knowing there was no gentle way to do it.
And then I understood why he was there.
“Alaric… unfortunately passed away, ma’am.”
The words hit like gunshots. Each one opening a hole inside me.
“He died fighting for all of us. But especially for you.” The soldier finally looked up, and something was broken there too.
“We all knew how much he loved you. He never hid it.”
He removed his cap, holding it against his chest, as if that gesture could express a grief that didn’t fit into words.
That’s when I shattered.
I didn’t cry.
I didn’t scream.
I didn’t fall.
It was worse.
Something inside me simply gave way. As if an essential piece had been torn out, leaving only a cold emptiness behind.
“He left this for you.” Nicholas extended a letter. His hands trembled slightly.
“He wrote it before going into battle.”
The paper felt far too heavy to be just paper. As if it carried the last piece of him still existing in the world.
The soldier stayed there, not knowing what to do, what to say. And I didn’t know how to react either.
I wanted Alaric there. Because I knew I was going to break.
But I would break anyway.
Not because of the letter. Not because of the soldier. I would break because of his absence. Because of the promise that couldn’t be kept.
—
2005
I still have that letter.
It survived time, change, death. It survived me. A little before I died in that life, I already knew I would. It wasn’t a surprise or an accident. It was just… the end. Five years after Alaric’s death, when I was no longer the person he left behind.
Before leaving, I buried it.
I chose a safe place. A place no one would look for, but one I would know how to find. I did it with a strange, almost absurd certainty: I would return. And when I did, I would remember. Everything. The lives, the pain, the loves — especially him.
And that’s exactly what happened.
I came back.
And I remembered.
I dug up the letter with trembling hands, as if touching something sacred. The paper was no longer young, but it endured. And now, resting in my hand, it weighs more than it should. Not because of its material, but because of what it carries.
That letter is a reminder.
A warning. A promise. A scar.
It reminds me that I cannot allow what happened to Alaric and me in my past life to happen again. That I cannot wait. That I cannot trust time or chance alone, like I did before.
I need to find him again.
I need to feel that love that crossed wars, names, and deaths. I need to remember what it was like to be whole beside him. I need to fight for us, the way he did — even when the world was falling apart.
This time, I will do everything to last.
Because Alaric and I — or whatever name he carries in this life, a name I still don’t know — deserve more than interrupted endings. We deserve the love that was denied to us so many times.
And I won’t let fate decide alone again.
This time, I choose us.
⸻
“My love,
If you’re reading this, then I failed to come back to you. And that’s the only thing that truly frightens me.
I died fighting for us, yes, but no battle was harder than the idea of leaving you behind. There are nights when the sound of war fades, and all that remains is your name echoing in my head. I repeat it like a prayer, as if that could keep me alive one more day.
There wasn’t a single second, not one, when you weren’t with me. I think of you when I wake up. I think of you when I close my eyes. I think of you when I believe that moment might be my last. You’re in every part of me, even here, even now, even with everything falling apart.
You were the great love of my life.
There was no one before you. There will be no one after. Loving you was the only certainty I had in the middle of so much chaos.
If I don’t return in this life, please don’t think it means I abandoned you. I would never do that. Some souls simply get lost along the way… but they always find each other again.
I promise to look for you in other lives.
Even if I don’t remember your face.
Even if I have another name.
Even if the world is completely different.
I will feel you. I always do.
And when we meet again, I will love you with the same urgency, the same desperation — as if I knew, deep down, that time is never on our side.
Be strong for both of us, my love. Live. Breathe. Keep existing, even when it hurts. Because somehow, in a way I still can’t explain, that means I continue to exist too.
If there is an after, wait for me.
If there is another life, recognize me.
If there is a choice, I will always choose you.
I love you more than this life was capable of holding.
Forever yours,
Alaric.”
⸻
Gotham wasn’t easy. I arrived here just a year ago, and yet it already feels like the worst decision of my life. It’s not just that it’s a bad city.
It is, obviously, a bad city.
But it’s not just that. It’s everything. You don’t live in Gotham — you survive.
After a while, I understood why this city is full of vigilantes. Chaos forces heroes into existence. Fear pushes ordinary people to the edge of the impossible.
I could become one of them. My past lives have given me too much knowledge: fighting styles that no longer exist, techniques erased by time, movements no one else can learn. I know how to hurt. I know how to win.
But that kind of thing isn’t for me.
Vigilantes need passion. Fire in their chest. A reason strong enough to justify every sleepless night and every open wound. I leave that to those who still believe.
For an ordinary person — someone who doesn’t carry past lives whispering answers — learning self-defense isn’t a choice. It’s survival. Especially in Gotham.
In my case, it wasn’t fear that brought me here. It was work. A rare, almost irresistible opportunity. One of those jobs that comes disguised as a promise: professional growth, recognition, a salary good enough to make you ignore the silent warning at the back of your mind. I accepted it before I even thought about what Gotham would demand in return.
Being a doctor has never been easy. And Gotham makes sure to remind you of that every day.
Vigilantes deal with the city’s chaos on the streets, in the alleys, on rooftops. They face the noise, the violence, the visible monsters. We, doctors, deal with what’s left. With broken bodies. With pain that doesn’t make the news. With the consequences that chaos — and sometimes the vigilantes themselves — leaves behind.
Working at Gotham Hospital is a constant test of endurance. Every shift is a gamble. You never know what will come through those automatic doors: impossible injuries, interrupted stories, people who arrived too late. We’re never really prepared. We just keep going.
It’s exhausting. The kind of tired that doesn’t go away with a few hours of sleep. But despite everything, I like helping. I like the idea of restoring something that’s been broken, of giving breath back to someone who almost lost everything.
I like not letting people die. Even when I fail.
Like what happened with Alaric.
—
It’s past midnight when I finally leave the hospital. The corridor’s white lights stay behind, along with the smell of antiseptic and dried blood that never leaves my clothes, no matter how many times I wash them. My body feels heavy. Every muscle complains. The kind of exhaustion that isn’t just physical.
My apartment is nearby. Three blocks. Close enough that I don’t need a taxi, long enough to give me a few minutes of silence. Walking is usually the only part of the day when no one needs me.
Sometimes, I forget where I am. The lapse lasts only a moment.
The alley is narrow and poorly lit, shadows gathering in the corners as if they had a life of their own. I take two steps inside when the world drops.
A body falls from above with a dull, violent thud, knocking the air out of my lungs without even touching me. The sound echoes off the brick walls, too heavy to ignore. I freeze.
Red Hood.
The helmet stands out even in the dimness, the wrong color amidst Gotham’s dirty gray. My heart races. I’ve heard that name before — in whispers, in poorly told stories, always accompanied by fear and fascination. A new vigilante. Not exactly a hero. A man who doesn’t follow rules, who doesn’t pretend to be better than the city he lives in.
They say he uses guns.
They say Batman doesn’t approve.
For a moment, I think about stepping back. Pretending I didn’t see. Just walking away. In Gotham, that’s almost an instinct for survival.
But I can’t.
Because first and foremost, I’m a doctor. And doctors don’t choose who deserves help. Rumors don’t matter. The invisible blood someone might carry doesn’t matter.
Even if he were a serial killer, even if he were everything they say… I would still have to try.
I approach slowly, the sound of my breathing too loud in the alley’s silence. He’s big. Heavy. Too still for my liking. I kneel beside him, my knees touching the cold asphalt, trying to ignore the fear crawling up my spine.
Then the shots ring out.
From above. Close enough to make my stomach clench. Dry. Real. Someone is still there. There’s still danger.
That’s why he fell.
I swallow hard and look around, my brain running faster than my tired body. I think about how to get him out of there. How to drag that enormous man out of the alley. How to do it alone, while someone fires from above.
It seems impossible.
But abandoning someone who’s hurt has never been an option.
Never.
For a few seconds, I just stare at the body on the ground, as if it’s too heavy even for thought. He’s big, wide, solid, too solid for someone who fell from that height. My exhaustion screams, reminding me I just finished an endless shift. This isn’t how I imagined ending the night.
I take a deep breath. Once. Twice.
I can’t leave him here.
I touch his shoulder carefully, more to test my own courage than to wake him. No reaction. The red helmet stays still, pointing at nothing. He’s alive — I know that by the barely perceptible rise and fall of his chest — but not for long if he keeps bleeding like that.
I place my hands under his shoulders and try to lift him. The weight pulls me forward, letting out a muffled groan from my throat. He’s too heavy. Much heavier than I expected. My arms tremble, muscles protesting, and I almost give up before I even start.
“Damn it…” I murmur, more to myself than to him.
I change strategy.
I slide one of his arms over my shoulder, feeling the dead weight settle against me. The smell of gunpowder and metal hits my nose. I hold tight on the side of his vest, using everything I’ve learned about leverage, not strength. Counting in my head.
One. Two. Three.
I pull.
My knee slips on the asphalt, my spine complains, but he comes off the ground with a low, heavy thud, leaning almost entirely on me. The impact takes my breath for a second. His weight bends me to the side, and for a moment, I think I’ll fall with him.
But I don’t.
I grit my teeth and start dragging him, step by step, my feet scraping the ground, every meter gained by sheer force. The sound of his body being pulled across the asphalt is too loud, too revealing. My heart races, matching the distant rhythm of the shots above us.
He moans, a low, unconscious sound, and that gives me enough energy to keep going.
“Hang on…” I whisper, not sure if I’m talking to him or to myself.
When I finally reach the alley exit, my arms are burning, my legs trembling, my breath coming in gasps. I let him slide carefully against the wall, supporting his back against the cold bricks. My hands are dirty with blood — his.
Getting to my apartment feels like an eternity.
Every step is calculated effort, every block conquered through sheer stubbornness. His weight remains crushing, hanging on me like an anchor. My arms no longer burn — they ache, on a deeper, more dangerous level. But I keep going. Because stopping would mean thinking. And thinking now isn’t an option.
The building facade appears at the end of the street like a fragile promise of safety. It’s nothing special. Old, dimly lit, the kind Gotham forgot to tear down. My hands shake as I search for the key in my pocket, trying not to let him slip completely.
The door finally yields.
The internal hallway smells of mold and old dust. The silence inside feels too strange after the street’s noise. I almost thank that no one appears, no one asks questions. I drag him upstairs, step by step, stopping more times than I want to admit. He feels heavier with every flight. Or maybe I’m just getting weaker.
When I reach my apartment, my legs are about to fail.
I open the door with my shoulder and practically pull him inside, leaving Gotham’s world behind. I close the door with my foot, the latch’s sound echoing too loudly in the small space.
My apartment is simple. Small. Safe enough for someone who doesn’t expect visitors — much less a wounded vigilante.
I lead him to the living room, tripping over the rug. The sofa appears ahead as the only possible option. I hold his arm better, adjust my position, and carefully — more carefully than my tired body wants — let him fall onto the cushions.
The impact is controlled, but still heavy. The sofa sinks under his weight.
For a second, I stay there, bent over him, trying to catch my breath. My chest rises and falls too quickly. My hands are still clinging to his jacket, as if letting go would mean admitting what I just did.
I brought Red Hood into my home.
Finally, I step back. Then another.
The dim light in the room reveals details more clearly: the scratched red of the helmet, the damaged vest, dark blood stains that weren’t mine a few minutes ago. He’s still, breathing, but vulnerable in a way I never imagined seeing a vigilante.
I run a hand over my face, feeling the weight of the choice fall on me.
“Alright…” I murmur to the empty room. “Let’s see the damage.”
And for the first time since I arrived in Gotham, I’m certain of one thing:
This night is far from over.
I pause for a few seconds, just watching the irregular rhythm of his breathing, as if it gives me permission to continue. Then I move. On autopilot. On the instinct that has never abandoned me.
I go to the bathroom and return with what I have on hand: a clean towel, gauze, a small bottle of antiseptic forgotten in the cabinet, scissors definitely not made for this. It’s not a hospital. Far from it. But it will have to do.
I kneel before the sofa and begin slowly.
I take off the jacket first, pulling carefully so as not to worsen whatever is underneath. The fabric gives, heavy, stuck in some spots. The metallic smell grows stronger. My jaw tightens automatically, professional. I’ve seen worse. Much worse.
“Don’t die now,” I murmur, not knowing why I speak. “Not after giving me so much trouble.”
I cut the shirt with the scissors, opening a path to assess the injuries. There are darkening bruises forming, impact marks, and bleeding along the flank that makes me inhale sharply before touching. Nothing catastrophic. Nothing I can’t handle for now.
I press the gauze against the wound, firm, steady. He stirs under my hands, a low groan escaping from his chest. He’s unconscious, but he feels. Always feels.
“I know,” I say softly. “It’s over now.”
I wipe the blood with precise movements, almost too gentle for someone like him. The contrast hits me hard: the man Gotham fears is now vulnerable on my sofa, depending on tired hands to keep breathing.
When the antiseptic touches the skin, he reacts again, body tensing for a second before relaxing. I instinctively hold his shoulder, firm enough to anchor him to the present.
“Stay with me,” I whisper.
I bandage the wound as best I can, adjusting pressure, making sure he isn’t bleeding more than he should. Then I move to the other injuries: superficial cuts, abrasions, old fall marks. He carries the body of someone who hasn’t rested in a long time.
When I finish, my hands are stained, my back aches, and the room’s silence feels different. Heavier. More real.
I sit on the floor, leaning against the sofa, breathing deeply for the first time since the alley. I look at him again, now a little more stable, a little less on the edge of the abyss.
I did everything I could.
—
I wake with a sore body and the strange feeling of being in the wrong place.
The sofa greets me back to consciousness with the delicacy of a punishment. My neck aches, my back stiff, and for a moment I forget why I didn’t wake up in my bed. Then the memory hits all at once, heavy, unavoidable.
Red Hood.
I turn my head slowly. He’s still there, lying on the other sofa — or rather, on my sofa — exactly where I left him. The helmet remains in place, intact. I didn’t remove it. I wanted to. I thought about it more times than I should have during the whole night. But I didn’t.
I spent the whole night awake, sitting in the chair, watching every breath, every tiny movement. Waiting for him to wake. Waiting for something to go wrong.
Nothing did.
Now, the weak morning sun filters through the curtain slits, illuminating the improvised mess from the night before: used gauze, stained towels, a forgotten cup of coffee on the table. Proof that this wasn’t a delirium caused by exhaustion.
I sit down slowly, trying not to make a sound.
That’s when he moves.
The movement is too sudden. A spasm, then tension. Within seconds, he’s partially upright, body rigid, hand going straight to where a weapon should be — but isn’t. The helmet turns toward me.
“Where am I?” The voice is hoarse, harsh, loaded with distrust.
“At my place,” I answer, keeping my tone low. Calm. “You were hurt.”
He tries to get up fully, fails, and lets out an irritated sound. He brings his hand to the bandaged flank, fingers pressing the dressing as if assessing the damage.
“Great,” he growls. “Now, on top of being shot, I’ve been kidnapped.”
I take a deep breath.
“You fell in my alley,” I say, crossing my arms. “I got you out before you took another bullet. If this is kidnapping, you can leave as soon as you can stand without falling.”
He tilts his head, the helmet reflecting the morning light, studying me like I’m a delayed threat. The silence is heavy.
“You touched me,” he says, accusation clear in his voice.
“I’m a doctor.” I shrug. “You were bleeding.”
“You didn’t take the helmet off?” he snaps, dryly.
“I didn’t,” I reply immediately. “Though I was curious.”
That seems to irritate him even more.
“So why am I awake here?”
I give a tired half-smile, without humor.
“Because I don’t let people die on the asphalt.”
He stays silent for a few seconds, chest rising and falling with more control now. Then he lets out a short, bitter laugh.
“Bad habit in Gotham.”
“I know,” I answer. “But it’s mine.”
He leans back on the sofa again, clearly frustrated, body still tense, ready to flee or attack if needed.
“As soon as I can walk,” he says, “I’m gone from your life.”
I tilt my head, staring at him firmly.
“Good,” I reply. “Believe me, that wasn’t in my plans either.”
The silence that follows is not comfortable.
I get up slowly, feeling every muscle protest as if being woken up by force along with me. Stretching my back helps a little. Enough to keep functioning.
“I’m going to get up,” I announce, more by reflex than courtesy.
I take a few steps to the small kitchen integrated into the living room. The cold floor beneath my feet brings me back to the present. I open the fridge and look at the contents with the same expression I wear after a long shift: evaluating options that are clearly not ideal.
Milk. Eggs. Bread. Nothing inspiring.
I turn my gaze toward him, leaning my hip against the counter.
“Want something to eat?” I ask, simple. “I don’t have many options, but I can improvise something for breakfast.”
The silence lasts a second longer than necessary.
“No,” he replies, too dry, too fast. “I don’t eat in places I don’t know.”
I raise an eyebrow, unsurprised.
“Alright,” I say. “But you spent the night bleeding on my sofa, so I guess the safety criterion has already been half ignored.”
He lets out a low, impatient sound.
“I’ll leave as soon as I can.”
“I know,” I reply, opening the cabinet and grabbing a mug anyway. “Still, food helps. Especially when you’ve lost blood.”
I put water to boil, more to give something to my hands than out of real insistence. The soft sound of the stove fills the space between us.
“I won’t force you,” I add, not looking at him. “Just thought it polite to ask.”
He doesn’t respond immediately. I feel the weight of his gaze through the helmet, evaluating, measuring, suspicious even of the most banal gesture.
“…What is it?” he finally asks.
I glance quickly over my shoulder.
“Coffee. Bread. Eggs. Nothing that will poison you. I promise.”
Another silence.
“Coffee,” he says finally. Short. Almost begrudging.
I nod, as if preparing coffee for an armed vigilante sitting on my sofa were the most normal thing in the world.
“Already a start,” I murmur.
The coffee is ready too quickly.
The smell spreads through the small, warm apartment, almost out of place after everything that happened inside. I fill two mugs, knowing he might not touch his. I carry one carefully to the sofa, as if any sudden movement could undo that fragile balance.
I extend the mug toward him.
“Slowly,” I warn. “It’s hot.”
He hesitates before taking it. The gloved fingers wrap around the ceramic for a second, as if assessing if it’s real. Then he accepts it. Doesn’t thank me. But doesn’t refuse either.
I step back and lean against the counter, watching as he brings the mug closer to the helmet. Pauses. Sighs, irritated with himself.
“This is going to be complicated,” he murmurs.
“Usually is,” I reply.
The silence stretches as he thinks. I see the exact moment he decides. His shoulders relax a little. Just a little.
“Turn around,” he says, firm.
I tilt my head, surprised by the request.
“I will,” I reply. “But not out of curiosity. Out of respect.”
I turn, facing the kitchen wall. I hear the dry click of clasps being undone, the slight friction of the helmet being removed. I don’t turn. Don’t peek. I count to ten in my head, as if necessary.
“You can turn,” he says.
When I do, the red helmet is resting beside him on the sofa.
But the face isn’t fully exposed yet.
A simple black domino mask covers his eyes, subtle, discreet, almost antique. The kind of thing that doesn’t attract attention — exactly the opposite of the helmet.
For a moment, my brain tries to reconcile the two images: the violent symbol Gotham fears, and the wounded man holding a coffee mug in my living room.
“I thought you’d take everything off,” I say, without judgment. Just observation.
“This is all,” he replies, taking a small sip of coffee. “The rest isn’t your business.”
I shrug. “Fair enough.”
He watches me over the rim of the mug, eyes now visible, alert, assessing every detail of me as if mapping nonexistent threats.
“You could’ve taken it off,” he says, quietly. “While I was out.”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you?”
The answer comes too easily.
“Because you didn’t ask. And because I didn’t need to see your face to save your life.”
He falls silent. Eyes drop to the mug for a second, then return to me.
“Good coffee,” he comments, almost begrudgingly.
A corner of my mouth moves, a half-smile that never fully forms. “I told you it’s all I had.”
He takes another, longer sip this time, body relaxing a bit more against the sofa.
And for the first time since he fell from the sky into my path, he seems… human.
Even hidden behind a mask. The coffee cools before I notice.
He sits on the sofa, the helmet beside him, the domino mask still covering his eyes. Morning light slants through the window, illuminating tiny things too small to matter. Dust. Crumbs. The world pretending to be normal.
Then I see his hair.
It’s not immediate. Not dramatic. Just a detail out of place. An old mistake too persistent to be coincidence.
A wide white streak, cutting through the dark without asking permission.
My body reacts before my mind.
The tightening in my chest, dry, familiar. It wasn’t surprise. It was recognition. Like hearing a song you haven’t listened to in centuries and still knowing every lyric.
He notices my silence.
“What is it?” he asks, this time without aggression. Just alert.
I shake my head slowly.
“Nothing.”
Lie.
I move a little closer, pretending to check the bandage, anything to justify my eyes staying on him. The white streak is there. Real. Defiant.
“You were born with that?” I ask, too casually for someone falling apart inside.
He gives a crooked half-smile.
“Yes,” he says. “Always been there.”
Of course it had. I swallow hard.
“I met someone…” I start, then stop. Breathe deeply. Start again. “I met someone who had exactly the same thing.”
He lifts his gaze to me. Attentive.
“Someone important.”
Not a question.
“They were.” I answer. “A long time ago.”
He furrows his brow slightly, as if trying to measure the sentence.
“The way you talk, it sounds like that was in another life.”
The world didn’t fall. But something inside me smiled.
“Maybe it was.”
The silence settles, dense but not hostile. He takes another sip of coffee, watching me over the rim.
“You talk about the past like it’s still walking around.”
“Sometimes it is,” I say. “Just with another name. Another life. Another fight.”
He lets out a low, humorless laugh. “You’re weird.”
“I know.”
He sets the mug on the table, fingers tapping once on the ceramic, restless.
“And this someone you met…” he hesitates. “Did you lose them?”
My gaze drops to the white streak again.
“Many times.”
Something changes in the air.
He looks away first, as if that answer touched something too sensitive.
“Funny…” he murmurs. “I’ve always felt like I’ve lived too much for someone my age.”
My heart races.
“Some souls don’t know when to stop,” I reply. “They insist. Even when they shouldn’t.”
He stays silent. Long. Heavy. As if hearing something not coming from me.
“Whoever that guy was,” he finally says, “I’m sorry.”
I lift my gaze to him.
“Don’t be.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Why not?”
“Because, somehow,” I say, choosing each word, “he always finds his way back.”
He stares at me for a few seconds. Intently. As if trying to recognize me without knowing from where.
“You talk like you’re sure of that.”
And I was.
“I am.”
He rises slowly, body still rigid, and walks to where the helmet is. Picks it up, turning it over in his hands, thoughtful.
“You should be careful with that kind of certainty,” he says. “Gotham swallows people like that.”
“I survived worse,” I reply.
He puts the helmet on, but before fully securing it, hesitates.
“Doctor…” he begins, then stops. “I don’t know why, but… being here feels wrong.”
My chest tightens. “Wrong how?”
“Like I’m late for something,” he says. “Or too early.”
I smile. Small. Painful.
“That’s how it always starts.”
He doesn’t ask what I mean.
He adjusts the helmet under his arm and heads for the door as if he’d already decided to go, but his body hasn’t caught up. He opens it, letting the cold hallway in, and then stops.
“Hey.”
I turn immediately.
He isn’t looking at me directly. Looking at the floor, the doorframe, anything but me.
“Thanks,” he says. “For what you did yesterday.”
I nod slowly. Still too strange inside to respond quickly. Knowing who he was — who he always had been — made everything a bit out of focus, like I was seeing the present with eyes too old.
“You were hurt,” I bite my lower lip. “That was it, or leaving you there.”
He lets out a short breath through his nose.
“Most would have left.”
We stay silent for a few seconds. Not uncomfortable, but not easy either. Just… awkward.
“Take care,” I say, before I can think better.
The words come out simple. Weightless. Without speech.
He lifts his gaze immediately, visibly confused. “Take care?”
“Yes.” I shrug, trying to look normal. “You’re not indestructible.”
He studies me a moment longer than necessary. “Strange for you to say that.”
“Why?”
“Because you speak like you’re sure.”
I don’t answer. No need.
He looks away first.
“Anyway,” he says, securing the helmet. “I wasn’t supposed to stay here this long.”
“I know.”
He opens the door fully.
“Still…” he hesitates. “Thanks.”
I nod again. “Go carefully,” I repeat, quieter now.
He stops in the hallway, turning only his head toward me. “Do you always talk like this to strangers?”
I think for half a second. “Only to the ones who matter.”
That catches him off guard. You can see it.
“Hm,” he murmurs. “Then I better not get used to it.”
“Yes,” I reply. “Better not.”
He lingers for one more second, as if wanting to say something but not knowing what. Then he gives a brief nod and walks down the hallway.
I close the door slowly. Lean my back against it.
And I stayed there, breathing, with the quiet certainty in my chest that he had found my concern strange — not because he didn’t deserve it, but because he still didn’t remember what it was like to be loved.
Again.
I went to the sink, washed my hands slowly. The smell of antiseptic was still on them. Always stayed. Some things don’t come off easily, even after years. Even after other lives.
Alaric came back like this in memory. Not as love, not as tragedy. As fact.
The same man, the same soul, making the same mistakes with an almost irritating insistence. Always drawn to conflict. Always convinced he had to carry everything alone. Always uncomfortable when someone got too close.
Red Hood was no exception. He was continuation.
I leaned on the counter, looking at my reflection in the window glass. I looked calm. I was calm. There was no shock, no denial. I had known who he was from the moment I saw him bleeding on the alley floor.
That wasn’t the surprise.
The surprise was realizing that, this time, I didn’t want to watch.
In other lives, I had waited. I had been cautious. I had respected danger, time, the “don’t get involved.” And it always ended the same way: too late.
Now, no.
Entering his life wouldn’t be safe. That was obvious. Gotham didn’t offer space for clean relationships, and he was practically made of risk. But I was no longer naive enough to confuse danger with reason to step back.
I knew what I was choosing. It wasn’t heroism. It wasn’t romance. It was strategy.
If I wanted to keep him alive — whole, or as close to it as possible — I couldn’t stay on the sidelines. I needed to be close enough to be real. Present enough to not be disposable.
Winning him over wouldn’t be a matter of pretty words or promises. Never was. It would be constancy. Time. Staying when he tried to push away.
I had done that before.
Only, this time, without leaving in the end.
I grabbed my jacket, checked my phone, and turned off the kitchen light.
Red Hood thought he walked alone.
He was going to find out, little by little, that he didn’t anymore. And I knew exactly how to enter his life without asking for permission.
Your grumpy little brother-in-law loves you.
Jason Todd x reader! + Damian Wayne x platonic reader!
🌿Summary: You seem to be the only person that Damian Wayne, your grumpy little brother-in-law, seems to want around.
🌿: English is not my first language. This is so cute and I loved doing it, just a happy (and maybe slightly dysfunctional) family.
When Damian was born, Jason and I had already been dating for almost a year. Even so, nothing could have prepared us for the chaos that came with his arrival. Wayne Manor had never felt so alive — and so loud. All the batboys were in a complete state of panic, pacing back and forth, arguing over absurdly small details as if the world would end if anything went wrong.
It was almost funny how badly they wanted everything to be perfect for the newest member of the family.
Jason, in particular, took the mission to a nearly dangerous level. He almost got into a fight with his brothers because he wanted to be the only one helping to set up Damian’s room. He didn’t accept suggestions, help, or even anyone else’s presence. In the end, he got his way — but not before threatening nearly everyone, saying he’d pistol-whip anyone who tried to take that moment away from him.
When Damian was finally born, everything seemed to go quiet for a moment.
He was the most beautiful baby I had ever seen in my life. Small, delicate, with features far too striking for someone so new to the world. It wasn’t exactly surprising, considering that beauty seemed to be a hereditary trait in that family, but still… there was something about him that held your gaze.
In the first few months, Jason and I went to Wayne Manor almost every day. Always carrying bags full of gifts, toys, and things he didn’t even know how to use yet. Damian seemed to enjoy the attention, as if he knew exactly when all eyes were on him. Even as a newborn, he gave off the strange impression that he understood everything around him — quietly observing, far too aware for his age.
Now, Jason and I are standing in front of the manor’s entrance, about to walk into Damian’s second birthday party.
In just two years, he went from being a quiet baby to an adorable little boy… or almost adorable. Damian never liked being picked up or showered with kisses by just anyone. He always made it very clear when something bothered him. I vividly remember a time when one of Dick’s friends tried to grab him without warning. Within seconds, Damian grabbed the TV remote and hit her square in the head.
For a few seconds, no one knew exactly what to do.
Laughing felt wrong. Apologizing did too.
After all, there stood a grumpy little mini-man, setting his boundaries loud and clear from a very early age.
Still, there was something that always surprised everyone in the family: Damian had grown attached to me. Not just anyone received his hugs, his affection, or his rare smiles. Not even his own father seemed to get as much affection as I did. When Damian wanted to be held, it was my name he called. When he was tired or irritated, it was with me that he calmed down.
Don’t ask me where that child got so much personality.
All I know is that, from the moment he was born, Damian always knew exactly who he was — and who he would allow to stay close.
When we walked into the manor, everything was decorated in shades of red and black, with a few touches of yellow scattered here and there. Everything looked impeccable — beautiful, even luxurious, considering the celebration was meant to be just for family. Bruce always preferred to celebrate moments like that in a more intimate way, far from big events.
As soon as Damian saw me walk in, the scene was almost comical.
He had a scowl on his face, staring at Tim, who was desperately trying to get at least one smile out of him for the picture. Nothing worked. Damian remained serious, clearly annoyed by all the attention. But the moment his little eyes landed on me, everything changed. His grumpy expression melted away and, as if by magic, he broke into a huge, ear-to-ear smile.
Tim looked confused for a few seconds before turning toward me. When he saw me, he rolled his eyes, immediately understanding the reason behind the sudden smile.
“OH MY GOD! HE’S SMILING!” Tim shouted, drawing everyone’s attention.
All eyes turned to Damian.
Dick was the first to react. He pointed at me and made a desperate gesture for me not to move.
“Stay right there! We need pictures of this grumpy kid smiling,” he said, nearly panicked.
“That’s it, look at your muse and smile,” Tim joked, camera already in hand, snapping several photos in a row.
Beside me, Jason scoffed, but he couldn’t hide his smile.
“Babe… sometimes I think there’s a man in this world more in love with you than I am, when I see the way Damian looks at you.” He wrapped an arm around my waist and kissed my cheek. “But then I remember that’s impossible.”
Damian’s smile stayed right there — firm, proud — as if he knew exactly the effect he had, and as if he were perfectly satisfied being the center of attention, as long as I was nearby.
As soon as we got closer, Damian immediately stretched his little arms toward me, asking to be picked up. He mumbled something that sounded like “sister” in his tangled baby language, pulling an automatic smile from me.
“Hey, man… I’m here too. An ‘hi’ would be nice, since you don’t seem to notice me at all,” Jason complained, gently grabbing Damian’s tiny hand and shaking it a little.
Before I could respond, a voice came from behind Jason, making us jump slightly.
“Man, I think Damian’s going to try to steal your girl when he gets older,” Barbara said. She hadn’t appeared until then.
Jason immediately crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes at the mini-man now settled comfortably in my arms.
“I’m gonna kill him, the little son of a bitch.”
“Jason! Watch your language!” I scolded him seriously, giving his chest a firm slap.
He pointed at Damian, completely offended.
“See? This little brat is already causing problems in my relationship.”
Damian, meanwhile, just laughed. He seemed not to care about Jason at all — or maybe he cared a little too much. As soon as Jason finished talking, Damian lifted his tiny hand, cupped my cheek, and kissed it. A completely slobbery, ridiculously adorable kiss.
I looked at Jason.
He was standing there, jaw dropped, utterly indignant and speechless.
When Damian pulled back, leaving my cheek completely covered in drool, he turned to Jason and stuck out his tongue with a triumphant grin.
For a few seconds, there was silence.
Then everyone burst out laughing, completely surprised by the little one’s bold attitude.
“You motherfucker… I’ll let you grow up and then—” Jason started, but was immediately cut off.
“Jason!” I shot him a deadly look.
And that only made the laughter grow even louder, while Damian snuggled into my arms, clearly pleased with the chaos he had caused.
One Step at a Time
Dick Grayson x female reader!
🪼 Summary: Dick finally decides to come back and regain the woman he loves.
🪼: English is not my first language. My goodness, that's so sweet. It turned out much better than I expected. I hope you like it!
Part two of You belong with me
A year had passed since everything that happened between Dick and me. A whole year of new things, of a life that had to keep moving even without him. We lost contact. There was no fight, no shouting, no doors slammed shut. It just happened. Slowly, almost imperceptibly. We drifted apart little by little, like two people letting go of each other’s hands without even realizing it. We both needed space, even if it hurt to admit that.
At first, after everything, Dick was still constant. He didn’t give me the space he promised right away. Every week, I received a bouquet of flowers, sometimes roses, sometimes peonies, often lilies. He knew they were my favorites. I got messages throughout the day, asking how I was, checking in on me, as if he needed to make sure I still existed. As if doing that allowed him to stay present in my life. It was his quiet way of reminding me that he still loved me.
With time, the bouquets stopped. Then only the messages remained. Fewer. More spaced out. But they still came.
Until one ordinary day, about two months after everything, I felt something shift for good. I got a call from him. Dick sounded frustrated and, at the same time, strangely relieved. He and Barbara had broken up. I don’t know exactly what happened between them. I only know they ended things peacefully. Dick told me he had told her everything.
She said she already knew.
That shocked me. Not because it was impossible, but because, somehow, I had always believed that was just ours. Something kept between us.
Even so, I tried to be strong. I tried to be rational. I advised Dick. I told him he needed time, that being single could be good. That he needed to find himself without depending on anyone. I think he listened.
The messages became even rarer, until there was nothing left. Silence. He needed space, and deep down, I knew I needed it too.
I won’t say I didn’t miss him. I did. A lot. It hurt like hell. Despite everything, Dick was my best friend. My confidant. He was part of my routine, my everyday life, the small things. It was natural to have him there. So when he wasn’t anymore, there was a void impossible to ignore. It hurt like hell.
That’s when I realized how dependent I had become on him. How much of myself I had shaped around his presence. I needed to detox from Dick, for my own good, even if it destroyed me a little in the process.
During that year, I rediscovered myself. I found new tastes, new desires, things I had never shared with him. I realized some things I did weren’t because I truly loved them, but because he did. Because it was easier to share than to face who I was on my own. I found a new style, changed my haircut. I looked different.
Dick didn’t know me anymore.
And still, I looked for him in everything. In familiar faces, in familiar laughs, in songs that had nothing to do with him but still reminded me of him. I wanted any trace of him. I still remembered, not with the same constancy as before, but I remembered.
I still loved him. And there was no way not to love the only person I had ever truly loved.
The difference was that, at some point, I began to love myself too. I started enjoying my own company. Doing my hobbies alone. Existing without needing him there all the time. For the first time, I didn’t feel incomplete for being alone.
I didn’t hear much about Dick. People avoided talking about him around me once everything came out. Thank you, Barbara, for that. But I understood her. She needed support, even if she didn’t get much.
Once, I heard Tim tell her she knew exactly what she was getting into. That she had placed herself between us. And that she needed to accept she couldn’t handle it, much less the fact that our feelings for each other never truly died.
It was one of the only times I heard someone say, without sugarcoating it, the raw truth about what happened between Dick and me.
I know he’s doing well now. I know he’s in Blüdhaven. Honestly, Gotham doesn’t feel the same without him. It never did.
But I’m glad he found a city to call his own.
It was on an ordinary day that I saw him again. It wasn’t warm, quite the opposite. After all, how could it be? This was Gotham. A city that had always been dark, heavy, full of secrets buried in its streets.
Gotham wasn’t warm. But he was. He always was.
It was snowing, and I was so bundled up I looked like a ball of fur. The cold cut deep, straight into my bones. Then I heard his voice, a voice so familiar my body reacted before my mind could.
The voice that whispered confessions in the middle of the night. The voice that told me he loved me. That I was the only one.
“You look so different I almost didn’t recognize you,” Dick said, his warm voice always clashing with Gotham’s cold.
I looked at him. His hands were tucked into his coat pockets, like he was protecting himself. Like he was afraid of exposing too much. He looked embarrassed. Different. His hair wasn’t as long as before, but not too short either.
He looked beautiful. He always had.
“I’m not the only one who looks different,” I raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you were in town.” I took a step toward him without realizing it.
“I missed you,” I said, before I could think.
Dick smiled and pulled me into a hug. Not rushed. Not desperate. Firm. Familiar. Painfully familiar.
“I missed you too. A lot,” he replied, his voice muffled against my hair.
“What are you doing in Gotham?” I asked, even though I knew the answer might hurt.
“I came to get my girl,” he said, with a suggestive smile, flirting like no time had passed.
“Your girl?” I pretended not to understand, even as my heart raced.
“Yes,” he answered, looking at me like he never stopped. “You.”
I didn’t know what to say. Truly, I didn’t.
The boy I loved most, the man who had been the center of my dreams for so long, was standing right in front of me, practically saying he came back for me. As if a whole year of absence could be compressed into a single sentence. And I froze.
Dick noticed. He always did. He shrugged, a small, almost insecure gesture, like he was stepping onto ground that once belonged to him but wasn’t sure anymore.
“One step at a time,” he said, trying to sound light. “How about a Brownie?”
His hands were still in his coat pockets, and there was something shy about it, something I hadn’t seen in him in a long time.
“How about coffee?” I replied softly, more to myself than to him.
He frowned, genuinely confused. “I thought you liked Brownie.”
“I used to,” I corrected gently. “It’s not really my thing anymore. Not so much.”
Dick stayed quiet for a few seconds, thinking. Then he nodded, like it was no big deal.
“Coffee, then.”
When we sat down at the café, Dick seemed tense, like he was choosing his words too carefully.
It didn’t take long for that to fade. The conversation flowed, and for a few moments it felt like the year of silence had never existed. Everything felt strangely familiar.
He flirted here and there, dropped a few hints about why he was in Gotham, and I noticed. I just didn’t comment.
“So…” I stirred my iced coffee with the straw, watching the ice spin in the cup. “Blüdhaven, huh?” I raised an eyebrow. “What’s good there?”
Dick thought for a moment, looking out the window before answering. “It’s nice. Kind of like Gotham, actually. I wanted to get out of Bruce’s shadow, but ended up choosing a city that lives in Gotham’s shadow.” He let out a short, humorless laugh and sighed. “It’s funny, if you think about it.”
“A little.” I smiled softly. “But I’m glad you found a place to call your own.” I shrugged. “I still don’t know why I stay in Gotham.”
He stayed quiet for a few seconds, like he was thinking about an idea before saying it out loud.
“Why don’t you come to Blüdhaven with me?”
I raised my eyebrows immediately. His ears turned red almost at once, giving away his nerves.
“You came back to take me out of Gotham, Dick Grayson?”
“No,” he answered quickly. “I mean… not exactly.” He paused, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly trying to organize his thoughts.
“Then what?” I encouraged calmly.
“I just want to know if there’s still space for me in your life.” He shrugged, unable to look at me. “And maybe… see if you’d be willing to step out of Gotham a little.”
I bit my lip, my heart racing despite my effort to stay calm. “One step at a time, Grayson,” I said, because I still didn’t know how to put everything into words.
He stayed quiet for a moment, staring at his hands like the answer mattered more than anything else that year.
“So…” he took a breath. “Is there still space?”
“There always was, Dick.”
—
After my reunion with Dick, the days that followed went by fast. He didn’t leave Gotham. He said he’d stay for a while and made it clear it was just to win me back.
I had never felt so much like a teenager as I did around him. The feeling was the same. My heart raced like it was about to burst out of my chest, and the butterflies in my stomach appeared so fast it felt like a race every time he talked to me.
Dick Grayson would always have that effect on me.
But I asked for calm, and I was relieved to see he respected that.
I’m getting ready for work when my phone vibrates with a message from him.
“Hey, princess, what are you doing?”
I bite my lip and smile to myself.
Princess.
Since we reunited, Dick brought back the nicknames that make me want to jump with excitement. I feel like a little girl when her first crush finally pays attention to her. Well… in a way, that’s exactly what’s happening.
“Hi, Grayson. Getting ready for work. Why?”
The reply comes fast.
“I’m here to pick you up. I’m taking you today.”
I stop reading for a second, completely stunned. I stare at my reflection in the mirror and, almost without thinking, decide to change clothes and get a little more dressed up.
I roll my eyes at myself. But honestly, who could blame me?
When I step outside, Dick is leaning against his car, waiting for me.
“Wow… you look beautiful,” he says as soon as I get close. He takes my hand and spins me gently, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “How are you?” he asks, with that smile that makes me want to do questionable things, maybe kiss him. Maybe.
“I’m good, Dick,” I reply, smiling a little shyly.
“Alright, let’s go.” He opens the car door for me. “I don’t want my princess to be late for work.”
I get in, and he sits in the driver’s seat right after. Before starting the car, he grabs a bag and places it in my lap.
“I brought you coffee. And sweets.” He shrugs, a bit awkward. “I didn’t know which ones you liked, so… I brought all of them.”
I laugh softly. “My God, Richard… you didn’t have to. But thank you.” I turn toward him and give him a quick kiss on the cheek without thinking.
He freezes. Literally. He stares at me, mouth slightly open, and lets out a long breath.
“Do it again?” he asks, almost like a plea.
“Drive the car, Grayson. I’m going to be late,” I say, rolling my eyes as I put on my seatbelt.
He pouts obviously. “Please?”
This time, I can’t resist and end up laughing.
I cross my arms, trying to look serious, even with the smile threatening to break free. He notices and finally gives in, letting out an exaggerated, theatrical sigh.
“Fine… I’ll go without my kiss, then…” he says, pouting dramatically before finally driving off.
The ride to work goes by too fast. When he parks in front of the building, the sound of the engine shutting off fills the silence that settles between us. Dick doesn’t move. He just looks at me, like he’s putting something off.
“So…” he begins, his voice lower than before. “I’ll have to go back to Blüdhaven today.”
My body reacts before my mind. I freeze. I wasn’t ready for that. Not now.
“What? Why?”
“Some things came up there. Things that need me.” He shrugs, but his eyes give him away. “But I’ll be back. I promise. Just a few days.”
I nod slowly, trying to look stronger than I feel. “Okay, Dick…” I hesitate before adding, “Text me, okay?”
He smiles immediately, like that was the right answer. “You won’t go a second without hearing from me.”
Silence returns, heavier this time. Then he tilts his head, that familiar smile appearing.
“Since I’m going back to Blüdhaven and you won’t see me for a few days…” he pauses. “How about that cheek kiss again?”
Dick Grayson never missed a chance. Never had.
I give in, sighing softly and shrugging. What was wrong with a kiss, after all?
I lift my hand to his cheek and lean in without thinking. Dick realizes too late that I’m not aiming for his cheek. His eyes widen for a second before closing. I do the same.
When our lips meet, there’s no hesitation. The kiss fits instantly, firm, like it had just been waiting to happen. His mouth is warm, and the determined way he kisses me makes my heart race immediately.
He pulls my waist closer, not too hard, but enough to make it clear he wants this. His hand slides to my neck, holding me there, stopping me from pulling away even if I wanted to, and I didn’t. I respond without thinking, opening space, feeling the kiss deepen in seconds.
I run my hand along his neck and tug at the hair at his nape. Dick lets out a low sound against my mouth, almost a groan, and it completely unravels me.
We go on a few seconds longer than we should, until the air starts to run out. We pull away slowly, breathing heavily, still too close.
“Fuck…” he says, breathless. “I’ve waited for that almost my whole life.”
I open my eyes and smile, my heart pounding too hard in my chest. “Have a good trip back to Blüdhaven, Dick.”
He runs a hand through his hair, clearly trying to pull himself together. “Damn, princess… you completely knocked me off balance.” He laughs softly. “I’ll call you when I get there. Have a good day at work, sweetheart.” He leans in and places a gentle, careful kiss on my cheek, different from before, but just as meaningful.
I nod, still smiling, and open the car door. Before closing it, I look at him one more time.
Then I walk away.
As I head toward work, my heart still racing and my lips still tingling, I know nothing between us is resolved. But it isn’t lost either.
—
A month passed, and Dick still hadn’t come back.
It wasn’t his fault. What was supposed to last a few days stretched much longer than expected, and I could feel his frustration even from a distance.
Still, he never stopped being present.
Dick sent messages throughout the day, made a point of ordering coffee to be delivered to my place, sometimes without warning. And flowers. So many flowers. In a single month, there were four different bouquets, and I felt so absurdly happy it was like I might burst.
Sometimes, when he didn’t have to patrol at night, he’d call just to ask how I was. No rush. No pressure. Just to hear my voice.
Today was one of those days.
We’re on a video call, both silent, just looking at each other through the screen. It’s not an uncomfortable silence, it’s the kind that happens when no words are needed. The conversation simply fades, and still, neither of us hangs up.
He watches me closely, like he’s trying to memorize every detail. I do the same.
“I miss you” Dick says suddenly, his voice low, almost like a confession.
I smile before answering. “So you’re saying Richard Grayson misses me?” I raise my eyebrows playfully.
“I do” he says without hesitation. “And you? Don’t you?” He mirrors my expression, eyebrow raised, an easy smile on his face.
“I do, Grayson.” My voice comes out more honest than I intended. “I miss you.”
His smile changes. Softer. Real.
“I promise I’ll be there soon, my love,” he says gently, like he wants those words to cross the screen.
And even miles apart, in that moment, I believed him.
That night, we fell asleep on the call, trying to make the most of each other’s presence, even from a distance. We didn’t talk the whole time. Sometimes, just hearing the other’s breathing felt like enough.
—
The days that followed passed slowly. I kept my routine, work, home, small habits now carrying his presence in some way. Dick stayed constant, in his own way.
We couldn’t always talk on calls. There were busy days, long nights, clashing schedules. But we always left a message. A “did you get home safe?” A “good night.” Just to confirm the other was still there.
Two weeks passed like that. Two calm weeks. No overwhelming anxiety. No exaggerated promises.
Until, two weeks later, Dick finally returned to Gotham.
It was a Saturday, and I had decided to stay home. No plans, no noise, no one, just me and my own company. Sometimes, silence is a safe place.
Dick had been strange since the day before. Distant. He hadn’t talked to me all day, which wasn’t like him. I had texted him, expecting his usual quick reply, but it never came. He always answered, even if it was just a “I’ll talk to you in a bit.” That absence weighed more than I wanted to admit. It made me sad… and worried.
I was sitting on the couch, hugging a pillow without realizing it, lost in my thoughts, when the doorbell rang. My heart jumped. I immediately found it strange, I wasn’t expecting anyone.
“Just a minute, I’m coming!” I shouted from inside, getting up slowly.
“No rush!” someone replied from the other side of the door.
I froze.
Wait…
I knew that voice.
My body reacted before my mind. I ran to the door and opened it without thinking.
“Dick!”
His name slipped from my lips along with relief. I jumped into his arms, wrapping him in a tight hug, like I was afraid he’d disappear if I let go. He smiled and wrapped his arms firmly around my waist, holding me like that was exactly where he belonged.
“Wow… I wasn’t expecting to be welcomed like this,” he said in that light tone that always unraveled me, before leaning down to kiss my neck gently.
“My God! Why didn’t you tell me you were here?” I asked, lightly hitting his chest, more relieved than mad.
“Normally, we don’t warn people when we’re planning a surprise, love” he replied with a calm smile.
It was only when I pulled back a little that I noticed what he was holding. A bouquet.
“This is for you, princess. I missed you,” he said, his hand still firm on my waist, like he had no intention of letting go.
“Thank you, Dick… you didn’t have to,” I said with a shy smile, feeling my face warm. I took the bouquet carefully, like it was more than just flowers. “I missed you too.” My fingers climbed on their own, threading into his neck, pulling him a little closer.
“You did, huh?” He flashed a provocative smile, the kind that always meant trouble, and leaned in slowly.
“Yes, big guy. But don’t get too excited.” I gave his chest a light tap and stepped back laughing while he stared at me, clearly offended.
“I stay away for a month and a half and I don’t even get a kiss? Come on, love. You’re cruel.” He pouted dramatically.
Dramatic. Very dramatic.
“Calm down, love. You’ll get a kiss. When we’re inside the house,” I said like it was obvious, subtly pointing to the door, after all, we were still standing in the entrance.
Dick seemed to agree, even if reluctantly, and followed me inside. As soon as we were in, he closed the door behind us and locked it, far too calmly for someone who had been complaining seconds earlier.
“Wait… did you just call me love?” He froze, staring at me.
I looked at him, and the smile that spread across his face was too big to fit there. Impossible not to smile back.
“I don’t know… did I?” I put my hand on my chin, pretending to think, clearly playing dumb.
“Yes, you did.” He didn’t give me time to escape. He moved fast, pulling me by the waist until my body was pressed against his, like that distance was unacceptable.
He didn’t say anything else. He just looked at me, like he was trying to memorize every detail of my face after so long apart. His hand still firm on my waist, his thumb making slow, absent-minded circles. My heart beat too loud for the silence.
“I want my kiss,” he murmured, his voice low, too close.
I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to.
I slid my hands up his chest to his neck, pulling him slowly, giving him time to pull away if he wanted, but Dick didn’t. Instead, he leaned in first, resting his forehead against mine, breathing the same air.
And then he kissed me.
It wasn’t rushed. It was calm, filled with all the accumulated longing, like every second apart was being made up for. His lips moved gently, but with a certainty that made my legs weaken. I responded without thinking, tightening my grip around his neck, like that kiss was proof he was really there.
When we pulled away, our foreheads still touching, he smiled that smile only he had, vulnerable and confident at the same time.
“I love you” he said, like that truth had lived in him all along.
My chest tightened, my eyes burned, and I smiled before I even realized I was smiling.
“I love you too, Dick” I replied, my voice low but steady. “I always have.”
He pulled me into another hug, tighter this time, like he was promising he wouldn’t leave again. I buried my face in his chest, feeling his heart racing just as fast as mine.
And there, among forgotten flowers on the table, a locked door, and two people who had finally found each other again, everything made sense.
—
tags: @nico707 @peachmartini @chevelledahuman
Spending his money
Dick Grayson x wife reader!
🪼Summary: Dick's wife decided to get back at him by spending his money.
🪼: English is not my first language. Dick and his wife are between 31 and 32 years old. Dick is totally in love with his wife. Something not too short, but not too long, but cute anyway.
I hope you like it (:
Fighting with Dick was always difficult, especially when a conversation stopped being small and turned into something far too big for the both of us. I still don’t know how a simple “I wish you spent more time at home, you’ve been distant” turned into raised voices.
Maybe it was because I didn’t say it exactly like that. Maybe I let more hurt slip out than I should have. But who could blame me? I was upset. My husband didn’t seem as present anymore, we were drifting apart, and I hated the feeling of losing him little by little. Being away from Dick was almost unbearable, because when I got home after a day that was only slightly exhausting, all I wanted was to run into his arms and feel safe there, in the embrace that had always been my place.
But how could I do that when Dick seemed to care more about the city — and his secret vigilante identity — than about his own personal life?
“Okay, you’re very upset,” Dick said calmly. “Let’s take a break, please?” His eyes held a silent request, almost a plea.
That hurt more than it calmed me. Because I didn’t want a break. I wanted to be understood.
“I’m trying to get closer to you, and you’re saying I’m being crazy?” I replied, my voice trembling with someone who was already far too tired.
I know I was exaggerating a little. Maybe more than a little.
“No, love… that’s not it.” His shoulders dropped, as if he were giving up. “You know what? I’ll sleep on the couch. I think you need some time to think.”
He grabbed a pillow and a blanket and walked toward the door.
“Richard, don’t do this,” I asked, irritation mixed with something that almost sounded like fear.
“Don’t be mad at me, my love.” And then he went to the living room.
I didn’t follow him. My pride spoke louder.
Even so, sleeping away from him was a silent torture. The bed felt too big, too cold. All I could think about was how I wished he had stayed. When I started the argument, it was only about wanting more presence. And in the end, he had chosen the couch instead of me.
That hurt.
I was angry, yes. But beneath the anger there was longing. The urge to yell at him, to push him away, to ask him to hold me, kiss me, and tell me he still loved me. Because I missed him, even while we were in the same house.
When I woke up, Dick was still asleep. I took a shower and made his coffee because, despite everything, I still cared. Even upset, even hurt. But I didn’t say goodbye. I didn’t give him a kiss. I left in silence, knowing that would hurt too.
Maybe it was immature. Maybe it was just spite. But in that moment, it was all I could manage.
Dick Grayson was going to feel the weight of not having slept with me in our bed that night.
It didn’t take long for my phone to vibrate.
“Wow, my love. Not even a goodbye? Not even a kiss? ):”
I smiled against my will. Dick had always known how to break down my defenses with so little. Even so, I decided not to give in that easily.
I spent the day out, and when I looked for my card inside my wallet, I found his.
My smile came instantly.
I never liked spending my husband’s money. I always felt strange, as if it somehow diminished what we were. As if someone might think I was with him only because he was a millionaire. Dick, on the other hand, always insisted that I buy whatever I wanted, as many bags as I wanted, as many shoes as I felt like having.
Well… maybe it was finally time to do exactly what he insisted on.
⸻
Dick was organizing the paperwork he needed to review when he received a call from his secretary. It was strange. Brayan never called, he usually just sent a message with the day’s agenda.
The alert came immediately. Dick answered with his heart beating a little faster, trying to imagine what could have happened.
“Sir… I think we have a problem,” Brayan said, his voice low, filled with nervousness.
“What happened, Brayan?” Dick leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair, already worried.
“Sir, I think your card may have been cloned. Or hacked, I’m not entirely sure… but a purchase of five hundred thousand dollars was just made on it.” Brayan almost whispered the last part, as if it were a dangerous secret.
Dick stayed silent for a few seconds. Thought. And then, suddenly, it clicked — and he laughed.
“Sir… I just told you your card may have been cloned, and you’re laughing?” Brayan asked, clearly confused.
“Brayan,” Dick said, an easy smile in his voice, “it’s just my wife throwing a little tantrum.”
There was a brief pause on the other end of the line.
“Let her buy whatever she wants. The price doesn’t matter.”
“Okay, sir,” Brayan replied, still not fully understanding, before ending the call.
Dick hung up the phone still smiling. If that was her way of releasing her frustration, he would accept it. Deep down, it was just another sign that she still cared. And to him, that was worth more than any number on a bank statement.
Dick picked up his phone again and dialed his wife’s number, a small smile already on his face.
“Yes?” she murmured when she answered.
“Having fun with my card, my love?” Dick asked in a playful tone, as if that were the easiest way to reach her right now.
“Yes, actually. Your card is very useful,” she replied. “I think I should use it more often.”
“Yes, you should.” Dick didn’t mind the faint tone of stubbornness still present in her voice. Strangely, it reassured him.
She hummed in agreement and then added, “I think I just saw a very beautiful Chanel bag.”
“Buy it.” He paused briefly, leaning back in his chair. “Buy a very beautiful dress too. And shoes.” Dick bit his lip, already imagining it. “I’m taking you out to dinner tonight. You deserve an apology.”
“I deserve more than an apology, Richard.”
“Yes, my love. You do,” he answered without hesitation. “And I’ll give you everything you deserve.” Dick smiled. “Now go finish spending your husband’s money. I’m working precisely to make more money for you to spend.”
He fell silent for a few seconds, his eyes naturally landing on the photo of the two of them on his desk — arms wrapped around each other, smiling, as if the world were simple in that frozen moment.
“I love you,” he said in a whisper, low, almost too intimate to say out loud.
“I love you too, Grayson.” There was a small pause. “Bye. I’m going to finish spending your money.” And then she hung up.
Dick just laughed, shaking his head slightly.
He didn’t care.
She could bankrupt him — which was almost impossible — and it still wouldn’t matter. Because in the end, no amount of money was worth more than that smile on the other end of the line.
Dick Grayson was hopelessly in love with his wife to care about anything else.
You belong with me
Dick Grayson x bsf reader!
🪼Summary: Your best friend is dating, but you don't think his girlfriend is right for him.
🪼: English is not my first language. If you squint your eyes a little, you can see the reader as a pick-me girl. Barbara is kind of the victim. Cheating, but not cheating? It's a bit big. Obviously it was partly based on Taylor's song.
Part Two
I’m making my dinner on a typical Friday where I do absolutely nothing. No parties, no dates, no excited messages lighting up my phone. My friends are out, living something that seems important, while I stand still in the kitchen, stirring food on the stove and trying not to think about why I’m alone again.
I don’t know exactly why I’m not doing the same as them. Maybe I do know and just don’t want to admit it. Either way, I decided that tonight would be mine. Home. Couch. Silence.
I plate my food, ready to settle onto the couch, when the doorbell rings. I don’t even have to think. I already know who it is.
I walk to the door and open it.
Dick doesn’t say “hi.” He doesn’t ask how I am. He doesn’t wait to be invited in. He just walks inside, like my place is an extension of his. Like I’m a safe place he can always fall into.
“Hi to you too, big guy. I’m fine, thanks for asking,” I say, letting the sarcasm spill freely into my voice.
“Sorry. How are you?” he asks, stepping closer and pressing a quick kiss to my forehead.
The gesture is simple. Way too intimate.
“I’m fine,” I reply. “What happened to you? Why are you like this?”
We sit down on the couch, side by side, close enough that I can smell him.
“It’s just Barbara…”
I roll my eyes before I can stop myself. Seriously. What is he still doing with her?
I make a small gesture with my hand, telling him to go on.
“I don’t understand her,” he says, frustration weighing down his voice. “Today she got mad at me because of a joke. It wasn’t even something inappropriate. It wasn’t even about her. I think she was already irritated and took it out on me. I do everything…”
His phone rings.
Dick lets out a short, bitter laugh and turns the screen toward me. “Love,” with a little heart next to it.
My chest tightens.
“Answer it,” I murmur, shrugging, pretending not to care.
He gets up and walks into the kitchen to take the call. I turn the TV volume up just to fill the empty space he left behind. I start eating, but I barely taste anything.
Seriously… what is Dick doing with her?
She doesn’t understand his humor like I do. She doesn’t laugh at the same things, doesn’t get excited over the same stupid stuff, doesn’t know every version of him. I do. I always have. When is he going to realize he belongs with me?
From the living room, I hear his voice getting louder. I can’t make out the words, but I understand the tone. Irritation. Exhaustion. That tension he always brings to me to ease.
I want to scream. Leave her. Stay with me.
But I don’t. I never have. And I won’t start now.
He comes back from the kitchen visibly frustrated, shoulders tense, jaw tight.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
“No. I’d rather forget it. I don’t want to think about Barbara right now.”
I nod silently and curl up more on the couch, making space for him without even realizing it.
“So… what are we watching?” Dick asks, sitting down and putting his legs over my lap.
Bold.
“The Vampire Diaries,” I reply, smiling when I see his automatic grimace.
“Seriously? Change this crap.”
“It’s this or nothing,” I raise an eyebrow. He sighs, defeated. “And get your dirty feet off me.” I shove his legs to the floor. “Thanks.”
“Annoying,” he rolls his eyes, but keeps watching.
A few minutes pass in silence until he mutters:
“Seriously, why is Elena still with Damon? Stefan is way better for her. He understands her.”
I laugh softly.
“I thought you didn’t like the show, Dick Grayson.”
“Shut up. I’m watching.”
I laugh again.
“Okay. But look… I kind of agree, but not completely. Stefan and Elena are destiny. And destiny can be boring sometimes. Damon challenges everything she believes in. He gives her adrenaline. She likes that. As much as he’s a jerk — and most of the time, a horrible person — he loves her.”
Dick thinks about it for a few seconds, then nods.
“Yeah… that makes sense. But Stefan is still the better option.”
“No,” I say without thinking. “Stefan is the better option for me. He’s my dream guy.”
Dick makes a disgusted noise. “Wow… I thought I was your dream guy.”
“Not even in your best dreams, Grayson.”
I lightly smack the back of his head.
Lie. He was. He always had been.
But he didn’t need to know that. Not now.
The night passes between episodes, pointless comments, and small teasing. Dick defending Stefan. Me disagreeing just to hear him argue.
It’s in moments like these that I realize when it all started. When I fell in love with him. When loving him stopped being a choice and became a fact.
I don’t remember what time I fell asleep. I only know I wake up with an arm around me and a comfortable weight beneath me.
I’m lying on Dick’s chest, in my bedroom. This has always been common. Normal. Safe.
But now… with Dick dating someone… it feels different. Wrong, maybe. I know his girlfriend wouldn’t like it. I know I should care. But this moment feels too good for me to stop.
I slowly lift my face and find his eyes already open, watching me. Sleepy. Calm. Way too beautiful for someone who isn’t mine.
Sometimes, I wish I could wake up like this every day. For the rest of my life.
“Hey… you’re awake,” he murmurs, kissing the top of my head.
“When did you bring me to the bedroom?” I ask, rubbing my eyes.
“I don’t remember the exact time,” he says. “I just know it was already late.”
“Hm…” I murmur in agreement.
“Did you sleep well?” he asks, almost in a whisper. If I weren’t so close, I might not have heard it.
“Best sleep ever,” I reply, trying to keep it light, like my chest isn’t too tight to breathe.
Dick brings his hand up to my cheek and caresses it. The touch is slow, too careful. His hand stays there for far too long for my sanity, for the thin line I pretend doesn’t exist between us. My breathing falters for a second, and I hate how much he notices.
The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It never is. It’s full. Dense. Loaded with words I don’t have the courage to say and truths he pretends not to see. Maybe it’s more on my side… but I know it’s not just me.
Then Dick blinks a few times, like he’s waking up from something dangerous, and his body changes. The warmth disappears. The closeness retreats. His face hardens into something I recognize immediately.
Guilt.
“I need to talk to Barbara. I need to apologize.” He gets out of bed, pulling completely away from my touch, like the contact itself could give him away.
Of course. Barbara. Always her.
His face is filled with quiet guilt. He knows this is wrong. Even without kisses. Even without promises. Even without words said out loud. He knows. And I know. This space between us isn’t innocent, no matter how much we pretend it is.
“It’s okay. I understand,” I say.
And I really do understand. I understand rationally, like someone accepting a truth they didn’t choose. But understanding doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.
When would he be mine? When would he stop choosing the easier path instead of the one that makes him stay?
“I have to go, okay? I’ll come back later.”
He leans down and kisses my forehead. It’s too tender for someone who isn’t mine and too distant for someone I love.
When he leaves the bedroom without saying anything else, I keep staring at the empty space he left behind.
I hear the front door open. Then close.
The sound echoes through the entire house, but it’s inside me that it makes the most noise.
I stay there, lying down, staring at the ceiling, feeling his scent still trapped in the sheets, in the pillow, on me. Like he left pieces of himself behind on purpose, just to make sure I wouldn’t forget.
All I wanted was Dick Grayson to myself. Not for one night. Not as a mistake. Not as a temporary refuge. I wanted to be the choice.
Sometimes I wonder if that will ever happen.
But it feels like such a distant reality that it hurts just to breathe.
The rest of the day passes heavy and slow, like every hour demands more from me than I have to give. My mind doesn’t rest. It keeps going back to the same place: Dick. To the choices I made. To the silent permissions I gave. To everything I let happen while pretending it was harmless.
I think about how wrong this is. About how I’m hurting someone who has no fault in any of this.
Barbara.
I know that most of the time she’s difficult. Annoying, even. But that doesn’t matter. She didn’t choose my feelings. She didn’t ask to exist in this crooked triangle I helped create. In the end, the fault isn’t hers.
It’s mine.
In what I feel for Dick. In the excessive comfort. In the intimacy that goes beyond friendship, even without kisses, even without forbidden words. The line was crossed a long time ago, quietly, disguised as care.
And he knows. I saw it on his face today. In the contained guilt. In the way he pulled away, like he needed to remind himself of who he was supposed to be.
That was what hurt the most.
Because if he feels guilty, then he also understands that what exists between us isn’t innocent.
And I know I can’t keep doing this.
I know I need to put an end to it before it becomes something bigger, before I lose myself completely trying to be a place I don’t belong. I have to learn to love Dick from afar, or maybe slowly unlearn it.
Getting over what I feel for him isn’t a simple choice. It’s a renunciation. One that hurts in my body, in my chest, in the silence of the house.
So I decide on an ending.
When Dick comes to my place again, it’s the next day, not later, like he promised.
They fought again. What a surprise.
We’re sitting on the couch, way too close for two people pretending not to notice. Dick is talking, venting, going in circles through the same complaints as always. I’m listening, but barely hearing him. There’s something trapped inside me, pressing against my chest, begging to come out.
Until I can’t take it anymore. “Dick… we can’t keep doing this.”
He stops mid-sentence. Looks at me, confused.
“Doing what?”
I take a deep breath. One, two. It still hurts.
“This.” I gesture vaguely between us. “You coming here every time things go wrong. Sleeping on my couch. Using me as shelter.”
He frowns. “I’m not using you.”
“I know,” I answer too quickly. “That’s what makes it worse.”
He stays silent, waiting. And I realize that if I don’t say everything now, I never will.
“Don’t you feel guilty?” I ask, my voice low, almost careful.
“Guilty about what?”
“About Barbara.” Her name comes out heavy.
He looks away, runs a hand over his face, like he’s trying to pull himself together. “I’m not doing anything wrong.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” I say. “You don’t need to kiss me to cheat. You don’t need to sleep with me to cross a line.”
He opens his mouth, but I keep going, because I know if I stop, he’ll find a way to escape.
“You know there’s something here. You always have. And still, you come. You stay. You look for me when she doesn’t understand you.”
“You’re my best friend.”
“I know.” My voice breaks. “And that’s exactly why it hurts so much.”
He finally looks at me again. There’s something broken there.
“Every time you sleep here,” I continue, “every time you hug me like it’s the most natural thing in the world… I feel wrong. Like I’m occupying a place that isn’t mine.”
“You’re not occupying any place,” he murmurs.
“But I want to,” I confess, not looking at him. “And that makes me part of the problem.”
The silence stretches, heavy.
“If it were the other way around,” I say, swallowing hard, “if I were dating someone and you were the person who knew me better than anyone, the one I ran to when everything went wrong… would you really be able to pretend it meant nothing?”
It takes him a moment to answer.
“No,” he admits, barely audible.
I nod. “Then you understand.”
He closes his eyes for a second, like that truth finally reached somewhere too deep.
“I saw it today,” I continue. “I saw it on your face. You feel guilty, Dick. You just don’t want to name it.”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says.
“But you do.” My hands tremble. “It hurts because you leave. It hurts because you choose her. And I stay here… picking up the pieces.”
He takes a deep breath, voice low and restrained. “What do you want from me?”
“I want to stop pretending this doesn’t affect me.” I look at him. “I want to stop being the safe place while you decide what to do with your life.”
He looks caught between pain and fear. “Are you asking me to choose?”
“No.” I shake my head. “I’m choosing myself.
He swallows.
“I need space,” I say. “Not because I don’t care about you. But because I care too much.”
“I don’t want to lose you,” he whispers.
“I don’t either,” my voice breaks. “But I’m already losing myself.”
He nods slowly.
“I’ll give you your time,” he says. “But if you need me—”
“I know,” I interrupt with a sad smile. “You’ll always be there. And that’s exactly why I need to step away.”
He stands up, hesitates for a second, like he wants to hug me, and doesn’t.
When the door closes behind him, I know I did the right thing.
Even if it feels like I ripped something out of myself.
Impressing the angels with your laughter.
Jason Todd x reader!
🪼Summary: Five years after Jason's death, he is still the only one...
🪼: English is not my first language. It's just anguish because I love writing anguish!!! It's based on a Brazilian song too because I love writing with music, and I heard this song and instantly remembered Jason. My first writing for Jason!
I left the ending open because if you like it, I will write a part two. (:
When Jason died, I felt myself break from the inside. It wasn’t like something had ended, it was like something had been ripped out of me. I felt like I had lost my soulmate, the only person who truly understood me without me ever having to say a word.
I couldn’t accept it. I couldn’t understand it. Why him?
Jason was one of the sweetest boys I had ever known. He was my peace in a world that never gave me rest. In my chaotic, noisy life, Jason was silence. He was the light still on when everything inside me had already gone dark. Whatever I was feeling, he was always there, to calm me down, to hold me together, to keep me from drowning alone.
And then he died. And all that was left was pain. And where was he? Dead.
Jason was dead.
Grief didn’t come right away. It was a coward. It let me believe for far too long that none of it was real. I refused to accept it. I wanted it to be a lie, a mistake, anything but the truth. I couldn’t exist in a world where Jason didn’t exist.
Until one day… the grief came.
And when it did, it didn’t ask for permission.
At first, it was small, almost unnoticeable. Little by little, I began to understand that I would never see Jason walk into a room again, never hear his laugh, never feel his presence telling me everything would be okay, even when it wasn’t.
I remember the first time I cried over his death. Until then, I hadn’t cried at all. Because crying meant admitting that he was really gone.
I was cleaning my room when I found a polaroid of us. “Best friends forever,” it said beneath the picture. Jason was kissing my cheek, and I was smiling like the world couldn’t touch us.
That photo had been taken a few months before he left. He handed it to me with a smile, asking me to keep it safe, as if he somehow knew that one day it would be all I had left of him.
On the back, it read:
“Forever yours, Jason.”
I stared at that photo for minutes that stretched into hours. My chest started to hurt in a way I had never felt before. And then I cried.
I cried because I finally understood. Jason wasn’t coming back.
Jason was dead.
That was the first time.
The second time… the second time almost killed me.
I went to Wayne Manor to see Dick. I was desperate for comfort, anyone would do. I needed to talk to someone, because the one person who always listened to me didn’t exist anymore.
Alfred told me Dick was with Bruce in the cave. I decided to go down there.
It’s a decision I regret to this day.
They were watching the footage from the day Jason died. The explosion. The Joker’s voice. Jason tied up, beaten, completely helpless in that damn chair.
I felt something inside me shatter all at once.
After that, everything became a blur. All I remember is crying. Crying so hard it felt like my lungs were going to give out. Crying like my body was trying to expel the pain, and failing miserably.
Dick held me tightly, like he could keep me in one piece by force. Like he could glue me back together.
But it didn’t help.
The only person who could have made the pain stop… was Jason.
And he was dead.
After that, grief became unbearable. I spent weeks without wanting to eat, without wanting to drink, without wanting to exist. I just wanted the pain to end. But how could it, when the cause of it could never come back?
He wasn’t there anymore.
I came back slowly, almost against my will. First, I managed to say his name without breaking down. Then I could remember the happy moments without wanting to die with him.
Until one day I could finally face his things. The photos. The clothes. His hoodies still smelled like him, and that hurt more than any memory ever could.
Over time, talking about Jason stopped being an open wound. It still hurt, but it didn’t bleed all the time.
It never stopped hurting.
And whenever it hurt too much, I wrote him letters. As if putting my suffering on paper could make my chest feel lighter. Sometimes it helped. Sometimes it destroyed me even more.
And that’s how I ended up here.
Today marks five years since Jason died. I’m sitting at the table with a pen in my hand, a blank sheet of paper in front of me, and the box of letters beside me too many letters for someone who never answered a single one.
I never know how to begin. But once I do, everything flows. Just like it did when he was still here.
“Dear Jason,
Today was unbearable. Seriously… why did you have to die?
Work destroyed me. Everything destroys me when you’re not here.
I’m writing to you from my bed. I tried to sleep, but I couldn’t. I thought about going to the cemetery today, but it didn’t feel right to visit knowing you’re not really there.
Missing you never goes away, Jay. It’s like Dick, always persistent, always reminding me that you were part of my life. He used to say we’d end up falling in love. I laughed. I lied.
Because the truth is, I was already completely in love with you. And you died without ever knowing.
When this time of year comes around, I reread all your favorite books, trying to find some piece of you still alive inside them.
On page seventy of your favorite book, I finally understood you. Love is fire. And it burns even when no one sees it.
How are you doing up there, Jay?
It’s been so long since I’ve heard anything from you. Everyone moved on, except me. I’m still here, writing letters whenever it hurts too much to miss you.
I imagine you impressing the angels with that laugh that used to make me forget the world.
Dick is almost married. Bruce is still distant. Alfred misses you, he doesn’t say it, but I see it in his eyes.
I bought my own house. I wish you were here to complain about the decor.
I miss you.
I will always love you.”
I dropped the pen. I couldn’t write anything else.
My heart ached as if invisible hands were squeezing it tight.
But in the middle of the pain, there was a small sense of peace, the idea that maybe Jason was finally at peace too.
Outside, from the top of a building, Jason watched through the window.
The most human part of him, in this journey of vengeance… was you.
Because all he wanted was to come back, to hold you, to calm you down, and to tell you he was alive.
He knew that day marked the anniversary of his own death.
And all he wanted… was to be with you.
But he couldn’t.
Not yet.
Seeing if he melts with a kiss…
Dick Grayson x Wife reader!
🪼Summary: Based on the TikTok trend "seeing if he melts with a kiss".
🪼: Fluff Fluff Fluff. English is not my first language. I've had this saved for a few days because I loved this trend and felt inspired to write about it. It's just fluff because you guys deserve a little love too..
I was scrolling through TikTok’s For You page when I came across a video from the trend “seeing if he melts with a kiss,” and instantly, I wanted to try it with Dick.
I was watching TV when he finally got home.
“Babe, I’m home. I brought what you asked for” Dick said as he opened the door.
I immediately got excited and stood up from the couch to go to him.
“Hey, baby. I missed you.”
Dick dropped the grocery bags on the floor and wrapped an arm around my waist.
“I missed you too.” He pressed a light kiss to my forehead, and I smiled.
“Hey, I wanna do something with you… wait!” I turned and jogged over to the couch to grab my phone.
“What?” I looked at him as he pouted.
“I just wanted to kiss my wife.”
“You will, big guy” I laughed at his expression while positioning my phone to frame the two of us and started recording.
“Okay, babe. I need you to raise your arms.”
“Why?”
Dick looked confused but did what I asked. He raised his arms and smiled.
“Like this?”
I didn’t answer. I just stepped closer, smiling, wrapped my arms around his neck, and kissed him softly on the lips.
His hands immediately went to my waist, pulling me closer. Dick deepened the kiss, one hand sliding up to my neck, and I smiled against his lips.
“Hey… don’t stop” he murmured. “I missed you” he added, making a sad puppy expression.
“You were only away from me for five hours, Grayson” I teased.
“Five hours without you feels illegal” he said, pretending to be serious before smiling. “I love you.”
“I love you more, babe”.
He kissed me again, and this time, I didn’t stop.
Cindy lou who.
Dick Grayson x female reader!
🪼 Summary: Happy xmas… i guess? lol
🪼: English is not my first language. This is just a lot of anguish because I'm not in the mood for much. Please be kind, I'm new to this writing business, but I love it.
Based on Sabrina Carpenter's song Cindy Lou Who because it's Christmas and it's distressing, so I combined the best of both worlds.
Part two of this because I was very eager to continue, I hope you enjoy it. (:
It’s been six months since everything happened, since Dick shattered my heart into a thousand pieces. I never thought he could do that.
He was always my best friend, my golden boy. How could he?
But then I found out the reason. And that’s when he destroyed my heart a thousand times more.
Fuck. A fucking girl.
That’s why he didn’t want a serious relationship with me. My heart was his, but his heart belonged to someone else. And what could I do? Force him to love me? There was no way. I just had to accept it.
I was scrolling through my Instagram feed when a photo of him and her appeared. He was holding her, smiling like she was his entire world.
That’s when I understood. I understood that he was never meant to be mine.
I have never cried as much as I cried that night. My sobs echoed through the entire room. It hurt so much it felt like I was going to die.
Why me?
Christmas, which used to feel so warm, now feels so cold. There are Christmas decorations everywhere, red and green. But I feel so blue it’s almost comical.
I remember a time when we talked. Everything was so intimate. So beautiful.
“You know, even though I almost always think I know everything, sometimes I feel like I don’t know anything,” Dick says, rambling as he rests his head on the couch. He looks thoughtful.
“What do you mean?”
“When I was Robin, there was a time when it didn’t feel like me anymore. So I had to rediscover myself until I became Nightwing. Sometimes I still feel that way.” He looks at me.
“So you think you still need to rediscover yourself?”
“Yeah… something like that. But being with you makes everything feel easier. I feel like myself. Like nothing else matters.”
My heart stopped. My breathing became unsteady.
I loved him.
I ran my fingers through his hair and let my hand slide down to his cheek, leaving it there.
“I don’t have many certainties in my life, Dick. But one thing I know for sure is that I love you.”
He smiled and kissed me. And in that moment, nothing else seemed to matter.
Tell me… while you were rediscovering yourself, did you find someone better?
Did you find her?
But did you have to break my heart in the process?
Didn’t I make you happy the way she did? That’s the only explanation.
But tell me… how?
I was running through the house laughing while Dick tried to catch me.
“Come on, you know that if I really want to catch you, I will,” he says, laughing as he crosses his arms.
I raise an eyebrow and cross my arms too. “I doubt it.”
Before I even had the chance to run, Dick had already jumped over the couch and caught me. He grabbed me and started covering my face with kisses.
All I could do was laugh.
“You make me so happy,” he said, looking at me with tenderness.
“You have no idea how happy you make me too, Grayson,” I said, wrapping my hands around his neck and leaning closer.
He kissed me without thinking twice. All I could feel was love.
“I love you,” he said.
I think about our last Christmas, at the Wayne family house. That was the only place where you were the same with me.
Is she there with you now? Just like I was last Christmas?
I put a Santa hat on Damian’s head. He wasn’t happy about it at all, but he kept it on anyway.
“I’m only keeping this on because it’s Christmas.”
I laughed and pinched his nose. “I know, Dami.”
I felt hands on my waist, pulling me back. I turned instantly, already knowing who it was. “I’m so happy you’re here.”
“I’m happy too, Dick,” I said, placing my hand on his chest.
He kissed my forehead, and I heard a gagging sound beside me.
“You two are so gross,” Tim said teasingly.
I just laughed and kissed Dick’s cheek. I was so happy.
Now I feel like throwing up.
I feel like crying when I imagine the two of them kissing in front of the Christmas tree. His brothers welcoming her the way they welcomed me.
After all, the boy I love is in love with her.
The 1.
Dick Grayson x female!reader
🪼 Summary: She believed they were something real. He never did.
Warnings: This is my first piece of writing here on Tumblr, so please be kind. English isn’t my first language. A little bit of (a lot of) anguish. Inspired by “the 1” by Taylor Swift (but not too much). Dick being a dick..
I felt inspired to write, and I hope you enjoy it.
Part two here
I don’t know when everything ended. I only know that one day there was something… and the next, there was nothing.
But I know exactly when it began.
We never dated. He never called me his girlfriend, never made it official, never claimed anything. But to me, we were there. Because what we had was something. It had to be.
Friends don’t hold each other after having sex. Friends don’t promise they’ll never leave. Friends don’t look at each other like the whole world lives inside the other.
Friends don’t say “I love you”, not the way we said it to each other.
But I should have known. God, I should have known and it hurts like hell to admit that I didn’t.
He was never mine.
When did you become so cold to me?
“We need to talk,” I said to Dick, who was sitting beside me.
He looked confused, but not surprised. Deep down, he had always known this moment would come.
He nodded in silence. A quiet go on without the courage to really listen.
“What are we, Richard?” My voice came out tired, but honest. “Some days you want all of me. Other days you act like I’m nothing. I have feelings. I exist. What do you want from me?”
He took a breath. “I never said we were anything. We’re friends, right?”
That’s where I broke.
Yes. Friends. Of course. Just fucking friends.
“Friends don’t do what we do,” I said, my throat tightening. “Friends don’t make promises. Friends don’t have sex. Friends don’t make me believe I’m everything.”
“I never said we were a couple.” He couldn’t look me in the eyes.
Coward. Maybe ashamed. Maybe just too comfortable to care.
That’s when my heart shattered. Quietly. Silently. Into a thousand pieces.
“Leave,” I whispered.
If I said it louder, I would fall apart.
“Don’t do this…” he said quickly. “I never wanted to hurt you. I thought we were on the same page.”
Of course he did. It was easy for him. He got everything without having to take responsibility.
“LEAVE!” I screamed, finally crying, finally breaking.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, kissing my forehead like he still had that right.
Then he walked away. And only then did I understand. I understood every time I tried to hold his hand in public and he pulled away.
Every time I tried to talk about the future and he changed the subject. Every time I fought alone for something that only existed for me.
I realized I was the only one in a relationship.
He was just comfortable. And maybe it could have been beautiful. Maybe it could have been love.
If he had been the one.