DC ✢ When He Admitted He Loved You
DC ✢ When he admitted he loved you
Characters: Bruce, Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian and Clark. This is a companion piece to another headcanon called 'When he realised he loved you' linked here. Though, you can still read it independently.
B R U C E⠀W A Y N E
Bruce did not say it in a quiet moment — for such moments were rare. Though, when they did find him, he spent them with you in silence. Not with words but simply by being near, by existing in your presence.
No. It came during an argument. One of those arguments that shakes the very foundations of a relationship — not because of what was said, but because of what had never been, what was expected.
You had asked him — raw, wounded — what you meant to him. What all this was. Why he kept forming barriers between you, when all you had ever wanted to do was break through.
His answer had been frigid. Precise. Calculated and sharpened. A blade forged from old habits, Bruce wielded it with an unconscious mastery, a last-ditch defence mechanism perfected over decades.
You left. Not in fury, but in heartbreak, disappointment — the kind that does not cry, does not scream, but simply broods into silence. Your absence rang louder than a slammed door, louder than any yell you could have mustered.
Alfred did not speak. Just passed Bruce in the hallway with the kind of look that had once made him sit straighter as a boy. And now, it made him feel small once more, as though he were still a child.
Time passed and still, silence.
He found you in the garden, beneath a sky now thick with stars, the sun had still been gleaming when you had hurried away. You had not been crying. You were still. And in that stillness, he saw the damage he had inflicted upon you.
‘I can’t seem to protect what I love,’ he said, words fractured, conflicted. ‘Not my parents. Not Jason… Not you —’
You turned. Not startled by the confession, but by the break in his voice. You had never seen him like this before, never so fragile.
‘But I do. I love you. I want… I need you to know that.’
It was not cinematic. No kiss. No arms thrown around shoulders. Just him, standing before you, hollowed by an atypical honesty, praying you would believe him — even if he was undeserving of that trust.
And you did. You believed him. Bruce could see it in the ease of your countenance, in the smile that now warmed your face. But even so, he apologised as though he had committed a most heinous crime.
You pulled yourself to your feet, still wordless. And enveloped him in your arms.
‘I love you too, Bruce.’
D I C K⠀G R A Y S O N
Dick meant to say it casually — with that charming nonchalance that usually came so naturally to him. He had rehearsed it, even. Smiled in the mirror once or twice. But it never felt right, never felt adequate. It was too simple a word to describe what he felt for you.
But love, he discovered, should not wait for perfect timing.
It came unexpectedly late one evening, while a movie played in the background — some low-budget film neither of you had been truly watching. Your head was on his shoulder. His thumb was tracing invisible shapes into your side.
And then — suddenly breathless, it had grown too large to contain, he could not hold it any longer,
‘You know I love you, right?’
You blinked like someone newly roused from a dream, and looked at him as though he had spoken in a foreign language. Dick was not confident he had not.
When you remained quiet, he chuckled, uneasy. And brought his hand to the back of his neck, in a nervous, boyish manner.
‘I mean — I have. For a while. I just didn’t want to ruin it by...’ He trailed off, not quite sure what he was saying.
You remained quiet for a few moments more, contemplating. The juncture of silence stretched taut, he held his breath. And then you smiled.
As soft as the moonlight now shining through the curtains, you whispered, ‘I love you, too.’
He kissed you gently, as though he were trying to make up for all the times he had not said it sooner. In that moment, he was not Dick Grayson, he was not Nightwing or the Boy Wonder — he was simply someone lucky enough to be loved by you.
To this day, he cannot for the life of him remember the movie that had been playing. All he could remember was that smile — the way it had already lit up your eyes by the time it reached your mouth and the enthralling, glowing warmth that had flooded his system.
J A S O N⠀T O D D
You were stitching him up again — hands steady, breath shallow, a routine so familiar it hurt. Nothing fatal. Nothing new. His form was half-draped in shadow, skin cold under your touch. You sat cross-legged before him.
‘You’ve got to stop doing this,’ you murmured, not for the first time and certainly not the last.
He did not answer. Because what would he tell you? Not the truth, you would not want to hear it. Every stitched-up wound felt like proof that you cared; he could not resist the temptation. He did not believe you could love a man like him, but when he felt your gentle fingers work over his skin, he let himself consider it; he let himself yearn.
‘I’d die for you, you know?’ he muttered. Off-handed. As though it were the most obvious thing, as though it were as easy as breathing.
A frown turned your face. ‘That’s not comforting, Jason.’
And then — something unspooled. A thread that had been pulled too tight for too long. Jason sighed.
‘What I was trying to say… What I meant was… I love you —’ He looked into your eyes, gaze piercing, willing you to see the truth of it.
The words had flooded out like a barrage breaking open. ‘That’s all I’m trying to say. I’d die for you because… I can’t picture a world without you in it. I wouldn’t want to.’ He shivered at this, at the concept of a sphere you did not grace, the very notion made him ill.
You stilled. Hands held suspended above him, pausing their work.
He was not looking for a response — only a release; he had needed this off his chest. But you gave him one anyway.
‘I love you, too.’ You had uttered it so softly, had Jason not already been watching your lips, he may have missed it. His breath caught — not in fear, but in awe — as though his lungs had momentarily forgotten their most natural function.
Your words felt like electricity brimming beneath his skin — like every nerve had been awoken at once. A new fullness bloomed within his chest, as though the ribs could no longer host his heart; as if it had suddenly grown too large to contain.
He spoke up again, softer this time, ‘I’ll try to live for you too. That part’s harder. But believe me when I say I want it. More than anything.’ He gave you one of his rare smiles, and your heart jolted.
You silently placed the first aid materials to the side and leaned in, placing your head against his shoulder. After a short while you shifted, leaving scattered kisses across his fading scars, lingering on each for a moment, he felt that same electricity once more.
Your hands ghosted over him like he were something precious, as though the ruin of him was worth loving, and that was the message you were trying to convey, what you were trying to have him understand.
Jason did not sleep that night. Not out of pain or panic, but because he was afraid it had been a dream. That peace, for someone like him, was more fragile, more fleeting than any reverie; and he could not stand the idea of waking up.
T I M⠀D R A K E
You both had been working late, each focused on your own tasks, yet relishing in the silent company of one another; the peace of it. Tim sat at his desk, while you lay across his bed, legs swinging behind you with a pen in hand.
Tim had asked you to stay at the manor for the night, but you had gently refused, reminding him you had work in the morning. You got up and walked over, placing both hands on either shoulder. You then pressed a kiss to his temple and whispered in his ear.
‘I better head off now.’ He leaned his head back into you, and his eyes met yours, smiling.
And then — too casually, too instinctively — he said, ‘Okay, love you.’
The words had flowed out like a torrent. A sudden, unexpected failure in his system.
Then a silence dropped like a stone in deep water — sudden, heavy, and irreversible; absolute.
He froze. His eyes were wide, as though the phrase had been spoken by an imposter, by someone else within his skin. He had known this fact for a long time, it had only been a matter of time.
‘I didn’t — I mean — that wasn’t—well, it was, but —’ He stopped. His words crashed over each other, panicked and sputtered.
You tilted your head. Shock the dominant expression on your face.
‘You love me?’
He nodded, slowly, it would be silly to deny it; to lie. Shame crept into the corners of his expression. What if he had said it too soon? What if the word drew you away? Then suddenly you smiled, as though you had been waiting for this exact failure, this exact slip-up.
‘Well… that’s good,’ your whisper was tender. ‘Because I love you too.’
And just like that, his spiralling mind halted. His thoughts — so often a storm of what-ifs and whys — were suddenly still.
And in that stillness, something shifted.
The tension in his shoulders eased and melted away. He let out a breath he had not realised he had been holding — shaky, but smiling. It was not his usual tight-lipped smirk, nor the polite upward curve he would give strangers — this one was real. Quiet, disbelieving and full.
You leaned downward and rested your forehead against his, your hand moving to cradle his cheek. Tim leaned into it like he had been starved of its softness. You spoke through a grin.
‘Maybe I should stick around. Was that your plan all along?’
D A M I A N⠀W A Y N E⠀(Aged up as Batman)
Damian did not like the word love. Not at first. The word felt paltry. Trite. A flippant syllable never built to hold the sheer weight of what he carried for you.
You had just bested him in sparring. You always did, but only because he allowed it — Damian would sooner impale himself on his training blade than admit it, but it was not as though you were unaware. You had thought it cute, an adjective you would never dare utter to his face.
Damian had no shortage of self-pride. The fact he was willing to sacrifice it, simply to please you, always left you breathless.
You extended your hand to guide him up, but he simply stared at it from his place on the mat, his gaze shifting upward. You were standing over him, a barely contained smirk donning your features.
‘You do not understand what you mean to me,’ he said, voice low and filled with a thousand ulterior meanings, though they bled through, his tone turning earnest.
You did not speak. You simply waited.
‘This feeling,’ he tried again, ‘it disrupts everything. My training. My thoughts. My plans. Everything. It… it…’ He trailed off, not sure how to finish what he was saying, not confident that the words capable of conveying these feelings were extant across any vernacular, it seemed too implausible.
You smiled, faintly. ‘You mean love?’
He flinched like you had cursed. But then — after a moment — he nodded.
‘Yes. That.’ It was not enough, but he figured he would concede. ‘I feel it. Unwillingly. But truthfully.’
You laughed, it was warm and bell-like. It struck something tender in him, something still learning to hope.
‘I love you too, Damian.’
How was it, that word he had held with such contempt, such scrutiny and scepticism, was suddenly so weighted, so gorgeous uttered from your lips? How was it so impactful now it was directed towards him?
He looked away, not from shame, but from overwhelm. He had fought assassins, atrocious criminals, and the weight of his father’s legacy — but never had he felt something as all-consuming as being wanted, as overwhelming as the thought of your love.
C L A R K⠀K E N T
He had told you on a rooftop. Not because it was histrionic, but because it was distant — far above the world’s inescapable noise, yet still beneath its stars.
You were talking about something entirely ordinary. Rent, perhaps. The cost of your water bill.
But he was not listening, not truly. He watched as your lips moved and thought only of how he yearned to kiss them, to wake up to them each and every morning.
And then he looked at you. Really looked. And the words came like wind through the ether — soft, inevitable.
‘I love you.’ He had cut you off, but it needed to be said. He could not have lived another moment without these words held suspended between you.
You smiled, easy. ‘I know.’
But he shook his head. Shifting closer. There was an ache in his voice, a gravity to it.
‘No. I love you. Not in the way people say when they’re hanging up the phone. Or when they leave for work in the morning. I love you like… like…’ He paused, eyebrows furrowed, ‘I’m not sure I can put it into words —’ He places his hands on either side of your cheeks.
You stopped breathing.
‘You’ve given me something no one else has,’ he said, his voice near breaking. ‘Not because you wanted a hero. But because you saw me — as nothing more than a man. The farmboy. The one who still forgets to fold his laundry, after you’ve already asked him five times…’
You let out a sudden laugh, but it was not for his joke, your joy at his admission could not be contained; it surged out. You kissed him.
‘I love you, too.’ You murmured, Clark could hear the smile within your voice. Then he thought of the stars glimmering upon them, they shone bright, yet still somehow paled in your comparison.
I was thinking of expanding upon the Jason Todd section and turning it into its own one-shot, would anyone be interested in that? Every comment and piece of advice is welcomed and appreciated <3
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The Day Before ✢ Damon Salvatore ✢ Part Two
Synopsis: The reader knows she is dying, and to save Damon from the pain of her death, she makes an extremely difficult decision. However, the aftermath of this decision takes a great toll on Damon and the people who know him. Damon Salvatore x Reader, female pronouns. Platonic!Stefan Salvatore x Reader. Platonic!Caroline Forbes x Reader. Warnings: Angst, Death. Notes: This is part two to a one-shot I posted a while ago, this piece will not make much sense without having read it.
Masterlist |Part One
Words: 1,859
Stefan could tell something was awry the moment he stepped through the doors of the old boarding house. The air inside was palpable, as if every molecule was weighed down with a tension — a stillness that pressed against his heightened senses, thick and unnatural. Damon was sitting in front of the fireplace, his silhouette stark against the warm glow of the flames, though there was nothing warm about this scene. His posture, Stefan noted, usually so full of restless energy, was eerily composed. Too composed. His gaze was fixed ahead, unblinking, the light flickering in his eyes was like a dull echo of something that had long since burned out.
Stefan took a careful breath; he was not sure why, but his instincts screamed that something was wrong.
The blood on Damon’s hands was subtle at first, easy to miss, but it did not take long for the dried crimson to catch Stefan’s eye, it crept up Damon’s knuckles, stark and seeped within the crevices of his pale, illuminated skin.
‘Damon?’
Stefan called out, his voice cautious, wary, like he was approaching a predator lying in wait. But there was no answer. Damon did not so much as flinch, his expression a mask of chilling indifference, eyes as lifeless as the logs slowly burning to cinder before him.
Stefan swallowed hard, the dread inside him growing heavier by the second.
‘Damon,’ he repeated, stepping closer, his shoes tapping softly against the hardwood floor. He kept his voice calm, but he struggled to hide the tension underneath.
‘What happened?’
For a moment, it was as if Damon had not even heard him. He remained silent, his face void of any feeling; it was as if he was not even present in the room—like his body was there, but his mind, his soul, had retreated somewhere unreachable. The lack of reaction was more terrifying than any outburst, more unnerving than any fit of rage. Damon, who thrived on conflict, on drama, was sitting there… deadened.
Stefan clenched his fists, trying to keep his voice steady, but he couldn’t suppress his rising panic.
‘Damon, talk to me. What did you do?’
Stefan’s gaze shifted, once again glancing at the blood-encrusted upon the hands of his brother.
Still nothing. It was as though Stefan’s words were dissolving into the suffocating silence of the room. And then, finally, Damon’s eyes flickered, just barely. He turned his head slowly toward his brother, his movements languid, almost robotic. When he spoke, his voice was hollow, stripped of the usual sarcasm and wit that would linger in his tone. It was flat and mechanical.
‘I did what I had to.’
Stefan’s heart pounded in his chest, his mind racing. That lifeless tone, the vacant look in his eyes—it was all too familiar. He had seen this before. Damon had turned it off. He had flipped the switch, shut down his emotions, locked away everything that made him… him. Stefan’s stomach twisted with dread.
‘No,’ Stefan whispered, more to himself than to Damon. His pulse quickened, the realisation like a slap to the face, stinging and sharp. Damon had turned it off, but why? What had driven him to this point? What had happened?
He took a step closer, his voice firmer now, though his urgency seeped through.
‘Damon, what did you do?’
Damon did not respond immediately. His gaze drifted lazily back upon the flames, as if Stefan’s question was of no consequence, as if nothing mattered anymore.
‘What I had to,’ he repeated, his voice cold and empty, devoid of the fire that usually burned beneath his words.
‘What I needed to. It doesn’t matter now.’
Stefan’s hands twitched, frustration boiling beneath his skin. He could feel Caroline approaching behind them, her presence like a ripple disturbing an already tense atmosphere. He did not turn to look at her, but he could feel her eyes on Damon, wide and fearful.
‘Damon?’ She whispered, her voice soft, hesitant, as though she was afraid to speak too loudly. She took a cautious step forward, her gaze shifting between the brothers.
‘What’s going on? Why—' She broke off, noticing the dried blood on his hands. Her face paled.
‘Why do you have blood on your hands?’
Stefan shook his head slightly, his thoughts racing. He felt sick; unease crawled up his spine in an icy shiver.
‘He’s turned it off,’ he muttered, his voice barely audible.
Caroline’s breath hitched, her eyes growing wide with alarm.
‘No…’ Her voice was thick with fear as she looked at Damon, whose expression remained indifferent as if none of this concerned him.
‘Why? Why would he do that? What happened?’
Stefan’s heart dropped. The pieces were falling into place, but he did not want to believe it. He did not want to accept what Damon’s cold demeanour was screaming to him, wordless. He needed to see Y/N.
Damon stood up slowly, his movements deliberate, his eyes not even bothering to focus on Stefan or Caroline.
‘I wouldn’t wait for her,’ he said, his voice flat, devoid of any emotion as he turned toward the door. Stefan shuddered, it was as though Damon was in his head, maybe he had been. Then his body tensed, Damon's words registering with him; a rush of panic flooded his system.
‘Damon, what did you do?’
He did not answer. Without another word, Damon disappeared in a blur of supernatural speed, the door slamming shut behind him with an ominous finality. The room fell into a suffocating silence once more, but now the silence was darker, heavier with the weight of what they did not know. What they did not want to know.
Caroline’s voice trembled as she turned toward Stefan.
‘What does he mean? Stefan, what happened?’
Stefan clenched his jaw, his chest tightening as dread settled over him. They needed to find out.
The sun was setting as Stefan and Caroline approached Y/N’s home, as they got closer, it became apparent what was wrong, it hung in the air like an unspoken fact, they knew there was only one thing that could push Damon to this state, one event that could force him over the edge. Neither of them wanted to admit what it meant; they evaded this truth so its awful pending reality could not hurt them, but the silence around the house was heavy with foreboding.
‘Do you smell that?’
Caroline asked, her voice shaking as she stepped inside the house, the faint scent of blood hitting her like a physical blow.
The knot in his stomach tightened as they ventured deeper into her house, everything was still and quiet; his senses told him no one was there, but the lingering smell of blood stood in sharp juxtaposition, unmistakable and overwhelming. Every creak of the floorboards, every gush of the wind against the windows, seemed so much louder with the absence of life; it felt like a warning.
The bedroom door was left slightly ajar, and Stefan hesitated, his palm on the handle, before pushing it open.
His breath caught in his throat.
There, crumpled on the floor, lay Y/N’s confronting form, still and cold, her skin as spectral as the moonlight now filtering in through the curtains. Her hair was splayed out across the floor, and her eyes were gently shut, as though she were only sleeping, but the sight was uncanny, they would never open again. Her limbs were unmoving, her chest motionless, and the scent of blood, stronger now, lingered around her like a haunting reminder of what had happened.
Caroline gasped, stumbling back as tears sprang to her eyes. They had already known this, but they did not want to believe it; the confrontation had been too much to behold.
“No... no, no, no...” she whispered, her voice breaking as she brought her hands to her face.
“Oh my God, Stefan…”
Stefan could not speak. He stumbled forward and dropped to his knees beside the girl, his hands shaking as he reached out to touch her. Her skin was cold, by now, the warmth of her vibrant life was long gone, perpetually a memory. His throat tightened, his chest heaving with a deep, aching sense of loss.
Not only was she his brother’s love, but a friend of his own, and he had cared for her deeply. Y/N had made his brother happy in a way he had never known, a fact he was grateful for, but she had also been there for him, her kindness and compassion knowing no bounds.
He stroked her hair and tucked it behind her ear, while a terrible burn at the base of his throat rose and shifted into a choked sob. He realised at once that she must have died alone.
And Damon had found her like this, horribly sallow and confronting.
He must have tried to save her; Stefan’s eyes numbly caught the dried blood upon her lips. He had given her his blood, but it had been too late. The emptiness within Damon’s eyes, the cold detachment—it made more sense now. Damon had not just lost her. This was not just death.
He had failed her.
‘She was trying to leave,’ Caroline whispered through her tears, her gaze locked on the half-packed suitcase on the bed. She was trying to look anywhere but the girl lying lifeless on the hard floor.
‘I think she knew she was dying... and she didn’t tell us.’
Stefan closed his eyes, the weight of this truth crashing down upon him, she had knowingly left without a goodbye. Damon had found her like this. He had tried to save her. And when he was unable, when he finally realised he was too late, it had ruined him. The love he had for her, the hope he had surely held onto—only made this so much worse. Stefan found himself wishing he had been there for him, even if it did not change anything, and he imagined it would not have, Damon would still be gone now.
His chest ached with the knowledge that his brother, despite not being there at the time, would have felt every second of her death because he could not save her. Damon had turned off his humanity because the idea of living without her had been too painful. It had destroyed him.
Caroline wiped her eyes, and her voice trembled with fear.
‘What are we going to do? If Damon has no humanity... Stefan, he’s dangerous.’
Stefan’s fists clenched, and his mind raced. Damon had always been volatile, but this was different. He had nothing left to lose now.
‘We have to find him,’ Stefan said, voice steady despite the turmoil inside him.
‘Before he does something he can’t take back.’
But his words were meaningless, as he glanced towards Y/N’s desolate corpse, Stefan could not shake the gnawing fear, or rather, the fact that it was already too late. Y/n was dead, and Damon had gone with her. He leaned down, placing a soft kiss on her forehead in farewell, knowing full well that he was kissing his brother goodbye along with her.
Every comment and piece of advice is welcomed and appreciated <3
Hostage ✢ Bruce Wayne
Summary: When Bruce Wayne hears of an active hostage situation the reader, his long-term partner, is involved in; he has no option but to take action as the Batman.
Bruce Wayne x Reader, female pronouns.
This piece is not plot-specific, so any iteration of Bruce will work. Though, I wrote it with Robert Pattinson in mind.
Warnings: Angst and Mentions of Violence.
Masterlist
Words: 1,117
The news hit him like a wave of paralysis; his distress unfathomable. Had he not felt it at that moment, he would not have thought it possible.
‘Breaking news: we are getting reports of an active hostage situation underway at Gotham City Bank, it is understood that a gang of four armed thugs are holding several civilians and staff hostage on the ground floor of the complex following a failed attempt at robbery. Here is live security footage showing hostages restrained to furniture as thugs demand free passage past authority. Viewer discretion is advised.’
The image of her face on the screen ignited white-hot anger within him. They had her, and she was not safe. The thought twisted his stomach agonisingly. She had been working the afternoon shift when the thugs stormed in; donned in conspicuous balaclavas. She was the one to alert the police, the security footage now showing her tied to a desk chair; a gun to her temple.
He turned from the screen located in the corner of the cave; his actions becoming automatic. With frantic hands, he dressed in his suit, and mounted his bike; he had no time to spare.
Dusk was falling. His symbol already illuminated the developing night sky as he sped through the empty streets of night-time Gotham. He could not remove the image of the gun to her head from his mind. After everything he had been through and everything he had seen, nothing had given him such fear. He gripped the bike’s accelerator harder, and yet, at its fastest speed it still felt like a crawl.
The flash of red and blue acted as a signal to turn the back way; the shadows were his biggest advantage. He turned swiftly down an ill-lit alleyway to avoid the attention of civilians and authorities, slowing for the first time as he approached the back of the bank. He spared no time as he jumped from his still-running motorcycle and kicked down the door of the emergency exit. Normally he would go for a more stealthy approach, the element of surprise and fear he inflicted as he emerged from the shadows always giving him the upper hand. Though he was single-minded as he stormed down the dark halls of the bank, following the sounds of voices. But for the first time since he had seen the news story, he halted.
What if this careless approach had her shot? He could be the reason she was killed.
The very thought of it made him sick.
One of the thugs stood guard by the open entrance of the hostage room, Bruce silencing him before he even had the chance to reach for his rifle. Noiselessly, he slid the unconscious body down the wall, circumventing the attention of the others.
He looked upon the scene from the shadows of the doorway, his gut clenching as he observed the gun still held to Y/N’s temple. He noticed the determined look covering her features, but her eyes still showed the hints of her fear.
Bruce saw red as he slowly lurked towards the man stupid enough to hold a gun to the woman he loved.
He had been spotted. But it didn’t matter.
Their fear had them appear as though they were shrinking in on themselves, dissipating under the sheer weight of his glare; even through his mask, he was sure they could see his hate.
He saw the relief register on Y/N’s face, she knew he would come for them; for her.
He grabbed the man with the gun by his neck, he wanted to threaten him, make him fear for his life. He wished the man would live the rest of his life looking over his shoulder; fearing that he is lurking somewhere in the darkness. He wanted to grab Y/N and escape with her, to be able to tell her she is safe. To pull her to his chest and never let her go.
But he could not do either of these things. It would only make it obvious he was associated with her, it would put her in more danger.
So instead, he briskly cut her from her restraints while still holding onto the man, snatching his gun and handing it to her. He felt better now she was armed.
‘Untie the other hostages, and move towards the front doors’ He whispered in a low voice, making sure only she would hear.
He approached the remaining two thugs slowly, their bullets deflecting from his suit. He pulled the man he was still holding in front of himself as a shield; their shots halted immediately. Bruce took this opportunity to run at them.
It was not a fair fight, each was incapacitated before they had the chance to throw their first punch. By then the authorities had swarmed the room, placing each of the offenders in handcuffs. But Bruce only had eyes for Y/N. And she was nowhere to be seen.
An ambulance had already taken her, alongside the other hostages.
He wasted no time in leaving.
He stood in front of the door to her hospital room, pushing it slowly forward.
Y/N sat on the bed, a shock blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She looked at Bruce with a small smile.
He moved over slowly and sat on the side of her bed, grabbing her cheeks,
‘Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere?’ His eyes shot frantically across her body, resting on a bruise forming around her eye. He had hit her. Again he felt the white-hot anger he had grown familiar with these past few hours. She grabbed his hands and pulled them down to her lap.
‘I’m okay, you made sure of that’ she said softly,
Her voice at that moment was the sweetest sound he had ever heard.
Bruce once again grabbed her cheeks, pulling her forehead to his lips for a kiss. He then pulled her to his chest as he had wanted to back at the bank, he never wanted the embrace to end.
He felt tears begin to roll down his cheeks, and not before long he was sobbing. She rubbed circles into his back and whispered to him that everything was okay. That she was okay. Y/N was the one who had just been held hostage with a gun to her head, and still, she was comforting him. But it had all come crashing down, how close he had been to losing her forever, and he could not handle it.
‘I’ll never let anyone hurt you again.’ He whispered,
‘I promise you…’
This is seriously the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. Thank you 🙏
DC ✢ When he realised he loved you
Characters: Bruce, Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian and Clark.
B R U C E⠀W A Y N E
The moment had been a quiet revelation, in a silence so profound it frightened him. The kind of silence that followed the first crack of thunder, one moment loud and undeniable, the next building with tension, waiting for it to strike again.
You were sitting in the library of the manor, an arcane book resting open upon your lap, the fire crackling softly behind you. He had just returned from patrol — broken, bloodied, and defeated.
You looked up, eyes wide, alarmed at his state and asked, ‘Bruce?’ You had spoken as if he were not the Batman, not an emblem of vengeance and grit, but a man, just a man, whose hurt mattered.
Something in him gave out. Not in an ostentatious, cinematic collapse, but in the subtle yielding of defences too long held taut. His mind, a fortress of rationale and boundaries, fell silent.
She sees me, for all I am, it whispered. And yet she stays.
He had not believed in unconditional love since the alleyway. But in that moment, with the stench of blood from his suit and the leaden weight of the city upon his back, he saw love for what it was — not a sanctuary, but a quiet understanding, and a choosing. And she had chosen him.
It terrified him. Because now he had yet another thing to lose, to protect, something that was not abstract. It had a name. A voice. A laugh. It sat in his home and softened his world.
He had never been the same since.
D I C K⠀G R A Y S O N
It crept up on him — not a wave, but rather a tide. Quiet and constant and utterly irreversible.
You had fallen asleep in his bed, still holding a game controller, your brow furrowed even in your unconsciousness. He watched you in the blue glow of the screen and thought, God, I’d die for her.
And then came the laugh — low, bitter, surprised. Because of course he would. He was always ready to die for someone.
But this felt different. This was not a compulsion, a sense of duty. It was not about legacy or guilt. It was about you. And the way your presence grounded the part of him that had always been just suspended above the world, half-grieving, half-trying.
He remembered kissing your forehead before leaving for patrol that night. Slow. Lingering. The kind of kiss that was not about want, but reverence.
That was when he knew.
Love was not a thrill. It was a weight. And he had never wanted anything to anchor him, to tether him to this sphere, more than you.
The realisation made him smile. And then it made him ache.
J A S O N⠀T O D D
Jason felt it like the first rays of sun upon his back after a piercing winter, it flooded his system, warm and compelling. It struck him all of a sudden — new, unfamiliar, and… unwelcome. He did not want it. He had not asked for it.
You were brushing your teeth, half-asleep, wearing one of his old shirts, humming a song under your breath as though nothing was wrong in the world, as though it were not in a state of disrepair just beyond the window. And while watching you, he could believe it for a moment too.
Jason stood in the doorway, paralysed. Because he had seen too much tragedy, too much carnage. He could hardly believe that a quiet instant of peace, like this, could even exist, let alone in his reality.
His first instinct was to run. Not literally — he could never leave you. But to emotionally retreat, to steel himself for the moment this fleeting softness was stolen from him.
But you looked at him. Just looked — toothpaste foam and all — with a kind of amused concern, and asked, ‘You okay?’
After everything he had been through. He was not sure he had ever been less okay.
He loved you. He loved you with a passion that made him feel unworthy, as if he had tainted something holy.
A voice in him protested — said it was weakness. Said this would end in catastrophe. But he ignored it, just this once. He stepped forward and kissed your temple.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Just tired.’ But he was not. This was a lie. His mind was reeling.
He did not sleep that night. He lay awake memorising your breathing.
T I M⠀D R A K E
It was a question you asked that did it. Something ordinary, like, ‘Did you eat today?’
Tim wanted to laugh because it was such a cliché, wasn’t it? But clichés exist because they are true. No one ever asked him that, not like you had, not like it genuinely mattered.
Then you brought him a coffee, one of those orders so tailored it was essentially an identity. You did not need to ask what he wanted. You simply knew.
He blinked down at the cup, then at you, and suddenly the task he was completing meant nothing.
He felt the world tilt. Quietly. Like the axis of his orbit had shifted. And it had.
Love, to Tim, had always been a puzzle he did not have time to solve. A thing for normal people, with normal lives, for people who lacked the responsibility he had garnered.
But there it was — simple, unassuming and irreversible.
He did not tell you. Not for a long time.
But he began cataloguing what made you smile. The way your face changed after a laugh, crinkled and carefree. He noticed the way your eyes sparkled just a little brighter when you spoke of things that made you passionate, and how the corners of your lips turned up when you were lost in a quiet thought.
This love became his sustenance, it was the first time in years he feared forgetting something.
D A M I A N⠀W A Y N E (Aged up as Batman)
It had infuriated him. The sheer idiocy of it.
Love was chemical, juvenile, a distraction. Or so he had been taught. So he had believed.
And yet there he stood — across from you in the garden, where you were speaking to a stray dog as if it were royalty, and something in his chest pulled.
At first, he mistook it for contempt — annoyance at your softness in a moment where he was attempting to be serious. But then you looked up, grinned, and said, ‘I think she likes me.’
And the words caught in his throat. Not because he did not believe them, but because he liked you. Against every grain of his upbringing.
He wanted to scold you, retreat, build walls. But instead, he asked the cat’s name.
That was the beginning. The fracture.
He loved you. In an old, mythic sense. In the way poets spoke of their love — fierce, unyielding, as though it could bend the very fabric of time.
And that it did, time slowed every time you entered his concentration.
He began to dream of futures — a concept once as foreign to him as mercy.
He has not told you. But he will. In his own time. For now, he will continue to relish in it, and continue in this alluring descent.
C L A R K⠀K E N T
He did not realise. Not at first. Because what he felt for you was too immense, too intrinsic, to label with as small as a word as love.
It was not until you fell asleep in his arms, mumbling about a stressful day, completely unaware of the god you were held by, that it hit him.
You did not see him as Superman. You saw him as Clark Kent. You simply saw him. The man. His hope. His grief.
And he realised then — you are his tether.
He thought of Krypton. Of its loss. Of the gaping emptiness it had left as soon as he had learnt of it. And for the first time in years, he did not feel hollow. He felt… full. He realised, that the planet could never have been home to him like she was.
You snored softly. He laughed. Then cried.
Love, he realised, was not loud. It was simply your hand over his heart. It was your laughter in the next room. It was your body next to his.
He had not fallen in love. He had found it, unexpected and irrevocable, and for all the power he had been bestowed, this force had left him helpless to resist.
And now he guards it with everything he is. Because you are not just his world.
You are his home.
I'm going to post a follow-up called 'When he admitted he loved you' sometime soon, if you want to keep an eye out. Every comment and piece of advice is welcomed and appreciated <3
Detective Comics ✢ Masterlist ✢ The Halloween Jack
All my DC pieces are written with different iterations in mind, but they are not plot-specific, so you can picture your favourite <3 All my works, minus headcanons, use female pronouns for the reader. Besides this, I keep the reader undescribed, the only filler I use being 'Y/N'.
B R U C E W A Y N E
One-Shots:
Asphyxiated ✢ Y/N’s once-adoring relationship with the charming Bruce Wayne begins to unravel as his nightly disappearances and distant demeanour create an insurmountable chasm between them. Unaware of his double life as the infamous Batman, Y/N is left to wonder where she went wrong, seeking solace in an old friend, Jonathan Crane.
Fleeting Moments ✢ Y/N and Bruce Wayne share quiet moments of love amidst the chaos of Gotham. In rare stolen hours between nightfall and dawn, she clings to the man behind the mask, not aware of the double life he leads. She watches as bruises form across his skin and holds him through his restless nights, grateful that, for once, he is by her side. (Prequel to Asphyxiated)
Hostage ✢ When Bruce Wayne hears of an active hostage situation the reader, his long-term partner, is involved in; he has no option but to take action as the Batman. (This is an older work, I am currently in the process of editing it.)
Enigma ✢ Bruce Wayne has a secret that he has been keeping from the reader for over two years, fearing his vigilante escapades will only draw her away, completely unaware the reader holds a secret of her own. (This is an older work, I am currently in the process of editing it.)
Drabbles:
Coming soon...
J A S O N T O D D
One-Shots:
Déjà Vu ✢ When the reader's comms grow suddenly silent, Jason Todd's worst fear takes shape — not just the possibility of losing someone, but the cold, inescapable echoes of a past he could never bury. As he fights his way through the grime of Gotham City, one truth becomes undeniable: some nightmares never cease, they resurface.
Disarray ✢ She had become his sanctuary, the one unshaken constant in a life fractured by violence and resurrection — the only person who saw beyond the wreckage and chose to stay regardless. Jason Todd returns to the person he considers his home, only to find it in disarray.
Tether ✢ When a battered Jason stumbles into an alley and finds unexpected refuge in a stranger’s kindness, it sparks a fracture in the walls he’s built to survive. Trust was never a luxury he could afford, but as survival blurs into something more, Jason is forced to confront the most dangerous risk of all, love.
Drabbles:
Coming soon...
D I C K G R A Y S O N
One-Shots:
Late-Night Escapades ✢ Blüdhaven, well past dusk, is irrefutably no place to wander. Though, Y/N ventures out regardless, in need of a few essentials. She knows it is irresponsible, she knows what Dick would say, but the store is just a few blocks away...
Drabbles:
Coming soon...
T I M D R A K E
One-Shots:
Coming soon...
Drabbles:
Coming soon...
D A M I A N W A Y N E
(Damian Wayne will be aged up in all my work. Though, upon request, I would be happy to write something platonic for a young Damian.)
One-Shots:
Coming soon...
Drabbles:
Coming soon...
C L A R K K E N T
One-Shots:
Coming soon...
Drabbles:
Coming soon...
H E A D C A N O N S
Characters: Bruce, Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian and Clark.
What scares them and how you help them cope.
When he realised he loved you.
When he admitted he loved you.
There is just something about DC men...
Disarray ✢ Jason Todd
Synopsis: She had become his sanctuary, the one unshaken constant in a life fractured by violence and resurrection — the only person who saw beyond the wreckage and chose to stay regardless. Jason Todd returns to the person he considers his home, only to find it in disarray.
Jason Todd x Reader, female pronouns. Warnings: Angst (with comfort).
Masterlist
Notes: I set out to write a short piece, nothing over a thousand words, I was successful! Normally I write way too much.
Words: 923
Jason never knocked, never felt the need to announce his arrival; he did not possess the disposition for this courtesy, and he already knew she would be anticipating him, with an easy smile, as though she relished his company. Jason could not compel himself to understand, to comprehend why a person so pure, so gentle, would allow themselves to be tainted by someone so burdened, someone like him.
He reached out, the old window yielding with a decrepit creak as he moved it upward, and climbed through the aperture without grace.
The room was fractured. His hands began to tremble.
This space, so wonderfully hers, had rapidly become his sanctuary; the one place on this sphere where he felt truly at peace, where he felt he could be himself. Now, it lay in ruins before him, a body of motion and disorder. Cushions were sprawled across the expanse of the room, drawers were cracked wide open, and papers lay scattered across all surfaces.
The breath he had been holding sputtered out; he was gasping, fighting for air. Jason’s eyes swept through it all, not taking it in, not registering; he needed to snap out of it, to make sense of it. He unwillingly looked up, stomach crumpled with the realisation that the clasp of the front door had been left unlocked. Her name claws at the back of his throat, but he does not call it. He cannot get himself to name her absence, to solidify it in his reality.
The place was not big, and yet it felt like lifetimes had passed as he scoped through it, shattering with every room that failed to offer her silhouette. His dread grows not in a line, but in every conceivable direction, fractal and fast; erratic. The fragment of him that still knows reason suggests she went out. The rest of him, the person carved hollow by Lazarus and consequence, had already begun to grieve.
The unlocked door is a wound. A violation.
Someone knows. Someone traced the pattern, mapped their connection, and found the one seam he should have reinforced. He pictures her hands, how unarmed they are, how gentle, how tender, and it is unthinkable to entertain that they are subject to a stranger’s mercy.
His mind does not race; it plummets. The catastrophe is palpable; he can almost taste it. It cuts sharp against his tongue and sears like acid. She is gone. Y/N is gone. The word nests in his chest like a cancer, malignant and burgeoning, defiling everything in its wake. He dropped to his knees. He had always been so sure of himself, so confident in his resolve, but he knew he could not overcome this; his dread left him immobilised, obsolete.
And then —
The door opened.
Y/N stands calm in the frame, flushed from exertion, keys in hand, with a ghost of a smile on her lips, until she sees him. Or rather, perceives what was left of him; feeble upon the floor.
‘Jason...?’
Her voice is quiet at first, tentative. The light that had been in her eyes began to dissipate, concern filling the place it left vacant in its departure. She moved to him, quickly, dropping the keys somewhere behind her.
‘Are you... Are you hurt? What’s wrong? What happened?’
But he only shakes his head, eyes wide, breath shuddering, he felt it quake in his chest. Then he pulled her down to him, taking her in his embrace. His arms tightened with something akin to desperation, like a man who had already begun to bury his world. She feels it in the tremor of his breath. In the way his jaw locks against her shoulder.
‘I thought... ’
He does not finish, he cannot. The words collapse on the edge of his tongue.
Y/N pulled him in tighter, beginning to trace his scars where she knew they lay underneath his shirt, a ritual that brought him great ease.
‘I thought someone took you,’ he whispered against her shoulder, again and again, as if the repetition might bleed the terror out, extricate it from where it festered beneath his skin. ‘I thought they knew. That they connected you to me. I thought I’d gotten you hurt.’
Or worse, he wanted to utter, but the notion was too revolting, too vile.
‘No,’ she murmured, hands on his face now, grounding him. ‘Jason, no. I’m fine. I just... I couldn’t find my keys. I tore the place apart looking for them.’ She motioned around her, to the disarray encircling them, the catalyst of his anguish. He looked into her eyes, savouring the sensation of it, of having her in his arms.
‘I left to check my car, I didn’t think... I’m so sorry... ’
Jason did not respond, for he no longer possessed the capacity to commit thought to speech. He simply pulled her closer, burying his face in the crook of her neck like a man anchoring himself to the last artifact capable of keeping him afloat. His breath was still uneven, ragged with the aftershocks of a panic that refused to fade. She was here; warm, real and speaking, but his body had not yet caught up with the truth of it. All he could do was hold her, tighter than he ever had before, as if that force alone might keep his world from collapsing. Because some part of him, raw and relentless, still feared that if he let go, she would vanish, not in a torrent, but quietly, like sand through his fingers.
Every comment and piece of advice is welcomed and appreciated <3
Enigma ✢ Bruce Wayne
Summary: Bruce Wayne has a secret that he has been keeping from the reader for over two years, fearing his vigilante escapades will only draw her away, completely unaware the reader holds a secret of her own.
This piece is not plot-specific, so any iteration of Bruce will work. Though, I wrote it with Robert Pattinson in mind.
Bruce Wayne x Reader, female pronouns.
Warnings: Slight Angst
Masterlist
Notes: I’ve seen this movie in cinemas 3 times now, and I’m going again this week, I seriously need help.
Words: 2,056
Every time he sees her the feeling of guilt low in his stomach is sickening, everything he does is to make Gotham a safer place, for the civilians; and for her. So she can walk down the street and not have to worry about the evil lurking in the shadows, the people who would hurt her. Never again.
Though his job is dangerous, it would only be too easy for someone to find her in the event of his identity being revealed. And the thought of any harm coming to her kills him.
He likes to believe that he is keeping her safe by holding information from her, if she knows nothing, the information cannot endanger her, though his better judgment knows it is his selfishness. Once the truth is out, she could very well want to leave him; and Bruce could not handle any more loss.
He hates to deceive her, always making excuses for his frequent absence, leaving her alone in his bed at night, hoping he will make it back before she wakes to his cold, empty side. He wants to spend the rest of his life with her, but the likelihood of such a thing becomes less and less believable every time he leaves his home clad in the suit of the caped crusader.
He already feels her becoming more distant, when he returns home it is often to an empty bed. Though he tries to believe she is only staying at her apartment, the idea is unlikely, it had been months since she started staying with him. And when he intends to leave a note explaining his sudden disappearance, he realises with a sinking heart that she herself is already gone.
She had not been answering her phone, he could feel his panic settling in as he scrolled through all the missed calls, Y/N had been quite distant as of late but he could always rely on her to respond. An uneasy feeling fell in his gut as he came to the conclusion that something must be wrong. It was as if he turned on autopilot, his body beginning to move without the intention to; robotic as he dressed in his suit and mounted his bike, speeding from the bat cave without a second thought.
His dread fell further when he reached Y/N’s apartment, the silhouette of a hooded figure climbing from her window and expertly making their way down from the fire escape. They withdrew quickly into the shadows. He knew he should follow them, if they had done anything to her he fears all sense of morality would be out of the window; they would not live to tell the tale. But at this moment he only had eyes for Y/N, he had to know she was safe. His thoughts were hollow as he rushed to her apartment window, climbing frantically up the fire escape the figure had just gone down.
When he reached the window the sight halted him, not a single thing was out of place, the view no different from every other time he had been there. Though even without the signs of struggle he expected to find, he still stalked quietly through the apartment looking for the girl he loved. It felt wrong, she was neither at his house nor her own, and she was not answering her phone. Not knowing where she was or if she was okay unsettled him as nothing had before. Who was the figure? Were they the key to her sudden disappearance?
Bruce believed he knew Y/N better than anyone, and one thing he knew for sure was her inclination of having everything in place, so when he spotted a single book pulled further than the rest, contrasting vastly with the picture-perfect view of her home, he decided to investigate.
Upon pulling the book, the shelf broke its seal from the wall, slowly turning to reveal more storage behind it. Bruce sighed at the revelation, there was nothing more obvious than a secret passage within a bookshelf. Though what he found was shocking, the walls were lined with weapons and in the middle, stood a bare mannequin, one which could easily have been holding the cloak of the figure he saw earlier. Bruce remembered news articles and stories describing the work of a new vigilante prevalent within Gotham, known only as Enigma.
It could not be her, he would not believe it; the thought of her deliberately putting herself in danger horrified him. He pictured all the ghastly things he had seen behind his Batman façade, the idea of her seeing these things too making him sick.
He decided to follow them, to confirm the figure he saw wasn’t her, he feared they would already be too far gone; but he found himself climbing from her window and following their path anyway. His fears were confirmed true when he drew deeper and deeper into the shadows of the dank Gotham street, but no traces of the uncanny vigilante could be found.
He mounted his motorcycle once more with a sense of helplessness, with no way of finding her his only option was to make his way back and wait harrowingly for her return. It was not like Bruce to stand aside, he felt powerless. He hoped to find her sitting on the settee watching the television or laid in front of the fireplace reading a novel, but he knew this was just wishful thinking. It all seemed far too correlated, the secret storage compartment, the unknown figure stalking from her window, her frequent unexplained absences…
Bruce had thought she was drifting away, that he was losing her. But was it possible that it was her; that Y/N was the Enigma rampant within Gotham’s media?
He derided the thought, but it was hard to dispute. He knew he was being incredibly hypocritical. Every night as his symbol shone through the murky clouds of Gotham’s night sky, he lurked in the shadows, taking it upon himself to decide the punishment for Gotham’s most heinous criminals. So why did the prospect of Y/N doing the exact same thing trouble him so much? Bruce knew it was because he could never ensure her safety, every time she would leave dressed in her alias, the possibility of her never returning home was large; it terrified him.
He entered the hidden basement of Wayne Manor Estate, a place he had reconfigured into the bat cave just over two years ago, immediately changing from his suit and wiping the makeup from his eyes. On his way to the exit, he was met with the stricken appearance of Alfred, who began to speak,
‘You haven’t seen Miss L/N by any chance? She left in a hurry earlier, and she hasn’t been responding to my calls’
‘She hasn’t been responding to mine either, Alfred, I’ve just returned from her apartment; she is nowhere to be found’ He responded curtly, careful to hide the distress in his voice.
Bruce considered telling Alfred about the silhouette he saw leaving her window, and the theory he had comprised. But quickly decided against it, he was not certain she was Enigma. He did not want to say anything in the event it all amounted to nothing.
Bruce’s eyes rested on his security footage, his heart giving a leap when he saw the face he had been looking for all day, she was using the elevator heading towards the main living space.
‘Speaking of which, will you excuse me, Alfred? I believe I should go and ask about these missed calls, see what she has been up to all this time.’ And without adding anything further he swiftly exited and made his own way to the living area.
Y/N sat reading a book on the brown chesterfield settee beside the fireplace seemingly unaware of the distress she had placed Bruce through the past few hours. She continued to read, fully engrossed in her novel and completely oblivious to his presence. He cleared his throat.
‘Jesus Bruce! How long have you been standing there?!’ Her expression was startled, her hand held above her heart.
‘Not long, I’ve only just gotten home’
‘Why haven’t you been answering your phone?” Bruce continued before Y/N had the chance to respond. Her eyebrows furrowed as she pulled the small device from her front pocket,
‘Sorry Bruce, I didn’t realise you had been trying to call me… Oh, and Alfred too… I must have had my phone on silent’ She looked sincere as she spoke but Bruce knew there was more to be said.
‘Where have you been all night? You had me worried.’ He prompted, hoping she would be forthright.
‘I was at my apartment’ It was the answer he had been expecting but not the one he wanted to hear.
‘I know you weren’t there, Y/N, when I couldn’t find you and you weren’t answering my calls, which is very unlike you, I went to your home, you weren’t there
She looked hurt, and opened her mouth to dispute.
‘Bruce, why couldn’t you have waited for me to come home? Don’t you trust me?’ Her voice was offended.
‘Trust you? I trusted you completely. But you have to understand that I have a high profile, I’m often the target of attacks by the Gotham anarchy. And our relationship isn’t exactly secret. When you weren’t responding I was terrified, I thought someone had hurt you…’
‘I went to your apartment because I needed to know you were okay. Trust me, I knew I was being irrational. But you weren’t there and you’re telling me you were, and now you’re asking for my trust?’
‘I don’t expect you to tell me everything, Y/N, I don’t need to know everything. But I do need to know you’re safe, can you at least give me that much?’
Y/N was taken aback, it was obvious he loved her but he had never been this outspoken before. She didn’t know what to say, she could not lie again, he would know; she hated to lie. He continued when she failed to respond.
‘Y/N… Are you the Enigma they have been talking about…?’
A small intake of breath turned into a gasp, her eyes set wide on her face. It was the only answer he needed. They continued to stare at each other, the air tense, as though it would snap at any moment. Once again Bruce spoke,
‘Please… Y/N…’
‘How?… How could you possibly know?… I was always so careful…’ She spoke softly, her tone incredulous.
‘So it’s true then? Why must you do this? It’s dangerous, you could get hurt…’ Bruce’s eyes softened as he spoke.
‘For months after I was attacked and those men got away, all I could think about were the people being hurt in my place. It’s unlikely they would have just stopped after my encounter with them. I had to do something, they weren’t the only criminals out there, the streets of Gotham is riddled with them.’
Bruce wanted to be upset with her, but he knew he could not be, after all, was he not doing the exact same thing? Once again he thought about all the times he had left her in the night, all times he had missed her calls with no explanation as to why. He knew it was time to tell her, it simply could not wait any longer, it had been eating away at him for over two years now. But she still trusted him after all of it, it was time to test that trust.
For the first time all evening he felt a sense of relief, he had always been worried she would want to leave him, that the revelation of this most secret pastime would be too much. Though the likelihood of that occurring now seemed doubtful.
‘Y/N… There is something I should say…’ He averted his eyes, he did not want to see her face as his hypocrisy registered with her.
‘I am The Batman…’
Hey!
Can you please add me to the tag list for Revenant?
Thank you ❤️
Of course! I’m glad you have been enjoying it <3
The Day Before ✢ Damon Salvatore
Synopsis: The reader knows she is dying and to save Damon the pain of her death she makes an extremely difficult decision.
Damon Salvatore x Reader, female pronouns.
Warnings: Angst, Death.
Masterlist
Notes: This is my first time writing for Damon Salvatore, hopefully, this is the first of many.
Words: 1,538
Y/N’s heart sunk as she glanced down at the beads of blood glistening on the tissue she clutched in her hand, she had received news the day before that her cancer had metastasised to her lungs, though she did not realise that her condition would worsen so swiftly.
Y/N knew she would not be able to hide it for much longer, every day she became more crippled and with every passing moment her façade threatened to unveil.
Her friends had experienced too much loss and the idea of adding to it made her stomach churn sickeningly. She would not allow them to grieve her; which is why she was leaving.
Through clouded eyes she began bundling all of her possessions into a small suitcase, she did not pay much mind to what she grabbed, it would not need to last her very long.
Though when she reached a small photo album sitting on her bedside table her heart jolted, with shaking hands she flipped open the small winsome book, and sure enough, smiling back at her were the faces of her beloved friends.
She brushed her fingers over each and everyone of their grins, smiling through her tears as she recalled the moment she had taken it. Though her hand halted when she reached the last face, she could have sworn she felt her heart beating in her throat.
Damon.
It had not yet occurred to her that she would never see him again. The pain she felt at that realisation was crippling. She would never feel his gentle caress against her body or his lips on her cheek; Damon’s touch was lost on her forever. All that she had to carry her to her deathbed was his picture and her feeble memory, and that would never be enough.
Before she met him Y/N would not have believed a love so potent was possible, though she was very agreeably proved wrong. Even while living in Mystic Falls with all its theatrical and apprehensive infamousness, Y/N had never been happier. And that was entirely the work of Damon.
Y/N knew her death would break him and she knew the kind of person Damon became when he was broken. If she left without an explanation he would eventually make his own assumptions and any assumption he made surely could not hurt him like the truth.
She knew he would try and find her, she could only wish he was never successful. The decision she was making was far from easy, but it was easier than knowing he was mourning for her; hurting because of her.
Damon was always abundantly clear on the life he wanted for them, he yearned to turn her and live for eternity at each other's sides. Though Y/N was never sure what she wanted, she did not want to be rash and he respected that. Though now any chance of her accepting his vision was lost perpetually. She could never become like him, the possibility was lost the moment she was diagnosed with cancer; vampire blood could not fix her now.
Y/N was riddled with guilt and regret, she knew she should have said yes when he first told her what he wanted; because now in the face of death, she yearned for it too. For months the abstraction of the undying life she could have had with Damon had been eating away at her. She laughed humourlessly at the malevolent irony of her situation.
Y/N could not bear to spend another second thinking of the near future and what could have been, so to ease her mind she thought of the day before. The day that, albeit unknowingly, would become their final moments together. It was not a grand affair, they had simply spent the day in each other's company.
They watched TV, had a nap and Damon had even offered to cook dinner, and even though he failed miserably it had still meant so much to her. She believes he noticed she was feeling unwell and was doing what he could to make her better.
But it was the final moment that had meant the most to her; when he wrapped her in his arms at the end of the day as he was leaving and whispered that he loved her. Tears ran hot down her cheeks at the realisation that it would be the last time she heard him say those words.
A sudden feeling of lightheadedness had Y/N rushing to sit on the edge of her bed, she should not be stressing herself out like this, she knew it would only worsen her condition. Though she could not stop the unfathomable feeling of guilt stewing within her, It made her sick; she could not leave him without so much as a goodbye.
Going against everything she had planned since her diagnosis she turned to the messily packed suitcase and began unravelling it.
Another wave of sickness overcame her, though this time disparate. Y/N felt her body go slack, her possessions slipping from her weak grasp and falling back into their places in the case. Her body slipped downwards from the bed and found itself docile against the floorboards.
She had started coughing up blood again when the realisation crushed her. This was it. Just as she decided to see Damon karma unfurled its caustic tendrils and enveloped her. She swore she could feel the life depleting from her body. Y/N felt akin to a spectre as darkness shrouded her being like a void, plunging her into nothingness. She was lost to the world. Her glassy, lifeless eyes stared above her; forever immortalised with the fear of never seeing him again.
Y/N had not been answering her phone and Damon knew the consternation he felt brewing because of it was completely irrational, but he found himself headed to her house regardless; he wanted to see her anyway.
When Y/N’s house met his line of sight the sound of a lack of life immediately registered with him, he could not hear her breathing nor the beating of her heart and there was certainly no sound of her usual bustle.
He concluded that she must not have been home, though before he could turn around to leave he noticed with furrowed eyebrows that her car was still in the driveway. He picked up his pace as he closed the rest of the distance.
He pushed open the creaking old door and when the smell of her exposed blood met him immediately, his heart was sent into a panicked frenzy. Before a second had passed he used his speed to send him straight into her bedroom. But the macabre sight on the floor halted him. He discerned that her skin was the colour of death and the stillness of her frame was much the same.
He repudiated this thought as he felt the veins grow black beneath his eyes, his fangs coming to meet his wrist. He sped to her limp body and placed his bloodied arm against her cold lips, they remained unmoving.
‘No...’ he barely gasped out, ‘You need to drink this Y/N, it’ll help you.’
He shook her shoulders, her whole body moving with the disruption. Damon’s vision dimmed through the welling of his tears. He forced her taut jaw wider trying to force down his blood. He choked down his sobs as he continued to plead with her.
‘Please drink, you need to drink… Please.’
His weeps quaked in his chest, unwillingly observing her lack of heartbeat. He removed his wrist from her lips, replacing it with his mouth and breathing air into her empty lungs. He placed his hands on her chest and tried desperately to recall the steps of resuscitation, but his efforts were futile.
With an all-consuming sense of despair, his hands fell slack from her inanimate frame and he acknowledged what he had known all along.
She was dead.
The sobs that passed his lips were inhuman in sound, with shaking hands he used the pad of his fingers to gently pull the eyelids over her glassy eyes. Damon then pulled her torso up to his chest and rested his chin on the top of her head.
For the first time since he had arrived the sight of a half-packed suitcase entered his concentration. He realised hollowly she had been trying to leave. She knew she was dying and was trying to leave anyway. He wanted to feel angry at her, but no emotion could supersede the severe sense of dejection he was under.
Who knows how long he would have been living in blissful ignorance, thinking he resided in a sphere where she still existed, a world where she still lived.
Damon knew he could not live in a world where she did not exist. This was a pain he could not overcome, a pain he would not overcome. Her death left his humanity in shreds, and Damon knew at once he could no longer function with it extant. His emotions left him like a flame getting put out, the enthralling love he had felt for her the day before all but a memory.
Here is the link to a second part if you're interested. I thought it would be interesting to write Damon with no humanity, Part two.
Every comment and piece of advice is welcomed and appreciated <3
DC ✢ When he realised he loved you
Characters: Bruce, Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian and Clark.
B R U C E⠀W A Y N E
The moment had been a quiet revelation, in a silence so profound it frightened him. The kind of silence that followed the first crack of thunder, one moment loud and undeniable, the next building with tension, waiting for it to strike again.
You were sitting in the library of the manor, an arcane book resting open upon your lap, the fire crackling softly behind you. He had just returned from patrol — broken, bloodied, and defeated.
You looked up, eyes wide, alarmed at his state and asked, ‘Bruce?’ You had spoken as if he were not the Batman, not an emblem of vengeance and grit, but a man, just a man, whose hurt mattered.
Something in him gave out. Not in an ostentatious, cinematic collapse, but in the subtle yielding of defences too long held taut. His mind, a fortress of rationale and boundaries, fell silent.
She sees me, for all I am, it whispered. And yet she stays.
He had not believed in unconditional love since the alleyway. But in that moment, with the stench of blood from his suit and the leaden weight of the city upon his back, he saw love for what it was — not a sanctuary, but a quiet understanding, and a choosing. And she had chosen him.
It terrified him. Because now he had yet another thing to lose, to protect, something that was not abstract. It had a name. A voice. A laugh. It sat in his home and softened his world.
He had never been the same since.
D I C K⠀G R A Y S O N
It crept up on him — not a wave, but rather a tide. Quiet and constant and utterly irreversible.
You had fallen asleep in his bed, still holding a game controller, your brow furrowed even in your unconsciousness. He watched you in the blue glow of the screen and thought, God, I’d die for her.
And then came the laugh — low, bitter, surprised. Because of course he would. He was always ready to die for someone.
But this felt different. This was not a compulsion, a sense of duty. It was not about legacy or guilt. It was about you. And the way your presence grounded the part of him that had always been just suspended above the world, half-grieving, half-trying.
He remembered kissing your forehead before leaving for patrol that night. Slow. Lingering. The kind of kiss that was not about want, but reverence.
That was when he knew.
Love was not a thrill. It was a weight. And he had never wanted anything to anchor him, to tether him to this sphere, more than you.
The realisation made him smile. And then it made him ache.
J A S O N⠀T O D D
Jason felt it like the first rays of sun upon his back after a piercing winter, it flooded his system, warm and compelling. It struck him all of a sudden — new, unfamiliar, and… unwelcome. He did not want it. He had not asked for it.
You were brushing your teeth, half-asleep, wearing one of his old shirts, humming a song under your breath as though nothing was wrong in the world, as though it were not in a state of disrepair just beyond the window. And while watching you, he could believe it for a moment too.
Jason stood in the doorway, paralysed. Because he had seen too much tragedy, too much carnage. He could hardly believe that a quiet instant of peace, like this, could even exist, let alone in his reality.
His first instinct was to run. Not literally — he could never leave you. But to emotionally retreat, to steel himself for the moment this fleeting softness was stolen from him.
But you looked at him. Just looked — toothpaste foam and all — with a kind of amused concern, and asked, ‘You okay?’
After everything he had been through. He was not sure he had ever been less okay.
He loved you. He loved you with a passion that made him feel unworthy, as if he had tainted something holy.
A voice in him protested — said it was weakness. Said this would end in catastrophe. But he ignored it, just this once. He stepped forward and kissed your temple.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Just tired.’ But he was not. This was a lie. His mind was reeling.
He did not sleep that night. He lay awake memorising your breathing.
T I M⠀D R A K E
It was a question you asked that did it. Something ordinary, like, ‘Did you eat today?’
Tim wanted to laugh because it was such a cliché, wasn’t it? But clichés exist because they are true. No one ever asked him that, not like you had, not like it genuinely mattered.
Then you brought him a coffee, one of those orders so tailored it was essentially an identity. You did not need to ask what he wanted. You simply knew.
He blinked down at the cup, then at you, and suddenly the task he was completing meant nothing.
He felt the world tilt. Quietly. Like the axis of his orbit had shifted. And it had.
Love, to Tim, had always been a puzzle he did not have time to solve. A thing for normal people, with normal lives, for people who lacked the responsibility he had garnered.
But there it was — simple, unassuming and irreversible.
He did not tell you. Not for a long time.
But he began cataloguing what made you smile. The way your face changed after a laugh, crinkled and carefree. He noticed the way your eyes sparkled just a little brighter when you spoke of things that made you passionate, and how the corners of your lips turned up when you were lost in a quiet thought.
This love became his sustenance, it was the first time in years he feared forgetting something.
D A M I A N⠀W A Y N E (Aged up as Batman)
It had infuriated him. The sheer idiocy of it.
Love was chemical, juvenile, a distraction. Or so he had been taught. So he had believed.
And yet there he stood — across from you in the garden, where you were speaking to a stray dog as if it were royalty, and something in his chest pulled.
At first, he mistook it for contempt — annoyance at your softness in a moment where he was attempting to be serious. But then you looked up, grinned, and said, ‘I think she likes me.’
And the words caught in his throat. Not because he did not believe them, but because he liked you. Against every grain of his upbringing.
He wanted to scold you, retreat, build walls. But instead, he asked the cat’s name.
That was the beginning. The fracture.
He loved you. In an old, mythic sense. In the way poets spoke of their love — fierce, unyielding, as though it could bend the very fabric of time.
And that it did, time slowed every time you entered his concentration.
He began to dream of futures — a concept once as foreign to him as mercy.
He has not told you. But he will. In his own time. For now, he will continue to relish in it, and continue in this alluring descent.
C L A R K⠀K E N T
He did not realise. Not at first. Because what he felt for you was too immense, too intrinsic, to label with as small as a word as love.
It was not until you fell asleep in his arms, mumbling about a stressful day, completely unaware of the god you were held by, that it hit him.
You did not see him as Superman. You saw him as Clark Kent. You simply saw him. The man. His hope. His grief.
And he realised then — you are his tether.
He thought of Krypton. Of its loss. Of the gaping emptiness it had left as soon as he had learnt of it. And for the first time in years, he did not feel hollow. He felt… full. He realised, that the planet could never have been home to him like she was.
You snored softly. He laughed. Then cried.
Love, he realised, was not loud. It was simply your hand over his heart. It was your laughter in the next room. It was your body next to his.
He had not fallen in love. He had found it, unexpected and irrevocable, and for all the power he had been bestowed, this force had left him helpless to resist.
And now he guards it with everything he is. Because you are not just his world.
You are his home.
If you're interested, I've since posted a follow-up called 'When he admitted he loved you' linked, here. Every comment and piece of advice is welcomed and appreciated <3
ｒｅｖｅｎａｎｔ －ｔｈｒｅｅ
PART THREE OF 'REVENANT' SERIES Damon Salvatore x Winchester!Sister!Hunter!Reader The Vampire Diaries x Supernatural Mini-Series Synopsis: Y/N Winchester was tired of living in her brothers' shadows; she needed to do something for herself for a change. When she heads to Mystic Falls, a town she was always warned to stay away from, she finds she may have taken on more than she can handle. Will she be able to eradicate the supernatural from the uncanny town? Or will she find herself tangled amongst it? WARNINGS: Descriptions of Violence. Words: 2,064k Blog Masterlist / Series Masterlist <Previous Part | Next Part >
Monsters consumed her entire world; Y/N thought of them every day and in every moment. She would watch people as she passed them on the street and wonder if they harboured any grim secrets; monsters were considerably more common than one would expect. However, there was a time when this was not the case. As a young girl, she never fully understood why her family moved from motel to motel, never finding a home to settle in.
She and her brothers would stay in the shabby rooms, watching cartoons as their father disappeared for hours, only to return covered in grime and blood. Eventually, Dean joined in on these late-night escapades and soon after, Sam. They held hushed conversations over old-looking journals Y/N was never allowed to see.
She had never known anything different; it came alongside her life of greasy diners and dingy mattresses.
However, she had always known that something was wrong. Even at a young age, she was bright enough to know that normal fathers did not teach their children how to wield knives and set traps. And they definitely did not pass their six-year-old children handguns. Her small hands and feeble arms barely able to hold on as it recoiled.
On the morning of her eleventh birthday, her father had taken her to an old friend, saying she needed a specific tattoo and that he would not ask questions. The young girl was shocked. Y/N knew this was not regular for kids her age; she supposed they were only for grownups. However, looking back, she recalled her brothers receiving them as well. Her father hushed and comforted her as she cried in his arms; the pain was like nothing she had ever experienced. When she drew back from his embrace, upon her upper left arm was now a star, enclosed by a circle of black, simple flames. Her father had told her that 'it was a small amount pain for a lifetime of protection from things that would hurt her'. She shuddered when she thought of what these 'things' might be.
However, by her next birthday, she no longer had to wonder. Y/N would never forget the day she learnt about the frightening past-times of her family. It was a turning point in her life, something she could never change, no matter how many times since that moment she wished she could.
The tires of the Impala had rolled noisily over the gravel of the dimly lit car park. The motel's neon sign flickered, casting an eerie glow across its sleek, black metal as John Winchester pulled out onto the barren street. Inside the room, the air was palpable. Y/N remembered every detail of the night perfectly. The smell of old books and gun oil mingled with the acrid tang of old manchester. She recalled how the walls seemed to sag under the weight of time, the air thick with the scent of dampness and decay. She was supposed to be alseep as her adolescent brothers, Sam and Dean, sat hunched over a precarious table, staring fixedly at a map.
Across the room, Y/N lied on her side, back turned and clutching the pillow with white-knuckled fingers. Her eyes were wide, staring unblinkingly at the peeling wallpaper of the motel, the thump of her pounding heart reaching her ears.
Y/N Winchester, the youngest of the three, had always had a lingering suspicion that her family was disparate from that of a regular household. Their late-night departures and whispered conversations had all hinted at something dark, something they deliberately withheld from her.
But as she listened to the low humming of their voices, her whole world had unravelled. Monsters, demons, and things ‘that went bump in the night’ were real. And her family hunted them.
Dean's voice broke, brueque and urgent, breaking her from her spiralling thoughts.
‘We've got a lead on a group of vampires, Sammy. Pack your bags. We’ll leave in the morning.’ Sam nodded, his gaze fixed on the map.
Y/N's breath hitched. Vampires? She had always believed they were creatures of folklore and myth, the subjects of peoples’ nightmares. But suddenly, the reality of this fact became true for her. Had she not seen her father carve out intricate stakes? And replace the bullets in his guns with wooden alternatives? She had been too young to give any of these details consideration. Though as Y/N lay in the bleak corner of the room, absorbing the information her brothers had unknowingly disclosed, she felt remarkably obtuse.
Y/N sat up and allowed her consciousness to become known to her brothers.
Her voice had shaken, fear entwined between each syllable. ‘Vampires?’
She had wanted to say more, but her words caught in her throat.
Both heads snapped up, surprise and shock corroding their features. Dean's eyes widened, and he exchanged a quick, concerned glance with Sam.
‘Y/N, you shouldn't be awake,’ Sam had said, his voice holding an edge of distress,
‘No, I need to know,’ Y/N insisted, her hands trembling. ‘What else don’t I know? Why do you do this?’
Dean sighed heavily, the weight of this fretful secret hardening his expression. The brother did not know how their father would react to their carelessness; she should not have found out like this.
‘Sit down, Y/N. We'll explain.’
As they spoke and described the monsters of this sphere in great detail, Y/N listened, perturbed yet enthralled. Her childish, insular world expanded with each revelation; the bleakness that her family fought against was far more vast than she had any right to envisage.
The creatures from her childhood nightmares were real; her father and brothers took it upon themselves to eradicate these fiends.
As days bled into nights, the Impala sped down highways and quiet country roads, carrying the Winchesters from one hunt to the next as it always had, only now, Y/N knew why. She observed and learned, engrossed in every piece of information they shared.
Her father had attempted to teach her how to wield a gun many years prior, though he eventually gave up, her negligent demeanour discouraging. But with the threat of monsters now a burden upon her shoulders, Y/N reconsidered her juvenile disinterest and learned to fire a gun. She allowed the recoil to sting her palms until callouses formed.
She memorised incantations, reciting them like a mantra to banish unwelcome spectres. Once a foreign language, the lore became familiar, etched into her memory like the back of her hand.
As weeks turned into months, which then rolled into years, Y/N’s alteration became undeniable; she was a hunter.
Her knowledge was vast; her determination and resolve were unyielding. Yet, she would always be the neonate of the Winchester clan, never a hunter in her own right.
This fact was the catalyst for her departure to Mystic Falls.
Y/N Winchester hardly believed that a single town could have such a vast history of misfortune; why did this small quaint community hold such an aptitude for catastrophe? Vampires, Witches and Werewolves were just a few of the creatures that Y/N was sure stalked the streets of Mystic Falls, and with all of the disasters claiming innocent lives, she was almost certain that the uncanny town had its fair share of ghosts as well.
Over the decades, Mystic Falls' history bore witness to many tribulations. Tragedies were not at all uncommon for the abnormal town. Yet its reputation as a charming, radiant community still proceeded it. Y/N had to admit that maybe the council was more successful than she gave it credit for, only not successful enough for her hunters’ disposition.
She found it most curious that the Lockwood family, from what she could discern, had seemingly been cursed with lycanthropy for generations, and despite this, still participated in the council’s hunting of vampires.
Y/N’s research led her to Civil Hall, which housed the incredibly grim and macabre Founder’s archives.
Beginning in the early 19th century, the Founding Families, including the Salvatores, Lockwoods, Gilberts, Forbes, and Fells, laid the foundation for the thriving community of Mystic Falls. Their historical influence reverberated through the town's architecture, traditions and the very spirit that defined it. Y/N found that each family brought a unique facet to the tapestry of Mystic Falls. They built homes, a school, and a place of worship. As the seasons passed, Mystic Falls flourished, its streets lined with elms, its gardens ablaze with vibrant blossoms and the town square; a bustling hub of commerce and camaraderie.
Amidst this idyllic setting, the Founding Families recognized the coexistence of the supernatural world alongside their own, understanding that the existence of these paranormal fiends could not be known by the greater population. So they established the Town Council, set on eradicating these monsters from their picturesque town. Under their leadership and protection, the Council became the linchpin of Mystic Falls' unique social fabric. And although they attempted to cover the town’s dark secret with reports of ordinary things, it was a delicate balance and one that required vigilance and discretion. However, the holes in their stories did not go unnoticed by the young Winchester.
She had found that in 1864 during the Civil War, Confederate Soldiers had fired on Fell’s Church, believing the establishment had been harbouring weapons. Twenty-Seven people were killed. However, this report did not sit well with Y/N; its contents held many hallmarks of the recent ‘animal killings’. To the young hunter, it sounded like a coverup.
Y/N travelled to the forsaken church nonetheless, bearing an EMF Meter and salt. She was unsurprised to find that the building held no signs of the odious spirits you would expect. Though, beneath its old withering structure, lay an abandoned tomb; Y/N shivered, wondering what had been inside it.
Y/N was sure to return to the archives in Civil Hall as there was too much to look at in one session. And upon her second trip, she uncovered something that left her feeling uneasy. In storage were artifacts from a heritage display recently held by the Founder’s Council; within said display was a registry listing the names of the guestlist for the original Founder’s event.
The document had read,
'The Founding Families of Mystic Falls, Virginia welcome you to the inaugural Founders Council Celebration on this, the twenty-fourth of September in the year Eighteen Hundred and Sixty Four.'
Her gloved fingers skimmed down the old parchment until she reached a name written in an even, ornate scrawl. She felt her heart beating in her throat,
'Damon Salvatore'
No, she thought, he couldn’t be…
She hollowly noted the name of his brother 'Stefan Salvatore' stetched onto the aged paper as well. Y/N, heart sinking, recalled her initial suspicion of Damon on the night they met; she had felt saddened by the idea of him being a monster. Though, she had quickly ridiculed these ideas as she learnt of his surname. Y/N dejectedly reminisced Caroline’s warnings, and suddenly, she heard them in a new light.
'Y/N, he’s bad news; how many times do I have to tell you before the message sinks in?'
Y/N had thought Caroline’s dislike for Damon was due to some trivial gossip. Though was it possible her admonitions hinted at something much more sinister?
She shook her head as if trying to banish unwelcome thoughts; once again, she concluded that she must be overreacting. He hailed from a Founding Family; they did not take matters of the supernatural lightly. And besides, she had heard him talk of the animal killings with the sheriff herself. He could not be a vampire.
Perhaps these people on the registry had been namesakes for the brothers? Surely, in a community that valued its heritage so much, it would not be unusual to be named for your late ancestors? And as a hunter, how could her instincts be so wrong? So out of touch?
Y/N Winchester had not yet fallen in love with the blue-eyed man, though with each conversation and interaction, Y/N knew falling in love would be as easy as the phrase proposed; as effortless as falling down.
No, she thought, this time more confident, he couldn’t be.
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𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨, 𝐦𝐲 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐂𝐚𝐭𝐞, 𝐈'𝐦 𝐚 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐜𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐭 ☀︎ 𝔪𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 ☀︎ 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐦𝐞 ☀︎ 𝐀𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧 ☀︎ 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐩-𝐭 ☀︎ 𝟐𝟏☀︎ 𝐈 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐃𝐂 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐕𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐃𝐢𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬
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