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jasmines-library · 1 year ago

Note

Loving your whumptober so far! Spent like an hour reading through all of your entries and wow 🥰 if you’re still taking requests, maybe you could consider doing a batfam fic with a reader who used to be a member of the court of owls. I just think that’d be cute haha

The Cover Up

Summary: You're tired of living a lie. of living in a constant state of secrecy. You want out, but you have to wait for the perfect opportunity to strike. That finally comes in the form of Dick Grayson, but things so sideways when the Court send assassins after you and you are forced to rely on a team of masked vigilante's and long-time enemies of the Court to save your life. (gn reader :))

Note: I had to do a bit of research for this one but this was so much fun to write! Thank you for requesting anon!

Warnings: implied/ briefly mentioned abusive parents, assassination attempts, non descriptive injury, found family and a fluffy ending :)

Word count: 3.2k

⛤ BATFAM MASTERLIST ⛤

Galas were boring. At least they were in Gotham. They were all the same; a bunch of wealthy snobs dressed extravagantly all crammed into a room with delicately ornate ceilings and diamond shaped chandeliers. The sound of feet shuffling and heels clicking against the polished floors occasionally broke through the sound of chatter as guests mingled, drifting between one and other, passing around pristine champagne glasses that glistened when they caught the light that seemed to be obsessively bright considering it was dark outside and all you could see besides the moon and the stars were the street lamps that dwindled away into nothing in the distance.

You had secluded yourself to the top of the stairs, tucking yourself into a corner by the bannister, trying to find a way to sit in your outfit that made you feel like the human embodiment of a wooden plank; the material was too stiff in some places, and if you moved in certain ways, it would ride up and sit uncomfortably on your skin. From up here you had a clear view of everything from below. You kept a keen eye on the Wayne boys as they dotted around the room, plastering on smiles to hide their clearly bored faces.

You couldn’t help needing the constant feeling of being able to survey. It was something that your family had ingrained into you from the moment you were old enough to understand how to keep a secret. See, your family was part of a syndicate that dated back hundreds of years. It used its wealth and the power that came with it to manipulate its way into getting what it wants when it wants it. But, it wasn’t just your family. There were others, too. In fact, at least half of the people in the room were a part of the syndicate. The Court of Owls. The elite. Gothams deadliest. And you were lucky to be one of them. Or, that’s what you had always been told…but recently, you had been feeling off. Something hacked away at you, your life was one big lie. And what you were doing felt wrong�� you couldn’t handle the blood shed anymore. Just a little bit longer, you told yourself. You would find a way out.

“What are you doing?”

The gruff voice made you jump. Lost in your reverie, you hadn’t even heard the figure approach from behind you. His large figure and broad shoulders told you that his steps should have been heavy, but there was something else about him that screamed the opposite at you, but perhaps your hardwiring was making you overthink.

“I uh…Sorry.” You mumbled, scrambling to stand up and failing to think of an excuse.

He scoffed lightly, shaking his head and extending a hand from his black suit jacket for you to take. When you took it, it was calloused but gentle, warm and followed by a chivalrous grin.

“I don’t think we’ve met before.” He asked, cocking an eyebrow.

You shook your head. “Perhaps not. I tend to keep to myself at these kinds of things. Try to avoid them if possible.”

The boy smiled. “Agreed. I’m Dick. Dick Grayson.”

“Y/N.” You shook his hand, opting not to give him a last name. You knew that if you gave it away somehow you would slip up. “So, you’re one of Wayne’s kids? What’s that like for you?”

“Exactly as you’d expect it to be. Three whiny little brothers, a dad who’s barely there, but somehow still overprotective all the time. What more could one ask for?”

“Sounds like you’re living the life.” You agreed. You hated to admit it, but you were slightly jealous of the kid. You had always begged for a normal life. Well, as close to normal as you could get to.

“Yeah.” Dick shrugged.

There was something about this stranger that made you feel safe. It was an odd sensation, but talking to Dick made you feel like a missing part of you had been filled. His voice was so comforting that it allowed you to get lost within his lilt for hours, losing track of time and purpose, forgetting about that oh so present worry of keeping the secret. It wasn't until a cold, bony hand wrapped around your elbow, tugging you up and away from the stairs. You weren’t even given a change to say goodbye to Dick as you were mercilessly dragged away.

Your mother scolded you that night. Hurrying you down the dark pathway. She uttered the same words. It was always the same words. “I’m disappointed in you, Y/N.” “That’s not how we act, Y/N.” “Oh, if only he could see you now he would be outraged at how useless you are.”

It would have been nice to say that you had to bite back the tears, but it was such a common occurrence now that you just kept your face stoic and marched on down the pathway, listening to the gravel crunch as it shifted under your shoes instead of your mother.

It was that night that seemed to be the final straw.Another scolding from your mother at the Court meeting before bed, and you finally snapped. It was embarrassing, being belittled like that in front of your friends. So, although the plan was slightly rushed, it seemed to be the perfect timing. It was already late, and your parents had retired to bed with weary steps and droopy eyes. It was the perfect chance to slip out unnoticed. Or, so you thought.

With your bag slung over your shoulder and your mask still pressed tightly to your face, you tried to slip out of the door. You were halfway down the driveway, keeping your back pressed to the dark shadows cast by the hedges when you heard it. A snap, and then an animalistic growl. And then there were the haunting green eyes that seemed to blink into existence out of nowhere; vibrant and angry they stared a never resisting stare at you as the humanoid honed in on you.

Without thinking twice, you dropped your bag and ran, slamming your feet into the ground and propelling yourself down the drive and into the maze of buildings in Gotham City. The Talon was right behind you. You could hear it drawing in, feel its hot breath every time you began to slow, only for it to propel you on faster.

When you found a fork in the path, you made a fake turn hoping to trick the Talon into going the wrong way as you clambered up an old steel ladder that made you wince as it echoed much too loudly across the alley for your liking. For one, bittersweet moment, you thought that it had worked, but after catching your breath at the top of the roof, you were forced back to running at the sound of a second charging at you even more persistently than the first. It was safe to say that you were now your family’s enemy.

You cursed, leaping across the flat roofs as you tried to lose them, but the assassins weren't relenting.

The darkness made it difficult to see where each building ended and the next one began, but you continued to hurl yourself across them, unsure of where you were actually trying to get to. All you knew was that you had to get out of Gotham. And fast.

But your plan seemed to go sideways when they began to throw the knives. Small but deadly, they were rounded into a fine point a few inches below a well etched hole for them to be flung from the wielder's hands. Their poison tipped grooves glimmered unsettlingly as they whipped through the air with concerning precision, but your time with the Court gives you a one up on the average person and allows you to dodge a few of them. But only by mere millimetres.

Despite the burn in your thighs, you sped up weaving around Gotham until you thought you had finally slipped their grasp. But the assassins were highly trained, and you should have known better than to trust your immediate judgement.

Seemingly out of nowhere, a throwing knife found its place within your back, tearing away at the fabric of your outfit. You let out a gasp of pain, but pressed on racing around a corner. But then another found its mark deep within your calf. You cursed, biting down harshly on your lip then stumbling around a corner and pressing yourself against the concrete wall. With heavy breaths as though all of your oxygen had been snatched away from you, you listened anxiously. But you heard nothing besides the occasional car passing by in the street below.

Without thinking twice about it, you tore the daggers from your skin, biting back your cry of pain hoping that if you got them out the poison wouldn’t spread, though fortune didn’t seem to be in your favour recently. After tearing a strip of material from your sleeve and creating a makeshift bandage around your leg, you hobbled quickly down the nearest set of steps winching each time the wound in your leg shifted.

You didn’t think your night could get any worse, but it was then as you whipped around a corner that you collided with a firm chest. The figure was masked and decked with a blue insignia that somewhat resembled a raven. He was quick to grip you by the shoulders and slam you against the wall.

Pushing at him feebly you tried to loosen his hold on you but you were outmatched by his strength and your body was beginning to succumb to the effects of the poison the Talons had laced their weapons in, so you just gazed at him wide eyed behind your mask. You were running out of time.

“Please.” You implored, struggling against him “I have to get out of here. They’re coming for me.”

“What?” He almost barked. “Who?”

“I-”

“Answer me, Bird.” His jaw tensed. Your family didn’t have a very good history with Gotham’s vigilantes.

“The Talons.” You gritted out.

You visibly saw confusion cross his face as he deepened his brow, but he loosened his grip when he saw the glowing eyes appear on the rooftop.

“We need to leave.” You pushed yourself away from the wall and propelled yourself further into Gotham, not caring that the vigilante was close behind. In fact, it only occurred to you that he was following you when one of the assassins managed to approach from front to try and corner you. With your vision doubling your aim was off and the dagger sailed past your target, so Nightwing raced past you and moved to take it out with one swipe of his electrified staff only to be cut short by the sound of gunfire and the emergence of another masked figure, only this one was cloaked in red. The two vigilantes acknowledged each other seemingly commuicating to eacother in ways you couldn't hear. You nodded at him gratefully and continued to make a break for it, only glancing back once to fling the other stolen dagger at your pursuers and hoping that it did something useful other than clatter to the floor.

It seemed life forever by the time you were able to stop running. You were on the far side of Gotham, away from all of the hubbub of the city. You breathed heavily clutching at the stitch in your side when your legs buckled and you had no choice but to sit down on the ground to unravel the blood soaked rag and examine the angry cut.

Red Hood seemed to have other plans for when you tilted your head up, he was angling his gun towards you at you.

“Why were they after you?” he demanded, scowling. “Who are you?”

“I-” You began to explain but you were overcome with a rush of nausea and soon the lights of Gotham city and the masked vigilantes faded to black.

Dick Grayson frowned as he studied your unconscious body tucked neatly into one of the spare bedrooms in the manor. It had been four long days since he had hauled you had succumbed to the effects of the poison and your body had raised an alarming fever that caused beads of sweat to form across your hot skin. You were so warm that he could feel the heat radiating from you by the chair he was sitting in albeit you couldn’t stop shivering.

Tenderly he brushed the hair from your face. One of the first things that they had done was remove your mask, and it was safe to say that Dick was taken aback when he realised that it was you hiding behind the costume. When he carried you back to the manor he wasn’t entirely sure why. It would have been easier to have just left you there to rot, after all his family were no big fans of the Court of Owls, but there was just something about you that compelled him to. You seemed so scared and innocent, but he could tell you also had this fire that flickered inside of you, desperate to leap out. It was oddly familiar to him, but he couldn’t place why until he took off the mask. When he had met you that night you hadn’t seemed like the person who would be a part of the court. He and Jason had been studying them for years and your tenderness didn’t seem to fit the profile. But then they sent assassins after you, so perhaps you were never really part of them in the first place? There were so many unanswered questions that they made the vigilantes head spin.

“They still not awake yet?” Tim asked, pushing open the door with his legs before setting down two mugs of coffee. He had taken a particular interest in you since you had arrived. All of the boys had. They had all seen you at Bruce’s galas, even spoken to you once or twice, so your entire predicament really interested them.

It was then that you began to stir; muscles twitching and eyes blinking slowly. That was then followed by a low groan as all of your sensations flooded back to you all at once, hitting you like a ton of bricks as the headache and dull throbbing from the stitches kicked in.

“Take it easy.” Tim said as you jerked up suddenly. “You’ll tear your stitches.”

You eyed him confused, but slightly calmer when you realised that you were out. That the Talons hadn’t ended your life.

“How did I get here…?” You blinked.

The two brothers glanced at each other and then Dick sighed. The truth would only come out sooner or later.

“We ran into each other a few nights ago. You passed out on me so I brought you back here… We managed to treat you for the poison, but you’ve wracked up quite a fever. It’s a good thing you took those out when you did.” He gestured towards the bandages that were wrapped securely around your chest and your leg. “Any longer and.. Well.”

“Oh…”

“Oh? That’s it? You don’t care that he’s just revealed our identities?” Tim asked.

You shrugged. “I guess it makes sense. Five of you. Five of them. And I suppose it’s only fair. You know who I am, now I know who you are.”

You trailed off. You still needed to get as far away from Gotham as possible.

“Thank you for everything, but I need to go-” You tried to push yourself up on shaky arms but were stopped by Tim.

“Stay there. Your body still needs to recover.”

“But they’re after me. I need to leave. I’m putting us all in jeopardy just by being here-”

“Relax.” Dick told you, running his hand down your arm “You’re safe. They’re not going to hurt you here. Not under our watch.”

His tenderness caught you off guard. It wasn’t something you were used to having.

“Get some rest, y/n.” he told you. “We’ll keep you safe as long as you need.”

Much to your surprise you had ended staying with the Waynes much longer than you had anticipated.

At first, you told yourself it was just to get yourself back up on your feet before you disappeared under the radar, but you soon began to develop a strong liking for each other and your bonds with them began to grow.

You began to enjoy spending time with them; passionate talks with Tim or bingeing movies with Jason until ungodly hours in the morning before being scolded by Alfred for not getting a healthy amount of sleep and sparring with Dick to help maintain your combat skills that at first you had wanted to ditch, but were eventually persuaded otherwise. You had even grown close with Damian who although was reluctant to openly warm up to you at first had eventually become someone you shared nearly everything with. It didn’t take long at all before you were the voice that guided them through their ear pieces each time they set out on patrol.

Time seemed to pass by in a flash because before you knew it, it had been months since you first arrived and you no longer felt as though you were an outsider. They had welcomed you with open arms, sympathising with your situation but allowing you that space for your own independence which you were often grateful for at times when you didn’t want to deal with their antics.

The four of them felt as though they had a duty to protect you for a while after your escape from the Court. They had been incredibly helpful in keeping you out of your family’s watchful eye, even going as far as creating you a fake identity, but they also gave you a sense of security. It was their kindness and their love that allowed you to fall asleep at night, and it was their knowledge that allowed them to be there for you when it all just became a little too much and you were in desperate need of a shoulder or four to cry on.

They made you feel safe.

You cherished each and every moment that you shared with the Wayne boys. Both the good and the bad. Each one was a reminder of who you were. That you had carved your own path and were free to discover who you wanted to be.

Thank you for reading! Hope you liked :)

⛤ MAIN MASTERLIST ⛤

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lealdern · 10 months ago

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I couldn’t help myself…

#dick grayson x reader #dick Grayson reader #nightwing reader #nightwing x reader #talon!dick x reader #talon!dick reader

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gangrenados · 2 years ago

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being talon dick’s ex but he still loves you and secretly keeps an eye on you.

one day he hears you telling someone that you love them. he kills them before they can even respond then corners you and threatens you at knifepoint to take those words back. because you’re only allowed to love him

Warning: mentions of murder, toxic relationship. This is an unhinged version of Dick aka an AU, beware.

Due his history with the court, talon!Dick has no idea how to deal with human experiences such like relationships and breakups.

He "understands" the basics, it's not like he can explain it, but he feels those primal and raw emotions that end up taking over him.

When you were together Dick showed his love to you like a loyal dog, he might've a hard time communicating his feelings and thoughts (the court only teaches their soldiers to kill and fight, not talk after all), but he was there to provide protection, to give you whatever you needed.

Dick'd have done whatever you asked him to, and also he would've get ride of anyone who dared to mess with you or the relationship.

He was territorial, possessive, but he had such a burning love for you that was enough to drown you in it.

Perhaps him being so overwhelming all the time was the reason to make you leave, all the fights that lead nowhere, being isolated since Dick thought everything was a threat to your safety.

You left for good one day, but Dick founded you and he won't make the same mistake again. Well, maybe he could have a clean start after dealing with that asshole you were with, the one who was receiving all the love you were supposed to give him.

Dick's blood boiled with pure anger, but he had to wait to strike and get ride of that pest before getting you back. And he did.

Dick didn't cared about your screams or cries, no. It doesn't matter if you liked it or not, but the fact is that you're his and no matter what you're going to be together.

#talon!dick grayson #yandere!dick grayson #dick grayson x reader

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internalsealpanic · 2 years ago

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Dating Game

summary: Your family has very loud opinions about your love life. a/n: This is set in Earth-3 where everyone’s alignments are reversed. Slade is the president of the US and Dick is Talon. Court of Owls is still evil and Bruce is Owlman and he is an asshole. This is mostly set in the Crisis on Two Earth’s movie Warning: liberty with characterization and overprotective people

masterlist series masterlist

"So Ms.Wilson."

It takes a second or two for you to realize you're being addressed and another second to slide on the correct type of interested smile. Not the one you use during debates when you warn your opponent that they've slipped up or the kind that slips onto your face when you're about to hit Grant with a blue shell as he's about to cross the finish line. No, it was one of those prim diplomatic smiles you've been practicing for months in anticipation for Slade's reelection campaign.

"Yes, Mr. Hayward?" You say in a voice sweet enough that Grant assumes you're thinking of the best way to rip the man's face off.

It's a fair assumption but to be honest, you're reserving that mental image in case Hayward asks you something stupid.

"Well me and the viewers and really the rest of the nation have been wondering, what's your love life like as the President's only daughter?"

And there it is.

You lick your teeth, the points of your canines feeling cold and sharp.

Grant eyes you cautiously. He looks ready to step in; yanno, in case you maul Hayward on national Television.

You draw yourself up, making a show to flick your eyes to the audience with practiced nervousness.

Ladies and gentlemen, you think to yourself, I am about to make a grown man cry.

"Honestly (Y/n), was that entirely necessary?" Addie asks, setting a mug of coffee in front of you.

You gently blow the rising steam and mumble at thank you as you sip. You hold back a blanch . There is no sugar, no cream, and no milk in this coffee and yup, your mother is pissed. You put the cup down, pushing away from the table before pivoting to the pantry.

"I may or may not have scared the piss out of Hayward--"

"And your brother." She sighs, putting a hand on her hip.

You roll your eyes. Grabbing the sugar, you turn back to face her. "I always scare Grant. Besides, nothing I said was a lie. I did have a date try to convince me to help him assassinate pop. On the first date too! Can you believe that? " You say cheerfully because at this point you were more amused than anything.

Addie drags her hand over her face, cupping her hand then looking at you. "You do know that's a threat to national security and to your safety, right?"

Your mouth quirks in a way that reminds Addie too much of Slade. Spinning the spoon in your hand, you shrug. "I handled it." If the guy was any real threat, you would have said something but then again, if he were a real threat, cornering him in the men's bathroom with a pen to his neck shouldn't have deterred him.

You frown. It would be a problem if he came to the press with that story but then again making threats like that would also land him in hot water and you seriously doubt the guy has access to the kind of lawyers you have.

"(Y/n)," Addie says, drawing your attention back to her. "Why didn't you tell us?"

It makes her heart twinge when you look at her with so much surprise and confusion. Sometimes, in weird moments, your eyes still betray that nervousness of giving the wrong answer.

"You could have gotten hurt." She says, cupping your cheek.

You let your cheek squish against her warm hand and you reward her with a small smile. You shake your head.

"I told Joey," you try and Addie frowns. You cup your hand against hers and try to keep your voice light. "Joey is so gonna grow up scarier than me or Grant. I can 100% guarantee it." You sigh because honestly, Joey had murder in his eyes when you told him how your date went.

Addie huffs. "How did Grant take it?"

You groan. "Grant interrogated me the whole way back here," you say, flapping your hands with annoyance. "What did the guy look like? Did I save his contact? Do I have a list of guys that did that? Should he vet my dates? Seriously! He's almost as bad as pop."

"No one can be as bad as your father." Addie shakes her head and laughs thinking of Grant practically storming off if you gave him even a crumb of information. She smooths your hair, smiling down at you.

"Trust me, Grant was pretty close."

"Well, Grant doesn't have the CIA and the FBI at his beck and call."

Your shoulders droop. "Oh my god, no."

Addie squeezes your shoulders. "Now that you've basically announced it on national TV, there's no way to hide it."

You bury your face in your hands.

Your thumb hovers over the mute button for Joey's contact. You let out a long sigh. You've already muted Grant thanks to the 60 texts. But this was Joey, your sweet (slightly evil) little brother. It was one thing to mute your big brother. He can take it but muting Joey would mean having to face his sad doe-eyed expression and frankly, you're not gonna survive that.

"Did you know that your date neglected to mention his three felonies?"

"Oh look, he's even more my type." You sigh not even looking up to meet Slade's gaze. His voice already sounds punch-ably smug. Absolutely no need to goad the urge by look at the the undoubtedly smug grin on his face. You lick your teeth in the way that reminds Slade of Addie when she's readying to call him a moron. "Has it ever occurred to you that the secret service isn't for investigating my dates?"

"No, that's what I have the FBI for."

Finally, you look up at him, still not having pressed the mute button, with a weary look (that you can only get from dealing with Slade Wilson in a domestic capacity). "That sounds like an abuse of power."

"I’m looking out for you."

You raise a brow at him.

Slade huffs crossing his arms. "And your mother insisted. And besides, call it what you will, you're not going on that date"

You seriously debate on whether to kick him off the sidewalk and into the oncoming bus. "I'm going."

"Uh Huh, aren't you curious what he got arrested for?"

"No." You rush out before you change your mind. You pick up the pace but Slade just matches yours. Curse his long legs.

After a dozen steps, you close your eyes then sigh. "Yes."

"Shall we start from worst to terrible?" Slade radiates a slightly sadistic glee as he pulls out a list from his pocket. Why did he print that? "Or terrible to prison worthy?"

You're regretting every life decision you've made leading up to this point. Maybe if you agreed to be Azula for Halloween in fourth grade maybe this wouldn't have happened but noooo, you wanted to be Zuko. "It can’t have been that bad because he isn’t in jail anymore." You say hopefully but when you side eye him, he gives you a look of sympathy that borders on condescension.

"You would be surprised what a good lawyer can do."

"You... just like ruining everything."

Where is the secret service when you need them?

"That’s my job as your father."

"No, your job is to run a country and the latest and more controversial sexyman on Tumblr."

Slade gives you a brief look of confusion. You roll your eyes and wave for him to go on.

"He's been charged with theft--"

"I can live with that."

His mouth quirks. "--Assault--"

"Ok, maybe not that."

"-- and kidnapping."

You stop and just stare at him. You drag your hands over your face before burying it in your hands along with a silent scream. "Why can't I just get a decent date?"

Slade pats you on the back, clearly amused by the turn of events. "Don’t worry, we’ll find you someone in 20-30 years time."

You let out a loud groan of frustration.

_____

When the whole dating scandal finally blew over with another scandal (courtesy of some dumbass senator), you made your way to the bar after making sure to clear all the bugs from your things and making sure no men in dark suits were tailing you.

The last thing you need is some guy hitting on you and him getting body slammed on to the floor by the secret service because that'll up your chances immensely.

You swirl your drink, admiring the amber glow of the whiskey. You've always had an unnaturally high alcohol tolerance so you were mostly drinking to appear normal in a way. You had your suspicions of course. Though, your speculations were just that, speculations.

You close your eyes, drinking in the atmosphere. You'd learned to dampen your senses a long time ago but the music and the voices in the club still overwhelmed you.

In the haze of bass, bodies, voices, and alcohol; you hear a couple of voices rise beside you.

"Just go talk to her," slurs the man, pushing his friend towards you. You pretend you don't hear them. You pretend that it's not even about you. Like a normal person, you pretend that the whole conversation is about some other girl that the extremely attractive guy is stealing glances from. Definitely.

You give the man a perfunctory glance. No weapons. At least, nothing larger than a butterfly knife then again it's not that hard to kill someone with a key if needed. He's not big though your point of reference for that is skewed but you think you could take him if he tries anything funny.

The way he carries himself is... unsure, shy if you're being specific. His shoulders are stooped and closed off. His hand is on the back of his neck and he's looking everywhere but you as his feet carry him toward you.

Twisting your stool toward him, you angle your body in an open gesture, welcoming him to talk to you. You're kind enough to hide an entertained smirk on your lips.

The next few things happen in a series of snap shots:

The guy's foot catches on a loose floor board and the music and lights grows dimmer, more sluggish, as time slows down.

The whiskey in his glass takes flight and the man's face twists in horror.

Your crisp white blouse is stained brown.

You bite back a scream.

You stare at your shirt, mind screeching to a halt. Mechanically, you raise your gaze to stare into the man's mortified one. You flatten your lips and lick your teeth, pressing your tongue against your sharp canine.

"Holy shit," he breathes, setting his glass down on the counter. He frantically waves over the bartender who hands him a stack of paper towels. "I'm so so sorry."

You take the towels, licking your lips gingerly. "I have to say," you smile thinly but not unkindly, "this is a very interesting way to get my attention."

The guy in front of you flushes. Putting a hand on the back of his neck, he tries to hide the color crawling up the nape of his neck. "I'm sorry," he says again, still not meeting your gaze. He rocks back on his feet, putting some space between the two of you. "I…" He pauses to catch his breath. "I just wanted to come and say hi," he says shyly, smiling into his hand "and I’ve ruined that already."

You hum and when you don't tell him to go away, a flicker of hope lights his eyes. "I think some shops are still open. If you want, I can pay for a change of clothes."

You raise a brow. "Again, an interesting approach. I usually expect to be asked to take my clothes off after we leave the bar." The words come out as a chuckle.

The guy turns pink. "I didn’t-- I don’t--" He is so cute.

"Pffff, relax." You grin.

He laughs softly and rubs the back of his neck. He smiles with perfect teeth and pot hole dimples that make it clear that the gods got to him first. "At least it wasn’t a sticky drink or bright pink," he tries, looking down at your white shirt. He swallows. "You look nice by the way."

"Eyes up here buddy." You chuckle.

He tears his eyes away from your shirt and focuses those piercing eyes at you. They look owlish and metallic in the strange light of the club. He stutters out an apology.

You hiss a laugh between your teeth, holding up two fingers. "Cus you're cute, you get a take 2. We can even pretend the last few minutes never happened."

"Sorry."

"Say sorry again and I will knock your teeth out."

"Sor--" You glare at him and he swallows. "It’s just you’re very attractive and I’m not good around attractive women."

Your smile softens. "Usually people start by introducing themselves," you say, lip quirking in amusement. You pat the seat next to yours. "The name's (Y/n)." You extend your hand.

"I’m Richard but everyone calls me Dick." Dick says, shuffling into the seat next to you. "Now, can I at least buy you a drink?"

"Depends, you gonna spill this one on me too?"

Dick huffs, his smile drawing sharper and more confident. "I thought the last few minutes never happened."

You chuckle. "Right, right." You wave your hands in the air, miming erasing a chalkboard.

Dick waves two fingers to catch the bartender's attention. "What would the lady like?" He smiles charmingly, all uneasiness gone replaced with a crisp confidence that makes you swoon. "Or should I surprise you?"

You grin, baring your sharp teeth to unnerve him. "Surprise me."

Dick jumps and his heart presses bruises in his throat, beating as if to choke him. He swallows down the sensation but the color still returns to his cheeks.

Dick chews his bottom lip. He orders you an expensive scotch on the rocks with bitter lemon.

"Oh?" You sip it and the flavor explodes in sparks on your tongue and burns down your throat in a satisfying streak of fire. "How did you know I’d like this?"

"You seem like a woman with good taste." He winks cheesily.

The gesture startles a gigglesnort out of you. "You fucking dork."

Dick laughs another sorry then has the audacity to say: "made you smile though." He grins and sips his own drink.

You don't kick his teeth in as promised and Dick can't help but feel warm.

"Can I ask why you’re here all alone?"

"On the run from the FBI." You say as flat as you can.

Dick chokes on his drink and he has to cough into his hand.

You grin evilly making him scowl at you. "Gotcha."

Dick wipes his pretty mouth with the back of his hand. "and why are you really here?"

"What makes you think I’m not on the run from the FBI?" You hum, swirling your glass.

And it's Dick's turn to grin, all suaveness and mirth. "They’d let a face as pretty as yours get away with anything."

Heat spreads across your chest, unfamiliar but not unpleasant. You let your body ease because you were pretty sure you were in for the long haul tonight.

You don't know if it's the alcohol or if it's the heat of the flashing club lights or maybe it's just because you've spent the last few hours with your chest heaving from laughter but the hours fall by weightlessly.

Dick, allegedly a student at the local community college, is sweet and funny and stupidly endearing. You hate him but you don't think you'll be ok with yourself if this is the last time you see him again. If it is, you want the night to last all of eternity.

You look at your watch and suddenly feeling like Cinderella, you sigh. "I need to go." You say, trying not to betray your sadness as you push away from the counter.

Dick reaches for your wrist, the same sad look reflected in his eyes. He withdraws his hand but he maintains eye contact. He seems to search for words before just settling on: "Can I walk you home?"

You perk up.

"Or-- or maybe just to your car." He tries.

You give him an uncharacteristically soft smile. "I'd like that," you say, wrapping your hand around his wrist. "Bus station but I guess that's better than nothing."

He beams at you. "I guess it is."

Dick waves as he watches your bus leave the station, golden eyes focused on your form as it slouches into the seat.

As soon as the bus fades into the distance, he pulls out a burner phone from his pocket.

"I've made contact." He says curtly, ducking into the alley.

The line is silent for a moment before it crackles with Owlman's voice, commanding even over the phone. "Continue to monitor her. She will be useful when the Court finds President Wilson to be a nuisance."

“Understood.”

#talon dick grayson #dick grayson x reader #dick grayson #dick grayson imagine #wilson family #Tales from Earth 3

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pluvialpoet · 1 year ago

Text

how to disappear

Summary: a reunion ten years in the making serves as a reminder that absence doesn’t always make the heart grow fonder- especially when history has a tendency to repeat itself

Pairing: dick grayson x fem!vigilante!reader

Requested: no

Warning: nsfw!!! (18+ MDNI), porn with plot, lovers to enemies, unprotected sex, implied breeding kink, choking, angst, minor barbara gordon slander (for the plot, I swear)- do not read if you are not comfortable with the warnings listed above!!!

Word Count: 12,874

masterlist

Light reflects off the crystals that hang from the chandeliers above, and like a moth drawn to a shiny flame, you bask in the warmth of their glow. For as beautiful as the crystalline teardrops twenty-two feet overhead are, they dull in comparison to the- equal parts blinding and mesmerizing, simultaneously gorgeous, yet gaudy- diamonds that dangle from earlobes, rubies that rest against décolletages, and the pearls placed upon dainty fingers in an over the top display of money, power, and status. It’s the epitome of wealth, and though meant to allure, you find yourself disgusted by the flashy exhibitions of greed and corruption.

Every smile is artificial. Every laugh is humorless and diluted. Any feeling beyond complete and utter misery is a hoax. Yet, they play their parts. Each and every one of them continues to mingle, boast, and feign genuineness, but it’s obvious what they are, even beneath their disguises, you recognize the vultures circling the fresh carnage of the innocent- with blood on their talons and a hunger that’s never truly satiated. Do they even know what they’ve done? Do they even care? Given a chance to make amends, would any of them take it?

Revulsion counters amusement as you watch the elite interact with one another. It’s pathetic. In a room full of affluence, not a single person knows pleasure beyond material possessions, and that’s an injustice in itself. Amongst thieves, you’re the honesty that rivals them all- and that’s a scary revelation, all things considered.

Taking advantage of the large crowd, you continue to bump elbows with the rich- literally- as you weave your way through the opulent mass. A tight-lipped smile is granted when you pass an older woman, and an even wider flash of teeth catches your attention from a man around your age. Mimicking the gestures seal your fate, damning you- even if only temporarily- to this game of confusion, a game in which approval and disgust are indiscernible. Having had years to grow accustomed to the tricks of this elitist trade, it’s almost impossible to recall a simpler time. Back when you still thought there might be a modicum of authenticity behind the action, back before you were close enough to spot the invisible strings controlling the marionettes, you believed- and even hoped- that you had it all wrong. There was a time, long, long ago, when you were desperate to believe that there was still some good left in these people, but you grew out of your naivety. Now older, and wiser, you won’t make the same mistakes you once made. Under the influence of optimism, your purpose became convoluted. Not anymore.

Without anyone to dissuade you from reaching out- to challenge you from swiping a few bejeweled tennis bracelets, engagement rings, or even one or two watches and calling it a day- a thrum of urgency spreads through your fingertips. It’s an impulsive electricity you can’t deny. Besides, it’s not like social dynasties would crumble if a few diamonds went missing. If only it were that easy…

Wealth doesn’t doom these poor, unfortunate souls, but their greed- coupled with the blood on their hands- paints a distinguishable target on their backs. If you look closely, it’s impossible to miss that they’re all cut from the same cloth. A hundred different reflections of the same privileged archetype imitate the same gestures, mannerisms, and movements to a tee. An amateur would operate under the guise of distraction- causing a small scene and offering their apologies before making off with their prize- but you’re not an amateur. Not anymore. Not by a long shot.

A few women- four or five, at most- nurse flutes of bubbling booze a few feet away. The sound of their laughter is a little too joyous to be feigned and when one of them waves a manicured hand towards a waiter, signaling another round of drinks, you start to put the pieces together. Perhaps, the ladies in your sights are the most genuine in attendance- even if they’ve lost themselves to their cups. Matching their demeanor is child’s play. Once equipped with a half-empty glass from a server on their way back to the kitchens, you stumble towards the group, plastering on the same elated- intoxicated- grin, and hope that they’re inebriated enough to be welcoming towards a newcomer. Masking the bitter taste of insincerity with a sip of prosecco, a greeting rises from the mix, but it never has the chance to come to fruition because a large hand wraps around your wrist- effectively halting your heist before it even really had a chance to begin.

You should’ve known better.

As you turn to glare at the idiot who dared to put their hands on you, your breath catches.

Two birds die from the blow of one stone, and he takes advantage of your stupor- finding that you’re more pliant in your daze- leading you away from the women you intended to rob, and into the crowd. More witnesses make it less likely for you to cause a scene. At least, that’s his logic, anyway. While it’s not exactly flawed, it’s not all that accurate, either, but for old time's sake, you’ll play along. His hold on you remains firm, and he reaches for the flute in your hand with his other, placing it on a tray and discarding the prop. Your surprise begins to morph into anger- especially when he pulls you closer towards him as the orchestra starts to play a tune. Remembering the steps forced upon you as a child is muscle memory, and you glare daggers up at him- though, they don’t pierce nearly as deeply as the blue of his irises.

“Nice hair,” Dick revels in your obvious frustration of being thwarted, his lips curling into a smirk when your frown deepens, and he asks, “I thought you were blonde, last I saw you?”

“I was,” For the sake of maintaining appearances, you don a phony expression of your own and respond with as much benevolence as you can muster- even though you’re filled with animosity- as he leads you through the steps of the dance. “And you didn’t have a five o’clock shadow,” You note, allowing yourself a split second to take in everything that’s changed since the last time you saw him, before pressing your lips together tightly with a huff.

“Things change.”

As if he needed the reminder…

Chance has never meddled in your relationship. Coincidence doesn’t exist within the realm of precision both you and Dick operate from. Everything has always been on purpose, calculated and planned, never left blindly to fate or possibility- which is why this meeting isn’t an accident. As if he can feel you about to pull away, he flexes his fingers against you, tightening his grip and holding you in place. Ten years later- ten years too late- he’s found you. Not destiny, not a fluke, but with his own intention, and you wish that he would’ve just stayed away.

“What are you doing here, Dick?” As you abandon your costume, your smile falls away to reveal genuine loathing as you force the question from behind gritted teeth. Still, despite your obvious disdain, he doesn’t let you go. “Last I checked, you were in San Francisco- and more recently, Blüdhaven. You’re not supposed to be here.”

“You keeping tabs on me?” His amusement contradicts your revulsion, and a shallow breath purges the threat of an outburst. Dick has always had a way of getting under your skin, of pushing your buttons and doing everything he possibly could to make you tick, but the sudden onslaught of such juvenile taunting fills you with a fire not even he can extinguish- not anymore. Despite his charming exterior, the steady flow of his breath, and the easy grin of confidence that was once impossible not to mirror, dampness swells where your palms meet, and you feel the rough, raised reminders that he’s kept busy during your time apart- that he’s evolved into a stranger despite how familiar he still seems- and you wonder if he can feel it too, if he can tell just by touch, that you’re not the same girl he once knew.

“I keep tabs on everyone who might get in my way,” Your eyes narrow accusatorially, and the corner of his mouth twitches. “You’re not special.”

“That’s not what you said the last time we-“

“Yeah, well, the last time was when we were teenagers, and a lot has changed since then.” Any attempt to remain cordial flies out the window when he dares to mention the last time- like it hasn’t plagued you for a decade. Not even he possesses the antidote to the venom your words carry, and he winces slightly as your rebuttal shakes. He clears his throat softly, the sound filling the lull where an apology should sound, and he takes a look over your shoulder before meeting your eyes again.

“Any chance I can convince you not to go through with whatever it is you’re planning?” It brings little joy to watch his smile dissolve into something more serious. His face hardens, and you notice lines and creases that you aren’t well acquainted with- unable to distinguish battle scars from the divots of age- and you quickly shake the thought away. Instead, you stare at him blankly, not revealing an answer. Though, he takes your lack of conversation as a reply, and with a heavy sigh, he shakes his head, “Yeah, I figured.”

He dares to express melancholy. Stunned by his nerve, after everything, not even shame or regret could rattle his courage enough for him to reconsider such a crestfallen expression, and the discouraged twist of his lips and the downcast slant of his eyes are so pronounced and dramatic that you’re unable to discern whether or not this is part of a ruse, or his genuine reaction.

“Did you think that would work?” Your skepticism is muddled with ridicule, a mocking scoff filling the line meant for his counter. It’s almost laughable- the nerve he has to look dejected by your questioning. To be fair, it’s been a while since he’s danced this dance- a routine once familiar, consisting of bite and bark, push and shove, before simultaneous defeat and victory- but he’s smart enough to know that that’s not how this works. “I mean what did you think would happen, birdy? I’d take one look at you, all grown and handsome, and reconsider my plans?”

Even in heels, he’s taller than you remember. He’s always been pretty- all mesmerizing eyes, slightly crooked smile, and sunkissed skin- but not even he was immune to the awkwardness brought forth by puberty. There was a time when he thought his shoulders were too broad, his ears too big, and the angular structure of his face too sharp and strong for a boy. It didn’t look right. Features that were admirable on their own, looked out of place on his face- or so he feared. You always thought he was beautiful- especially when he didn’t know it.

Now, Boy Wonder is all grown up, exuding confidence and oozing charm. He knows he’s attractive, but he doesn’t parade his arrogance- not anymore. His early twenties were a never-ending roller coaster of trying to find himself, his purpose, and where he fit into the grand scheme of things. Conflicted by right and wrong, tempted by lust and surrender, divided by good and evil, he’s had a lot of time to awaken from the grogginess inflicted by nightmares of freedom and liberation. Still, his eyes are just as mesmerizing, his teeth are straight- but his smile is still crooked- and he’s truly grown into himself. The man before you is a boy evolved- still a bird, but with a different set of wings. Robin is an old friend, a fond recollection of a different time, and though the stranger before you mimics the familiarity you’ve longed for, he’s not Robin, anymore- he’s Nightwing.

“Look, they’re anticipating for you to strike,” His warning is low and hushed, but even in whispers you’re able to detect his plea. Call it concern, or at the very least interest in serving justice as quietly as possible, but his timbre urges you to reconsider- if not for his sake, then for the sake of those around you. He really doesn’t want to cause a scene. “Security has been tripled, and you’ve grown sloppy-“

“Did you ever consider that the trail I was leaving behind wasn’t for anyone else but the one person I wanted to find me?” There’s no affection behind the way your fingers thread through the dark tresses at the nape of his neck. Without any fondness, without passion, or care, the action is mindless, meaningless, and merely muscle memory. There’s no repressed feelings you wish to convey, no animosity you’re trying to diffuse. With no hidden agenda, the gesture serves no purpose- except to unintentionally torture you both. Old habits die hard, and something undefined urges you to reach for him. He flushes, and the sight is so droll that you can’t bring yourself to stop. His lips part once, twice, three times, trying to produce an answer, but he’s at a loss. When you cock your head to the side, he tenses. “Of course, you didn’t,” You purr, and he clears his throat softly.

Dick’s no stranger to berating. He knows what it feels like to be chastised, scolded, and reprimanded. This exchange feels similar. The only difference is that you don’t raise your voice, your eyes don’t darken and you don’t threaten him- not with words, at least. If anything, the remark feels like a gentle rebuke, but the sting left from the impact of your insult brands him with shame. You’ve always seen right through him. Easily able to discern real from fake- truth from falsity- under both his domino mask and the hardened mask of his stoic expressions, you’ve always had a knack for exposing his most vulnerable self- welcoming his flaws, humility, and weaknesses to light. Even though he’s not the same kid he was when you first crossed paths, he feels just as naive and guileless as the boy he once once.

“You and the bat were never really known for considering every angle,” Spoken so thoughtfully, he’s almost able to forgive the verbal assault. As intended, the blow lands- precise, heavy, and unforgiving in the center of his chest- and the muscles in his jaw tighten with thinly veiled frustration. It seems, that in the moment he needs his voice the most, it evades him. He swallows consonants and vowels, a jumbled mix of letters that sit heavy atop his palate, and focuses on maintaining his composure- though, his steps are a beat behind and his footing seems, suddenly, unsure. You’ve struck a nerve. Whether or not you intend to wound, the damage is already done. Picking at scabs that should’ve scarred a long time ago cause his insecurities to bleed- a punch more lethal than brute strength and weaponry combined.

Blindsided by the truth, he feels utterly defenseless.

“Can I ask you something, Dick?” Your brows barely pinch together, your voice calm and steady as something softens in your gaze. Dick should know better than to let his guard down- especially when you lean in, and your lips brush against his ear, “If you’re the hero, here to save the day, does that make me the villain?”

“No, you’re not-“

“How about this, which is the lesser of two evils- knowing that you’re protecting a corrupted establishment because it’s what you believe to be morally correct, or taking back what was wrongfully stolen and returning it to its rightful owners?” As you tilt your head to the side, he hates the way that you look up at him through your lashes. It’s not a demure move. You’re demanding an answer, and a look like that- a look meant to allure, tempt, and bait- would have a weaker man spilling his deepest darkest secrets. With a sharp inhale, he reminds himself that the tricks up your sleeve aren’t new. He knows all of the cards you’re going to play- albeit, he’s unaware of the order in which you’re going to play them- and he won’t allow history to repeat itself. Purposely, your thumb caresses the back of his hand- the touch feather-light, but far from hesitant or accidental- and his breath hitches. Dick doesn’t undermine the small, sinister smile that threatens to spread into a victorious grin when he fails to answer your question. Perhaps, he doesn’t know the answer. Or, perhaps, he’s just distracted. Either way, your voice fills the absence of his own. “We’re not on different sides of a playing field, Grayson. You and I aren’t on opposite ends of a spectrum, we’ve always been right in the middle- dancing on a thin line.”

Prompted by the soothing symphony of strings, Dick twirls you- delicately extending his arm and leading you into a spin before pulling you back in- and it’s fitting, the push and pull between you so familiar it almost feels as choreographed as the steps of the waltz you’re dancing.

History repeating itself, just one more time.

“We both know you’re not here to turn me in, because if you were going to, you would’ve done it by now.” Your arrogance causes something to snap within him. Clarity comes rushing back as he breaks free from your spell. Without meaning to, his grip on your hand tightens.

“Look, I understand why you’re doing this, but-“

“No, you don’t.” Like a switch being flipped, your façade shatters- revealing a face so unbridled with emotions that not even a mask could obscure. He’s defensive. Tired of grappling for control over the situation, he tastes power as he parts his lips with a clever retort, but you don’t allow him the space to get a word in. “Did you know that last year, the city council held a vote to refurbish a few run-down parks on the south side of Gotham with the hopes of restoring the communities destroyed by violence, or increasing the GCPD budget?” The heat behind your accusation pokes and prods at his curiosity, coloring him intrigued. Admittedly, he’s not the most up-to-date on Gotham’s politics, but something this large shouldn’t have slipped under his radar- or the watchful eyes of those who swore themselves to protect the beloved city.

It’s deeper than that, though.

Your frustrations, however warranted, seem to extend beyond such an injustice. Between the lines, amongst all the words you haven’t said, there’s a decipher hidden in every twitch, gesture, and glare. From the way your eyes narrow, to the sharp exhale and tightening grip of your fingertips. To sweaty palms and clenched teeth, all the way to flared nostrils- there’s something just beneath the surface that he can’t crack. Too much time has passed for him to unscramble tacitness when he no longer understands the codes in which you speak, and, unfortunately, he needs you to paint a clearer picture than the vague abstract before him.

“When it came down to it, do you think that the citizens of the south side had a say in the matter?” Dick’s smart. He’s not just a pretty face or a nice body- he’s actually got brains to match. You know- deep down- that sooner or later, shapeless pieces will fall into place to reveal the completed puzzle, but you need him to come to the conclusion all on his own. It would be easy to simply reveal your motive, and while a straightforward approach may have been less complicated than the mental gymnastics you’re forcing him to perform, it wouldn’t have been as impactful. Dick needs to understand, and to understand, he needs to feel- the same anger, outrage, and upset you felt. “Do you think the people on the other side of the tracks were given a chance to speak in front of the council?”

“They can’t segregate who speaks publicly-“ The gears are turning- some slower, some faster, and others completely out of control as he struggles to make sense of your elusiveness. When the current song fades out, a scattered round of applause takes its place before a new song begins. Hardly anyone else is dancing, save for a handful of couples who look just about as miserable as you and Dick- without the coordination or grace, the two of you share. It takes him too long to jump to the conclusion, and you tire of waiting for him to put the pieces together on his own. He always did work better with a helping hand- though, the quality of his work declined greatly whenever your hands were involved.

“You’re right,” Your agreement further confuses him, until an additional explanation provides the last bit of clarity he’d been seeking. “But they can change the date, time, and venue of the meeting without alerting the other parties involved, parties that spent weeks building the foundations of a strong claim, and vote on the matter without them being present- subsequently, granting them access to funnel more funds back into their pensions.”

“That’s not possible,” His argument is backed by disbelief instead of reason, denial influencing his refusal to accept such an absurdity, even in spite of proof, and every ugly, undesirable, nasty feeling you’re not supposed to have swirls together in the pit of your stomach at his incredulity.

How can he still be so blind? How, after all of the evil that he’s witnessed, how can he deny the truth in favor of possibility? He may be a man grown, but he still lives in a delusional state of boyhood- where he still clings to hope and the prospect of good intentions even when the jury has already delivered a conviction.

“Why not?” You seethe, simultaneously demanding an answer without allowing him the chance to speak. Unfortunately, whatever’s been brewing amongst your insides finally bubbles over and your own reluctance to accept an outcome where he doesn’t justify your point of view sharpens the words at the tip of your tongue until they’re as lethal as any weapon. “Because good old Commissioner Gordon wouldn’t let that happen?”

It’s resentment- the concoction without a name- but it’s also envy, pain, and perhaps a bit of fear. At the very least, it’s petty, to bring her into this and force him to pick a side, but it’s been corroding your logic- eroding a place in your chest that’s been dormant ever since he last filled it with life and meaning- and you watch his demeanor shift when his lips part to defend her. You can’t bear whatever praise he’s sure to dole out in her defense, especially when she’s just as guilty as the rest of them, as far as you’re concerned. Before he has a chance to tear you to shreds with his ire, you interrupt.

“Look, just because the commissioner has a heart, doesn’t mean that the animals working for the force do.” Without any conviction, you start to claw at the mire on either side of you, closing you in. “It’s always been bad, but it’s gotten a lot worse.” He can’t argue with that. Worse doesn’t even come close to how downright doomed Gotham is now that someone’s poisoned most of the police force. The one group of people who are supposed to remain impartial to power and abide by the laws they’re sworn to uphold, have turned their backs on the people who needed them most, and the people hurting- the ones without flashy jewels or the stomachs for caviar and champagne- don’t have anyone looking out for them.

Not the way they used to, anyway.

“You don’t get to come here and lecture me about what’s right and what’s wrong, just because she asked you to.” Bittersweet tips towards bitter and a sour taste settles in your mouth at the suggestion that she had even the slightest part to play in your reunion. “You’re a few years too late for that, birdy.” This time when the song ends, you take a step back- though, his thumb brushes against the back of your hand before you pull away, the phantom of a silent prospect lingering even when the warmth of him is gone. Once, it was what you sought. He was what you sought. Years of desolation turned your desire for that same heat- tender touches and gentle caresses against skin- into favor of bleakness. You don’t regret pulling away from him, not as much as you did back them. This time, it’s warranted- a choice you make unobstructed by what you’re feeling, now that you know the outcome of what was fated to happen between the two of you.

“I appreciate the dance,” You swallow, your throat tightening with words you won’t allow yourself to say. Instead, a retort finds you, though it feels foreign as you speak it into existence. “Maybe we’ll do it again in a couple of years,”

Without waiting for a reaction, you head off down the same way you came, and this time, without any intervention, he lets you go.

The bathroom door shuts behind you, and the sounds of lively chatter and the hum of instrumentals fade away until you’re consumed by a silence so stark that it buries you. It doesn’t feel real. The soft tapping of your heels against the glossy marble floors cuts through the nothingness- even the slightest echo in the void registering as an alarm, coaxing panic and fear from the rusted, forgotten cells you banished them to long ago- and when you finally take a look in the mirror, you don’t recognize the face that stares back at you.

Your reflection is plagued by guilt, and haunted by ghosts of the past. Well, one ghost, in particular.

Running into Dick Grayson was something you’d prepared for. Since the day you last parted, you always knew that there was a possibility your paths could, and inevitably would, cross again. It was destined to happen, and you were doomed from the start. He makes you reckless. He makes you sloppy and distracted and forgiving. He makes you weak. Back then, before everything that drove a wedge between the two of you, you had a bit of a soft spot for him. He was the only other person in the world who truly understood the life you lived because he was living a different version of the same life. Both protégés, both headstrong and zealous- attributes recognized as both strengths and faults- and both dancing a choreographed routine in the shadows cast by the bat and the cat. The two of you were fated. It was only a matter of time before you started pulling your punches, and he started letting you get away.

The chase was always the best part- second only to the capture.

Still, it’s been years since he left. You’re not the same girl he once knew, and he might as well have been a stranger. More than a decade apart will do that to two people. For everything that’s changed, one thing remains the same- the chase and the capture are unavoidable.

With a shaky exhale, your chest tightens. Resting your palms on either side of the expensive stone washbasin, you attempt to focus on regaining your composure- but another heavy intake of breath punches your lungs. You haven’t come this far just to let him swoop in and gain the upper hand. You’re done pulling your punches. Flipping the golden faucet on, you allow trickling water to interrupt the unbearable silence that surrounds you- a lull so loud it sounds like buzzing static without the interruption of something mundane. With a few more deep breaths, in and out, you begin to fumble with the clasp on your clutch, opening the small bag to retrieve a tube of lipstick. The color has started to fade from your lips, and you use the moment of stillness to touch up your makeup. If nothing else, maybe your reflection will look less distraught with a signature swipe of dark red. You long for a sense of familiarity that you can control.

Above the trickling from the luxurious spout, the door squeaks- or perhaps, it cries- as it’s pushed open, revealing a mirage basked in artificial light and a custom-tailored suit. As your fingertips graze the fixture responsible for the steady stream of distraction, a thud sounds, and seconds later, the unmistakable click of a lock latching into place seals your fate. A wave of emotion- a tsunami of feelings- brings forth a myriad of everything, all at once. Just as you suspected you always would, you’re drowning- caught in a riptide of your past and present, finally merging in a deadly current that threatens to pull you below the depths of your worst fears and direful imagination. You swallow thickly as you close your eyes. It fills your mouth with delusions of saltwater.

This isn’t supposed to happen- at least, not like this, it’s not- but the one thing you’ve been running from has finally caught back up to you. Now’s the time to set the record straight. No more ties. No more draws. Tonight, the victory is yours- regardless of his intervention. He’s taken too much from you to take this too, and you’re done letting him.

“I already told you that this is pointless,” You don’t even look at him. Refusing to give him the satisfaction of meeting his overbearing stare. A swirling sea of darkening blue attempts to sail back to shore- pleading to find refuge within familiar comforts and intimacy- but you cast your gaze back to your reflection, focusing on fixing the corners of your lipstick and leaving him afloat. “You’re not going to stop me.” The promise is backed by conviction- though, you’re not sure if you’re trying to convince him, or yourself.

The muscle in Dick’s jaw flexes as he grits his teeth- forcing ivories to clench and grind against each other, creating a perfect, white prison to cage the words he wishes to speak. Stifling his emotions is conventional. It’s a routine he’s perfected through years of reluctant practice. Though uncomfortable and daunting, the void in which he sentences all that’s repressed is secure. It’s safe- if only in the sense that it’s familiar.

You’re familiar- rather, you were once familiar- but he can’t cross a bridge that’s been burned, molten ash still ablaze amongst the rubble, and expect to be welcomed back with open arms. Not after everything that’s changed. Not after everything that’s happened.

Not after what he did.

“I need a list of names,” The determination in Dick’s voice contradicts everything he feels inside. His face hardens- a mask, a shield, protection- and he stands a little taller, fixated on resolving the one problem he could actually solve. “Names of the officers involved in whatever this is,” He clarifies with an uneasy edge to his voice- like he already knows he’s bit off more than he can chew, but he can’t stop himself from going back for seconds, thirds, and fourths.

For all that’s changed, Dick remains the same. A phantom- a spirit, a memory, a ghost- of the boy you once knew disappears just as quickly as your imagination teases familiar red, yellow, and green. He’s not the same. You know it to be true, and yet, you find yourself distracted by glimpses and figments from a different life entirely.

“Grab a pen,” A scoff, an eye roll, and the gentle shake of your head, disbelief and credence existing in tandem- contradicting each other when your eyes finally meet his. “It would be a shorter list if you started with the people who aren’t guilty of committing some type of fraudulent activity.”

You’re not a bad person. Despite varying beliefs, you’re not evil. Mayhem doesn’t bring you joy. Confrontation doesn’t get you off. There’s little pleasure to be found in being the itch that people can’t scratch. You’ve never sought out violence or peril, and you seldom plan on causing either. Just like Dick- just like Bruce- you operate under a different moral code, but a moral code, nevertheless. Even if the only thing it provides is an excuse to justify why you do what you do, you still hold yourself to a standard. Unlike the vile, chaos-thirsty cravens that would happily light the match and watch the world burn, you’re selfless- bound to your morals, if nothing else.

What you do, the sacrifices you make- everything that you’ve lost and everything you’ve fought for- is fueled by benevolence. You’re in a position to fight for those who can’t fight for themselves, to speak up for those who can’t speak for themselves. The power to defend those who have had their rights stripped from them- those who have had their power stolen by greed corruption and profit- is in your hands. You’ll be damned if you let anyone stand in your way and prevent you from doing what you know is right.

Through the reflection in the mirror, you recognize the face that stares back at you. Gone is the fear and doubt that mangled your features unrecognizable. With a heavy sigh, you unclip the earrings that dangle from your earlobes- and the buzzing sound of static fades away completely.

You know what you have to do.

The sound of your heels against the tile might as well have been deafening in contrast to the silence that follows your remark. As you cross the room, your resolve sharpens. Dick Grayson has taken so much from you, you won’t let him take this, too.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me-“ You feign saccharine, your tone phony and filled with counterfeit regret, as you reach for the locked door handle, but Dick blocks the latch, stepping in front of you before you have a chance to wrap your hand around the lever. He knows exactly what buttons to press and genuine annoyance, anger, and frustration fill the space where your poor imitation of remorse once occupied. Through gritted teeth, you command him, lowly, “Move, Dick.”

“You know I can’t do that, sweetheart,” He says it so easily, with a sorrowful sigh and undisputed repentance, that you almost buy the sincerity he’s trying to sell. Unfortunately, for him, you’re not in the market for his misery. He’s a few years too late. Dick can turn his charm up to ten thousand- he can say all the right things and plead with his perfect crystalline eyes- but you won’t risk everything you’ve fought for for a few crocodile tears. You know, now, that you’re better than that. One way or another, you’re getting out of this bathroom- and if you have to go through him to do so, then so be it.

“And you know I’m not above fighting you, right?” He’s entirely unprepared for your snark, the bite that fuels your reply nearly nipping his sense of control straight from the palm of his hand. It’s obvious that this isn’t the same game that it once was, but something much more dangerous. “The dance wasn’t enough?” With your arms across your chest, you challenge, and he hates the way you’re looking at him- like your eyes are piercing straight through him instead of actually looking at him. If you bothered to look closely enough, you’d be able to decipher all of the blatant emotions he’s never been the greatest at hiding. One look and you’d see him- and his heart beating proudly on his sleeve. It’s why you don’t spare him a glance. “You still feeling nostalgic for old times? Because this feels awfully familiar, doesn’t it?”

“What are you going to do with the money?” He asks, fighting to keep his voice stern. His poker face was never the best- or, maybe you could just read him better than most people could. Still, as he stands before you, he grapples with his devotion to whatever this competition is. This clash will never see a winner- only two losers- and he knows it. You do, too- but unlike him, you’re not willing to back down without a fight.

“Give it back to those who rightfully deserve it.” He doesn’t deserve your honesty. He has no right to the truth, but you don’t have it in you to scheme an elaborate lie. However gratifying it might’ve been to feed him false information and watch him fly in circles, you’re too exhausted for mental gymnastics. Like clockwork, you give, and he takes- his stare narrowing, almost accusatorially.

“And who are you to decide who rightfully deserves it?” There’s an edge to his question- like he can’t fathom justice without his divine intervention- and it’s grating, the way he can make you feel so small, and worthless with a single sentence. His arrogance is astounding. Who was he to seek vengeance against Slade Wilson? Who was he to target Heartless? Who was he to sentence Tony Zucco to his death- by placing him behind bars, and granting other enemies easy access to the crime lord, which ultimately led to his demise? The self-righteous guilt trip nearly gives you whiplash from how fast it makes your head spin. He’s no different than you are- no better or worse, since you operate on the same playing field. He doesn’t get to act like he is. Someone needs to knock him down a few pegs, and you’re happily up for the challenge.

“Who are you to try to stop me?”

“Someone who knows you,” He replies, instinctively. “Someone who’s a friend, not a foe.”

“Hmm,” With a bitter laugh, your stomach churns- twisting, clenching, and swirling with swells of irritation, regret, and sorrow- and although it’s a familiar discomfort, it’s been years since you’ve felt the threat of splintering cracks, chipping away at the stone-cold facade of your exterior. Come to think of it, the last time you felt this way was when Selina had told you that Dick left for San Francisco. The reminder fills you with a bitterness you’ve long tried to suppress, and as it bubbles to the surface, so do all of the repressed thoughts and emotions that’ve haunted you for years.

For a moment, you ache- chasing forgotten remembrance plagued by wistfulness. Then, you burn.

“Friends call every once in a while, and if they can’t make it to a phone, they send a postcard to let you know that they’re still alive and well.” Vexation forces your eyes to narrow, the color of your eyes morphing into something much more bleak. With a heavy exhale- filled with frustration and a semblance of humility- you remind him, “Friends don’t disappear into thin fucking air without letting you know why- especially, after those friends, were always a little more than just friends.” There’s a darkness behind your eyes that Dick’s not familiar with, and a weight settles in the hollow emptiness of his chest before sinking deeper and deeper into the pit of his stomach. His jaw clenches and he swallows thickly- the tastes of bile, rue, and shame all indiscernible from one another as he forces them back down.

He knows you’re right.

While his absence was abrupt, it had nothing to do with any ill will towards you. There was never a falling out- no crossing a line of no return or being pushed past a point that shattered a shared fantasy. Though the bullet posed no real threat of death by passing through his arm- beyond the phantom agony of lead tearing through flesh, and the hot, wet feeling of crimson pouring from the wound- a part of Dick Grayson did, in fact, die that night, at the hands of the Joker. The Clown Prince of Crime set off a domino effect when he fired at the young Boy Wonder, inevitably altering the course of his life forever. Acts of violent intent seldom harm a single soul, and as if it were fated, you became another casualty from an attack that was never meant for you.

When Bruce fired Dick, he was angry. Back then, thoughts of hanging up the cape never, ever, crossed his mind. Back then, he was content with fighting crime alongside his mentor, and never really considered what would happen next- or if there’d even be a next, or an after. He felt betrayed, abandoned, and filled with cynicism. As selfish as it was, you weren’t even really an afterthought in the downfall of his life caving in and swallowing him whole. He needed time to heal- time to rebuild- and prioritize who he was when he wasn’t hiding in the shadows left behind by a cape and cowl. Years passed, and with time to reflect, Dick’s bitter resentment morphed into a new kind of devotion to himself, and the few that started to look to him for guidance.

Before the Titans, he never really considered himself to be a leader. He spent most of his life abiding by rules and plans- roles and paths- that were set for him by another. Had he been hungry for control before, his first real taste solidified an insatiable appetite for the very thing he felt himself deprived of for too many years. Though, he’d come to learn that there was an ugly side to the power he wielded. Some days, the responsibility felt like a burden, and others, he felt like his guilt and uncertainty would swallow him whole. He bottled up all of his doubts, packed them somewhere deep inside the closed-off caverns in his heart where darker demons haunted, and forced them elsewhere- out of sight, and out of mind, but never truly gone.

It’s not fair that, somehow, you’ve come to possess the key that matches the lock on his Pandora’s box. Every emotion, every feeling, and every thought meant to be suppressed and banished to a place where they couldn’t torment or harm him, refuses to go gently when one simple, magnetic look threatens to release them from their cages of skin and bone. The most daunting realization of all, however, is that he’s the one to blame- for everything.

For all of it.

Selfishly, he’s hoped for an ember amongst the carnage he’s created. He’s held onto some convoluted idea of hope that whatever was once alight could be reignited again if he fully committed himself to an apology, but he failed to acknowledge the amount of ashes he’d have to sift through for a hint of a spark. There’s too much disappointment, too much duplicity, regret, and time passed between the two of you for things to ever revert back to even a semblance of what they once were.

He looks to you now, and he sees it- your anger is a mask for your pain. It’s so faint he almost misses it, but your lip threatens to wobble. Beyond the wrath you try to convey with the narrowed glare of your eyes, he watches as thinly veiled yearning mingles with what’s left of the color of your irises- simultaneously faint, yet prominent to the only other person who knows what it’s like to push away the person you love. What Dick and you shared wasn’t love, but it could’ve been and that’s what you’re both mourning- what could’ve been.

“You and I aren’t friends, Dick.” He hates the finality behind your conviction. It’s so cold, and void of the warmth he associated with you once upon a time. A split second threatens to expose the façade, and you blink back tears instead of allowing them to fall- swallowing emotion and banishing it elsewhere. Feelings have no place here. Instead, you grit your teeth, clenching them together so tightly that your jaw begins to ache. He watches you struggle to commit to the act- because that’s what your rage is, an outlet for your passions- and as you take a step closer toward him, his breath hitches. “Now, get out of my way,”

Toe to toe, you meet his gaze, and no matter how hard you try to fight it, despite your best efforts to disguise what you truly feel, Dick sees right through you- recognizing the parts of you that you try to mold and shape into something else. After all, he’s your greatest weakness- and you’re his. You always have been, and he always will be.

He dares to move. This close, he resists the urge to reach out for you and never let you go again, but this isn’t about him. It’s about you. Hesitantly, he raises his hand, his eyes never leaving yours as the shaky tips of his fingers graze your chin with a tenderness you’ve sought since the last time you felt it. The air is tense, passed back and forth by sharp breaths and thundering pulses- intimate with warmth and affection that mimics that of a simpler time- and when his palm rests against your cheek, cradling it with such gentle endearment in the face of betrayal, you let him. Dick’s throat bobs, and he pours everything he can’t bring himself to say into such a delicate touch. Every apology he wishes he had the courage to speak aloud, every declaration of devotion he was too afraid to voice, and every inevitable truth he attempted to ignore lingers, and you can feel it- in every shy stroke of his thumb across your cheek.

“You’re not going to distract me,” A single tear merges with the pad of his thumb- a testament to your resilience, but no match for the broken, battered, beaten bond you share with the man before you- and your certainty begins to dwindle. There’s a string that ties you to him- an invisible thread strong enough to stitch the two of you back together when you should remain apart- but you’re destined for him, the same way he’s always been destined for you.

It was foolish to believe any differently.

“I’m not trying to distract you,” Barely above a whisper, he pleads, desperate to make you understand, “I’m trying to apologize.”

He hangs his head with defeat, his shoulder slumping forward as he peers down at you. He’s never known such cruel torture. Such sick and twisted suffering is self-inflicted. The past erodes his future, but he can’t stop himself from resurrecting his demons. Foolishly, he invites them to haunt him further- and you’re no exception. His tightrope is stretched taut, and it’s a long way down. How much longer can he balance between anemoia and actuality before tipping one way or the other? It’s insanity- repeating the same act and hoping for a different outcome- but Dick can’t bring himself to accept that this time won’t be different. If nothing else, the possibility that this never-ending game could crown two winners is enough for him to play the martyr, and suffer whatever repercussions might follow after barring himself whole. What more does he have to lose, if not everything he’s already lost, again?

It would be so easy to reach past him and turn the lock in your favor, granting your escape. Hell, with the way he’s looking at you now, you know that he wouldn’t even put up a fight. He’d let you waltz right past him, slipping through his fingers for the umpteenth time because he knows that this time won’t be the last. It never is. Visions blurred by uncertainty flash before your eyes- infinite possibilities, each with consequences and punishments, rewards and sacrifices- but the unknown doesn’t elicit the same adrenaline-filled excitement that it once did. Maybe because this time, Dick isn’t fighting back. Surrendering his shield, he abandons resistance- instead, entrusting you with the vulnerability that spills from his heart, blood crimson against his fingers as he squeezes it with each thump and thud- crumbling before you, and submitting everything he has to give to you. Even if he can’t bring himself to support your cause.

You lean in closer, drawn to him- the same way you always have been, and likely, always will be- and your palm hovers over his chest. For a second, it’s unclear whether or not you’re going to reach out for him or push him away, but when your hand meets the fabric that covers hard muscle, you know you’re done for- because in the same ways he’s willing to fall before you, you’re willing to fall before him, too. Over and over again. Repeatedly and infinitely.

“Well, you have impeccable timing,” Your reproach is close enough for him to taste. It wavers against his lips and slips past his tongue, allowing him to savor parts of you he hasn’t been allowed to indulge in for so long. There’s no mistaking the invitation of your reprover, and Dick’s palm rests against your lower back, coaxing you closer towards him as his nose brushes against yours. It’s dizzying, and your arms find their way around his neck to steady yourself when he rests his forehead against yours with a soft sigh. The irony of the situation isn’t lost upon you- even when the two of you have ceded to one another, you’re still fighting to see who will give in first. As if he’s come to the realization at the same time, a large hand- rough and callused, but soft and tender in the way that it trembles against your cheek with anticipation- encourages you to tilt your head back, and you follow his lead. You hold your breath as your lips part, and Dick surges forward, slotting his mouth against yours in a kiss that’s fueled by the release of years of pent-up longing, need, and want. The gesture is foreign, yet familiar. Reminiscent of the past, yet entirely new. Everything you remember and everything you’ve ever dreamed of merge together in this moment and bring life to what had only ever been fantasy before his lips found yours once more.

It’s exhilarating.

“I missed you,” The affirmation rumbles against your skin, warm with fervor and urgency, and it’s completely unnecessary- considering that each movement acts as a balm to soothe wounds of time, fear, and doubt- but he vows with each breath, relying on words to convey what his actions can not, and vice versa. Masks are off. Shields have been abandoned. Capes remain long forgotten at the door. This is no longer about duty or morality. No, this moment is about two people seeking confirmation for what they’ve always known to be true- that a love unspoken, but never absent has always existed between them. Two people- not vigilantes or heroes- two hearts, beating to guide the other back, are bare, open, honest, and raw without the theatrics of a chase or the pretense of a game. Surrender invites you to balance on the edge of a precipice, and you’re the first to lose your footing.

Desperation is an influence, and his lapels wrinkle with the severity of your hold. Through the haze of everything unknown, he’s the only thing that’s clear, and you reach for him- blindly, but intentionally- clawing at the fabric that keeps him from you. Clashing teeth and bruising grips don’t elicit pain, not when real suffering exists in the absence of the other, and you allow him to paint you violet, blue, green, and red with desire, becoming the embodiment of his want. Your only regret is that the evidence of this divine crime will eventually fade away to nothing more than a memory- another ache that will never dull, a moment so unique that it can never be replicated. As you rejoice, you mourn.

“Sure you did.” His blazer drops to the floor as you follow your script, hardly taking a moment to realize that the page you’re reading from is blank- without word or direction- as you venture into unknown territory. Even when you don’t mean to be, you’re combative. Even when you don’t want to be, you’re still on edge. This is different. This already feels different than before, and maybe it’s because there’s a lot more at stake now that both of you have already lost one another, but for as overdue as this homecoming is, something subconsciously prolongs it further.

“No, really, I-“ He begins, ready to mold rhetoric and force it to take on a form that would allow you to see just how much you mean to him, but that would make this real, and you’re not sure if you’re ready for this to be real yet- because if this is real, if this isn’t just a cruel imitation of memory like so many variations before or a concocted fantasy so vivid you can feel yourself shaking, then that means you can lose it all, again. Just like last time. Within your grip, one minute, slipping through your fingers the next.

“Don’t.” Fear sounds different when there’s a bite to it. It could almost pass as annoyance, if you’re able to keep your voice just steady enough, and he mistakes the command for irritation, rather than the timidity it actually is. Whatever you’ve intended and he’s interpreted gets lost along the way, and he takes a hesitant step back. It’s impossible not to lunge for him as he retreats, but you remain still- your breath hitching when he holds both hands out to you, surrendering his palms while he shows he meant no harm.

“Can I…”

“You don’t have to ask,” You silence his fears quickly, closing the space between you before you even realize that you’ve taken a step. This self-sacrificial eagerness to light yourself on fire just to keep him warm has always been one of your greatest downfalls, but a most ardent gesture, and with ash on your tongue and soot in your lungs, you strike a match the minute he begins to second guess himself. “Just pretend it’s like before.” The suggestion sounds just as unsure as you are, but with a heavy breath, you encourage, “Pretend that nothing’s changed…pretend that we’re still…” You can’t even bring yourself to say it, because the kids you were back then are gone. They’re never coming back. You can’t avenge them or try to seek vengeance for what they’ve lost. It’s over for them, but this is just the start of this new beginning for the two of you. “Just for tonight.”

He moves promptly, gathering the skirts of your dress in one hand, fisting the fabric- a blue so dark he mistook it for black, or perhaps it was, until his fingertips were close enough to paint the illusion with light, making it appear different than it was- without any regard for creases or lingering proof of your affair. Support rests at your back, his chest firm and protective as you lean into the rippling muscle, and Dick continues to illuminate shadows of the past with each touch- eager to help you forget all of the agonies suffered at his hands in favor of remembering glimpses of peace. He’s ready to give you more than just a taste. Now, he wants to gorge you with the pleasure he’s reserved.

His hands shake- not with hesitancy, but anticipation, and when you catch his eye in the mirror, you shiver. You’ve never seen a blue so dark it looks black- until now. Without warning, he mouths at your neck- kissing, sucking, biting, any part of you he can get his lips on- reacquainting himself with parts of you that were once so familiar, and you allow him to explore. Blindly, you reach for one of his hands, taking it in your own, and he begins to intertwine his fingers with yours, but you gently guide his hand where you want it most- and he lets you, following your lead just as impulsively. You jolt at the first brush of his fingertips between your legs, even though you were expecting it, and he lets out a few ragged breaths against the back of your neck. It’s paradoxical, the chills that contradict the flush of your skin, but this relationship has never really made sense before. Why should that change now?

Almost as if he’s in a trance, Dick is overwhelmed by the twists and turns of the evening, but the whiplash is starting to subside in favor of something much more exhilarating. He never thought he’d have this again. He believed moments like these to be lost to time, and he wasted years grieving memories he could never replicate, only to feel the weight of your body against his once more. It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s everything he never knew he wanted or needed until it was stolen from him, swiped right out from under his nose by his own negligence. He won’t make the same mistakes this time. No, this time, he’s going to do it right. He’s going to-

“Fuck,” When you grow tired of his stalling, you force his hand, again. This time, when your fingers meet his wrist, you press your palm on top of his- coercing him to mimic the shape- and maybe you’re the one in control, or maybe he finally rises to the occasion, but with a newfound determination, he cups your cunt- a choked sound catching in his throat when he feels how wet you are. You briefly wonder how something so vulgar can sound so pretty, but you already know the answer- it’s him. It’s always been him. Had it been anyone else, the effect would cease to exist, but it’s Dick, and that desire- that pull that you can’t ever deny- will always bind you to him.

You can’t help yourself from rutting against his palm, and he presses himself further into your back, allowing you to feel the hard outline of his cock against your ass. The hand that isn’t between your legs rests on your arm, and when he tries to hold your hand, you don’t deny him. There’s just too much fabric for you to hold in just one hand and some of it drapes over his forearm, but you manage to keep most of it from obscuring his movements. It’s a strange angle, and both of you are fumbling to make it work, but you crane your neck in search of him, and he answers your call with an eager kiss. Your tongue caresses his, savoring the feeling and committing it to memory, just in case-

He swallows your surprised gasp when he nudges your panties aside and begins to circle your clit. With just a bit of pressure, a crease forms where your eyebrows pull together, and you untangle your hand from his hold to brace yourself against the counter. It’s been a while since someone else has touched you, and it’s been even longer since the last time Dick had, but it’s so much better than evocations of pleasure. You swear figments are tangible. Spurred on by the reaction his touch has coaxed from you, he’s torn between making the moment last as long as possible or picking up the pace. He settles on the latter, considering that if this is heading the way he hopes it’s heading, he’ll have all the time in the world to make it up to you, but right now, he’s on borrowed time. You both are. With the reminder looming overhead, he adjusts his hand so that he can continue to work your clit while lining up a finger with your pussy. You’re so wet, and warm when he curls his middle finger inside, and he can’t remember why he ever left in the first place. What persuaded him away from Gotham when you were always right here? Would you have waited for him? Would you have followed him if he asked you to? He supposes none of that matters now, but he can’t help but wonder…

He adds a second finger, and even though your body gives little resistance to the intrusion, you groan at the feeling. His fingers are so long, reaching that spot inside of you that your fingers are just too short to reach, and they’re thick enough for you to feel yourself stretching around him with each thrust- not enough to cause pain, but an ache that serves as a reminder that it’s been too long since the last time you’ve had him like this. You vow not to let another ten years pass before you let him have you, again.

He continues a steady pace, curling his fingers in such a way that sweat begins to glisten across your chest, and when a third finger threatens to join his others, you wrap your hand around his wrist- abruptly halting his movements.

“N-not enough time,” He doesn’t even get the chance to ask before you supply him with an answer, but he nods in understanding once you offer an explanation. He’s already reaching for his belt, unbuckling the clasp and roughly shoving his slacks down before you have a chance to catch your breath, and you’re grateful- if the speed in which he undresses is any indication of his own eagerness- that he’s just as desperate for you, as you are for him. Taking a moment to adjust your skirts so that you don’t have to hold them, you bunch them above your hips and lean forward, resting your forearms against the counter while Dick frees himself from his boxers, and when you look back in the mirror and catch sight of his cock behind you, you can’t help but swallow thickly.

He strokes himself a few times, smearing the pre-cum beading from his slit down his shaft as he prepares to take you. This doesn’t feel like last time. As he reaches for your waist and lines himself up with your cunt, this doesn’t feel like last time at all. This is new, and different and everything he’s wanted ever since the last time he had you in his grasp. This time, he won’t let you get away. With as much self-restraint as he can manage, you feel the tip of his cock against your opening, slowly splitting you open, and your back arches. Your own strangled cry prompts a groan from him he sinks into you, inch by inch until his hips are flush against you. You’re so full that you’re not sure if it’s too much or not enough.

“I’ve got you,” Dick assures, his grip on your hip tightening when he feels you struggling to accommodate him. He tries to be a gentleman. He tries to give you a few minutes to adjust- even though he wants nothing more than to take what’s right under his nose, what’s always been his- but his restraint snaps when he feels you begin to rock back against him.

“Move,” You command, and he doesn’t have to be told twice. With your permission, he’s happy to follow orders and obliges with a sharp thrust upwards. The sound you make is a mix between a sob and a moan, and his fingers flex against your hip as he repeats the action.

“I forgot…” Through clenched teeth, he confesses, and you don’t think anything of the admission, too lost within your own feelings to attempt to decipher his. Instead, he wraps an arm around your waist, offering thick muscle to serve as a buffer between your body and the stone he has you pressed up against- relying on intimate gestures to make up for words lost in translation. Even now, when you’re not on the same page, you still know. Somehow, you know, and he does, too. Every time. Without fail. Always. Your head rolls back to meet his shoulder, and your fingertips claw at the back of his neck awkwardly, with transparent desperation to pull him closer. Within reach isn’t close enough. Near is too far. With a muted gasp, you push back to meet his next thrust, and he hisses softly before elaborating, “I’m so sorry if I made you forget.”

“Dick-“ Realization begins to splinter the mirage of bliss, and you manage to say his name with enough caution to serve as a warning. You don’t want to think about the past. Not right now. Not when you can see your future so clearly in the foggy reflection of the vanity. He wraps his hand around your neck, encouraging you to bare your throat to him and he licks at the vein that calls out to him.

“I won’t let you forget, not this time.” He vows, bucking his hips faster and faster as you whine in his hold. In some sick twisted way, he loves that he’s the only one who has this power over you- that he’s the only one who could ever elicit such a reaction- and it’s a testament to how much the two of you care for one another; the influence both of you have over one another. “This time, I want to remember.”

It’s going to be impossible not to.

“I-“ He can barely get a word out with how good you feel around him, and he takes a breath before trying again. “I know you want to pretend, but fuck…I can’t.” Dick wraps his arm around you, guiding your back to rest against his chest, and one of his large hands splays across your stomach, where he can feel himself inside of you. “I really did miss you,” Somehow he manages to find his voice. “Not just like this, either,”

“I-I missed you, too.” You don’t seem certain, not with the way you stutter, but your reply is genuine. It only appears dubious because Dick’s palm begins to press against you, and you all but choke on your confession. He can’t help himself, but neither can you.

“I’m close,” He rasps, brokenly. “Shit,” His thrusts begin to falter, and his eyes meet yours in the mirror. “Are you-“

“Yes!” You yelp when his fingers start circling your clit, and he doesn’t relent, even when he feels you start to tremble beneath him. You’re overwhelmed by him, in the best way possible, and as eager as you are to chance your release, a part of you never wants this moment to end. “Dick, please d-don’t stop,” Your muscles grow taut, and when his thrusts lose their precision, you know that he’s almost there. “Just like before,” You encourage him, clenching hard when he bites your shoulder and your orgasm washes over you. “J-just like before.”

He knows what you’re asking for. He understands what you’re practically begging for, and in a fleeting moment of clarity, he catches a glimpse of the faded scar on your arm- his only regret being the fact that an implant still stands in the way of what he truly wants with you- but the thought disappears as quickly as it materializes.

A few seconds more and he grunts against your neck, pulling your hips to meet his and spilling himself inside of you. It’s even better than you remember and your body shakes with aftershocks of pleasure. Luckily, he’s there to keep you upright. Your vision starts to blur and the only sound you’re able to make out is both of you struggling to catch your breaths. With a heavy sigh, he pulls out, and you can feel his cum start to leak from you, but you’re too disoriented to clean it up. Instead, you lean forward, relying on the countertop for support as you hang your head and try to come back to your senses.

Dick leaves a trail of soft kisses down the back of your neck and his forehead is both warm and damp when it meets your shoulder, resting comfortably against your skin while he takes a minute to catch his breath, and these sensations- these tiny little reminders that he’s here, this moment is present and real- ground you. Where your mind is a mess, reeling with indecision, emotions, and thoughts you can’t yet process, your body is at ease.

As your eyes flutter shut, greedy gulps of air fail to satisfy your lungs, and you swallow thickly, allowing pressure to build up in your chest until you simply can’t take it anymore. Darkness saturates all that you can see, and you’re caught in a void- trapped, without any light to guide you back home. The gentle caress of his touch along your arm brands you, flush enough to make you burn with reminders of this fleeting moment- when embers of devotion inevitably fade into ashes- and you stiffen in his hold, not that he’s coherent enough to notice.

He seems to be in his little world as he tucks himself back into his pants and presses another gentle kiss to your shoulder before wrapping his arms around you. Violent delights really do have violent ends and it’s not fair that you let it get this far without thinking about the consequences of your actions. None of this would’ve happened if you just let yourself love him- without fear, without judgment, without regret- and if you had just been honest with yourself all those years ago, this mess would’ve never spiraled so far out of your control.

Whatever repercussion await you, you’ll brave. Regardless of what happens next, you know that you have to tell him the truth- even if it kills you. The thought is often more daunting than the action itself, but as you turn yourself around in his arms so that you’re facing him, you’re petrified.

“I’m sorry,” The magnitude of your apology isn’t supported by the handful of letters that arrange themselves as they slip past your tongue. There has to be a better way to express your remorse, but if one exists it evades you. Over and over again, the same words come to mind and it’s not fair that you know exactly what you want to say, but you just can’t find the right words to absolve your shame. At your inability to voice your regret, frustration overwhelms you. Your lips part, ready to divulge your sins, but only a pathetic, meek sigh comes out. Why is this so difficult? You know the answer, and yet, you play the part of the fool- leaning on ignorance as a crutch for what you can’t bring yourself to brave. He deserves it, doesn’t he? The truth- not something partial, but whole. Transparency is the only piece left of a nearly complete puzzle, the only thing keeping this tragic tale of two lovers who break each other’s hearts only to stitch them back together again from reaching its inevitably doomed end. When your lip begins to tremble, Dick reaches for you, pulling you into his chest and embracing you in a hold that’s absolutely suffocating. You don’t deserve his kindness. You don’t deserve his love or affection- his tenderness or his forgiveness.

You don’t deserve him.

“Me too,” He sighs into your hair, pressing a gentle kiss to the crown of your head before resting his head on top of yours. You can hear his heart- how steady it beats- and the sound rivals the racing of your own where it threatens to burst straight from your chest, and your eyes flutter shut, savoring the gentle lull of his own serenity before you poison his relief with your own disruption. No matter how much it hurts, no matter how difficult it may be, you know that you have to tell him. With a breath, you prepare for carnage.

“No, Dick, I-“

“Dick? Are you in here?” Barbara’s voice seeps through the wooden barrier that separates the two of you from the rest of the world- from reality- and as soon as she calls out to him, the illusion of tranquility is broken. Of course, it’s her. Of course, she’d be the one to interrupt you before you had the chance to speak, and of course, it would be her that drives a wedge further between the two of you with one simple revelation, “They’re getting away!”

It’s almost impossible to miss the sounds of commotion that follow her declaration. Faint screams and chaos replace the background of symphony strings and he turns to you then, a divot dividing the smooth skin of his forehead while his eyes narrow. Blue is black. Dark, and unmistakable. The muscle in his jaw looks like it’s about to burst with the severity of his clenching and his nostrils flare with a shallow exhale. It’s excruciating to watch him slip back into consciousness after being caught up in a dream, but a nightmare unfolds before you, twisting your stomach into knots so intricate they threaten to snap. You can’t breathe, and when you gather enough courage to finally take a step forward, he takes a step back. He’s never looked at you with so much hostility before, and you open your mouth to explain, to shower him with honesty and desperate pleas to make him understand that this wasn’t meant to happen like this, but no sound comes out. Not even a sigh. Not even a huff. Not even a pathetic, broken whimper. Nothing.

Unfortunately, Dick’s left to draw his own conclusions- to fill in the gaps in which your silence fails to atone for your crimes- and he paints a picture so drastically different from the truth, relying on his interpretation to establish a story so vivid he believes it to be real- even if it’s a figment of his own imagination, a product of his own devastation. Dispelled doubts come rushing back, and he allows them to influence the narrative- since you still can’t seem to find your voice- and everything left unsaid becomes louder in the silence. He mistakes your tears for guilt, instead of recognizing the regret and shame that mingle with saltwater. As gutted as he is, he looks to you for an explanation, but you can’t bring yourself to justify what you’ve done- even if it wasn’t your intention. Distracting him was part of the plan. Keeping him occupied was your mission, but confessing your true feelings and allowing yourself to fall back in love with him- not just the idea of what it would be like to love him- wasn’t part of your job description.

The second your paths crossed again, you were done for. It was never about seeking vengeance or getting even for the hurt that he caused you, because the minute that Dick waltzed back into your life, you knew you were doomed- because he makes you reckless. He makes you sloppy and distracted and forgiving. He makes you weak- and you let him. Every single time. Always and forever. Infinitely.

When he looks at you, he looks past you and towards your belongings on the counter. No. You shake your head, vehemently encouraging him to look away. If his eyes would just meet yours, if only for a second, you know you could save this. If not for the sake of putting broken pieces back together you could at least salvage fragments amongst the wreckage, but he doesn’t spare you a glance. No, no, no. His attention is solely on the expensive stone behind you, and when you reach out for him, your fingertips shaking as you grasp his bicep with all of the strength you can muster, he shakes you off of him.

Everything splinters.

When he reaches for your earring, you know that this is the end. It’s all over. A new moment will erase everything you thought you knew about pain, heartbreak, suffering, and betrayal. This moment, as it unfolds before you, will plague you until you meet your demise, because the second that he dares to bring the jewel up to his own ear, the exact moment that he hears Selina’s command through the gravely static of the earpiece you discarded earlier in the evening, you know that any hope for a future together vanishes- ripped straight from your fingers before you even had the chance to hold onto it and guard it with your life.

Even with his back towards you, you can see his face harden in the reflection of the mirror. Through the thin material of his crumbled dress shirt his shoulders tense and when he finally looks up to meet your stare through the glass, all traces of red, green, and yellow are gone. A piece of him- the piece of him that you’re most familiar with- dies, sprawled out and oozing across the marble. It’s too late to try to revive him. All that’s left in the wake of his slaughter is blue and black.

Blue and black, forevermore.

There’s nothing left for either of you here. Not anymore. Hope begins to decay, and the hollow hole in your chest that only he could ever fill begins to die from rot. Nothing will ever be the same. Not after this. Perhaps the final thought passed back and forth between a glare is the last thing you’ll ever share- beyond moments of destruction and beautiful chaos- but it’s clear to you both, that not all ghosts are meant to be resurrected.

Some ghosts should just stay ghosts.

a/n: hey, I’m raen and I’m down bad for this man lol…anyway, I’ve been working on this story for months. I literally poured bits and pieces of my soul into this (so if you wouldn’t mind interacting or providing feedback I’d be forever grateful) but I just wanted to write a tale of doomed lovers who care about each other in such a way that it leads to their downfall. I wanted this to hurt, and I hope it did- in the best way possible! I’m not above begging, so please, please, please feel free to send some feedback- as this is my first time writing for Dick and I would love to hear what people think! that being said, requests are also open! check out my request guidelines before submitting! and if you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading!

everyone who requested to be tagged: @js-favnanadoongi @kalulakunundrum @1lellykins @octodog17 @novelizt @nesta-houseofwindfantasy @corgiqween576 @whiteglovemanor @godcreatoreli @lassmich1 @consternat1on @deffnotnia @haloney @iananiko @noodlesketchbook @thescarletcryptid @obsessedwthdilfs @vanice-e @taintedmaroon @holybatflapexpert @whatismypurpos @heylookwhoitis @corpseflower6 @heavenlym0chi @lokiwannacry @boywondergrayson @tetzoro @oiztsy @naf3211

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atlasthegreatest · 1 month ago

Text

The Flight of the Owl / Supergirl x Grayson! Female Reader

Which, Y/n Grayson — Dick Grayson’s twin sister and a former Talon, returns to Gotham after escaping her dark past. Struggling to fit in with the Batfamily, she feels isolated, despite her brother’s support. But then she met her— the light that came to shine in her life.

Word count: 3644

A/n: This was requested by an anon. Enjoy it!

The city of Gotham never truly slept. Its towering buildings and endless alleys buzzed with the lives of those who lived in the shadows. Among them, a figure moved silently across the rooftops, her body cloaked in black and silver. Her mask, designed with sharp owl features, concealed her identity as she leaped from one ledge to another, effortlessly blending with the night.

Owlgirl.

Once, Y/n had been an instrument of the Court of Owls—a Talon. They had taken her as a child, along with her twin brother, Dick. But where Dick had escaped, raised by Bruce Wayne as Gotham’s first Robin, Y/n had been caught and twisted into a weapon of the Court. They’d trained her, honed her skills, and erased the memory of her former life.

But despite their efforts, her memories, her true self, had clawed its way back.

And now she was free.

Or at least, free from the Court.

The Batcave was colder than she remembered. The low hum of the Batcomputer filled the space as Y/n stood awkwardly by the entrance, shifting her weight from foot to foot. Dick—her brother—stood a few feet away, his expression torn between relief and uncertainty.

She’d reunited with him just days ago, showing up at his apartment in Blüdhaven, disheveled and exhausted after escaping the Court. Y/n hadn’t known what to expect, but she hadn’t expected him to hug her so tightly that night.

Now, standing in the Batcave, surrounded by the rest of the Batfamily—Bruce, Tim, Damian, and even Barbara, who watched her with wary eyes— Y/n felt the familiar claws of isolation scratching at her insides.

“I still can’t believe it,” Dick said, his voice thick with emotion as he approached her. “I looked for you for so long. I thought… I thought you were gone.”

Y/n smiled faintly beneath her mask. “I thought I was too.”

The others were silent. Bruce’s calculating eyes observed her with an intensity that made her stomach churn. Tim’s posture was tense, his body language hesitant. Damian, always a bit more blunt, spoke first.

“So, we’re just supposed to trust her now?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest. “She’s one of them.”

Y/n stiffened. She wanted to snap back, to tell him that she wasn’t one of them anymore, but the truth was that part of her still was. She’d been a Talon for most of her life. It wasn’t easy to erase that.

“I’m not asking for trust,” she muttered, averting her gaze. “I’m just… trying to help.”

“Give her time,” Dick cut in, a protective edge in his tone. “She’s not the enemy.”

Y/n bit her lip, feeling the weight of their stares. It was clear that she was an outsider here, despite being blood. She was Dick’s sister, but she wasn’t one of them. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

———————

Days turned into weeks, and though she tried to adjust, Y/n struggled to fit in with the Batfamily. Their teamwork was flawless, their banter light but filled with trust and camaraderie. She found herself holding back during missions, afraid to act on the violent instincts the Court had ingrained in her. It left her feeling like she was dragging them down.

It wasn’t just the missions, though. In the quiet moments, when they weren’t fighting crime, Y/n felt awkward and out of place. Conversations would happen around her, but she rarely knew how to join in. She wasn’t used to this—family. She wasn’t used to normal.

She’d catch glimpses of Dick laughing with Tim or sparring with Damian, and it would twist something deep inside her. She had no memories of growing up with him, of the bond they should have shared. And it made her feel like she didn’t belong in his world.

One evening, after a particularly tough mission, Y/n slipped away to one of Gotham’s quieter rooftops, needing space to breathe. She sat on the edge, staring out at the city’s skyline, feeling the cold wind bite at her skin.

She was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t notice the figure landing beside her until a soft voice spoke.

“You know, Gotham isn’t all bad.”

Y/n glanced up, her eyes widening slightly. Supergirl hovered just above the rooftop, her blonde hair fluttering in the wind, a small smile playing on her lips.

“What are you doing here?” Y/n asked, surprised.

“I heard you’ve been working with the Batfamily,” Supergirl replied, landing gracefully beside her. “Thought I’d see how you were doing.”

Y/n blinked, unsure why Supergirl of all people would care. “I’m… fine,” she said, though her tone betrayed her uncertainty.

Supergirl raised an eyebrow. “You don’t sound fine.”

For a moment, there was silence. Y/n had never been good at opening up. But there was something about Supergirl’s presence—something warm, understanding. Maybe it was the fact that she, too, had lived through loss and displacement. Maybe it was the way she wasn’t staring at Y/n with suspicion or pity, but rather with quiet empathy.

“It’s hard,” Y/n admitted after a moment. “Being around them. They’re all… close. I don’t know how to be that.”

Supergirl nodded, sitting down beside her. “It’s not easy fitting into a family like theirs. Trust takes time. But you’ll get there.”

“Will I?” Y/n scoffed. “I’ve been trained to be something… something they’re not. Something dangerous.”

“Hey,” Supergirl said gently, turning to face her. “You’re not that anymore. You’re here because you chose to be, right?”

Y/n looked down at her hands, flexing her fingers. “I guess.”

“You’re not alone, you know,” Supergirl continued. “I get it. Trying to find your place, being different from everyone around you. But you don’t have to figure it out alone.”

For the first time in what felt like ages, Y/n felt a sense of relief. Supergirl wasn’t judging her or treating her like an outsider. She just understood.

They spent the rest of the night talking—about everything and nothing. And for the first time since joining the Batfamily, Y/n didn’t feel so out of place.

From that night on, Y/n and Supergirl began spending more time together. They trained together, patrolled together, and even met up in civilian life. Supergirl—or Kara, as she introduced herself—was a light in Y/n’s dark world. Kara never pushed her, never made her feel like she had to be anything but herself.

It was Kara who made her laugh when the weight of her past grew too heavy. It was Kara who stood by her when the others were wary. And before long, that friendship deepened into something more.

One night, after a long patrol, they found themselves back on the same rooftop where they’d first really talked. As they sat side by side, Y/n glanced at Kara, her heart pounding in her chest.

“You know,” Y/n said softly, her voice almost lost in the wind. “You’re the only person who makes me feel like I’m not broken.”

Kara smiled, her eyes softening as she turned to face her. “You’re not broken,” she whispered. “You’re stronger than anyone I know.”

The distance between them closed, and before Y/n knew it, Kara’s lips were on hers—gentle, warm, and full of all the things Y/n had been too scared to admit she felt.

When they pulled away, Kara’s smile was even brighter. “We’ll figure this out together,” she said, her voice full of certainty.

And for the first time in a long time, Y/n believed it.

——————

Y/n hadn’t realized just how much she needed someone like Kara in her life until that kiss. It was as if the weight of everything she’d been carrying for years—the isolation, the guilt, the fear of not belonging—had lightened just a little. There was still darkness inside her, sure, but now there was light, too. And that light had blonde hair and piercing blue eyes that saw right through her walls.

But even as Kara filled the void in her heart, the struggles with the Batfamily persisted. It was hard for Y/n to fully break free from the shadow of her past as a Talon. Every mission seemed like a test of trust, and no matter how much time passed, she felt the subtle suspicion in their eyes. Even Dick, who tried his best to make her feel welcome, had moments where she could see him falter as if he wasn’t sure if she’d truly left the Court behind.

A few nights after her first kiss with Kara, Y/n found herself alone in the Batcave again. The dim lights flickered as the hum of the Batcomputer filled the silence. She was tinkering with her suit, adjusting the talon-like gauntlets that had once been the signature of her deadly past. But no matter how much she modified the suit, she couldn’t shake the feeling that it was still a reminder of who she used to be.

“Can’t sleep?” Dick’s voice startled her from across the cave.

Y/n looked up to see her brother approaching, dressed in his Nightwing suit, his mask pulled back, revealing the familiar face she still hadn’t completely reconciled as family. He gave her a small smile, but there was concern in his eyes.

“Just… thinking,” she muttered, turning her attention back to her gauntlets.

He sat down beside her on the bench, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’ve been quiet lately.”

Y/n shrugged, not sure how to explain the whirlwind of thoughts swirling in her mind. It wasn’t just the struggle with the Batfamily anymore—it was her complicated feelings about her past, her present, and now… her future with Kara.

“I know it’s been rough,” Dick continued, his tone softer now. “But you don’t have to do this alone. We’re all here for you.”

“Are you?” The words slipped out before Y/n could stop them, bitterness lacing her voice.

Dick frowned. “Of course we are. I’m your brother.”

“Yeah, but…” She sighed, struggling to find the right words. “You guys don’t trust me. I see it in your eyes. I can feel it on missions. And maybe you’re right not to. I’m not like you, Dick. I was a Talon. I did things that… that you’ll never understand.”

“You don’t have to be like us,” Dick said, his voice gentle. “You don’t have to be perfect. None of us are. Look at Bruce, look at me, Tim, Damian—every one of us has our baggage. You’re not alone in that.”

“But it’s not the same,” Y/n said, her voice cracking. “I was a weapon. I killed for them. I can’t just… I can’t just act like none of that happened.”

Dick’s expression softened further, but before he could respond, a voice interrupted from the shadows.

“You shouldn’t have to,” Bruce said, stepping into the light. His presence was always imposing, and tonight was no different. “No one’s asking you to forget.”

Y/n swallowed hard, meeting Bruce’s intense gaze. His eyes were hard to read, but there was something in them that almost resembled understanding.

“We all carry our pasts with us,” Bruce continued, his voice low but steady. “But what matters is what you choose to do now. You’ve chosen to fight against the people who once controlled you. That takes strength. More strength than most people have.”

For a moment, Y/n was stunned. Bruce Wayne wasn’t one for emotional speeches, but his words hit harder than she expected.

“I just…” she hesitated. “I don’t want to let you down.”

“You won’t,” Bruce said simply.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough for now.

———————

Over the next few weeks, Y/n found herself gravitating more toward Kara. The Batfamily was still…her family, but Kara was the one person who made her feel truly seen. Kara didn’t just understand her struggles; she shared her own stories of loss and displacement, of being an alien in a world that wasn’t hers. They’d go out for lunch as civilians—Y/n still struggling with what to wear, while Kara easily blended in with her carefree personality—and spend the evenings patrolling together as heroes.

Their relationship deepened with every passing day, but it was more than just romance. With Kara, Y/n felt safe in a way she hadn’t since her childhood. Kara didn’t ask her to change or to hide the darker parts of herself; she simply accepted them.

It wasn’t long before Kara invited Y/n to Metropolis, where they could leave the shadows of Gotham behind for a while. Y/n had never been to Metropolis, and when she arrived, the brightness of the city was almost overwhelming. It was so different from the gloomy, crime-ridden streets of Gotham.

Kara showed her around the city, taking her to all her favorite spots, and introducing her to people she trusted. They went to the top of the Daily Planet, the wind whipping through their hair as they looked out over the bustling city.

“This is more your speed, huh?” Kara teased, nudging her playfully.

Y/n couldn’t help but smile. “It’s different.”

“Different isn’t bad,” Kara said, her voice soft as she turned to face her. “You don’t always have to be in the dark. You deserve the light too.”

Y/n’s heart swelled at the words. She’d spent so long in the shadows—first as a Talon, then struggling to fit into the Batfamily. But with Kara, she felt like maybe there was a place for her in the light after all.

Back in Gotham, the Batfamily began to notice the shift in Y/n. Though she still struggled with her past, there was a new calmness in her, a newfound confidence. She was still learning, still trying to find her place, but she wasn’t fighting alone anymore.

One night, after a particularly successful mission, Tim approached her as they returned to the Batcave. His demeanor was less tense than usual.

“You’ve been… different lately,” he commented, not unkindly.

Y/n raised an eyebrow, unsure of what he meant. “Different how?”

“In a good way,” he clarified. “Less guarded. More… yourself, I guess.”

Y/n was about to brush it off, but something about his tone made her pause. She glanced at Dick, who gave her an encouraging nod, and then at Bruce, who, while silent, seemed to approve.

“Maybe,” she said, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I guess I’m learning that it’s okay to be both. The Talon… and now… Owlgirl.”

Tim gave her a small grin. “Well, whatever it is, it’s working.”

As they all began to settle down, Y/n felt her phone buzz in her pocket. A quick glance showed a message from Kara.

Kara: Metropolis tomorrow? I miss you already.

Y/n’s smile grew wider, her heart lifting. Maybe things weren’t perfect yet. Maybe the shadows of her past would never completely disappear. But with Kara by her side and the Batfamily starting to trust her, she finally felt like she was finding her place.

And for the first time in a long time, Y/n felt like she could face the future—not as a weapon of the Court, but as herself.

Bonus Chapter:

It had been a while since Y/n had felt any semblance of peace, but today was different. Today, there was no looming mission, no lurking shadows, and no heavy silence from the Batcave. Today, she was just… herself.

She and Kara had left Gotham early in the morning, flying to Metropolis for a much-needed break from the chaos. It was a bright, sunny day—one of those rare days when the world seemed so much simpler, where the line between hero and civilian blurred into nothingness. And that was exactly what Y/n needed.

They’d been spending more and more time together, sneaking away from the watchful eyes of Gotham’s gloom to Kara’s bright, inviting world. Kara had suggested a day at Centennial Park, a place Y/n had never visited. At first, the idea of spending an entire day relaxing in the sun felt foreign to her—her life had been so defined by missions, patrols, and the constant weight of her past. But Kara was persuasive.

“You’ll love it,” Kara had said, her smile as bright as the city itself. “Just trust me.”

And as usual, Kara had been right.

The two sat on a soft blanket in the middle of the park, surrounded by families, couples, and joggers enjoying the late afternoon sunshine. Y/n, out of her costume and wearing simple jeans and a t-shirt, felt almost… normal. The contrast between the cold, brooding streets of Gotham and the warm, open fields of Metropolis was stark, but she was starting to appreciate the light more and more.

Kara sat beside her, her legs stretched out as she lazily skimmed through a book she’d brought. Despite her superhuman abilities, Kara had a natural ease to her. No urgency, no rush. It was something Y/n admired.

“You’re really into that book, huh?” Y/n teased, nudging Kara with her elbow.

Kara glanced up from the book, her blue eyes sparkling. “Oh, yeah. Thrilling stuff. It’s a history book on Kryptonian culture. You wouldn’t believe the fashion sense back then.”

Y/n smirked, leaning back on her hands, her eyes half-closed as she soaked in the warmth of the sun. “Kryptonian fashion, huh? That sounds riveting.”

“It’s not all capes and tights, I promise,” Kara laughed, placing the book down. She turned to look at Y/n, a smile playing on her lips. “You look relaxed.”

Y/n opened her eyes, glancing at her. “Do I?”

“Yeah,” Kara said softly. “It’s good to see.”

For a moment, they simply sat there, the noise of the park fading into the background. Y/n let herself breathe in the calm, feeling the weight she so often carried lift, even if just for a little while. There was something about being with Kara that made her forget the constant need to be vigilant, to be on guard.

In Kara’s presence, she didn’t have to be Owlgirl. She didn’t have to be a former Talon. She could just be Y/n.

“Thank you,” Y/n said after a moment, her voice quieter than usual.

Kara’s brow furrowed in confusion. “For what?”

“For… all of this,” Y/n gestured to the park, the sun, and the life around them. “For being here. For letting me… I don’t know. Just be myself.”

Kara reached out and took Y/n’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “You don’t have to thank me for that. I like you. Every part of you. Even the parts you think are too dark.”

Y/n’s chest tightened at Kara’s words. It was one thing to hear it from her brother, or even Bruce. But coming from Kara, it felt different. Like it was something more than acceptance—something deeper.

“You’re the only person who makes me feel like I don’t have to keep running,” Y/n admitted, her voice almost a whisper. “Like I can stop hiding.”

Kara squeezed her hand gently. “Then stop running. You don’t have to hide with me. Ever.”

They shared a quiet smile before Kara stood up, tugging on Y/n’s hand playfully. “Come on.”

Y/n arched an eyebrow. “Where are we going?”

“Just trust me,” Kara repeated, her grin wide as she pulled Y/n to her feet. “I’ve got an idea.”

With a soft laugh, Y/n followed Kara through the park until they reached a small, hidden corner by the lake, where only a few people wandered about. Kara let go of her hand for a moment and took a few steps forward, spinning around in the sun.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Kara asked, her arms outstretched as she soaked in the warmth of the day.

Y/n couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah. It is.”

But she wasn’t looking at the view. She was looking at Kara.

Later that evening, after the sun had begun to dip below the horizon and the park had started to clear out, they sat by the lake’s edge, the water calm and still. The world felt softer here like there was nothing to worry about, no responsibilities, no danger.

“I could get used to this,” Y/n murmured, leaning her head on Kara’s shoulder. “I never thought I’d say that.”

Kara rested her head against hers, her voice soft. “That’s because you’ve spent too much time in the dark.”

“Maybe,” Y/n said. “But it feels… good. Not fighting. Not worrying.”

Kara chuckled. “Well, don’t get too comfortable. We both know Gotham won’t stay quiet for long.”

Y/n sighed. “Yeah. I know.”

“But you’ll always have this,” Kara added. “Whenever you need it, you can come here. I’ll be here.”

There was a long pause, and for the first time in a long while, Y/n felt something she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in years: hope.

——————-

As the night fell, they sat in comfortable silence, listening to the sounds of the water and the distant murmur of the city. Kara’s hand found hers again, and at that moment, Y/n knew she wasn’t alone. She didn’t have to face her past or her future by herself.

Maybe she hadn’t completely figured out how to fit into the Batfamily. Maybe she never fully would. But she had Kara, and that was more than enough.

“You know,” Kara said after a while, her tone light but teasing, “if you ever get tired of Gotham’s gloom, I could use a partner in Metropolis.”

Y/n chuckled. “Is that a formal invitation?”

Kara grinned. “It’s whatever you want it to be.”

Y/n smiled to herself, squeezing Kara’s hand gently. “I’ll think about it.”

As they sat together, the city lights reflecting on the calm surface of the lake, Y/n knew that, no matter what happened, she finally had something she hadn’t felt in a long time: a future. And with Kara by her side, that future didn’t seem so uncertain anymore.

In the light of Metropolis, Y/n allowed herself to hope, to love, and to believe that maybe—just maybe—she could be more than the shadows that once consumed her.

#kara danvers #supergirl #comics #batman #dick grayson #damian wayne #tim drake #jason todd #female reader #supergirl x reader #Grayson!female reader #court of owls #gxg

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