I Normally Post My Writing Here, Though I Thought Some Of You Guys Might (hopefully) Like To See My Artwork

Ephemeral ✢ Elijah Mikaelson

Synopsis: Elijah Mikaelson reflects on how knowing Y/N L/N has transformed his centuries-old existence. As he battles his deep feelings for her, he grapples with the stark reality of their pivotal difference: he is an immortal vampire, and she is a fragile human.

Elijah Mikaelson x Reader, female pronouns. Warnings: Angst. Words: 1,549k Blog Masterlist

Elijah Mikaelson stood before the grand windows of his family’s ornate home, the cool evening air shifting past the open panels to brush against his skin as he gazed out into a darkening sky. He recalled the countless nights he must have done exactly this, looked out at the same unchanging ether; and he wondered how it could look so different now that he knew her. 

As the day had faded, Elijah watched the stars emerge. Each one, ancient and arcane, acted as a reminder of the centuries he had lived, the countless battles he had fought; and the endless nights spent as alone as he felt in this moment. 

Never in his millennia of existence had his thoughts been so entirely consumed by one person, Elijah was no stranger to affection, but he never would have thought it possible to long for someone so strenuously. Y/N L/N had unknowingly captured his heart, and it seemed to him that there was nothing he could do to emancipate it.

She was wholly unaware of the effect she had on him; he was confident of this. Their friendship was simple, filled with laughter and shared moments that left her satisfied while making his heart ache with bittersweet longing. 

How could he justify what he felt? 

She was human, beautiful and kind, fragile and fleeting. Elijah was a creature of the night, a thousand years old and burdened with the malice of his past; he was a monster. He had observed as the times shifted around him, and never once, through the ages he bore witness to, had he felt contempt at his affliction. Where once relished in his power and eternity, he now drowned in it.

Each day, as she grew closer to her inevitable end, he felt the smothering weight of his affections grow heavier. He could not bear to witness her aging while he remained unchanged and eternal. Their livelihoods contrasted so glaringly that it left a bad taste in his mouth; he could never have her.

Elijah could not quell a venomous voice calling for him to turn her. As much as the allure of her immortality beckoned, he felt the burden of this reality pressing down upon him. He could not shake the conviction that to grant her such a gift would be a selfish act; one that robbed her of the life she deserved. He envisioned her vibrant humanity, the warmth of her character and the fleeting moments that made her so undeniably precious. To turn her into something she was not, to take away her chance to live fully, to love and to age as she was meant to—could he truly bear that?

Elijah sighed, raking a hand through his dark hair as he took the final sip of amber liquid from his crystal tumbler. As much as it pained him, he kept his distance, aiming to shield her from the dangers that came in correlation with his world. He was a friend to her, but that is where it ended. He feared that if he were to reveal his affections, she might recoil, horrified at the thought of his love. But most of all, he feared his love would bring about her end; no one ever lasted long in Mystic Falls, and any connection to him would make her a target.

Elijah thought of when he first met her half a year earlier, a friend of people often his adversaries in this uncanny town. She had not yet known about the covert world she lived in, and he had watched as she took it in her stride amidst the disarray of Mystic Falls.

From the moment he had laid eyes on her at a gathering hosted by the Salvatores, he was struck by her effortless charm, at the time, blissfully unaware of the lurking dangers that danced at the edges of her reality.

As the weeks went, and the unsavoury pastimes of her friends became known to her, he noticed how she remained steadfast in her support, never flinching when they faced danger; an innate strength that both captivated and terrified him. Her involvement placed her in danger and he could barely stomach it, but he knew that any attempts at her preservation would break down his faux illusion of causal amiability. 

What had surprised him was her sufferance towards his family, although they had her given plenty of ground for aversion, you would not have known it. Elijah found himself drawn to her, her honour and kindliness not only painting her as a person of trust and potential ally — but as someone who illuminated his perpetual existence. 

He turned from the large florid windows and drowned in his dejection. Elijah closed his eyes and pictured a life with her, relishing the shimmering mirage of the woman he believed he should never have.

Y/N sat cross-legged on her bed, flooded under the dim moonlight that illuminated her bedroom from her window. A familiar warmth was blooming in her chest in the wake of her dream. She had dreamt about him again, and although she was met with nothing but hollow images when trying to recall it, Y/N knew it to be true; she could feel it. Elijah was a figure of quiet strength, his kindness genuine but conditional, his presence commanding yet tender. She understood fully that beneath his charming facade lay a man capable of heinous things, artfully concealed behind layers of warmth and grace; it was this complex duality that both captivated and unsettled her — but people would never see this side of him had they not given him reason. 

Y/N pulled her knees closer to her chest and rested her chin on them, staring out the window into the dark. It was late—too late for most people, but sleep rarely came easy these days. Not when her mind kept spiralling. Beneath the surface of her admiration lay a deep-rooted ache—a longing she feared would remain forever unreciprocated.

There were moments, fleeting but sharp, where she would catch the slightest glint in his eyes—an intensity and tentativeness that contradicted the calm and collected way in which he perpetually carried himself. She could not place its catalyst — never quite conclude the reason for his apparent indifference. 

She watched him with others; he was always courteous and kind, and though he extended the same civility to her, it felt hesitant — as though he was keeping his distance. Not out of aloofness, no, that did not seem right to her. He was always kind, always careful with his words. He never pushed too close, never showed too much emotion, and sometimes it made her wonder whether all the little exchanges—their shared glances, the gentle touches on her shoulder—were nothing more than an act. A way of being nice out of obligation, out of courtesy. A politeness reserved for the human in the room.

Y/N sighed and her gaze dropped to her hands, maybe she had been putting too much weight into the moments when he had leaned in just a little too close, or the times he had lingered with her in conversation — the moments that had fueled her affections. After all, he is a man who had lived through centuries… what could a fleeting human like her truly mean to him?

She loved him; a love she had no right to feel and no place to nurture. Every time he looked at her, even from across the room, her pulse quickened and her breath hitched. She loved him in the way a person loves what they cannot have— she felt it in the back of her mind, like a dream that fades from memory in the first moments of the day, real but unattainable — lingering in the crevices of the mind. It was the gentleness of his touch, the way he always seemed to know exactly when she needed comfort and the way his presence made the world feel lighter. It was the quiet intensity of him, the way he carried the weight of centuries and still found space to be kind to her. 

And despite everything—the danger, the distance, the uncertainty—she could not stop loving him. It was as if her heart had chosen him without rhyme and reason — irrevocably, nothing could alter it now. Even if he never knew, even if he never returned the feeling, she would love him.

In their quiet moments, she often imagined what it would be like to confess her feelings. Would his rejection give off the same biting sting as his indifference? Would he retreat into a demeanour even more distant? Would he disappear altogether, her confession too much to entertain? 

Y/N bit her lip, contemplating the stark reality of their worlds. She was human, with all the fragility that came along with it. While he was a vampire, ancient, and burdened by its accompanying history and murk.

Their disparity was overwhelming, and Y/N felt as though she were drowning in it. She closed her eyes and sunk back into her pillows; picturing a life with him and savouring the fallacious warmth it designed. She wallowed in her desolation and the reality she believed she could never have.

I'm wondering if I should do a second part for this, let me know what you think. Also, this has been posted off of a relatively long hiatus, I recently started a university course which, unsurprisingly, has chewed up all of my spare time.

Anyone waiting on the next part of my 'revenant' series, I'm sorry for the long wait, I promise I'll dive right back into it when my holidays roll around soon enough. But with a spare week between countless assignments, I felt like writing something new, and this was the result.

Every comment and piece of advice is welcomed and appreciated <3

ｒｅｖｅｎａｎｔ －ｆｏｕｒ

PART FOUR OF 'REVENANT' SERIES Damon Salvatore x Winchester!Sister!Hunter!Reader  The Vampire Diaries x Supernatural Mini-Series Synopsis: Y/N Winchester was tired of living in her brothers' shadows; she needed to do something for herself for a change. When she heads to Mystic Falls, a town she was always warned to stay away from, she finds she may have taken on more than she can handle. Will she be able to eradicate the supernatural from the uncanny town? Or will she find herself tangled amongst it? WARNINGS: Descriptions of a dead body. Mentions of Murder. Words: 2,724k Blog Masterlist / Series Masterlist <Previous Part | Next Part >

The faint light of a street lamp shone through the limpid drapes of the modest motel Y/N Winchester had called home for nearly four months. Upon opening her eyes, a feeling of apprehension settled in her stomach; today was the day of The Founder’s Ball, and the idea of Damon being her date both thrilled her and left her stricken. She had still not shaken the possibility of Damon being a vampire, albeit trying desperately not to entertain the thought.

She had hoped to sleep in this morning, though it seemed her body had other plans. Sighing, she turned over and glanced at the cheap alarm clock on her bedside, squinting at its bright red glow.

It was 3:46 a.m. 

She wanted nothing more than to roll over and go back to sleep, but she knew she had better things to do with her time. Icy air pricked her skin as she heaved the heavy canvas quilt off her body. As her hands abraded over her bare arms, trying to create some form of heat, Y/N shuffled over to the thermostat, involuntarily shivering when the temperature of the room, glowing blue on the small screen, met her eyes. She bumped it up five degrees, cursing the extra cost it would induce on her already unaffordable room tab. 

To successfully lead a life of hunting, financial fraudulence and deceit were a necessity. Usually, this would not have been an issue; Y/N possessed many fake cards with false names. However, quite suspiciously, she recently discovered that each of these cards, one by one, had become unusable and ceased to work. Y/N concluded, quite disgruntled, that this would have been her brothers' work. She supposed they were trying to draw her out of hiding. 

Luckily, obtaining false money was not a foreign practice for her; her brothers did not know this. The small sum she had managed to acquire would have to do for now. 

Y/N drew back the sheer drapes enough for her eyes to peer through, beside her building shone an old flickering neon sign, proclaiming the service station adjacent to her was open. Satisfied, the corner of her mouth turned up; she had wanted a coffee very much and there was no time like the present. While shrugging on her hoodie, which she had permanently borrowed from Dean, Y/N noted dejectedly that its smell of gunpowder and motor oil left her feeling homesick. Maybe she missed her brothers more than she let on. But she knew now was not the time to wallow in sadness. 

She collected her keys and walked out of the door, locking it behind her. 

The thunderstorms Mystic Falls had experienced in the previous three days had been bordering apocalyptic; Y/N, much to her vexation, had spent the entirety of the storm boarded up in her quaint motel room, wishing uselessly that she had not been rained in.

The young hunter had found herself restless. A 19-year-old girl named Amelia had gone missing in the area. Although the circumstances surrounding her disappearance were labelled as suspicious by authorities, apparently, it had not yet been long enough to presume her dead. Y/N wished her assumptions were not always so grim, but her uncanny pastime forced her to be pragmatic.

Realistically, going missing in this town meant she was most likely dead or hidden away as a blood-thirsty monster. 

Y/N could not decide what was a better fate for the poor girl. 

The Winchester thought that she at least deserved to have someone look for her, to make sure she was not still out there, even if what she expected to find was a harsh caricature of who Amelia once was. And the town authorities did not seem to think their services were necessary. 

Y/N knew what she was attempting to do was nearly impossible. Alone, she could not search the area needed to uncover a hidden corpse, and it was not exactly a chore where she could enlist the help of her friends. Nonetheless, she found herself trekking through the tenacious sludge the rain had left in its wake; her socks damp and toes stinging from the cold. She understood that she did not have all the time in the world; the impending doom the evening’s ball left looming over her shoulders had her shivering deeper than the frosty morning ether. However, she persisted anyway. 

Two and a half hours had passed when Y/N spied something out of the ordinary, and she could not believe her luck. 

The young girl cringed slightly; she knew thinking of it as "luck" was a bit distasteful. 

A rectangular concave of sodden earth could be seen under a scattering of leaves. Its shallow trenches with water congregating inside told Y/N the sunken ground had been caused by the rain, though its distinct shape still clashed with the surrounding natural terrain. A feeling of uneasiness settled in her stomach; she was almost sure of what she would find underneath. The burial probably would have been well concealed had it not been for the unbridled downpour of water.

Another half hour had passed before Y/N had completely uncovered the body from its prison of earth. Her nose wrinkled; the pungent smell of decay, now swarming the air. The young hunter had experienced no shortage of death in her lifetime, but the sight of the girl before her, lying bloated and green had Y/N staring through glassy eyes. This girl was younger than her. Her parents, no doubt, would be waiting, in anguish, for her to return home. Desperately anticipating a reunion that will never occur. Y/N quickly swallowed against a lump in her throat. Trying not to let her tears spill. 

The most wicked part of this, Y/N thought, is that they will never get any closure. Mystic Falls’ authorities, so closely entwined with the vampire-aware council, already knew she was a lost cause. That is why they were not looking for her.

She reached out with a shaking gloved hand and tried to turn her chin gently to the side, the rigour mortis had not yet subsided, making it more difficult. However, she found what she wanted. Two little puncture marks barely visible on the slimey distended skin confirmed what she already knew.

This girl was murdered by a vampire right under her nose. How were they eluding her so effortlessly?

Y/N decided she would not rebury her, but rather send a message to the negligent authorities. She was confident that they were completely infiltrated by the town council and knew her message would reach the right ears. 

She opened her backpack and got the supplies for a note; she knew she was acting both rashly and carelessly, but something needed to be done. 

With her still-gloved hands she tore a page she knew she had never touched from her notebook and began to scribble  

Dear whoever reaches her first,

I’ve decided to take responsibility for these “animal killings” myself. Given no one seems as if they are capable or care enough to do the right thing.

Y/N weighed her note down with a nearby stone a couple metres right of the burial, she then grabbed her golden lighter from her pocket and some accelerant she had in her backpack. The dampness of the area made for a difficult task, but eventually, the macabre burial was engulfed in roaring flames. Y/N tossed her shovel on top as well as her notebook and pen, knowing it would not do for any of this to be found and watched satisfied as the items crumbled to near nothing. 

After her belongings and the girl were burnt beyond recognition, she gathered some green leaves and piled them onto the blaze. She did not have much time to leave given any moment the leaves would begin to smoulder and billow up into the sky. She did not want to be anywhere near the area when the suspicious smoke was investigated. With tears still thick in her eyes she turned and hurried away.

The short drive to Caroline’s house in the early afternoon had been nerve-racking, never before had she experienced an event of this stature, and to say she was nervous would be a gross understatement. Caroline had been safekeeping her gown, neither girl thought the ornate garment should have spent its time hanging in the dingy motel Y/N currently called home. Caroline also insisted on doing the young Winchester’s makeup, declaring that Y/N’s modest gathering of supplies simply would not do.

The Winchester had spent a good hour scrubbing her body vigorously from head to toe. She had been covered in a thick layer of grime from her early morning escapade, and she had to make sure she was pristine and perfect for Caroline’s audience. 

She stalked tentatively up the front steps, and with barely enough time to lift her hand to knock, the door had already begun to swing open, a grinning Caroline on the other side, with pearly whites on full display. Her smile almost sent a shiver down Y/N’s spine. 

‘You don’t know how much I’ve been looking forward to this.’ Caroline reached out and grabbed her wrist, pulling Y/N along with more force than she thought her capable of. Finally, they halted in front of a mirror and Caroline had Y/N by the shoulders impelling her into a vanity chair. 

‘So… What's the plan?’ Caroline spoke causally once Y/N stopped struggling against her and settled into the seat. 

‘Well… Caroline… I don’t know…’ She rolled her eyes at Y/N’s lacklustre response.

‘Why did I see that coming from a mile away? Don’t worry, I’ll handle it.’ Caroline spoke as though she were burdened by this fact, but Y/N knew that she would love the opportunity to use her as a real-life doll. 

Y/N decided very quickly that she did not like people doing her makeup. She sneezed when her face was dabbed with powder. Her eyes prickled and watered uncontrollably when Caroline attempted to coat her lashes in mascara and ended up having to put it on herself only to be scornfully slapped when she got it on her eyelid that Caroline had spent ten minutes blending colourful eyeshadow to perfection.

If she had a dollar for every time Caroline had scolded her, she could afford a luxurious holiday across Europe.

Nevertheless, by the time Caroline had finished with her, not only was her face veiled in a modest yet flattering coat of makeup, but her nails glistened in a deep blood-like crimson; Y/N was fortunate that they already had a decent length to them albeit needing some desperate shaping. Caroline had Y/N sit completely still with her hands placed before her on the table, she was not going to let anything like the mascara fiasco occur again. Meanwhile, Caroline had also taken the time to place Y/N’s hair in an elegant coiffure. She looked simply stunning. 

‘You've done brilliantly’ Y/N’s smile was earnest,

‘Well, I’d take all the credit, but you don’t look half bad on your own’

Y/N ducked her head, feeling betrayed by the burning in her cheeks.

‘Thank you’ She muttered.

As Y/N waited the rest of the time needed for her nails to cure, Caroline put herself together so quickly it was astonishing. And now, she too, looked drop-dead gorgeous. After checking if her polish had set and nodding when satisfied, Caroline spoke up,

‘We haven’t got ages, Damon will be here to get you soon.’ Y/N could tell Caroline was trying to play nice but she could not completely hide her resentment as she voiced his name.

‘I suppose it’s time for our dresses!’ She continued, quickly leaving the room and entering again, holding garment bags above her head.

Y/N would be lying if she said she was not excited, she had not seen her dress since Caroline had whisked it away to her house. Y/N grabbed the dress and fled for the bathroom. 

As she zipped back the bag, careful not to snag any fabric, she was once again taken by its beauty. The crimson skirt of chiffon flowed like a sea of blood, the expensive velvet bodice holding tiny details of flowers barely visible to the human eye. The gown, while contemporary, held hallmarks of an old Victorian frock; Y/N’s memory had not done it justice. A smaller bag next to the dress held her accompanying gloves and jewellery. 

She slid the gown over her body with unparalleled care and spent a good few minutes bringing the zip up to her mid-back, it was a harder task than she had anticipated and she considered asking Caroline for help, though, she could hear a hushed conversation from the room she had just left. Y/N was certain Damon had arrived and she was not about to walk out half-dressed. After fasting her necklace and pulling the gloves to reach just over her elbows, she smoothed out the ornate fabric of the skirt while taking a deep breath. 

She looked at her profile in the mirror.

The woman casting back in the reflection looked like a stranger to her. She seemed as though she came from another world; a better one. Y/N never could have guessed that this lady spent her time hunting monsters, eating cheap, greasy takeout and sleeping in dilapidated motel rooms. Never would she have fathomed this woman had spent the earlier part of her day burning the corpse of a murdered girl. 

The lady before her should belong to a lavish home with every sumptuous possession she could dream up. If only that were the case.

This time Y/N looked at her reflection critically.

This would be the first time she had seen Damon since investigating the town’s archives and she had not completely convinced herself that Damon was not a vampire. On the other hand, she knew there was absolutely nothing that could be done at this moment, so she inhaled deeply in a redundant attempt to quell her nerves and exited the bathroom. 

She could swear her heartbeat would be heard for miles.

In the middle of the living room, he stood in a fitted black suit, with a rose of deep crimson attached at the collar. It matched her dress so perfectly she considered for a moment that it was not a coincidence. When she reached his eyes she spied that his jaw was left agape. Though quickly, as if attempting not to look caught by surprise he twisted his mouth into a lopsided grin. She tried not to appear smug at his obvious admiration, though she was sure her expression betrayed her. Suddenly, she was quite aware she no longer felt nervous.

‘Y/N, you look stunning.’ He spoke fervently, she felt her complacent expression rapidly shift to one of abash and when she said nothing he continued,

‘I brought you these, I thought they would suit your dress’ He held up a bouquet of the same flowers on his suit jacket and looked at Caroline, who had been lurking in the corner, knowingly. They had not been a coincidence.

‘Thank you, Damon, they’re lovely.’ 

Caroline offered to place them in a vase to keep them fresh while they spent the night out, when she left for the kitchen Damon stepped closer. He grabbed both her hands and stared intensely into Y/N’s eyes. She was sure he was trying to dazzle her, and it was working.

‘We can leave now, Caroline’s getting a lift from Elena.’ Y/N only nodded, her mouth agape, just as his had been. He began to draw her towards the front door and she barely had enough time to pull herself together and call over her shoulder,

‘See you soon Caroline. Thank you for your help!’

Damon opened the passenger door of his 1969 Chevy Camaro and gestured for her to take a seat. He ended up needing to help shove the fabric of her puffy skirt into the foot space, Y/N giggling as it continued to billow out from the door. After what seemed like ten minutes, Damon finally settled into the driver’s side and started the engine. 

As they sped down the street leading to the lavish venue of the ball she realised that in Damon’s presence she no longer worried about vampires, hunters and missing persons. She could not have foreseen the effect he had on her considering her unwelcome suspicions of him.

TAGLIST:

@venomsvl

@serenity-fujakante

Detective Comics ✢ Masterlist ✢ The Halloween Jack

All my DC pieces are written with different iterations in mind, but they are not plot-specific, so you can picture your favourite <3 All my works, minus headcanons, use female pronouns for the reader. Besides this, I keep the reader undescribed, the only filler I use being 'Y/N'.

B R U C E W A Y N E

One-Shots:

Asphyxiated ✢ Y/N’s once-adoring relationship with the charming Bruce Wayne begins to unravel as his nightly disappearances and distant demeanour create an insurmountable chasm between them. Unaware of his double life as the infamous Batman, Y/N is left to wonder where she went wrong, seeking solace in an old friend, Jonathan Crane. 

Fleeting Moments ✢ Y/N and Bruce Wayne share quiet moments of love amidst the chaos of Gotham. In rare stolen hours between nightfall and dawn, she clings to the man behind the mask, not aware of the double life he leads. She watches as bruises form across his skin and holds him through his restless nights, grateful that, for once, he is by her side. (Prequel to Asphyxiated)

Hostage ✢ When Bruce Wayne hears of an active hostage situation the reader, his long-term partner, is involved in; he has no option but to take action as the Batman. (This is an older work, I am currently in the process of editing it.)

Enigma  ✢ Bruce Wayne has a secret that he has been keeping from the reader for over two years, fearing his vigilante escapades will only draw her away, completely unaware the reader holds a secret of her own. (This is an older work, I am currently in the process of editing it.)

Drabbles:

Coming soon...

J A S O N T O D D

One-Shots:

Déjà Vu ✢ When the reader's comms grow suddenly silent, Jason Todd's worst fear takes shape — not just the possibility of losing someone, but the cold, inescapable echoes of a past he could never bury. As he fights his way through the grime of Gotham City, one truth becomes undeniable: some nightmares never cease, they resurface.

Disarray ✢ She had become his sanctuary, the one unshaken constant in a life fractured by violence and resurrection — the only person who saw beyond the wreckage and chose to stay regardless. Jason Todd returns to the person he considers his home, only to find it in disarray.

Tether ✢ When a battered Jason stumbles into an alley and finds unexpected refuge in a stranger’s kindness, it sparks a fracture in the walls he’s built to survive. Trust was never a luxury he could afford, but as survival blurs into something more, Jason is forced to confront the most dangerous risk of all, love.

Drabbles:

Coming soon...

D I C K G R A Y S O N

One-Shots:

Late-Night Escapades ✢ Blüdhaven, well past dusk, is irrefutably no place to wander. Though, Y/N ventures out regardless, in need of a few essentials. She knows it is irresponsible, she knows what Dick would say, but the store is just a few blocks away...

Drabbles:

Coming soon...

T I M D R A K E

One-Shots:

Coming soon...

Drabbles:

Coming soon...

D A M I A N W A Y N E

(Damian Wayne will be aged up in all my work. Though, upon request, I would be happy to write something platonic for a young Damian.)

One-Shots:

Coming soon...

Drabbles:

Coming soon...

C L A R K K E N T

One-Shots:

Coming soon...

Drabbles:

Coming soon...

H E A D C A N O N S

Characters: Bruce, Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian and Clark.

What scares them and how you help them cope.

When he realised he loved you.

When he admitted he loved you.

There is just something about DC men...

I really enjoyed reading your DC headcanons! Your characterization in particular is really really great! I'll be looking forward to reading more as you post them :)

Ahh thank you, you're too sweet!! I'm glad you've been enjoying them. Hopefully, I'll have some more out soon! <3

One Little Difference ✢ Draco Malfoy

Synopsis: Draco and Y/N had been friends as children; their families were of high status, and it looked like they would spend the rest of their lives together. But all of this changed when Y/N was sorted into Gryffindor and became estranged. Worst of all, she fraternised with the enemy. 

Draco Malfoy x Reader, female pronouns.

Warnings: There aren't any unless you consider silent pining bad. And angst, of course.

Words:  1,475

Masterlist

Draco knew he could never have her; his family would never allow it. Y/N was a blood traitor with her mud-blood friends and a lack of respect for her pure ancestry.

He yearned to return to the days of chasing each other through the old ornate manor, their laughter echoing through the tall chambers. They had always been close, attached at the hip. But as they grew and their parents bestowed their prejudice and hate upon them, Y/N rebelled whilst Draco conformed. 

This difference acted as the catalyst for the decay of their friendship.

She had never seen the world like they did; she gazed upon muggles and their innovations in wonder and awe. Draco tried pleading with her to understand the importance of her status but to no avail. Y/N was an embarrassment to her family’s name and a stain on their bloodline. It came as no surprise to anyone when she was sorted into Gryffindor. 

‘It’s better this way, Draco.' His father, Lucius, had said over an issue of The Daily Prophet one morning of his summer holidays, 

‘Her family, your mother and I had been discussing an arranged marriage once you were older. It is good Y/N's true colours were revealed before we could have made that mistake.’

Draco’s heart had sunk at his father’s words. Her true colours did not matter to him; he wanted her anyway.

As Draco sat alone in a compartment of the Hogwarts Express, he thought of how his life would be different if that wretched sorting hat had placed Y/N in Slytherin. He would not have to hide his reddening cheeks when she spoke and avert his eyes as she looked his way. He would be free to love and be with her, have children and grow old with her. 

It had been the longest Draco had gone without seeing her. In the last few years, domestic life had not been easy on Y/N; her parents finally kicked her out early in the summer. From what he had heard, she had stayed at the Weasley’s. He bet she had hated imposing herself on them. 

That was the worst part about her being in Gryffindor; in their first year, she very quickly became friends with people Draco considered his enemies: Harry, Ron and Hermione. There were many reasons why Draco did not like these three, though he was too proud to admit that the main reason was that he was bitter; they got to be her friend, to know and love her without pressure from their families. 

When he gazed out the window of the immobile train, he saw something that made his stomach contort in pain as though an unseen force was twisting his insides.

Her hands were intertwined with someone he hated more than anybody.

Harry Potter.

When had this happened? He thought they were only friends. Though the longer he watched them, the more the opposite seemed true. 

They were together; Harry and Y/N were in a relationship. 

As the aftershock of the pain he felt echoed hollowly in his stomach, he drew the blinds of the compartment shut; he could not bear to watch them any longer. But shutting them out had not been as easy as Draco had foreseen. Everywhere he looked, he saw her with him. In every corner of the castle, they stood, smiling at each other, holding hands and leaving small kisses on each other's cheeks. Draco saw them sit together in his classes, staring into each other's eyes in the great hall over meals. And though Draco tried not to let it bother him, he could not help but imagine himself in Harry’s place; she was supposed to be his.

It had been years since Draco could call Y/N his friend, and although he pined for her from a distance, he accepted that they were estranged. But the reality of her loving someone else rattled him to his core, and just like a spoiled child whose toy was being played with by another, he wanted her back, to snatch her from Harry’s arms and never return her. 

He needed to speak with her, beg her to see reason. Surely, all those days of laughter and fun as children would amount to something; surely, she would remember the person he used to be. 

He decided to speak with her after charms class; he noticed she was usually alone then, her friends heading to different lessons.

As Professor Flitwick called the end of their class, Draco watched as Y/N quickly collected her things and exited the classroom; he had to rush to put his belongings together and follow her. 

But by the time he left the room, she was halfway down the grand hallway. 

‘Y/N! Wait up!’ Draco could not remember the last time he spoke her name out loud; it felt strange on his tongue, as though it shocked him on its way out. She turned, skin creased between her brows, her face donning a bewildered expression. She, too, seemed shocked that he had called out for her,

‘Y/N, I need to speak with you; it’s important’ he pleaded,

With surprise still evident on her face, she opened her mouth to speak,

‘Draco, I don’t have the time, my next class is in ten…’ He grabbed her elbow and began pulling her to an empty classroom; despite her protest,

‘Draco… What are you…’ she trailed off, instead staring at him, eyebrows furrowed once more. Draco stood back and nervously scratched the nape of his neck, realising for the first time that he had no idea what he was going to say,

‘What is this about? I thought you didn’t talk to me anymore.’ 

Draco cringed, remembering how he had given her the cold shoulder in their first year. She had still wanted to be his friend, and he had pushed her away.

‘Look, I’ve noticed you’ve been a lot closer with Harry this year…’ Y/N's eyes sharpened, daring him to say more, 

‘And?…’ she spoke carefully, with a warning; she already knew where this was headed,

‘I just think that… that,’ his words cut short; he knew he was out of line and had no right to have an opinion on the matter. He took a different route.

‘I just can’t believe you chose to be friends with him, let alone partners; you could have picked anyone in this school, and you chose him.’ His words made Y/N gasp in shock, but he continued nonetheless, 

‘Did our friendship mean nothing to you? Did the fact I loved you mean nothing?’ 

Although Y/N looked angry, her eyes softened slightly,

‘Draco, did you ever stop for one moment and consider that this has nothing to do with you? You and I are not friends, Draco. You saw to that… I loved you once too, no, I loved a kind, sweet boy by the same name… but he died a long time ago, quelled by his very own father.’ Y/N's voice rose and trembled; Draco could see that talking about this upset her; once again, he felt the twisting pain in his chest. 

‘None of this would have happened, though, if you were sorted into Slytherin…’

He continued, but Y/N interrupted, 

‘But I wasn’t, was I? Don’t you see that our houses have nothing to do with this? You’re hiding behind them; you’re too scared to admit that we grew apart because you were a bad person.’ She took a deep breath,

‘Good people don’t bully and belittle first years and think people are lesser because of who their parents are. Good people don’t bully anyone; they’re kind and compassionate. And they’re selfless; not everything that they do is for themselves. And that is not who you are anymore.’

Draco could no longer see Y/N before him; she became shrouded by his tears, the truth of her words leaving him feeling winded, like blows to the stomach. Everything she had said was true. Of course it was; she had just unknowingly described herself. 

Kind, compassionate, selfless.

Y/N was a good person; she was the best person in his life. 

And he pushed her away because of one little difference.

As Draco stood in silence, unwilling to respond, Y/N’s frustration grew, 

‘You know what? Forget I said anything; you won’t change.’ She muttered, ‘I need to get to class.’

She pushed past him to get through the door, looking back as though she were going to speak again, but decided against it. She shook her head and left.

Draco did not try to speak with her again; he knew nothing he could say would change her mind because she was right. He was a bad person, and she deserved better than him. 

That is what she had with Harry Potter.

And as much as it killed him to watch, he could admit that.

Every comment and piece of advice is welcomed and appreciated <3

The Day Before ✢ Damon Salvatore ✢ Part Two

Synopsis: The reader knows she is dying, and to save Damon from the pain of her death, she makes an extremely difficult decision. However, the aftermath of this decision takes a great toll on Damon and the people who know him. Damon Salvatore x Reader, female pronouns. Platonic!Stefan Salvatore x Reader. Platonic!Caroline Forbes x Reader. Warnings: Angst, Death.  Notes: This is part two to a one-shot I posted a while ago, this piece will not make much sense without having read it. 

Masterlist |Part One

Words: 1,859

Stefan could tell something was awry the moment he stepped through the doors of the old boarding house. The air inside was palpable, as if every molecule was weighed down with a tension — a stillness that pressed against his heightened senses, thick and unnatural. Damon was sitting in front of the fireplace, his silhouette stark against the warm glow of the flames, though there was nothing warm about this scene. His posture, Stefan noted, usually so full of restless energy, was eerily composed. Too composed. His gaze was fixed ahead, unblinking, the light flickering in his eyes was like a dull echo of something that had long since burned out.

Stefan took a careful breath; he was not sure why, but his instincts screamed that something was wrong.

The blood on Damon’s hands was subtle at first, easy to miss, but it did not take long for the dried crimson to catch Stefan’s eye, it crept up Damon’s knuckles, stark and seeped within the crevices of his pale, illuminated skin.

‘Damon?’ 

Stefan called out, his voice cautious, wary, like he was approaching a predator lying in wait. But there was no answer. Damon did not so much as flinch, his expression a mask of chilling indifference, eyes as lifeless as the logs slowly burning to cinder before him.

Stefan swallowed hard, the dread inside him growing heavier by the second. 

‘Damon,’ he repeated, stepping closer, his shoes tapping softly against the hardwood floor. He kept his voice calm, but he struggled to hide the tension underneath. 

‘What happened?’

For a moment, it was as if Damon had not even heard him. He remained silent, his face void of any feeling; it was as if he was not even present in the room—like his body was there, but his mind, his soul, had retreated somewhere unreachable. The lack of reaction was more terrifying than any outburst, more unnerving than any fit of rage. Damon, who thrived on conflict, on drama, was sitting there… deadened.

Stefan clenched his fists, trying to keep his voice steady, but he couldn’t suppress his rising panic. 

‘Damon, talk to me. What did you do?’ 

Stefan’s gaze shifted, once again glancing at the blood-encrusted upon the hands of his brother. 

Still nothing. It was as though Stefan’s words were dissolving into the suffocating silence of the room. And then, finally, Damon’s eyes flickered, just barely. He turned his head slowly toward his brother, his movements languid, almost robotic. When he spoke, his voice was hollow, stripped of the usual sarcasm and wit that would linger in his tone. It was flat and mechanical. 

‘I did what I had to.’

Stefan’s heart pounded in his chest, his mind racing. That lifeless tone, the vacant look in his eyes—it was all too familiar. He had seen this before. Damon had turned it off. He had flipped the switch, shut down his emotions, locked away everything that made him… him. Stefan’s stomach twisted with dread.

‘No,’ Stefan whispered, more to himself than to Damon. His pulse quickened, the realisation like a slap to the face, stinging and sharp. Damon had turned it off, but why? What had driven him to this point? What had happened?

He took a step closer, his voice firmer now, though his urgency seeped through. 

‘Damon, what did you do?’

Damon did not respond immediately. His gaze drifted lazily back upon the flames, as if Stefan’s question was of no consequence, as if nothing mattered anymore. 

‘What I had to,’ he repeated, his voice cold and empty, devoid of the fire that usually burned beneath his words. 

‘What I needed to. It doesn’t matter now.’

Stefan’s hands twitched, frustration boiling beneath his skin. He could feel Caroline approaching behind them, her presence like a ripple disturbing an already tense atmosphere. He did not turn to look at her, but he could feel her eyes on Damon, wide and fearful.

‘Damon?’  She whispered, her voice soft, hesitant, as though she was afraid to speak too loudly. She took a cautious step forward, her gaze shifting between the brothers. 

‘What’s going on? Why—' She broke off, noticing the dried blood on his hands. Her face paled. 

‘Why do you have blood on your hands?’

Stefan shook his head slightly, his thoughts racing. He felt sick; unease crawled up his spine in an icy shiver.

‘He’s turned it off,’ he muttered, his voice barely audible.

Caroline’s breath hitched, her eyes growing wide with alarm. 

‘No…’ Her voice was thick with fear as she looked at Damon, whose expression remained indifferent as if none of this concerned him. 

‘Why? Why would he do that? What happened?’

Stefan’s heart dropped. The pieces were falling into place, but he did not want to believe it. He did not want to accept what Damon’s cold demeanour was screaming to him, wordless. He needed to see Y/N.

Damon stood up slowly, his movements deliberate, his eyes not even bothering to focus on Stefan or Caroline. 

‘I wouldn’t wait for her,’ he said, his voice flat, devoid of any emotion as he turned toward the door. Stefan shuddered, it was as though Damon was in his head, maybe he had been. Then his body tensed, Damon's words registering with him; a rush of panic flooded his system. 

‘Damon, what did you do?’

He did not answer. Without another word, Damon disappeared in a blur of supernatural speed, the door slamming shut behind him with an ominous finality. The room fell into a suffocating silence once more, but now the silence was darker, heavier with the weight of what they did not know. What they did not want to know.

Caroline’s voice trembled as she turned toward Stefan.

‘What does he mean? Stefan, what happened?’

Stefan clenched his jaw, his chest tightening as dread settled over him. They needed to find out.

The sun was setting as Stefan and Caroline approached Y/N’s home, as they got closer, it became apparent what was wrong, it hung in the air like an unspoken fact, they knew there was only one thing that could push Damon to this state, one event that could force him over the edge. Neither of them wanted to admit what it meant; they evaded this truth so its awful pending reality could not hurt them, but the silence around the house was heavy with foreboding.

‘Do you smell that?’ 

Caroline asked, her voice shaking as she stepped inside the house, the faint scent of blood hitting her like a physical blow.

The knot in his stomach tightened as they ventured deeper into her house, everything was still and quiet; his senses told him no one was there, but the lingering smell of blood stood in sharp juxtaposition, unmistakable and overwhelming. Every creak of the floorboards, every gush of the wind against the windows, seemed so much louder with the absence of life; it felt like a warning.

The bedroom door was left slightly ajar, and Stefan hesitated, his palm on the handle, before pushing it open. 

His breath caught in his throat.

There, crumpled on the floor, lay Y/N’s confronting form, still and cold, her skin as spectral as the moonlight now filtering in through the curtains. Her hair was splayed out across the floor, and her eyes were gently shut, as though she were only sleeping, but the sight was uncanny, they would never open again. Her limbs were unmoving, her chest motionless, and the scent of blood, stronger now, lingered around her like a haunting reminder of what had happened.

Caroline gasped, stumbling back as tears sprang to her eyes. They had already known this, but they did not want to believe it; the confrontation had been too much to behold.

“No... no, no, no...” she whispered, her voice breaking as she brought her hands to her face. 

“Oh my God, Stefan…”

Stefan could not speak. He stumbled forward and dropped to his knees beside the girl, his hands shaking as he reached out to touch her. Her skin was cold, by now, the warmth of her vibrant life was long gone, perpetually a memory. His throat tightened, his chest heaving with a deep, aching sense of loss. 

Not only was she his brother’s love, but a friend of his own, and he had cared for her deeply. Y/N had made his brother happy in a way he had never known, a fact he was grateful for, but she had also been there for him, her kindness and compassion knowing no bounds. 

He stroked her hair and tucked it behind her ear, while a terrible burn at the base of his throat rose and shifted into a choked sob. He realised at once that she must have died alone.

And Damon had found her like this, horribly sallow and confronting.

He must have tried to save her; Stefan’s eyes numbly caught the dried blood upon her lips. He had given her his blood, but it had been too late. The emptiness within Damon’s eyes, the cold detachment—it made more sense now. Damon had not just lost her. This was not just death. 

He had failed her.

‘She was trying to leave,’ Caroline whispered through her tears, her gaze locked on the half-packed suitcase on the bed. She was trying to look anywhere but the girl lying lifeless on the hard floor.

‘I think she knew she was dying... and she didn’t tell us.’

Stefan closed his eyes, the weight of this truth crashing down upon him, she had knowingly left without a goodbye. Damon had found her like this. He had tried to save her. And when he was unable, when he finally realised he was too late, it had ruined him. The love he had for her, the hope he had surely held onto—only made this so much worse. Stefan found himself wishing he had been there for him, even if it did not change anything, and he imagined it would not have, Damon would still be gone now. 

His chest ached with the knowledge that his brother, despite not being there at the time, would have felt every second of her death because he could not save her. Damon had turned off his humanity because the idea of living without her had been too painful. It had destroyed him.

Caroline wiped her eyes, and her voice trembled with fear. 

‘What are we going to do? If Damon has no humanity... Stefan, he’s dangerous.’

Stefan’s fists clenched, and his mind raced. Damon had always been volatile, but this was different. He had nothing left to lose now. 

‘We have to find him,’ Stefan said, voice steady despite the turmoil inside him. 

‘Before he does something he can’t take back.’

But his words were meaningless, as he glanced towards Y/N’s desolate corpse, Stefan could not shake the gnawing fear, or rather, the fact that it was already too late. Y/n was dead, and Damon had gone with her. He leaned down, placing a soft kiss on her forehead in farewell, knowing full well that he was kissing his brother goodbye along with her.

Every comment and piece of advice is welcomed and appreciated <3

Thank you ❤️

DC ✢ When he realised he loved you

Characters: Bruce, Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian and Clark.

B R U C E⠀W A Y N E

The moment had been a quiet revelation, in a silence so profound it frightened him. The kind of silence that followed the first crack of thunder, one moment loud and undeniable, the next building with tension, waiting for it to strike again. 

You were sitting in the library of the manor, an arcane book resting open upon your lap, the fire crackling softly behind you. He had just returned from patrol — broken, bloodied, and defeated.

You looked up, eyes wide, alarmed at his state and asked, ‘Bruce?’ You had spoken as if he were not the Batman, not an emblem of vengeance and grit, but a man, just a man, whose hurt mattered.

Something in him gave out. Not in an ostentatious, cinematic collapse, but in the subtle yielding of defences too long held taut. His mind, a fortress of rationale and boundaries, fell silent.

She sees me, for all I am, it whispered. And yet she stays.

He had not believed in unconditional love since the alleyway. But in that moment, with the stench of blood from his suit and the leaden weight of the city upon his back, he saw love for what it was — not a sanctuary, but a quiet understanding, and a choosing. And she had chosen him.

It terrified him. Because now he had yet another thing to lose, to protect, something that was not abstract. It had a name. A voice. A laugh. It sat in his home and softened his world.

He had never been the same since.

D I C K⠀G R A Y S O N

It crept up on him — not a wave, but rather a tide. Quiet and constant and utterly irreversible.

You had fallen asleep in his bed, still holding a game controller, your brow furrowed even in your unconsciousness. He watched you in the blue glow of the screen and thought, God, I’d die for her.

And then came the laugh — low, bitter, surprised. Because of course he would. He was always ready to die for someone.

But this felt different. This was not a compulsion, a sense of duty. It was not about legacy or guilt. It was about you. And the way your presence grounded the part of him that had always been just suspended above the world, half-grieving, half-trying.

He remembered kissing your forehead before leaving for patrol that night. Slow. Lingering. The kind of kiss that was not about want, but reverence.

That was when he knew.

Love was not a thrill. It was a weight. And he had never wanted anything to anchor him, to tether him to this sphere, more than you.

The realisation made him smile. And then it made him ache.

J A S O N⠀T O D D

Jason felt it like the first rays of sun upon his back after a piercing winter, it flooded his system, warm and compelling. It struck him all of a sudden — new, unfamiliar, and… unwelcome. He did not want it. He had not asked for it.

You were brushing your teeth, half-asleep, wearing one of his old shirts, humming a song under your breath as though nothing was wrong in the world, as though it were not in a state of disrepair just beyond the window. And while watching you, he could believe it for a moment too.

Jason stood in the doorway, paralysed. Because he had seen too much tragedy, too much carnage. He could hardly believe that a quiet instant of peace, like this, could even exist, let alone in his reality.

His first instinct was to run. Not literally — he could never leave you. But to emotionally retreat, to steel himself for the moment this fleeting softness was stolen from him.

But you looked at him. Just looked — toothpaste foam and all — with a kind of amused concern, and asked, ‘You okay?’

After everything he had been through. He was not sure he had ever been less okay.

He loved you. He loved you with a passion that made him feel unworthy, as if he had tainted something holy.

A voice in him protested — said it was weakness. Said this would end in catastrophe. But he ignored it, just this once. He stepped forward and kissed your temple.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Just tired.’ But he was not. This was a lie. His mind was reeling.

He did not sleep that night. He lay awake memorising your breathing.

T I M⠀D R A K E

It was a question you asked that did it. Something ordinary, like, ‘Did you eat today?’

Tim wanted to laugh because it was such a cliché, wasn’t it? But clichés exist because they are true. No one ever asked him that, not like you had, not like it genuinely mattered. 

Then you brought him a coffee, one of those orders so tailored it was essentially an identity. You did not need to ask what he wanted. You simply knew.

He blinked down at the cup, then at you, and suddenly the task he was completing meant nothing.

He felt the world tilt. Quietly. Like the axis of his orbit had shifted. And it had.

Love, to Tim, had always been a puzzle he did not have time to solve. A thing for normal people, with normal lives, for people who lacked the responsibility he had garnered.

But there it was — simple, unassuming and irreversible.

He did not tell you. Not for a long time.

But he began cataloguing what made you smile. The way your face changed after a laugh, crinkled and carefree. He noticed the way your eyes sparkled just a little brighter when you spoke of things that made you passionate, and how the corners of your lips turned up when you were lost in a quiet thought.

This love became his sustenance, it was the first time in years he feared forgetting something.

D A M I A N⠀W A Y N E (Aged up as Batman)

It had infuriated him. The sheer idiocy of it.

Love was chemical, juvenile, a distraction. Or so he had been taught. So he had believed.

And yet there he stood — across from you in the garden, where you were speaking to a stray dog as if it were royalty, and something in his chest pulled.

At first, he mistook it for contempt — annoyance at your softness in a moment where he was attempting to be serious. But then you looked up, grinned, and said, ‘I think she likes me.’

And the words caught in his throat. Not because he did not believe them, but because he liked you. Against every grain of his upbringing.

He wanted to scold you, retreat, build walls. But instead, he asked the cat’s name.

That was the beginning. The fracture.

He loved you. In an old, mythic sense. In the way poets spoke of their love — fierce, unyielding, as though it could bend the very fabric of time. 

And that it did, time slowed every time you entered his concentration.

He began to dream of futures — a concept once as foreign to him as mercy.

He has not told you. But he will. In his own time. For now, he will continue to relish in it, and continue in this alluring descent. 

C L A R K⠀K E N T

He did not realise. Not at first. Because what he felt for you was too immense, too intrinsic, to label with as small as a word as love.

It was not until you fell asleep in his arms, mumbling about a stressful day, completely unaware of the god you were held by, that it hit him.

You did not see him as Superman. You saw him as Clark Kent. You simply saw him. The man. His hope. His grief.

And he realised then — you are his tether.

He thought of Krypton. Of its loss. Of the gaping emptiness it had left as soon as he had learnt of it. And for the first time in years, he did not feel hollow. He felt… full. He realised, that the planet could never have been home to him like she was. 

You snored softly. He laughed. Then cried.

Love, he realised, was not loud. It was simply your hand over his heart. It was your laughter in the next room. It was your body next to his.

He had not fallen in love. He had found it, unexpected and irrevocable, and for all the power he had been bestowed, this force had left him helpless to resist.

And now he guards it with everything he is. Because you are not just his world.

You are his home.

I'm going to post a follow-up called 'When he admitted he loved you' sometime soon, if you want to keep an eye out. Every comment and piece of advice is welcomed and appreciated <3

ｒｅｖｅｎａｎｔ －ｔｈｒｅｅ

PART THREE OF 'REVENANT' SERIES Damon Salvatore x Winchester!Sister!Hunter!Reader  The Vampire Diaries x Supernatural Mini-Series Synopsis: Y/N Winchester was tired of living in her brothers' shadows; she needed to do something for herself for a change. When she heads to Mystic Falls, a town she was always warned to stay away from, she finds she may have taken on more than she can handle. Will she be able to eradicate the supernatural from the uncanny town? Or will she find herself tangled amongst it? WARNINGS: Descriptions of Violence. Words: 2,064k Blog Masterlist / Series Masterlist <Previous Part | Next Part >

Monsters consumed her entire world; Y/N thought of them every day and in every moment. She would watch people as she passed them on the street and wonder if they harboured any grim secrets; monsters were considerably more common than one would expect. However, there was a time when this was not the case. As a young girl, she never fully understood why her family moved from motel to motel, never finding a home to settle in. 

She and her brothers would stay in the shabby rooms, watching cartoons as their father disappeared for hours, only to return covered in grime and blood. Eventually, Dean joined in on these late-night escapades and soon after, Sam. They held hushed conversations over old-looking journals Y/N was never allowed to see. 

She had never known anything different; it came alongside her life of greasy diners and dingy mattresses.

However, she had always known that something was wrong. Even at a young age, she was bright enough to know that normal fathers did not teach their children how to wield knives and set traps. And they definitely did not pass their six-year-old children handguns. Her small hands and feeble arms barely able to hold on as it recoiled.

On the morning of her eleventh birthday, her father had taken her to an old friend, saying she needed a specific tattoo and that he would not ask questions. The young girl was shocked. Y/N knew this was not regular for kids her age; she supposed they were only for grownups. However, looking back, she recalled her brothers receiving them as well. Her father hushed and comforted her as she cried in his arms; the pain was like nothing she had ever experienced. When she drew back from his embrace, upon her upper left arm was now a star, enclosed by a circle of black, simple flames. Her father had told her that 'it was a small amount pain for a lifetime of protection from things that would hurt her'. She shuddered when she thought of what these 'things' might be. 

However, by her next birthday, she no longer had to wonder. Y/N would never forget the day she learnt about the frightening past-times of her family. It was a turning point in her life, something she could never change, no matter how many times since that moment she wished she could.

The tires of the Impala had rolled noisily over the gravel of the dimly lit car park. The motel's neon sign flickered, casting an eerie glow across its sleek, black metal as John Winchester pulled out onto the barren street. Inside the room, the air was palpable. Y/N remembered every detail of the night perfectly. The smell of old books and gun oil mingled with the acrid tang of old manchester. She recalled how the walls seemed to sag under the weight of time, the air thick with the scent of dampness and decay. She was supposed to be alseep as her adolescent brothers, Sam and Dean, sat hunched over a precarious table, staring fixedly at a map.

Across the room, Y/N lied on her side, back turned and clutching the pillow with white-knuckled fingers. Her eyes were wide, staring unblinkingly at the peeling wallpaper of the motel, the thump of her pounding heart reaching her ears. 

Y/N Winchester, the youngest of the three, had always had a lingering suspicion that her family was disparate from that of a regular household. Their late-night departures and whispered conversations had all hinted at something dark, something they deliberately withheld from her. 

But as she listened to the low humming of their voices, her whole world had unravelled. Monsters, demons, and things ‘that went bump in the night’ were real. And her family hunted them.

Dean's voice broke, brueque and urgent, breaking her from her spiralling thoughts. 

‘We've got a lead on a group of vampires, Sammy. Pack your bags. We’ll leave in the morning.’ Sam nodded, his gaze fixed on the map. 

Y/N's breath hitched. Vampires? She had always believed they were creatures of folklore and myth, the subjects of peoples’ nightmares. But suddenly, the reality of this fact became true for her. Had she not seen her father carve out intricate stakes? And replace the bullets in his guns with wooden alternatives? She had been too young to give any of these details consideration. Though as Y/N lay in the bleak corner of the room, absorbing the information her brothers had unknowingly disclosed, she felt remarkably obtuse.

Y/N sat up and allowed her consciousness to become known to her brothers. 

Her voice had shaken, fear entwined between each syllable. ‘Vampires?’

She had wanted to say more, but her words caught in her throat. 

Both heads snapped up, surprise and shock corroding their features. Dean's eyes widened, and he exchanged a quick, concerned glance with Sam.

‘Y/N, you shouldn't be awake,’ Sam had said, his voice holding an edge of distress,

‘No, I need to know,’ Y/N insisted, her hands trembling. ‘What else don’t I know? Why do you do this?’

Dean sighed heavily, the weight of this fretful secret hardening his expression. The brother did not know how their father would react to their carelessness; she should not have found out like this. 

‘Sit down, Y/N. We'll explain.’

As they spoke and described the monsters of this sphere in great detail, Y/N listened, perturbed yet enthralled. Her childish, insular world expanded with each revelation; the bleakness that her family fought against was far more vast than she had any right to envisage. 

The creatures from her childhood nightmares were real; her father and brothers took it upon themselves to eradicate these fiends.

As days bled into nights, the Impala sped down highways and quiet country roads, carrying the Winchesters from one hunt to the next as it always had, only now, Y/N knew why. She observed and learned, engrossed in every piece of information they shared. 

Her father had attempted to teach her how to wield a gun many years prior, though he eventually gave up, her negligent demeanour discouraging. But with the threat of monsters now a burden upon her shoulders, Y/N reconsidered her juvenile disinterest and learned to fire a gun. She allowed the recoil to sting her palms until callouses formed. 

She memorised incantations, reciting them like a mantra to banish unwelcome spectres. Once a foreign language, the lore became familiar, etched into her memory like the back of her hand.

As weeks turned into months, which then rolled into years, Y/N’s alteration became undeniable; she was a hunter. 

Her knowledge was vast; her determination and resolve were unyielding. Yet, she would always be the neonate of the Winchester clan, never a hunter in her own right.

This fact was the catalyst for her departure to Mystic Falls.

Y/N Winchester hardly believed that a single town could have such a vast history of misfortune; why did this small quaint community hold such an aptitude for catastrophe? Vampires, Witches and Werewolves were just a few of the creatures that Y/N was sure stalked the streets of Mystic Falls, and with all of the disasters claiming innocent lives, she was almost certain that the uncanny town had its fair share of ghosts as well. 

Over the decades, Mystic Falls' history bore witness to many tribulations. Tragedies were not at all uncommon for the abnormal town. Yet its reputation as a charming, radiant community still proceeded it. Y/N had to admit that maybe the council was more successful than she gave it credit for, only not successful enough for her hunters’ disposition.

She found it most curious that the Lockwood family, from what she could discern, had seemingly been cursed with lycanthropy for generations, and despite this, still participated in the council’s hunting of vampires. 

Y/N’s research led her to Civil Hall, which housed the incredibly grim and macabre Founder’s archives. 

Beginning in the early 19th century, the Founding Families, including the Salvatores, Lockwoods, Gilberts, Forbes, and Fells, laid the foundation for the thriving community of Mystic Falls. Their historical influence reverberated through the town's architecture, traditions and the very spirit that defined it. Y/N found that each family brought a unique facet to the tapestry of Mystic Falls. They built homes, a school, and a place of worship. As the seasons passed, Mystic Falls flourished, its streets lined with elms, its gardens ablaze with vibrant blossoms and the town square; a bustling hub of commerce and camaraderie.

Amidst this idyllic setting, the Founding Families recognized the coexistence of the supernatural world alongside their own, understanding that the existence of these paranormal fiends could not be known by the greater population. So they established the Town Council, set on eradicating these monsters from their picturesque town. Under their leadership and protection, the Council became the linchpin of Mystic Falls' unique social fabric. And although they attempted to cover the town’s dark secret with reports of ordinary things, it was a delicate balance and one that required vigilance and discretion. However, the holes in their stories did not go unnoticed by the young Winchester.

She had found that in 1864 during the Civil War, Confederate Soldiers had fired on Fell’s Church, believing the establishment had been harbouring weapons. Twenty-Seven people were killed. However, this report did not sit well with Y/N; its contents held many hallmarks of the recent ‘animal killings’. To the young hunter, it sounded like a coverup. 

Y/N travelled to the forsaken church nonetheless, bearing an EMF Meter and salt. She was unsurprised to find that the building held no signs of the odious spirits you would expect. Though, beneath its old withering structure, lay an abandoned tomb; Y/N shivered, wondering what had been inside it.

Y/N was sure to return to the archives in Civil Hall as there was too much to look at in one session. And upon her second trip, she uncovered something that left her feeling uneasy. In storage were artifacts from a heritage display recently held by the Founder’s Council; within said display was a registry listing the names of the guestlist for the original Founder’s event. 

The document had read,

'The Founding Families of Mystic Falls, Virginia welcome you to the inaugural Founders Council Celebration on this, the twenty-fourth of September in the year Eighteen Hundred and Sixty Four.'

Her gloved fingers skimmed down the old parchment until she reached a name written in an even, ornate scrawl. She felt her heart beating in her throat, 

'Damon Salvatore'

No, she thought, he couldn’t be…

She hollowly noted the name of his brother 'Stefan Salvatore' stetched onto the aged paper as well. Y/N, heart sinking, recalled her initial suspicion of Damon on the night they met; she had felt saddened by the idea of him being a monster. Though, she had quickly ridiculed these ideas as she learnt of his surname. Y/N dejectedly reminisced Caroline’s warnings, and suddenly, she heard them in a new light. 

'Y/N, he’s bad news; how many times do I have to tell you before the message sinks in?'

Y/N had thought Caroline’s dislike for Damon was due to some trivial gossip. Though was it possible her admonitions hinted at something much more sinister?

She shook her head as if trying to banish unwelcome thoughts; once again, she concluded that she must be overreacting. He hailed from a Founding Family; they did not take matters of the supernatural lightly. And besides, she had heard him talk of the animal killings with the sheriff herself. He could not be a vampire. 

Perhaps these people on the registry had been namesakes for the brothers? Surely, in a community that valued its heritage so much, it would not be unusual to be named for your late ancestors? And as a hunter, how could her instincts be so wrong? So out of touch? 

Y/N Winchester had not yet fallen in love with the blue-eyed man, though with each conversation and interaction, Y/N knew falling in love would be as easy as the phrase proposed; as effortless as falling down. 

No, she thought, this time more confident, he couldn’t be. 

TAG LIST: @venomsvl

DC ✢ When he realised he loved you

Characters: Bruce, Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian and Clark.

B R U C E⠀W A Y N E

The moment had been a quiet revelation, in a silence so profound it frightened him. The kind of silence that followed the first crack of thunder, one moment loud and undeniable, the next building with tension, waiting for it to strike again. 

You were sitting in the library of the manor, an arcane book resting open upon your lap, the fire crackling softly behind you. He had just returned from patrol — broken, bloodied, and defeated.

You looked up, eyes wide, alarmed at his state and asked, ‘Bruce?’ You had spoken as if he were not the Batman, not an emblem of vengeance and grit, but a man, just a man, whose hurt mattered.

Something in him gave out. Not in an ostentatious, cinematic collapse, but in the subtle yielding of defences too long held taut. His mind, a fortress of rationale and boundaries, fell silent.

She sees me, for all I am, it whispered. And yet she stays.

He had not believed in unconditional love since the alleyway. But in that moment, with the stench of blood from his suit and the leaden weight of the city upon his back, he saw love for what it was — not a sanctuary, but a quiet understanding, and a choosing. And she had chosen him.

It terrified him. Because now he had yet another thing to lose, to protect, something that was not abstract. It had a name. A voice. A laugh. It sat in his home and softened his world.

He had never been the same since.

D I C K⠀G R A Y S O N

It crept up on him — not a wave, but rather a tide. Quiet and constant and utterly irreversible.

You had fallen asleep in his bed, still holding a game controller, your brow furrowed even in your unconsciousness. He watched you in the blue glow of the screen and thought, God, I’d die for her.

And then came the laugh — low, bitter, surprised. Because of course he would. He was always ready to die for someone.

But this felt different. This was not a compulsion, a sense of duty. It was not about legacy or guilt. It was about you. And the way your presence grounded the part of him that had always been just suspended above the world, half-grieving, half-trying.

He remembered kissing your forehead before leaving for patrol that night. Slow. Lingering. The kind of kiss that was not about want, but reverence.

That was when he knew.

Love was not a thrill. It was a weight. And he had never wanted anything to anchor him, to tether him to this sphere, more than you.

The realisation made him smile. And then it made him ache.

J A S O N⠀T O D D

Jason felt it like the first rays of sun upon his back after a piercing winter, it flooded his system, warm and compelling. It struck him all of a sudden — new, unfamiliar, and… unwelcome. He did not want it. He had not asked for it.

You were brushing your teeth, half-asleep, wearing one of his old shirts, humming a song under your breath as though nothing was wrong in the world, as though it were not in a state of disrepair just beyond the window. And while watching you, he could believe it for a moment too.

Jason stood in the doorway, paralysed. Because he had seen too much tragedy, too much carnage. He could hardly believe that a quiet instant of peace, like this, could even exist, let alone in his reality.

His first instinct was to run. Not literally — he could never leave you. But to emotionally retreat, to steel himself for the moment this fleeting softness was stolen from him.

But you looked at him. Just looked — toothpaste foam and all — with a kind of amused concern, and asked, ‘You okay?’

After everything he had been through. He was not sure he had ever been less okay.

He loved you. He loved you with a passion that made him feel unworthy, as if he had tainted something holy.

A voice in him protested — said it was weakness. Said this would end in catastrophe. But he ignored it, just this once. He stepped forward and kissed your temple.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Just tired.’ But he was not. This was a lie. His mind was reeling.

He did not sleep that night. He lay awake memorising your breathing.

T I M⠀D R A K E

It was a question you asked that did it. Something ordinary, like, ‘Did you eat today?’

Tim wanted to laugh because it was such a cliché, wasn’t it? But clichés exist because they are true. No one ever asked him that, not like you had, not like it genuinely mattered. 

Then you brought him a coffee, one of those orders so tailored it was essentially an identity. You did not need to ask what he wanted. You simply knew.

He blinked down at the cup, then at you, and suddenly the task he was completing meant nothing.

He felt the world tilt. Quietly. Like the axis of his orbit had shifted. And it had.

Love, to Tim, had always been a puzzle he did not have time to solve. A thing for normal people, with normal lives, for people who lacked the responsibility he had garnered.

But there it was — simple, unassuming and irreversible.

He did not tell you. Not for a long time.

But he began cataloguing what made you smile. The way your face changed after a laugh, crinkled and carefree. He noticed the way your eyes sparkled just a little brighter when you spoke of things that made you passionate, and how the corners of your lips turned up when you were lost in a quiet thought.

This love became his sustenance, it was the first time in years he feared forgetting something.

D A M I A N⠀W A Y N E (Aged up as Batman)

It had infuriated him. The sheer idiocy of it.

Love was chemical, juvenile, a distraction. Or so he had been taught. So he had believed.

And yet there he stood — across from you in the garden, where you were speaking to a stray dog as if it were royalty, and something in his chest pulled.

At first, he mistook it for contempt — annoyance at your softness in a moment where he was attempting to be serious. But then you looked up, grinned, and said, ‘I think she likes me.’

And the words caught in his throat. Not because he did not believe them, but because he liked you. Against every grain of his upbringing.

He wanted to scold you, retreat, build walls. But instead, he asked the cat’s name.

That was the beginning. The fracture.

He loved you. In an old, mythic sense. In the way poets spoke of their love — fierce, unyielding, as though it could bend the very fabric of time. 

And that it did, time slowed every time you entered his concentration.

He began to dream of futures — a concept once as foreign to him as mercy.

He has not told you. But he will. In his own time. For now, he will continue to relish in it, and continue in this alluring descent. 

C L A R K⠀K E N T

He did not realise. Not at first. Because what he felt for you was too immense, too intrinsic, to label with as small as a word as love.

It was not until you fell asleep in his arms, mumbling about a stressful day, completely unaware of the god you were held by, that it hit him.

You did not see him as Superman. You saw him as Clark Kent. You simply saw him. The man. His hope. His grief.

And he realised then — you are his tether.

He thought of Krypton. Of its loss. Of the gaping emptiness it had left as soon as he had learnt of it. And for the first time in years, he did not feel hollow. He felt… full. He realised, that the planet could never have been home to him like she was. 

You snored softly. He laughed. Then cried.

Love, he realised, was not loud. It was simply your hand over his heart. It was your laughter in the next room. It was your body next to his.

He had not fallen in love. He had found it, unexpected and irrevocable, and for all the power he had been bestowed, this force had left him helpless to resist.

And now he guards it with everything he is. Because you are not just his world.

You are his home.

If you're interested, I've since posted a follow-up called 'When he admitted he loved you' linked, here. Every comment and piece of advice is welcomed and appreciated <3

Fleeting Moments ✢ Bruce Wayne

Synopsis: Y/N and Bruce Wayne share quiet moments of love amidst the chaos of Gotham. In rare stolen hours between nightfall and dawn, she clings to the man behind the mask, not aware of the double life he leads. She watches as bruises form across his skin and holds him through his restless nights, grateful that, for once, he is by her side. Bruce Wayne x Reader, female pronouns. This piece is not plot-specific, so any iteration of Bruce will work. Though, I wrote it with Christian Bale in mind.

Warnings: A sprinkle of angst. Masterlist

Disclaimer: This is essentially a prequel to another Bruce Wayne one-shot I wrote (here is the link if you're interested), though you by no means have to read it; this works as a stand-alone, too. However, the other one-shot goes into detail on how their relationship progressed from here. Words: 1,726k

Rain pattered softly against the glass, a rhythmic rap that filled the quiet, ornate expanse of Wayne Manor. It was late, too late for her to be awake, but Bruce lay beside her, his breath steady and deep, his warm frame pressed snug against her side. Y/N could not sleep, her mind restless despite the calming comfort of his presence, a presence that so often eluded her. Absently, her fingers traced the ridges of his knuckles, ghosting over the faint scars that marred his otherwise perfect skin.

She wondered, as she always did, where they had come from. He never spoke of them. Never told her of the fights, the injuries, the pain that lingered and simmered beneath the surface of his carefully constructed mask. He was Bruce Wayne, the prince of Gotham, a man of charm and effortless grace. But in the silence of the night when, in his solitude, this façade was brought down, Bruce was something else entirely. Something weary, something worn.

He stirred slightly under her touch, his fingers twitching before they caught hers, enclosing them within his grasp. A small, lazy smile flickered across his lips as he blinked away his stupor.

‘You're awake,’ he murmured, voice thick with lassitude.

Y/N hummed in response, shifting closer, her head nestling against his shoulder. 

‘Couldn't sleep.’

He exhaled slowly, his free hand coming up to stroke along the curve of her spine, soothing and unhurried. 

‘Bad dreams?’ She shook her head against him.

‘No dreams at all,’ she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. ‘Just thoughts.’

Bruce did not push her to divulge in what kind. He never did. He knew her well enough to understand that sometimes, silence was safer, preferred. 

Instead, he pressed a kiss to her temple, lingering there for a moment before pulling her impossibly closer. ‘Get some rest. I'm right here.’

But that was the problem he was blind to; he was here. She could not convince her mind to rest when there was the impending, almost certain possibility that he would leave again, that a time was coming when he would not be around; when he would not be anywhere.

But for now, he was right; he was here. He was with her when this night was still, when the city outside could wait. But Y/N knew, deep down, that the nights like these were borrowed moments, fleeting and precious. They existed in the spaces between his concealed duty and sacrifice, in the hours when he let himself be nothing more than a man who loved her.

She did not ask him to stay awake with her. She did not ask him about the bruises forming on his frame. She simply closed her eyes and let the sound of his heartbeat lull her back to sleep.

Morning came with a soft glow of dawn seeping through the sheer curtains; it cast a golden hue over their space and a warm, rouge gleam through her closed eyelids. Bruce was already awake, as he often was, standing by the window with a cup of coffee in hand. He was bare from the waist up, the morning light tracing the contours of his back and highlighting the scars that stood scattered across his physique.

Y/N opened her eyes and watched him for a moment, drinking in the quiet beauty before her. Though, eventually, she was compelled to speak. 

‘What catches your eye?’ Y/N got up from their bed and moved to stand behind him. She looked past him to the sprawling murk of the Gotham City skyline, the view that held his gaze. She draped her arms around his waist and rested her chin upon his shoulder.

His head tilted ever so slightly in responce, until his cheek made light contact with her forehead. She could feel the smile that played at the corners of his lips. ‘This city… It never sleeps.’

‘Neither do you,’ she murmured sardonically, shifting so her face nuzzled into the base of his throat. 

‘You should, Bruce. You need to.’ He felt her words hum against his skin.

He said nothing, taking another slow sip of his coffee. He yearned to explain, to tell her why he was always unaccounted for, he felt the words swell at the edge of his tongue; he swallowed them back, and they burned in their descent. Y/N sighed, she sensed his hesitation, his unwillingness to speak, to disclose his worries. She gently pushed away and returned to the bed to sit amongst the ruffled sheets. 

‘Do you ever wonder what it would be like if we left? If we went somewhere far away, at least for a little while?’ Y/N did not know everything, but she knew this: it was Gotham that kept him tethered here. 

She did not know why that was; she could not understand it. Was he clinging to the memory of his parents taken too soon? She stared begrudgingly at the Metropolitan cesspool before her and concluded that must be the case; she could not see why else he would want to stay. There was beauty here; Y/N was not blind to it, she saw the Gothic architecture, the intricate ironwork and the towering cathedrals. There was beauty in its darkness, haunted yet elegant. 

But Gotham’s old-world charm stood in vast juxtaposition to its modern decay; the underbelly was a twisted mirage of its grandeur. Every crevice held murmurs of brutality and corruption, from alleyways to corporations. In Gotham, shadows were not merely cast by the towering buildings but by the weight of its crime, greed, and betrayal. Murk clung to its surfaces like a second skin, and the light, if it ever shone through, felt fleeting.

Bruce turned to face her fully, leaning against the windowsill; his face contorted, if she did not know him better, she would have thought he was in pain. 

‘I can’t.’

‘I know,’ she whispered, nodding slightly. ‘But I wish you could.’

He strode over, set his coffee down on the bedside table and sunk into the mattress beside her. His hands found her face, thumbs grazing her cheekbones as he studied her, his eyes unreadable. 

‘Would you? Leave Gotham? Leave all this?’

She swallowed. ‘I would be leaving something behind, something I couldn’t live without.’

Bruce knew she spoke of him; he considered this fact, felt the way it twisted his stomach and burnt like acid in his throat. She would be better off without him, safer. Maybe he should send her away; she should live in sunlight, not his shadow. Instead, he pulled her to him, his lips capturing hers in a kiss that spoke of everything he left unsaid, everything he kept shrouded behind his distasteful second life. Y/N melted into it, her fingers threading through his hair, anchoring herself to this sporadic moment.

Then he pulled away, his forehead resting against hers. ‘I can’t leave. Just know that I love you. That, I’m sure of.’

And for now, it was enough.

There were nights when the world felt too heavy, when the weight of his self-inflicted responsibility bore down upon him until he was engulfed by it, until it pulled him under. These were the times when he came to her in the dead of night, his body weary, his hands unsteady as they reached for her, craving her embrace.

She never asked where he had been. She never asked why his knuckles were raw. She never asked why an affliction lingered behind his gaze, a torment that refused to leave. Instead, she took him in, let him press his forehead against her shoulder, let him expel his unspoken burdens into the quiet space between them.

‘I hate this city,’ he once confessed, voice muffled against her skin. ‘I hate what it does to people. What it does to me.’

She carded her fingers through his dark hair, a soothing motion meant to ease the tension in his shoulders. His declaration had stunned her, he never spoke of these worries, never gave too much away.

‘Then leave.’ She tried to keep her tone light, unburdened. 

He let out a hollow laugh. ‘You know I can’t.'

‘I know,’ she whispered. But the truth was, she did not know; she did not understand.

Bruce lifted his head and searched her face as if trying to memorise it, commit it to his memory. 

‘I don't want to lose you.’

‘Then don’t,’ she whispered, a smile turning her lips as her fingers continued to pass through his hair. ‘Stay. At least for tonight. Stay for me; I’m not going anywhere, you know?’

They perpetually followed the same cycle: love, longing, and the insatiable pull of his unwavering, cumbersome duty. The few, yet treasured, nights they spent wrapped in each other’s arms, the stolen kisses in the dimly lit atrium of Wayne Manor, the whispered exchanges in the wake of the morning.

And then there were the other nights, the dreaded junctures. The ones where she woke to find the space beside her cold, sheets untouched. The vestige of his presence an aching reminder of the life he led, the life she was not acquainted with.

She told herself she could live with it. That as long as he came back to her, she could endure the waiting, the worrying, the never-ceasing fear that one day, he would not return at all, that he would be reduced to a memory, a phantasm of her past.

Though deep within her, Y/N knew. She knew that love and hope alone could not fix the fractures and fissures forming between them. That try as she might, one day, the burden of it all would become too much, and it would crumble under the pressure.

However, in the fleeting moments of his caress, she could not allow herself to fret this fact. She pressed herself even closer, savouring the way his arm tightened around her waist in his sleep, how his breath fanned, warm against her neck.

For now, she would seize these tranquil moments. The transient seconds in which the world outside ceased to exist, where Bruce was merely Bruce, and she was simply the woman he loved.

Because Y/N knew that, when all was said and done, the night would beckon him once more and draw him from her grasp.

Every comment and piece of advice is welcomed and appreciated <3