𐔌 ⋮ “Are you man enough?”
feat. dick grayson x fem!reader angst / comfort / healing tw: mentions of SA (canon Tarantula incident, no graphic detail), guilt, trauma, implied PTSD wc: ~2.4k If you're sensitive with any of this themes put yourself first and don't read it,i'll see you on the next post!
✶—Masterlist
The rain had been falling for hours. Gotham rain wasn’t soft — it wasn’t the kind that washed streets clean or made windows shimmer. It was heavy, unrelenting, the kind that crawled under your skin and refused to leave.
You had always thought the Manor felt bigger when it rained. The hallways seemed longer, the ceilings higher. The silence echoed more.
And that night, it wasn’t the rain that kept you awake. It was Dick.
He’d come home late from Blüdhaven patrol — later than usual, drenched and pale. He hadn’t said a word. Just went straight upstairs, peeling off his domino mask and gloves with shaking hands.
You had seen that look before. Not the bruised exhaustion — the emptiness behind his eyes. The kind that said he wasn’t here. Not really.
You waited. Ten minutes. Twenty. The rain only got louder.
Then you went up.
His door was ajar, light spilling from the crack.
“Dick?”
You voice was soft, testing.
No answer.
You pushed the door open quietly, peeking in — and froze.
He was sitting on the floor beside the bed, still in his undershirt and pants, his hair dripping onto his hands. His knees were drawn up, head down, and his breathing was too controlled. Too careful.
“Hey…” you whispered, stepping closer. “You didn’t even change—”
He flinched. Not much, but enough. Like you voice snapped him back into the room.
“Sweetheart—,” he said hoarsely. “Go back to bed.”
“Not when you’re like this.”
He exhaled sharply, hands gripping his knees. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
He didn’t answer.
You knelt in front of him, ignoring the cold water soaking your socks. You rested a hesitant hand on his wrist — he didn’t pull away, but he didn’t move either.
“Talk to me,” you murmured.
His eyes stayed fixed on the floor. His jaw clenched. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Then just… sit with me,” you said gently. “You don’t have to say anything.”
He huffed out a laugh — brittle, humorless. “You don’t get it. I don’t want you to see me like this.”
You tilted her head. “Like what?”
“Broken, I don't know,disgusting.”
Your heart twisted. “You’re not broken and you are not disgusting.”
He looked up then, and for the first time, you saw it — the storm behind his eyes. The guilt. The kind that doesn’t fade, no matter how many years you spend saving people.
“Love…” you whispered.
He swallowed, gaze flicking away again. “There are things I don’t want you to know. Things that—” His breath hitched. “—that change how you look at me.”
“I don’t think that’s possible,” you said softly.
“You’d be surprised.”
The silence stretched. The rain against the window was the only sound.
Then, quietly — barely a whisper — he said it.
“It wasn’t my choice.”
Your chest went still.
You didn’t need him to explain. You’d read enough between the lines, heard enough whispers from Blüdhaven, seen the way his face changed when that name was mentioned.
He finally met your eyes. “It happened after Blockbuster. I was— I was already done. I’d lost. And she—”
He broke off, pressing the heel of his hand to his eyes. “I didn’t stop her.”
Your voice was almost a breath. “That wasn’t your fault.”
“Yes, it was,” he said instantly. “I could’ve— I should’ve—”
“Richard,” you interrupted, your voice firm for the first time. “You said no.”
His throat bobbed. “Not out loud.”
“You didn’t have to,” you said. “You froze. You were hurt. You were grieving. That’s not consent.”
He shook his head. “You don’t get it. I didn’t fight back.”
“Because you didn’t have to fight,” you said quietly. “Because you were in shock. Because it wasn’t supposed to happen.”
His hands trembled. “You sound so sure.”
“I am.”
He blinked, eyes shining wet in the low light. “How?”
“Because I love you,” you said simply. “And I know what it looks like when someone carries guilt that isn’t theirs.”
For a long moment, he just stared at you. Then his breath cracked. A sound escaped him — not quite a sob, but close.
You reached forward and cupped his face, slow, careful. He didn’t move away this time.
“It’s okay,” you whispered. “You don’t have to be strong right now.”
His shoulders trembled. His head fell forward until it rested against her shoulder.
And just like that — Dick Grayson, the boy who smiled through everything, who carried the weight of every city he’d ever protected — broke.
You held him, saying nothing. Your fingers traced slow circles over his back, grounding him.
“I thought I deserved it,” he said after a while, voice muffled. “I let people die. I let Blüdhaven fall. I thought maybe— maybe that was punishment.”
Your stomach clenched. “Don’t say that.”
He laughed — hollow, empty. “You don’t know what I did.”
“I don’t need to. You didn’t deserve that,no one does.”
He shook his head, but his grip on your arm tightened.
You leaned back just enough to make him look at you. “You were hurt, Dick. Someone took advantage of that. That’s not on you.”
He exhaled, eyes glassy. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It’s not simple,” you said gently. “It’s cruel. It’s wrong. And it should’ve never happened. But that doesn’t make you dirty, or weak, or less worthy of love.”
He closed his eyes, jaw trembling. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this.”
“Deal with you?” you asked softly. “You’re not something I deal with, love. You’re someone I choose. Every day.”
He let out a shaky laugh — the kind that cracked somewhere in the middle.
“I don’t know what to do with you sometimes,” he murmured.
“Just… let me stay,” you said.
So he did.
Minutes passed. The rain softened. His breathing evened out against her shoulder.
When he finally spoke again, his voice was quiet — almost childlike.
“Sometimes I wake up and I can still feel it,” he said. “Like my body remembers before my head does.”
You nodded. “That’s how trauma works. It doesn’t live in words. It lives in the body. But that doesn’t mean you’re still there.”
He swallowed hard. “Then why does it feel like I am?”
“Because healing isn’t forgetting,” you whispered. “It’s learning that you’re safe now. That you’re not alone anymore.”
He went quiet again, breathing slow.
“You make it sound like I deserve to heal.”
“You do,” you said instantly.
He looked up, eyes red-rimmed. “Even after everything?”
“Especially after everything.”
You smiled softly, thumb brushing away a tear on his cheek. “You don’t have to prove you’re okay. Not to me. Not to anyone.”
He didn’t answer, but his shoulders loosened a little. The fight in his jaw softened.
You shifted, sitting beside him now, their backs against the bed. Their hands brushed — his fingers twitching before curling around yours.
It was a small thing, but it was something.
After a while, you asked, “Can I ask you something?”
He nodded, wary but calm.
“What would you tell me,” you said carefully, “if I told you the same story you just told me?”
His eyes flicked to you, startled.
“I’d tell you it wasn’t your fault,” he said immediately. “That you didn’t deserve it. That whoever did it—” his voice broke “—was a monster.”
Your hand tightened around his. “Then why is it so hard to say that to yourself?”
He exhaled shakily. “…Because it happened to me.”
“Exactly,” you said. “You protect everyone else so much that you forget you’re allowed to protect yourself, too.”
He looked at you then, really looked — at your quiet steadiness, your kind eyes, the way you didn’t flinch from the worst parts of him.
For the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel like he had to hide.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“For what?”
“For listening. For not… looking at me differently.”
You smiled faintly. “You’re still you, Dick. The same man who jumps off buildings for fun and eats cereal at midnight and insists on making everyone breakfast when you can’t sleep.”
That earned a quiet laugh.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be fully okay,” he admitted.
“You don’t have to be,” you said. “You just have to keep going.”
He nodded slowly, eyes softening.
Silence filled the room again — not heavy this time, but warm.
You leaned your head against his shoulder, and after a long pause, he rested his against yours.
The rain outside faded into a quiet drizzle.
For the first time in years, Dick Grayson didn’t feel haunted by what he couldn’t undo.
He felt held. He felt seen.
And when you whispered, “You’re safe,” he almost believed you.
Later that night, you woke up to find him still awake, tracing absent circles on the back of your hand.
“You should sleep,” you murmured.
“I’m trying,” he said softly. “But I keep thinking about what you said.”
“Which part?”
“The part where you said I’m still me.”
“You are.”
He smiled faintly. “You’re the first person who said that without meaning it as a reminder to move on.”
You squeezed his hand. “You don’t have to move on. You just have to move with it.”
He was quiet for a long time after that. Then:
“I used to hate myself for freezing,” he said. “But tonight… I realized I survived. That’s something, right?”
She nodded. “That’s everything.”
He looked at you— really looked — and for once, there was no shame in his gaze. Just exhaustion, and a fragile kind of peace.
“Thank you,” he whispered again.
You smiled, half-asleep. “Anytime, Grayson.”
When he finally closed his eyes, she brushed a hand through his hair, whispering softly words of comfort, of home.
A/N: posting 2 times the same day? dw i'm just releasing drafts! I wanted to practice writing about more taboo subjects! didk grayson fluff coming to save y'all 🔖 𓂃⋆.˚:: @simpingmyassoff @shootingstargirl2001 , @dreamerwhofell , @gothamwing , @amiratheangel , @virtaideen , @asterwriter221 , @1234ilikecowsthanyoumore , @supahnohvaa , @vivian-555 , @piatosniathenie , @sonyboos , @beanxiv , @animegamerfox , (if you want to be added comment down below!!)
