"Not that I'm expecting anything. But reincarnation is truly a mysterious thing, no?"
In another life, you died quietly. There is no grand sacrifice or tragic final words. Just a lonely ending swallowed by time.
And somehow… you woke up here—in unknown fictional reality. In a different world.
A crueler one.
A world of vigilantes, heroes, supervillain, and gods lurking over rooftops, blood-stained alleyways, and a city that never truly rest even in death. You don't remember everything from your past life aside from a small fragments of it.
A warm hands and a song someone that used to hum to you.
But for some reason… the strangers—whom they call themselves your family, look at you strangely. Especially Bruce wayne—Your father. a character you've only known in your past as a.. well.. character—like he already lost you once before. And why is that? How curious...
Dick Grayson was six years old when he first started wondering about his soulmate.
At the time, his greatest concern was whether pirates were cooler than cowboys. A debate he took very seriously.
His mother, however, seemed far more interested in the scrape stretched across his knee.
"Stop picking at it."
"I'm not."
"Dick."
Mary Grayson sighed and gently caught his hand before he could peel away the corner of the bandage.
The injury wasn't actually his. That was the whole reason she was tending to it in the first place.
Somewhere out there, another child had tripped and fallen.
The scrape on their knee had appeared on his moments later, bright and stinging against skin that had never touched the ground.
Dick considered this one of the most fascinating things in the world.
A person he'd never met.
Someone who somehow belonged to him. Connected to him by something no one else could see.
"Maybe they were climbing a mountain."
His mother's lips twitched. "A mountain?"
"Or a castle."
"A castle is much more likely."
"I think so too." Dick nodded solemnly. A castle explained the scrape much better than simply falling over.
Castles had stone staircases and secret passageways. Castles had dragons and villains and daring escapes.
His soulmate was probably off on an adventure.
His mother finished securing the bandage before pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
"Your soulmate must be having quite the day."
The thought filled him with excitement.
For the rest of the afternoon, Dick imagined another child racing through hidden corridors, ducking beneath traps and escaping dragons by the skin of their teeth.
The possibility that they had simply tripped over their own feet never even crossed his mind.
←↓→↑
When he was seven, he spent two days complaining about a toothache.
The pain settled deep in his jaw, throbbing every time he tried to smile.
By the third day, it disappeared as suddenly as it had arrived.
His father explained that soulmate resonance sometimes worked that way.
That his soulmate had probably gone to the dentist.
Dick immediately sat upright. "What if they were scared?"
"I'm sure they were brave."
"What if nobody held their hand?"
John looked up from the costume he was repairing. "Dick."
"What?"
"They're not stranded on a deserted island."
"You don't know that."
His mother laughed so hard from the other side of the trailer that she nearly dropped her equipment.
Dick didn't see what was so funny.
His soulmate was out there somewhere.
They might be scared of dentists. Or hated needles.
The thoughts lingered with him long after the conversation ended.
Sometimes, late at night, Dick would stare at the ceiling and wonder if they ever thought about him too.
Whether they looked at the strange injuries that appeared on their skin and imagined a boy they'd never met.
He didn't know it then, but that question would follow him for years.
↑→↓←
Dick had developed a habit of asking questions nobody could answer.
What was their favourite colour?
Did they like animals?
Could they do cartwheels?
Did they live nearby?
Did they know about him?
Did they ever wonder the same things?
His parents always answered as though the questions mattered. With interest. As though his curiosity wasn't silly.
As though wondering about the person connected to him was the most natural thing in the world.
Maybe that was where it started.
Not the soulmate bond itself, the encouragement. The way nobody ever told him to stop asking. The quiet certainty with which his parents treated his soulmate's existence.
They never spoke about them as a possibility. They spoke about them as a certainty.
That somewhere in the world, there was a person who was completely his.
→←↓↑
At night, after the performances ended and the circus grounds settled into a comfortable hush, Mary often read to him before bed.
Dick's favourite stories weren't fairy tales.
They were stories about connected souls.
The old book lived beside the couch in their trailer, its spine cracked and softened with age. The pages had been turned so many times that the corners curled.
Inside were dosens of accounts collected from all over the world.
Stories about soulmates separated by oceans, soulmates born years apart, soulmates who searched for decades, or who stumbled into one another entirely by accident.
Dick never grew tired of hearing them.
He already knew most of the endings by heart. But that wasn't the point. The point was that every story promised the same thing.
No matter how long it took, how far apart they started, or how impossible it seemed, the soulmates always found each other.
Every single time.
The certainty of it settled somewhere deep inside him. A truth as unquestionable as gravity. As natural as the rising sun.
His soulmate was out there. And one day, they would be his.
By the time Mary finished reading, Dick would already be staring out the trailer window.
Wondering how they would meet. What they looked like. If they laughed loudly or quietly.
If they liked the circus.
Wondering if they were looking at the same stars scattered across the night sky. If they ever touched the marks that appeared on their skin and thought about him.
The thoughts comforted him.
No matter how large the world felt, where he went or how many cities the circus travelled through, there was always someone in it who belonged to him.
Someone he hadn't met yet.
A person he was already learning how to love.
↑→↓←
When he was eight, before the fall, he started keeping things.
Not intentionally at first.
A postcard from a city the circus had passed through. A photograph he liked. A joke that made him laugh. A story he thought someone else would enjoy.
Small things.
The kind of things most children forgot about by the following week.
Dick didn't.
Because whenever he found something special, he caught himself thinking the same thing.
I should tell my soulmate about this someday.
The thought came so naturally he never stopped to question it.
Why would he?
His soulmate was part of his future. Everyone said so.
Some days, he imagined finally meeting them and emptying years of collected memories into their hands.
Showing them every postcard.
Telling them every story.
Introducing them to every place he'd loved.
As though all the little pieces of his life were simply waiting for the right person to share them with.
As though he'd been saving a seat beside him all along.
Years later, after Gotham, after Robin, after everything that came afterward, Dick would still remember those moments.
The scrape on his knee.
The toothache.
The bedtime stories.
His parent's laughter.
The quiet certainty in their voices whenever they spoke about soulmates.
People often assumed his faith in destiny came from the bond itself.
They were wrong.
The bond only connected him to another person.
His parents were the ones who taught him to care. To wonder and to wait.
They were the ones who taught him that somewhere in the world there was a person meant for him.
Someone important who was worth searching for. Someone worth believing in.
Long before he knew anything about them at all.
He loved the idea of them first. Everything else came later.
Before he ever even had a reason to.
Most people loved talking about destiny.
Adults spoke about soulmates with the same certainty they reserved for death and taxes. Teachers smiled when the topic came up in class. Grandparents reminisced over holiday dinners. Entire television networks built reality shows around reunions.
It was impossible to escape.
Not that anyone seemed interested in trying.
Soulmates were proof that the universe cared. Proof that nobody was truly alone. That somewhere out there existed a person created specifically for you.
People loved that idea.
You hated it. Not the concept itself, just yours.
When you were younger, you'd thought soulmate injuries sounded romantic.
A sore wrist because they spent too long writing or a tiny burn from touching a hot pan.
The sort of stories people laughed about.
"My soulmate tripped over again."
"Mine wears his rings on too tight."
"I love when she bites her lip when she’s nervous."
Everyone always sounded so fond when they talked about it. As though every ache was a love letter. Like pain somehow became sweeter when it belonged to someone else.
Bonds manifested differently depending on the pair.
Some people shared emotions, some met each other in dreams. A small percentage could hear each other's thoughts during moments of intense stress. The most common bond, however, was physical resonance.
If your soulmate got hurt, so did you.
Not the injury itself, the consequences. A broken bone wouldn't suddenly appear in your arm, but the pain would. The ache, tenderness, and limitations.
If they twisted an ankle, you'd spend the next few weeks limping around on a perfectly healthy leg.
If they got a migraine, you got one too.
Most people only experienced minor inconveniences.
Nothing life-altering. Nothing that interfered with daily life. At least, not often.
You were not most people.
You stopped finding it romantic at twelve.
Because scraped knees and accidental burns were one thing. Waking up unable to feel your left arm was another.
The pain hit without warning. One second you were asleep, the next you were on your bedroom floor screaming.
Your parents rushed you to the hospital.
The doctors found nothing wrong.
No fracture. No dislocation. No nerve damage. Physically, your arm was perfectly healthy.
Unfortunately, your soulmate's wasn't. Apparently they'd shattered theirs.
Badly.
The pain lingered for nearly two months.
Everyone acted excited.
Your soulmate survived.
Isn't that wonderful?
You received congratulations.
Congratulations.
As though being unable to lift a backpack was somehow a milestone worth celebrating.
The years that followed only got worse.
Your soulmate got shot.
They got stabbed.
Sometimes they manage both within the same week.
You developed a concerning familiarity with painkillers. The nurses at your local urgent care knew you by name. One doctor suggested keeping a journal to track symptoms.
You filled three notebooks.
Looking back through them felt less like medical records and more like a crime scene timeline.
Gunshot wounds. Broken knuckles. Dislocated shoulder. Concussion. Concussion. Another concussion.
You had spent years trying to imagine what kind of person accumulated this many injuries.
At first you'd pictured an athlete.
Then a firefighter.
Maybe a soldier.
Eventually, you'd settled on a simpler explanation.
Your soulmate was an idiot.
At the time, it felt like the only reasonable explanation.
Years later, you would discover that the truth was significantly worse.
But for now, all you knew was that somewhere out there existed a complete stranger whose self-preservation instincts had apparently been beaten to death in an alley.
And for reasons you would never understand, the universe had decided that person belonged to you.
←↓→↑
The first time you missed a school excursion because your soulmate had managed to break something important, everyone treated it like an unfortunate coincidence.
The second time, they called it bad luck.
By the third, people had started joking that your soulmate had a personal grudge against your social life.
You laughed along because it was easier than admitting how much it bothered you.
Most people, hell, everyone romanticised soulmates.
Talked about fate and destiny and finding the missing piece of yourself.
Most soul pairs experienced a handful of major injuries throughout their lives.
Yours seemed determined to collect them.
You remembered when your soulmate somehow got stabbed before your final exams. The pain had hit so suddenly you nearly collapsed in the middle of class.
Your friends had thought you were having some kind of medical emergency.
In hindsight, they weren't entirely wrong.
You sat the exam anyway.
You failed it.
The examiner wasn't interested in hearing that somebody else's knife wound had ruined your concentration.
Life kept moving regardless.
Teachers didn't extend deadlines because your soulmate had been hospitalised.
Employers didn't care that you were limping because someone you'd never met had twisted their ankle chasing God-knows-what.
The world expected you to adapt,
So you did.
You learned how to function through headaches. How to smile through pain. How to swallow frustration before it became bitterness.
You learned exactly how many over-the-counter painkillers you could safely take.
You learned how to fake being fine.
But most importantly, you learned how to stop hoping.
Because every time you wondered if maybe things would get easier, your soulmate proved you wrong.
At first you'd worried about them.
What kind of life were they living? Were they sick? Were they trapped in dangerous circumstances? Did they need help?
That concern lasted until the fourth broken bone.
Then the sixth.
Then the first gunshot wound.
The shot had been a turning point. Because normal people did not get shot. Normal people definitely didn't get shot more than once.
You remembered lying awake in bed afterward, staring at the ceiling while pain radiated through your shoulder.
What the hell is wrong with this person?
The question never really went away.
As the years passed the injuries kept coming. Sometimes there would be weeks of peace.
Then suddenly your soulmate would decide to throw themselves off a building.
Or through a window.
Or into traffic.
At least that's what it felt like.
You didn't know who they were. Didn't know their name. Didn't know where they lived. But you knew they had absolutely no regard for their own safety. No fucking regard for your safety either.
And eventually, concern became irritation. Irritation became anger. Anger became resentment.
Not because of the pain. Not even because of the injuries. Because of what they stole from you.
Your freedom. Choices. The ability to plan a normal life. Every decision came with a silent question.
What if my soulmate gets hurt that day?
You missed birthdays. Missed opportunities. Cancelled plans. Skipped events.
Not because you wanted to.
Because experience had taught you that sooner or later another injury would arrive.
Meanwhile your soulmate remained a stranger. A ghost. A burden you carried without ever being asked if you wanted to.
It always did.
It made you angry.
Not the broken bones. Not the scars. Not even the countless nights spent curled around pain that didn't belong to you.
The fact that someone you'd never met had become one of the most important influences on your life.
Without your permission, your consent, and without ever even saying sorry.
Somewhere out there, your soulmate was choosing to live their life this way.
And every time they did, you paid the price.
You wondered if they ever thought about you. If they ever felt guilty.
If they even cared.
Or if, wherever they were, they simply got back up after every injury and ran headfirst into the next disaster.
Unaware that somewhere across the country, someone was beginning to hate them.
Dick found the post three weeks later.
If anyone asked, it had been an accident. A coincidence.
The sort of thing that happened when someone spent too much time scrolling through soulmate forums at two in the morning.
Nobody asked. That was probably for the best. Dick knew himself well enough to recognise a lie when he told one.
There had never been anything accidental about the way he searched for traces of his soulmate.
The post appeared halfway down a discussion thread titled:
What's the worst injury you've ever shared with your soulmate?
Most of the replies were harmless.
Broken wrists.
Appendectomies.
A woman whose soulmate had somehow fractured their nose trying to impress someone with a skateboard.
Dick smiled despite himself.
Then he kept scrolling.
The smile disappeared.
←↑→↓
I've had more concussions than some professional athletes.
At this point, I'm convinced my soulmate has a death wish.
If I ever meet them, my first question is going to be what the hell is wrong with them.
The post went into concerning details about their injuries dating from over ten years.
Dick stared at the screen.
Read the post again.
Then a third time.
The amusement slowly drained from his face.
Because the timeline matched. Not approximately. Not close enough to be concerning. Exactly.
The gun wounds, the stabbings, concussions, fractures. The endless collection of injuries that had become so commonplace to him he rarely thought about them anymore.
His stomach twisted.
For a long moment, he simply sat there. Laptop balanced on his knees. Apartment fading into the background.
The words blurred.
Not because he couldn't read them. Because he couldn't stop.
Every sentence felt heavier than the last. Not the complaints.
Those made sense.
God, they made sense.
What hurt was everything beneath them.
The frustration. The years of accumulated resentment packed into a handful of sentences.
Not anger born from a single bad day. The kind that settled in after years of disappointment.
His chest tightened.
He scrolled further.
The account wasn't anonymous. There was a username. Years of history.
Dick clicked on it before he could talk himself out of it.
The oldest post was five years old.
The next mentioned another concussion.
A missed birthday.
A cancelled trip.
A broken rib.
An emergency room visit.
Each entry felt like another weight settling onto his shoulders.
Dick had spent years accepting pain as part of his life.
Bruises, bones and cuts all healed.
It had never occurred to him that somebody else had been dragged through it alongside him.
A stranger.
Someone who had never agreed to any of it.
Someone who had spent years waking up with injuries they couldn't explain.
Dick closed the laptop.
Immediately opened it again.
His jaw tightened. He rubbed a hand over his face.
For twenty years, he'd wondered about his soulmate. Wondered who they were. What they were like. Whether they ever thought about him the way he’d always thought about them.
A quiet curiosity that surfaced in the spaces between missions and late-night patrols.
He'd imagined meeting them someday.
Not because soulmates guaranteed a happy ending. Life had taught him better than that.
But because they'd always been there.
Every broken bone. Every near miss. Every moment he'd walked away from something that should have killed him.
They'd felt it too.
Somewhere.
Somehow.
The idea of them had become a constant. A second shadow stretching alongside his own.
And now, for the first time, he was seeing things from the other side.
The reality of it. The cost.
His throat felt tight.
tBecausehey weren't waiting for him.
They weren't searching.
If anything, they sounded exhausted by the idea of him.
And for the first time, Dick found himself wondering whether meeting him would be the last thing they wanted.
The thought hurt far more than it should have.
Dick had managed to stay away from the profile for three days.
He told himself it was respect.
Privacy.
Common decency.
They had spent years dealing with consequences they never asked for, the least he could do was leave them alone.
Three days lasted longer than he expected.
Not nearly as long as he'd hoped.
On the fourth night, he opened the page again.
Just for a minute.
Just to look.
That was the excuse, anyway.
One minute became an hour. Then two. Then the rest of the night.
He read everything.
Posts. Comments. Replies buried in forgotten threads.
Tiny fragments of a life scattered across years of internet history.
Favorite movies, music recommendations, complaints about work.
A rant about a terrible landlord. An argument over whether pineapple belonged on pizza.
Meaningless details.
Except they weren't meaningless. Not to him.
Every new discovery felt strangely precious. Like hearing a voice through a wall after years of silence.
For the first time, his soulmate wasn't an abstract possibility.
They were becoming real.
And Dick found himself wanting more.
What did their laugh sound like? What expression did they make when they were annoyed? Did they drink coffee in the morning? Did they still sleep curled up on the same side of the bed they'd mentioned three years ago?
The questions multiplied faster than he could answer them.
By sunrise, he knew more about them than he'd ever thought possible.
By sunrise, he also knew that it wasn't enough.
↑→↓←
The more Dick learned, the more impossible it became to ignore the distance between you.
You were real.
A real person living somewhere beyond his reach.
A real person carrying scars that belonged to both of them.
And once he knew that, how was he supposed to walk away? How was he supposed to forget? Keep waiting?
Dick spent years helping strangers.
Pulling people out of collapsing buildings. Talking frightened kids off ledges. Running toward people who needed help. Doing nothing had never been one of his strengths.
The realisation should have worried him.
Instead, it felt reasonable. Natural.
Almost inevitable.
By the end of the week, he found himself revisiting old comments. Looking closer.
A mention of weather. A complaint about public transit. A local restaurant.
Tiny details.
Nothing significant on their own, but what became patterns when placed together.
The detective in him noticed before the rest of him did.
A city narrowed to a suburb. A suburb narrowed to three possibilities. Three possibilities narrowed to one.
Dick stared at the screen. His pulse quickened.
A line had been crossed somewhere.
He wasn't entirely sure when.
Only that he should probably stop.
Instead, he opened another tab. Then another.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard. Long enough for hesitation to appear. Not long enough for it to matter.
Because you were out there, and you were hurting.
The first search took less than ten seconds.
The second took even less.
And when the first genuine piece of information appeared on his screen, Dick felt his heartbeat stumble.
For the first time in twenty years, his soulmate wasn't a dream.
You were becoming a person.
And Dick Grayson had never been very good at letting go of the people he loved.
The next morning began the same way most mornings did.
Pain.
You woke before your alarm, blinking groggily at the ceiling while a dull ache settled somewhere between your shoulder blades. Not terrible. Not even particularly surprising. Just another reminder that your soulmate was still out there making questionable decisions.
At least nothing felt broken.
That was practically a victory.
You lay there for another minute before forcing yourself upright. The soreness protested immediately, but years of experience had taught you how to judge the difference between annoying and hospital-worthy.
This fell firmly into the first category. Which meant work.
Lucky you.
By the time you arrived at the coffee shop, Gotham was already awake.
Rush hour traffic crawled through the streets outside. The sidewalks overflowed with exhausted office workers, students, tourists and people who looked like they hadn’t slept in three days.
Which, in this city, narrowed nothing down.
The familiar smell of coffee beans wrapped around you the moment you stepped behind the counter.
Honestly, it was one of the few things you genuinely liked about your job.
The customers were a different story.
By eleven o’clock, you’d already been yelled at twice.
Once because a man believed waiting three minutes for coffee constituted a personal attack.
The second because somebody thought you controlled the weather.
“Rough morning?”
You glanced up, the question knocking you out of your haze.
Your coworker was already grinning.
You sighed. “When isn’t it?”
“Fair.”
The lunch rush arrived shortly after.
Orders piled up. Names blurred together. Your feet hurt. Someone dropped their drink. Another person complained because their coffee was too hot.
You resisted the urge to suggest that coffee was generally known for that.
Then the bell above the door chimed.
Normally, you wouldn't have looked up.
Lunch was a bloody nightmare. There were six drinks waiting to be made, three customers already staring holes into the back of your head, and somebody was arguing over oat milk. You had better things to do.
Yet somehow your eyes lifted anyway.
The man who stepped through the door looked like trouble. Not due to anything he was doing, but because nobody should have looked like that.
For a second, your brain simply failed to process him properly.
Dark hair. Blue eyes. Tall enough to stand out without seeming imposing. Broad shoulders hidden beneath an ordinary jacket that somehow wasn't ordinary anymore because he was wearing it.
The details registered one at a time.
Like your mind was struggling to decide where to look first.
It wasn't just that he was handsome. Handsome was too simple a word. Too ordinary.
Handsome was the guy on a billboard, the actor in a movie, the model in a magazine. This felt different. More annoying.
Like somebody had reached into your head, extracted every preference you'd ever had, and assembled a person around them.
You immediately disliked him for it.
Unfortunately, that didn't make him any less attractive.
His smile appeared as he spoke to the customer in front of him. It transformed his entire face. Softened it.
Made him look approachable in a way beautiful people rarely managed.
The kind of smile that made strangers smile back. The kind that suggested he remembered names. Held doors open. Helped old ladies carry groceries.
He looked like someone that got people into trouble because they assumed nobody that nice-looking could possibly be dangerous.
You tore your eyes away.
Absolutely not.
You were not doing this today.
He was just a customer. A stupidly attractive customer. Nothing more.
Several minutes later, he stepped up to the register.
Up close was a mistake. You realised that immediately.
Most attractive people benefited from distance.
A few feet between you and them gave reality time to point out imperfections.
The lighting changed. The angles shifted. Something human emerged.
Not him.
If anything, proximity made things worse.
His eyes were brighter than you'd thought. Not just blue, more like a deep ocean colour that caught light. The kind that made direct eye contact feel strangely unfair.
There was a faint scar near his eyebrow. Another disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.
Tiny imperfections that should have made him look less attractive.
Instead they only made him look real.
"Hi." His voice wrapped around the single syllable with effortless warmth.
He sounded so fucking pleased to be talking to you.
"What can I get for you?"
For a moment, he simply looked at you. Like he'd forgotten whatever he'd originally intended to say.
Then he smiled.
And suddenly it felt difficult to remember how to breathe.
"I'll take a large flat white."
Of course.
Of course the voice matched the face.
Why wouldn't it?
You entered the order before your brain could embarrass you.
The register beeped.
He handed over his card.
His fingers brushed yours for half a second.
It was nothing, really. Barely contact at all. Yet something strange tightened beneath your ribs.
Gone before you could identify it.
You frowned. Weird.
"Name?"
"Dick."
You blinked.
He looked entirely too pleased by your reaction.
"You serious?"
His eyes crinkled at the corners as his grin widened. The bastard somehow became even prettier. "I get that a lot."
A laugh escaped before you could stop it.
Hd let out a deep shaky breath, like he'd been hoping for it. Waiting for it.
As though making you laugh had accomplished something important. Like a strangers happiness mattered.
The look vanished so quickly you almost missed it.
For a brief, inexplicable moment, it felt less like meeting a stranger.
And more like being recognised.
The city belonged to him at night.
Not officially. Gotham belonged to no one. It clawed at anyone foolish enough to try and claim it.
But Dick knew its rhythms better than most.
He knew which rooftops held the best sightlines. Which alleyways concealed drug deals. Which fire escapes groaned beneath a person's weight. Which apartment windows stayed lit long after midnight because the people inside couldn't slep.
And he knew yours.
Perched on a neighboring rooftop, Dick lowered his binoculars slightly.
Your bedroom light had turned on twenty-three minutes before your alarm.
Again.
His jaw tightened.
The bond was never subtle.
He rubbed the back of his neck, the strain from yesterday's patrol still lingered. A bruised shoulder. A pulled muscle. Nothing serious.
Yet the thought of you waking up sore because of him left an uncomfortable weight in his chest.
You sat on the edge of your bed for several moments before standing. Slow and careful. Judging whether the pain was worth worrying about.
Dick recognised the routine.
You'd done it countless times.
The first time he'd seen it, he'd nearly broken a criminal's jaw.
It was then that he'd truly realised what years of sharing injuries with a vigilante must have been like.
You'd learned to evaluate pain before breakfast.
His fingers tightened around the binoculars.
You deserved answers.
You deserved him.
The thought arrived as naturally as breathing.
Dangerous. Wrong. Impossible to stop.
Dick watched you leave for work.
Then he followed.
He knew how surveillance worked. Knew exactly how easy it was to make someone feel watched.
So he stayed distant. A block behind, sometimes two.
Just another face in Gotham's endless crowd.
The irony wasn't lost on him.
Nightwing could disappear from sight whenever he wanted. Dick Grayson found excuses to linger near coffee shops.
By eleven, he was seated across the street with a newspaper he hadn't read once.
His attention remained fixed elsewhere.
On the way you tucked loose strands of hair behind your ear when concentrating. On the tiny crease that appeared between your eyebrows whenever customers irritated you. On the exhausted smile you gave coworkers despite clearly wanting to go home.
His chest ached.
He hated seeing you tired.
Hated seeing people take advantage of your kindness.
Hated that he couldn't simply walk inside and tell everyone to be careful with you.
Because you were important.
Because you mattered.
Because.. No.
Dick shut the thought down before it could finish.
This wasn't about ownership.
It couldn't be.
The soulmate bond wasn't ownership. It was connection.
Destiny.
A promise written into both of them before either had been born.
At least that was what he told himself whenever the possessive thoughts became harder to ignore.
By lunchtime, the crowd had thickened.
Good.
That made entering easier. Less noticeable.
The bell above the café door chimed as he stepped inside.
Immediately, he saw you.
The sight struck him with embarrassing force.
Every single time.
He'd spent months watching.
Months learning your routines.
Listening to your laugh from across rooms.
And somehow the impact never lessened.
You stood behind the register looking exhausted. A little annoyed. Ethereal.
Dick looked away before anyone could notice he'd been staring.
The line moved forward.
One customer. Two. Three. His pulse accelerated.
Ridiculous.
He'd fought assassins without flinching. Faced alien invasions. Stood against enemies capable of leveling cities. Yet somehow speaking to you felt more intimidating than any of them.
Because this mattered. Because you mattered.
The customer ahead of him finally left. And then it was his turn.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Your eyes lifted to meet his. Everything else disappeared. The noise. The conversations. The espresso machines. All of the buzzing was gone, just for a second.
Just long enough for Dick to feel the strange, impossible certainty he'd been carrying since the first moment he'd seen you.
There you are.
His soulmate.
His.
"Hi." The word came out softer than intended.
Your gaze remained fixed on him. Trying very hard not to stare.
Dick nearly smiled.
You had no idea.
No idea how many nights he'd spent imagining this conversation.
How many times he'd rehearsed introducing himself.
How often he'd wondered whether the bond would feel different when you finally met.
Instead, you asked professionally, "What can I get for you?"
For one disastrous second, Dick forgot the answer. Forgot he'd ordered the same thing repeatedly for weeks specifically because it was easy to remember. How human conversation worked.
You looked even better up close.
God, your eyes. Your voice. The tiny signs of exhaustion. The familiar shape of someone he'd spent months studying from a distance. Real.
You were finally real.
"I'll take a large flat white."
Smooth.
Very smooth.
Dick internally cringed.
You entered the order.
The register beeped.
He handed over his card.
Your fingers brushed his. The contact lasted less than a heartbeat. Lightning shot through him anyway.
The first touch.
The first real touch.
Dick forced himself not to react. Years of training saved him. Barely.
Then you asked the question he'd secretly been waiting for.
"Name?"
His mouth twitched. "Dick."
The blink you gave him was immediate.
Perfect.
Dick couldn't help smiling.
For the first time all day, genuine amusement broke through the tension knotting his chest.
"You serious?"
A laugh threatened to escape him.
God, he loved your voice already. Far too much.
"I get that a lot."
Then you laughed.
His breath caught.
Don't.
Don't do this.
Don't build a future out of a single laugh.
Yet he couldn't stop.
For a brief moment, your eyes met his again. Confusion flickered there. Recognition without understanding. A pull neither of you could explain.
And for the first time since entering the café, Dick wondered if you felt it too.
If you could physically feel that he was someone who looked at you and saw the center of his world.
You frowned slightly.
Dick’s smile was warm. Harmless.
The same smile that convinced criminals he was merciful and civilians he was safe.
"Thanks," he said.
Then he stepped aside to wait for his coffee.
And for the first time in months, waiting didn't feel difficult. Because now you knew he existed.
Dick returned three days later.
Then again the day after that.
Soon, the visits became a part of his routine so deeply ingrained that he no longer questioned it.
Patrol.
Sleep.
Reports.
Coffee.
You.
The order never changed.
He learned your schedule without meaning to. Or maybe he had meant to. Dick wasn't entirely sure where the line had disappeared.
At some point, knowing things about you had stopped feeling like gathering information and started feeling lke breathing.
He knew which coworker made you laugh.
Which customer always left you irritated.
Which days exhaustion sat heavier on your shoulders.
He knew the difference between your real smiles and the fake ones. The difference between a smile that reached your eyes and one offered out of politeness. The difference mattered.
Everything about you mattered.
Sometimes guilt still surfaced. Usually late at night. During the quiet moments after patrol, when Gotham finally stopped screaming for a few hours and left him alone with his thoughts.
That was when he remembered the forum posts.
The complaints.
The frustration.
The resentment.
Years of it.
You didn't want a soulmate. Not one who left you waking up sore after fights. Or one whose life seemed determined to get itself stabbed, shot, electrocuted, and thrown off rooftops.
The thought should have hurt.
Instead, Dick found himself staring at the ceiling and feeling strangely calm.
Because you didn't hate him.
You hated the idea of him.
The unknown. The stranger connected to your life.
You hated the inconvenience.
The pain. Uncertainty.
But him?
You didn't know him yet.
How could you hate someone you didn't know?
You didn't know about the nights he spent bleeding through cracked armor because civilians needed help. About the disasters he'd prevented. The people he'd saved. The promises he'd kept.
You didn't know how many times he'd nearly told you the truth.
How many times he'd stood outside your apartment building and wondered if tonight should be the night. How often he thought about you. How he worried.
You didn't know.
But you would.
Eventually.
Dick believed that with absolute certainty.
Because every day gave him something. A conversation. A smile. A joke.
Tiny, worthless things.
Things nobody else would notice.
By the second week, you knew his order.
By the third, you smiled when he walked through the door.
The first time it happened, the entire day felt brighter.
Ridiculously embarrassing of him, he knew that.
Yet the memory replayed in his head for hours.
The way your face lit up with recognition. How you'd greeted him before he even reached the counter.
Like you were happy to see him.
Like he'd become part of your day too.
A crack in the wall.
A tiny one. But cracks spread. Eventually walls collapse.
Dick was patient enough to wait. To let things unfold naturally.
Most of the time.
You still didn't know the truth.
Didn't know that he could identify your footsteps.
Could find your apartment window from almost anywhere in the neighborhood.
Didn't know he'd memorised the route you walked home.
The backup routes too.
The places where the streetlights didn't work. The alleys he disliked.
The intersections with the highest crime rates.
Important information. Necessary information.
Someone had to know those things. Someone had to keep you safe.
The city certainly wasn't going to.
Dick smiled to himself as he watched you lock the café doors one evening.
The sun had already disappeared. Streetlights painted gold across the pavement.
You looked tired. A little cold.
Still breathtaking.
Always so fucking ethereal.
His chest tightened with pure unfiltered need.
The overwhelming, consuming need to make sure nothing bad ever touched you again. To stand between you and every ugly thing Gotham could throw your way. To erase every danger before it reached you. To make the world safe enough that you'd never have to worry.
Hell, even the need to just push you down and capture your mouth in a kiss so intimate that you’d never want to let go.
The feeling had become stronger lately. Harder to ignore.
Before, you had been a concept. A hopeful possibility.
Now you were you.
You had a face. A laugh. A favorite drink. A life.
And every day made the thought of losing you more unbearable.
You disappeared around the corner.
Dick waited.
Five seconds. Ten. Then he rose from his seat. Following. Never too close. Never enough to be noticed. Just enough.
To intervene if something happened.
Making sure you got home safely.
Just enough to reassure the restless part of himself that always seemed to whisper what if?
What if someone followed you first?
What if someone hurt you?
What if someone took you away?
The thoughts were irrational. Dick knew they were.
Most people walked home every day without incident. But most people weren't you.
His jaw tightened.
That was the difference.
People talked about soulmates as though finding them was the end of the story. Like destiny did all the work.
As if fate guaranteed a happy ending.
Dick knew better.
Finding you wasn't the difficult part. Keeping you safe was. Protecting you was. Making sure the universe didn't decide to take back the greatest thing it had ever given him was.
His gaze remained fixed on your retreating figure. Unwavering.
The possessiveness no longer startled him.
That battle had ended weeks ago.
Every justification had been exhausted. Every argument dismantled.
The truth remained.
You were woven through his life. Through his thoughts. Through every future he could imagine.
His soulmate.
His person.
The one thing in this city he couldn't lose.
And somewhere along the way, the distinction between wanting you and needing you had quietly disappeared.
Dick watched you disappear into your apartment building. Only then did the tension leave his shoulders.
Safe.
The word settled warmly inside his chest.
Safe for another night.
His eyes lingered on the illuminated window that he knew belonged to you.
Terrifyingly devoted.
The universe had tied your lives together years ago.
And Dick had no plans on fighting fate.
And if the day ever came when something, or someone, tried to take you away from him, Gotham would learn exactly how dangerous Nightwing could be when the only thing he loved was threatened.
The first time you noticed something was wrong, it didn't feel important. Just strange.
"Wait."
Your friend blinked across the table. "What?"
"You got offered a job in Blüdhaven?"
"Yeah?"
You frowned. "When?"
"A few months ago."
A few months ago.
That couldn't be right.
You'd applied for that same position. Gone through three interviews. Spent weeks waiting for a response.
And then nothing.
No rejection.
No acceptance.
Nothing.
"I never heard back."
"Really?" they said. "That's weird."
It was weird. You'd checked your emails obsessively at the time.
Nothing.
Not even spam.
Eventually you'd assumed they'd gone with another candidate.
The conversation moved on.
You didn't.
↓→←↑
Then another thing happened. And another.
"..You never told me your landlord sold the building."
Dick looked up from where he was cooking. "What?"
"The building."
You leaned against the counter. "The landlord was apparently trying to sell it last year."
Something flashed across his face.
"Huh."
"He said he couldn't find a buyer."
Dick hummed. "Guess it wasn't the right time."
You frowned.
That wasn't what the landlord had said. The exact words had been: "Every buyer that showed interest pulled out at the last minute."
←→↓↑
Then there was your ex.
Not an ex, technically. Just someone you'd gone on a few dates with before Dick.
Someone who suddenly moved overseas without warning.
You only found out because you bumped into one of their friends.
"Yeah, he was furious."
"What?"
"They withdrew the visa investigation thing eventually, but by then he'd already accepted another position."
You blinked. "The what?"
The friend frowned. "You didn't know?"
No.
No, you definitely hadn't known.
↓←→↑
The pieces don't fit together immediately.
Not until one late night, sitting on Dick's couch.
When his phone lit up.
You hadn’t even meant to look, the flash just caught your attention. The “image of the day” was a photograph.
Your photograph.
Not a recent one. Not one you’d sent him.
A candid picture.
Taken months before you met.
You were standing outside of your apartment.
"..Dick."
His entire body goes still at your tone.
Like prey hearing a gun click.
Slowly, he looks up.
You hold out the phone.
The photograph staring back at both of you.
Your pulse begins to hammer. "When did you take this?"
Nothing.
For a second, Dick just looks at you.
Then at the photo.
Then back.
“…Before we met."
Your stomach drops. "What?"
"I took it before we met." His voice is calm. Too gentle. The same voice he uses when you're upset.
Like he was expecting to tell you that everything was okay.
"I found you before the café."
The room suddenly feels too small. "How long?"
"A while."
"Dick."
"A few months."
The answer hits like a truck.
Months.
Your laugh comes out strained. Unsteady. "You're joking."
"No." He doesn't look ashamed.
If he looked guilty, maybe this would make sense. Instead, he looks concerned.
Concerned about you.
Like you're the one having a difficult time.
"Dick, that's stalking."
His jaw tightens immediately. Hurt.
Like you've accused him of something unfair.
"I was making sure you were safe."
"No." You stand. "Dick-"
Your heart is racing now. Too fast. "What the fuck do you mean you were watching me?"
And for the first time since you've known him, Dick looks frustrated.
Not because he got caught. Because you're not understanding.
"You lived alone."
"Dick-"
"You walked home after dark."
"Listen to me!"
"There were three muggings within four blocks of your apartment." His voice rises. Emotion breaking through.
"And I knew what Gotham was like."
You freeze. He sounds desperate. Terrified.
"I couldn't just leave you there." His eyes are shining now. Raw.
Honest.
The truth finally spilling out.
"You think I wanted to scare you?" His voice cracks.
"I spent twenty years looking for you."
You take a step backward.
Dick notices immediately. The devastation that crosses his face is instantaneous.
He actually believes that he's innocent. That every line he crossed was reasonable.
Because every choice was made for the same reason.
Love.
And suddenly all those little coincidences don't feel like coincidences anymore.
The failed job.
The vanished opportunities.
The relationships that somehow never worked out.
The people who drifted away.
The life that kept shrinking until Dick occupied most of it.
The door slammed hard enough to rattle the frame. For a second, neither of uni moved.
You stood frozen in the hallway outside Dick's apartment, one hand still wrapped around the doorknob, your pulse pounding so hard it made your ears ring. The argument replayed itself in fragments. Accusations, denials, half-finished explanations. None of it felt real.
Behind the door, you heard Dick's footsteps. Part of you expected the handle to turn. Expected him to come after you. To stop you before you left. To grab your wrist, block the doorway, force the conversation to continue.
Instead, the footsteps stopped. You could picture him standing there on the other side of the door. Not chasing you. Not arguing. Just... standing there. Devastated.
If he'd gotten angry, maybe this would have been easier. If he'd yelled, if he'd lied, if he'd given you a reason to hate him, maybe the hollow ache opening inside your chest wouldn't have felt so unbearable.
Instead, he'd looked heartbroken. Like he was the victim. Like you were the one tearing something precious apart.
The walk home passed in a blur. You barely remembered unlocking your apartment. The second the door shut behind you, instinct took over. Deadbolt. Chain. The secondary lock.
You checked the windows twice. Then a third time.
Only when every entrance was secured did you allow yourself to breathe.
Your phone vibrated. The screen lit up. Dick.
You stared at the name. The call rang until it stopped. A second call appeared almost immediately. Then a third. The messages started after that.
Can we talk? Please answer. I just want to know you're okay.
For a dangerous second, your thumb hovered over the screen. Then you blocked him.
The number disappeared. You blocked his social media. His email. His Spotify. Every account you could think of. Anything connected to him. Anything that could give him a way back in.
When you finally finished, the apartment felt unnaturally quiet. You'd wanted silence.
Hadn't you?
So why did it feel like something was missing? Why did the absence feel so loud? Sleep never came. Every time you closed your eyes, another memory surfaced.
The internship opportunity that had vanished after months of promising interviews. The friendship that had somehow dissolved without explanation. The coworkers who'd grown distant. The photograph.
At four in the morning, you found yourself sitting on the couch wrapped in a blanket, staring into the darkness. The city lights beyond your apartment window painted faint reflections across the floor.
You couldn't stop thinking. Every memory felt poisoned now. Every coincidence felt deliberate. How much of your life had actually been yours?
How many choices had been choices at all?
You didn't notice yourself drifting into a shallow sleep until your alarm exploded beside your head. You jolted awake.
Immediately regretted it. Pain tore through your leg so violently that for a split second you genuinely thought something had exploded. A scream ripped from your throat. White-hot agony shot from your shin to your hip.
The room tilted. Your knee gave out. You hit the floor hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs. The impact barely registered. All you could feel was the pain. It burned. Throbbed. Pulsed with every heartbeat.
You curled instinctively around your leg, gasping for air through clenched teeth. "What the fuck!" The words dissolved into another strangled cry.
Minutes passed. Or maybe longer.
Time became difficult to measure when every movement felt like driving a knife through bone.
Eventually you managed to drag yourself onto the couch. Sweat clung to your skin. Your stomach churned. The pain wasn't normal. It wasn't a cramp. Wasn't a pulled muscle. It felt broken. A fresh fracture.
Then a bitter laugh escaped your throat. Of fucking course.
You’d barely survived the worst night of your life and apparently your soulmate had decided now was the perfect time to break something. Again.
The bitter laugh that escaped you sounded almost hysterical. The empty apartment offered no response. Not that you expected one.
Your soulmate had never apologised before.
Several hours later, three sharp knocks echoed through the apartment. You froze.
The sound cut through the silence like a gunshot.
Another knock followed.
Then a familiar voice. Every muscle in your body locked. You remained motionless.
Maybe he'd leave.
Another knock sounded, softer this time. Almost hesitant. "…Please open the door." The concern in his voice made your stomach twist.
You hated that it still affected you. Hated that some part of you still wanted to believe him.
Then came the sentence that made your blood turn to ice. "You shouldn't be standing."
Everything stopped. Your breathing. Your thoughts. Your heartbeat. Slowly, very slowly, you turned toward the door. The apartment suddenly felt too small. Too quiet.
"Dick?" A pause.
Then: "I brought groceries." His voice sounded tired. Careful. Like he was approaching a wounded animal. "I also got pain medication."
You stared at the door. A sick feeling began unfurling in your stomach.
"Can you let me in?" No. No, no, no. Maybe coincidence. Maybe a lucky guess. Maybe-
"You need to stay off that leg." The world seemed to tilt. Your pulse thundered.
How? You hadn't told anyone. You hadn't gone to the hospital. You hadn't even texted anyone. There was no way he could know. Unless-
The thought hit so hard it felt physical. You forced yourself upright and limped toward the door. Each step sent another wave of pain through your leg.
By the time you reached it, your hands were shaking. You opened the door only a few inches.
Dick stood on the other side. One arm loaded with grocery bags. Takeout containers balanced in the other hand. A bottle of painkillers tucked beneath his elbow.
The second the door opened, his gaze dropped.Straight to your injured leg.
"There it is." The words slipped out before he could stop them. His expression tightened immediately. "You really shouldn't be putting weight on-"
"How do you know?"
Silence.The question landed between them like a blade. Dick froze.
You felt your heartbeat climbing higher and higher. "How do you know my leg is injured?"
For the first time since you'd met him, Dick looked caught off guard. Not angry. Not defensive. Caught.
Something that looked dangerously close to guilt crossed his face. And suddenly you understood enough to make your blood run cold.
The fracture hadn't happened to your soulmate. It had happened because of them.
Dick's expression changed immediately. Not much, most people probably wouldn't have noticed, but you'd spent months learning the subtle shifts in his face. The slight tightening around his eyes. The way his shoulders stiffened.
"Angel-"
You took another step backward on instinct. Pain shot through your injured leg. A sharp hiss escaped you before you could swallow it.
Dick flinched. The reaction was instantaneous. His hand jerked forward as though he meant to catch you before he stopped himself. The concern that flashed across his face was so immediate, so visceral, that it made your stomach turn.
For a horrible second, you couldn't stop thinking about it. The way he'd known. The way he'd looked directly at your leg. The medication tucked under his arm. The certainty in his voice when he'd told you not to stand.
Maybe he really had felt it. Maybe every pulse of pain that had left you curled up on the floor this morning had reached him too.
"You knew." The accusation hung between you.
Dick's jaw tightened. You stared at him. Stared at the man standing in your doorway carrying groceries and painkillers like some devoted boyfriend stopping by to take care of you after a bad day.
"You knew you were my soulmate." For a second, one stupid, desperate second, you hoped he'd deny it.
Maybe there was another explanation. Maybe you were wrong. Maybe this entire nightmare had gotten out of control.
Dick looked down. "...Yeah."
Every injury. Every unexplained ache. Every ruined plan because somebody you had never met couldn't stop getting themselves hurt.
You remembered sitting in emergency rooms as a teenager, trying to explain symptoms doctors couldn't understand. Missing school because you'd woken up unable to walk on an ankle you'd never injured. The migraines. The broken fingers. The bruises.
The soulmate bond had shaped your life whether you'd wanted it to or not. And all this time, it had been him.
Not a stranger. Not some faceless person halfway across the world. Dick. Your Dick.
The man who knew how you took your coffee. The man who remembered insignificant details about conversations you'd forgotten having.
The man you'd trusted enough to love.
Your hand found the wall beside you before you even realised you were reaching for support.
Dick took a step forward automatically.
You recoiled.
The look that crossed his face was immediate and devastating.
He stopped moving at once. "Angel..."
"How long?" Your voice sounded strange. Thin. Distant. "How long have you known?"
For the first time since arriving, Dick looked genuinely uncomfortable. Ashamed.
His gaze dropped briefly to the floor. "Eight months."
"Eight months?"
"Angel, I know how bad that sounds-"
"You knew for eight months." Every word came out sharper than the last. "You knew and you didn't tell me."
"I wanted to." The answer came immediately. Too quickly. Like he'd rehearsed this argument a hundred times. "I did. God, I wanted to tell you from the beginning."
"Then why didn't you?"
Dick looked away. That was answer enough.
Because he'd been watching. Learning. Getting closer. Fitting himself into your life before you knew what he was.
"You let me hate them."
Something flickered across his face. A strange sadness. Not guilt exactly. Something closer to regret. "I never wanted that."
"You let me spend years hating my soulmate." His expression tightened. "I know."
"You let me blame them for everything."
"I know." The quiet sincerity of the response only made you angrier. He wasn't denying it. Wasn't making excuses. He understood exactly what he'd done. And somehow, he still thought he'd been right.
The apartment fell silent.
Dick stood near the door surrounded by grocery bags and takeout containers. The sight would have been almost domestic under different circumstances. Ordinary.
Something in his expression softened. "You don't have to do this anymore."
You frowned. "What are you talking about?"
Dick hesitated. For the first time since arriving, he seemed unsure of how to explain himself. "..You've spent your entire life paying for things that weren't your fault."
The words were quiet. Measured. His gaze dropped briefly to your injured leg before returning to your face. "I know every hospital visit."
A chill crawled down your spine.
His voice grew softer. "I know every surgery. Every cast. Every time you had to cancel plans because I did something reckless." The guilt in his expression looked genuine. "I know what it cost you."
"Dick."
"I do." His voice cracked slightly. The sound startled you.
"I know exactly what I've put you through."
For a moment neither of you spoke. Then Dick slowly set the groceries on the floor. "You shouldn't have had to deal with any of it alone."
Something about the direction of the conversation suddenly felt wrong. Dangerous. "Dick..." "I mean it." His eyes never left yours.
"You shouldn't have had to worry about medical bills because I got shot. You shouldn't have had to miss work because I decided jumping off rooftops sounded like a good idea. You shouldn't have had to build your life around my mistakes."
A humorless laugh escaped him. "You definitely shouldn't have had to spend years wondering who was responsible." The guilt in his voice was so real it almost hurt to listen to.
And somehow that made what came next even worse. "But you don't have to do that anymore."
The knot in your stomach tightened. "What does that mean?"
Dick looked genuinely confused by the question. As though the answer was obvious. "As long as I'm here, you're not dealing with any of it alone."
"You don't need to worry about rent." The words landed heavily.
You stared at him, dumbfounded. "What?"
"I'll take care of it." "No."
"You don't have to keep working two jobs." "No."
"You don't have to stress about groceries or bills or whether you can afford physical therapy."
"Dick!"
His voice remained calm. Patient. Like he was trying to explain something simple. Something reasonable. "I can handle all of that."
"You can't just decide that." "Why not?" The question came out so naturally that it stopped you cold.
Dick frowned slightly, confused. "As far as I'm concerned, taking care of you is my responsibility."
Your heart dropped. The conviction in his voice was absolute. Not possessive in the way you'd expected. Like he wasn't describing what he wanted. He was describing reality.
"You don't owe me anything," he continued quietly. "You don't have to love me back. You don't even have to forgive me. But I'm not going to stand there and keep watching you suffer because of things I've done."
His gaze held yours. Steady. Intense. Terrifyingly sincere. "You've carried this alone for long enough."
The apartment suddenly felt too small. Too warm. Too difficult to breathe in. Because you finally understood. Dick wasn't asking for a relationship. He wasn't asking for forgiveness. He wasn't even asking for another chance.
He was asking you to hand him control.
The first escape attempt had been almost gentle. A mistake, in hindsight. You’d underestimated him. Underestimated his understanding of you.
By the time you reached the outer perimeter, your leg had already started to fail in ways that didn’t make sense at first. Pain bloomed without warning, sharp, targeted, precise, as if your body had been waiting for permission to collapse.
It was him. Dick Grayson had already noticed you leaving. Already made his choice.
He carried you back without comment when he found you kneeling in the rain like you’d simply run out of endurance. Like your body had just… stopped cooperating. Like he couldn’t even feel his own pain shooting through him.
For three days after that, he barely spoke. Not anger. Not even punishment. Adjustment. Because he was learning how far he could push the bond, and how far he could push himself.
The second attempt cost you more. Not because he was harsher, because he was faster. You barely remember leaving the room. You remember waking up in a different one. Reinforced, seamless, wrong in ways your instincts couldn’t map.
Dick sat beside the bed like he’d never moved. Like time had folded around him. “You dislocated your shoulder,” he said calmly, as though that explained everything.
You tried to sit up. Your body refused. His hand rested on your wrist before you could test it further. “You pushed too hard,” he added. “I had to stabilise it.” “I didn’t-”
“Yes,” he interrupted, still calm. “You did.” But what he didn’t say, what you only began to understand later, was that he had done the same thing to himself at the exact moment you tried to leave.
The third time you tried, there was no hallway. Just motion that died halfway through becoming action. Your body locking down in controlled, precise waves of agony. Like a switch had been thrown. And somewhere behind you, his voice. “I told you not to do that again.”
When you woke, your ankle was wrapped. Your phone was gone. The doors had changed again.
That was when you understood the rule. You could try. He would let you try. Not because he expected you to succeed, but because every attempt gave him data. Every spike of your pain told him what the bond could tolerate. And every time you pushed too far, he matched you. By breaking himself just enough that the connection snapped you both back into place.
Now, in what he liked to call the living room, too controlled to feel like a home, you listened to him in the kitchen. Normal sounds. Water running. A cup set down carefully. Like nothing was wrong.
You swallowed. Your voice weak from disuse. “..I want to leave.”
“You don’t want that,” he mumbled, not looking up from the pan.
“I do.”
“No,” he said gently. “You want the version of it that doesn’t hurt.” He walked patiently over to you. His hand lifted, hovered near your shoulder, then settled. Warm. Certain.
“.. I won’t let it get that far.”
Your throat tightened. “You’re hurting me.”
This time, he didn’t deny it immediately.
He just looked at you for a long moment. Then, “No,” he said quietly. “I’m stopping you from breaking past the point where there’s no coming back.”
“You don’t get to leave anymore,” he said at last. “Not like that.” Not a threat. A conclusion.
“And you won’t try again,” he added, softer.
“Because I won’t let either of us survive what happens when you do.”
Then he turned back toward the kitchen. As if the decision had already been made. As if your life together had always been structured this way.
And in a sense, it had.
10K+ Words, 61K+ Characters, 1K+ sentences, 36 min average reading time, 58 min average speaking time.
Inspired by [this] lovely post by @on-a-lucky-tide
Thinking about ghost who, since you moved in together, has always had a preferred side of the bed.
He doesn't like sleeping next to the wall, as you've come to learn. The fist few nights he would grumble and push you further onto the bed before snuggling up to your back with a "my spot now, love. Comes with the relationship."
Not that you mind, of course. You like how it almost feels like he envelops you, tucked between the wall and simon.
It's not until you two stay at a hotel this unofficial rule you've decided ghost lives by is brought into question.
You don't think much of the bed being in the center of the space, it's a standard layout. So you pick a side arbitrarily, exhausted and wanted to pass out. Only to peek your eye's open to ghost looming over you, frowning "yer in the wrong spot. I go there."
Which....makes no sense. There's no wall, no nice space to hide in. The thought ghost had a designated place without the presence of a wall makes you question the entire rule itself!
Every place after that, you start taking greater note, until it huts you.
Ghost always sleeps on the side closest to the door.
In fact....ghost is always closest to the door. Manhandling you into a different seat at restaurants, or climbing over you on the sofa to claim "his spot".
A physical barrier between you and the entrance.
Ghost has been protecting you this whole time without you even realizing. He's been enveloping you in his form of safety. If someone were to enter with bad intentions, they'd reach him before you.
Ghost huffs in confusion when you cuddle him much tighter than usual that night, but indulges either way. He's just happy to keep one of the few good things in his life safe.
Yandere Bruce Wayne x Soulmate Reader (Smut warning: Masterbation)
The countdown had never meant much to Bruce Wayne.
As a child, it had simply existed.
A cluster of glowing numbers etched into the skin of his inner wrist, ticking steadily downward with each passing second.
It wasn’t unusual. Every person in the world was born with some form of soulmate bond. Some shared pain, some shared dreams, some found words appearing on their skin, written by hands they had never touched. Others heard thoughts not their own, glimpsed flashes of memories, or carried matching marks that mirrored one another across continents.
There were countless variations. Entire scientific fields had been built around studying them.
Bruce’s happened to be a countdown.
Nobody knew exactly why soulmate bonds manifested differently. Decades of research had produced theories but few answers. Genetics and geography didn’t determine it. Neither did bloodlines or upbringing. Soulmate bonds simply… were.
For Bruce, that meant a simple promise written beneath his skin.
When it reached zero, he would meet the person destined for him.
As a boy, he had imagined it the same way every child did.
His soulmate would appear one day. They would laugh together. Grow old together. Build a life together.
A future.
The sort of future his parents had possessed.
The sort of future that had died alongside them in an alley behind the Monarch Theater.
After that night, the timer became little more than background noise.
The glowing numbers continued their steady descent while Bruce attended funerals, inherited a fortune he never wanted, and watched Gotham consume itself one crime at a time. They ticked downward while Alfred patiently pieced together the shattered remains of a grieving child. They ticked downward while Bruce buried himself in studies, martial arts, criminology, forensics, and every discipline that might one day help him wage war against the city that had taken everything from him.
Years passed.
The timer remained a constant. Unchanging. Always moving. Always counting.
Sometimes he caught himself staring at it during long flights between countries. During sleepless nights spent training until his knuckles split. During lonely evenings in unfamiliar cities where he could almost pretend he was just another wealthy young man wandering the world in search of purpose.
The numbers never stopped.
And despite everything, a small part of him still wondered.
Who were they?
Who was waiting at the end of that countdown?
The thought felt dangerous.
Hope always did.
By the time he returned to Gotham and donned the cowl for the first time, Bruce had long since convinced himself that soulmates were a luxury he could not afford.
Batman had no place for dreams. No room for futures. And he certainly had no room for someone he might one day love.
The city came first.
It always would.
Gotham demanded sacrifice, and Bruce had made his choice years ago.
If his soulmate existed, then they deserved better than what remained of him.
So he stopped thinking about it.
Or at least he tried to.
The timer continued to count.
Days.
Months.
Years.
Seconds.
Its steady descent accompanied him through every chapter of his life.
It was there when Dick Grayson crashed into his world beneath a circus tent, a furious and heartbroken child whose pain mirrored Bruce’s own in ways neither of them fully understood. It remained when Dick became Robin, when he became family, and when Bruce made the selfish decision to love someone enough to let them stay.
The numbers continued falling.
They were there when Jason Todd stole the tires off the Batmobile, and somehow stole a place in Bruce’s heart soon afterward. They ticked downward through every argument, every proud moment, every hard-earned smile.
And they’d kept counting when Jason died.
Bruce remembered that night with painful clarity.
The rage. The guilt. Helplessness. The suffocating certainty that he had failed.
Even then, amidst grief so profound it threatened to hollow him out completely, the timer continued. As though fate cared little for the tragedies of ordinary men.
Years later came Tim.
Then Damian.
A family assembled from broken pieces and impossible odds. One that Bruce never intended to build and could not imagine living without.
The countdown remained through it all. A quiet presence beneath his skin. Easy to ignore, impossible to forget. Even whilst hidden from sight beneath the bulky steel of his jaeger-lecoultre reverso.
Sometimes, on particularly difficult nights, he found himself fiddling with the watch strap just enough to see the edges of it.
Not because he expected anything or believed he deserved whatever waited at the end, but because the idea lingered. A tiny, stubborn thing buried beneath decades of grief and responsibility.
The possibility that somewhere out there existed a person uniquely his.
Someone who might understand. Who might see every ugly, fractured piece of him and choose to stay.
Someone who might look beyond Batman.
Beyond the billionaire mask. Beyond the failures. And simply see Bruce.
It was a foolish thought. An indulgent one, really. The sort of fantasy he rarely allowed himself to entertain.
Yet it persisted all the same.
Perhaps because he had spent so much of his life alone. Not physically. Never physically. The Manor was full. The Batcave was full. His life overflowed with people he loved.
But loneliness and solitude were not the same thing.
Bruce had learned that lesson long ago.
For most of his life, every meaningful relationship had begun with loss.
Dick had lost his parents. Jason had lost everything. Tim had nearly lost himself trying to save Batman from his own grief. Damian had been raised as a weapon before he was ever allowed to be a child.
Every person Bruce ever loved carried scars.
All because they had stepped into his world.
And if fate truly intended to place another person in his life… What then? What kind of future could he possibly offer them?
Late nights spent waiting for him to return home alive? Hospital visits? Funerals? The constant threat of becoming a target simply because they mattered to Bruce Wayne?
No.
His soulmate deserved better.
Deserved normal.
Far away from Gotham and everything it touched.
A sensible conclusion. A logical conclusion. One he repeated to himself countless times.
The problem was that logic had never succeeded in silencing the small traitorous part of him that still watched the countdown.
Nobody truly knew him. Not completely. Not the way a soulmate supposedly could. The way destiny promised.
So the timer remained tucked away in the back of his mind.
A breath caught before it could fully form. A dream he never allowed himself to finish imagining.
And still it counted.
Drawing closer with every passing day to a future Bruce Wayne had stopped believing would ever matter.
Until the day it finally reached zero.
The countdown on your wrist had never inspired the same fascination it seemed to in everyone else.
As a child, you remembered classmates comparing bruises during recess, eagerly conspiring about how old they’d be when they finally met the person fate had chosen for them. Entire conversations revolved around it. Predictions. Theories. Daydreams.
You had participated, of course.
Mostly because everyone else did.
But even then, you never quite understood the obsession.
Perhaps it was because your bond felt so distant.
Unlike those who shared pain with their soulmates or dreamed through another person’s eyes, your countdown offered nothing tangible. No connection. No glimpses into another life. No indication of who your soulmate might be beyond the vague promise that one day, eventually, you would meet them.
It was difficult to become attached to someone who felt entirely theoretical.
The numbers counted downward. Life continued.
School became university. University became work. Friendships came and went. Apartments changed. Jobs changed. Entire years disappeared before you even noticed them passing.
The timer remained, steadily ticking away in the background.
Yet strangely unimportant.
Not because you disliked the idea of soulmates. Quite the opposite.
You supposed it was comforting to think there was someone out there destined specifically for you. Someone whose life would one day intersect with your own in a way no one else’s ever could.
But you had never been particularly fond of building your future around things you couldn’t control.
If your soulmate appeared tomorrow, wonderful. If they appeared twenty years from now, that was fine too.
Either way, life would continue.
You had plans. Goals. Responsibilities. A future that existed independently of whoever happened to be waiting at the end of that countdown.
Which was probably why you never developed the habit of checking it.
Weeks sometimes passed without you looking at the numbers.
Months, if life became particularly busy.
Your friends found that strange.
Most people tracked their bonds religiously.
You couldn’t remember the last time you had cared enough to calculate how much time remained.
Not that it mattered. Fate would arrive whether you watched the clock or not.
The thought made you smile slightly as you adjusted the sleeve of your outfit.
The invitation resting on your kitchen counter immediately drew your attention once more. Embossed gold lettering gleamed beneath the overhead light.
You had considered declining several times already.
Charity galas were not your thing.
Neither were crowds of wealthy socialites, politicians, celebrities, and Gotham’s elite pretending to enjoy one another’s company while discussing donations over champagne.
Unfortunately, declining wasn’t really an option. Your company had spent the past month preparing for the event.
Attendance was expected. Mandatory, according to your supervisor.
The memory earned a quiet sigh.
Tomorrow evening.
Wayne Foundation Annual Renewal Gala.
You stared at the familiar name printed across the card. Wayne.
One of the most recognisable names in the country. Perhaps even the world.
Bruce Wayne’s name seemed to exist everywhere in Gotham. On buildings, hospitals, scholarships, charities.
A billionaire philanthropist.
A notorious playboy.
A man whose face appeared so frequently in magazines that most of Gotham could probably identify him from memory.
You had never met him. Never expected to. Tomorrow would likely be no different.
You would attend the gala, smile politely, make small talk, and stay for the required amount of time.
Then return home and forget the entire evening ever happened.
The gala was exactly as exhausting as you had expected.
By the end of the first hour, your cheeks already ached from smiling.
The grand ballroom of Wayne Tower glittered beneath enormous crystal chandeliers, every surface polished to a shine so perfect it almost felt artificial. Waiters drifted through the crowd carrying silver trays loaded with champagne flutes and carefully arranged hors d’oeuvres. Laughter rose and fell throughout the room, blending into the soft music drifting from somewhere near the stage.
The entire event felt less like a fundraiser and more like a carefully choreographed performance.
Not that anyone seemed to mind.
Around you, Gotham’s elite mingled effortlessly. Politicians exchanged handshakes. Business executives traded stories. Reporters circulated like sharks scenting blood in the water.
You had spent most of the evening attached to a cluster of coworkers, nodding politely through conversations that ranged from quarterly profits to real estate investments and subjects you suspected nobody genuinely cared about.
You smiled. Shook hands. Made pleasant conversation. Repeated the process.
By the time you escaped toward the refreshment table, you were fairly certain your social battery had died an hour ago.
“Not enjoying yourself?”
You glanced toward the voice. One of your coworkers smirked knowingly.
You laughed. “I think I’ve had enough networking to last the rest of my life.”
“Careful. That’s practically blasphemy at events like this.”
“Then pretend I said something about synergy and market growth.”
The resulting laugh eased some of the tension in your shoulders.
Around you, the crowd continued to swell as more guests arrived. And inevitably, conversation shifted toward the man hosting the event.
Bruce Wayne.
The name surfaced repeatedly throughout the evening. Sometimes with admiration. Sometimes amusement. Occasionally frustration.
Everyone seemed to have a story.
A charitable donation. An embarrassing tabloid headline. A disastrous date. A surprise act of generosity.
The more stories you heard, the more curious you became. You had never met Bruce Wayne before.
Nobody in your social circles had.
People like him existed in an entirely different world.
The sort of world most people only glimpsed through magazine covers and news broadcasts.
Yet somehow, despite his wealth, despite his status, despite his reputation for arriving late and disappearing early, people genuinely seemed to like him.
It was strange. Most billionaires inspired resentment. Bruce Wayne inspired affection.
You found yourself wondering what he was actually like. The real version. Not the carefully polished public image. Not the headlines. Just the man.
Your gaze drifted toward the entrance more than once throughout the evening.
The subtle change spread through the crowd like a ripple through water. Conversations paused. Heads turned. Attention redirected.
You didn’t need anyone to tell you why.
Bruce Wayne had arrived.
The realisation swept through the ballroom almost instantly.
You found yourself looking too. Just like everyone else.
Oh. For a moment, you understood the fascination.
Photos had never quite captured him properly. Perhaps because photographs couldn’t capture presence.
Bruce moved through the crowd with effortless confidence, greeting donors and board members with easy smiles. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Impossibly handsome in a way that felt almost unfair.
The sort of face people built careers around. One that belonged on magazine covers. Yet none of that was what held your attention.
It was the way he carried himself. Comfortable. Natural. As though the attention of hundreds of people barely registered.
You felt oddly nervous.
Which was ridiculous. You weren’t even planning on speaking to him.
You simply found yourself watching from across the room.
Then your hand drifted unconsciously toward your wrist. Your thumb brushed the skin hidden beneath your sleeve. The countdown.
A habit more than anything.
You weren’t even sure why you checked.
Maybe because events like this always sparked conversations about soulmates. Or because seeing Gotham’s most famous bachelor had stirred old childhood fantasies you’d long since outgrown.
Whatever the reason, your fingers lingered there.
Tracing the familiar shape beneath the fabric. Feeling the steady pulse of your own heartbeat.
You smiled faintly to yourself. Foolish.
Then Bruce Wayne turned, and looked directly at you.
Everything stopped.
Your breath caught. Heart stumbled. Because beneath your fingertips.. The countdown had reached its end. 00:00:00:00.
The familiar sensation disappeared so suddenly that for a terrifying second you thought you had imagined it.
Your eyes widened.
Across the ballroom, Bruce Wayne was still looking in your direction.
No. Not your direction.
At you.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
The countdown had stopped.
Your fingers remained pressed against your wrist, your pulse hammering so violently that you could barely feel the skin beneath them.
And for one impossible, terrifying second, the rest of the gala disappeared.
The music faded. The conversations blurred. Everything narrowed to those blue eyes. To the man standing twenty feet away. To the realization crashing through your chest with enough force to steal the air from your lungs.
Him.
Every second. Every minute. Every year. All of it had led here.
You couldn’t stop smiling.
A laugh escaped before you could catch it.
You felt ridiculous.
You felt ecstatic.
You felt fourteen years old again, lying awake at night and wondering who waited at the end of your countdown.
Your soulmate.
Bruce Wayne was your soulmate.
The thought was absurd.
Wonderful.
Terrifying.
And before you could think better of it, your feet were already carrying you forward.
You barely remembered crossing the ballroom. Only that one moment he was across the room.
The next you were standing in front of him. Close enough to speak. Close enough to see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes. Close enough to finally meet the person fate had spent your entire life leading you toward.
“Mr Wayne-” You stopped yourself. God, that sounded stupid.
You laughed nervously. “Sorry. Bruce. I just-”
The words tangled together. There were too many of them. How exactly were you supposed to tell someone they’d just become the most important person in your life?
How did anyone start a conversation like this?
“Hi. We belong together.”
“Hi. Fate says you’re mine.”
“Hi. I’ve waited my entire life to meet you.”
The absurdity almost made you laugh again. Instead, you found yourself smiling. A genuine one. The kind that slipped free before you could stop it.
“I think-”
Bruce looked at you. His eyes flickering over your face, your clothes, the event badge hanging around your neck.
Recognition never appeared.
Nothing softened.
Nothing changed.
It was the look people gave strangers who had interrupted them in public. Nothing more.
His gaze shifted immediately beyond your shoulder. Toward someone else.
Someone important.
Someone he actually wanted to speak to.
“I’m sorry.” The words were automatic. Polite. The sort of apology people gave when they weren’t sorry at all.
“I don’t have time right now.”
For a second you simply stared.
Still smiling.
Still trying to catch up.
“Oh.”
Bruce nodded once. Already moving.
Already done.
“If you’ll excuse me.” And then he brushed past you.
There was no cruelty. No emotion whatsoever. You hadn’t mattered enough for that.
The crowd swallowed him almost immediately.
One moment he was there and the next he was gone. Laughing with donors. Shaking hands. Moving through the room as though nothing had happened.
As though you had never existed.
As though the most important moment of your life had been a forgettable inconvenience in his evening.
You remained where you were. Frozen. The smile slowly slipping from your face.
Around you, the gala continued.
A waiter passed carrying champagne. Someone laughed nearby. Music drifted through the ballroom. Normal. Everything was painfully, horribly normal.
Your stomach twisted.
The excitement that had filled your chest moments ago curdled into something ugly. Something embarrassing.
Heat crept up your neck.
God. How stupid. How unbelievably fucking stupid.
Your hand rose to your wrist again. To the skin where the countdown had sat for your entire life.
Where it no longer moved.
You stared at it, waiting for the joy to return. For the excitement. For the certainty that this meant something.
Instead you felt sick. Because for one awful moment, you’d believed it.
You had looked at Bruce Wayne and allowed yourself to hope. Allowed yourself to think fate had chosen you.
That maybe all those stories people told were true.
Instead you’d received the same polite dismissal he would have given any stranger who got in his way.
Your throat tightened. Fuck, you felt like you were about to cry.
The hurt wasn’t coming from Bruce. Not really.
It was coming from yourself.
From the realisation that some small part of you had still believed after all these years, after all your indifference, all your insistence that fate didn’t matter, a part of you had still secretly hoped there would be magic in this moment. Something special. Worth waiting for.
And now that part of you was dying. Right there in the middle of a crowded ballroom.
The countdown had reached zero.
And for the first time in your life, you wished it hadn’t.
Two and a half months later.
The night had offered nothing unusual.
The Batcave settled into its familiar rhythm as everyone returned. Dick had claimed a corner of Tim's workstation and was ignoring increasingly pointed requests to move. Jason, having appeared midway through patrol without warning or invitation, was drinking Alfred's coffee. Damian sat nearby with a stack of reports, making notes in the margins.
Bruce stood near the medical station, removing the Batsuit piece by piece. The cowl came first, then the cape. He set the gauntlets aside and reached for the fastening at his wrist.
"Father."
Bruce glanced up.
Damian was looking at him with a faint frown. “You never informed us that your countdown had ended.”
He’d barely reacted. “What are you talking about?”
Damian looked mildly annoyed, like Bruce had forgotten something obvious.
“Your soulmate.”
Dick straightened immediately. Tim turned away from his monitor. Jason gave a short laugh.
"Wait. Seriously? You found them?”
Their Dad frowned. “What?”
Damian pointed.
Bruce followed the gesture to the inside of his wrist. The timer had stopped.
For a second, he simply stared.
Beside him, Dick grinned. “So that’s why you’ve been weirdly private.”
Jason scoffed. “Please. Like he’d tell us.”
“I assumed you were waiting until the relationship became serious,” Damian said matter-of-factly.
Tim nodded. “I figured you already had a file on them.”
A few years ago, Bruce might have responded. Might have denied it. Instead, he continued staring at his wrist.
00:00:00:00
The timer wasn’t moving.
It should have been.
For as long as he could remember, it had always been moving. Always counting. Now it sat completely still.
A strange feeling settled low in his stomach.
“When did this happen?” The words escaped before he could stop them.
The cave went silent.
Bruce looked up. Every member of his family was staring at him.
Dick’s smile vanished first.
Tim slowly lowered his tablet.
Jason blinked.
Damian narrowed his eyes.
A long moment passed. Then, “what do you mean, when did it happen?”
Bruce’s jaw tightened. His gaze dropped back to the timer. “When did it reach zero?”
Nobody answered immediately. Because the question itself was wrong.
Dick stared at him blankly. “…You don’t know?”
Tim sat up, picking at the cuticles on his hands. “When was the last time you checked it?”
Bruce opened his mouth. The answer should have come easily.
Instead, nothing.
Weeks? Months? Years?
A knot formed in his stomach. He couldn’t remember. At some point, the countdown had become part of the scenery. Like a scar. Like an old piece of furniture. Something so familiar that he no longer saw it.
Damian rose from his chair. "How is that possible?"
There wasn’t accusation in the question. Only bewilderment.
Bruce understood it.
If anyone else had presented him with a mystery this significant and admitted they had ignored it for years, he would have found it equally incomprehensible.
A soulmate was information.
Information mattered.
Yet somehow he had allowed this particular fact to drift past unnoticed.
Dick dragged a hand through his hair. "Okay. So if it's been at zero for a while..." He trailed off.
Nobody finished the thought. Bruce didn't need them to.
The timer had stopped.
Which meant they had already met.
Somewhere, buried beneath years of galas, investigations, crime scenes, interviews, witnesses, victims, allies, and strangers, there was a person connected to him in a way he had never bothered to investigate.
The thought irritated him immediately. Annoyed by his own oversight.
Bruce Wayne missed very little. Batman missed even less.
And yet he had apparently overlooked something that had been written on his own skin.
His gaze returned to the frozen digits.
Who?
The question settled into place with uncomfortable ease.
Who had it been?
A civilian? A witness? Someone from a charity board? A doctor? A journalist? A stranger he had passed on the street and forgotten by the next morning?
His mind was already moving through possibilities, assembling timelines, searching for patterns.
The investigation had begun before he consciously decided to start it.
And long after the others had gone upstairs, long after the cave had emptied, he’d remained alone before the Batcomputer.
His wrist rested against the desk, the countdown sat motionless beneath the glow of the monitor.
For decades, he had convinced himself the timer didn’t matter. That soulmates were irrelevant. That whatever waited at the end of the countdown belonged to a future he would never allow himself to have.
Now, for the first time in his life, the future wasn’t theoretical. It was real. It had been real for years. And somehow, impossibly, he’d missed it.
He stared at the timer, jaw clenched. Then opened a new search window and began looking.
Bruce had always believed that every mystery possessed an answer.
The answer might be buried beneath layers of deception. It might require months of investigation, thousands of hours of work, or sacrifices most people would never willingly make. But it existed.
Every crime scene told a story.
Every missing person left traces.
Every lie fractured under enough pressure.
Answers existed. The challenge was finding them.
Which was why the frozen numbers on the inside of his wrist irritated him more than they should have.
A lifetime reduced to eight zeroes.
For decades it had been counting.
Now it wasn’t.
Entire criminal organisations had collapsed because of details other people overlooked. Murders had been solved because Bruce noticed a footprint half a millimeter deeper than it should have been. He built contingency plans for gods.
And yet somehow he had allowed this to happen.
Somewhere, at some point, his soulmate had entered his life. And he had failed to notice.
The oversight bothered him in a way he struggled to articulate. Not because he had spent years longing for his soulmate. He hadn’t. Or because he suddenly believed fate held some profound importance. He didn’t.
But because he had missed something.
Something connected to him. That should have been obvious.
His gaze drifted back toward the timer. A person.
For most of his life, the soulmate waiting at the end of the countdown had existed as an abstraction. A hypothetical future. A distant possibility.
Now they existed beyond the realm of his mind on particularly needy nights.
Living somewhere in Gotham. Or perhaps outside it. Going to work. Paying bills. Existing. Breathing.
Perhaps completely unaware that Bruce Wayne had finally noticed them.
The idea settled heavily in his chest.
Because that wasn’t entirely true, was it?
If the countdown had stopped, then they already knew.
The moment one timer reached zero, so did the other. Meaning somewhere out there was a person who had already experienced that moment. A person who had looked at their wrist and realised they had found the person fate intended for them.
Bruce’s fingers stilled against the keyboard. A strange feeling moved through him. Difficult to define.
Because unlike him, that person would have noticed.
Normal people would have probably watched their countdowns. Would have known exactly how much time remained. Anticipated the day it would finally happen.
He imagined someone checking their wrist. Watching the final seconds disappear. Feeling the weight of a lifetime’s anticipation finally come to an end. And then what?
Had they looked around for him?
Had they searched the crowd?
Had they recognised him immediately?
The questions arrived uninvited. More troublingly, they refused to leave.
Bruce leaned back in his chair. The cave hummed softly around him. Banks of monitors cast pale light across the stone walls.
Above him, thousands of tons of earth separated the cave from the sleeping Manor. None of it held his attention.
For perhaps the first time since Damian had pointed out the frozen timer, Bruce found himself thinking not about the investigation. But about the person.
Who were they? What kind of life did they live? What had they thought when they realised? Had they been happy? Afraid? Disappointed?
The last possibility lingered.
Bruce frowned. Disappointed. The word shouldn’t have bothered him. Yet it did.
Because he knew exactly what the public thought of Bruce Wayne. The billionaire. The celebrity. The perpetual tabloid fixture.
To some people, finding out Bruce was their soulmate would be exciting. To others it would be a nightmare.
A lifetime of reporters. Paparazzi. Public scrutiny. Danger. Every enemy Batman had ever made.
Bruce knew better than anyone that proximity to him carried consequences.
The evidence sat framed across the Manor.
The thought darkened his expression. Whoever they were, they deserved better than that.
And then Bruce paused. His eyes slowly narrowed. Because that thought implied something else. Something he hadn’t consciously acknowledged until now.
It didn't matter.
That lie was what kept you going after the gala. It wasn’t grief. Grief implied loss, implied that you had possessed something to begin with.
You hadn't. Bruce Wayne had never been yours.
And yet, something inside of you had still died that night.
You still went to work. Still paid your bills. Still answered texts. Still laughed when friends made jokes.
From the outside, nothing had changed.
Inside, however, there was a deep hole where something important used to live.
Hope, perhaps.
Or whatever foolish thing had survived all those years beneath your indifference.
You had spent your entire life insisting that the countdown didn't matter. That fate didn't matter. That your soulmate was merely a possibility waiting somewhere in the distance and not the center of your universe.
Then the timer reached zero.
And you discovered exactly how much you had been lying to yourself.
Because if it truly hadn't mattered, then seeing Bruce Wayne across that ballroom wouldn't have hurt the way it did.
If it truly hadn't mattered, then his face wouldn't still appear in your nightmares. The sight of his name wouldn't make your stomach twist like someone had reached into your chest and grabbed hold of your ribs.
Yet it did. Every time, without fail.
Three days after the gala, you stopped in front of a coffee shop on your way to work.
A newspaper sat in the display window.
BRUCE WAYNE ANNOUNCES THE EXPANSION OF FOUNDATION PROGRAMMES.
The headline wasn't even particularly large, just another article among dozens. A perfectly ordinary thing.
Yet the moment your eyes landed on it, nausea rolled through you so violently that you nearly turned aroun and walked home.
You stood frozen on the sidewalk, just staring blankly. You hated yourself for pausing.
Because there he was.
Photographed beneath bright camera flashes. Smiling. Beautiful.
Shit, he was beautiful.
It would have been easier if he wasn't. Easier if fate had chosen some ordinary man. Someone forgettable, whose face wouldn't follow you everywhere.
But Bruce looked like something sculpted rather than born.
Like whoever had created him had started with every impossible standard of beauty and decided they still weren't enough.
Even frozen in grainy newsprint, he seemed unreal.
Dark hair falling perfectly despite the cameras. Strong jaw, sharp cheekbones, those impossible blue eyes. The kind of watercolour people wrote poetry about. The kind that belonged to summer skies and oceans and things too beautiful to touch.
You remembered looking into those eyes across the ballroom. Remembered your heart stopping. Thinking, absurdly, that of course fate had chosen someone beautiful.
Soulmates were supposed to be extraordinary. And Bruce Wayne was sure as hell extraordinary.
Broad shoulders beneath perfectly tailored suits. Strong hands. Easy smiles. A laugh that seemed capable of convincing entire rooms to laugh with him. Not merely attractive. Handsome. Beautiful in the way ancient gods were described. The sort of beauty that made people stare before they realised they were staring.
He carried himself with the effortless confidence of someone who had spent his entire life being admired. Someone who had never needed to wonder if people found him desirable because the answer had always been obvious.
And somehow fate had looked at him, then looked at you, and declared that you belonged together.
You left the coffee shop without buying anything.
After that, you started noticing him everywhere.
It felt cruel. As though the universe had developed a sense of humor specifically to torment you.
Wayne Enterprises logos decorated entire buildings. Wayne Foundation advertisements appeared on buses. Charity campaigns featured his photograph. Magazine covers displayed his face near checkout counters. Televisions in waiting rooms played interviews. Articles appeared online. Photographs surfaced endlessly. Everywhere you looked, Bruce Wayne existed.
You couldn't escape him. Couldn't erase him.
The worst part was that everyone else saw those images and reacted normally.
Nobody understood what you saw. Nobody knew what it felt like.
Your coworkers saw Gotham's favourite billionaire. Your friends saw a celebrity. Strangers saw a philanthropist. You saw your soulmate.
You saw the man whose timer had stopped when yours did. The man who had looked directly at you, then dismissed you.
Sometimes you found yourself staring at the pics longer than you meant to.
Your eyes refused to look away. Despite everything, some awful traitorous primal part of you still recognise d him. Still instinctually saw him as yours.
The slight curve of his smile. The shadows beneath his eyes. The way his expensive suits felt designed to emphasise the width of his shoulders. The way his presence somehow dominated photographs even when surrounded by dozens of other people.
You hated that you noticed. Hated that your heart still reacted. That attraction remained long after hope had died.
Because Bruce Wayne was beautiful. Painfully, unfairly, devastatingly beautiful.
The kind that made the stinging rejection feel worse.
If he had been cruel, you could have hated him. If he had mocked you, anger could have replaced the hurt. But he hadn't done either.
He’d made living unbearable.
Bruce hadn't rejected you because he disliked you. He hadn't rejected you because you were unworthy. He hadn't even rejected you at all.
To reject someone required acknowledgment.
Bruce Wayne simply hadn't cared enough to notice. You had been forgettable. An interruption. A stranger in a crowded room.
It was fucking humiliating.
To everyone else, your countdown had finally reached zero. A happy occasion. A miracle. A dream-come-true.
People congratulated you. Asked questions. Smiled knowingly.
You learned to lie.
"Oh, I haven't met them yet." "Maybe we crossed paths without realizing." "I'm not really focused on it."
Easy answers. No one ever suspected the truth.
Didn’t know that every mention of soulmates felt like someone digging a knife into an already sore bruise.
That fate itself had started feeling so incredibly cruel.
No one knew that your countdown had ended beside crystal chandeliers and champagne glasses and the most beautiful man you'd ever seen.
Hw could you explain to anyone that he had walked away?
How could you describe the experience of finding the person the universe created specifically for you, only to discover that your existence wasn’t even important enough to remember?
There weren't words for that.
Every morning you woke up, and every day Bruce Wayne's name appeared somewhere.
On buildings. Headlines. TVscreens. Charity banners. A constant reminder. A monument to something you desperately wished you could forget.
You never admitted how much it affected you. Not even to yourself.
Instead you learned to look away. To change channels. To scroll past articles. To cross the street rather than walk beneath buildings bearing his name.
Small, pathetic things.
Yet necessary.
Because every glimpse felt like reopening a wound that refused to heal.
And somewhere deep down, beneath the humiliation and hurt and anger and disappointment, existed a truth you hated even more.
You still thought he was so disgustingly beautiful. Remembered the moment he looked at you. Could still feel the countdown reaching zero.
And no matter how hard you tried, some part of you still mourned the future that had died before it ever had the chance to begin.
Finding you should have taken longer.
Bruce expected months. Years, maybe. The list of possibilities was absurd.
A countdown bond narrowed the search considerably compared to shared pain or dreams, but it was still thousands of people. Tens of thousands, depending on the timeframe. Every person he'd spoken to. Every person he'd stood beside. Every handshake. Every conversation. Every fleeting interaction that had seemed insignificant at the time.
Ordinarily, that would have made the investigation difficult.
Instead, it became embarrassingly simple.
Because unlike other soul bonds, a countdown created a very specific moment. A beginning.
Bruce only needed to determine when his timer had stopped. Then identify everyone he'd interacted with during that period. The rest was elimination.
He discovered quickly that he had a significant advantage.
Over the past five months, Bruce had only personally interacted with nine people who possessed countdown bonds.
Nine.
One was a long-time business partner whose timer still had three years remaining.
Two were married.
Another had met their soulmate publicly several weeks prior.
The remaining names disappeared one by one beneath scrutiny.
Until only one remained.
You.
The file sat open on the Batcomputer. Bruce stared at it for a long time.
Name.
Age.
Employment history.
Education.
Address.
Nothing remarkable. Nothing that should have caused his pulse to stumble the way it did. Yet it did.
Because beside your photograph sat a timestamp. Wayne Foundation Annual Renewal Gala.
Two and a half months ago.
Bruce went still. The gala.
He couldn’t remember you at all.
He remembered the event. The schedule. The donor meetings. The practiced speeches. The endless boring conversations. The uncomfortable sensation that accompanied the recollection made his stomach tighten.
Because if the countdown had ended that night, then you had been there. Somewhere inside that ballroom.
His soulmate had stood within arm's reach, and he hadn't known.
Bruce leaned back slowly.
The photograph remained illuminated on the monitor.
You looked ordinary. Not in a bad way. Just real. A person.
His person.
The thought appeared uninvited.
His gaze lingered longer than necessary. Memorising details.
The shape of your smile in the employee photograph attached to the company website. The slight tilt of your head. The way your eyes seemed brighter in candid images than posed ones.
Ridiculous, meaningless observations.
Yet he continued looking.
Eventually, Bruce opened the gala guest registry. Cross-referenced attendance records.
Security footage. Photographs. Anything.
Everything.
He found you four hours later.
Camera seventeen. Ballroom east entrance. Timestamped twelve minutes before the countdown likely reached zero.
The footage was silent.
You stood speaking with coworkers. Laughing at something. So… bright.
Unaware that he even existed beyond headlines and magazine covers.
He watched the clip so many times that domething uncomfortable settled beneath his ribs.
He knew what was about to happen.
Your timer was about to reach zero. His timer was about to reach zero.
You found him.
You’d crossed the room.
And he walked away.
Hell, he hadn’t even properly looked at you.
Bruce stared at the paused frame.
For the first time since beginning the investigation, a deep nausea rolled through him.
He remembered that interaction vaguely now.
A stranger approaching. A voice trying to get his attention. A laugh. An interruption between meetings.
Nothing important or memorable. Nothing-
His jaw clenenched.
No.
Not nothing.
You.
It had been you.
His soulmate.
The person fate had spent decades leading toward him.
The person whose existence he had secretly imagined during sleepless nights and lonely flights and moments of weakness he never admitted to anyone.
Bruce rose from his chair.
The cave remained silent around him. Cold. Empty without his boys.
The monitor focused on your face. He couldn’t pull his eyes away.
For two and a half months, you had known.
You'd known exactly who he was.
And if Bruce understood people half as well as he believed he did, then you had probably interpreted that encounter exactly the way anyone would.
You thought he'd rejected you.
Bruce found himself imagining it despite having no desire to.
You walking across that ballroom. Excited. Hopeful. Nervous. Only to be brushed aside.
His stomach twisted.
You had spent your entire life moving toward him. And he'd made you feel unwanted.
A muscle jumped in his jaw. No. Unacceptable.
You belonged to him.
Bruce had spent most of his life convincing himself he could survive without a soulmate.
Now he found himself staring at your photograph at three in the morning, unable to look away. Unable to stop imagining your reaction when you learned the truth. To stop thinking about the hurt he had unknowingly caused. And most concerning of all, unable to stop wanting.
Not merely to meet you.
To keep you close.
Safe.
Where nothing could take you away before he had the chance to make this right.
You were halfway through answering emails when your manager appeared beside your desk.
"Got a minute?"
You looked up. "Sure."
"We've had a request come through."
That wasn't unusual. The company received requests constantly.
You nodded for them to continue.
"They specifically asked for you."
That was unusual.
Your brow furrowed. "Me?"
"Apparently." Your manager sounded just as confused.
You accepted the folder they handed over, then immediately wished you hadn't. The logo printed across the front was impossible to miss.
Wayne Foundation.
Your stomach dropped.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Your manager misread your expression immediately. "Good news, actually."
Good. Right.
You’d almost forgotten that normal people didn't feel like they were on the verge of breaking down every time they saw that name.
You forced a smile. "What's the project?"
"A community outreach initiative. They've been reviewing applicants from several companies."
It was like the name seemed determined to follow you everywhere.
"Apparently someone on their end requested you specifically."
The confusion in your manager's voice mirrored your own.
"Have you worked with them before?"
"No." The answer came too quickly. You cleared your throat. "Not personally."
Your manager nodded. "Well, whoever reviewed your profile liked something."
Maybe. Or maybe fate simply wasn't finished laughing at you yet.
You waited until they left before opening the folder.
The proposal itself looked normal. Professional. Routine. Yet a strange feeling settled low in your stomach.
Because your name appeared throughout the documentation.
You stared at the pages for several seconds then shook your head. Paranoia. Nothing more.
Bruce Wayne didn't know who you were. The Wayne Foundation employed thousands of people. This was coincidence. It had to be.
Yet later that evening, as you prepared to leave work, you found yourself looking at the folder again.
Reading your name.
And wondering why the uneasy feeling refused to disappear.
←↓→↑
The project itself was harmless. Boring, even.
Several meetings. A handful of planning sessions. Far too many emails. Just.. normal stuff.
And yet you found yourself running into the same problem repeatedly.
People always seemed to know who you were.
Not coworkers or clients, it would probably hurt your feelings if they didn’t know your name.
But Wayne employees.
The first time it happened, you ignored it. The second time, you thought about it for a bit before shaking it off. The third time, it became impossible not to think about.
A woman stood beside the refreshments table wearing a Wayne Foundation identification badge, smiling like she knew you as she called out your name.
You glanced up from your coffee, offering a polite smile. "Yeah?"
Her expression brightened immediately. "Oh good."
Good?
You waited.
Instead, she simply smiled. "Sorry. I've heard nice things."
Before you could ask from whom, someone called her name from across the room.
The conversation ended there. Leaving you standing alone holding a paper cup and feeling vaguely unsettled.
She'd heard nice things.
From who?
About what?
Then you’d received an email. Then another. And another.
Nothing inappropriate or personal. Just opportunities. Projects. Invitations. Networking events. Requests.
All connected to Wayne Enterprises or one of its countless subsidiaries.
The attention made no sense. You weren't exceptionally qualified. You weren't particularly influential. There were hundreds of people with better resumes. Thousands.
Yet somehow your name kept appearing.
Each coincidence felt harmless on its own.
Together, they felt deliberate.
There was only one explanation your brain kept returning to, and it was ridiculous.
Bruce Wayne didn't know who you were.
Bruce Wayne had never known who you were.
The memory still hurt. Less than before, but enough.
You shoved the thought away and focused on work. Unfortunately, work wasn't cooperating.
"There's a gala next month."
You nearly choked on your drink.
Your coworker blinked. "...You okay?"
"No."
You set the glass down.
"Sorry. What?"
"A gala."
Absolutely not.
The immediate response rose so quickly that you nearly said it aloud.
Your coworker laughed.
"That's about the reaction I expected."
"No."
"That's not even what I asked."
"No anyway."
The laugh grew louder. "It's mandatory."
Of course it was. You dropped your forehead onto the table.
Somewhere above you, your coworker continued speaking.
Words blurred together.
You caught Wayne Foundation. Charity initiative. Attendance expected.
Absolutely wonderful.
You closed your eyes. The universe hated you. That was the only reasonable explanation.
Because apparently surviving one Wayne gala hadn't been enough.
Now fate had scheduled a sequel.
That should have been funny. Instead, dread settled heavily in your chest.
Bruce Wayne probably wouldn't even be there.
And if he was?
He wouldn't recognise you. Wouldn't remember you. You would simply become another face in another crowd. Again.
The familiar ache returned. Duller now. Older, but still present.
You hated that even after everything, some pathetic part of you still cared.
Wondering about what could have happened if things had gone differently.
If he had looked at you. If he'd smiled. If he'd given fate even a single chance.
The thought followed you all the way home. Followed you into the shower. Followed you into bed.
And somewhere across Gotham, entirely unaware of the damage he was causing, Bruce Wayne was doing exactly the same thing.
Thinking about you.
Constantly.
Obsessively.
Unable to stop.
While you lay awake staring at the ceiling, Bruce sat alone in his study surrounded by photographs, reports, schedules, and information he absolutely should not possess.
The file on his desk had grown significantly over the past two weeks.
The silence of the study was suffocating, broken only by the rhythmic, heavy thrum of Bruce’s own heartbeat. It was a sound he usually controlled with meditative precision, but tonight, his pulse was erratic, driven by a hunger that felt less like desire and more like a fever.
His fingers, scarred and calloused from years of a life lived in the shadows, trembled slightly as they hovered over the glossy surface of the most recebt photograph.
In the light of the single desk lamp, your laughter looked almost tactile. He wanted to reach through the paper, to catch the warmth of your skin, to feel the vibration of that laugh against his own chest.
He didn't just want to see you. He wanted to own the air you breathed.
A low, jagged exhale escaped his throat as he reached for the fastening of his trousers. The silk of his shirt felt abrasive against his skin. He wasn't a man of whims, he was a man of purpose.
As he freed himself, his gaze never left your eyes in the photo.
He began to move, his hand wrapping around his length with a grip almost a little too tight, a little too desperate. He wasn't looking for a gentle release, he was looking for a way to drown out the ache of your absence. He hadn’t even met you properly yet.
Every slide of his palm was a silent prayer, a demand whispered into the empty room.
You, he thought, his eyes darkening until the blue was almost black. Only you.
He closed his eyes for a second, and the darkness behind his eyelids was filled with the phantom sensation of you. He imagined your hands replacing his own.
He imagined the way you would look at him if you knew. If you knew that he had mapped out your entire existence, that he knew the number of alarms you needed to wake up, the drinks you preferred, the way your eyes crinkled when you were truly happy.
A groan, deep and primal, tore from his throat as he increased the pace. The friction was intense, bordering on a delicious sort of pain. He pictured you in this very room, stripped of your defences, looking at him with that same devastating smile. He imagined pinning you to this very desk, marking you so thoroughly that the world would know you belonged to the Batman, to Bruce, to him.
"Mine," he rasped, the word a vow and a command. "You have to be mine."
He was spiraling, losing his composure to the sheer, unadulterated need to possess the person in the photograph.
As the tension coiled in his gut, he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the edge of the desk, his breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches. He wasn't just chasing a climax, he was chasing the ghost of you. And as he finally broke, his body shuddering with a violent, lonely release, the only thing he could think about was how much longer he could stand being a stranger to the only person outside of his family who truly mattered.
He stared at the splotches of his own mess, his eyes settling back on your frozen, laughing face.
His patience was running out. And soon, he wouldn't just be looking at pictures. He would be looking at you.
The morning of the gala arrived faster than expected.
You spent most of it trying not to think about where you were going later. Work helped.
Emails needed answering. Reports needed reviewing. Deadlines continued existing regardless of personal problems.
By six o'clock, however, distractions became harder to find.
The Foundation building stood illuminated against Gotham's skyline when your taxi pulled up outside.
For a moment you remained seated. Watching people enter through the front doors. Watching security direct arrivals. Watching expensive cars arrive one after another.
The driver glanced at you through the mirror.
"You getting out?"
You sighed. "Unfortunately."
The lobby was already busy.
Employees moved through the space carrying folders, tablets, and the sort of purposeful expressions people adopted when responsible for coordinating large events.
You followed the signs toward registration.
The man at the desk smiled immediately.
"Good evening."
"Hi."
You offered your name.
Something flickered across his expression. "There you are." The words slipped out so naturally that he didn't seem to realise he'd said them.
Your brow furrowed. "What?"
His smile widened. "Nothing. Sorry."
He handed over your badge.
"Conference hall B. Someone will show you where to go."
The interaction lingered in your mind as you crossed the lobby.
There wasn't anything strange about it.
You reached the elevators just as a man wearing a Foundation lanyard stepped out.
His eyes landed on your badge. Muttering your name under his breath.
You stopped. "Yeah?"
His expression brightened. "Right this way."
You stared at him.
The conference hall was directly ahead. Visible from where you stood. So was the sign. So was every other person entering without assistance. Apparently, you were the only one receiving a personal escort. The thought made you irrationally suspicious.
"Thanks."
The man spent the walk making polite conversation.
The conference hall occupied most of the floor.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked downtown Gotham. Round tables filled the space beneath hanging lights. Staff moved between displays making final adjustments while attendees gradually filtered inside.
You recognise d a few people from previous meetings and wandered over.
Conversation came easily enough.
Work topics. Office gossip. Complaints about deadlines. The familiar rhythm settled some of your nerves.
Eventually, someone handed you a drink. Someone else told a story about the mate documentary they were watching the night before. Laughter spread around the table.
For the first time all evening, you found yourself relaxing.
Maybe this wouldn't be so bad.
You could survive a few hours, shake a few hands, then disappear before anything unpleasant happened.
A movement near the entrance drew your attention.
The change happened gradually. A few heads turned. Then a few more.
You knew who it was before you looked.
For a brief moment, you considered keeping your eyes fixed firmly on the table.
But curiosity won.
It always did.
Bruce Wayne stood near the entrance speaking with several board members.
The sight of him harder than expected.
Four months had passed, yet he remained exactly as you remembered.
Tall. Confident. Effortlessly composed. The kind of person who never seemed out of place regardless of where he happened to be standing.
You watched him laugh at something one of the board members said. Watched him rest a hand briefly against someone's shoulder. Watched him move through the crowd with practiced ease.
The memory arrived before you could stop it.
Crystal chandeliers. Champagne glasses. The countdown reaching zero beneath your fingertips.
Your gaze dropped immediately. Heat crawled uncomfortably up the back of your neck.
This had been a mistake.
All you could think about was how little had changed for him.
Somewhere between the gala and now, Bruce Wayne had probably attended dozens of events just like this one.
Met hundreds of people.
Forgotten hundreds more.
Meanwhile, you still couldn't walk into a Foundation building without remembering the worst conversation of your life.
The thought was embarrassing enough to make you take a long drink.
Across the room, entirely unaware that you had already looked away, Bruce Wayne finally spotted you.
↑→↓←
You forced yourself to look anywhere else.
The city beyond the windows. The drink in your hand. The conversation happening beside you. Anything except him.
It felt childish.
Embarrassing, honestly.
You were an adult. Bruce Wayne wasn't some ex you were desperately trying to avoid at a party. He was a stranger.
A stranger who happened to be your soulmate.
Someone who happened to have accidentally shattered every stupid childhood fantasy you'd ever had about fate.
"So then the guy spends hours explaining how the patterns along his wrist connected-"
"What?"
Your coworker laughed. "The documentary."
"Oh." You blinked.
Right. The documentary.
Apparently the conversation had continued without you.
You offered what you hoped looked like a convincing smile.
No one seemed to notice.
People drifted between groups. More guests arrived. Staff circulated carrying trays of drinks and appetizers.
The event settled into a comfortable rhythm.
Exactly the sort of evening you'd expected.
Which was probably why it took you a moment to notice something was wrong.
The conversation around your table had started stuttering. Small pauses appearing where they hadn't before. People glancing toward something behind you.
You ignored it initially.
Then someone stopped speaking halfway through a sentence.
"...Oh."
You frowned. "What?"
Nobody answered immediately. Slowly, unease crept up your spine.
You knew that feeling.
The awful certainty that something embarrassing was happening and you simply hadn't caught up yet.
Your grip tightened around the glass.
Please don't be me.
Please don't somehow be me.
Carefully, you turned. And nearly dropped your drink.
Bruce Wayne was walking toward your table.
The room seemed to tilt.
No. That wasn't right. There were other people here. Important people. Board members. Executives. Foundation staff.
Bruce Wayne had absolutely no reason to be approaching you.
Yet each step brought him closer, your pulse hammered painfully. Maybe he wasn't.. Maybe-
Then Bruce smiled. Carefully. Almost hesitant.
"Hi."
→←↑↓
Your pulse thundered traitorously.
After spotting him near the entrance, you had gone out of your way to avoid him. And apparently, he'd made no effort to stop you.
He talked briefly with the accountant at your table before passing.
You felt stupid all over again.
You knew better than to expect anything.
No shit he wasn’t coming over to talk to you.
By the time the evening finally began winding down, your social battery had been thoroughly exhausted. Guests filtered toward the exits in small groups while staff quietly began dismantling displays around the edges of the room.
You offered your goodbyes, accepted a few last-minute business cards you would probably never use, and escaped.
Or tried to.
Halfway down the hallway toward the elevators, you changed direction.
Bathroom first.
Then home.
The corridor was blissfully empty compared to the crowded ballroom behind you. Soft lighting reflected off polished marble floors. The distant murmur of conversation faded with every step.
You were almost done. Almost free.
"Leaving already?"
You stopped so abruptly your feet nearly slipped against the floor.
The voice came from behind you. Low and warm.
Dangerously familiar.
Your stomach dropped.
Slowly, you turned.
Bruce Wayne stood at the opposite end of the hallway. Alone.
For a second, neither of you moved.
Gone was the effortless social charm he'd worn all evening. Without the crowd surrounding him, he seemed larger somehow. Broader. More imposing.
His eyes were fixed entirely on you. Watching. Like he'd finally found something he'd been searching for.
A strange tension settled between your shoulders.
"Mr. Wayne."
His expression tightened immediately.
"Bruce," he corrected softly.
The familiarity felt inappropriate.
You swallowed. "Bruce."
Something in his gaze darkened at the sound of his name on your lips.
Satisfaction.
The hallway suddenly felt much smaller.
You forced a polite smile. "I didn't realise you were still here."
"I was looking for someone."
Your heart stumbled. The answer came too quickly. Too directly. And for one awful second, hope tried to rear its ugly head again.
You crushed it immediately. "You found them then?"
The words were meant as a joke.
Bruce didn't laugh. Instead, his gaze softened.
"Yes."
The answer landed with uncomfortable weight.
The air felt thick.
You shifted your weight, suddenly aware of every inch separating you. Or rather, how little distance there actually was.
"You wanted something?" you asked carefully.
Bruce stared at you.
It was unnerving. Most people glanced away eventually. They blinked. Looked around. Got distracted.
Bruce seemed incapable of doing any of those things.
His eyes moved slowly across your face as if committing every detail to memory.
Four months ago, he couldn't spare you two seconds. Now he was looking at you like he couldn't bear to look away. It didn't make sense.
Nothing about this made sense.
"I owe you an apology." The words caught you completely off guard.
You blinked. "What?"
"The first gala."
Your breath stopped. Every muscle in your body locked.
Bruce's jaw tightened. "You approached me."
The memory flashed through your mind with brutal clarity.
The countdown.
The humiliation.
"I remember." It was a lie.
You knew it was a lie. You could hear it. He hadn't remembered. You'd seen his face that night. Seen the complete absence of recognition.
But he looked genuinely upset now.
"I handled it badly."
A laugh escaped before you could stop it. Small. Bitter.
Bruce's eyes narrowed.
"You don't need to apologize."
"Yes." His answer was immediate. "I do."
Something sharp flickered across his expression. Self-directed anger. Regret. Maybe even guilt.
You didn't understand it at all.
"You didn't know me." Your voice came out quieter than intended. The admission hurt. Even now.
"You didn't owe me anything."
Bruce went completely still. The silence that followed felt wrong. Dangerous.
His gaze dropped briefly to your wrist before returning to your face. A muscle jumped in his jaw.
Then he took a step forward.
Yet your pulse reacted like he'd crossed the entire hallway.
"I should have known you." The words came out rough. Almost painful.
Something shifted beneath the surface of his composure. You could feel it. Like cracks forming beneath ice.
And for the first time all evening, genuine unease curled through your stomach.
Because suddenly it felt less like Bruce Wayne had happened to stop you in a hallway. And more like Bruce Wayne had been waiting there. Waiting specifically for you. Waiting for the moment you would be alone. When there would be no audience. No escape.
A shiver ran down your spine.
Bruce's eyes immediately tracked the movement.
His expression softened. Like even that tiny movement meant something precious to him.
And somehow that frightened you far more than if he'd looked angry.
"Can I walk you to your car?" he asked quietly.
The question sounded harmless. Polite.
But there was something underneath it. Something hungry. Something that made it feel less like a request and more like a man trying very, very hard not to demand.
When you hesitated, Bruce's gaze darkened harshly.
You got the overwhelming impression that Bruce Wayne was not accustomed to hearing no.
And that whatever was looking at you from behind those impossibly blue eyes had already decided how this interaction would end.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. You looked at him, searching for the playboy you had seen on the news, but he wasn't there. In his place stood a man whose very presence felt like a gravitational pull, heavy and inescapable.
Your heart was a frantic thing in your chest, caught between the instinct to run and the soulmate bond that hummed under your skin, screaming that this was where you were supposed to be.
"I... I can manage, Bruce," you said, trying to inject a note of independence into your voice. You didn't want to be another person he was simply 'handling' or 'managing.' You wanted to be seen as an equal, not a charity project or a fleeting interest.
"It’s a long walk to the valet, and you have guests to attend to."
You made a move to step around him, but you didn't get far.
Before you could even clear his shadow, Bruce’s hand shot out. He didn't grab you roughly, but his fingers curled around your upper arm with a terrifying, singular purpose. It wasn't a casual touch, it was a tether. His palm was hot, even through the fabric of your clothes, and the sheer strength in his grip made your breath hitch.
"The guests are gone," he said. His voice had lost its social lilt. It was now a low, gravelly command that seemed to vibrate in the very marrow of your bones.
"They don't matter. Nothing in that room matters but this."
He stepped into your space, forcing you to tilt your head to maintain eye contact. The hallway felt like it was shrinking, the walls closing in until the only thing left in the universe was the scent of him, like the coming of a storm.
"You think you can just walk away?" he murmured, his eyes searching yours with a desperation that bordered on the frantic.
You frowned, your confusion overriding your unease. "After everything? Bruce, we haven't even spoken for more than five minutes.”
You let out a quiet broken laugh. “You don't even know me."
A dark, humorless sound escaped his throat, one that sounded more like a growl. "That is where you are wrong."
His grip tightened, making it clear he wasn't letting go.
His gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes, his pupils blown wide until the blue was just a thin, electric ring.
"I know the way you tilt your head when you're thinking," he whispered, leaning so his breath fanned across your cheek.
"I know the exact shade your eyes turn when you're startled. I know the schedule of your life better than you do. I have spent every waking moment since that night trying to find a way to apologise for a sin I didn't even know I had committed."
Your heart hammered against your ribs.
How? How could he know these things? The sheer impossibility of his words should have made you laugh, or call for security, but the soulmate bond was reacting to his intensity, pulling you toward him like a moth to a flame.
It was a terrifying, beautiful pull.
A part of you wanted to demand answers, to push him away for his madness, but another part, the part that had been lonely and aching for months, wanted to collapse into him and let him devour you.
"You... you're obsessed," you breathed, the words slipping out before you could think them through.
Bruce didn't flinch. He didn't deny it. Instead, he leaned closer, his forehead touching yours, his expression one of raw, unadulterated devotion.
"I am," he confessed, the admission sounding like a vow.
"I am completely, utterly undone by you. And if you walk out of this hallway tonight without letting me make it right, I think the world might actually end."
He looked at you then, not as a billionaire looking at a guest, but as a man looking at his entire world, his eyes burning with a terrifying, beautiful hunger.
"Please," he pleaded, the word a jagged edge of vulnerability.
"Don't make me watch you walk away again. Let me take you home. Let me show you that you were never just a face in a crowd. You are the only thing that has ever been real."
He wasn't asking anymore. He was begging, and as he stood there, looming against you with a possessiveness that felt like a honeyed trap, you realised with a jolt of both fear and exhilaration that you didn't want to say no.
In the months that followed that night at the gala, the "coincidences" had stopped being coincidences and had become a reality.
You no longer had to wonder why a certain restaurant always had your favourite table reserved, or why your career seemed to accelerate with a sudden, inexplicable momentum.
You knew. You knew that every promotion, every unexpected gift, and every "chance" encounter was a thread in the web Bruce had woven around you.
And the most frightening part was how easily you had let yourself be caught.
The initial shock of his obsession, the way he looked at you as if you were a miracle he was afraid might vanish if he blinked hard enough, had slowly melted into a deep, intoxicating security. You were no longer a face in the crowd. You were the center of his universe.
You sat on the edge of the massive, silk draped bed in the master suite of Wayne Manor, watching the moonlight spill across the floor.
The room was silent, save for the distant, rhythmic sound of the Gotham rain against the glass.
A door clicked shut. Heavy, purposeful footsteps crossed the rug.
You didn't need to turn around to know it was him. You could feel him. The soulmate bond, once a source of lonely longing, was now a constant, thrumming connection that acted like a second pulse.
Bruce stepped into the light. He had shed the armor of his tuxedo, wearing only a dark shirt left partially unbuttoned.
He looked less like a billionaire and more like the man you had met in the hallway.
He approached you, his presence filling the room until there was no air left that didn't belong to him.
He sank onto the bed behind you, his large, warm hands sliding around your waist to pull you back against his chest. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. A low, contented sound vibrating against your skin.
"You're thinking again," he murmured, his voice a deep, velvet caress. "I can feel it."
"Just thinking about how much has changed," you whispered, leaning your head back against his shoulder.
You reached up, lacing your fingers with his. "How much you've changed."
Bruce tightened his hold, his arms circling you like a fortress. "I haven't changed. I've simply finally found the right reason to exist."
He turned you in his arms, forcing you to face him. His eyes were dark, swirling with that familiar, beautiful madness. Devotion so absolute it felt like a physical weight.
"Do you still feel like you're in a trap?"
You looked up at him, searching the face of the man who had studied your every breath, the man who had turned his entire life into a pursuit of you.
You thought of the fear you had felt, the unease at his intensity, and the way he had practically begged for a chance to belong to you.
Then, you thought of the way he held you now as if you were the most precious thing in existence, as if your very survival depended on his touch.
A slow, knowing smile touched your lips. You reached up, cupping his jaw, your thumb tracing the line of his lip.
"No," you admitted softly, the truth settling comfortably in your chest. "It feels like home."
Bruce’s expression broke, a flash of pure, unadulterated relief crossing his features before it was replaced by a hunger that made your breath hitch.
He leaned in, his lips hovering just a fraction from yours.
"Good," he rasped, his gaze dropping to your mouth. "Because there is no going back. You are mine. And I am never, ever letting you go again."
As he pulled you into a kiss that tasted of desperation and promise, you realised that the universe hadn't hated you after all.
It had simply been waiting for the moment that you finally stopped running and let the storm claim you.
Please comment and reblog! :)
11K+ Words, 69K+ Characters, 1K+ Sentences, 900+ Paragraphs, 42 Minute average reading time, 1 hour and 6 minute average speaking time.
Somehow, your normal conversation with Johnny turned into “what kind of dog would you be if you were one?”
At first, it was just the two of you. You argued that he would be husky. Loud, obnoxious, always needs training or something to do or else they become destructive. Johnny argued and claimed that he saw himself as a rottweiler.
You stared flatly at him, eyebrows neutral and the corner of your lips slightly tilted downwards but your eyes held so much expression. “A rottie? Really, Johnny?” you ask dryly.
Johnny leans back on the sofa and shrugs, “I’m cool— collected— and I’d say I’m pretty tough,” he says as if all of those were indeed true. Before you could rebuttal (because let’s be honest, you were going to), he starts talking again, “I think L.T would be just like Riley.”
Oh, now we’re talking about Simon.
The same guy that everyone fears speaking his name because as soon as anyone starts to say the first syllable of it, he hears it. Probably has gigantic ears under his balaclava.
“Lieutenant’s a doberman, what are you talking about?” you raised an eyebrow, shifting in your seat a bit. You rested your arm on the back of the sofa and turned to Johnny, your legs curled up under you.
Johnny stares at nothing in particular for a second. In a way, it made sense. But he liked arguing, especially with you. “Nah, L.T’s not a dobie. You know what they say: your pets look like you,” he points out with a smug smile as if he won this argument.
“And you know how he looks, how?” you replied, raising an eyebrow. You rested your temple on the palm of your hand; the arm that was resting behind the sofa.
That shut Johnny up.
Because, yeah. No one knew what Simon looked like.
“…‘m jus’ sayin’— L.T really gives off the vibe of a german shepherd. Protective, independent but always there for his teammates and… loves structure. He’s no’ velcro-y like a doberman,” says Johnny.
You opened your mouth to reply but stopped yourself.
How do you explain to your fellow friend that Simon was a goddamn velcro? It’s questionable how you’re sitting in the rec room and he hasn’t barged in here looking for you already. He’s always glued to your side to the point that the captain questioned if he was on any new medications.
“If anything, I think he might be a belgian malinois,” Johnny adds, completely oblivious to your parted lips and mind. “An absolute wanker on the field, crazy lad if I say so myself. Can’ control the man even ‘f yer yelling ‘cross the building,” he points out.
That part was true.
Simon tends to do his own thing until the captain instructs otherwise. You tilt your head a bit, lifting up your other hand, tilting it side to side, “ehh… I see it. But I still think he gives off doberman,” you replied.
The door to the rec room opens suddenly, the quiet creek echoing between the four walls. Simon’s quiet steps thumped against the cold flooring as he walks in and stops right in front of the door.
Just staring.
He doesn’t speak and neither do the two of you.
Simon just… stares.
Not like a man who caught two people in an act they weren’t suppose to be doing. Not like a man who didn’t mean to walk in on accident.
Just a man who was staring at his two teammates like he was anticipating their next movement.
You slowly tear your gaze away from Simon and give Johnny a side eye before slowly pushing yourself off the couch. “I’m… gonna grab some coffee real quick,” you say slowly.
As much as you adore Johnny, you had a winning streak when it came to your guys’ “arguments” and you are not going to lose it.
Making your way over to the counter, Simon immediately followed you over without a single word and grabbed a disposable cup from the cabinet, handing you one as well. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t even spare Johnny a glance, and proceeds to pour himself a cup of black coffee.
Johnny watches the quiet interaction, taking note of how Simon hadn’t moved from his spot behind you. He should’ve gone over to a chair and sat down by now. Instead, he was standing behind you as you made your bittersweet coffee, filled with sugars and creamer.
“By the way, I still think you’d be a husky,” you spoke up, turning around to face Johnny. You mixed you coffee with a clean spoon, walking about to him.
Simon follows along, trailing behind like a lost puppy but never once made any effort to join in on the conversation. Instead, he sits down in one of the armchairs across from you and Johnny.
The younger male doesn’t respond to you. He’s had his eyes on Simon the entire time and that’s when the puzzles start connecting in his brain.
The amount of times that Johnny had witness Simon following you, the times where he’d would step in between you and some bad-mouthing recruit, and the amount of times that he’d always seem to nudge you— intentional or not.
baker!reader who's lured simon riley into her shop, home, and heart with sweet treats (pt.3)
pt.1 — pt.2
"simon."
there he was. standing by the register and decorated in his signature black, his utter exhaustion is apparent in his drooped shoulders and dark skin under his eyes, smeared with some sort of black face paint. there's a new cut on his nose, red and irritated. he looks worse for wear.
any fleeting anger you felt at his disappearance sheds the second you see the broken man before you. you had no right to be angry in the first place—he had only been here twice.
propping your broom against the nearest wall, you approach the register, where he waits on the other side to order. his hands are shoved in the black hoodie's pockets, but you can see movement. he must be anxious.
"hey." he whispered, voice rough than usual. he clears his throat like it's nothing more than allergies causing the added deepness in his voice.
you began typing in his order—the drink was taken off the menu last week, but this was an exception. he was an exception. "thought you found somewhere better," you joked, hoping to lighten his mood, even in the slightest.
the crinkle in his eyes is cause for small celebration. "never."
"same thing?"
"yes ma'am." because despite his exhaustion, he never loses his manners. he produces another crisp twenty from his pocket, hands caked in dirt, along with fresh cuts and calluses.
you shake your head. "this one's on me," you assure him, denying his cash as you turn to make his drink. after everything he went through, which was probably a lot judging by his attitude and appearance, the least you could do was provide him this nice thing. you didn't know what happened, and you might never. that was fine with you.
you heard the tip jar rustle as he stashed it in there. you rolled your eyes but let him. if it made him feel the slightest bit better, that's all that mattered.
"so," you started, mixing the necessary ingredients for his drink. would he like the extra caramel you added, or the cinnamon heart on top? "where'd you disappear to? I almost thought you died."
you glance back just in time to see him tense, throat bobbing beneath the mask. fuck. why'd you have to say that? clearly you should've kept your mouth shut because you went and made him uncomfortable.
you left out a nervous laugh as you pour the drink. "sorry, I shouldn't have said that."
he shook his head, clearing his throat again. "'s okay." he reassured you before disappearing into thought. "in the military. got called in for a mission."
sliding his drink across the counter with a smile, "you're in the military? that's so..." you trail off, unsure if the words you were about to say were appropriate.
"so what?" he pushed, big hand engulfing the plastic to-go cup.
"so..." you bite your lip with uncertainty. "you."
simon looked like someone who belonged in the military. he was built like a tank—muscles apparent even under baggy clothes just from the sheer size of him—and the calluses on his hands suggest hard work. plus the faint smell of gunpowder adds to the narrative. handling guns and dangerous scenarios just screams simon.
"s'me, huh?" his eyes crinkle again, shaking his head in mild disbelief of your boldness. if he wasn't wearing the mask, you'd be able to see the tips of his ears reddening. "glad I look the part."
"shut up." you blush, bagging a pastry for him. "i'm glad you're back, simon."
he takes it when you hand it to him. "me too."
with a big smile, you squint with hope, "see you next week?"
all he does is tap the tip jar and leave after sliding a pink straw into his sweet drink. you never considered how out of place the drink looked, dwarfed in his hand, with the pretty logo and pink straw. all it does is remind you of the man you'd quickly grown fond of stepping out of a clear comfort zone—and returning over again.
that night, when the entire stores cleaned from top to bottom, you empty the tip jar—the twenty dollar bill on top of the pile. you roll your eyes at the thought of simon disregarding the bill without a care in the world. like that amount of money just didn't matter. sure it was twenty dollars, but you didn't even make him pay that night.
but just as you were about to put it to the side, scribbles on the paper caught your eyes. flattening it against the counter, in handwriting as neat as a military man could get, you read:
xxx-xxx-xxxx —so you know when to have my drink ready - simon
Summary: Everyone dreams atleast once in their life to be transported to the world of their favourite series. Whether that be a book, a video game, a TV show or a movie series. But after a serious falling out with a loved one, you find yourself in your favourite book about to marry your favourite character, you think this to be an apology of sorts after your untimely death but you soon begin to eat your words when you realise that some broken characters don't want to be fixed.
Hi there! Thanks for taking the time to read my work! I’ll update this list from time to time, however it might be a little outdated. Some of these stories are quite old, but I thought I would still link them here because I like to see how far I’ve come as a writer.
Here is the Mobile version of our Master List! This list contains original works / ideas that we’ve come up with! It includes small series and alternate universes we’ve come up with!
Here is a guide to differentiate what each link entails!
[Title] | HC (Headcanon) ; Drabble (a mini one-shot) ; Scenario (A situation) ; One-shot
We hope you enjoy these works~! This list will be in constant update with the desktop version of our master list as well!
