step carefully, for you’ve entered the shadows of goretham…
I am nethie (she/her, 23), a storyteller who conjures tales from the abyss & before you glimpse my work, let me unmask myself ~ I write for the dc universe, jujutsu kaisen, kpop groups (lngshot) and others. My works focus on angst and fluff mostly!
NOT UPDATED
Other than that , step back and enjoy the show. Abra Kadabra. 🪄
all the works listed below are mine! reposting and translating is not allowed unless asked.
jealousy, jealousy
husband! toji zen'in x wife! fem reader
just the troubles of marrying to toji zen'in
just keep watching 1
f1 driver! dick grayson x social media manager! fem reader
what happens when you grew up with one of the most notorious playboy on the formula one grid, dick grayson..? Will there be something else involved with the same man you just so happens to be your dangerously addictive friends-with-benefits.
i need like neednednebdned some jjk angst character doesn't matter much (i cant read suguru imsorry) but can u pls pls pls recommend some good angst fics?? i prefer good endings but bad endings are also okay
alright nonnie ready your heart here's some delicious angst for you (minus suguru) – some of these have a happy ending and some don't so make sure to check the tags and each authors rules!
do I look like her? by @alexiroflife
dopamine by @madamechrissy
sukuna takes on another concubine by @epicderpface
hold me like a grudge by @starmapz
twilight galaxy by @sukunahs
missing pieces by @yenayaps
sincerely not by @saintobio
the one that got away by @indiewritesxoxo
neverland by @musatoru
the god who robbed heaven by @veejiez
the crush theorem by @nezuscribe
blue christmas by @sweetieelilii
the beat of your heart by @ssorasky
the ties that bind by @swearimnevergivingup
vows of duty by @alygator77
you're presumed dead by @kunareads
cheat by @reignpage
something, somehow, someday by @hellowoolf
we'll always have summer by @nanamiskentos
neglected to regressor batsis! reader x platonic batfam
what if after 20 years of neglect from your family full of vigilantes, you face an unfortunate death, only to find yourself regressed back to when you were 16?
⤷ lots of emotional neglect, reader was batgirl, reader was a tryhard and an overachiever, reader had no social life in her first life, mentions of drugs, mentions of human trafficking, mentions of death, regression themes, toxic and unhealthy relationships, dysfunctional family, toxic mentalities, reader and everyone else needs therapy…, canon typical violence, canon divergence, major character death(s) | tba | based on this
⤷ info! (background) 1 | 2 | read this first to understand the plot and each batfam better :)
⤷ all uf art ‼️
⤷ uf chapter covers ❤️🔥
⤷ uf memes 🫵
⤷ if you’re bored 🌟 (i’ll eventually get to tagging all of posts..)
summary: life of nethelie kim and the 4shoboiz, except ryul is a well known playboy and nethelie kim plays the game
contains: sarcasm, angst? (idk) , fluff, 18+ jokes, aging the boys up (🙏🏻..)
ep 1 : meet the clique via instagram
main cast 1 ⤵︎
name: nethelie / nethie kim (face: jennierubyjane on ig)
age: 24 years old
desc: does youtube for a living, fashion influencer and models on the sides, friends with the boys since they’re in the same company, closest to ohyul, fwb w ryul , flirtatious personality
main cast 2 ⤵︎
name: ryul kim
age: 22 years old (aged up)
desc: streams on youtube + discord, underground rapper, PLAYBOY!!!!!, fwb w nethie , flirtatious personality (match made in heaven)..? friends with the boys since they’re childhood, commitment issues.. and more
side cast 1 ⤵︎
name: ohyul kwon
age: 22 years old (aged up)
desc: nonchalant, mysterious, nethelie’s videographer & editor, also SINGS on his youtube #562life , lowkey but parties alot.. (lowk a playboy too), sees nethie as his bestfriend
side cast 2 ⤵︎
name: jeong woojin
age: 19 years old (aged up)
desc: choreographer and producer for more vision, posts dance and singing videos on youtube, sneaker collector, sometimes appears on nethie fashion vlogs, does model on the side also!
side cast 3 ⤵︎
name: louis jiho lim (incl his kr name)
age: 18 years old (aged up)
desc: youngest of the group, sings + dance, loves 4shoboiz, produces with woojin also, babied alot by the others, videographer for nethie alongside ohyul
meet the clique.. end
next part (soon!!!!!)
this smau will revolve arnd ryul and oc most of the time..! sorry for aging them up, lmk if you’re uncomfy but i hope yall are excited for this series because i am..!!!!!!!
pairing: ryul x reader
summary: in a world where childhood to lovers trope exist, you wish you ended up just like them but sad to say, it was all just a dream, or is it..?
contains: angst, sarcasm lngshot, slight fluff, playboy ryul
episode 1:
you don’t understand why you couldn’t have just fall for someone else and not kim ryul, your childhood best-friend?
The best-friend, who dropped everything in france and book the earliest flight just because you had a high fever, the best-friend whose face is always the first you’ll ever see every morning before school, the best-friend who you confessed and got rejected.
— when you got stood up
— when things got awkward
next part
—
a/n: hiii this is gonna b a series, so stay tuned. i’m finally back from the dead lol, i’ve been so addicted to reading lngshot au so here’s one ~
divider by: @cafekitsune
word count: 8.3k
synopsis: You accepted you would never be his first choice and after five years you decided enough was enough and decide to divorce Bruce.
warning: Divorce, miscommunication, Bruce being emotionally constipated
a/n: Okay, I was not planning to turn this into two parts, but it just kept getting bigger and bigger. I still have about 8,000 more words to edit — if not more.
Also, this is definitely plot heavy, so if this feels a little soap-opera-ish, please blame my recent addiction to those short C and K-dramas. That’s where all the inspiration came from.
The marriage had been decided long before either of you had learned what love was supposed to feel like.
Your parents called it practical—an alliance between old names, old money, and old expectations. You had been young enough to believe that perhaps something warm could grow from something arranged. In the beginning, as kids, you and Bruce were inseparable, and that alone had convinced both families the match was right.
Then Thomas and Martha died.
After that, Bruce became someone else. He was still polite, still impeccable in his manners, but the warmth he once showed you cooled into something distant and untouchable. You told yourself grief needed time.
Time, however, did not soften him. Not even after you were married.
Wayne Manor was vast, echoing, and unbearably quiet. You learned his routines quickly: late mornings, later nights, long absences disguised as board meetings and galas. When he was present, he treated you with the courtesy one reserves for a a business partner. You were his wife in title, in public, in carefully curated photographs. In private, you felt as if you were another obligation that he needed to fulfill.
At night, he came to you.
And damn him for that.
Bruce Wayne touched you with a fiery passion that felt almost cruel, because the only access you ever had to him was through his body while he kept every part of himself that truly mattered locked away. He knew every inch of your skin, every place that made your breath falter and your resolve weaken. He knew exactly how to draw those soft, needy sounds from your lips, how to make you arch into his touch and forget—if only for a moment—how alone you truly were.
Afterward, he would disentangle himself, murmuring something noncommittal—or sometimes saying nothing at all—before retreating behind the cold walls he had built around his heart, leaving you alone in a bed that felt far too large for one person.
In the last three years of marriage you two barely ever slept in the same bed.
Tonight was no different.
The sheets were still warm when he rolled away from you. You lay there, staring at the canopy above the bed, listening to the subtle rustle of fabric as he stood. The air felt colder without his body beside yours. Like always you waited—foolishly—for him to say something. Anything.
Instead, you heard the soft click of cufflinks being gathered from the bedside table.
You drew the blanket up to your chest, the silk cool against overheated skin, and pushed yourself up slightly. Your throat tightened. You had rehearsed this moment in your head more times than you cared to admit. In every version, your pride stayed intact, your voice steady, your heart locked safely away.
But now that the moment had come, the words felt like a knot lodged in your throat, refusing to be undone.
You cleared your throat.
“Bruce… we need to talk,” you said at last. You watched his head turn slightly toward you. “I think we should get a divorce.”
Bruce stilled.
His fingers, halfway through fastening his shirt, slowed—then stopped altogether. For a moment, he didn’t turn around. His back remained to you, broad and rigid, the multitude of faint scars along his skin catching the low lamplight. You wondered, not for the first time, how many parts of him you would never truly know.
Finally, he spoke.
“…A divorce.”
He said the word slowly, as though testing its weight.
“Yes,” you replied quietly.
Your gaze remained fixed on the rumpled sheets, on the faint crease where his body had been moments ago. You didn’t trust yourself to look at him—not when you’d worked so hard to keep your voice steady, to sound composed instead of heartbroken.
“This arrangement—whatever it was meant to be—is nearing three years,” you continued, forcing yourself into the role you had at work. She was someone who could survive this. You imagined you were sitting across from him in a boardroom instead of in his bed. “Both sides of the agreement have been fulfilled. Our businesses share mutual benefit, and I’ll make sure any remaining terms are honoured after we separate. As for personal assets, I’ll transfer any Wayne stock I hold back to you. There’s nothing I want. The proceedings should be smooth.”
It sounded clinical when you said it that way. Like a business transaction instead of the quiet unraveling of a marriage.
Bruce was silent for a beat too long.
“And what does your family think of this?” he asked at last.
You lifted one shoulder in a small, detached shrug. “We are no longer children,” you said evenly. “I’ll handle them.”
Then, after a brief pause, you added, “I’ve already had my lawyer draft the papers.”
That finally made him turn fully toward you.
“They’re ready,” you continued, your fingers curling into the blanket as if it were an anchor. “Sign them when you have a chance.”
Something dark and unreadable crossed his expression. Not anger—not quite. It was more as though a realization struck him. His jaw flexed once.
“You’ve been planning this,” he said.
“Yes.”
There was no apology in your voice, despite the quiet admission.
Bruce studied you then—truly studied you—as though trying to reconcile the woman before him with the silent presence who had moved through Wayne Manor for years without complaint. His wife in name. His obligation in practice.
“And if I don’t sign?” he asked quietly.
You finally lifted your eyes to his.
“I see no reason you wouldn’t,” you said evenly. “We’ve been bound long enough to understand the politics involved. The expectations. The image expected of us.” Your voice remained steady, even as something fragile drew tight beneath your ribs. “We can continue to honour the terms our parents agreed upon—sharing company resources and maintaining professional relationships—without being tethered to each other.”
You drew a slow, careful breath.
“At least this way,” you continued, “we’ll both be free. Free to see whoever we want,” you added factually. “Without pretending this is something it isn’t.”
Bruce’s gaze sharpened at that.
For the first time that night, something cracked through his composure. You weren’t sure whether it was anger or jealousy—neither made sense, not when he had made it painfully clear he had no interest in you. And yet Bruce had always been possessive of the things he considered his. You supposed that even if you were unwanted, you were still, in some quiet, inescapable way, his.
“Is that what this is about?” he asked. “Someone else?”
You didn’t answer immediately.
Your fingers tightened around the edge of the blanket, knuckles paling. For a fleeting, treacherous moment, you wanted to scream the truth at him—that there had never been anyone else. That there had only ever been him. That you had loved him quietly and completely since the two of you had been children.
You swallowed it down and met his gaze steadily.
“If you’re implying I’ve been disloyal in our marriage, Mr. Wayne,” you said coolly, “then you’re mistaken. But a divorce,” you continued, your voice carefully controlled, “would certainly make things easier for you.”
You hated the faint ache that followed the words. Hated how it lodged in your chest like a bruise you kept pressing, testing to see if it still hurt. You forced yourself to breathe through it, to keep the bitterness from seeping into your tone.
Bruce’s brows furrowed, and for a laughable moment, he almost looked confused.
Images surfaced in your mind of all the glossy tabloid photos you’d seen of him with unfamiliar women on his arm. Once, they had felt like an insult. A personal humiliation dressed up as celebrity gossip. Over time, you had learned to numb yourself to them.
They were proof of something you had taken far too long to accept.
Bruce Wayne had never truly been yours.
Not in the ways that mattered.
And if this marriage had been a performance sustained by obligation and expectation—then the kindest thing you could do now was end it. Free both of you from the sham you had tried so desperately to believe in.
You lifted your chin slightly, resolve settling despite your aching heart.
“Letting each other go,” you said quietly, “is the only honest thing left for us.”
His jaw tightened.
Without looking at you, Bruce finished buttoning the remainder of his shirt, movements smooth and decisive. When he finally spoke, his voice was cool and detached as it always was when he spoke to you.
“Very well. We can discuss the details in the morning.”
The finality of it struck harder than anger ever could have.
“I gave Alfred the papers,” you said, forcing composure into your voice. “You can review them with your lawyer. See if anything needs adjusting.”
He paused at the door.
For the briefest moment, his hand rested on the handle, fingers stilled, as though he might turn back. Hope—dangerous and unwelcome—flared in your chest.
Then he nodded once before striding out.
The soft click of the door closing behind him echoed through the room, impossibly loud in the sudden silence.
Only then did your composure falter.
A shaky breath tore from your chest as your shoulders sagged, the tension you’d been holding dissolving all at once. You pressed a hand to your mouth, swallowing back the sob that threatened to escape, blinking hard against the sting gathering behind your eyes.
You should have felt relief.
This was what you had asked for. What you had planned.
But all you felt was the ache. Deep. Persistent. Settled beneath your ribs like something bruised and broken.
His agreement hurt more than his coldness ever had.
You curled inward beneath the blankets, the bed suddenly too large, too empty, and wondered when you had mistaken hope for foolishness—and how much of yourself you had lost in the process.
The second the bedroom door closed behind him, Bruce stopped.
His hand came up to brace against the wall, fingers splaying against the cool wood as a slow, controlled breath left his chest—nothing like the fracture splintering through him beneath the surface. For a moment, he simply stood there with his head bowed, the echo of your voice still ringing in his ears.
A divorce.
He had not expected this.
Bruce knew the marriage the two of you shared was not warm. From its very bones, it was meant to be a business arrangement—an old practice among families like yours and his. Alliances forged not from affection, but from legacy and stability.
Still, he had never imagined that you were unhappy enough to want out entirely. To sever ties so cleanly.
He had never mistreated you. Not intentionally. He had given you freedom—space when you asked for it, privacy when you wanted it. He had been loyal. He had ensured you lacked nothing, had seen to your comfort, your security, your needs.
Wasn’t that what a husband was supposed to do?
And yet—
There were things he had never given you.
Truth, for one.
You didn’t know about Batman. You didn’t know about the bruises hidden beneath tailored suits, or the blood scrubbed from his hands in the dead of night. You didn’t know about the darkness that followed him like a second shadow. He had never wanted you to.
That was how he protected you.
Or so he had told himself.
Bruce closed his eyes, despite what he told himself and how much he tried to distance himself from you. He had loved you long before the marriage ever existed.
You had grown up together. And even back then—when he was too young to understand what the warmth in his chest meant whenever he looked at you—Bruce had loved you.
After his parents died, when the world turned dark and he learned just how cruel and unforgiving it could be, you were the single light that remained in his shadowed life. You were his constant. Proof that not everything he loved had been ripped away.
But grief hollowed him out. Anger took root in places love could no longer reach. He didn’t know how to show you what you meant to him without letting that rage bleed through, so he did the only thing he believed would keep you safe.
He kept his distance.
When you both turned eighteen, you left for college.
You—brilliant as ever—were accepted into Princeton on merit alone. Bruce followed you but he walked a different path, his admission secured not by intellect but by the Wayne name and the weight of its money. He could have earned his place the way you did—he knew that—but at the time, he simply hadn’t cared enough to try.
That summer, between semesters, your parents pressed the issue.
The marriage.
You had both been young. Far too young. But grief and expectation had a way of cornering people into compliance, leaving little room for refusal. You married quietly and quickly, promises spoken like obligations rather than vows, your futures decided in hushed rooms by people who believed they knew best.
For a brief few months afterward, something almost hopeful emerged. The warmth you once shared began, slowly, to return. You chased away the shadows that surrounded him, and Bruce started to feel—just faintly—like the boy he had once been, before loss had hardened him. There were moments when he laughed without effort, when the weight on his chest eased enough to let him breathe.
Then Joe Chill’s hearing for release was announced.
And everything unraveled.
The anger Bruce had kept buried finally clawed its way to the surface, sharp and uncontrollable, and it turned on the one person standing closest to him. On you. The words he hurled were cruel—unforgivable things he didn’t truly mean but could not stop himself from saying. Rage drowned out reason, grief warped into something vicious.
You struck him across the face.
The sound echoed through the room, louder than the gunshots that haunted his dreams.
It snapped him out of it instantly. The fury drained from him all at once, replaced by horror as he saw what he had done. The tears slipping down your face felt like shards of ice driving straight through his heart.
He had hurt you.
The one person he had tried so desperately to protect.
And he had hurt you.
The truth of it had struck him with devastating clarity—just how far he’d fallen, how perilously close he was becoming to the very kind of men he despised. Men who let anger rot them from the inside out. Men who destroyed the people they claimed to love.
That realization was why he disappeared.
Five years.
He let the world believe Bruce Wayne was dead.
When he returned—scarred and remade by violence and discipline—the marriage still existed on paper. You had never divorced him. The bond remained, a legal echo of a life neither of you had truly lived. And when you stood before him again, there were no accusations. No demands. Just a quiet cold acceptance that hurt more than hatred ever could.
For three years, you stayed.
Until tonight.
Bruce dragged a hand down his face, breath heavy, chest tight as he looked back on the weight of every choice he’d made.
He had thought what the two of you shared was enough—that providing for you, giving you everything you could ever want or need, and keeping his distance was somehow kinder than letting his love reach you and risk corrupting you with the darkness he lived in.
But for the first time since the gunshots in that alley, Bruce Wayne realized he could lose you—just not in the way he had always feared. You had slipped through his fingers without him even noticing.
His fingers curled into a tight fist, knuckles whitening for a brief moment before he forced them to relax. Bruce drew in a slow, steadying breath and straightened, his shoulders settling back into place as the familiar mask slid on.
Tomorrow, he would deal with your request.
Tomorrow, he would be the Bruce Wayne Gotham believed he was again.
But tonight, the city needed Batman.
And Batman could not afford to feel.
He turned away from the bedroom door and moved through the quiet halls of the manor, his footsteps soundless against marble flooring. With every step downward, he put more distance between himself and the ache in his chest, further from the woman he was losing.
The platform lowered. Batman rose to meet him.
In the Batcave, the world was simpler. Pain had purpose here. Rage could be sharpened into something useful. The suit waited offering Bruce the chance to take off his true mask and be the man he believed he needed to be.
As he suited up, Bruce locked the thought of you away into a mental compartment he had perfected over years of survival.
Batman would give him the distraction he needed. The city’s violence and its endless demand for justice asked nothing of his heart.
And as the Batmobile roared to life, Bruce told himself this was better.
It was a lie.
Batman moved through Gotham with a brutality that hadn’t surfaced in years. Strikes landed harder. Interrogations ended quicker. His patience wore thin, stretched to the edge of fracture. Thugs noticed. So did the GCPD. Whispers spread through alleyways and across rooftops alike: the Bat was angry tonight.
He barely registered it himself.
Pain had found an outlet—and Gotham was paying the price.
“My, my,” a familiar voice purred from the shadows, silk and amusement woven through every syllable. “Someone’s in a mood.”
Bruce stiffened, then exhaled slowly through his nose. He didn’t need to turn to know who it was.
“Not tonight, Selina.”
She stepped fully into view atop the adjacent rooftop, black leather catching the glow of a flickering streetlight. “What’s got your tail all twisted up?” Selina drawled, her head tilting as she studied him with open curiosity.
His jaw tightened beneath the cowl.
His silence was answer enough. Selina’s gaze lingered, sharp and perceptive, tracing the rigid line of his shoulders, the coiled violence he hadn’t quite burned off yet.
“Ah,” she murmured, a knowing note creeping into her voice. “That bad.”
He finally turned to face her, his cape shifting with the movement.
“Drop it.”
She smirked, utterly unoffended. “You know I never do.”
A beat passed. Then another.
“You’re usually better at pretending to be emotionless,” she continued, her tone light, though her eyes were anything but. “Tonight? You look like you’re one bad thought away from breaking someone’s jaw because they looked at you wrong.”
His fingers flexed at his sides, the leather of his gloves creaking softly. “I’m handling it.”
Selina arched a brow. “Sure you are.”
She stepped closer, her boots soundless against the rooftop. “Whatever it is, it’s eating you alive. And last I checked, that never ends well—for anyone.”
Bruce’s gaze hardened, cutting back toward the city that demanded so much of his attention—except tonight, it seemed intent on giving him space he didn’t want.
“It’s none of your concern.”
Selina rolled her eyes, any trace of coyness evaporating in an instant.
“Oh, spare me the bullshit, Bruce,” she snapped. “What’s going on?”
He hesitated.
The pause was small—barely perceptible—but to someone who knew him as well as Selina did, it might as well have been a confession. His jaw flexed, the words catching somewhere behind his teeth before he finally forced them free.
“…She wants a divorce.”
Selina’s expression stilled. Surprise flickered across her face before settling into something more softer. He didn’t look at her when he said it. Couldn’t.
“Well,” she said slowly, exhaling through her nose, “that explains the excessive force.”
He shot her a sharp look.
“I’m serious,” she added, her tone hardening, humour falling away. “…I didn’t think she’d be the one to pull the plug.”
Neither had he.
“She’s already had the papers drawn up,” Bruce continued, voice low. “Gave them to Alfred.”
Selina blinked. “Damn.”
She crossed her arms, studying him in a way that made his skin prickle beneath the armour. It was too uncomfortably perceptive. “And how do you feel about that?”
“I’ll handle it,” he replied automatically.
She snorted. “You always do. Or rather—you bury it under a mask and hope it stops hurting.” Her gaze softened, just a fraction. “Do you want the divorce?”
Selina already knew the answer to that, after knowing You and Bruce for years she had a good insight on the marriage you two had.
Bruce turned his attention back to Gotham, to the endless sprawl of lights stretching out before him—the city he was trying to fix. Some days, he wasn’t sure if he was failing at that too.
Selina sighed at his silence, already knowing what his answer was. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “That’s what I thought.”
She stepped closer, her voice lowering. “You know, for someone who prides himself on control, you’re awfully bad at fighting the battles that actually matter.”
Bruce’s hands curled into fists again, the truth pressing uncomfortably close. Because for once, the enemy wasn’t something he could punch. And he had no idea how to stop himself from losing.
“I’m not going to keep her tied down if she’s not happy,” he murmured, the words dragged from him like a concession he wasn’t ready to make.
Selina scoffed, the sound sharp against the night air. “God, you’re impossible.”
She stepped closer, boots silent, eyes hard now.
“Sometimes you’re a real idiot, Bruce,” she said bluntly. “And take it from a woman—if you love her, you don’t just let her go and call it noble.”
His jaw tightened. “You don’t understand.”
“Oh, I understand just fine,” Selina shot back. “You think giving her space is protecting her. But from where I’m standing? All she sees is a man who never chose her.”
The words hit harder than any punch.
“She loves you, Bruce,” Selina continued, her voice lower now, edged with something almost gentle. “But love doesn’t survive neglect. It survives effort.”
He looked at her then, something raw flickering beneath the cowl. “I don’t know how to do that without dragging her into my mess.”
Selina’s expression softened—just a fraction. “You don’t have to give her your mask or your war,” she said quietly. “You just have to give her you.”
A beat passed, and Bruce’s jaw tightened. “Batman is who I am,” he said quietly. “This shouldn’t be her burden. She deserves more than my darkness.”
“Fight for her,” Selina urged. “Because if you don’t, someone else will—and you’ll be left wondering when exactly you convinced yourself that letting her walk away was the right thing to do.”
With that, she turned and disappeared into the night, leaving Bruce alone to mull over his thoughts.
You didn’t see Bruce at breakfast the next morning.
The absence was expected—yet it still left a hollow weight in your chest as you took your seat at the long dining table alone. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, spilling pale gold across untouched china and silverware that gleamed far too brightly for the mood you were in.
When you asked Alfred, he hesitated. “Master Wayne had an urgent meeting to attend to,” he said gently.
You swallowed and nodded in acknowledgment. There was no point pressing him; Alfred had always been loyal to Bruce’s silences. Your appetite had vanished entirely, the thought of food turning heavy in your stomach. After a moment, you rose from the table and excused yourself.
Work, at least, would keep your mind occupied.
As Mrs. Wayne—and after his disappearance—you had taken on operations at Wayne Enterprises rather than returning to your family’s firm. Bruce had never shown much interest in the day-to-day management of the company, and so the responsibility had quietly fallen to you. Over the years, you had become the steady spine of the enterprise: overseeing logistics, restructuring departments, smoothing fractures before they ever reached the board.
And now, you knew that role was nearing its end.
With the divorce, it made sense logically, to return to your family’s business. You would no longer be Mrs. Wayne. Titles mattered in rooms like those, even when people pretended they didn’t.
Still, you wouldn’t leave recklessly.
If everything proceeded smoothly, the divorce would be finalized within a month—two at most. That gave you just enough time to ensure a seamless transition. To find someone competent, steady, and capable of holding the company together once you were gone.
Wayne Enterprises deserved better than being left scrambling.
And Bruce—whether he realized it or not—deserved someone who wouldn’t allow his legacy to crumble simply because you were no longer there to hold the reins.
You dressed carefully, smoothing your hands over your clothes as you slid your composure into place the same way you always had, and left the manor with your head held high.
Whatever came next, you would meet it prepared.
Because if this marriage was ending, then it would end cleanly—without collateral damage, without regret, and without giving anyone reason to doubt the woman you had proven yourself to be.
A car waited out front, its dark exterior gleaming beneath the morning light. Your assistant stood by the open door, tablet clutched a little too tightly in her hands. One look at her expression had you pausing mid-step.
“What’s wrong?” you asked.
She hesitated, then exhaled. “I… I thought you should know—Julie is at Wayne Enterprises.” Her mouth tightened as she added, rolling her eyes, “She came to see Bruce.”
Your body went still.
Julie.
The name alone was enough to tighten your chest. She had been a childhood classmate—more Bruce’s friend than yours. In truth, the two of you had never really gotten along, though age had taught you both the subtle art of diplomacy. Even back then, she had always been chasing after Bruce. It was unmistakable that she was in love with him.
The last you’d heard, she’d started a modelling career and moved to Metropolis, tangled in an on-again, off-again relationship with Lex Luthor.
You supposed she was finally back for Bruce.
If not for the arrangement—if not for the contracts and the expectations of parents who treated marriage like a merger—you had always been certain Bruce would have chosen her. You had realized it back in university.
The memory surfaced from years ago.
It had been a late evening, your class had run longer than expected. The corridors were nearly empty as you walked through them, the sound of your footsteps echoing softly.
You slowed, instinct prickling, and peered around the corner to see Julie stepping closer to him, rising onto her toes as she leaned in to kiss him.
The sight made your stomach drop. Heat rushed to your face as humiliation flooded through you. You turned away at once, retreating down the corridor before either of them could notice you, before you had to confront what you’d just seen.
Bruce had never known you saw.
You had never told him.
But from that moment on, you realized the truth. That despite the arrangement, Bruce had never truly been yours.
You inhaled slowly, steadying yourself, then gave a small nod.
“Thank you for telling me,” you said evenly.
Your assistant watched you closely, concern flickering across her face, but you offered her no reaction.
You stepped into the car, the door closing with a soft thud.
Whatever Julie’s presence meant—whatever history was resurfacing—you refused to let it derail you now. You had already chosen to leave him. And if Bruce Wayne was moving on before the ink on the papers had even dried…then you would find a way to move on too.
You arrived just as Bruce appeared to be leaving the building—Julie at his side.
For a fleeting second, your fists balled at your sides before you forced them to relax, smoothing the reaction away as you lifted your chin and stepped out of the car.
Bruce froze the moment he saw you.
“Y/N!”
Julie’s voice was bright. “Hey! Long time no see!” she said warmly, stepping forward for the customary cheek kisses before retreating back to Bruce’s side. “Bruce and I were just going to grab lunch and catch up. You want to come?”
You ignored the knot tightening in your throat and shaped your mouth into something that resembled a smile, shaking your head once. “Unfortunately, I have a lot of work to get done,” you said evenly. “I’m sure we can catch up another time.”
Your gaze slid past her—unavoidable now—and landed on the man who would soon no longer be your husband.
“Bruce,” you said calmly, “I trust you’ve had a chance to review the papers and get them signed?”
Julie’s smile faltered, confusion flickering across her face as her gaze moved between the two of you.
Bruce hesitated. “Not yet,” he replied. “It’s been a busy morning.”
Your eyes slid back to Julie.
“I can see that,” you murmured, tension threading its way into your voice despite your efforts to keep it even.
“What papers?” Julie asked.
You raised a brow, something cold and brittle settling neatly into place. “Bruce hasn’t told you?”
“Y/N…” Bruce warned quietly.
You didn’t look at him.
“We’re getting a divorce.”
Julie blinked.
“Oh.”
The single syllable hung there—surprised, yet almost hopeful. Julie’s gaze darted to Bruce and then back to you, something unmistakably hungry flickering across her face.
“I—I didn’t know,” she said, her voice deceptively softer now. Her hand fell to Bruce’s arm, almost as if to comfort him.
“That’s understandable,” you replied evenly. Your gaze flicked briefly to Bruce, whose expression had gone entirely to stone. “It was a recent decision.”
Bruce stepped forward at last. “This isn’t the place for this.”
You met his gaze without flinching, then inclined your head with a forced smile. “You’re right. It isn’t.” Turning back to Julie, you offered a polite nod, “Enjoy your lunch.”
There was no accusation in your tone. No bitterness. You refused to let them see the pain beneath your composure. You stepped past them both, heels clicking against the pavement as you headed toward the building.
“God, she’s such a fake bitch,” your assistant muttered under her breath.
You fought the smile that threatened to break through, but a small twitch at the corner of your lips betrayed you anyway.
Behind you, you could feel Bruce’s gaze boring into your back as he watched you disappear into the building.
And when the doors slid shut behind you—sealing you away from the sight of them together—you told yourself one thing with unwavering certainty:
You would not beg for what should have been freely given.
Not love.
Not loyalty.
Not him.
You entered your office to find your usual breakfast waiting for you—coffee and a pastry from your favourite place on 23rd. You sighed softly in contentment as you took a sip. Perfect, like always.
If there was one thing you were certain of, it was this: when you left, you were taking your assistant with you. She went above and beyond for you.
You sighed when you finally got home, the sound slipping out of you before you could stop it. Your head throbbed from staring at a screen for most of the day, numbers and contracts blurring together long after you’d shut your laptop. You’ve been determined to lock in one final deal for the company before you left. The Eden Project had been years in the making, and for the first time, it felt close enough to touch.
You just needed Nexus on board.
Lex Luthor, unfortunately, was being a pain in your ass—and deliberately so. He was circling the deal like a vulture, trying to steal it out from under you. If the project went through, it would mean that abandoned or underused properties owned by Nexus—land poisoned by decades of Gotham’s chemical runoff—would be transferred to Wayne Enterprises. From there, the Eden Project could finally begin: restoring the soil and waterways, rebuilding what had been left to rot, constructing affordable housing, and establishing a new clean water plant.
To you, it felt like the first honest step toward undoing the damage Gotham had been choking on for decades.
Lex Luthor, however, saw those same polluted dumps as cheap acquisitions—perfect places to bury private facilities and questionable labs behind closed doors. You couldn’t fathom how Julie could stand dating a man like him. He rubbed you the wrong way every time your paths crossed. Too arrogant for his own good.
You were halfway through pulling off your heels when you noticed him.
Bruce stood at the top of the banister, half-lit by the low glow of a wall sconce, his posture rigid—as though he’d been waiting there for some time. The sight of him made something in your chest tighten despite your efforts to keep yourself steady.
“You’re home late,” he said, his gaze sweeping over you, unreadable.
“I had a lot of work to get done,” you replied, rubbing at the arch of your foot before straightening. “I want the Eden Project locked in before my departure.”
“It’s too dangerous to be out in Gotham at this hour,” he said, his tone firm, his gaze tracking you as you started up the stairs.
You exhaled slowly, exhaustion threading through you. “Gotham is always dangerous,” you replied without turning back. “And like I said, I had work to finish.”
You moved to pass him.
His hand closed around your arm.
The contact stopped you cold.
You looked up at him, surprise flickering across your face before hardening into something guarded. His grip wasn’t rough—but it was firm, unyielding, as though he were anchoring himself as much as he was trying to keep you there.
“Is there something you needed?” you asked quietly.
“Why?” he said.
The single word stopped you.
You raised a brow, feigning calm ignorance even though you knew exactly what he meant. “Why what?”
“The divorce,” he clarified.
You studied him for a moment—really studied him. The tension carved into his shoulders. The way his gaze searched your face, as though he were looking for an answer that might absolve him of his own shortcomings.
You exhaled softly.
“We both know this was a business transaction between our families and nothing more,” you said evenly. “I thought I could handle that. I truly did. But this—” you gestured faintly between the two of you “—isn’t what I want.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened. In his mind, the meaning was clear: him. He wasn’t what you wanted.
“So I see,” he said quietly. “And was I such a bad husband that you decided to end it?”
You lifted a brow, the question landing somewhere between disbelief and exhaustion.
“Do you think you’ve been a good one?”
The words weren’t cruel. They were simply honest.
Bruce didn’t answer right away. His mouth opened, then closed again, the silence stretching thin as he searched for something—anything—that might justify him.
“You were never unkind,” you said, your voice softening despite yourself. “But I see no reason to keep us trapped in a loveless marriage. I’m setting us both free, Bruce.”
You hesitated, the truth pressing at your chest before you let it out.
“So you can be with someone you truly want to be with.”
You turned to leave.
You barely made it a step.
He strode forward, and a sharp gasp tore from you as you stumbled back, your back meeting the wall. His arms came down on either side of you, bracketing you in as he leaned close.
His presence stole the air from your chest. You looked up at him in startled disbelief, his body caging you in without ever touching—yet close enough that you could feel the heat of him.
Your fingers twitched, aching to grip his shirt, but you forced them still.
He leaned down, close enough that your traitorous heart stumbled. Your pulse roared in your ears as his lips brushed the sensitive skin of your neck, then drifted toward your ear.
“And who said I don’t want you?” he murmured.
It took everything in you to press your palms against his chest and push him back—gently, but firmly. You turned your face away, your gaze dropping to the floor as you swallowed hard against the tightness in your throat. You couldn’t look at him. Not when your resolve felt so fragile.
“You want my body, Bruce,” you said softly. “And I need more than that.”
You straightened, drawing your composure back around you like armour.
“Sign the papers, Bruce,” you finished quietly. “So we can start the proceedings.”
Before he could respond—before he could reach for you again—you slipped past him, moving away with a steadiness you did not entirely feel.
Your footsteps echoed softly down the hall, each one carrying you farther from him, farther from the life you had endured and the love you had never been allowed to keep. You didn’t look back.
Bruce remained where he was, frozen in place, watching you go.
Every instinct in him screamed to call your name. To pull you back and promise you everything he had deprived you of for so long.
But he couldn’t.
Because giving you more would mean giving you the truth.
Of who he was.
Of the darkness he carried.
Of the violence that shaped his nights and the war he waged in secret.
And he would be damned before he let that darkness swallow you whole.
Yet even knowing that… he selfishly found he could not bring himself to let you go.
You ignored the paparazzi photos of Bruce and Julie’s lunch from the day before. You refused to stare long enough for envy to take root, for that familiar ache to whisper that you had never been enough. You refused to spiral into self-pity.
Instead, you buried yourself in work—in the Eden Project. You were so close now, you just needed to seal the deal with Nexus and kick Luthor’s arrogant ass to the curb.
You’d planned to spend the entire day sealed away in your office, insulated by schedules, reports, and decisions that didn’t ask anything of your heart. It was almost working—until the door opened.
You looked up.
Bruce stepped inside.
You paused, confusion flickering across your face. In three years, you could count on one hand the number of times he’d set foot in your office.
Your assistant peeked in behind him, mouthing a silent apology. You waved her off. If Bruce wanted to see you, there wasn’t much she could do about it.
“Lucius tells me you have him looking for your replacement,” Bruce said, shutting the door behind him.
He ignored the two chairs set neatly across from your desk and instead moved closer, his presence filling the room in a way that made your spine straighten instinctively.
You leaned back in your chair, wary as you watched him sit on the edge of your desk in front of you as though it belonged to him.
“I do,” you said simply.
“Why?” he asked. “Is it the pay?”
You blinked, genuinely taken aback. “Bruce… have you even looked at the papers?” you asked. “We’re getting a divorce. Once it goes through, all my shares revert to you. I won’t be a Wayne anymore.” You gestured faintly, as if the logic should be obvious. “It would be a conflict of interest for me to stay here while returning to my family’s name.”
“Keep the shares,” he said immediately. “You’ve been the backbone of this company for years. A name change doesn’t erase that. We’re not replacing you.”
You sighed, rubbing at your temple as frustration edged in. “Bruce,” you said patiently, “it’s not proper.”
Something shifted in him then.
In one swift motion, he surged forward—one hand bracing against the arm of your chair, the other gripping the backrest as he caged you in, an echo of the night before. You hated how his mere proximity made your breath hitch. His dark eyes locked onto yours making you painfully aware of the shallow rise and fall of your own breathing.
“You’re not leaving, Y/N,” he said quietly, as though the decision had already been made. “I’ve already told Lucius to stop the search.”
Your eyes narrowed.
You leaned forward in anger, closing the already dangerously close distance until your faces were inches apart. “You can’t do that, Bruce. Once the divorce is finalized, I’m leaving.”
His jaw tightened. “What do you want?” he demanded. “We can renegotiate your contract. I’ll give you a raise. A larger stake in the company. Another office—hell, name any price.”
For a fleeting moment, the desperation beneath his usually controlled exterior slipped through.
You shook your head slowly, something sad and resolute settling into your expression. “What I want isn’t something money can buy, Bruce.” You needed distance—clean, undeniable distance. A clean slate, far from him, so you could finally move on.
He stilled.
“You don’t get to decide this for me,” you said calmly. “Not as my husband. And certainly not as my employer.”
For a moment, Bruce said nothing.
Then he straightened, stepping back just enough to smooth his suit into place. His jaw flexed once, tension rippling beneath the his cold composure, before he inclined his head in reluctant acknowledgment.
“Very well,” he said evenly. “But as we are still legally married, there are obligations we can’t ignore.”
You tensed. You already knew what was coming.
“Tonight is the gala,” he continued. “Both our presences are required.”
You raised a brow. “We don’t usually attend together.”
He shrugged, deceptively casual. “If you’re insistent on the divorce, we might as well let people see that we’re parting on amicable terms. It avoids rumours.”
You exhaled slowly, resignation settling in. You wanted to stay—wanted to keep working on the Eden Project—but the gala offered something useful. Nexus board members would be there. This could be an opportunity to chat with them individually and sway them to Wayne Enterprises side.
“I’ll meet you there,” you said.
“No need,” Bruce replied without hesitation. “Alfred will drive us together.”
You held his gaze for a beat longer, searching for something to explain his odd behaviour but his face gave nothing away.
“Fine,” you said at last.
Bruce gave a curt nod, already turning toward the door. “We’ll leave at seven.”
One thing about being old money in Gotham was the endless procession of galas. Charity dinners, fundraisers, benefit auctions—each one requiring polished smiles, practiced charm, and carefully chosen outfits designed to show that you belonged among Gotham’s elite. These events demanded hours of preparation, a luxury you rarely had. Fortunately, you’d learned long ago how to adapt and prepare around your busy schedule.
That was why you kept a small collection of emergency dresses in your office.
You opened the wardrobe tucked discreetly behind a panelled door, your gaze skimming over the hanging fabrics inside. Most were refined and understated. Creams, ivories, soft neutrals. Dresses that were considered the safe choices, keeping the clean cut billionaire wife appearance you had worked hard to craft.
Mrs. Wayne. The perfect executive wife.
Your gaze caught on something different, tucked into the far corner of the wardrobe.
It was a stark contrast to the simplicity of the other dresses. You remembered buying it on impulse, a rare moment of indulgence, telling yourself you’d wear it someday. A promise you’d never quite been brave enough to keep.
It was still appropriate. Still elegant. But there was no denying it carried a risk your usual choices carefully avoided.
You bit your lip, fingers hovering just short of the fabric.
Soon, you wouldn’t be a Wayne anymore.
The thought settled over you with an unexpected mix of grief and relief. A quiet ache paired with something lighter, freer. Beneath it, something firmer began to take shape—a resolve edged with steel.
You were tired of dressing for expectation. Tired of shaping yourself to fit what was required by your parents, by the Waynes, by a city that thrived on image more than truth.
You wanted—just once—to choose something because you wanted it.
Not for the cameras.
Not for the headlines.
Not for him.
So, in a split-second decision that felt far braver than it should have, you reached forward and pulled the dress free.
The fabric slid into your hands, cool and smooth beneath your fingers, and for the first time in a long while, you felt excitement bloom in your chest for the fact you were dressing for yourself.
By the time your assistant arrived with the hair and makeup team, you were in your dress and heels. You turned as she stepped into the room, and she nearly stumbled to a stop, eyes widening in open shock.
“Goddamn,” she breathed. “You look fucking hot.”
A surprised laugh slipped from you, light and genuine despite everything. “Thank you.”
She circled you once, hands on her hips, shaking her head in disbelief. “Seriously—if Bruce even looks at anyone else with you dressed like this, he’s an idiot.”
You forced a smile, though ignoring the sharp tug beneath your ribs.
You used to like to dress like this before. Long ago when you didn’t have all this expectation piled on you. Yet even then, he had chosen Julie.
That was the truth you’d learned the hard way: Bruce Wayne had never been incapable of desire. He had simply never allowed desire to become love where you were concerned. Men, you’d learned, were remarkably adept at separating the two.
So you let the comment pass without response, turning your attention back to what remained to be done. You allowed the hair and makeup team to guide you into the chair, surrendering to their practiced hands as they set to work.
By the time you stepped outside, dusk had settled over Gotham, the sky bruised purple and gold between the towers. The air was cool against your bare skin, refreshing after being cooped up in your office all day.
Bruce was already there, waiting.
He stood near the front steps, jacket buttoned, posture immaculate as always. If he had ever chosen to, he could have had a very lucrative modelling career
At the sound of your heels clicking against stone, he looked up. Whatever expression he’d been wearing faltered at the sight of you.
His throat bobbed as his dark eyes drank you in with an intensity he failed to mask. Without thinking, his hand rose to his collar, tugging at his tie as if he suddenly found it too tight.
You looked like yourself. Not Mrs. Wayne, the woman molded to fit beside him. But the woman he knew before he left Gotham and began his crusade.
“…You look,” he began, then faltered, his jaw tightening as though the right word had slipped just out of reach. “You look… beautiful.”
There was something unsteady in his voice—just enough to make warmth bloom traitorously in your cheeks.
“Thank you,” you replied evenly, despite the way your heart began to race. Clearing your throat, you stepped closer and reached up to straighten his tie, the silk cool beneath your fingers. You tried not to think about how little space separated you now, or the way his gaze had locked onto you with an intensity that made it hard to breathe.
When you finished, you moved to step back but his hand found the small of your back instead, keeping you there.
Your breath caught as your eyes snapped up to his. For a moment, it seemed as though he might say something. His lips parted, then pressed together again, the unspoken words settling heavily between you. Slowly, his hand fell away.
The sound of an approaching engine broke the spell.
You cleared your throat and stepped back, putting distance between yourself and whatever that moment had been. Headlights swept across the steps as the car pulled to a smooth stop. Alfred emerged at once, opening the rear door with his usual practiced grace.
“Shall we, sir? Madam?”
Bruce straightened, and you could see his walls coming back up. He gestured toward the open door. “After you.”
You hesitated, just for a second, turning back to meet his gaze. If you hadn’t known him as well as you did, you might have missed it—but there was something there. You could’ve sworn it was regret. Or longing swirling in his eyes.
You shook off the thought, dismissing it as wishful thinking.
You broke eye contact first and without another word, you slid into the car.
Bruce followed a moment later, settling into the seat beside you. The door closed with a soft click, and Alfred took his place behind the wheel. As the car pulled away, the glow of Wayne Enterprises receded behind you,
For several moments, neither of you spoke.
Bruce sat beside you, posture rigid. You stared out the window, watching the city unfold—familiar streets, familiar towers—everything suddenly carrying the strange weight of impermanence. After all, who knew if Gotham would still feel like home once the divorce was finalized. You certainly had the money and freedom to choose to leave if you decided.
“Is that a new dress?” he asked at last breaking the silence.
“Mhm. Not really,” you hummed. “I’ve had it hanging in the closet for a while. I just… thought it was finally time to wear it.”
He glanced at you then, his gaze lingering longer than necessary, something unreadable flickering across his face.
“It suits you,” he murmured.
You turned toward him in surprise, the softness of it catching you off guard. Then his phone vibrated.
His attention dropped immediately to the screen, as it lit up his face. You didn’t mean to look, but the name had caught your eye and you felt your heart drop.
Julie Madison.
Your gaze drifted back to the window, the city lights blurring slightly as the car continued on. You let your expression settle back into neutrality, smoothing away the flickers of hurt you refused to acknowledge.
This—this—was why you were leaving.
Not out of anger. Not even because of betrayal. But because of the quiet, relentless reminder that you were never his first choice.
The social worker arrived with a police officer. You'd been sitting at the kitchen table trying to read a library book—one of your few escapes—when the knock came. Loud, official. Different from the usual sounds of the building.
Your mother had been passed out on the couch, same clothes she'd worn for three days, empty bottles forming a glass garden around her.
You'd opened the door, blinking up at the two strangers.
"Is your mother home?" the woman had asked. She wore a gray suit and had kind eyes that made you suspicious immediately.
You'd nodded, stepping back.
What followed was a blur. Voices rising, your mother stumbling awake, yelling, the police officer's calm but firm tone. Words like "custody" and "paternity test" and "Bruce Wayne" floated through the chaos.
That last name made your mother laugh, harsh and bitter. "Finally figured it out, did he? Took him long enough."
You didn't understand. You stood in the corner of your closet-room, arms wrapped around yourself, trying to be invisible as always.
The social worker—Ms. Chen, she'd said her name was—had knelt down to your eye level.
"Sweetheart, you're going to come with me for a little while, okay? We're going to make sure you're safe."
Safe. Another one of those words that didn't mean anything in your experience.
The next few days existed in fragments. A hospital where doctors examined you with furrowed brows and gentle hands that made you flinch. Someone taking photographs of your scars, your too-thin body, the fading bruises. Questions you didn't know how to answer because you didn't understand what they were really asking.
"Does your mother hit you?"
Sometimes. When you deserved it.
"Are you hungry often?"
Everyone got hungry.
"Who takes care of you?"
You took care of you.
Their faces had grown more concerned with each answer, but you didn't understand why.
Then came the test. A woman in scrubs had swabbed the inside of your cheek, placed the sample in a tube. "Just routine," she'd said with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
Ms. Chen had taken you to a foster home temporarily. The house was clean, warm, overwhelming. The foster mother, Mrs. Palmer, had shown you to a room—a real room with a bed and a dresser and a window with actual curtains.
"You can put your things here," she'd said.
You had no things. Just the clothes you'd been wearing.
Mrs. Palmer's smile had faltered. "Well, we'll get you some things tomorrow. Are you hungry? I made dinner."
Dinner. Actual dinner. Chicken and vegetables and mashed potatoes and bread. You'd stared at the plate in front of you, at the portions that seemed enormous, and eaten slowly, carefully, waiting for someone to snatch it away or tell you it wasn't really for you.
No one did.
For three weeks, you existed in this strange limbo. Mrs. Palmer was patient, gentle, but you didn't trust it. You waited for the other shoe to drop, for the real rules to be revealed, for the pain you knew had to be coming.
It never came. Which somehow made it worse. You didn't understand this place, these people, this version of life.
And then Ms. Chen had sat you down with an expression that tried to be reassuring.
"We have some news," she'd said. "The paternity test came back. Do you know who Bruce Wayne is?"
You'd shaken your head. The name was familiar from your mother's drunken rants, from whispers you hadn't understood.
"He's a very important man in Gotham City. Very wealthy. And..." she'd paused, choosing her words carefully. "He's your biological father."
The words meant nothing at first. Father. You knew the word, but it held no meaning for you. It was like being told you were made of stardust or descended from ancient kings—interesting perhaps, but irrelevant to the reality of your life.
"He wants to meet you," Ms. Chen had continued. "He didn't know about you before, but now that he does, he wants you to come live with him. With your family."
Family. Another meaningless word.
But you'd nodded, because nodding was safe, agreeing was safer than protesting. Adults made decisions, and you endured them. That was how the world worked.
The day you'd met Bruce Wayne, Ms. Chen had dressed you in new clothes—jeans that actually fit, a sweater that was soft and clean, shoes without holes. You'd stared at yourself in the mirror and barely recognized the child looking back.
The car ride to Wayne Manor had been long. You'd pressed your face against the window, watching Gotham's rough neighborhoods gradually transform into suburbs, then into rolling hills and estates hidden behind gates and walls.
Wayne Manor had appeared like something from a dream—or a movie, not that you'd seen many. Massive stone walls, towers, windows that seemed to go on forever. The driveway alone was longer than your entire street had been.
Your stomach had twisted with anxiety. This was wrong. Places like this weren't for people like you.
Ms. Chen had squeezed your shoulder. "It's going to be okay. This is your home now."
Home. You'd had a home. It had been terrible, but at least you'd understood it.
The door had opened before you'd reached it—a tall man in a suit, older, with gray hair and a kind but formal face.
"Miss," he'd said with a slight bow. "Welcome to Wayne Manor. I am Alfred Pennyworth."
You'd stared at him, mute.
Inside, the manor was even more overwhelming. Marble floors, a staircase that split in two directions, chandeliers, artwork, space—so much space you couldn't comprehend it. Your entire apartment could have fit in the entryway.
And then he'd appeared. Bruce Wayne. Tall, dark-haired, handsome in a way that seemed almost unreal. He'd descended the stairs with measured steps, his expression carefully neutral.
"Hello," he'd said, stopping a few feet away. "You must be..."
He'd trailed off, and you'd realized he didn't even know your name. Your mother had probably never told him. Maybe she hadn't known who to tell.
Ms. Chen had filled the silence. "This is—"
But you'd found your voice, small and rough from disuse. You'd told him your name.
Bruce had nodded slowly. "It's... nice to meet you. I'm... I'm your father."
The word sounded strange in his mouth, uncertain.
"I know this must be overwhelming," he'd continued, and you could see he was uncomfortable, searching for the right words. "But you're safe now. Things are going to be different. Better."
Better. Different. They kept using these words.
You'd wanted to believe them. Some small part of you, the part that hadn't been completely crushed by ten years of neglect and abuse, had desperately wanted to believe that yes, here, now, finally, things would be better.
Ms. Chen had gone through paperwork with Bruce in another room, voices too low to hear. Alfred had shown you around the manor, pointing out rooms and wings and facilities that seemed impossible. A library, a gym, a pool, kitchens—plural—rooms for purposes you couldn't even name.
"This will be your room," Alfred had said finally, opening a door to reveal a space larger than your entire apartment had been. A massive bed with a canopy, a desk, bookshelves, a window seat overlooking gardens that stretched beyond seeing.
"My... room?" you'd whispered.
"Yes, Miss. Your father thought you might like this one, though if you'd prefer a different room, we can certainly arrange that."
You'd stepped inside slowly, afraid to touch anything. Everything was clean, pristine, beautiful. You didn't belong here. You were dirty on the inside in ways soap couldn't reach. You'd contaminate this place.
"I'll leave you to settle in," Alfred had said gently. "Dinner will be at seven. I'll come fetch you."
And then you'd been alone in this enormous room, in this impossible house, and the reality had crashed over you.
You'd been told this would be better. They'd said things would change.
You'd tried so hard to believe it.
The first night, you'd barely slept. The bed was too soft, the room too quiet, the darkness too complete without the familiar sounds of the city, the neighbors, the violence that had punctuated your nights. You'd ended up curling on the floor beside the bed, the hardness more familiar, more comfortable in its discomfort.
When Alfred had knocked at 6:30 AM, you'd scrambled back onto the bed, not wanting to be caught doing something wrong.
"Good morning, Miss. Breakfast will be ready shortly."
Breakfast. Every day. The concept was foreign.
You'd found your way to the dining room—after getting lost twice in the endless hallways—to find a table that could seat twenty with only a few places set. Bruce sat at the head, reading a newspaper. A boy around your age sat to his right, dark-haired with blue eyes that were sharp, assessing. An older teenager sat across from him, talking about something called "patrol" while Bruce gave distracted responses.
They'd all looked up when you'd entered.
"There you are," Bruce had said, the cheerfulness forced. "Everyone, this is... this is my daughter."
He'd stumbled over the words again. Daughter. As if testing them out.
"This is Dick," he'd gestured to the teenager, "and Damian," the boy your age.
Dick had smiled, warm and welcoming. "Hey! It's nice to meet you. Welcome to the family."
Damian had stared at you with barely concealed disdain. "Another one. Father, this is becoming ridiculous."
"Damian," Bruce's voice had carried a warning.
"I'm merely stating facts. How many children do you intend to collect?"
You'd stood frozen in the doorway, not understanding the dynamic, only sensing the tension.
"Sit down," Bruce had said to you, gentler. "Alfred makes excellent pancakes."
You'd sat in the indicated chair, hands in your lap, staring at the empty plate in front of you. When Alfred had brought food, you'd waited, watching to see what the others did first. You'd learned long ago not to take food without permission.
"You can eat," Dick had said, noticing your hesitation. "It's okay."
You'd picked up your fork with careful fingers and taken the smallest bite possible.
That had set the pattern for the first few days. You'd moved through the manor like a ghost, trying to take up as little space as possible, speaking only when directly addressed, waiting for the rules to become clear.
But the rules never did become clear, because there seemed to be different rules for different people, and none of them applied to you.
Dick would come and go, friendly but distant, clearly more interested in his own life than a suddenly appearing sister. He'd smile when he saw you, ask how you were doing in that casual way that expected "fine" as an answer, and then he'd be gone—out with friends, on patrol (whatever that meant), busy with things that didn't include you.
Damian made his feelings clear from the start. You were an inconvenience, an intruder, someone who didn't belong. He'd make cutting remarks about your manners (you'd used the wrong fork at dinner), your ignorance (you didn't know what half the items in the house were for), your very existence.
"At least I was raised with proper training," he'd sneered one morning when you'd confused a salad fork with a dessert fork. "You eat like a street urchin."
You hadn't known how to respond. In your old life, you would have made yourself smaller, disappeared. Here, you'd just stared at your plate and continued eating, using your hands when the utensils confused you too much.
Bruce was... absent. Not physically always, but mentally, emotionally. He'd be at the table for meals, in his office working, occasionally asking how you were settling in with that same uncomfortable tone, as if checking items off a list. "Do you have everything you need? Is your room comfortable? Alfred will take you shopping for clothes."
He never asked the questions that mattered. He never noticed that you barely spoke, that you flinched at sudden movements, that you hoarded food in your room because you didn't trust that meals would keep coming.
You'd thought, in those early days, that maybe you needed to prove yourself. Maybe if you were good enough, quiet enough, helpful enough, they'd see you. They'd care.
So you'd tried.
You'd cleaned your room obsessively, made your bed with military precision, kept everything exactly in its place. You'd offered to help Alfred with chores, following him around the manor like a shadow until he'd gently told you that you didn't need to work, that you should "enjoy being a child."
You didn't know how to do that. Being a child had never been an option before.
You'd tried to engage with Damian, asking about his interests, hoping to find common ground. He'd responded with insults and dismissal. Once, you'd tried to join him in the garden where he was feeding his pets—exotic animals you'd never seen before—and he'd told you to leave before you "contaminated his space with your incompetence."
You'd tried to talk to Dick, to ask about school since you'd been enrolled in Gotham Academy and had no idea what to expect. He'd given you surface-level advice—"just be yourself, you'll be fine"—while texting on his phone, clearly eager to get back to whatever he'd been doing.
You'd even tried to connect with Bruce, waiting outside his office one evening, working up the courage to knock. When you'd finally done it, when he'd called you in and looked up from his computer with that expectant expression, you'd frozen. What did you even say? What did normal daughters talk to their fathers about?
"Did you need something?" he'd asked, not unkindly, but busy, distracted.
You'd shaken your head and left.
As weeks turned into months, the initial hope—that fragile, desperate hope that things would be better—began to crumble.
You'd learned the manor's rhythms, its patterns. Bruce worked constantly, either in his office or disappearing at night for reasons no one explained. Dick came home occasionally, staying for a few days before leaving again for something called "Titans." Damian had his routines—training, school, his animals, more training—and you were an interruption to all of it.
Alfred was kind, but he had an entire manor to run, and he treated you with the same polite distance he treated all of Bruce's wards. He'd ensure you had meals, clean clothes, that your needs were met in the most basic sense. But he didn't see you either, not really.
The invisible patterns of neglect from your old life began to repeat in new, different ways.
At dinner, conversations would flow around you. They'd discuss patrol, cases, training, people and places you didn't know. When you'd tried to ask what they were talking about, Damian would roll his eyes. "It's not your concern," he'd say, and no one would contradict him.
You'd started skipping meals because no one noticed whether you were there or not. You'd tested it one night, staying in your room during dinner. No one had come to get you. No one had mentioned your absence the next day.
So you'd tried again. And again.
It wasn't until you'd missed three dinners in a row that Alfred had knocked on your door.
"Miss, are you feeling ill? I've noticed you haven't been down for meals."
"I'm fine," you'd said, because that was the safe answer. "Just not hungry."
He'd studied you for a moment, concern flickering in his eyes, but then he'd nodded. "Very well. But please let me know if you need anything."
And that had been that.
You'd started hoarding food again, pockets full of dinner rolls, fruit hidden in your desk drawer, anything non-perishable that you could take without being noticed. The anxiety of not knowing when your next meal would come had never left, despite the manor's abundance.
At school, you'd struggled in different ways. Gotham Academy was full of rich kids who'd known each other since kindergarten, who had inside jokes and shared histories and social rules you couldn't begin to understand. Your clothes were expensive now—Alfred had made sure of that—but you wore them wrong. Your hair was properly cut and maintained, but you still carried yourself like someone expecting a blow.
"That's Bruce Wayne's new daughter," you'd heard them whisper. "The one from Crime Alley. Can you imagine?"
You'd made no friends. At lunch, you'd sit alone, and when you'd tried to join groups, the conversations would die, awkward and stilted, until you'd leave again.
Damian attended the same school. You'd thought maybe there, away from the manor, he might be different. But he'd been worse. He'd pretend not to know you, and when other students had asked if you were his sister, he'd said, "Only by the most unfortunate technicality."
His friends—children of other wealthy families, equally sharp-tongued and cruel—had taken their cues from him. They'd mocked your manners, your speech patterns, the way you didn't understand their references or know their customs.
Once, one of them had "accidentally" knocked your lunch tray out of your hands. Food had scattered across the cafeteria floor, and laughter had erupted. You'd dropped to your knees to clean it up—automatic response, always clean up your messes—and Damian had walked past without a glance.
The teachers had been polite but distant. You were a Wayne, which meant you were both above reproach and impossible to discipline. When you'd struggled with subjects you'd never been properly taught, they'd offered tutors in that same detached way, as if checking a box. None of them had asked why a ten-year-old didn't know basic multiplication or how to write a proper essay.
Back at the manor, you'd become a ghost in truth. You'd learned which hallways the family used and avoided them. You'd learned what times they trained in the cave (you'd discovered it by accident one sleepless night, following sounds, and had been dismissed immediately by Damian: "This isn't for you. Leave."). You'd learned when Bruce would be in his office, when Dick would visit, when Alfred would be busy with household management.
You'd carved out a small existence in the spaces between their lives.
Some nights, everyone would be gone. Bruce, Dick, Damian—out doing whatever they did. Alfred would be asleep or tending to his own quarters. And you'd be alone in this massive house, hunger gnawing at your stomach because you'd missed dinner again and were too afraid to go to the kitchen at night for fear of being in the way, of taking something that wasn't meant for you, of being seen as a burden.
Those nights were the hardest. The manor would creak and settle around you, and you'd curl up in your too-soft bed in your too-large room, and you'd think about your old apartment. It had been terrible, but at least you'd understood it. At least the neglect had been honest.
Here, you'd been promised better. You'd been told things would change. You'd been given this beautiful room and expensive clothes and access to food and safety, but somehow you were more alone than ever.
Because before, you'd had no expectations. Now you had hope, and hope was so much more painful when it went unfulfilled.
You'd think about your mother sometimes, though you tried not to. She'd been cruel, neglectful, abusive. But she'd also been predictable. You'd known where you stood—nowhere. You'd known what to expect—nothing.
Here, you'd been told you were family. Daughter. Sister. Wayne.
But titles meant nothing when you were invisible.
You'd started talking to yourself, quiet conversations in your room to fill the silence, because days would go by where no one spoke directly to you beyond pleasantries. "Good morning." "Excuse me." "Pass the salt."
You'd sit in the library—that massive, beautiful library—and read books about families, trying to understand what yours was supposed to look like. The families in stories loved each other, protected each other, knew each other. They had traditions and inside jokes and memories built together.
Your family had none of that. You were a stranger living among strangers who happened to share blood with one of them.
And the worst part, the part that made everything so much harder to bear, was that they weren't bad people. Bruce wasn't cruel like your mother had been.
You never gave a warning sign (I gave so many signs) | part 4
PAIRING: Zayne x Non-MC Reader
SYNOPSIS: An arranged marriage built on silence unravels into a love loud enough to echo—where a repressed heart finally claims what was always his.
WORD COUNT: 12.7k
NOTES: OH, WE'RE SO BACK!!! DID YOU GUYS MISS ME?
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part 3 | MASTERLIST | part 5
before the wedding
“Do you think this will work?”
His question cut through the hush of the waves, blunt in its honesty, and you remember almost stumbling on the sand because of it. He hadn’t looked at you when he said it — his gaze was fixed on the horizon, where the sea bled into dusk, as though the answer might be written there instead of in your mouth.
You had swallowed, the salt air stinging. “I suppose that depends on what you mean by ‘this’.”
That had earned you the faintest flicker of his eyes, a glance sharp enough to feel. Then, quieter, as if the weight of it could crack the evening: “I mean us.”
The words lingered, heavy as the tide. You remember staring down at the foam crawling over your shoes, the way your heart pressed upward, insistent. For a moment you wanted to laugh, to make light of it — but you couldn’t. He hadn’t asked like a man hoping for reassurance; he had asked like someone bracing for truth.
So you had given him yours. “I don’t know.” A pause, then softer, more dangerous: “But I want it to.”
That stopped him in his stride. You felt it in the air before you turned—his stillness, the sudden gravity of him beside you. And when your eyes met, there was something unguarded in his, something raw behind all that discipline.
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was deliberate, like both of you were marking the moment, setting it down as a line you could return to one day. He nodded, once, the movement subtle but resolute.
From then, the walk changed. His steps found yours without effort. He made some small remark about the way the gulls hovered in place against the wind, and you teased him for sounding too serious, too analytical even now. To your surprise, the edge of a smile broke across his face, fleeting but real.
By the time the sky had drowned itself in indigo, the distance between you felt less like a gulf and more like a thread. Still fragile, still uncertain—but there.
And even now, remembering, you realize: that was the first time the two of you stopped being strangers, and began—haltingly, awkwardly, almost without meaning to—to choose each other.
The mattress dipped under your weight, the quietest shift of springs, and you stared down at your injured hand as if it belonged to someone else. Bruised across the palm, with a thin, angry cut along the base of your thumb. It was nothing, really. Just a scrape. But Zayne looked at it like it was a page of text he needed to read line by line.
The antiseptic sting caught you off guard, sharp as betrayal, and you flinched before you could help yourself. His gaze lifted immediately, catching yours and holding it for a beat longer than necessary.
“I’ll be gentle,” he said. And he was. His hands, so used to holding lives between them, treated yours as though it were the most fragile thing in the room—though fragility had never been a word you wanted tethered to yourself.
You thought about telling him it didn’t hurt that much, that he didn’t have to take this much care. But you didn’t. Some part of you—quiet and stubborn—wanted him to keep touching you, even if the pretense was a cut that would heal in days.
He didn’t look up when he spoke next.
“Today, an intern started his residency at Akso Hospital.”
You blinked at him, thrown by the pivot. “Okay…?”
If he heard the hesitation in your voice, he didn’t acknowledge it.
“It was going well,” he continued. “For a first day, at least. He was attentive. Bright. Asked questions when he didn’t know something, which is rarer than it should be.” His hands slowed as he wound the bandage around your palm, as though the act of speaking demanded precision from his fingers too. “But later—during rounds—he was asked to double-check a set of blood vials. Cross-matching for a transfusion. Simple enough. Only he mislabeled two of them.”
You pictured it easily—the slip, the instant recognition, the stillness that follows a mistake made in a room where mistakes are not allowed.
Zayne’s voice dipped lower. “It was caught in time—by chance—but that small error…” He paused, exhaling slowly. “That window of carelessness could have cost a man his life.”
“When I pulled him aside,” he went on, “he fell apart and couldn’t meet my eyes. He told me he didn’t deserve to be there. That one mistake proved he should’ve never been allowed to touch a patient’s chart, let alone their body.”
You found yourself watching him closely now. Not just his face, but the way his words seemed to fall with deliberate weight, as if he were laying down stones across a riverbed. Leading you somewhere you weren’t sure you were ready to follow.
His eyes weren’t on you. They were fixed beyond the walls, beyond the quiet bedroom, somewhere in the sterile hum of hospital corridors. He rubbed a slow hand down his face, a gesture worn and reluctant, before—without looking—he reached for your uninjured hand. He held it in his, gentle but firm, like a man steadying himself on a ledge.
“Do you want to guess what I told him?”
You swallowed. “That… if his resolve was so easily shaken, maybe he shouldn’t have chosen that profession?”
A breath of sound left him—not quite laughter, not quite agreement.
“My sweet, beautiful wife,” he murmured, thumb tracing the curve of your knuckles, “you know me too well.”
The words tasted like honey. Sweet, golden, and warm. But like honey, they stuck—catching in the back of your throat, clinging to places you didn’t want to name.
He turned toward you then, his knee brushing yours.
“Well,” he said, “that, and I told him something else. That mistakes are inevitable. But it’s up to you—only you—whether they break you… or forge you into something better. A better man. A better doctor.”
His voice caught on man. Barely. But you heard it. Felt it, the weight of that shift. He had meant it.
And suddenly—like the delayed echo of a bell—it clicked.
You stared at him. At the man who could talk for hours about the technicalities of a heart valve, who could stand in front of the most complex surgeries without hesitation, and yet, when it came to you, could not bring himself to ask the simplest, rawest question outright.
He didn’t say don’t go.
He didn’t say please stay.
He said this: people make mistakes. And what we do after—that’s the only thing that matters.
You’d told him you wanted a divorce. That you were thinking of leaving. And now, here he was—sitting beside you, telling you about redemption and responsibility through the mask of a story. Not begging. Not bargaining. But offering you a truth you could take or leave.
Let me try again, he was saying without ever saying it. Let us.
And yet—his quiet presence beside you, the firm curl of his fingers around yours, the way he told that story with all the weight of a confession—that was his plea. A man like Zayne didn’t fall apart in chaos. No, he folded his anguish into neat corners. He organized it. Tamed it. Offered it up to you not as an ultimatum, but as a gift of trust.
You stared down at your hands—at his hand around yours—and realized you were trembling. Not because of the cold. Not because of fear. But because the ache in your chest had grown too large, too loud, too impossible to swallow down anymore.
And because now, in the quiet of this room with just the hum of the night outside and the rise and fall of your breathing, you realized that he hadn’t given up.
He hadn’t given up on you.
Your throat constricted, and you fought it back—fought the wave of longing and grief and all the messy things that love becomes when it grows in a wounded garden.
You didn’t deserve this man. This moment. This gentleness.
And yet here it was, in your palm, thudding alongside your pulse.
“…Why do you always do that?” you asked suddenly, voice so thin it nearly cracked under its own weight.
He glanced at you. “Do what?”
“Talk in metaphors,” you whispered. “Why can’t you just say what you feel?”
He was quiet for a beat. Then two. Then three.
When he finally spoke, his voice was soft. Careful.
“Because sometimes, what I feel… is too big for plain words.”
You blinked against the sudden sting in your eyes.
“And if I say it wrong,” he added, “I’m afraid I’ll break it. Or you.”
You turned to him then, finally meeting his eyes. They were quiet now, those eyes. Tired. But not empty. No, Zayne’s gaze had never been empty. It was full of unspoken things. Of words he didn’t know how to say and hopes he wasn’t sure he was allowed to hold.
You realized that maybe you weren’t the only one who was afraid.
You pulled your hand from his slowly, but not to push him away. Instead, you rested it against his chest. Right over his heart. It beat steadily beneath your palm.
“Zayne,” you said, voice trembling with something you hadn’t yet named, “I don’t know how to fix this.”
His breath caught. But he didn’t pull back.
“I don’t know how to be someone worth staying for.”
The words hung between you, stark and ugly. Raw. Honest. You hated how they made you feel: stripped, trembling, open.
But Zayne just… closed his hand over yours, right there over his heart, and held it.
“You already are.”
You woke before the alarm.
The soft, tentative light of morning pooled across the bedroom floor in muted gold, spilling through the slats of the blinds. For a moment you lay still, your eyes closed, letting yourself feel the simple fact of here. The weight of the sheets. The faint scent of laundry powder and something warmer—his cologne lingering on the pillow beside you.
Zayne’s presence was tangible even when he wasn’t touching you. You could feel it in the shift of the mattress, in the quiet steadiness of his breathing. Your hands—bandaged and cared for—tingled faintly, as though some part of him remained pressed there in the dark.
You kept your eyes closed, afraid to look and find the spell broken. Afraid that the fragile stillness might crumble under the weight of movement.
But eventually, you heard him shift. Sheets rustled. The bed dipped and then lifted. His warmth receded.
You opened your eyes just enough to see him in the low light. Standing at the dresser, already half-dressed. Shirt crisp, cufflinks glinting faintly as he secured them with methodical precision. Even in the quiet intimacy of your bedroom, he looked like he was preparing to face the entire world—and win.
You should have turned away, closed your eyes again, pretended to be asleep. But you didn’t. You watched him in the mirror as he buttoned his vest, the movement slow and deliberate, every line of him pressed into order.
And then his gaze caught yours in the reflection.
He didn’t speak right away. Just paused, one hand on the knot of his tie—undone, hanging loose against his chest. There was a pause, almost imperceptible, before he turned fully toward you.
“Help me with my tie?”
You blinked at him from the bed, still wrapped in the warmth of your morning haze. “…I’ve never been good with ties.”
A faint smile tugged at his mouth—so small you might have missed it if you weren’t already memorizing him. “That’s okay,” he said, voice smoother than it had any right to be this early. “I’ll guide you.”
You hesitated. Not because the request was strange, but because it wasn’t. Because it was too ordinary for the way your chest tightened.
Still, you swung your legs over the side of the bed and stood, padding toward him in the same clothes you’d worn yesterday, hair a soft storm cloud of sleep. The contrast was almost laughable. He was immaculate. Every seam pressed, not a strand of hair out of place. You were… not. And yet, he didn’t look at you like you didn’t belong.
Your steps slowed as you drew near. It occurred to you—belatedly—that helping him meant standing close. Too close.
Chest to chest. Breath to breath.
Zayne tilted his head, the barest arch of an eyebrow. A quiet challenge.
You ducked your gaze quickly, heat rising to your ears. “Sorry,” you muttered, stepping forward and lifting the tie. The silk slid like water between your fingers. You draped it around his neck, trying to remember the motions—over, under, loop—but your coordination fizzled the moment you felt his eyes on you.
You barely managed to cross the ends before his hands came up, stilling yours.
Steady. Gentle. His scarred fingers wrapped around yours like they were made for it.
“This,” he murmured, lifting the thinner end between you, “is supposed to go under.”
His voice was low, instructional, but threaded with something darker. Something that reached for you beneath the words.
He stepped closer—not much, just enough that the remaining space between you disappeared.
And now he was close.
Too close.
The heat of him was a presence in itself. Through the space between your hands, through the thrum in your chest, through the stupid silk tie that suddenly felt like a lifeline.
“Here,” he said, guiding your hands, thumbs brushing over your knuckles. “Under. Around. Pull through.”
You followed, breath shallow, lips parting slightly. He leaned nearer, speaking against your ear—not touching, but close enough that your skin prickled.
“Slower,” he murmured, tone dipping like he knew exactly what he was doing. “You’re too tense.”
You wanted to laugh—wanted to say whose fault is that?—but your tongue felt heavy.
The knot began to take shape under your clumsy fingers, his hands lingering longer than they needed to. The touch no longer purely correction but something else. Something that anchored.
You tightened the knot, neat and straight, shoulders drawn with effort.
He didn’t lpet go.
Instead, he exhaled softly, the sound brushing your cheek. “Good girl.”
The words landed in you like a spark against dry tinder.
Your grip faltered. Your pulse didn’t.
When he finally released your hands, it was only to let them fall—only for his palms to settle, without warning, at your waist. Large. Warm. Possessive.
Your breath stuttered.
He looked down at you with an expression you couldn’t read, dark eyes catching in the morning light. Every inch of you was aware of the distance (none), of the low hum in your blood, of the way his thumbs flexed slightly against your hips.
You started to lower your hands, certain that this was where the moment would break—where he’d step back and let you go.
But instead, he caught them. Lifted them. And placed them—deliberately—around his shoulders.
You froze.
He said nothing. Didn’t need to.
His hands stayed at your waist, light but unyielding. You stared up at him, feeling the steady strength under your palms, the restrained energy that lived in his body like a coiled spring.
“Stay,” he said. Just that. Quiet. Without force.
Your fingers curled faintly into the fabric of his shirt. “…Why are you doing this?”
“I never thought I’d get this close again,” he said, voice hoarse, raw in its honesty. “And now that I have you here…”
One of his thumbs skimmed the curve of your lower lip. “…I can’t seem to stop.”
Your heart thudded loud enough to fill the room.
“You’re going to be late.”
A smile ghosted over his mouth—slow, unbearably fond. “Let me be late.”
And for a fleeting moment, you saw not the surgeon, not the guarded man you’d spent years married to, but just Zayne. A man learning—painfully slowly—to want out loud.
He watched you, something soft blooming in his gaze, so open it made your breath catch. You thought—briefly—that he might lean down. That he might close the last of the space between you.
Instead, he bent his head and pressed his lips to your forehead.
It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t fleeting.
It was a kiss of quiet promises and reclaimed time. His mouth lingered longer than it should have, warm and steady, like he was trying to breathe something into your bones.
Your eyes fluttered shut. Your body leaned—without permission—into the touch.
When he drew back, he didn’t speak. Just studied you like he was trying to memorize you.
“You’ll be late,” you whispered again, softer this time.
His thumb brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “I’ll survive.”
And then—coat in hand—he left.
But the warmth of his lips stayed long after the door closed.
Zayne forgot his lunch.
You should’ve left it at that.
Really. Just placed the bento box on his desk like a civil, sensible adult and walked out like you had somewhere important to be. Like he wasn’t the very reason your pulse had been unsteady since seven in the morning.
But no. You had to stand there, staring at the polished nameplate on his desk like it meant something more than Chief Cardiac Surgeon. Like it meant husband. Like it still meant yours.
Your fingers had hovered over the neatly packed lunchbox for far too long, brushing invisible specks off it, trying to calm the burn in your chest.
You weren’t mad. Not exactly. You weren’t sad either. It was worse than that. You were confused. Conflicted. Completely undone by the ghost of his lips on your forehead this morning.
So you did what you were supposed to. You turned. Took a step. Two.
And froze.
You didn’t have to look behind you to know. The air changed when Zayne entered a room. Heavy. A gravitational shift.
“Well,” he said, voice low, unreadable, almost teasing. “This is a surprise.”
You swallowed the knot in your throat and turned around, not because you wanted to face him—but because the weight of his presence demanded it.
“Not really,” you tried to sound breezy. Light. Detached. “I was just dropping something off—”
Click.
The sound of the lock sliding into place was too deliberate. Too calm.
Zayne shrugged off his lab coat. The stark white fabric fell in slow motion over the back of the chair, and then he rolled his shoulders—tight, tired, tense. You watched his fingers unbutton his cuffs, rolling up his sleeves slowly, with practiced ease.
Curtains drawn. Room dimming. Silence folding over itself.
“I sincerely hope,” he murmured as he walked toward you, past you, pulling each curtain shut until the room felt private, secretive—dangerous, “it’s not another envelope.”
You stiffened. “Nope. Just lunch.”
Zayne turned then, smiling—and not the soft, quiet kind that sometimes melted your defenses. No, this one was sharp. Wolfish.
“How sweet,” he drawled, stepping toward you. “My wife, who wants to divorce me… also brings me lunch?”
He was close now. Too close. Towering. All expensive subtle cologne and controlled intensity. You forced yourself not to take a step back.
“Well,” you said, exhaling hard. “Your lunch is here, and I’ll be on my way—”
“Without your bag?”
You turned, and sure enough, there it was. In his hand. Dangling from his fingers like bait.
You reached for it instinctively. He didn’t hand it over.
“Come and take it yourself.”
His tone had dropped several octaves. Dangerous again.
You marched toward him, annoyed, flustered, tired of the games. “Zayne—”
But you hadn’t expected him to hold it out of reach. You stumbled. And suddenly his arm was around your waist, steadying you. Pulling you into him.
Your chest brushed his. Your breath caught. Your arms dropped to his shoulders.
His head dipped.
“If you wanted to hug me that badly,” he whispered, lips grazing the shell of your ear, “you could have just asked.”
Your face flamed. “Let me go.”
He did. Slowly. But not before his fingers slid across your waist like he was memorizing the feel of you. You snatched the bag from his hand and turned on your heel to leave—but you didn’t make it far.
His fingers curled around your wrist. First soft. Then firm. Then unrelenting.
You gasped when he spun you back around, back hitting the edge of his desk, his arms caging you in.
“You’re being shameless,” you muttered, your voice a half-hearted protest.
He smiled—God, that smile—like you’d just paid him a compliment. “I think the word you’re looking for is affectionate,” he said, brushing his nose against yours. “My love.”
“No,” you said with a sharp, defiant breath. “Definitely shameless.”
He laughed, and the sound was warm, rich, and far too intimate. “Shall I show you what being shameless truly means?”
Before you could protest, his hands gripped your waist and lifted you onto the desk in one smooth motion. Your hands braced the edge, heart galloping in your chest.
His head dipped. Lips centimeters from yours. His breath on your skin.
You put your palm against his mouth. “What are you doing?! Someone will see—”
He took your hand gently, kissing each knuckle, then turned it over and bit the sensitive inside of your wrist. Softly. Sinfully.
“Zayne!”
“Yes, love?”
“Are you even listening?!”
“Mmm.” His lips trailed up your arm like he was following a path he’d missed for too long. “You sound absolutely enchanting when you say my name like that.”
“Zayne!” You pushed at his shoulders. “I said someone will—”
“The curtains are drawn.” His voice was husky, intoxicating. “No one will be seeing anything.”
“But—your colleagues—”
“—know to mind their own business.”
You tried again, weakly, breath hitching as his hands slid to your thighs. “Don’t you have work—”
“It’s my lunch break.”
“You—”
His lips found your neck, nipping at the skin beneath your ear before dragging down to the pulse at your throat. You gasped, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt.
“Someone will hear,” you said, barely.
“Let them hear,” he murmured against your skin. “I want to enjoy my meal.”
You glared at him. “I—Your meal is on the desk.”
His mouth curled against your neck. “I know.”
And then he kissed you. A long, slow drag of lips and heat and hunger.
Your fingers loosened against his chest. “Zayne…”
“I shouldn’t have waited this long.” His hand curled around your nape. “To hold you. To talk to you. To fight for you.”
The way he said it made your spine tingle. There was no teasing in his tone now. Only gravity. Regret. Longing. Tears pricked your eyes, unexpected and unwanted.
“I didn’t bring lunch to fight,” you said, voice small. “I didn’t come here to talk about the divorce either.”
“Too bad,” he murmured, softer still—but with a finality that left no room for retreat. “Because I have no intention of letting you go.”
“You can't force me to stay by your side.”
“You’re right. I can’t.”
That earned your full attention. Your gaze snapped to his, searching for the trap in those words.
“Instead,” he continued, a slow smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “I’ll follow you wherever you go. If you can’t stay by my side, I’ll just move with you.”
Your heart stumbled over itself. “You’re impossible, Zayne.”
“You married me.”
“Technically, our parents—”
“Technically, nothing.” His tone sharpened, cutting through the air between you. “We’re married at the end of the day. And a married couple should stay together.”
“How—how childish!”
“And what do you call your own actions?” His eyes narrowed, but not with malice—more like hurt polished to steel. “Threatening to divorce me at every inconvenience. Is that maturity? Be merciful, my love,” he pressed your palm lightly over his chest, “my heart can only take so much damage.”
“You know why it’s necessary,” you whispered.
“No. I really don’t. I fail to understand how divorce is the only solution to our problems.”
You looked down, heat crawling up the back of your neck, shame an anchor in your chest.
Zayne lifted your chin with two lithe fingers. “Why won’t you look at me?”
“Because…” The word splintered in your mouth. “…because I can’t look at you and not see all that you deserve and everything I’m not.”
Silence fell like snow—soft, cold, muffling everything but the thrum of your pulse.
“It pains me,” you continued, “to see myself in your life. Every time you come home, you’re… on edge. You’ve never been at ease in your own house. Relaxed or smiling or laughing—nothing! It physically pains me to see you weigh your words before you even speak them, fearing the wrong combination might set me off. And it hurts, Zayne. It hurts to know my presence has brought you nothing but discomfort. I am the inconvenience. I am the only inconvenience in your life, and so I wish to rid you of—”
“Enough.”
The single word cut clean, his palm lifting between you like a barrier. “No more of this. I will not allow anyone to call my wife an inconvenience. Not even you. I forbid it.”
You flinched, not at the firmness in his tone, but at the way his eyes softened even as his jaw tightened.
“You are not an inconvenience,” he said. “Your presence doesn’t bring me discomfort. The only inconvenience is this nonsense you somehow believe wholeheartedly.”
Your lips trembled, but no sound came.
“Whatever scenario of ‘better’ you think I deserve,” he went on, voice quieter now, “forget it. Because I will not let it happen. I don’t want ‘better.’ I only want you. I don’t care if it’s inconvenient, uncomfortable, or even hell itself. If it’s with you, I want it all.”
Your breath caught, but his next words landed with the weight of a verdict.
“Don’t try to make excuses.”
“They’re not excuses,” you managed, though the defense felt thin, fraying.
“They sound like excuses to me. Excuses to leave me.” He took a step closer, his hands bracing the desk on either side of your hips, caging you without touching. “I will not play along to your whims a second time. If you’re intent on ending this marriage, then I’m hellbent on saving it. Know that my patience and tolerance for mending things far outclasses yours. I will not give up. No matter how far you try to run away from me.”
Your voice was barely a whisper. “Zayne… this is madness.”
His mouth curved—not into a smile, but something fiercer. “You haven’t seen the start of it.”
The door had shut softly behind you, but the silence it left was a violence of its own. Not a slammed door, not the finality of wood meeting frame with fury. No, that would have been easier to weather. Anger he could endure. Anger had edges, and edges he could touch, hold, even bleed against. Anger was alive, communicative in its brutality.
But this?
This soft closing, this near-gentleness—it was worse. It was absence turned tangible. A silence that rang louder than a scream.
Zayne remained at his desk, unmoving. His hands pressed flat to the polished surface, arms locked, as though the sheer physicality of bracing himself might hold him together. As though muscle and bone could cage the storm brewing under his ribs. His head dipped slightly, shadows cutting sharp over his brow. Anyone walking in would have mistaken him for a statue, carved in a moment of stillness. Only the whitened knuckles betrayed the truth.
He should move, there were duties yet undone, meetings scheduled, a routine waiting for him as faithfully as it always did. But he could not. Because you left, and though you had not taken anything of his with you, it felt as though he had been hollowed out.
He leaned back against the edge of his desk, eyes fixed on the closed door as though it might yield you back to him if he stared long enough. It did not. It never did.
How many nights had he endured like this? How many years? This terrible, endless practice of restraint. He had mastered restraint in all things—his body, his words, even his thoughts. But when it came to you, restraint was not mastery. It was torment.
He had wanted you from the beginning. Not in some shallow, careless way—but with a depth that frightened him. With a desperation so sharp it humbled him. He wanted you in every way a man could want a woman: your laugh, your breath, your quiet, your fire. He wanted your stubbornness, your softness, your anger, your despair. He wanted it all. He swore he still did. That wanting had not dulled with time—it had only burrowed deeper, burned hotter.
It burned him from the inside, that desire. Sometimes he wondered if anyone around him could smell the smoke, if they could sense how his self-control was nothing but a kindling holding back a wildfire. Every moment with you was another test of endurance. Every brush of your sleeve, every glance, every word—he lived in restraint. And it hollowed him.
But what choice did he have?
The love you had grown up with was not love—it was demand. He had seen it in your eyes, in the way you recoiled from kindness as though it were a trick. He had seen how your mother had shaped you into someone who gave and gave, until you did not know how to want. You were taught to serve, to endure, to bend yourself into shapes that pleased others. You had been made insecure by it, taught that your worth was tied to what you could give away. Codependent. Devoted. Exhausted.
And Zayne—God, Zayne had feared becoming another weight upon you.
He feared it so much it had become the core of him. That if he reached for you with all he felt, if he dared to claim you with the fullness of his need, he would smother you. He would take a woman already emptied by demands and hollow you out completely. It did not matter whether his intentions were tender or selfish—what mattered was that the result might be the same.
He could not bear that.
So he held back. Again and again. He placed walls where there should have been warmth, distance where there should have been closeness. He told himself it was for your sake, though it tortured him. He told himself that if he loved you, truly loved you, he had to let you find yourself first. You had to know what it meant to be whole before he ever asked you to share that wholeness with him.
Because he wanted you to choose him. Freely. On your own terms. Not out of duty. Not because your mother had pushed you into his arms, or because loneliness made you reach for the nearest hand. No—he wanted you to want him, to demand him. He wanted, for once, for you to be the one who wanted.
But like always nothing had ever worked in his favor.
He feared the day you would look at him and see not a man who had waited for you, but one who had wasted you. Who had let years slip by in silence, who had been too afraid, too cautious, too restrained. He feared the disgust in your eyes more than any scalpel, more than death itself. Because if you ever looked at him like that—like he was nothing but another cage—you would undo him completely.
And yet, for all his fear, his love had not waned. It was still there, terrible and humbling, clawing at him with a hunger he could not erase.
Zayne closed his eyes, pressing the heel of his hand against them until stars flared in the dark. He wanted you. Still. Always. Wanted you so much he could scarcely breathe around it. Wanted you until it made him sick, until it made him weak, until it made him feel less like a man and more like a supplicant begging at an altar.
And perhaps that was what love was meant to be—humbling, desperate, ruinous.
But oh, how he feared you would never see it.
And yet, for all the ache lodged in his chest, something else coiled quietly within.
Hope.
The word startled him. It tasted foreign in his mouth, like a language he hadn’t spoken in years. Hope was not something he entertained recklessly, not when life had made a surgeon out of him, a pragmatist who believed more in sutures than serendipity. His world did not run on hope but on precision, skill, procedure. He trusted his hands, his scalpel, the weight of his choices measured against risk and outcome. Hope had no place in an operating theatre, nor in a life built on discipline. Hope belonged to fools and poets, and he was neither.
But today, he had glimpsed it. In you.
You thought you had hidden it, the way you always did—behind fire, behind defiance, behind that quicksilver tongue that lashed before it yielded. But when his lips had pressed to yours, when you had kissed him back, he had felt it: the tremor, the hunger, the dangerous edge of want.
Want.
It wasn’t surrender. But it was a fracture. A crack in the walls you had built in response to his.
And Zayne, if nothing else, knew how to work with cracks.
He could use that.
He knew you. Perhaps better than you wished him to. He had watched you sharpen yourself into something untouchable. Knew your jagged coping mechanisms, your instinct to deflect before you ever dared to soften. Knew, too, how the loneliness had etched hollows inside you. He had waited too long, let the silence stretch too thin.
And he recognized those hollow places because they lived inside him too.
That recognition cut him now. Because he had let them grow. He had stood by while your eyes dimmed, while your laughter—bright, startled, so rare—faded into memory. He had accepted distance as though it were easier than trying. A cowardice he named restraint, composure, pragmatism. He had hidden behind his role, his hours, his damnable professionalism, and in doing so, he had left you alone.
Three years of it. Three years of silence and politeness, of conversations clipped short, of a bed that became two. He had thought he was protecting you—no, protecting himself. He had convinced himself that what had been arranged could never become real.
But you had kissed him back. Not tenderly. Not sweetly. But with fury, with hunger, with the raw edge of someone who wanted and hated herself for wanting.
And for all the pain in it, it was enough. Enough to tell him he had not been wrong all along. Enough to make him realize how long he had starved himself, how long he had mistaken avoidance for survival.
He could work with that.
The plan formed in him even as his chest ached. Precision. Patience. Timing. The three things he trusted more than anything else. He could not storm your defenses. That would make you retreat, and once you retreated, he wasn’t sure he could bear the distance again. He could not demand. He could not coerce. You would never forgive that.
No. He would coax. Corner. Maneuver. A courtship disguised as reconciliation. He would offer you kindness in increments, patience like anesthesia, until you no longer feared the incision. Until you forgot that you had ever wanted to run.
It would not look like conquest. It would look like choice. Your choice. That was the only way it could last.
And still—inside, he was less surgeon than man. Beneath the strategy, his heart thundered with something rawer, more desperate. He wanted you. Wanted the sharpness of your words, the fire in your gaze, the ache you carried like a secret. Wanted to hold you until you broke against him, not in fury, but in trust.
For years, he had told himself he didn’t. For years, he had hidden behind restraint. But today had torn something loose, and he knew—he would not go back.
This was an operation with only one acceptable outcome.
Your heart, steady.
Your heart, tethered.
Your heart, bound to his.
Zayne drew a long breath. His hands loosened on the desk, leaving faint crescents in the wood. Slowly, deliberately, he straightened. On the surface, he was calm again—the composed man the world knew. His shoulders set, his expression smoothed, his body language spoke of control.
The door creaked open. He glanced up to see Yvonne slip inside.
“Dr. Zayne,” she began without preamble, flipping through notes. “Two of your post-ops need follow-up imaging, and the intern rotation schedule has a—”
“Yvonne.” His voice cut through hers, calm but deliberate.
She blinked, thrown off rhythm. “Yes?”
He looked up at her, expression unreadable but gaze steady. “I hear your cousin is a tennis player?”
Her pen froze mid-scratch. Then slowly, very slowly, her head lifted. “Dr. Zayne,” she said carefully, “eavesdropping on unsuspecting women is not a good habit.”
He did not look away. Did not even blink. The kind of stare that had made interns quake and board directors fall silent.
Yvonne clicked her tongue. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. You’re not even going to deny it?”
He let the silence hang, unashamed.
Her eyes narrowed. “Are you looking to switch professions? Please don’t tell me it was the new intern. I swear—”
“It is not for me.” His interruption was cool, clipped.
For a beat, the nurse just stared. And then, perhaps against her better judgment, her mouth curved in the faintest smirk. “Ah. I see.”
He ignored the implication. “Well?”
She sighed like a woman resigned to indulging a difficult superior. “Yes. My cousin plays. Why?”
Zayne leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. His pulse was steady, but in his chest—something quickened. The beginning of a plan.
“…Because,” he said at last, with a calmness that belied the weight of what he was setting into motion, “I need a favor.”
The morning unfurled like a held breath, soft light spilling over the skyline, burnishing glass windows gold. A hush seemed to hang over the city, the kind of silence only possible before the day began in earnest. You could hear it—the rhythm of sneakers against pavement, the measured cadence of breath, the faint rustle of leaves shivering under the touch of an early breeze.
Zayne ran ahead at first, his long strides eating the distance, his posture straight and disciplined even in this casual act. You followed, a half-step behind, your chest rising and falling in uneven patterns, not entirely from the exertion. It wasn’t the run that left you short of breath.
It was him.
Always him.
You had agreed—foolishly, you told yourself—to join him. He’d asked so simply, as if the request carried no weight at all. I’m going for my run. You should join me. His tone had been soft, but there was something underneath it, a challenge perhaps, or worse: hope. And you had nodded before you’d thought better of it, before you reminded yourself of everything you had said yesterday, the boundaries you had drawn, the walls you had reinforced.
Now here you were, watching his back, the broad line of his shoulders beneath the grey of his compression shirt, the steady rhythm of his arms swinging. Watching and remembering.
There was something absurdly domestic about it—running side by side, breath clouding the air, the steady thud of your sneakers against the asphalt. You found yourself memorizing the slope of his shoulders in the pale light, the way his hand occasionally flexed as if resisting the urge to reach for yours.
And maybe it was the lack of sleep, or the echo of yesterday’s kiss, but every brush of his arm against yours felt charged. A flicker of heat, restrained but undeniable.
You told yourself to focus on the run, on your breathing. But the truth was—your heart was already sprinting ahead of you.
“You’re keeping up well,” he remarked, voice tinged with the faintest trace of humor.
You shot him a sidelong look. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m not. Just impressed.”
The easy compliment slid under your skin before you could block it, warming you from the inside out. You turned your face away, hoping he wouldn’t notice the small, ridiculous smile threatening at your lips.
Zayne noticed. Of course he did. He always noticed.
You were supposed to hate this—the way he looked like he belonged here, in your mornings, in your breaths, in your pulse. But your treacherous heart found something unbearably right in the picture.
He slowed suddenly, letting you catch up, and when your pace aligned, he glanced at you. A simple look. No words. Yet it pierced through you. He smiled—not wide, not teasing. Just small. Gentle. The kind of smile that made you want to cry, because you knew it was rare. Because you knew he wasn’t careless with his affection. Because when Zayne looked at you like that, you felt seen in a way you didn’t know how to bear.
The silence stretched, filled with the cadence of two hearts adjusting to each other. Then, without warning, he shifted direction, veering off the main path, guiding you toward a smaller trail lined with trees.
You frowned. “This isn’t part of your usual run, is it?”
He shook his head, breath steady. “No. But it’s… part of ours.”
You blinked, thrown off. “Ours?”
He slowed further until you were walking now, his eyes scanning the open park ahead. And then you recognized it—the fountain at the center, its water catching light in silver threads, the benches that circled it, the small café just beyond.
Your chest tightened.
“This,” he said, his voice low, his gaze lingering on the space as though it were sacred, “was where we had our first date. Remember?”
You laughed before you could stop yourself. The sound startled you, like it didn’t belong to you anymore, but it came anyway, bubbling past the ache in your chest. “The second date, you mean. I believe the restaurant was our first.”
His composure cracked—just slightly. His ears flushed red, his lips parting as if he hadn’t expected you to challenge the memory. “...I thought we agreed the restaurant didn’t count.”
“Oh, but it does.” You tilted your head, your smile sharpening with mischief, though your heart pounded beneath it. “That’s where I got to know your true colors.”
His eyes widened faintly, a rare look of panic ghosting across his face. “Please don’t say it that way.”
You smirked, treasuring the flicker of vulnerability. “You assumed such wonderful things about me.”
“Can you blame me?” His tone was dry, but there was a softness in his gaze now. “Hearing about the outrageous demands for the wedding from your family, I thought they were yours.”
The memory lanced through you—the endless lists of florists, caterers, gown fittings, the suffocating extravagance demanded by your mother. You remembered the way his eyes had narrowed the first time he saw the bill for the centerpiece flowers, the disbelief in his voice when he asked, Are they constructing a garden or a wedding hall?
You exhaled, shaking your head. “Hmm. And then you so abruptly set up a date that my mother had no chance to intercept. I was wholly unprepared. Imagine—your almost-maybe-arranged fiancée, who had no interest in you prior, demanding to meet you.”
“You were quite offended,” he said, his voice dipping into amusement.
“As I should've been!”
He chuckled, the sound rich, vibrating into your chest. “You never got mad at me that way again. I almost miss it.”
Your lips twitched. “I can throw soup at you again if that’s what you want.”
The words slipped before you could catch them. The memory of that day surged up: your trembling hands, the bowl slipping, the bright orange splash across his shirt. The mortification that had clawed at your throat. And then—the shock when he had apologized. ...Forgive me; I startled you. I should have been more careful.
Zayne laughed now, freely, and you felt yourself unravel at the sound.
“My mother was so enamored with you,” he said after a beat, his tone shifting, softening, “it was as if she could find no fault in you. It…irked me.”
You turned your head, startled by the confession. His gaze was on you, unwavering, holding.
“I see now why that is,” he added.
The words landed heavy, as if they carried the weight of everything unsaid between you. Heat burned across your cheeks, and you looked away, pretending to study the path.
“I’m glad it happened,” you murmured, though your voice shook. “How else would I have seen the great Dr. Zayne stumble over his words trying to apologize?”
He huffed out a soft laugh. “That was the only time I’ve ever been truly speechless in my life.”
You slowed, your steps faltering, because the ache inside your chest was spreading too fast, too deep. And before you could stop yourself, the words spilled.
“I think the reason my mother gave your mother such a hard time,” you began, your voice low, hesitant, like the words had been pressing at the back of your throat for years, waiting for their chance to surface, “was because she was jealous of her.”
The air between you shifted at once, as though the weight of the confession thickened it. Zayne didn’t move, didn’t speak, but his stride slowed to match the tremor in your voice.
You pushed on, each word trembling but unflinching. “Your mother is… an accomplished woman. She has a thriving career, a loving husband, a son who—” you broke off, swallowing against the knot in your throat, “—a son who is devoted to her. She has all the things my mother never had. And I think—no, I know—that’s why she lashed out. She couldn’t bear to see it. To be reminded of what she wasn’t.”
Silence pressed down, broken only by the distant trickle of the fountain and the hush of wind threading through the trees.
You drew a shaky breath, daring to glance at him. His face was unreadable, carefully composed, but you saw the flicker—brief, fragile—of something raw in his eyes.
Your voice faltered into softer tones, confessional, confiding. “Even I, at times… preferred her over my own mother.” You winced at the admission, the betrayal it implied, though the truth had lived in your chest for years. “Because she—she never made me feel small. She never measured me against impossible expectations. She just… welcomed me, gave me kindness without asking for anything back.”
The words fell between you like stones dropped into still water, rippling out into the quiet morning.
“My mother couldn’t handle it. She saw it. She saw me—turning toward your family instead of hers. That’s why she created such a mess during our wedding. It wasn’t about flowers or gowns or the guest list. It was about her. Her fear of being eclipsed.”
Your throat tightened, your voice cracking as you forced the last truth into the open. “It was easier for her to ruin things than to admit she felt inadequate.”
You fell silent then, breath uneven, the admission hollowing you out as though you’d carved a piece of yourself and set it at his feet.
Zayne’s steps slowed until he stopped altogether. The path was quiet around you, the fountain’s spray catching threads of sunlight. He stood there, looking at you—not with judgment, not with pity, but with a solemn, searching intensity that made you want to look anywhere else but at him.
He said nothing at first. Just… breathed. Slow. Steady. The kind of restraint that told you he was holding back something sharp and complicated.
At last, his voice came, lower than usual, like it had been pulled from the deepest part of him. “You shouldn’t have had to feel that way.”
The words made your eyes sting, because it wasn’t absolution, not exactly, but a recognition. And somehow, that was worse—because it meant he understood. Because it meant he saw you.
You laughed weakly, shaking your head. “I think it’s why I clung to those boundaries so tightly, Zayne. Because if I didn’t, if I let myself—” your voice fractured, “—I was afraid I’d just… want to belong to your world instead.”
Your chest ached with the truth, unbearable in its nakedness.
Zayne’s jaw tightened, his eyes dark, haunted, though his expression never broke fully. But you could feel it—the quiet devastation thrumming beneath his calm, the way your confession was unraveling the control he prized so highly.
“You already do,” he murmured, voice barely above the fountain’s whisper.
—
The gravel crunched underfoot as he led you forward, your smaller hand swallowed inside his. His grip was steady, deliberate, as though by sheer pressure alone he could anchor you against every storm your mind might conjure.
The building loomed ahead, the glass reflecting the morning sun, the faint sound of tennis balls smacking against racquets carrying from within. Zayne’s chest swelled with a quiet pride. This was not just about sport. This was about giving you back something that had been wrongfully taken.
You asked softly, almost uncertainly, “Zayne… where are we?”
He didn’t look at you—if he did, he feared he’d lose his nerve. His gaze fixed ahead on the glass front of the building, its sign gleaming in the sun.
“A tennis club,” he said simply.
The silence that followed was heavy enough to knock the air out of him.
When he finally risked a glance, he saw it: the panic beginning to cloud your features, the way your fingers twitched as though they might slip from his, the tremor in your shoulders.
“I—what?” you stammered.
He squeezed your hand and guided you forward. He thought if he kept you moving, maybe momentum would keep the fear from swallowing you whole. But the moment you saw the courts beyond the glass, you froze.
Your voice cracked. “Zayne, I can’t!”
He stiffened. The force of your fear was like walking into a wall. Suddenly, both your hands latched onto his arm, gripping so tight he could feel your nails through his shirt. You tucked yourself behind him, trembling, trying to hide.
Zayne faltered. Just for a heartbeat. His chest ached. He cursed himself for this—bringing you here without asking, thinking that his stubbornness could overcome wounds you’d spent decades carrying. He cursed the woman who had once stood where he now stood, the one who had crushed your confidence so completely that you recoiled from the very thing you loved.
He had seen you—after that night on the court, the brokenness in your face when you held the racket, the way your breath shook. He knew this was no simple fear. This was scar tissue, thick and unyielding.
Maybe he should have asked. But if he had, he knew what you’d have done. You would have rejected the idea out of hand, shut the door, buried the part of you that had once loved the game before anyone else could.
And Zayne could not bear to let you keep burying pieces of yourself.
With deliberate gentleness, he pried your hands from his arm and turned to face you. The sight of you, wide-eyed and trembling, gutted him. You looked small, far too small for someone who had carried so much. Without thinking, he pulled you into his arms. His embrace was firm, protective, desperate.
You buried your face against his chest, and he pressed his chin to your hair, inhaling slowly, letting you take in his steadiness.
“…Is there a reason why we can’t go there?” His voice was quiet, coaxing, though inside his heart was a battlefield.
Your words came muffled, broken against him. “I can’t, I’m too old to play now. I haven’t played in decades. I don’t even know if I have the skills anymore. What if I’m bad at it? What if they mock me? I just can’t—”
Each excuse, each shred of fear, cut into him like a knife. How long had you been carrying these doubts? How many times had you silenced yourself before you could even begin?
He leaned back slightly, enough to look down at you, his hands still steady at your waist.
“I have met people in their sixties,” he said slowly, willing each word to land, “who are passionate about playing golf, soccer, basketball, cricket—every sport you can imagine. Why should tennis have an age limit?”
Your lashes fluttered, but you didn’t speak.
“People start somewhere. No one begins perfect. One mistake, one bad serve, one clumsy swing—that doesn’t mean the end of the world.” His voice grew firmer now, protective, threaded with a quiet wrath at anyone who had ever made you feel less. “So what if you’re bad at it? That doesn’t change anything. It only proves you have room to grow.”
He cupped your cheek then, tilting your face toward him, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Skills can be built if you work hard. But you—” his voice thickened, “you’ve already survived worse than missed serves.”
You blinked at him, tears gathering at the edges of your eyes.
“And if anyone here dares mock you,” he added, a dark edge flashing in his tone, “they will answer to me.”
Your breath hitched.
The silence stretched again. Zayne waited, steady, not pressing, not pushing. He would never force you, but he would not let you keep hiding either.
Finally, he softened, lowering his forehead until it nearly brushed yours. “So just try, hmm? If you hate it, we’ll go home immediately. I won’t bother you with this again.”
He meant it. And you knew he meant it.
You looked up at him then, eyes wide, your heart visibly trembling in your gaze. Your lips parted, and the smallest, most fragile whisper slipped out.
“Okay… I’ll try.”
The sound of it cracked something open inside him. Relief surged through his chest, fierce and consuming.
—
He had expected hesitation. Stumbling. Maybe even outright refusal once you crossed the threshold. But he had not expected the sheer silence that met him as you stood inside the club. The scent of fresh clay and varnished wood filled the air. The faint squeak of shoes, the rhythmic thwack-thwack of balls meeting racquets—it all seemed to tighten your spine, your hand clammy in his.
You were trembling like a child on the first day of school.
Zayne cursed under his breath, silently, internally. He had brought you here with the arrogance of a surgeon who thought healing was as simple as cutting away what was rotten and stitching the good parts together. He had not considered what it meant for you to stand here, naked of all defenses, facing ghosts only you could see.
But then—his hand tightened around yours, and something shifted.
You were still trembling. But you hadn’t run.
That, to Zayne, was victory.
The moment you step past the gates of the tennis club, the air changes. It carries that sharp green scent of freshly cut grass, faint echoes of laughter, the thwack of rackets connecting with balls like a pulse beating steady across the courts. For a second you forget your trembling knees and the panic still thrumming in your chest—until someone approaches.
She moves toward you with the easy confidence of someone at home here, shoulders loose, face open with warmth. Her ponytail bounces when she walks, and there’s something so unapologetically sunny about her that you almost feel the need to squint.
“Hi!” she says brightly, offering her hand before names have even been exchanged. “I’m Nora. Haven’t seen you here before.”
Your mouth opens, but your tongue feels clumsy. It takes you a second to remember how introductions are supposed to work. “I—I’m…” You glance toward Zayne for backup, and he stands beside you, hands tucked in his pockets, that inscrutable calm on his face. Except you notice it—the tiny twitch of his mouth, the faint glimmer of nerves. He’s watching you with quiet, almost imperceptible hope.
“I’m…” You steady yourself with a breath. “I’m new here. First day.”
Nora beams. “Perfect! You picked the best place. Don’t let the competitive types intimidate you, we’re mostly here to have fun. Want to hit a few balls? No pressure, I promise.”
Her energy is infectious, and something in you—something that has been curled tight for years—loosens. You glance back at Zayne. His expression is neutral, but you’ve lived long enough with his silences to see what he doesn’t say: go on, try.
Your throat is dry when you nod. “Sure. Why not?”
The match begins with shaky starts. Your racket feels heavier than you remembered, your hands slick with nerves. The first ball Nora lobs your way bounces past you before you’ve even moved. She doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t tease. She just calls out, cheerful as the sun, “Warm-up doesn’t count! Try again!”
Zayne leans against the fence, watching you. His arms are crossed, but his stance isn’t detached—it’s tethered, protective, as though every ball you miss grazes him too. His jaw relaxes each time you manage to return one.
And then it happens—something shifts. Nora’s optimism is relentless, an anchor you didn’t know you needed. Her cheer dissolves your self-consciousness piece by piece. Your swings sharpen, your feet remember how to move, and before long you’re not the trembling new kid anymore. You’re laughing, even teasing Nora back when you score a point.
It takes less than fifteen minutes. Less than fifteen minutes for you to transform from that small, nervous shadow at the entrance to someone who looks like they belong here.
“See?” Nora pants between rallies, smiling wide. “You’ve totally got this. You’re a natural.”
You laugh breathlessly, pushing stray hair from your face. For the first time in ages, it doesn’t feel like flattery—it feels true.
And then she’s introducing you to others. People wave, shake your hand, offer casual greetings as though you’ve been coming here for years. You’re drawn into their orbit, finding yourself smiling more easily than you thought you could.
Zayne stays back, letting you have this moment. Relief courses through him so strongly it nearly knocks the air out of his lungs. You don’t see it—the way his shoulders uncoil, the way his eyes soften at the sight of you laughing with strangers, how his chest rises and falls with a rhythm that isn’t weighed down anymore.
For once, he doesn’t need to orchestrate or protect. For once, you’re simply living, and it’s more beautiful than anything he could have planned.
—
Nora flopped down on the bench, patting the empty space beside her. “Come sit. You’re a natural, I swear. I’ll be bragging about you by dinner.”
You snorted, a sound so light it caught Zayne off guard. “Please don’t. I barely got through half the serves without missing.”
“And yet you kept going.” Nora raised her brows. “That’s what counts. You’re braver than most. Most people walk away the moment they mess up.”
You blinked, lips parting slightly as if those words hit deeper than she knew. Your gaze slid toward the ground, but your shoulders lifted just a fraction, as though a weight had shifted.
Nora launched into chatter about the club—the friendly competitions, the morning group who met for doubles, even the little café on the corner where they’d grab smoothies after. She painted pictures of camaraderie, of community, and every so often, you chimed in. Hesitant at first, then warmer. A question here, a laugh there.
Zayne’s heart clenched.
He stood a little apart, pretending to busy himself by checking the time, though really he was cataloging every detail—the subtle uncurling of your posture, the way your hand rested loosely on your racket instead of gripping it like a lifeline, the tentative but genuine smile that crept onto your lips.
It was like watching someone relearn how to breathe.
He thought of your words earlier—What if they mock me?—and something vicious flared in his chest. Who had taught you to expect mockery before kindness? Who had convinced you that every misstep was an invitation for ridicule instead of growth?
He already knew the answer.
His jaw tightened. Your mother’s face rose in his memory, sharp and cold, her words like barbs disguised as silk. He remembered how she dismissed you with veiled criticism, how she had turned every smile into a blade. He remembered how his own silence had made him complicit.
He had hated himself for that. For letting you stand there, alone, when you should have had an ally in him.
But here—today—he vowed silently that he would never again let you stand alone.
“Zayne?”
Your voice pulled him out of his reverie. You were standing now, a faint sheen of sweat on your forehead, racket dangling from your fingers. “Are you just going to lurk there forever?”
The tease in your voice was quiet but unmistakable.
Something inside him loosened. “Observing,” he said. “Making mental notes.”
“On what? My form?”
“On you,” he replied simply, and though his tone was even, the weight of the words hung between you.
Nora grinned. “Well, you should know she’s a quick learner. I haven’t seen someone catch on that fast in months. You better bring her back, or I’ll drag her here myself.”
You laughed, shaking your head, and Zayne felt the sound reverberate through him like a pulse.
“Noted,” he murmured. And it was more than a promise—it was a vow.
—
“I’ll be leaving now,” Zayne said, careful to keep his voice even, gentle. He didn’t want the moment to feel like abandonment, only an offering of choice. His gaze lingered on you, the curve of your shoulders no longer hunched with the wariness he had grown used to, but looser, almost free. “Do you want me to drop you home, or would you like to stay here?”
You hesitated only a fraction of a heartbeat before answering, “I want to stay.” You smiled faintly, the kind of smile that trembled on the edge of confidence. “Don’t worry about me.”
Those words—so small, so easily spoken—struck him with an ache he hadn’t expected. Don’t worry about me. But hadn’t that been all he had done? Worry, silently, from the corners of rooms and the edges of your shared life. He had worried and yet never moved quickly enough to act, never risked stepping into your orbit with both feet. Until now.
He nodded, though a part of him resisted leaving you even for an hour. “Very well,” he said softly. His eyes searched yours, memorizing the brightness there, committing it to memory as proof that today had been worth it. “I’ll come back for you later.”
Your gaze softened, and something like gratitude flickered there, though you didn’t voice it. Perhaps you couldn’t, not yet.
So he inclined his head, offered Nora a polite nod, and turned toward the exit.
You watched Zayne’s tall figure recede toward the gates, the confident stride of him unhurried, deliberate, as though even in leaving he wanted to assure you that he wasn’t truly gone. Something inside your chest ached as he disappeared past the hedges, that strange, invisible cord still tugging, binding you even when he wasn’t looking.
“Alright,” Nora clapped her hands once, decisive, like a general marshaling her troops. “You’re officially inducted. You don’t get to go home and brood now—you’re one of us.”
You blinked. “One of… who exactly?”
“Us,” said a voice behind you, smooth as honey, bold as brass.
You turned.
A woman with sharp green eyes and the kind of posture that screamed unbothered elegance strolled up, racket slung over her shoulder like a knight’s sword. Her hair was tied in a messy bun that looked too artfully careless to be an accident. She looked at you, assessed you in one sweep, then grinned like a cat who had already decided to keep the mouse alive just for play.
“This her?” she asked Nora. “The prodigy?”
Nora rolled her eyes. “She’s not a prodigy, Lara, don’t scare her.”
Lara smirked. “Please. The way she handled that last rally? Definitely prodigy.”
Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you stammered something incoherent, but Lara only laughed, delighted, and hooked an arm through yours like you’d known each other for years.
“Don’t mind her,” came another voice—gentle, melodic.
This one was a vision in pastels: a pale pink skirt swishing around her knees, a lavender cardigan slipping off one shoulder, hair pinned with pearl clips. Irene looked like a porcelain doll brought to life, soft and sweet. But her eyes—sharp, glinting with something keener than her sugar-spun exterior—gave her away.
“You’ll get used to Lara,” Irene said, her tone dripping with innocence. “She’s basically a feral cat we’ve all collectively decided to feed and now she won’t leave.”
Lara gasped dramatically, hand pressed to her chest. “The audacity! This is how you treat me in front of the new kid?!”
You bit back a laugh, a sound caught between disbelief and release.
Nora folded her arms, smug. “You’re literally proving her point right now.”
“Shut up, Nora.”
“See?” Irene said sweetly, and winked at you.
It happened so quickly you barely had time to resist: Lara still hooked around one arm, Irene suddenly taking the other, Nora following like the triumphant ringleader. They dragged you toward the benches with the force of a small hurricane.
“Wait—I—” you protested weakly, but your voice dissolved under their chatter, the way their banter ricocheted around you like firecrackers.
“Sit here, you look like you’re about to faint,” Lara ordered, shoving you onto the bench before plopping beside you with a racket thud.
“She doesn’t look like she’s going to faint, she looks like she’s trying to get away from you,” Irene corrected in that deceptively soft lilt.
“Oh not at all—”
“I was just kidding.”
You stared at them—all three, this whirlwind of warmth, sarcasm, and chaos—and for a moment, your throat burned. When had the last time been? The last time you sat with women your own age, laughing, chattering, being folded into a circle not because you belonged by default, but because you were wanted?
It almost felt unreal.
Lara nudged you with her shoulder, breaking your trance. “So. Tell us. Who’s the tall broody one that just walked out? Husband? Boyfriend? Secret service agent? Please don’t say cousin, I’ll throw myself into the fountain.”
You choked on air. “He’s my husband.”
Three sets of eyes widened with unholy delight.
“Husband?” Lara nearly shouted. “You mean you’re married to that? And you’re just casually standing here like you didn’t just drop the juiciest plot twist of the century?!”
Irene gasped softly, clutching your hand with theatrical innocence. “Is it a love marriage? An arranged one? Forbidden romance? Tell us everything.”
You opened your mouth, closed it, then shook your head helplessly. “It’s… complicated.”
“Oh my God,” Lara groaned, leaning back with a grin. “She said the word. Complicated. This is better than those K-dramas.”
Nora laughed, but gently patted your knee. “Ignore them. We’re just nosy. You don’t have to tell us anything you don’t want to.”
But you found yourself smiling—tiny, tremulous, but real. “It’s alright,” you murmured. “Complicated is… probably the right word.”
“Complicated is fun,” Lara declared. “Complicated means juicy drama. Which means, darling, you’ve just bought yourself three new best friends.”
“Whether you like it or not,” Irene added sweetly.
And that was how it began.
It started with smoothies.
Or at least, that’s what Nora claimed.
“One rule of the club,” she announced, standing with her racket slung like a sword of authority, “is that first-timers must be initiated with a post-game smoothie run.”
Before you could even think, Lara had already looped her arm through yours again, tugging you toward the gates with alarming strength for someone who claimed she was “only here for cardio.”
“I want mango,” she declared. “And I will duel anyone who tries to order the last one.”
“I’ll have strawberry,” Irene chimed in sweetly, walking on your other side. “With extra whipped cream. And a cherry.” Then she leaned closer to you, her voice dipping into conspiratorial mischief. “Watch Lara order the exact same thing once she sees mine.”
“Lies and slander,” Lara shot back.
“You’re predictable.”
“You’re manipulative.”
“You’re both loud,” Nora cut in, exasperated, but she was smiling.
You stumbled along between them, wide-eyed, bewildered, but—strangely—unresisting. Somewhere between the tug of Lara’s arm, Irene’s syrupy commentary, and Nora’s confident herding, you realized: you had been kidnapped.
A friendly kidnapping.
The smoothie shop was a tiny corner café tucked behind ivy-draped walls, the kind of place you might have walked past a hundred times without noticing. Inside, it was chaos: mismatched chairs, chalkboard menus, fairy lights strung haphazardly.
“Order whatever you want,” Nora said. “First round’s on me.”
“I love you,” Lara declared immediately. “I’ll take two smoothies. No, three. It’s bulking season.”
“You don’t even go to the gym,” Irene pointed out.
“Exactly. I need moral support.”
You stifled a laugh, glancing around nervously, but none of them seemed self-conscious about the noise. They claimed their space unapologetically, drawing looks and rolling with it.
Somewhere between debating smoothie flavors and mocking each other’s choices, Lara noticed your hesitation at the counter.
“What’ll it be, wife of tall-dark-and-broody?” she asked, wiggling her eyebrows.
Heat rushed to your face. “I’ll just… get something simple. Banana?”
“Banana?” Lara looked offended. “Banana is not simple. Banana is a cry for help.”
You sputtered. “What does that even mean?”
“It means we’re ordering you something fun,” Irene said firmly. “You’re not allowed to hide behind bananas on your first girls’ date. That’s basically against the law.”
Nora leaned over the counter with the air of someone negotiating peace treaties. “Make that one passionfruit-strawberry blend with chia seeds. Trust me, you’ll like it.”
You opened your mouth to protest, then shut it. Because you realized—when was the last time someone had insisted you try something new without malice, without criticism, simply because they wanted you to enjoy it?
When the drinks arrived, Lara made a dramatic toast with her mango cup. “To our newest recruit,” she proclaimed. “May her backhand always be ruthless and her patience for husbands minimal.”
You nearly choked, Irene clapping delightedly as your face burned.
—
The chaos didn’t end at smoothies.
By some unspoken consensus, the four of you spilled out of the café and into the street, each idea more impulsive than the last. Lara dragged everyone into a thrift shop because “fashion is war and I intend to win.” Irene convinced you to try on a vintage tennis skirt that made you blush but earned a unanimous cheer. Nora bought a ridiculous sunhat just to prove she could pull it off.
“Photoshoot!” Irene declared, shoving the hat onto your head and snapping pictures with merciless glee.
Lara leaned in, half in the frame, making faces until you laughed so hard you doubled over. Nora, for all her exasperated sighing, didn’t stop them once.
Somehow, this wild, unplanned circuit carried you to the bookstore, then the gelato stand, then a riverside bench where you all sat in a heap, sticky with sugar, exhausted but buzzing.
It felt surreal—how fast the hours slipped by, how natural it became to be tugged into their orbit. Your voice joined theirs in the chaos, at first timidly, then louder, freer, until you were talking over each other too, adding to the noise instead of shrinking from it.
At one point, Irene leaned against your shoulder, voice softer. “See? Told you. No one here’s going to mock you. Not when you’re one of us.”
You blinked, throat tightening. Words tangled in your chest, but the only thing you could manage was a shaky, “Thank you.”
Lara immediately ruined the moment by dramatically fanning herself. “Ugh, feelings. Gross. Quick, someone say something inappropriate.”
“Your crush on the smoothie guy is inappropriate,” Nora deadpanned.
“He had forearms carved by Astra himself,” Lara retorted. “Don’t deny me my truth.”
You laughed—loud, unguarded, startling even yourself.
And for a fleeting second, you thought: so this is what it feels like to belong.
“Let's exchange numbers, I’ll add you to the group chat! We have specific days where we play doubles together. I’ll let you know ahead of schedule.” Irene said, already tapping at her phone like she was scheduling a summit.
You pulled yours out, screen lighting up. For a second, your hand stilled, something in the date today tugging sharp and strange at the edges of memory. You brushed it off, too fast, and typed in the digits before she could prod.
And then the buzz came again—his name blooming across the glass. Zayne.
Your voice betrayed you the moment you answered, too light, too eager, too unlike the cool restraint you swore you’d keep. He asked if he could come pick you up, his words as carefully measured as always, and you teased about needing rescue from the chaos of your new friends. His laugh curled through the line—low, unguarded, the kind of sound that left warmth in its wake. You said yes, far too quickly, and when the call ended, the girls pounced.
They were relentless. Lara clutched her chest like she’d witnessed a scandal; Irene practically sparkled with delight; Nora arched a brow like she’d been expecting this. Their teasing was merciless, but it didn’t sting—it wrapped you in warmth instead. And when you fired back with a retort sharp enough to make them double over with laughter, pride bloomed in your chest, fierce and unexpected. For once, you weren’t the quiet one circling the edge of other people’s joy—you were in it.
And then he arrived.
He walked toward you with that same deliberate stride, each step a study in restraint. His eyes locked on yours and did not waver, and the sound of the girls’ chatter dulled beneath the weight of his gaze. When he reached you, he took your hand in his and pressed his lips to the back of it, the gesture simple, devastating, old-fashioned in a way that made your breath catch.
“You look happy,” he says. The words are not a compliment thrown into the wind; they are a verdict, an observation that rearranges the light around you. The way he says it — simple, unequivocal — makes something in you level and tremble at once. You rise on a soft intake of breath because his hand has been steady in yours from the start, anchoring you as if the act of standing could be messy were it not for him.
You rose because his hand never let you falter, and the world felt steadier than it should have in that moment. Your friends gasped and sighed and shoved silly tokens into your hands—a glittery clip, a doodled heart on a napkin, the floppy sunhat shoved onto your head. Their mock protests only made the moment feel fuller, like you were being sent off with their noisy blessing.
He glanced at them with that half-smile of his, mischief ghosting the edges of tenderness. “Do you ladies mind if I steal my wife away?”
The chorus of groans that followed nearly drowned you, but there was fondness in every sound. They pushed you toward him, and you went, because there was no ownership in his touch—only choice, the quiet certainty of someone asking and claiming at once.
You tucked the glittery clip into your hair as you slid into the car. The door shut, the city blurred past, and you pressed your palm to the spot where his lips had lingered on your hand, trying to trap the warmth there.
It felt like a theft, this tenderness. A small, impossible theft you had allowed.
And when your phone screen lit again in your lap, the date stared back at you, impossible to ignore this time. In a few short weeks, it would be your third wedding anniversary.
— in which… dick grayson returned to the past to visit the love of his life for the last time.
— contents: dick grayson x fem!reader. dick pov. angst. (prep ur tissues folks) no use of y/n. implied major character death. profanities. mentions of blood. hugging. (a lot of them) and tears. (also a lot of them) implied pre-established relationship. italics galore. dick grayson crashing out. im sorry in advance. jj's first attempt at angst<3
✎ᝰ. j's letter… i feel like,,, i've been spoiling y'all w too much fluff. we can't have that now can we??... enjoy the angst>:) ps. i was listening to loml throughout writing this whole schtick. @yuderein this one's for you, like i promised a while back. i love u so so so much and pls dont hate me for this🤍🤍
Maybe this was a terrible idea, after all…
To travel through time; to see his love again.
He’d practically begged Zatanna to throw him back to the past with whatever spells she knew, just to see you.
He wanted to see you. Not the version of you from the pictures he kept, or the videos he saved on his phone, or even his memories— where the color of your eyes were starting to fade, or how he’d sometimes find himself forgetting what your voice sounded like.
(The latter would usually leave him to a heap of guilt and hollowness carved deep in his chest.)
No, he wanted you. The real you.
Even if he needed to turn back time to make it happen.
Of course Dick’s stubborn ass only realised it now, not when absolutely everyone else told him so. But when he was standing frozen at your doorstep, hands clenched at his sides, with nowhere else to go for the next three hours— ‘till the clock strikes 12, then the spell would break.
What in the Cinderella shit was this?
He'd been standing on your porch for precisely four minutes and nineteen seconds. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three…
His mind was shrieking at him like a beast. YOU JUST WASTED FOUR PRECIOUS MINUTES, YOU STUPID FUC—
With another deep breath, he finally found the courage to knock on your door. Three light taps, before his hand fell to his side once more. As he did, he'd unconsciously held his breath, posture tensing, still as a marble statue as he waited.
A little later, the sound of jingling keys sounded from the other side of the door, latches and locks from the other side unlocking.
Then, before he could even process it he was faced with you. Sweet, beautiful you.
Your eyes, your hair, your lips.
“Dick?”
Your voice.
A shiver went through his body, the air feeling like it had been both sucked out of his lungs, at the mere sight of you, your voice, saying his name so sweetly like you always did. When was the last time he heard your voice?
He knew he probably looked stupid right now— standing in front of you, breathless, awestruck, yet his heart squeezed painfully in his chest with feelings of sadness, regret, longing bunched up together carving an even deeper hole in his chest, making it hard for him to breathe.
But somehow, it also felt like it was the first breath of fresh air he's had in a very long time.
He managed to mutter out a small, “Hi.” a mere breath that he himself almost didn’t hear.
“Hi,” you echoed, voice soft, warm, like a home he hadn’t been to in years.
That was true enough.
“What are you doing here?” you asked with a smile adorning your lips, stepping aside from the door as a silent invitation.
Instead of a verbal answer, once Dick stepped inside, he wasted no time to close the door behind him and engulf your frame in his arms, his head falling to your shoulder, arms holding you tight, eyes squeezing shut to keep his tears at bay.
He felt you still in his hold, confusion written on your body language before you slowly relaxed, your arms sliding around his neck as you reciprocated the hug just as tightly. “It's okay.” you whispered in his ear, your hand raking through his hair.
(“It’s okay,” you whispered softly, your blood staining his fingers where his trembling palm laid to rest at the gaping wound on your stomach.)
His breath hitched, body shivering as he shook the memory away. You were here in his arms, alive, real. Real. Real. Real. Real.
For a moment, Dick stood there, with you clutched tightly in his arms, his hands fisting your shirt. It’s been so long. Your presence was both a soothing balm and an agonizing torture for him. All at once. And he couldn’t decide whether he felt relief or regret.
Because at the end of the day, he knew that this would undo whatever progress that he had made— that it would reopen the deep tear in heart that he thought was healing.
But you were here.
Real and alive, not the form that was bleeding out in his arms, pale and lifeless. Or the version of you in his dreams, on the beach, telling him to move on, that he’d be okay without you, because God knows what a complete lie that is.
He wasn’t well without you, he hasn’t been ever since that day at the warehouse.
Taking a deep breath, he pulled back slightly, just to look at you. Your eyes that gleamed with unsaid concern, your cheeks that would glow his favourite shade of red, the slope of your nose, the lips he’d kissed a million times before. Embroidering every detail of your face to his memory.
He felt your hands cup his cheeks, swiping his tears—tears he hadn’t realised he shed— away with your thumbs, your touch light as the wind, he couldn’t help but to lean into it, eyes fluttering closed.
He’s home.
“Hi.” he whispered again, voice hoarse, yet steady. His hand left your waist to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, staying there, caressing the side of your face gently, timidly almost. He was scared if he moved too swiftly you’d disappear, or that he could somehow hurt you.
Your eyes softened, “Hi.” Your hand hadn’t stopped caressing his face even when his tears had dried. “Are you okay?”
No.
“Yeah.” How the lie tasted like venom on his tongue. His mouth twitching at a shit attempt to smile. No… I’m not. “I just missed you.” So much…
Your brows pulled, “Missed me? You saw me two days ago.” that lovely smile of yours reappeared. His chest ached. “And you texted me, like, what, 15 minutes ago?” He should’ve spent every day with you…
A fond smile took place on his own lips, “I know. But two days is plenty long.” he pointed out, his chest feeling lighter. “And you know a text isn’t the same as seeing you in person. I just missed you.” He didn’t even need to lie about that.
Your eyes turned mischievous, and he could sense the witty remark before it left your mouth. “Aww, you came to me after a nightmare?” you gasped exaggeratedly, putting a hand on your chest. “Why, I’m flattered, Boy Wonder.”
He flicked your forehead lightly. “You’re not funny.”
You raised a brow, with a tilt of your lips, “Okay, first of all: Ow. That was rude.” You swatted his hand. “Second: you just laughed, so that means I’m funny. And third: I could make Bruce laugh, so that means I’m actually very, super-duper funny.” you listed, voice lilted with your usual chirp, your sentence finished off with a triumphant smirk like a cherry on top.
Shaking his head with affectionate exasperation, he let out a small laugh. You were as much a menace as you were lovable. That was why he loved– loves you so.
“You are such a menace.” he told you. Despite his words, his tone was nothing short of loving. “Never change, Bug.”
“Don’t worry, Hero,” you assured with a nod of your head. “I wasn’t planning to.”
Silence filled the hall.
“Are you gonna continue clutching me like a teddy bear or…?”
“Oh.”
You laughed, a melodious tone that filled his senses. Then you broke away from the hug, opting to take his hand and pull him along with you to the living room.
Along the way, his eyes swept over the area, a plethora of memories playing in his head—
The coat closet near the door where he once found you in, hiding from Jason after you had accidentally knocked a ball to his head.
The living room where he used to watch movies with you on most nights, when he helped you build your bookshelf (he was the one who built it, you were only watching from the side), how you used to dance around the place with dramatic music blasting in the background, playing Just Dance with you, knocking his knee on the edge of the coffee table while you cackled at his misery.
It hasn’t happened yet for you, but oh, he missed all of it.
Even of the memories where you fought, he regretted wasting those precious times over some stupid fight. Regretted that he’d ever taken it— taken you, for granted.
Both sitting down on the plush couch, you faced him with a solemn expression, the concern from before making its return to your face. “Okay, spill.” you said, but reiterated your shortly words after. “Or not. Depends on if you wanna talk about it or not. I’ll just be here.”
It was right at this moment that he realised just how much you loved him. Even before the two of you got together. The love was so clear in your eyes, he must’ve been so blind, so stupid to not have seen it sooner.
How could you?
How could you be so lovely, yet so, so mean for leaving him?
How could you leave when you promised him forever?
His unsaid thoughts left him speechless, just staring at you with a mix of awe and betrayal. It wasn’t your fault, he knew that. None of it ever was. But how could you? How could you love him so greatly just to leave him?
His face crumpled with anguish, eyes flooding with tears that flowed down his cheeks. And this time, it was you who took him into your arms and let him cry into your shoulder. He couldn’t stop the choked sob that clawed its way out of his throat, his hands grappling onto you like a lifeline.
Desperate.
Tender as though he was holding onto the most precious piece of his heart.
And you were.
You took a part of his heart with you when you died.
His chest constricted with the pain, choking him, keeping the air unable to enter his lungs. It hurt. Your hold on him was worsening the pain but how could he deny your affection when it was the very thing he dreamt of these past years?
“You left me.” It was an accusation laced in grief that he never really healed from. How cruel of him to take it out on you when it was him that had failed you in the first place? He never did deserve you, did he?
Your hands drew circles on his back, “It’s okay, love.” you whispered over his unwavering sobs. “I’m right here. I’m not gonna leave you.” Your soothing words dug the knife deeper into his chest. You didn’t know. You didn’t know. You didn’t know.
You didn’t know that he wasn’t talking about some nightmare he had. Didn’t know that it was your inevitable future that he couldn’t change no matter how much he wanted to.
“You promised me!” Dick felt like he was screaming. But it was no more than a hoarse whisper. The two rings on a chain beneath his shirt felt like biting cold ice against his heated skin.
You, oblivious, kept reassuring him, “I know. I’m right here with you.”
“I couldn’t save you.” he wept until he ran out of breath, “I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry. I love you.” he mumbled repeatedly, his throat raw. He needed to say it. He didn’t get to say it last time.
He’d beg you to stay then, now he’s letting out all the words he didn’t get a chance to say.
Finally he knew, this was what he was here for.
To apologise to you.
He loved you too much. Even when he hadn’t been in love with you. His love for you was too great, and so were yours for him. He loved you the way even the word ‘love’ itself wouldn’t be nearly enough to convey the adoration, the devotion he had for you.
The moment you had said that sweet ‘yes’ to being his love, and ‘yes’ to forever and more with him as he was down on one knee before you.
You almost had it all. God, you were so close.
He was a fool.
But he’d rather be a fool and spend the short time he was given to love you, even knowing how it ended, than not loving you at all. He’s grateful to have loved you, and be loved by you in return.
As the minutes, perhaps hours, ticked by, he continued to hold on to you. If this was truly the last time he ever got to see you, he was going to hold you until he can’t anymore.
“Do you wanna stay the night?” your careful voice sounded in his ear, your hand caressing his hair, light as a bee on a pollen.
“I wish I could,” he replied through a sniffle, head leaning on your shoulder. Even if he wanted to lie, he thought he’d burnt down all his energy for that. “But I have to go.”
He didn’t have to look at you to know of the frown that rose to your lips. “Are you sure?” you tilted your head, “Just stay the night, I don’t mind, you know that.”
But Dick shook his head, going against what his heart tells him despite himself. “I’ll have to go back.” he insisted with much reluctance. “I’m sorry.”
You shook your head, the action itself told him to not be sorry. “Don’t be.” you told him. “I’m sure you still need to help Tim for the wedding anyway.”
Even when he forgot that Tim and Cassie’s wedding was only a few days away for your time, he nodded along as if he knew. “Yeah.”
Looking towards the clock on the wall, his heart dropped at the time. 11:42 PM.
Has it really been that long?
Internal panic began to creep in through the cracks of his poorly-mended soul, his heart pounding in his ears. No. No. No. He thought he had more time. He needed more time with you. He’s not ready to let go of you again. He’s not ready to say goodbye to you.
He’ll never be ready for that.
A tap on his shoulder brought him into focus again. And suddenly, you were right in front of him.
“Dick?” you were holding his hands, lacing your fingers together. “Hey, breathe.”
Following your instruction, he inhaled a deep, shuddering breath, exhaling once you told him to. Repeating them until his breaths went back to normal.
Keeping his eyes closed, he rested his forehead on yours, tightening his hold on your hands. In his mind, he kept chanting ‘Please let me stay with her. Please let me stay with her. Please let me stay with her.’
But even he knew that his efforts were vain.
“I really have to go now.” His voice was weak and raspy from all the tears he shed. He hoped that you won’t ask him to stay again, for he didn’t know how he was going to reject your offer for the third time.
Thankfully—or maybe not— you nodded. “Okay.” you whispered, your eyes already on him when he opened his eyes. “Call me tomorrow, okay?”
He nodded, not having it in his heart to lie to you. And he knew his past self would’ve called you even when you don’t ask him to.
The two of you walked back to the entrance hall. Hands joined as you trailed behind him quietly. Remembering something, he turned, reaching into his pocket to pull out an envelope. “Here.” he placed the envelope in your hand. “Give this to me the next time you see me?”
You raised a questioning brow, he could see the confusion in your features. “You want me to…?”
“Give this back to me when you see me next time.” he repeated, nodding in confirmation. “Yeah.”
You nodded slowly, slipping the envelope in your pajama pocket. “Okay.”
“Thank you.” He gave you a grateful smile, unlocking the door and opening it before stepping out. “See you.” He couldn’t bring himself to say goodbye to you.
Walking out, steps slow, a gust of wind hit his face. He could still feel your eyes on the back of his head. Every step he took farther away from you felt heavy.
He stopped walking.
Turning to face you again, his feet stayed rooted on the spot before he asked: “Can I have-” His voice broke.
He swallowed thickly, and tried again.
“Can you hug me one more time?” he requested, eyes glazing over again. “Just one last hug, please?”
Without hesitation, he saw you run to him, throwing your arms around his neck. His hand took place on the back of your head, another on your waist, swaying on the spot lightly.
He pressed his lips to your temple, a lump clogging his throat. “Hey. I love you.” he whispered, voice wavering.
“I love you, too.” he heard you reply, and he knew you meant it.
With a light squeeze to your shoulders, he pulled back, and did his best to put on a smile for you. “Go back inside, it’s cold.”
“Bye.” you waved at him, smiling beautifully as you walked backwards towards the door.
He could only manage a wave back before his vision blurred.
And just like that he, the next time he opened his eyes, he was back at the Cave.
He didn’t remember much after that, not much other than falling into Bruce’s awaiting arms and weeping his heart out like he did when he was a little boy.
𝜗℘ j's added notes : and i'll still see it, until i die, you're the loss of my life......... heyyy… how ya'll doin'?? ehehe i hope i didn't hurt u too bad <3 had two cups of coffee and a depressing playlist JUST to write this one singular fic
synopsis: one lifetime of loving you wasn't enough for sukuna. especially one that was cut short from thieves who'd stolen you from him in the dead of the night. but there's always the next life. and the one after that. it seems you aren't the only one being reborn though - and problems from past lives refuse to die.
pairing: reincarnated!Sukuna x f!Reader (also featuring Gojo and Geto x Reader)
content: heavy angst, smut, mature/darker content, major character death (but it's okay guys there's reincarnation) each chapter follows a new life (ancient Greek/Roman historical au in this one), betrayal, soulmates, prophecies, kidnapping, piv sex, pulling out, heavy pining, mentions of marriage and pregnancy, murder/blood, some descriptions of violence, worshipping
A king couldn't afford feelings.
Love, even in its faintest shades of lust, or longing, was weakness. A target pinned to his heart. A vulnerability waiting to be exploited.
Maybe if times were peaceful. If there wasn't a war brewing on the borders.
"Do you like it?" You hummed, holding up a neatly embroidered handkerchief, his crest on display, framed by little flowers you added all on your own.
Sukuna felt his jaw locking, eyes squinting as he snatched it from you.
"What do you think?" He grimaced as he tied it around the base of his sword, already justifying it in his head. He heard a snicker from somewhere, but the glare he shot out towards the bystanders, the guards and the advisors with apparently nothing better to do. They all automatically averted their gazes, looking back towards the columns and exits.
"You don't seem happy," you complained, pushing out your bottom lip in a pout. If no one else was around, he would've pulled you onto his lap. Kissed you until you forgot.
"Your stitching could use some work," Sukuna commented instead as your hand reached out, lacing your fingers with his. Trying to tug him to his feet, to take him somewhere. Probably the gardens, or perhaps the kitchen for an after-dinner dessert. Some place that didn't befit your position, but you insisted on being anyway. Grinning at guards, gifting flowers and finding prizes to pass on to servants and the staff.
"Come with me."
You were his wife. A pretty princess whose father had practically dropped you by his door one day once you were of age a couple years ago, abandoned in his care. To be slaughtered or to survive. A promise of gold and a thousand men who'd die for him to be exchanged if he accepted the offer you came bearing in a single-page letter.
That was the extent of his parental love.
Taking your hand in marriage had simply been strategy on Sukuna's part. His advisors had suggested he take a wife. Have heirs. He rarely listened to them, figured you'd probably run away the first chance you got from a man most would find terrifying. A monster in human's skin, tattooed and scarred and torn.
But you had snuck into his heart the way you wormed yourself into his life. With a smile.
You were soft. Warm. A flower that bloomed even his harsh home.
And while he liked to think he wasn't scared of anything, that no man, no battle, no amount of blood had any hold on him, he hesitated when it came to you. Didn't want to pluck your petals or cut your stem.
He'd been putting off even having an heir. Why would he wish to share you with someone? Even if it was his own child?
His mouth parted, but the doors opened, interrupting him before he could escape from his duties.
"A prophet has arrived," Uruame informed him, face set in an unreadable expression. "Says she has something important to share."
Your face fell, but you stepped back. Swallowed your plea for him to leave, accepting your place as a past time for him.
"Return to my chambers." Sukuna didn't have it in him to speak softly. But he did what he could to remove the roughness in it, to talk quietly, even if it carried a gravel that came off hard.
You nodded, a gleam already returning to your eyes at the silent promise that he'd be there as soon as he could.
He watched you leave the way he always did.
Enraptured.
Studying the shape of you, memorizing how you glanced back over your shoulder at him every few seconds, almost bumping into a guard on your way out, hand held up in a small wave. The heavy gold band on your finger glinting, marking you as his.
This wasn't worship. This was worse.
The strings of fate had tied you to him, wrapped around his heart and soul and squeezing with every breath that left your throat, every word you whispered. He felt your fingers even when you weren't there, tracing over the veins in his hand, running over all the marks on his skin with adoration instead of apprehension.
A woman walked in, one with cloudy eyes and disheveled hair. Someone who had journeyed to make it here, on cracked feet or in old wagons.
"You're the prophet?" He asked, a flash of irritation striking him before she could even speak. Some sixth sense trying to alert him, protect him before she said something he didn't want to hear.
She nodded soberly, mouth set in a fixed frown.
"It's about your wife," she solemnly started, deeply-etched lines in her face, wrinkled hands half-hidden in heavy robes.
"Leave," he demanded, his blood burning at the single mention of you.
"You'll want to hear it," she insisted, and he could feel his eye twitch. Fingers already curling into a fist, the muscles in his legs trying to bounce up-and-down underneath his tunic.
"Fine," he grinded his molars, glancing around to the closest commander. With a subtle nod, his soldiers filed out until she was the only person left. Standing before him, small under his throne.
"Your first wife will die when she's with child."
It wasn't the first time today he contemplated murder.
But Sukuna only scoffed, ready to dismiss her with a wave of his hands, too many angry remarks boiling up at once for him to get any out.
First wife?
You would be his only wife. He'd gladly burn or get beheaded before he married someone new.
But the hag hadn't finished. "Your second will fall in love with another-"
"Get out," he grunted, despite the fact she was still fucking talking, saying something about a snake hiding in the brush.
"The third will see you for what you are," she warned, and he whistled, calling in a guard to remove her while she got to the fourth.
What a load of shit.
He tried not to listen, to restrain the urge to cut her head clean off, if only to avoid the look on your face when you saw the fresh bloodstains on the stone later. To ignore the hoarse voice croning about how the fifth would hate him, his fingers tracing over the soft fabric of the handkerchief you'd left him with.
One of the guards grabbed her, roughly pulling her backwards and leading her out. To toss her back on the streets, despite his temptation to chain her up in the cellar for speaking such treason to his face. You wouldn't die.
He'd pry you from Pluto himself.
"Good luck convincing the sixth," she offered one last veiled threat, and he ordered the doors shut. To be alone with his thoughts. Stew in what she said, even if she made it all up.
He would never remarry. Wherever you went, that was where he'd go.
The last person he had to prove it to was a con artist convinced she was a prophet.
He could love you. As long as he never said it. Only showed it in private.
Where it was safe. Where he didn't have to worry about spies spreading lies, or making attempts on your life.
The more everyone believed he cared, the more danger you'd be in.
Sukuna had even sent away his own twin before he'd taken his crown, banished him to staying in some small village by the sea as far from him as possible, demanding he dye his hair and change his last name. It hadn't been a hard decision when death was on the line.
He had to carve everything he had out of stone, survive starvation and assassination attempts, clawing for his strength without any mortal or immortal help. He refused to consider losing this life he created by listening to tall tales.
"You took too long."
You frowned when he finally made it back to his chambers, rearranging the drawers of his dresser, moving clothes around to fit some of your dresses in with his tunics. Knees folded as you paused your work, smoothing out wrinkles before glancing up at him.
But you didn't like whatever you found in his face, pushing your lips together in a pout.
"What did the prophet say?" You asked, astute as ever. Too clever to fool with some facade, seeing through his frowns and his fury to pierce into the stone he called a heart.
"Nonsense," he grimaced, but you weren't happy with that. Annoyed at his lies, his attempts at deception.
But how was he supposed to tell you that she said you would die? And that he'd go on to have more wives?
You might murder him first.
Although, he'd probably prefer that. Letting you drive the dagger through his heart would mean you wouldn't get pregnant after all. Unless someone else tried to steal his position as your husband.
A widow - even one that was a queen - didn't have the political power or protections he could provide you.
"You're lying," you called him out.
"Woman," he grunted, but even his gruffness couldn't disguise his affection. Pulling you up to your feet, picking you up to place you on the bed, watching your hair sprawl out around you, dress riding up as he ran his rough hands up your legs. "Do you truly think I'd keep something from you if it was important?"
He'd never been much of a talker. Rather listen to you speak, to spin stories of your childhood and reciting bits of gossip you picked up, but he told you of his brother once. Of the man he'd been before he was a king.
You paused. Brows knitting together before you softened with a sigh, guiding his hands up to your breasts to squeeze, "Perhaps."
Sukuna couldn't even roll his eyes.
Not when you were here, not when you were looking up at him, your chest filling his hands and your heart beating for him.
"Must I prove my affection for you?" He selected the word carefully, but you just thoughtfully tilted your head to the side, tugging on his arms like you'd like nothing more for him to collapse on top of you.
"You could say you love me," you hummed.
He couldn't.
But he'd do his best to show you. To let you know between thrusts, to let you hold his hand while he fucked you slow, stretching you out with his tongue in your mouth to swallow every moan you made.
To trace his thick fingers over every curve and divot of your body, to sink them into your pliant thighs, pushing them into new positions.
Sukuna even let you be on top, holding your hips and helping you bounce, watch you fall apart on his lap on exhausted limbs. Mouth permanently parted, panting his name as he kept going, only held up by the constant rutting up of his hips, promising you could handle it, daring you to take it. Rubbing over your sensitive bud, that sweet spot that left you a shivering, shaking mess all over him. Sweating and swearing, pawing at his chest, pulling his hair back.
His pretty wife in pieces only he could put back together.
"S-Sukuna," you breathed his name, your body half-limp when he flipped you onto your back. Glossy eyes half-lidded, your lip swollen from kisses, his cock still buried inside you while you whined.
He couldn't even form a single word, no sarcastic comment, just heated strokes as his thrusts sped up, desperate to feel you clench around him. He grunted, the best he could do to get you to continue.
You hesitated though, suddenly shy as you came back down from your climax, lashes fluttering as you stiffened underneath his heavy body. "Cum inside me."
He froze. Stalling mid-thrust, staring down at you with an expression he knew was strained, a suffocating weight settling inside his chest.
"Please?"
No.
He hadn't meant to say it. Not out loud. But he had, your face falling, bottom lip quivering. Trying to stop tears from welling up, only holding them back when he reached down, caressing your cheek.
"Not yet," he corrected.
But words were not something that could be easily taken back after they had left his lips.
You both felt them hanging between you, your silence speaking for itself even if you guided his head to rest on your collarbone, holding him close even when he pulled out to cum, leaving the proof of his reluctance on your skin, one he has to wipe away with a thin washrag.
Sukuna wanted to say sorry. But apologizing wasn't something he was skilled at.
Before he could attempt it, you wrapped your arms around his sturdy neck, attaching yourself to him.
"Lay with me, at least," you murmured.
He obeyed. Taking up too much space in bed, flat on his back while you leaned over to kiss his cheek.
Affectionate even when he disappointed you.
Your kisses were delicate. Phantoms left on his skin. He'd let you bite if you wanted. But each time your lips were pressed to him was deliberate, precise. Usually accompanied with soft sighs and warm hums. But tonight, there was silence. A heavy pause between each of them.
"Good night," he grumbled, and you nodded at him, pulling up the covers and turning away from him instead of curling up against his chest where you belonged. Only resting your head on his bulky arm instead of sprawling all over him.
He growled under his breath, having to reposition you himself, twisting you around and brushing your hair back to see you struggling not to smile.
But it faded too.
"You really don't wish for me to have your child?" You asked softly, disguising your hurt well.
"All I require of you is yourself," he corrected, but he could tell you weren't satisfied.
He didn't believe the prophet.
But why run the risk when the cost was you?
He'd tell you eventually. When he found a way to say it so it wouldn't scare you. So you didn't think that he would actually remarry if something ever happened to you.
Not that he'd ever let it.
Except fate was crueler than any mistress he could've had. Someone attacked a village too close for comfort hardly a handful of days later. One that was under his protection. Slaughtered the guards stationed there and taken all his people, probably sold in underground markets or kept for labor.
War was brewing. Unless he nipped it in the bud now.
"I'll be back in a week," he grunted, a dull ache in his head as he polished a spot on his armor, reexamined it for chinks when his weak spot was right in front of him.
"Why must you leave?" You whined, sitting up in bed, pulling the covers around your bare body, hiding your breasts as he walked back over.
"I'm their king," he answered. It was duty.
Strength only afforded so much freedom. Sometimes, he contemplated what it would be like to burn everything to the ground. To walk on the ashes of what was left behind, no responsibilities or burdens to bear.
"You're my husband," you pouted at him, pushing out your bottom lip, waiting for a kiss.
"I'll return to you," he promised, placing one on your forehead. Pausing to take a long look at you, study the warm candlelight on your skin, the shadows and flickers of flame illuminating all the lines of your face, highlighting every feature he'd fallen for. "Always."
You smiled at him, and he saved the shape of you in mind, etched it into his soul to hold onto.
"I'll wait for you."
He returned a day early. Blood still on his helm, his sword sheathed, ready to hold you in his arms and smother himself between your thighs.
But he knew something was wrong the second he stepped through the strangely unguarded doors, footsteps pounding down empty hallways until he found the door to his chambers, the bed unmade, stuff scattered around, ransacked.
You were gone.
Someone had stolen his wife.
"Think Sukuna's discovered our little trick yet?"
A flame of fury ignited inside you, a flicker of hurt curling inside your stomach as you attempted to squirm enough to loosen the blindfold over your eyes.
Bound and gagged, grabbed from your bed in the middle of the night as soon as Sukuna had left you. They had taken aboard an old ship, one that creaked constantly, waves rocking it until you felt sick. Your stomach was in knots again, unable to tell how long you'd been travelling. They only removed the gag to offer water, small bites of dry and salted food. The ship had stopped earlier, and this new voice, loud and grating, had joined your little voyage.
"That's no way to speak about a woman, Satoru," someone else scolded. His voice was softer, slower, in a lower register.
Something snatched the fabric covering your eyes away, and the word was bright, the sun blinding you all over again. You squinted, scrunching them shut a few times before they readjusted to the light.
You scowled at the stranger in front of you, trying to free yourself from your binds as he removed his shining silver helmet to reveal messy white hair.
"Greetings, gorgeous," Satoru grinned, tossing his helmet over to a servant that nearly toppled over trying to catch it.
A painful twist churned your gut at the bitter realization you recognized him. Only a couple times, back when you were still a princess in your father's palace playing by the shore instead of a queen. All he'd been was a fleeting face that caught your attention for his, well, odd features, the pale hair, the crystalline eyes, the charming smirk. But even without them, he stood out for actually being your age, somehow attending your political meetings you'd been barred from.
You tried to recall a conversation, some interaction more than a wave that would give him a reason to capture you.
In the end, all you ever were was a pawn.
A piece to be moved around and played as the men pleased.
If you weren't married, if you weren't in love with another man, you might've found this one attractive. He was pretty, features finely carved, like he was made of marble instead of flesh and bone.
You spat a curse through your gag, but he just chuckled, walking over to pull it down, his thumb lingering over your lips.
"Speak."
"Release me," you demanded, your voice hoarse from half a day without water, raspier than usual.
"Why would I relinquish a trophy as pretty as you?" He teased, his fingers drifting down to your chin, tilting your face up to look at him.
"I am not a trophy," you hissed at him, but he didn't seem to mind. "I am a married-"
"Your marriage doesn't count in the eyes of my gods," he easily dismissed, bright blue eyes sparkling as his toga fluttered in the breeze. Unbothered. Warmed by the sun. Blessed by the world.
Sukuna had never believed in gods, never put stock in a higher power. But the man in front of you was obviously favored by whatever was out there.
"What gives you the-" You started, but he just held up his other hand to hush you.
"Our marriage will though," Satoru casually smiled, letting go of your chin.
"I'm not marrying you," you scoffed at him, but all that earned you was more of his amusement.
Sukuna would be searching for you. He'd find you. Slaughter everyone on board if he had to. Sever these restraints and throw you over his shoulder just to make love to you later.
Maybe it'd finally motivate him to tell you he loved you.
"You think he'll come for you." Your captor had already sized you up, cocking up a brow.
"Sukuna will," you indignantly insisted.
He chuckled, a gleam in his eye and an annoying little smirk curling up as if you'd said something cute.
"What makes you so sure?" Satoru quizzed.
"He loves me." Your voice cracked. But Sukuna did.
"How much would you wager on that?" He challenged, and your heart constricted, throat closing.
You'd bet everything on it.
Because what was your life really worth without him there to share it with?
You'd been drifting by before him, starving for any kind of attention, desperate to feel anything. All too aware that all you were to your family was something to be sold off. You prayed for him. Prayed for a man who'd worship you instead of tossing you to the wolves.
"Satoru," his aide, or colleague or whatever he was, warned, and you glanced over to see a serious man, dark hair held back from his face with a few loose bangs framing it. Skin tanned from the sun, eyes a pretty shade of purple fixed in a scowl.
He caught your stare, saw the consideration in it, how you were calculating your options, weighing your chances. Lips parting to say something before you interrupted.
"What sort of terms are you proposing?" You asked Satoru, as if you had any leverage here.
"If he's not here for you in two moons, you marry me," he shrugged.
You huffed, before hesitantly nodding.
Sukuna would be here sooner than that.
The gods were conspiring against him.
He had no proof of it, but he was certain.
Sukuna scoured through every encampment, sent out ship after ship, but none ever returned with any sign of you. Not a whisper. Not even your scent on the breeze.
He knew who had stolen you.
An annoying prince probably hoping to legitimize his position - hellbent on taking back territories Sukuna had rightfully won.
But that fool was no king.
Just a bug he'd been swatting away. Until now.
He'd squash him for this. Skewer him for thinking he could touch what was his and live.
His sanity was slipping. His fingers failing him the way he failed you, kneeling in the sand and plucking a shell from it. It was pink. Pretty. You'd like it.
Someone screamed in the distance. Ashes starting to land on his skin, smoke filling his nostrils.
"Where is my wife?"
He glanced down at the commander struggling in sand next to him, being held down by his guards, blood streaking across his mouth, his spear thrown into the sea.
"H-he moved her again," the blubbering man mumbled, most likely making something up if only to save his own life. "Somewhere south."
Sukuna had been through this before.
The lies. The stories. Excuses created to circumvent fate.
"If you'd like to keep your head, I'd hope you provide a more precise location," Sukuna threatened, watching the setting sun glint across his sword as he pulled it out.
Another sunset he didn't get to share with you.
"I don't know," he blabbered. "I was only obeying orders-"
A wet gurgle cut him off, and then silence.
He wasn't any closer to finding you.
But he refused to go back home if you weren't with him. Refused to step foot back in that forsaken place where your absence had seeped into every stone.
Slowly, he'd been able to piece together how they were able to take you. Sending in his aide to charm the guards, to slip them enough coins to switch sides and allow him to slip in and steal you as soon as Sukuna left without anyone seeing Satoru.
He returned to his tent instead, drowning himself in a bottle of wine, holding onto a slip you'd left behind, one that still had your perfume on it. Rereading letters you once wrote him, one that had been undelivered, ink dried up on the page from where you'd paused writing it.
How long had it been since he heard your voice? Felt your skin?
Well over a month now? Weeks without your warmth?
Someone slipped inside his tent, his sword drawn and pointed before Uruame spoke up, "My apologies, I-"
"What is it?" He grunted before they could finish.
"Someone claiming to be your brother has arrived."
What the hell had Jin done? What could've brought him here?
Uruame saw the change in his face, the immediate furrow of his brows, jaw locking at yet another complication.
"He's brought an infant with him."
"My wife."
The right words. The wrong man.
Strong arms encircling your waist, warm breath on the nape of your neck as he squeezed you.
The morning sun had crept through the cracks of the tent, the sounds of soldiers waking up, the crackle of campfires and cooking meat carrying through the linen.
"Morning," you murmured, staring ahead at the maps laid out on a table nearby. Treasures piled up, armor and clothes strewn about. Weapons you probably couldn't even swing.
You were still convinced it would be Sukuna you'd be waking up to. That this was all a long, cruel dream you'd gotten ensnared in. The scent of citrus and smoke from the chimney would be there clinging to his skin when you opened your eyes, familiar muscles wrapped around you as he grumbled good morning.
But the only thing there to greet you was a silver-tongued snake you'd started to see as more than just your master.
He wasn't a horrible husband.
Treated you and the other women in his camp well, fed you first instead of forcing you to serve him, pampering you with trinkets and clean clothes. Silks that clung to your body, revealed more curves than you were used to.
Satoru was a prince. Belonged to a palace, a pretty place that you visited once, back when you hid in your mother's skirts. But his parents had lost half of their lands to Sukuna, his aging father forced to step down not long afterwards.
Was it revenge? Pettiness?
A tug-of-war you happened to get caught between?
You supposed knowing didn't change your fate. Didn't alter your future.
And whether you liked it or not, you were wed under the full moon three nights ago. It hung low in the sky, like it might drop on you if you willed it enough. Not that it worked. And with his hands in yours and a chaste kiss pressed to your lips, you were promised to another.
The festivities had been going on since, drinking and dancing, people stumbling back to their tents with more wine in their bodies than blood. He dressed you up, spun you around and showed you off.
But consummation hadn't come immediately. At all, actually.
You supposed you had the celebration to thank for that.
Although, it had been cut short, Satoru getting distracted when one of his commanders showed up with news that Sukuna had ransacked one of their settlements. Burnt it to a crisp without a soul surviving.
Any thought of him made your chest seize, heart strings pulling tight as you attempted to push him from your mind. But everything here revolved around him. Where he'd go next. Where his soldiers were stationed. How many lives he'd taken.
Rumors had started to swirl that he paused his stampede, his constant siege of their cities due to a new concubine. That something sparkling and pretty had caught his attention and stalled his momentum.
You hoped it wasn't true.
Tried to tell yourself he was still searching. That somewhere in his cold heart, he still cared.
But how were you supposed to hold onto that belief when you were surrounded by whispers that his heart wasn't yours?
You occupied your day with your duties. Helped the other women in camp with their tasks. Even assisted his aide sometimes, bandaging up the wounded just to feel useful. Suguru was kinder than you expected. Gentler. Treated you with respect when so much had been stripped from you.
And at the end of the day, you went to sleep lying to yourself to hope that Sukuna was still coming for you. That he'd forgive you for marrying Satoru.
For betting yourself to a man who you'd only barely been managing to avoid by feigning sleep when he returned to your shared tent.
But time had a funny way of catching you when you least expected it. And yours had expired tonight.
He showed up earlier than you expected, peeling open the flap and stepping through, pausing at the sight of you awake in bed, the dress they'd taken you in on your lap, fingers fixed in position as you stitched up a tear in it with supplies you convinced Suguru to lend you.
There were new rings on your left hand. Thick ones, forged from fire, the gold engraved with an infinity symbol. Your old one was hidden, tucked away in the dress you were holding, the only piece of Sukuna you had to hold onto.
"You're awake," Satoru breathed, like something about you sitting there had stolen it.
You stared at him, biting your lip before accepting that you had no easy way out of this. You stood, neatly folding your dress and placing it on the table they'd set up, sewing materials placed on top.
"I was about to retire," you soberly said, steeling your resolve as you shed the thin robe you'd taken to wearing to sleep. Letting it fall to the floor. "I suppose you'd like to join me."
To rob you of one last thing.
But he stiffened, staring only in your eyes, keeping his focus above your collarbones despite the thin slip hardly hiding your body.
"I won't take what you won't give me," he stood tall, arms folded across his face.
You paused, your fingers still posed over the thin slip of your dress. It wasn't what you expected. But nothing about him had been.
"What do-"
"I will only touch you if that's what you want," he clarified, white brows scrunched together, his best attempt at being serious.
You didn't reply. Just blankly stared back at him, struggling to understand why.
Men like him took.
You were made to give.
"You're my wife," he spoke firmly. "I'm supposed to honor you."
What were you supposed to do with a husband that spoke of honor when you were here as his hostage?
"Ba-ba."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Sukuna grimaced at the chubby infant attempting to grab his finger. Jin peeled him back, currently disguised as a woman.
"He likes you," his brother explained, picking up his boy and placing him on his hip.
People were watching. Staring at the boy who looked too much like him. Unaware of the real relation there.
Jin's wife had passed away, left him with a slobbering thing that liked to chew on his robes. And now he was here, asking for help and discarding his dignity to hide his identity.
Doing anything he could for a child that couldn't even say a single word yet.
Sukuna had been tempted to throw him out that first night, to tell him to fuck off, but Uruame throwing a shawl over Jin to hide who he was and bring him to his tent had planted a seed in his head. An idea blooming - a way to win you back.
Using a baby as bait.
Satoru might be slimy, but he was strategic, striking every time he thought Sukuna's back was turned, severing supply lines and stealing soldiers. If he received word that there was an heir, a child born from a concubine, he would show his face.
They would slip up.
Reveal their hand if they thought he stopped looking.
Patience was a virtue. One he would suffer through if it lead him back to you.
"Take him away," Sukuna waved, dismissing both of them.
Yuji, the baby, started sobbing, face puckering up and tears streaming as his actual father carried him back to the tent he provided.
What kind were you staying in right now?
Were you cold? Warm?
Had Satoru laid a hand on you? Taken you to bed and treated you as his own?
Word had reached him that Satoru had made you his wife, but the thought of it was repulsive.
Physically ill to picture you without his ring, imagining you trembling underneath someone else, saying another man's name.
Being a spoil of war didn't offer security. But if it meant you were safe, if it meant you survived, he'd accept anything.
Two more full moons had slipped by without a trace of Sukuna. Not a single sighting. Just whispers of him. Stories spreading of the tyrant king trampling everyone in his way.
But new characters had popped up, murmuring that something had shifted in his camp. That the concubine people had been talking about had a hidden heir.
A child.
One with pink hair and pale skin. One that wasn't yours.
Satoru found you sitting in the sand. Their camp had moved a couple of times, now set up in another new place you'd never been before. Where the waters were chilly and the wind brittle, nipping at your nose as he wrapped a shawl over your shoulders. Staring up at a crescent shape in the sky, half hidden by hazy clouds.
"Is it true?" You didn't sound like yourself.
Maybe it was the wounded men you saw returning. Blood you soaked up with dirty rags, doing your best to clean and bandage what you could. The ones that died. The women who were widowed and left behind.
Or selfishly, the simple fact that it seemed Sukuna hadn't been yours. That he hid a mistress, had a child, all without you knowing. Was that why he never wanted you to have one? So his rightful heir wouldn't have any competition?
You felt left behind.
Had he stopped looking? Had he ever started?
"According to our spies," Satoru admitted.
You nodded, sucking in a sharp breath and struggling not to let the tears flow. To stop yourself from cracking.
He didn't push. But he wrapped an arm around your shoulder, a comforting pressure, a warmth you wished to bury yourself in, if only temporarily.
"Why did you take me?" Why wage this war?
"Your father once promised you to me," he shrugged. "Before him."
Before it became a better political move to push you off on the winner.
"Oh," you breathed.
"You were meant to be mine."
You stared ahead at the sea, at the small waves lapping up at the rocky shore.
"Aren't you supposed to care about having an heir too?" You eventually asked, glancing over at him cautiously. He shrugged, and he almost looked like a boy from here. When he was in a plain toga, under the soft moon, just smiling at you.
"Sure," he hummed. "But that's your decision."
"You could take a concubine too," you pointed out, but he laughed. Shaking his head and leaning into your side.
"Do you want a child?" He asked instead, and you had to hide your discomfort.
"I do," you admitted. You just always imagined it'd be Sukuna's. Some grumpy chubby thing that would scowl at you just to snuggle against you in bed.
Satoru's baby would probably be all sunshine and cheery smiles, babbling constantly instead of biting everything in sight.
"I'd hand you the world on a platter if you asked for it," he easily said, another way around bluntly volunteering to give you one.
He'd do anything. Except return you to your old bedroom.
His words lingered. Left an impression you couldn't scrub away.
Satoru was sincere. Sweet. Soft.
Nothing like Sukuna. But you still found yourself staring. Watching him from across the camp, training with the other soldiers during the day. Pale muscles rippling as he pulled back the string of a bow, sending an arrow flying towards a target.
His aim was always true.
Were his words?
You couldn't tell. But when he pulled you against him at night, buried his face in your neck to doze off, still patiently accepting your abstinence, your breath hitched as something hard pressed against your spine.
Saying no to sex was hard when you slept next to a man who might as well be an angel.
He shifted his hips, his pretty nose nudging against your throat as he said three words you'd been waiting your whole life to hear, "I love you."
It stung that it wasn't from Sukuna. Ripped your heart out and shoved it back in a still-bleeding wound. But you wanted to believe that someone would be willing to patch you up.
You hadn't realized you'd been holding onto hope until he said those words and shattered it. Because even if Sukuna was here, if you saw him again, would he say it?
The answer hurt to admit. Because you no longer believed he would.
Sukuna wasn't coming for you.
You were on your own.
Satoru wanted to give you all the things Sukuna had hesitated over. Open affection. Time shared. A child. Love.
The next night, he returned to the tent to find you waiting for him. Perched on the edge of the bed, in sheer silk, the hardened peaks of your nipples already poking through the thin fabric.
He didn't hesitate to get on his knees.
A man who wore a crown of silver and thorns, respected and revered, heralded by everyone in this camp, happy to be beneath you.
The hands on you were cold, softer than you were used to. Holding your hips and lowering himself to lick the soft skin along the inside of your thighs.
"I'll only ever kneel for you," he murmured, pressing a kiss there.
You had never asked him to. Never asked for any of this.
But you did what you'd always done.
Made the best of the bad. Learned to live and let go of what you couldn't control. Perhaps in time, you could learn to love him too.
But, for now? You rested your head back on the pillow and shut your eyes, pretending that the hair slipping between your fingers was that pretty shade of pink you dearly missed.
You accepted that you'd spend forever wondering if he missed you too.
Dead bodies were strewn all over the ground. Crying. Shouting. Dying gurgles.
A year.
Maybe even longer now.
Through shifting seasons, watching his nephew go from mindless babbles to crude sentences, soldiers lost and new ones gained, just for you to still remain out-of-reach.
You had a birthday without him. Holidays. Gifts he'd still been buying for you, a collection of shells and feathers and trinkets he'd found searching. Saving all this time.
Even Uruame had started to warn him that he wasn't thinking straight. That he might not find what he was searching for now that you were Satoru's wife. That you wouldn't be the same person anymore.
Sukuna didn't turn away. Didn't scrunch his nose at the smell of blood and iron and death. Just kept his head forward. Trained his eyes to stay sharp, focused on finding you.
He was close. He had to be close.
The camp here was scattered, the soldiers panicked before he even stepped foot inside, easy to slaughter. The women and children had been herded away, taken back to their encampment as he pilfered through each tent.
There was only one left now.
A single place for him to check, torches ready to burn this place to the ground once he finished.
Were you here? Or had Satoru somehow foreseen this attack too and hidden you way somewhere else?
Something about the stillness of the tent ahead stopped him. The lack of sound, the stale air, it almost made him hope for the latter.
But Sukuna had never believed in hope. You had taken what little he had with you.
He took and he fought for what he wanted in spite of faith or fate.
His hand reached out, and the world slowed, ripping it back to see the one sight he'd been searching for so many moons. You were laying on a high bed someone had set up, eyes closed, resting despite the chaos, despite the-
Why were you asleep?
How deep in your dreams must you be to not wake from the bloodshed, the screams? You, who would stir just from him stroking your hair, who would sit up the second he walked in the room?
No. No.
You couldn't be.
He touched your face. Cold to the touch, not responding when he cupped your cheek. You were asleep. Had to be, he just needed to wake you up. His fingers were shaking, his stomach churning as he reached to pull your blanket away-
"She died in childbirth." A collected voice caught him off guard, but Sukuna was unsheathing his sword, protectively stepping in front of your still body.
A man with dark hair was sitting in a chair on the other side of the tent. Sharp features highlighted by a single candle, his eyes downcast, his mouth set in a grim line. Satoru's right-hand man. Suguru. Perhaps he knew he would be dying soon too.
"No," Sukuna bluntly replied. He rejected it. Rejected that you, his light, his sun, could be dead when you were finally right here. Finally by his side.
Death was not an option.
"Two days ago," he added, his hands wrapped around a glass of some clear liquid. Sukuna might've mistaked his expression for mourning if he wasn't just another monster like him.
"No," Sukuna repeated, shaking his head, seething at the simple idea of it.
You couldn't be gone.
"Satoru tried to save her," Suguru murmured, almost apologetically. He stood, unbothered by his sword, unbothered by the smoke outside, just sipping his drink as if he already accepted his fate. "But he lost both of them."
Sukuna ripped the blanket back, and his heart stopped beating.
You were dead.
Staring at the shell of you, your soul, the spark that had captured him faded, all that made you you fizzled out. Your chest was stuck in the same place, unable to rise or fall, your limbs rigid, no blood or breath left to flow. Just a body frozen in time.
His knees threatened to buckle, his fingers clutching his sword tighter, the one thing that had been holding him together since he lost you utterly useless. It hadn't stopped this. Hadn't saved you.
Your hands were folded over your chest, shining bands of gold decorating your fingers, ones he wished he could pry from you. He grabbed your left hand, his world collapsing at how cold and clammy it was, only to find a ring underneath it.
His.
You held onto it.
Treasured him until the end.
Sukuna almost threw up. Wanted to empty his guts like it could cleanse his mind from what he'd seen. What he knew happened.
He tried to run from fate. From prophecy.
But you just carried another man's baby and perished anyway.
The gods were laughing at him. Probably pointing and snickering at his pathetic attempts to cling to you.
"Where is he?" He snarled, his voice strangled, a husk of himself without you to burn for.
"With the fish by now," Suguru shrugged again, hiding his own hurt with apathy, exhausted circles under his eyes. "You were late."
Fucking coward.
Taking the easy way out instead of meeting him with honor. Marrying his woman just to murder you with what he put in your womb.
Second-best would have to do for now.
Suguru didn't fight it. Didn't struggle when the sword sliced through him.
He'd been waiting here for Sukuna after all.
Guilt was a funny thing. Could corrupt even those with noble intentions. Rot them from the inside out.
They didn't have the right to mourn you.
Sukuna wasn't sure how long he spent with your body. Holding your stiff hand, burying his face over your chest and asking for forgiveness he wasn't sure even he deserved.
"I love you." It sounded like it came from someone else. He didn't recognize himself. Disconnected from his body, unable to feel the dampness streaking down his cheek.
Sukuna stepped back, glanced around the room until he found a crudely-drawn map, flipping it over and taking the feathered quill nearby to write a makeshift will. Naming Yuji as his successor, knowing Jin would be better fit to fill the hole he left behind anyway.
More reasonable. Would help his nephew become a fair ruler one day rather than a tyrant like him.
He still didn't accept this.
Refused to believe that this was it. That he'd never get to hear your laugh again, get to see you smile or feel your hand squeeze his. Even when he pulled a dagger from his belt, after he tried one last time to find some pulse, some sign you were still in there, positioning it above his heart.
Uruame would find him soon. Try to talk him down from the decision he already made.
Truthfully, Sukuna refused to live in a world you weren't in.
summary: formula one drivers are usually seen as playboys, heartbreakers, tangled in situation-ships and fleeting hook-ups, at least that’s what you thought..! you, an inspiring social media influencer, finally land an opportunity to work for a big company as a social media content creator . But what happens when you grew up with one of the most notorious playboy on the formula one grid, dick grayson..? Will there be something else involved with the same man you just so happens to be your dangerously addictive friends-with-benefits.
w/c: pending..! not proof-read yet :)
tags: fwb!!!! flirty!dick grayson (the whole grid), tension is ass thick as dick grayson’s ass (who said thaaaaat), a bit of arguing?, a whole lotta push and pull interactions
a/n: inspired by this f1 x batfam! fan art !!!
playlist for just keep watching : click here
“through goes grayson! unbelievable stuff, grayson says thank you very much as west and r. harper fight against each other, and there goes P1, as always we can count on dick grayson!”
You could hardly believe what you were seeing, dick grayson winning P1 unfolding right before your eyes. Oh, right… you needed to capture this moment on camera.
After all, you were here working as Red Bull’s social media content creator, assigned specifically to cover none other than red bull’s notorious Casanova, dick grayson.
@ monaco grand prix
Without resting, you took this chance to explore Monaco, bringing your laptop to a nearby café to catch up on the content you needed to plan for the upcoming races.
yourusername just posted
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yourusername monaco, i'm in youuu! new vlog coming up soon, will do a qna session too!!! list down some questions that you've been curious :)
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graysuns how'd u manage to secure a job at red bull!! pls help a girlie out :)
yourusername on it!
dickgrayson pretty girl
liked by yourusername
dr4kesons oh...what's happening..
speedywest wait.. r they dating
graysonlovr they’re childhood friends!
royharper I see you went to the place I talked about
liked by yourusername
yourusername was bout to drop you a text! the food was rllllyyyyy delicious!!!!!!!
"where did you go? woke up and you weren't beside me" the said voice, under the sheets peeked at you, reached out for your hands and drag you back to bed
"clingy much, last I recalled you were always gone once I'm out" combing through his hair, while he was snuggling closer to you, his hands hand over your waist
"Get up, sleepyhead. I went to that breakfast place Roy wouldn’t shut up about and grabbed you something. Eat up, can’t have you meeting the team looking starved"
you got up from the bed, walked towards to the closet to find some shorts to change to, dick grumbled, "roy..? when did the both of you started talking?"
"mm just a few days ago?? had to film a content with Tim, he just happened to be with Tim. Had a few small talk, he's a nice guy, bit too flirty but nice looking guy"
in the next second, you felt him pulled your wrist towards him, "stay away from him, I'm pretty sure he has some ill intentions towards you"
intentions..? yeah right, the both of you are nothing anyways, what is it to him
"doesn't concern you though, boy wonder. You're still talking to her, while you're in my bed, will my small talk with roy even make a different anyways?" you snatched your wrist away from his grasp
If he could just listen to what he is saying right now because by her, it's Barbara Gordon, the glorious ex-girlfriend of Dick Grayson that fans will continuously bring up.
Sure, they are exes, and even-though they broke up a year ago, dick still kept tabs on her and sometimes, you'll constantly find yourself waking up to dick's phone blowing up with notifications from her
So what is it to Dick Grayson, that you, the said girl, who is not officially tied to him, talks to other guys.
As he stated way before the both of you started this , 'friends with benefit'.
Afterwards, anytime it was just you and dick, the tension rises that everyone tries to not piss the both of you off in the same room.
“c’mon dick let’s try to finish this within 3 takes, yeah? it’s an easy answer!” you whined while rolling your eyes, earning a laughter from the red-bull drivers
you’ve been at it for an hour and making content with the boys usually takes 30 min or lesser but somehow dick manages to piss you off for more than 10 times within the past hour.
“are you rushing, y/n?” this time, Tim spoke up
“well not really, but i’ve been dying to visit this place and it closes at an odd timing so if this wraps up in-”
glancing at your wrist watch, “20 mins or so, i am able to make it.. so please do me a favour boys”
“someone’s waiting for you?” Yeah but if he knows, the current situation is gonna be way more tense than it already has
“not answering, let’s re film, yeah?”
“well i guess that someone is roy then, since he’s walking towards us right now” earning a sarcastic remark from dick
redbullracing just posted
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redbullracing One with the nature, or should i say two?
Q & A session with boys are back in demand!
#f1 #dickgrayson #timdrake
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gr4ysuns the BOYS are back!!!!!
timdr4kefan are they still breathing?
graysonluvr thank-you yourusername as always for the great content ^__*
Scrolling through the content calendar you’ve drafted for the next few race weeks in the hospitality lounge, you felt a presence of someone sitting next to you
“are you and my brother dating?” not tim, not jason but damian, the youngest of the wayne
“no, damian. Why are you asking?” Shifting your body to face towards the 16 year old kid right in-front of you.
Though dick and you weren’t officially together, damian constantly comes over with bruce to watch his brothers races, and whenever he comes over, the first person he’ll be searching for just happens to be you.
“Tt, he’s always talking about you” shrugging his shoulders, while scooting closer to you to take a peek on your screen.
What’s with the wayne brothers being insanely clingy to you..?
“good words, i hope!” ruffling his hair
“too much good words, i might say” bruce wayne walking towards the both of you
“mr wayne! thought i might bump into you sooner, with damian here!”
The connection you had with bruce wayne runs deeper than you’ll ever realise, constantly asking dick about you, or even inviting you over to dinner whenever you’re near gotham, and that just so happened to be when dick and you were both 15 years old and dick was just learning formula 3.
“it’s been a while, y/n. Alfred been missing your presence in the mansion.”
Though dick and you weren’t tied together, other than in the sheets..? You were constantly invited to their family dinner, because you did grew up with the wayne family.
Sometimes, you’ll find yourself visiting the wayne mansion baking with alfred, baby sitting the wayne family pets and so on.
Though among the other 3 siblings, you were much much more closer to dick, with the both of you being close to each other’s age and you constantly following him around when you were kids.
Dick and you’ve grew up with seeing each other multiple past partners, though some each of us would either approved, there was always a number of the past partners that we will disapproved, and that so happens to be Barbara Gordon.
Barbara gordon, was your typical popular girl, tons of chocolate and love letters in her locker during valentines day, you could say she will always be every men ideal type and she just so happened to be dick’s ideal type.
Though she was someone who treated you fairly unlike dick’s other past partners, their relationship was what you would labelled as toxic relationship.
Dick had many limitations, such as not being able to meet you 1 on 1, therefore most of the time the both of you hung out, Damian was there.
Dick fell head over heels for Barbara, and though you were supportive, you felt unseen.
Truth be told, you harboured feelings for your best friend, Dick Grayson but with you being scared of rejection, and pushed away, you kept it a secret.
Which then led to the both of you in this situation (being friend with benefits) on one drunken night, and since on the both of you continued this situation.
a/n: my first ever nightwing fic, since i’m a fan of both formula 1 and dc universe, why not 🙂↕️ will turn this into a series instead, and updates might be slow, but hope y’all liked the first part :)
a/n: had this idea, thought it was pretty cute lol. this could be read as the couple from the jealousy fic too :) enjoy!
Loud stomping on the manor stairs doesn’t draw anyone’s attention, not when its a late Sunday morning and you’re shouting “I’m late!” with your heels in your hands. Bruce only glances up from the newspaper when you whirl past him, your perfume catching in the air and the scent making him feel warm.
“Honey, have you seen my keys?” You call from beyond the kitchen, running back into the living room and coming to a stop in front of him, brushing hair out of your face.
Bruce puts the newspaper down and looks up at you, a soft smile on his face as he takes in your appearance. “You look beautiful, honey,” He says, his voice soft and sincere. If you weren’t so hyper focused on getting out of the house, you’d probably egg him on to keep complimenting you. But all you do is offer him a smile and a pat on his chest.
“Thanks, baby. My keys? Have you seen them?” You drop your heels onto the wood floors and shove your feet into them, cursing when you almost lose your balance.
“I haven’t. Take mine,” he rises from his seat on the sofa and plucks them off of the side table, jingling them on his way back to you.
A weak groan leaves your lips when he presents them to you. “I don’t like driving your car,” you whine, huffing out a breath. Bruce just smiles at you and chuckles, keys still held out to you.
“You know, we have a few cars,” he says, scoffing when you rolls your eyes and start shaking your head. “Oh, cmon!”
“I don’t like driving any of your cars!” You say, batting at his hand. Bruce holds his hands up in the air, the keys to his extremely fast sports held in his fingers. Technically they’re not only his cars, but other than the one you drive everyday, Bruce picked them out, thus making them vehicles only he would drive. You eye them and glance down at your watch. “Shit, I’m so late.” You murmur. “Fine, give them to me.” You hold out your hand for his keys and he drops them into your palm.
“It won’t be that bad,” he says, reaching for your waist and pulling you towards him. Bruce smiles when you frown, and leans down to kiss you, but your angle your face away from him.
“I’m wearing lip gloss.”
He blinks at you, confusion etched on his features. “I don’t care?” He goes to lean back in and you turn your face so his lips get your cheek instead.
“I don’t want you ruining it, I’m already late,” you say, empathetically rubbing his bicep. He frowns at you, annoyance clear in the way his jaw ticks. “Alright let me go so I can leave.” You pat his chest, but his hold on you remains stiff.
“You’re not going to give me a kiss?”
You smile and offer him your cheek again, your shiny lips taunting him. Rolling his eyes, Bruce sighs and begrudgingly presses his lips to your cheek before letting you go, muttering a ‘drive safe’ on your way out the door.
Later, on your way home from your errands you get a call from Dick. Clicking answer, the static from his end of the line coming through the car speakers. “Hello?”
“Hey. What’s wrong with the old man?” He sounds a little out of breath like he’s been jogging or something.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s been on our ass today, more than usual. Did you guys fight, or something?” He asks. You can hear faint grunts and the sound of a punching bag in the background of the phone call.
Your eyebrows furrow. “No,” but you say it with a lilt to your voice.
“Well can you fix it, then? Because I feel like I want to fight him, and I’m smarter than that,” you snort at his words and nod to yourself.
“Yes, I can fix it. Bye, Dick—and good luck.”
The phone call ends and when you come to a red light you dial Bruce’s number, a small smile on your face. Bruce was canonically hard on all of the young justice heroes, so it was a little funny to get a call about his attitude even still. The line rings and rings, and finally he picks up. “Yes?”
His tone and greeting take you aback, and you blink once before replying. “Hello to you too, honey,” you chuckle.
“I’m a little busy, y/n. Are you alright?”
“Yes, Bruce. What’s up with this attitude?” He’s quiet on the other line like he’s contemplating his next set of words. You wait, but almost laugh because of the silent standoff you’re having over the phone.
"I don't have an attitude. I am just busy," he says calmly, the tone in his voice significantly different compared to when he answered the phone. This time its more even, still clipped, but less hostile and cold. "I take it you're on the way home?"
"Mhm."
A pause, and then. "Come to the Bat Cave when you get home," His voice is much softer now, and you smile to yourself. There he is, your giant soft-hearted brooder of a husband.
You tell him you'll see him soon, and then the two of you hang up.
About fifteen minutes later, you pull up the manor. You reach over into the front seat, grabbing the items you picked up while you were out, before hopping out of Bruces car. The front door is open before you walk up the steps, Alfred standing beside it with a pleasant smile on his face. “Thanks, Alfie,” you say with a bright smile, waving him off when he offers to grab something from you. “I’ve got it. Should’ve called that husband of mine.” You joke as he closes the door behind you.
“I can go get Master Bruce, ma’am,” he says politely. You open your mouth to tell him it’s not a big deal, but think better of it and nod, a sly smile working its way onto your face. “Very well. I’ll be right back.” Alfred leaves the foyer and you set the few bags that you have down by your feet.
A few moments later, Bruce rounds the corner to the front of the house in his typical training outfit: black tshirt and black sweats. His face is flushed and sweat trickles down his temple to his jaw then neck, and catches at the material of his tshirt. He eyes you and the bags by your feet and presses his lips into a line, sighing through his nose.
You can’t help but smile at his behavior, watching him pick up the bags in amusement and following him up the stairs. “Hi, baby,” you say once you’re sure Alfred is out of earshot, your tone teasing.
“Hello, y/n,” he says gruffly, setting the bags down on the chaise in your bedroom before spinning around to leave, but you block him, arms coming to lock around his midsection. A mocking frown is on your lips at the use of your first name, and not a pet name like he usually calls you.
“I’m not your baby anymore?” You tease, pulling him closer to you even though his shirt is slightly damp with sweat. Bruce just looks down the slope of his nose at you, expression bored and unamused. You only smile at him, which makes the corner of his lip twitch and forces him to look away from you. “You don’t say hi to me, won’t call me baby and now you won’t look at me? You haven’t even tried to kiss me.” You pinch him when you see him roll his eyes.
“You have lipstick on,” he says simply, finally returning his eyes to you. Your jaw falls open slightly, eyebrows raising as a scoff of a laugh leaves you lips. Bruce only quirks an eyebrow at you, and you pinch him in his side again.
“You are so dramatic!” You say, laughing at the realization. Bruce only rolls his eyes again and tries (barely) to pry your arms off of him, mumbling something about having to go back to training. “No, you’re not going anywhere, Mr. Wayne.”
Bruce lets out a huff of air through his nose. “They are waiting on me.”
“Dick said you’re being mean.”
His eyebrows furrow. “I am only preparing them for real threats. If he thinks it’s ‘mean’, then maybe he should- oh my god, Bruce!” You laugh again, cutting him off. Bruce frowns at you, sighing through his mouth and crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t see what’s so funny.”
“You are! You are very dramatic today, Mr. Wayne. I didn’t know you needed a kiss to have a good day,” you tease. He rolls his eyes but a faint blush dusts his cheeks, his lip twitching again. You smile and uncross his arms and wrap them around your waist, your own encircling around his neck. “Do you want a kiss, Bruce?” You tease.
“Yes,” he murmurs, already leaning down to bring his lips down to yours. You smile against his lips before pressing back into him, fingers stroking the damp hair at the nape of his neck.
Bruce holds your tightly against him, one arm tightly around your waist and the other on your upper back. He kisses you like he’s been dying without your lips against his, his body relaxing and his shoulders finally sagging. Bruce pulls you impossibly closer, pulling you up onto your toes despite the fact that you are wearing heels.
When you two pull apart, his features are visibly softer than before. "Feel better," you ask, a little breathless. He shakes his head and kisses you again, chest swelling when you giggle and stroke the side of his neck. Bruce lets out a small moan and only holds you tighter against him when he feels you start to pull back.
He slips his tongue into your mouth easily when you provide an opening, and you start to walk him in the direction of the bed. Bruce lets you, pulling the both of you down onto the mattress. You pull back to catch your breath, a shy smile on your face as you look down at Bruce who is equally breathless.
Bruce's lips shine with traces of your lipgloss and you push him flat onto the bed and crawl on top of him, bringing your thumb up to wipe away the residue. "Now do you feel better?" you ask, hair falling in front of you face.
His hands slide from your waist down to your ass, his big hands resting over your back pockets. "Almost."
Summary: The brief aftermath of meeting Astrid, bonding with Miss Hunter, and Reader's heart breaks even further.
Ikigai (n.) (Japanese): "A reason for being," the thing that gets you up in the morning.
Trigger Warning: suicide ideation
Part 10 | Part 12 | Series Masterlist | LADS Masterlist
You go through the motions on your ride back to Linkon. Out the airship, to the bus stop, to the train station. None of them are you fully present. You’re a machine, moving and getting through what’s happening.
Miss Hunter is the opposite. Fully aware of the movement of anything and everything. Squeezing your forearm in her hands in a death grip. Her soul shackes. Her thread to Colonel Xia trembles especially.
You want to comfort her. To take her into your arms and shield her from the world until you return to safety. Until you can take her to Sylus, her soulmate and the only one who can provide her real help. But your mind is consumed by fog.
Fog in the shape of Undertaker Rafia. Her black hair and black horns that occasionally flicker. Her deathly pale skin, so pale you can see her veins. Her simple, yet elegant, suit, neatly pressed and not a wrinkle in sight.
What stood out to you most about her was the simple silver band on her finger. A wedding ring. Something you’ve always thought impossible for people like you and her. Something you thought those born without soulmates couldn’t have.
Marriage. A happy one, judging by her soul.
Because even without a thread attached to that soul, you can still read it. Still hear it and the songs and wants and needs it sings. Songs of happiness. Songs of bliss. Songs of a man of sunshine she loves deeply.
That music makes you think. Makes you stare down at your own hand as you ride the train with Miss Hunter. It’s not the hand of the arm she holds, so she doesn’t notice. Doesn’t see how you study your fingers and imagine a ring on it. A ring from Sylus.
What color would he choose? Or rather, what the two of you would choose? What would you choose to make together? Because somehow, deep within you and your foolish fantasies, you know Sylus would craft the engagement rings while you make the wedding ones. Two tokens of love, forged from both of your hands.
The train screeching to a halt cuts off your imagination. Makes the fake ring you’ll never get fade from your fingers and allows you to ground yourself back to reality. Back to the present. Back to your struggle with your heart and the soulmate of the man you love.
As you walk out with her, it’s harder to let your thoughts go. Harder to abandon a hope you thought you squashed ages ago. Because Astrid exists.
There’s another world out there, a voice whispers in your head. A world where I can love. A world where soulmates aren’t everything.
The idea is stupid. Foolish. Laughable. It’s an idea you briefly had once in the past, when you met Kai and Alex and saw their threads.
Alex has a living soulmate. A living soulmate with a living bond where they share each other’s thoughts. Alex has a living other half, a living perfect love, a living person they can share everything with, and they choose to be with someone else.
They choose not to share the most important thing with that person. They choose an imperfect love over their destined one. And that choice makes you wonder. Their entire relationship to Kai makes you wonder at times. Wonder if maybe you stop being such a coward and take a leap, you could have that life. That love.
You stopped that once Miss Hunter came into your life. Or, at least, you thought you did. Because that image of the Undertaker—Astrid Rafia—and her ring and her joy and her love lingers in a way that it wouldn’t if you’d truly let that idea go. It lingers, it burns, and it makes you yearn. Yearn for her life, and yearn for her courage.
She is like you. More so than anyone you’ve ever met, and probably ever will meet. She has no soulmate, but still has love in her life. How is that possible? How is that possible that someone out there is everything you are and has everything you want? How can such a perfect, chosen, love exist?
And you think you turn the world upside down.
“Well, this is my stop.”
Your pity part is cut off by a trembling voice. A voice that reminds you of the first day you met Miss Hunter, when she was in throes of grief and rage. She’s in that state again.
You look at her, really look at her, and for once, you don’t see Sylus’ soulmate. You don’t see your lost love. You don’t see your envy, your resentment, and your self-pity. You see her. You see this strong hunter who’s lost and alone and doesn’t know what to do.
You see her, and realize you can’t let her go. Not to her empty home where her only company will be her racing thoughts. Not to the base with one of her other soulmates, whose entire existence will probably just remind her of what happened.
She’s been through enough. So get your shit together, and stop projecting your mess onto her.
“Come with me,” your tone is warm, and gentle—similar to the one you’d give the suffering children you sometimes encounter during your job. “Let’s go to my place.”
You’re a bit hesitant with your offer, the words falling out before you can truly process what you’re saying. But your tone and body language don’t portray it judging by Miss Hunter’s reaction. Or maybe she’s just too lost in her own mind to notice. Too caught up in betrayal to care about the little things in your life.
“Your place?” Her words come out shaky.
“Yes, my place. Sylus may be my boss, and I may spend most of my time at the base, but I don’t quite live there. Since even I can use some time away from the chaotic twins and the man I work with. Beside, it’ll be fun to spend some time away from everything, woman to woman.”
Miss Hunter appears relieved the moment you make your suggestion. You pretend not to notice. You just guide her to your motorcycle, hand off the helmet with cat ears to her, and instruct her to wrap her arms around your waist.
They serve as grounding for you and your traitorous thoughts. Even when all you can see inside your head is Astrid. She’s there in every passing car, on every street. She’s there when you park in your driveway. She’s there when you finally open the door to your little home.
You guide Miss Hunter to your room, even with the discomfort that already begins to well up inside you. Not even Sylus or the twins have been in your home. Neither have Alex or Kai. You simply never bring anyone here.
It’s your safe space. A place away from all the drama of soulmates and love that you dread so much. A place where you can be you, soulless and alone, without the fear of judgement or scorn.
A place where when the memories of Ever and your family get too bad, you can run yourself an ungodly long and hot shower before eating too much junk food and watching trashy shows in your living room.
This place is yours. And you brought someone here without a second thought. All because of your stupid empathy and savior complex.
”I do love that heart of yours,” Sylus’ voice echoes in your mind as you guide Miss Hunter to sit at the edge of your queen sized bed and then walk to your closet.
Well, I don’t.
Sometimes, you wonder what life would be like if you didn’t care so much. If you’d taken the advice of so many when you were a child and toughened up.
I probably wouldn’t be here taking care of the soulmate of the man I love.
Maybe you would’ve already confessed to Sylus. Maybe you would’ve left as soon as she showed up. Maybe you would’ve kissed him without a care in the world during the gala. Maybe you wouldn’t have loved him at all.
That train of thought is what ultimately gets you to turn to Miss Hunter, put a smile on your face, and say, “So we have some options for you. Because I didn’t know which color scheme to go with, and your sense of style is positively dreadful—“
“No it’s not.”
“Sweetie, I’ve only ever seen you in work attire. And since I’m a believer in seeing is believing, your words a moot point compared to my observations.”
You lay out some loose shirts, shorts, and pants next to her. She looks over them, eyes still glazed over with thoughts you want nothing more than to know.
“Take your time,” you say as you walk back to your closet.
She doesn’t need your eyes baring into her soul as she thinks and relaxes. The less stress on her, the better.
You hear her shuffle through your selection as you try to appear busy. Your closet is small, nothing like the massive walk-in ones Sylus has at the base. But you prefer simply pleasures to opulence despite your very expensive hobby.
Sylus knows that better than anyone. He knows to get you a signed copy of a book from the author whose books got you through high school (a copy you didn’t even know existed) for your birthday rather than some necklace. To cook your soul foods on your bad days rather his usual spread that probably costs more than your house. To take you to a thrift store or a regular grocery store during sales rather than somewhere like Whole Foods.
He knows you so well. Too well. And that’s the thought that permeates your head as you brush your fingers against the one pricey piece of clothing you let him buy for you: an ethically sourced cashmere sweater. It’s huge. It’s comfy. It’s baggy.
It’s what you’ll put on once Miss Hunter goes to take a shower and decompress.
“I’m done,” she announces behind you, voice still weak and arms still trembling ever so slightly.
It’s as if she’s afraid you’ll snap at her. That you’ll turn off your kindness and begin making demands of her like the Colonel did. The building rage you already had towards him worsens. But it’s unsteady, like the house of cards that the twins tend to make during game nights and they’re losing to you badly.
You’d hate to see what happens if hers topples.
“How about you hop in the shower while I change?”
Miss Hunter nods, so you continue, “Then we can relax? Watch some trashy shows, eat some good food? I’ll update my foolish boss when he gives me a call.”
You hope she says yes. Doing that with Sylus and the twins, critiquing dramas and throwing popcorn at one another, is your favorite way to unwind. You also get the added bonus of pretending you’re a real family instead of you being an imposter for Sylus’ soulmate at the same time.
She’ll take my place during those nights as well.
The image is already in your head: Miss Hunter curled up next to Sylus, the latest medical drama on the screen, the twins flanking her and him, all of them laughing together. And you already know where you’d be in all this. Alone. In this house of yours. Crying your eyes out because you dared to love again.
Stop it. Shut up. Put it out of your mind.
You’re so busy mourning a relationship you never had that you barely hear Miss Hunter’s, “Yes.”
You turn on your award-winning smile, guide her to the bathroom in the master bedroom (you use that as a guest room as your room), and finally let all your tension release once you crash onto the bed.
The door is cracked open so you can hear when she shuts off the water. But the sound hardly registers in your brain. So many other things consume it, float within it to cancel out that simple noise.
Undertaker Rafia. Miss Hunter. The twins. Kai. Alex.
Sylus.
So many people who stir so many different emotions in you. You let out a sigh, stifling it with a hand in the foolish worry that Miss Hunter will somehow hear it. That somehow anyone anywhere could hear it.
What right do you have to be so tired? What right do you have to be hurt over losing a love you never had, over your friends having their own lives, and over a woman whose only crime was existing?
What right do you have to not want the twins to have a real family with Sylus and his soulmate? That’s how all families are: two soulmates married with their children. There’s no place for you there.
What right do you have to wish Alex would text or Kai would call? They have lives, they have each other. There’s no place for you there.
What right do you have to hate Miss Hunter, to want to scream at her and curse at her every time you look at her? She’s hurting and grieving and confused and lost and wanting to get her life on track. There’s no place for you there.
There’s no place for you anywhere. You and your lack of soulmate and your weird powers and you stupid fears and loves and wants and weak heart—
There’s no place for me anywhere.
You chant this to yourself as you change, as you wear the gift Sylus gave you and feel it against your skin and let it warm your heart.
There’s no place for me anywhere. Undertaker Rafia’s existence doesn’t change this. She doesn’t change anything.
You try and try to convince yourself of this. You try to convince yourself of all the possibilities of why her spouse was with her and not their soulmate, of why your circumstances are different.
Their soulmate is abusive. Their soulmate is some kind of monster. Their soulmate is dead, like Kai’s.
A more absurd idea hits at the thought of your old friend and her spouse’s own soulmate.
Maybe her spouse’s soulmate is Alex. Or someone is a situation like them: their other half is with someone who lost theirs.
It makes sense in your befuddled mind. Makes sense that a person would only choose someone like you or Astrid, someone who’s destined to be alone, only as a last resort. A last ditch effort to be with someone, no matter how broken they are. A false love is better than no love. You’re living proof of that.
Because all you’ve ever given is false love. To your family. To your friends. To the twins. To Sylus.
It’s why you know Miss Hunter will replace you someday. They’ll compare her love to your love, and immediately know which one is better, which one is real and valid. For the love of an empty soul is nothing next to one that’s brimming with the approval and care of the very stars.
What are you, a soulless woman that can see and manipulate threads (and someone who seems to only really trust said threads) compared to a woman has had and will have the love of many? A woman whose lived multiple lives, and found love in all of them.
At best, I could probably get one of her leftovers.
Maybe you and that mystery man will find solace in each other? Solace in the fact that neither of you were the person you love’s choice. The image disgusts you, you in the arms of another man and kissing that man’s lips instead of the ones you desire. Instead of his.
But that’s how it’s meant to be. Right?
Why did I ever think it would different now? That Sylus would be different than everyone else?
You press the sweater into your face, tears stinging your eyes. Imagining the soft fabric as Sylus embracing you and holding you close allows the droplets to break your waterline.
You don’t make any sound—you mastered the art of silent crying long ago. Body shaking slightly, cradling your heart in the clothing, you allow yourself just a moment to be truthful to yourself. You allow yourself some reprieve; even you have your limits.
I can’t go on like this forever.
Your encounter with Astrid made that all the more clear. Made it clear that you can’t stay in Onychinus, and that you need to leave. A scathing laugh rips out of you as you weep into the sleeves of your expensive shirt on your humble mattress and linen.
Curling into a ball to stifle the sound, you admonish yourself with every giggle.
Why did I ever think I could stay? That I wouldn’t fall apart again?
You’re that little girl again, the one that got her heart broken for the first time by her so-called best friend. A best friend you cut out the same day you did your family when you ran away on your 18th birthday. You ran to get away from them, from Ever, from everything you knew because everything you knew was pain and a reminder of how broken you are.
You don’t know how long you sit there, crying at your own stupidity. It feels like it’s been hours, but probably not even a full minute in reality. A quick peek in the mirror to be sure your little spell didn’t show on your face, and you head back to the living room to wait for Miss Hunter.
She emerges soon, in a baggy shirt with shorts and a towel haphazardly on her head. Her hair is clearly still wet.
“Come here,” you pat the couch next to you, eager for something to do to distract yourself.
The more I avoid it, the longer I have to find a plan. To find somewhere to disappear to while they make each other happy.
She sits, and you stand to drag a chair behind where she sits on the couch before you begin to dry her hair. You do it gently and with care, memories of when your family did this for you as a little girl briefly flashing in your mind. That was, of course, before everything fell apart. Before they found out how messed up you are.
Miss Hunter is silent. She picks at her nails, taps on your couch, and squeezes the throw pillows. But not a word leaves her lips, despite how much her soul quakes with a need to speak.
You can wait for her to speak. Humming as you pat her hair with the fluffy towel, one from a set the twins gave you as a gift, you wait. With patience and a little bit of fear in your heart.
“I’m sorry,” finally comes out of her, quiet and afraid.
“Whatever for, sweetie?”
“For not staying in contact. For dragging you into my mess again. For using you. For—“
She can’t let her last thought be vocalized. Her soul swirls with guilt, her thread to Sylus in particular spinning with that emotion.
Of course.
You already know she knows. With all the questions she asked at the gala and before that, the way she acts around the idea of her and Sylus, and the secret keeping they both do when it comes to the time you know they’re spending together, it’s obvious. It’s clear she knows you love him.
And somehow you know, even without the threads and her soul, she’s apologizing for that. For “stealing” away the man you love. For daring to be his other half. For hurting you just by existing. For breaking your heart.
“Enough of that,” you say, taking a section of her hair to rub in the towel. “There’s nothing for you to be sorry for. You have a lot going on in your life. As have I. It’s understandable we can’t talk very often.”
”She has time for him. They have time for each other. To hurt you. To break you. To isolate you. Just as so many have.”
You ignore that foolish voice inside your head, and refocus on your task, moving to another section of your friend’s hair.
Or at least, that is until she pipes up again, “Why?”
“Why what?” You ask, despite having a pretty good idea of what she wants answers to.
“Why did you come? Why do you care so much about me, some stranger and someone who’s…”
You know what she almost says. You know, and you think she knows you know.
Does Sylus know? Does he know I know the connection between the two of them?
“I’ve been a terrible friend,” she continues. “I’ve never done anything to help you despite how much you’ve done for me. Since we’ve met, all you’ve done is babysit and look after me.”
She laughs a cruel laugh at herself. “And after my ghosting you, the first thing I do to reach out to you is ask another favor, to have you help me again.”
Her breath catches and you hear a sob break past her lips. She takes a shaky inhale before continuing.
“All seem to do is give you more and more problems. So why…?”
She’s full on wailing now, trying in vain to wipe the tears that run down your face. And you can’t bare to watch. You see too much of the old you in her. You see too much of the little girl who just wants someone to love her for her in Miss Hunter.
Ironic.
You embrace her from behind, towel and her hair forgotten as you lead her head to lean onto your shoulder.
“Silly hunter,” you murmur as you brush her bangs against her forehead. “I’d be a most terrible friend if I didn’t come running when you called. I gave you those earrings for a reason. And you used them wisely.”
You climb over your couch to plop down beside her, “As I said, we both have a lot on our plates. And since we’re both workaholics with a severe deficit in female friendships, constant contact wasn’t something I expected. Besides, I know our introduction was less than stellar and at a low point in your life. I knew there was a chance you wouldn’t reach out because my existence might remind you of that time.”
You pause, brushing her hair again in thought, “You’ve been through a lot, Missy. Don’t beat yourself up on my account.”
Her cries begin to subside. She burrows herself into you, head in your shoulder and arms around your torso, as you rub her back.
“I told you to rely on me. I want you to rely on me. I’d be a bad friend and a hypocrite if I didn’t come running to your side during a crisis.”
No words are exchanged between the two of for some time. The only sound that fills the room is Miss Hunter’s whimpers and your steady breathing and shushing of her.
Your foolish heart breaks with every pitiful sound that leaves her, turning her pain into yours when it has no right. It has no right to feel such pain when hers is much worse. Because what is the pain of unrequited love compared to the betrayal of a soulmate and the death of one’s family?
One of those is something you’ll never experience, can’t experience. The other… well, you left your family behind of your own accord. If they die today, tomorrow, or whenever, you’ll have no right to grieve.
Miss Hunter does. She has every right to scream and cry out at the world that keeps taking things from her. She deserves to vent and to have someone to rely on.
She needs someone in her corner. Now more than ever. I can cry all I want later.
Maybe your brief little breakdown’s given you the relief you need because you’re able to push your feelings down quite quickly for a change. You feel like yourself again, the version of you that existed before Miss Hunter arrived.
The version of you so distant from the girl of your past. The version of you that’s strong, knows exactly what to say and when to say it. The version of you that’s Sylus’ Gamayun.
The messy version of you is none of those things, has none of those qualities that make people actually look and listen to you. That you has no voice, no purpose, no love. She’s nothing.
She’s dead.
“I have my own question, if you wouldn’t mind?” You say to get out of your head.
“Sure,” she sniffles, moving out of your arms to sit on her own beside you.
You miss her warmth the moment you do. Maybe because touch with Sylus feels so strange, tinged with guilt and sorrow for the future every time you hug him or brush shoulders. None of that is there with Miss Hunter. You don’t love her like you love him.
You don’t love anyone like you love Sylus. And you probably never will again. That’s why it’s so hard to let go, to actually put any of your plans into action.
Because you know yourself. You know how much you’ll miss his touch, his warmth, his laugh, his smile, his horrible singing voice, his extravagant tastes you always give him shit for, his intelligence, his gifts, his care, his attention… you’ll miss it all. You’re already missing it despite it still being here.
You still miss him despite you still being with him. You’ll miss him to the day you die. Even if you somehow find someone else. Even when he marries Miss Hunter and forgets all about his Gamayun in favor of his sorceress.
With all those complicated emotions stirring about, spinning in your empty vessel of a soul, you finally articulate your question, “Why me?”
Why not write to your soulmate? Why not use that bond to distance yourself further from me and build your special little connection I’ll never understand or have? Why keep hurting me with your friendship? Why don’t you both just put me out of my misery?
“I… I didn’t know who else to call. I hardly know Sylus. My other friends wouldn’t have been able to even get close to me, since Caleb used his authority to isolate and watch me.”
You nod as she talks. And when she begins to pick at the skin around her nail beds, you take her hands into yours.
“None of that now. It’s alright. I was just curious.”
You smile at her, hoping to somewhat ease her mind and the guilt that has no place being there. You’re glad to help, glad to be of service, and be useful. It’s all your good for.
“I believe your hair is done,” you say with a soft voice. “Would you like to watch me cook now? I did promise food, after all.”
Miss Hunter’s stomach decides to growl at that very moment. You hold in a laugh when you see how flushed she gets.
Adorable.
That cuteness aggression allows you to wipe away your rogue thoughts, and your pointless feelings. Right now, you just want to give this girl a good meal.
“Come along now,” you beckon her to stand and follow your lead. “You ought to watch me, and learn a thing or two. Because I seem to recall you being a terrible cook.”
“Am not,” she mutters.
“Keep telling yourself that, sweetie. Now hush and watch your master work.”
“Master?”
You’re opening cabinets—cups, pans, and ingredients filling your countertops.
“Yes, master, my dear student. I’ll be teaching you my ways, after all.”
You wink at her and begin cooking.
—
Miss Hunter watches you diligently, eyeing each ingredient carefully and taste testing every step. You allow her.
After being possibly drugged by her oldest friend, any comfort I can give her will be worth whatever the cost.
You did the same thing for the twins when they came to live with you and Sylus. You let them watch you cook, taste the ingredients as you went along, and always made sure they felt safe consuming what you gave them.
In both cases, the people you’re serving food to are weary. Afraid after betrayal upon betrayal coming their way for so long that any kindness feels like another trap. Any amount of comfort you can offer to such people is something you’ll do gladly.
You have her chop vegetables and stir the pot so that she’s always busy. The twins like to help out when you cook, and Sylus does the same (unprompted and messing with your rhythm with his baritone voice and sweet words), and you figure Miss Hunter will be no different. And she does each task with gusto, so you must be doing something right.
The food is done in no time. You each get a bowl, curl up in the couch with pillows and the softest blanket (another gift from the twins), and switch on some terrible drama.
Miss Hunter begins to relax as she wolfs down her food, getting seconds and thirds before you finish your first. It brings a smile to your face. But, at the same time, you’re still waiting for something to happen. For the other shoe to drop, for disaster to strike because life is never that simple for either of you. The world is never that kind to either of you.
The turmoil that’s in her thread to Caleb is what makes you so on guard. Mountains and mountains of guilt that go to war with her fear. Stones upon stones of grief, a coffin she thought buried in those mountains unearthed by gravity reversing on itself.
It’s weighing on her, crushing her with the eyes of Colonel Xia. His mechanical arm around her soul, their past life together a ghost behind her even if she’s not aware of it. All it is too much for one person.
She starts rambling between ads:
“He’s so different,” she whispers while some guy goes on about insurance.
“Maybe the Caleb I know really did die that day,” she murmurs during a commercial about some new show on Paramount.
“Is it the chip in his head? Or is this just the real him?” She mutters as you pop some popcorn.
“Stupid Caleb and his stupid secrets,” she picks at the popcorn bowl you gave her, studying the kernels like they hold the truth of the universe.
“Why does no one tell me anything? Zayne? Rafayeal? Sylus? Stupid Caleb?”
That one in particular hits you. It lingers in your mind, an imprint of words that follow your eyes wherever they go. On the screen. On your food. To your kitchen. To your fridge. To her. No matter where you look, those words dance. They taunt you, haunt you, in your every moment.
“They say they’re protecting me… but all they do is hurt me.”
She doesn’t say these words. You see them. In her soul, in her threads, in the very fabric of her being that was born in the Deepspace Tunnel. The words weave a sad tale within her. A tale you know all too well.
“I’ll never lie to you,” you say such falsities with ease, with confidence, and with pain.
Because you know if she asks certain things—Do you love Sylus? Who are you really? What is it that you see? What are your plans? How do you know what you know?—you won’t answer with the truth. Partial truths. Half-full truths. Truths that fall apart the more one thinks about them.
But your guilt is worth the smile that spreads on her face. A genuine, full, relaxing, smile. All the self-hatred, all the whispers in your mind how you’re no better than all those who hurt and betrayed you, are worth it.
She’ll forget about your lies in time, after all.
“Promise?”
Your phone ringing saves you from answering. The classical music immediately keys you in on who it is. You pick up, not putting the phone on speaker.
“Speak,” you say in an authoritative voice.
“Are you mocking me with your sweet song, Gamayun? How rude. You wound me with that melody of yours.”
“You’re such a big baby, foolish man. What else do expect from me when you make it so easy?”
Hearing his rich chuckle directly in your ear does things to you; you hope Miss Hunter doesn’t notice.
“There you are with those words of yours again, cutting into me deeply. Can’t you muster up the heart to feel even a little bad for me, sweetheart?”
“No.”
He sighs a dramatic sigh, one dripping with humor and warming your stomach, “I should’ve know that would be your answer. What else can I expect from the woman who cruelly rushed off and left me all alone in our bed?”
You splutter. That gets your friend’s attention and she walks over to you, leaning in to hear the other side of the conversation.
“I gave you prompt warning.”
“You should know better than anyone, my dear, that I’m not exactly awake after a night with you.”
Miss Hunter gives you a look, one that says details, now! You shake your head at her and turn away from where she perches on your couch to eavesdrop.
“Than fix that dreadful habit of yours pronto. It makes setting up meeting a hellscape.”
“I will,” fondness bleeds into his tone, and you’re tempted to put a hand over your heart and giggle like a school girl with her first crush. “Once you get rid of your terrible habit of running off and disappearing on me. I mean, I awoke to my precious negotiator being in Skyhaven of all places, sweetheart. What ever were you doing there?”
His playful tone doesn’t disguise his concern, his worry. The warmth in your stomach spreads, tingles flying up your body and invading your senses. All you feel is Sylus and the emotions he causes. Ghosts on his touch on your skin. His words in your heart.
You try to deflect because otherwise something stupid might come out of your mouth, “Did you send your favorite crow after me? I thought we talked about this.”
“I had to, sweetheart. You’ve been so secretive lately that your boys asked me if we were getting divorced first thing this evening.”
“My boys?”
You refuse to unpack what you really want to say to his words. You refuse to focus on how you two getting divorced implies you’re married and how, apparently, that’s how the twins see you two’s relationship. And how Sylus seems perfectly content with that.
You refuse to think about it more than a second because any longer and you’ll give yourself false hope. You’ll give yourself a chance that’s not there. You’ll say something you can’t take back.
Why must you do this to me, Morana? Why must you refuse to let me kill my love for you?
Loving Sylus is both the easiest and hardest thing you’ve done in your life; and the other people around you don’t do anything to abate that.
He laughs at you again. “Why act so surprised, dear? You and I both know they’re your boys, first and foremost. Especially when they’re making noise early in the morning. That’s a habit that got from, and you alone. Besides, Luke said if we split they’d fight to give you full custody, so any argument you try to say otherwise dies there.”
“Whatever you say, Sylus. Doesn’t change the fact you sent Mephisto after me. Thought you killed your stalker habit when it comes to me.”
“That’s rich coming from the woman who makes jewelry with tracking devices and panic buttons imbedded in them,” Miss Hunter levels you with a smug gaze, and she says her words close to your phone. “You two truly are a match made in heaven. Or hell. Whichever you want.”
You scoff at her, forgetting the other member of your little group doesn’t know she’s here.
“Who are you talking to, sweetheart?”
“Just Miss Hunter. She’s being nosy.”
“How terrible of her, committing such a heinous crime towards you.”
This time when you scoff, you direct it both of them.
“I hope you know you’re both incorrigible.”
“Oh? We both are? I’d take that title of gladly if it means you’ll stop ditching me for her. I can be as incorrigible, or unincorrigible, as you’d like, my dear.”
You roll your eyes at him. You give Miss Hunter a look and wave your hand to jokingly shoo her away. The grin on your face is betraying you.
“He saying something about me? If he is, he can say it to my face!”
“I’ll put him on speaker than, sweetie, so be civil. You two can have your little showdown later, but right now, I need you to put those claws of yours away.”
She huffs. But doesn’t say anything as you put your phone on speaker.
“You’re on speaker, Sylus, so reign in your nonsense.”
“Of course, my dear. Anything for you,” his words tug at your heartstrings. “Now, back to my original question. Why were you at Skyhaven?”
Miss Hunter answers him, glancing at you as she gives a quick summary. You nod encouragingly, interjecting only when she seems to stumble too much on recalling what happened. On remembering the pain her friend caused her. On mentally returning to that place she just escaped.
Because despite her teasing and laughs, you know she hasn’t even begun to sort out her feelings on the matter. No smile or giggle will hide that from you.
“You said someone led you two out?”
A coldness washes over you at Sylus’ question. You’re not entirely sure why, but you do know you don’t want him to know about Astrid, about the woman who’s so much like you and like him.
“Just a Good Samaritan that happens to work there and outrank the Colonel.”
The lie slips out so easily. You know Astrid’s more than that. She’s more than just some person to you.
And possibly to Sylus.
Your Morana never directly talks about his first life. He drops hints, shares little stories, and shows some fears and anxieties you know come from that time. He says some old timey things, references cities and traditions you know never existed on this planet. And he’s aware, on some level, you know what he’s really discussing with you in those moments.
But he’s never been blunt. Never flat out told you about the fact he had a past life, remembers it, and was a dragon/human hybrid in it. Never talks about how the woman he loves killed him.
You do know one thing for sure: his loneliness. As the only of his kind, as someone who was too much of monster for humans and too much of a human for the dragons, he knows isolation. He knows what it means to live in a world you feel isn’t built for you.
That’s part of why Astrid’s existence hits you so much. She isn’t just soulless, she’s a fiend. She isn’t just a fiend, she’s soulless. She’s a mixture of human, dragon, and burdened to live a life without having someone else be her perfect match. She lives walking around with both you and Sylus’ pains.
And yet she’s happy.
She’s in love. She’s accepted. She’s free.
She’s everything you’ll never be. She has the scars you and your love carry, but none of the agony; they’ve already been healed without a trace of them left in her skin.
You’re sick because of that. Sick. Guilty. Enraged.
So despite the confusion on Miss Hunter’s face that begs you to answer why you’re doing what you’re doing,—and the way she trips over her words to agree with you—you lie. You lie and omit the fact that someone like him is out there. She’s out there and she’s happy.
Astrid’s torn a hole through your mind and heart. How deeply would that wound run for Sylus, who’s held his past and his hurts far longer than you? You tell yourself you’re protecting him right now, keeping the weight of everything from crushing him.
But another, truer and more cynical part of you, believes otherwise. You’re protecting yourself. From what, you’re not entirely sure of.
You just don’t want the two of them to meet. And he can’t meet her if he doesn’t know she’s out there.
Sylus is quiet the entire time you spiral in your thoughts. And his silence just makes them worse.
”He knows,” they whisper. ”He’s knows you’re lying and soon all will fall apart.”
You find it ridiculous that part of you believes this will be the secret that makes everything break. That this will be the final straw. Not your lack of soulmate. Not your ability to see threads. Not the way you’ve pried into his heart and soul to discover who he is despite him not being ready to tell you.
Not the way you’re desperately in love with him even though he belongs to another. No, your brain seems to think lying about one undertaker is enough to break down everything you two have built together.
Stupid. Idiot. Foolish, foolish woman.
“Just for clarification purposes, who exactly is Caleb? And why did he think it appropriate to lay his hands on you?”
When you saw Miss Hunter’s multiple threads and found out that one connects to Sylus, you always knew he’d find out about the others. That he’d ask questions about them, research about them, dig into their lives and find out their secrets in his concern and love over her.
What you didn’t expect was this. That his voice would echo with that familiar tone, a tone that says someone’s going to die.
It’s not jealousy. It’s not hate. It’s not even curiosity. What weaves in Sylus’ voice can only be described as bloodlust. Bloodlust and protectiveness bleeds into every word he says.
The dragon in him is on full display.
“Don’t,” you say before you can stop yourself.
“Don’t what, sweetheart?” He tries to keep his tone light, to be his normal teasing self.
You see right through him. “You very well know what, boss. I know that tone of yours, and what it means.”
“And just what does it mean?”
“It means you’re plotting something stupid that you know I absolutely will not approve of.”
Sylus doesn’t say anything. Miss Hunter does.
“Please don’t do anything to him. Please.”
She sounds so defeated, so helpless. So weak. So unlike the hunter you know.
Sylus notices this too, judging by how soft his reply is, “He laid his hands on you.”
For a moment, you think he’s still addressing you. That his protective nature is out because of you. But then your logical side takes over and you squash that pathetic notion deep down into abyss of your mind.
Don’t be a fool.
Miss Hunter begins to ramble, “I know, I know. It’s just… I just got Caleb back after I thought he died in front of me and now, things are so complicated and he’s lying to me and hurting me and I know it’s because he’s going through some shit, but that that doesn’t excuse what he did, but I just…”
“I just got him back,” she repeats after choking on her words for a second. “I just got him back. He’s different, but he’s still Caleb. He’s still my family.”
Neither you nor Sylus know what to say to all that. To say to the one hurt most by this man, but who’s also the first to jump to his defense.
“What’s your opinion on this?” Sylus asks with tender voice of his; it sounds so kind, and feels so good in your ears.
You know he’s talking to you this time. “My opinion is that you need to let this go for now, Sylus. He’s not off the hook, trust me. But since my methods are far less… extreme compared to yours, I’ll handle things with the Colonel. And get his head out of his ass while I’m at it.”
The silence over the phone is crushing you, swallowing you.
But then Sylus hums with content, “Fine. But if he gets worse…”
“I’ll handle it,” you state firmly.
While your words are clear, your heart is turmoil. Because your traitor of a heart knows the truth behind your words. It knows your plan.
I’m willingly going back to them after all this time. Eighteen year old me would be oh so disappointed.
What other choice do you have, really? Is there really any better way for all this to resolve? Sylus and Miss Hunter get to be happy together, Caleb and others like him get their freedom, and you won’t have the time to be heartbroken and depressed.
Everything works out if you go back to Ever, if you go back to being the Professor’s favorite daughter.
Everyone wins, you tell yourself. Everyone wins.
The pinpricks of that man’s needles and other tools return. They crawl up your skin, spiders dancing on your arms and laughing at you as they spin webs to tape your mouth shut. No one but them can see how you struggle or hear how you scream.
It’s disgusting, vile. The phantom of that man’s breath on your face. The stinging smell of chemicals in your nose. The hours and hours you’ve spent crying to your parents to stop all this. So many tears shed to the point where you got headache from dehydration and your throat was sore from how loud you were.
You ran from that long ago. And now you’re running back to it.
Maybe he really can fix me. Give me love. Give me a place in this world. Break me and rebuild me into someone worth being alive. Turn this mistake into a—
“Why?” Miss Hunter saves you with her question; she’s sheepish she asks, ashamed of how many times that word has left her lips today.
“He’s important to you, right?” She nods. “Than he’s important to me. It’s that simple.”
She gets embarrassed at that. Her threads tell you she’s in awe at your words. Taken aback. Shocked beyond belief.
They say, ”Why does she care so much? How can someone care for someone they hardly know so much?”
Her wonder makes you envious. Makes you wish again that you could harden your heart. That you could stop caring. You’d probably be so much happier that way.
You’d never become the Professor’s pet if you weren’t so eager to please. And you wouldn’t be going back if you didn’t care about others so much.
But you tell that part of you to shut up, to remember that Miss Hunter, Caleb, Sylus, and everyone else deserves happiness. You don’t.
The next words out of your friend’s mouth turns your world upside down, “It’s no wonder Sylus calls you Gamayun.”
All the air leaves your lungs. Your mouth is dry. Your heartbeat is too loud. Your body is so empty. And it takes all your focus to set your phone down on your couch without shaking.
How does she know that?
Sylus and you never really call each other your nicknames in front of others. They’re your secret. Your sanctuary, your pride, your joy, your promise. The names are yours and yours alone; they’re not meant to be spread to others.
So why does she—
You cut off your thoughts before the lead you down a dark, dark path.
You try to speak, to form a coherent sentence and be the master of words you usually are, “What?”
It’s all you can get out. A pathetic squeak and one short word. You’ve suddenly turned back time, become the innocent and embarrassing little girl you were before your powers appeared.
Your chest stings. Your body is hot, boiling even, at the memories. At how you stumbled on every other word. At how so many laughed and kept snickering at you to speak up.
Your tongue is heavy. Your jaw refuses to work. And you continue to get hotter and hotter. It’s not the comforting heat you feel with Sylus. It’s the heat of fear, shame, mistakes, and a past you wish you could burn.
Miss Hunter’s words burry you even more into that feeling rather than saving you this time, “I said it makes sense he calls you Gamayun. I can see how a beautiful prophetic siren that represents happiness, harmony, and prosperity and supposedly lives near paradise is what he calls you.”
She laughs to herself before taking your phone; that sound just makes your stomach and your heart fall further towards the ground.
“Sylus’ nickname suits him too. But it is kinda a shame that you get to be this beautiful creature while he’s an old ugly hag of death. Then again, his white hair and penchant for explosions sells that picture to me, so good job for that.”
You can’t say anything. Cotton in your mouth, heart pounding so loud you can barely hear yourself think, and the sudden urge to curl into a ball and rub your arms because of how much you burn.
It hurts. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it—
“You’re not funny, kitten.”
Normally, just the sound of Sylus is enough to soothe yourself. Normally, his voice is cool balm over your burning body, and you remember that that’s not you anymore. His voice lets you remember you have a voice, and you remember people care to listen to you.
This time is not one of those time. His words just make the pit in your stomach larger, make your pain all the more potent.
“I’m hilarious, old man. Or, I guess, woman? Either way, I finally have an explanation for why you suck at Kitty Cards and the claw machine so much.”
You’re hit with a new wave of pain, a new layer of isolation.
They’re spending time together. Alone. Having fun. Being people and bonding and playing games and not telling me a thing.
Hearing about Sylus getting out and having fun, spending quality time with his soulmate, shouldn’t hurt so much.
“And what is that?”
“It’s the goddess of death in you. It kills luck and scares off every cat in the cafe.”
This is what you wanted. This is what you asked for, foolish woman.
If you had any less self control, you’d be crying. Sobbing. Breaking here on this couch in your home that’s supposed to be your safe space. A place you’ve now been violated in, exposed in the worst way and feeling the most alone you’ve felt in a long time.
“My relationship to her isn’t your problem.”
Sylus’ words come back. Another knot twists into your stomach, threaded by the bond between him and Miss Hunter. It hurts. It hurts and reminds you of when you were a freshman in high school and the two girls you thought were your best friends betrayed you.
The two were soulmates. You know that from the beginning. They don’t know that you know. Because if elementary school taught you anything, it’s that your powers are best kept to yourself.
So you never tell anyone again. Deny it when others from your past bring up or make claims about what you said. And eventually, people got the hint. They understand, and portray themselves that way on the surface.
You know better. Even at your young age back then, you know better. You go along with their lies just as they do yours because it’s easier.
When you meet your two new friends, you keep them away from that part of yourself. Away from your family, away from your old friends, away from the powers that haunt you. And you convince yourself that this time, things will be different.
So you tell them nothing of their connection. But you do know as soon as it sparks. As soon as it begins, you become desperate. Joining clubs you never wanted to be a part of. Doing all their homework at their houses for them, giving them answers to tests you’d taken earlier, and just forcing them to be in your presence whenever you can.
Heart pounding, and body boiling, you remember as Sylus and Miss Hunter talk. You occasionally nod your head and chuckle as you’re drowning in the past. It’s silent how you succumb to those waves. Silent, still, and so unnoticeable. No one bothers to check up on you.
Of course no one sees. No one sees anyone else when they have their other half, when they’re having fun with their other half.
Your exclusion back then started small, like right now. Hangouts you found out via social media. Inside jokes popping up in conversation that they never explain to you. Only partnering up with each other for classes, and when three are required, you’re a background thought. A necessary evil to be around.
You feel the same things now as you did back then. Plastering the fake smile on your face and forcing a laugh from your throat despite the pain, despite how much you want to scream at them for being so blind.
No matter how much pretend, how much you do things for them, eventually, they drift away completely. They leave you alone on your makeshift raft of friendship to sail on their cruise ship of love. You drowned back then, and you’re drowning right now.
You can’t swim. You can’t think. You can’t breathe. So you excuse yourself to the bathroom, docking there in hopes somehow, someway, you’ll be rescued. That you won’t be left to suffer among the deep and vast expanse of your mind.
It’s such a foolish thought. Such a stupid, stupid, wish from one lonely girl. And the tides don’t care for wishes from those like you.
Your emotions come in waves. Grief. Disgust. Anger. Betrayal. You chase them all away from the shore of what’s left of your control, not letting them crest and wash away the hard work you’ve dug in the trenches of your heart.
This is what you wanted, you remind yourself. This is what you wanted.
The truth doesn’t make the daggers in you lessen in their ruthlessness, cutting and stabbing and ripping without mercy. The truth doesn’t make your eyes stop watering. The truth doesn’t keep you from falling to pieces.
This is what you wanted, you tell yourself as you run the fan in the bathroom to keep your sobs from reaching Miss Hunter.
This is what you wanted, you say as you dab your tears away with the arms of the sweater Sylus gave you.
This is what you wanted, even if the pain is too much too soon.
“This is what you wanted,” you say in the mirror, trying to compose yourself.
It’s then that you resolve to forget about Astrid, to push away the woman who gives you hope just by being around. You must forget her if you’re going to survive losing Sylus and the twins and returning to Ever.
Survive.
The thought gets a bitter laugh out of you.
Do I even want to?
Author's Note: Also, please go to the original blurb to ask to be added to the taglist (it's impossible for me to keep checking every part every time I update).
SYNOPSIS you've been friends-with-benefits with bucky barnes for what feels like forever. it's fine. great, even. but when you slowly notice he's open to being with other people, you pull away before he has the chance to let you down easy. besides, you're too busy to waste your time thinking about him, ego too high to let him beat you to breaking it off. yet suddenly, when you take your foot off the gas, he notices. astronomically so.
WORD COUNT 10.2k......uhhh sure?? my bad?
WARNINGS & NOTES fluff, suggestive content and sexual language, no actual smut (would be open to adding maaaybe). self deprecating behavior? first time posting some bucky barnes, surprise? fwb!bucky is very important to me, he's such an idiot. post grad au, everyone’s alive. enjoy???? 18+ mdni.
You've met all kinds of people in your life.
Some are incredibly down to earth, others so shallow the water barely grazes your ankles. A few so detrimentally chatty that you thought their tongue would light on fire as one would light a match, and others so painfully quiet that getting something as simple as their name is comparable to pulling teeth. Once in a blue moon, there's the cocky frat Wall-Street wannabe attempting to pick you up at the bar not suited for such painful small talk, or the girl who drunkenly approaches you in the bathroom complimenting your lip combo and insulting your outfit in the same breath.
But there's no one quite like Bucky Barnes.
On the outside, he's undeniably handsome in a way that turns heads, with a chiseled jaw and bright ceruleans and a smile that could bloom wilted flowers. Not only that, but the deep baritone of his voice simply compliments his looks, laced with a honey cadence that makes you weak in the knees, even if he's saying the most vulgar shit to ever grace planet earth. Dimples indent deep whenever he smiles, creases the corners of his mouth and around his eyes when he laughs, almost another pretty sound.
Yet on the inside — past all the handsome and picturesque physique — there's a sense of rawness to him you've yet to crack.
You've seen glimpses of it, of him, taking in the way he can go from joking in a sense of self deprecation to contemplating the foundation of the universe within a five minute span. He's smarter than he lets on, and way more interesting than simply a pretty face and nearly picture perfect body. One time, he let it slip how obsessed he is with The Hobbit, and you've never been able to see him in the same light since, knowing underneath all those muscles and incessant fuck-boy flirtatious tactics there's a dormant nerd.
It...also doesn't help that he says the most gut-wrenching things in bed as if you were ever his to begin with.
Sometimes you forget you aren't his. Especially when he praises how pretty you look with his cock in your mouth or how you're taking him so well from the back, side, top, any angle possible. It only gets worse after you both finish (yes, he makes you finish. It's impossible to stop sleeping with him) and you're tangled together under his sheets that seem to now smell of you, one of his hands tracing shapes on your vertebrae and the other tangled in your hair, talking about things you wouldn't even confess to a journal. Not the dirty shit. The real shit. The I'm borderline having an existential crisis and simply need to talk out my hopes and dreams and fears and nightmares without anything getting fixes shit. The I just learned about the Fourth Turning and need someone to contemplate the universe with shit. The shit that normal friends with benefits don't engage in.
The whole friends with benefits ordeal happened merely by accident. All your friends had coupled-up by the end of the night, leaving you and Bucky to twiddle your thumbs and keep up your playful banter as long as you could to avoid the obvious seventh wheeling (eight?). Yet, one thing led to another (i.e. a guy approaching you and asking you to dance, and when you realize just how fucking awful he was, you simply sunk your talons into Bucky's bicep and said you had a boyfriend. Not that Bucky minded. At all. Because he almost missed your words because of how hyper-fixated he was on how nice it felt to touch you. For you to touch him? Semantics.). Regardless, you kept up the little act within your foreplay, and somehow found yourself tumbling into his bed.
Over, and over, and over.
And for a while, you thought he liked you, too. You also assumed he got the same kind of butterflies you did whenever you were in the same room. You figured you weren't just any hookup, especially when you've spent more time knowing the inner workings of his brain than you have his body. It almost seemed correct to assume you were friends, at that, who respected each other, who respected the deal you both had.
That is — until you see him getting a little too close with a strawberry blonde you've never seen before in the middle of a packed bar as if he doesn't give less of a fuck about your 'supposed' connection.
But it's actually fine. It is. It has to be.
Because you're not his, you remind yourself over and over, mumbled from chapped lips like a prayer and reiterated in your hurting mind like a mantra, something you're forcing yourself to believe. You down your drink, all hopes of getting laid tonight flying out the window, ignoring the sorrowful looks from Steve, Natasha and Sam, because they know you'll do nothing. Say nothing. And instead close yourself off to shield the last ounce of dignity you have left.
"You wanna leave?" Natasha asks you after another ten minutes of turning your back to Bucky and his new fling, almost forcefully manifesting the saying whatever is behind you is beneath you type bullshit.
But you shake your head, sending her a smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes and doing your best to remain indifferent, because if you don't, it literally will kill you. Besides, he's never actually expressed an interest in being with you and you've never brought it up as a possible next step. So who are you to get upset?
You blink away the image of him and someone else out of your mind.
"Nah. I'll get another drink, though."
And that's what you do... You move on. Or at least go through the motions of doing so. Your friends stay stagnant for one, two beats before shrugging at your nonchalance, knowing they're not getting any sort of intel on your feelings tonight even though they can already tell how you feel. Washed up. Replaceable. Not special in the slightest.
Especially when the thought of being with another guy physically makes you sick.
Because you're too burnt out to be doing this will they won't they shit with him anymore. You hang out. You fuck. You pillow-talk like your lives depend on it. You go about the next day hanging out with all your friends and dismissing the fact you know everything about him, down to the name of his childhood pet to his greatest regret. The two of you converse in front of your friends as normal, civil people do, ignoring the fact you let him hit it raw a mere twelve hours ago. You think you love him, you'd be stupid not to, and that's the part that makes your heart ache more than anything.
You smell his cologne before you feel his presence.
"Hey."
Suddenly, the culprit is brushing your shoulder as he nudges towards the bar, murmuring a quiet, personal greeting to you before addressing the group.
"Christ. That was brutal. Did I miss anything good?"
You stiffen — only slightly, barely noticeable — as he stands arm-to-arm with you, pressing your lips shut as Steve, ever the savior, clears his throat to mediate the tension of the moment. Whether Bucky's aware of the clear apprehension of his friends towards him in this given moment, he doesn't seem to notice, too focused on being back with his group and how your perfume smells like absolute heaven, how nice it is to have you brushing your arm with his.
"No, Buck," Steve answers smoothly, bringing his beer up to his lips. "Unless you count the fact that Sam ate shit on the dancefloor twenty minutes ago and ruined his jeans."
"They're Levi's!" Sam's voice comes from above the music.
And suddenly you're all back in the same rhythm. Joking, laughing, reminiscing over anecdotes that happened ages ago and sharing drinks and shots as if you're back in college again. You nearly lose the image of Bucky with the girl from before, solely focused on how beautiful it is to be out with your friends on such a nice night, all together and happy and enjoying yourselves.
It’s light. Easy. Fun. In fact, it’s so fun that you nearly miss that Bucky’s hand has been pressed against the small of your back for the betterment of a half hour. Light yet firm. Casual but possessive. Cool despite the fire burning in your chest.
You subtly shake it off when you leave briefly to grab another drink, and when you settle back in your spot with a considerable amount of distance between you and him (i.e. not touching arms anymore, practically continents away), he doesn’t put his hand back, instead keeping it polite at his side for the rest of the night, almost as if he noticed his handsy nature and reeled it in.
That is, when Sam is ranting on and on about some nim-wit coworker in his department, you feel a gentle nudge on your arm.
You look up to the left to see Bucky already staring at you. Intent. Soft. Something else behind his eyes that you can't seem to recognize, and you're not really sure that you want to.
"You wanna get out of here soon?" Bucky asks softly, a tone just reserved for you.
And as much as you want to say yes to that, as much as your body wants you to say yes to that, your mind betrays you. It replays the image of him and the strawberry blonde, and it seems to solely remember his face, blue eyes blown black with lust and that half smirk he has when he's trying to pull, when he's flirting. It remembers his hands on her waist, polite yet implying something further, and even if you never saw them kissing, it still fucking hurts.
So you protect your peace.
"I'm actually gonna stay for a while."
You don't miss the way his brows shoot up in surprise, as you've never really turned down his wanna get out of here one-liners before, not that they're even a flirting method. But you stand your ground, sending him an easy smile before turning back to the group, tuning back into Sam's story and even laughing along when it's needed. In the corner of your eye, you see Bucky shrug at your casual brush off, probably thinking nothing of it and assuming you'll be in his bed tomorrow night instead.
Whatever. Water under the bridge, right?
Especially when you give him the same side-hug you give all your friends when you all catch your separate cabs back to your respective homes, not giving him an ounce of special attention he's used to. Especially when you dodge his second attempt to bring you back home with him, blaming your lack of sleep and busy upcoming day. Bucky doesn't argue and lets you leave, but not without a five second are you actually being serious stare as all of your friends have already left.
"You're actually going home?" He asks incredulously as he watches you hail a cab, ego half bruised and half aching with something he isn't ready to confront. "What about last night?"
Your eyes don't leave the road.
"What about it?"
Bucky blinks stupidly at your profile, confused why you aren't looking at him.
"You said you'd come over again tonight."
"Didn't think I'd be this tired."
“We can just go to sleep.”
You pause, heart aching. Stop making this difficult, you think bitterly. Of course you want to be with him. Stay with him. Allow yourself to fully indulge in your feelings for him. But not when he’s had his hands on another merely hours ago, not when it’s all you can see burned fresh in your mind, embers still catching. You know the outcome. You know if you spend the night, you’ll initiate something your heart desires and mind despises. You know yourself too well.
“Bucky,” you sigh, half amused, half exasperated. “You and I both know that’s not gonna happen.”
A beat.
You change the subject before he can protest. "I'll see you this weekend for Steve's movie night, yeah?"
That's when you turn and flash him a warm smile, one that says everything is fine, nothing's unusual. You ignore his pinched brow and head tilt, probably more confused than ever. But he doesn't linger on it, instead blinking and nodding slowly, as if he wants to argue with it but knows better than to confront whatever weird fluttering his heart is doing the more he looks at you.
"Yeah," he says eventually. "Alright."
Finally, a car approaches the curb and you nearly sigh out of relief, not bothering to try and save yourself further as you move to leave. You opt for a polite wave, get in your cab, and force yourself to not turn around and watch him get smaller and smaller as he stands dumbfounded on the curb.
So, in a feeble attempt to be dignified, you simply pull back.
Not loudly, or explicitly, or anything synonymous to drama. It's quiet, calculated, nonchalant. On nights he texts you at an ungodly hour, you're pretending you slept through the fuck-sesh window. When your friend group gets together, you're sticking with Nat and conversing with him when it's convenient. When he shows up to Sam's birthday celebration with the intention of spending the night with you after, you disappear with Wanda before the final goodbyes and smoke a joint for a little too long on the fire escape.
If he wants to treat your connection as something casual, as something he does with the other girls he may bring into his bed, then you want no part of it.
You work later hours. You pick up hobbies to distract yourself from the incessant buzzing of your phone on the kitchen island. You cling to Natasha and Wanda and lean on your support systems. Does part of you miss him? Oh, absolutely. All the time. He’s been your friend longer than most. He’s helped you through your worst and lifted you up at your best. You’ve been platonic. You’ve been lovers. You’ve been strangers. You’ll always love him, regardless of the emotional toll this situationship is taking on your heart, because he was your friend first. A good one, at that.
But you're smarter than this, smarter than letting yourself get strung along by a man who won't put you first, a guy who will make you say you’re his when he’s buried to the hilt inside you, only to spin around and go on a coffee date with a girl from work the next morning, a guy who seems to be dangling the possibility of a relationship on a fish hook right in front of your face, even if he doesn’t realize he’s doing it or not, a guy who is — undoubtedly — the best lay of your sexual career.
(Though you’d rather die than admit that to anyone).
The next time you see him, it's for another one of Tony's charity benefits.
Turns out that when his father left his multi-billion dollar company and said go nuts, Tony didn't take that as a joke. A fairly large portion of the funds go towards these charity events. Another big chunk to his progressive research. Parts to mainly force all of his friends to look nice and be in one place for the night, promising an open bar and free range of the liquor cabinet on the outdoor rooftop patio, to which you and none of your friends can resist in the slightest. Besides, it's a nice excuse to put on a pretty dress and stand in the corner with Natasha and Wanda and viscerally judge everyone's outfits and guess which trophy wives are cheating on their old, wrinkled creeps of husbands.
Tonight you opted for simple, not necessarily in the mood for an over the top get-up. The dress is floor length, hugging your body in the places that make you feel confident while giving you space to breathe all the same, with an open back that dips low, exposing everything down to the base of your spine.
Not that it matters, anyway, because you've been standing with your back against the outdoor concrete walls nursing a now-luke-warm champagne flute, studying the partygoers and trying your best not to bleed green as you watch all your friends break off with their partners, dancing intimately and smiling and looking so disgustingly (and endearingly) in love that you have half a mind to chug the rest of your drink. You politely declined a handsome man's earlier request to share a dance, mind stuck somewhere else. Particularly on someone else.
And — perfect timing — because suddenly, he's leaning his back against the wall next to you.
"Oh my god," he mutters irritably, bumping your shoulder. "That girl from the copy desk would not stop talking."
You ignore the way your heart lurches. "The one who laughs like a dj board or the one who always has lipstick on her teeth?"
He hums amusingly. "No, the other other one. The blonde who's all legs."
Riiiiight. There's no way he's not going to have women approach him all night looking this dangerous, like straight out of a model's fantasy. Or have him approach women. You don't want to think about the semantics of it all.
"Oh," you murmur.
"Yeah," he responds, missing the way your voice gets quiet. "She was explaining her astronaut calendar to me, or something. Honestly, she lost me after she starting talking about dinosaurs."
Bucky sighs like he's had a long day at work, plucking the champagne flute out of your hands like second nature and downing the drink in one go, missing the way your brows furrow and the gears turn in your brain at his last sentence. You sneak a side eye to him, really trying to ignore how beautiful he looks: tie a bit loosened, cheeks flushed, still ridiculously handsome in the all-black suit, not noticing your confusion in the slightest.
"...What are you saying to me right now?"
"Sweet girl, your guess is as good as mine."
"Do you mean...astrology chart?"
"Sure?"
"And Sagittarius?"
"Is that the one with the really long neck? You know, the herbivore?"
You blink at him. "Bucky, that's a star sign. She was telling you about zodiacs."
All he does is stare back at you, a smirk tugging the ends of his lips to mask his confusion. It's clear he's had a flute or two or three, because suddenly his eyes soften as he takes in your appearance: a near-scowl on your face as you hide the best feature of your dress — the open back — scanning the crowd like it's done something to personally offend you. You look like an angry, beautiful fairy. He's decided you've never looked more ethereal in his life.
Suddenly his smirk grows into a grin.
You ignore how it makes your heart lurch. "You do know what zodiacs are, right?"
"Yeah, sure," he says distractedly. Then, "You look beautiful tonight."
You suck in a harsh breath, caught off guard immediately.
All the responses you had in your head suddenly dissipate, evaporate into thin air as you come up blank in how to react, what to say, how to feel. On one hand, your chest constricts at the casual intimacy of it, how he's looking you up and down not lustfully, but in admiration, like you're a portrait in a museum he's been waiting in line all day to catch a glimpse at. On the other hand, you assume that's his opening liner to all the women he's conversed with tonight.
The expression on your face must not be what he was expecting, because his grin slowly morphs into a softer one, brows furrowing in confusion. That's never not worked on you before, as you'll usually quip something playful back at him or compliment him too or try and suppress a smile to appear indifferent. But now you just...don't give him anything besides something that resembles hurt. And, oh, he notices. It kills him.
"What?" He asks quietly, nervously smiling. "Should I have bought you a drink first?"
You attempt to laugh at the joke, but it comes out as a short exhale, not even sure what kind of response you're trying to give him.
"Or..." Bucky trails off, softer. "...asked you to dance?"
Your knees nearly buckle.
"I'm not—" You swallow thickly. "I don't really dance."
He shrugs, not seeing the problem. "Me neither."
"I'd step on your feet."
"I wouldn't mind."
"My stiletto could puncture your toe."
"Is it made of steel?"
"It could be. You never know with shoe manufacturers, these days."
"Sweet girl." A warning.
You suck in another particularly harsh breath, not sure on why he's so adamant on the matter at all. Doesn't he have at least five other girls he could've asked in the time span he's spent trying to get you to say yes? What about the astrology blonde? She'd definitely keep him company, and not only that, she'd keep him entertained, that's for sure.
Because you know if you dance with him now, you'll never get over him, never get over how good it feels to be touched by him, held by him. You need to stay dignified. Stay true to your wordless promise. Keep your distance, protect your heart.
You're about to let him down easy. "Bucky—"
But fate decides to enter the scene like a modern day Superman. And she looks killer with bright red hair and a low cut dress that's comparable to sin.
Natasha pokes her head onto the rooftop, swaying only slightly given all the drinks her and Steve have been pounding all night. When her eyes land on you, they brighten along with a beautiful grin that immediately gives away her elatedness to see you, pointing at you so staggered that the champagne nearly flies out of her flute.
"There you are," she hisses quietly, pearly whites on display. "C'mon, the timeshare guy's wife is about to fuck the bar back. Are you coming or not?"
Your eyes dart between her and Bucky, who is solely amusingly looking at you and waiting for you to make your decision. Yet something catches your eye just over his shoulder: a sliver of beach blonde hair staring at his back, wringing her fingers together as she patiently waits for her time slot with Bucky to open back up. You recognize her from the copy desk, and especially recognize her from Bucky's story from earlier as you can faintly make out a Libra necklace from all the way over here.
So you sheepishly smile up at him. "Raincheck?"
It doesn't look like he wants to take a raincheck. Not in the slightest. But, nonetheless, he nods and smiles gently back at you, a look seemingly reserved for you. He ignores Natasha's incessant prompting for you to hurry up, not taking his eyes off of you while you walk past him and slip back into the ballroom. Bucky's eyes slide down the slope of your exposed back, watching you weave in and out of the crowd with Natasha firmly holding your hand, wishing it was him holding you instead.
He doesn't see you for the rest of the night.
And, later, after your little adventure with Natasha, you poke your head back to peer out onto the rooftop, seeing a very familiar broad backed brunette talking to an overly annunciated blonde.
You don't stay much longer after that.
It isn't until now, three weeks into your internal giving your heart space entourage, when you see a text pop up.
You're sitting comfortably on your couch, half an edible deep with your laptop open idly on the side with today's crossword and a mindless reality show playing softly on the TV. A nearly full glass of wine is perched pretty on the coffee table, as well as a bowl of popcorn you never touched. Wanda left a half hour ago to spend the night at Viz's down a few blocks. Now, left to your own devices, you figure you'll take advantage of the night of solace after three weeks of working late and burying yourself in papers and projects in a feeble attempt to silence the way your heart is screaming for love.
Like an idiot, you check your phone.
Bucky: Sweetheart, when can I come see you?
The words sit like a rock in your gut, and suddenly being crossed off a gummy and a few glasses of wine doesn't seem very fun anymore.
Because the whole point of detaching yourself from the friends with benefits was to get him off your radar. It was to simply keep the friends title and drop the with benefits bit, since it's not like you don't want him in your life anymore, because you'll always want him in your life. But just not in a context where he constantly strings you along emotionally. That's all. Nothing more to it. You need to remind yourself he only wants sex, he only wants your mouth, he only wants your hands, he only wants the parts of you that serve as a convenience to get him off. It has to be.
Your thumbs move before you can stop them.
You: Hey, B. Not tonight.
Staring at your response, a kettlebell settles in your gut, absolutely wrecked and also relieved and also sick to your stomach knowing what you're typing next.
Almost immediately, you follow up.
You: Been meaning to text you for a while. I've got a lot going on and don't have the time anymore to be missing around. So. You can take me off the roster.
Send. Oof. Put the phone on silent, turn it face down on the couch, and pretend it didn't carry an astronomical amount of emotional turmoil that's borderline making you go into cardiac arrest. Take a sip (chug) of wine. Grab a handful of popcorn and ignore your shaking hands. Attempt to mindlessly finish the crossword you started and tune one ear into the soap operatic drama displaying on the television. Refrain from checking your phone with all the strength you can muster. Because it’s not a big deal. At all.
Right?
You fall asleep like this: curled up on the couch, clutching a throw pillow as if it’ll float away if you let go, the mindless tv playing low in the background mixed with the soft sounds of your even breathing. Tears never came, why would they? You know what you’re doing, you’ve known for weeks what the end game was, and you finally cut the string, no longer a puppet to the show of love. It’s agonizing. It’s freeing. It’s lonely.
In the midst of your sleep, you miss the string of notifications that immediately follow your message.
Bucky: Wait what
1 Missed Call From: Bucky
Bucky: Roster?
Bucky: Sweetheart
2 Missed Calls From: Bucky
Bucky: You can't say shit like that and then put your phone on do not disturb.
3 Missed Calls From: Bucky
Bucky: If this is what you want, then that's fine. Can we at least talk about it?
When you wake the next morning, you don't reply.
You're actually having the worst day to grace the planet.
The subway was late — what else is new — and by the time you got to work, your heels already started burning blisters into your feet. Your coffee order was wrong, still drinkable, but wrong, and it simply wasn't worth it to jump back into the ten minute line for a minor change. The projects you've been working on need to essentially be redone since another department you've been partnered with decided to send you a new list of completely different numbers than what you've been working with. You were originally supposed to go home at six. It's nearly eleven.
It's just been long. Mentally. Physically. You can't even bring yourself to emotionally bring up the past few weeks of ignoring Bucky. It's all too much, and all you can do at this point is attempt to turn your brain off as much as you can so you can actually sleep tonight. You hope the late night walk home will give you a sense of fresh air and clarity. It doesn't do much, but it helps you unwind slightly.
But of course things can't be good for too long.
Because when you get back to your apartment, Bucky's leaning patiently against your door.
You freeze in the hallway, and the sound of your heels skidding to a stop makes him look up, eyes burdened with something raw and upsetting that it makes your heart flutter. He stands a little straighter, perhaps trying to mask the fact that he's been waiting here for hours without complaints, simply holding onto the mere fact that he has to talk to you, get a gauge on your feelings, because you've been practically radio silent. And it's killing him.
The two of you stare at each other for a few beats, almost surprised to see each other. He, surprised to see you still in your work clothes and heels, and you, surprised to even be seeing him at all. You never thought he'd actually come here and confront you in person, yet you can't necessarily blame him as you've been dodging his messages and treating him as if nothing's wrong in social gatherings.
"Hey," you say eventually, drawing it out in skepticism.
"Hi," he breathes out quietly, voice light. "Are you— Were you working?"
You take a cautious two steps forward, fishing through your bag to find your keys. "Yeah, been stupid busy lately."
When you move to unlock the door, he steps to the side to let you do so, and it takes everything in you to focus on the task at hand yet it's proving increasingly difficult when his cologne gives you a sense of nostalgia you didn't even know you missed. It's like grieving an ex you never had. You were never his. He was never yours. Get a grip.
"I've noticed," he says after a minute.
The door creaks open gently, and you pause for a moment, internally deciding if you want to let him in or not. Part of you knows what will happen if you let him in, physically and mentally, and the thought of rehashing it right here, right now, almost makes you sick to your stomach. You're too tired, too burnt out to even think about what to eat for dinner, too exhausted in every single way possible.
Bucky notices your apprehension immediately. "You alright?"
Well. That's a loaded question if you've ever heard one. How much time does he have?
You decide to play it safe.
"Just exhausted. Is there— Did you need something?"
Bucky's mouth opens and closes, especially when you peer up at him and he notices just how fucking tired you are. All the words he's been dying to say rise and dissipate in his throat, nearly shocked from your appearance. He wants to say something, to say anything, to help you get ready for bed and tuck you in and let you fall asleep in his arms.
But he can't. Not when he can tell some of your exhaustion is from him.
"I— Uh, I just wanted to talk," he murmurs sheepishly. "But it can wait."
You frown, not expecting that. "You sure?"
Then he smiles. It doesn't quite reach his eyes, but he smiles nonetheless. Soft. Reserved for you. Understanding.
"Yes, sweetheart," he reassures gently, nodding towards your apartment. "Get some rest. We'll talk later, okay?"
You ignore the way your heart lurches at the pet name, how selfish he is to say it as if he ever had the right, how wanted it makes you feel. Like you’re his. Claimed. Taken. Yearned for. It’s awful. It’s beautiful. You want to throw up and also feel his arms bear wrapped around you. You want him to call you that forever yet never again. Not if you aren’t his.
"Okay." You find yourself murmuring sleepily. "Goodnight, Bucky."
The last thing you hear is a soft hum behind you when you step into your apartment, send him a tired, apologetic smile, and shut the door. The only image in your head when you're going to bed later that night is how pretty he looked standing in that hallway.
"Have you always been this prone to self sabotaging or am I blind?'
"Natasha, I'm seconds away from flying all the way to San Diego just to kick your ass."
"I'd like to see you try."
You roll your eyes as you prop your phone between your ear and your shoulder, thinly slicing eggplant to meal prep for the work week ahead. Do you want to forget all about being a responsible adult and simply rot on the couch until it's time to go to bed? Absolutely. Have you been slacking on being a real adult lately? Also absolutely. Between work and doing your best to stay busy nearly all the time, you're forgetting to take care of yourself. So, exhibit A: making actual meals for the week instead of relying on foods primarily stuffed with GMOs.
Natasha and Steve are on their annual west coast voyage, but your best friend always finds time to carve you into her schedule. Granted, they're in their siesta hours at the moment, as you can hear Steve gently snoring in the background as she yaps to you, not even caring about her boyfriend finding any peace and quiet to sleep.
You don't mind the company in the slightest, even if it is virtual.
"Seriously, though," she adds after a moment of laughter, tone dropping with an edge of seriousness. "You really should talk to him at some point instead of avoiding him like the plague."
Huffing, you slice an eggplant particularly aggressively.
"Yeah, I'm okay."
"You know I'm all for hating on men."
"Of course."
"But—“
"Natasha—“
"This is Bucky we're talking about," Natasha says almost incredulously, as if him as a person is an excuse in itself. "Yeah, he's one of the biggest idiots I know, and I know a lot of them, but he's not a bad guy. You and I both know he cares about you more than the rest of us, whether you want to accept that or not."
Another harsh slice. Channeling your frustration out on a poor eggplant who did nothing to you.
Sighing clear into the microphone, you relent. "I don't even know where I would start besides standing there like an idiot."
"You could be sitting."
"What would I even say to him?" You say, exasperated and ignoring her smart-ass-itry.
"Maybe, 'hey, sorry for ghosting you for the past month but I am experiencing an influx of emotional volatility at the moment and can't process my feelings for you.' Something along those lines."
"Really?"
She snorts. "The truth would be a good start, no?"
You pause, chopping movements halting as you stare off into space, pondering the simple concept of talking to him. Blabbing your incoherent feelings to him. Letting him in with the possibility of being shut out. You'd think that would be the reasonable course of action as a responsible adult, but you never said you were one. Part of you wants this to fizzle out as quietly as possible, to let your feelings subside like the tide and strictly go back to being friends without any of the weirdness. However, you know that can't slide, not with a guy like Bucky who has no concept of letting bygones be bygones.
Granted, you haven't really been playing fair by dodging every single one of his attempts to clear the air, opting for the safe excuse of being too tired or working or anything synonymous to that. And he's been respectful enough, even though you can tell he's been itching to push you into a conversation. He keeps a distance. Approaches when it's right, not forced, only to be shut down all the same. You know it isn't fair. At all. But your heart can't handle that right now.
"Later," you say simply.
Natasha sighs over the phone, but drops the topic for now.
“I’ll be asking again later," she grumbles. "Anyway, do you remember that old Cape sweatshirt you bitched and moaned about losing like three months ago? Viz said he found it in his closet with Wanda's stuff."
You hum cheerily. "No shit? I thought Yelena accidentally donated it?"
She snorts at the mention of her sister. "Apparently not."
"That'll give me an excuse to leave the apartment."
"Oh, actually you don't have to," Steve pipes up in the background, suddenly awake and alert and interjecting so casually it shocks you. "I asked Bucky to drop that off to you tonight. You're home, right?"
You stop slicing immediately.
"What?"
"Yeah, I texted him like thirty minutes ago," he adds nonchalantly. "He should've been there by now."
Your veins turn to ice. "I thought you were fucking asleep?"
"Why would I be asleep?"
"I heard you snoring."
"Oh," Natasha hums. "That's just his deviated septum."
Steve mimics the noise, instigating further by almost sounding like he had no idea. "Oh, yeah, that explains it."
The knife clatters to the cutting board as you sigh gutturally deep, the sound coming deep from your soul as your irritation skyrockets to amounts unknown. Your friends fully know what they were doing, and you can't even pride them on the setup since they got you right where they want you. You can picture them right now: sitting snug in their hotel bed, suppressing shit eating grins and probably quietly celebrating their successful mission of trapping your situationship back at your apartment. Fool proof.
As if things couldn't get worse, three soft knocks rasp against your apartment door, sending your blood pressure to numbers a doctor would faint at.
“Wonder who that is,” Steve ponders innocently.
You shake your head, knowing you're not getting out of this one.
"You guys fucking suck," is all you meekly respond with.
Natasha snorts. “I hope you shaved your—“
You hang up immediately.
Sighing, you throw your phone face down on the counter and forget all about the boiling food you have on the stove, thoughts instead filling with the man on the other side of the door, who no doubt wants to continue the conversation he tried to start last week.
That was until you practically slammed the door in his face and continued to ghost him into oblivion.
Your feet move before your mind can process it, shifting your body towards the door. A sweaty palm hovers over the knob, almost shaking with the anticipation of seeing his pretty blues up close again, of being in the vicinity where you can smell his cologne and resist the urge to pull the loose threads of his sweaters since he always forgets to. Who knows — maybe he’ll just hand you the piece of clothing and leave. Respect your space. Space that you aren’t even sure you want anymore.
Because truth be told: you fucking miss him. More than you’d like to admit.
You miss his hands that often held your trembling ones. You miss the way his laugh reverberates a room. You miss the way he was so eager to please and made you feel so fucking good every. Single. Time. Like you were the only person on earth worth paying attention to. Like you hung the stars yourself. Like he loved you.
Suddenly, you’re whipping the door open (frankly to avoid hanging onto that last thought that will — no doubt — make you spiral if you dwindle on it).
And there he is.
Bucky Barnes stands tall, shifting his weight between feet and cradling the sweatshirt as if it’ll shatter into a million pieces. His hair is lightly askew, hoodie a bit mussed, as if he’d thrown it on in a rush, yet he looks handsome all the same. His bright blue eyes lock on you immediately, almost surprised at the speed at which you opened the door. But they soften immediately at the sight of you, nearly relieved that you’re giving him some sort of time of the day.
And your heart races. Instantly. Muscles frozen in place as you stare right back at him, ignoring the sizzling from the stove and trying to swallow the giant lump in your throat. No words come. Absolutely nothing. The only thing that you can coherently conclude is how handsome he looks like this: casual, soft, domestic. It’s not fair.
“Hey,” he greets gently. “Delivery for the prettiest girl on the planet?”
“She’s on sabbatical,” you deadpan.
Bucky’s lips twitch as he rolls his eyes playfully. “Steve told you I was dropping by?”
Only forty seconds ago, you think bitterly.
Instead, you nod. “Yeah, he might’ve mentioned it.”
Bucky hums amusingly. “Hope my delivery skills are up to par.”
“Debatable,” you respond pointedly.
Bucky stares at you quietly for a beat. Two. Three. Studying your expression and taking in all your pretty while he still has the chance.
It makes you squirm.
You hand your arm out, palm upturned in anticipation.
“Uh, the sweatsh—“
Suddenly, the smell of fresh burning fills your nostrils, and you whip your head towards the culprit — your kitchen — and forget all about the man standing in front of you, cursing loudly under your breath and dashing to the stove. The batch of three eggplant slices you’d been frying are indefinitely inedible, charred to black and wasted. So much for trying to be a responsible, independent, slightly put together adult.
You wave your arm above the stove, moving the pan off the burner and shut everything off as you see Bucky in your peripheral cautiously enter your apartment, shutting the door gently behind him with the sweatshirt still sitting idly in his hands.
“Motherfucker,” you hiss with annoyance, sighing through your nose, suddenly overwhelmed with his presence lingering in your kitchen. “Uh, you can leave it on the barstool. I’ll rate you five stars, or whatever.”
When you don’t hear an immediate response, you pause your movements of waving the light smoke out of your face, dropping your arm at your side to glance at him. Bucky simply stands, watching you intently. Half amused. Half with a look in his eye that makes your heart flutter uncomfortably. A look you don’t want to begin to decipher, only knowing it’ll hurt your soul in the long run.
Blue eyes bore into yours. As if he’s not interested in looking at anyone else ever again.
“Are you gonna—“
“You look pretty.”
The words die in your throat, actually more like violently sucked out of you at the sincerity of his tone, as you open and close your mouth, agape like a fish. You blink stupidly, hating the way your heartbeat is utterly erratic just from a simple sentence. And whether he means it or not, it makes you a fucking mess of emotions anyway. Regardless if he’s just saying it to be back in your good graces, or if it’s true.
You can’t dwell on the semantics.
All you can do is shut your eyes and sigh quietly. “Bucky…”
“Sweetheart, when are we gonna talk about this?”
You dare to peek your eyes open, taking in his intent expression, almost desperate, as he darts his gaze between your eyes. Flustered, you shift weight between feet, feeling your face flush and palms immediately grow warm. Half of you wants to say forget it and jump into his arms, forget all about your hurt and push it down and pray it goes away. The other half stands dignified.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” you defend meekly.
“I would completely beg to differ.”
Your eyes drift down, locking on his hands as you can’t even bring yourself to look at him in his pretty blues. “We were sleeping together. Now we’re not. Not sure what you want me to say.”
Bucky snorts devoid of humor. “How about an explanation, to start?”
“I’m too busy.”
“I’ll make time for you.”
“That’s not the point.”
“How?”
You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose. “Bucky—“
But he doesn’t let you get far. “I’m serious. I’ll work around your schedule,” he says casually, as if it’s the easiest solution in the world.
“That’s inconvenient,” you defend weakly.
“That’s called problem solving,” he corrects pointedly.
You nearly scream in frustration, because you knew you’d have some sort of pushback with this, especially with the world’s most stubborn man to ever grace the earth. When he’s set on something — or in this case, someone — it’s nearly impossible for him to back down, to concede into neutral territory and go with the flow. It’s not that he doesn’t see it, in fact he’s fully aware of his ability to argue with a brick wall if it looked at him funny. He uses it to his advantage, like right now.
The other part of you wants to scream in terms of the emotional intensity of it all. Why does he care so much? Why is he blindly opting to carve a chunk of his time and effort out of his day solely for you? When all it’s ever been between you two was casual intimacy? Why is he offering the choice as if it’s the simplest solution, as if it isn’t the most inconvenient option.
Bucky notices your silence immediately, and decides to fill it. “There’s no way I’m gonna just stop seeing you, sweetheart.”
“Don’t—“ You say before you can stop yourself, aching. “Don’t say that.”
“Say what? That I care about you?”
God, he’s not fucking getting it.
You shake your head, exasperated.
“No, the whole sweetheart, baby, sweet girl bullshit,” you sigh tiredly, not even caring about holding back anymore. “I’m not your sweetheart, I’m not your sweet girl, I’m not yours, Bucky. Never have been.”
His jaw slacks.
Despite the way your skin feels like it’s on fire and that your heart is beating so erratically it’d make a cardiologist faint.
“And it’s—it’s fine,” you pointedly admit. “Really. But it’s confusing, and it drives me fucking crazy, and I need space. That’s all.”
Silence engulfs the room.
Bucky simply just…stares at you. Half in awe and half something you can’t pinpoint, as if the gears are turning in his head and he’s understanding your frustration, the reason for your distance, your coldness towards him. It wasn’t out of dislike or disinterest. No. It’s the opposite. You care too much. Feel too much. Felt that you needed to separate to shield your heart, protect your peace, put yourself first.
It’s almost as if the expression happens in slow motion. Because his look of shock and confusion morphs into understanding, almost relief. A noticeable tension releases from his shoulders as he puts two and two together, gaze softening so disgustingly endearing that you swallow thickly. There’s the truth. Floating in the air. Coming to bite you in the ass, as you presume he’s figuring out an easy way to let you down gently.
God, why is he looking at you like that?
“When you texted me,” he starts slowly, calculated. “I had no fucking idea what you were talking about.”
You blink at him.
He continues. “That was the first time I’d heard about a supposed roster. Didn’t even know I had one. Didn’t know that was the impression you had of me.”
A wave of guilt washes over you. “Bucky—“
“Sweet girl—“ He interrupts softly, almost in a gentle warning to let him finish. “I don’t know where you got that from, but there was never anything like that. No one else I was even thinking about.”
The confession makes your blood run cold.
“But— But that girl from the bar,” you defend meekly. “Or the blonde from Tony's party. The girl who’s all legs, remember? You’ve been seeing other people, and, again, that’s fine—“
He grimaces at the mentions of both women, the blonde he really wasn't listening to in the slightest and the redhead from that night at the bar, the night you started distancing yourself from him. He remembers it perfectly: how you leaned away from his touch, dodged his invitations, looked at him like he was everybody else, like he wasn’t special anymore.
Now it makes sense. Total sense. You saw him practically cuddled up — well, if you were any closer, you’d see his clear apprehension and gentle rejections — with a random girl as if it was just another average night. And then cozied up with the blonde at Tony’s gala (not really by his choice). No one to be tied down to. As if you weren’t the only thing on his mind for the entirety of each confrontation. The way you subtly swerved him both nights made his stomach twist so uncomfortably that he felt sick for days after, not understanding your sudden cold — luke warm? — shoulder.
But now he sees it, he sees you. And it gives him all the confirmation he needs to speak carefully. Tread lightly. Let it all out.
“The night at the bar, that was Mariah.” Then, after a moment, adds, “Um, Madison? Something like that. One of my sister’s friends who always got a little too close, you know?”
Heart thumping, you nod slowly. Cautiously. Not trying to appear as though the mere thought of him talking with other girls makes your chest do this weird thing where all you can see is green. Jealousy. Possession over a man you aren’t even with. Pathetic. Trying to appear indifferent because you should be indifferent.
He continues. “She kept talking and talking, it was brutal. Couldn’t get out of it. After a second attempt to ask me out, I just… I don’t know.”
Your chest aches. “You what?”
“Pointed at you,” Bucky says. “Told her you were my girlfriend.”
If your eyes widened any more, they’d bulge out of the sockets.
Because what? He didn’t just— He just said— He couldn’t have possibly meant—? No, he just got tired of her asking. That’s it. That has to be it. There’s no way he casually said that without ever being promoted to, it was simply just a ruse to get this girl to back off, that’s all. No further implications. No secret manifesting techniques. Only a way out. An escape.
“She backed off, and all. So did the blonde, I told her the same thing,” Bucky continues casually, as if he didn’t just short circuit your brain with a simple sentence. “The first time I said it, back at the bar, I came back to the group as soon as I could. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”
You dare to bite. “About which part?”
His blue eyes have never been more focused on you. “When I said that to her, it felt… right.”
“Right?”
“Yeah.” Bucky nods, almost a little too quickly. “Real. Forgot it wasn’t true until you went to get another drink.”
“Oh,” is all you can murmur.
“Then I couldn’t stop thinking about if… you know… if we were actually together,” he ponders aloud, spilling his guts with every word. “How nice it’d be to have danced with you. I didn’t realize how much I wanted it to be real until I thought of the possibility.”
The expression on your face must be comedic gold.
“Oh,” you repeat quietly.
“Yeah,” Bucky muses low. “Oh.”
You blink stupidly at him, mouth agape as you take in his words, his confession, especially how sincere he sounds recounting the night. It makes sense: how overtly touchy he was with you right up until you rejected his first attempt to bring you home, and how his hands kept to himself for the rest of the night, how uncharacteristically quiet he was standing broad next to you. You didn’t think about it, about what his interaction with that girl actually could’ve been, and rather jumped to conclusions on what you expected.
In the midst of your self deprecating inner dialogue, you don’t notice Bucky slowly walking towards you, getting closer and closer with each cautious step. When you don’t jerk back or create more space between you, he allows himself to step into your vicinity, now merely a foot away as the sweatshirt he’d need cradling is now forgotten behind him, folded idly on the barstool.
And now — once his cologne has invaded your scent as his pretty blues are suddenly way closer than you remember — you realize just how much distance he squashed in a matter of a few mere steps.
You peer at him, frozen as a statue and confused as an idiot as one of his palms experimentally ghosts over your jaw. When you don’t pull away, he presses it gently against your smooth cheek, burning under his cool skin, and you can’t deny how nice it is to finally feel him again, and you especially can’t deny how pretty he looks like this: lopsided smile and gaze so soft it’d resemble the touch of a warm fire.
“Breathe,” he guides gently.
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. And suddenly it’s alllllll coming out.
“Sorry,” you say immediately, almost panicked. “I just— Phew, okay. You have to know what it looked like. Really. But I shouldn’t have cared because we aren’t together, we never were, and I’m not that kind of person to, like, monitor who you sleep with— You know I’m not like that—“
Bucky’s grin grows.
“I never wanted to make you think I was trying to sink my claws into you, or some bullshit, I don’t know,” you continue your incoherent rambling, missing the way he’s already made up his mind. “I figured you wanted to explore options? Or something like that? So I gave you space. I needed space to… You know... To get…”
When you trail off, Bucky cocks his head to the side, inviting the gentle confrontation.
“To get what, sweet girl?” He coos gingerly, pressing the pad of his thumb near the swell of your bottom lip.
You blink stupidly at him, wide eyed and embarrassed at your incessant rambling. But when he looks at you like this: soft, intent, as if nothing else in the world is even worth glancing at, you let your guard down slightly. For fuck’s sake, he just poured his heart out to you earlier, you know how he feels, where he stands, what’s the reason of holding back? What’s the harm in keeping your feelings to yourself? Especially now when you’ve practically exposed yourself, anyway.
Your mouth moves before your brain can comprehend it.
“To get over you.”
His brows raise, half surprised and half condescending. “You wanted to get over me?”
Swallowing thickly, you nod. “I thought you had a roster.”
“No roster,” he responds immediately. “Just you.”
“Well, I thought you didn’t like me like that.”
“Sweetheart, I love you.”
Your jaw slacks in his hold, and now his palm presses a bit harder, grounding, firmer, all to confirm his feelings, to get you to understand, to feel him. His hands are cool, calm, composed, whereas your skin is on fire, heart thumping a million beats per minute with a shock value so high that your ears might be ringing. They must be. Because you couldn’t have heard him correctly, right? Because he just— he said that he— he lo… he loves—
“Breathe,” he reminds you again, an endearing smile ghosting his pretty lips.
For the second time, you’re letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been keeping in, staring into those pretty blues as they crystalize into yours. His palm holds your jaw in place, secure, as if he has all the time in the world to do so, to be here with you, regardless of all rhyme and reason. The touch is warm, familiar, something you missed a lot more than you'd like to admit, and you can't help but lean into the content, pressing your jaw and cheek further into his hold.
To think he was off sharing an ounce of this bravado with others is almost comical, because Bucky can't recall ever feeling this gravitates towards anyone. You're the first person he thinks of when he wakes up and the last thing he sees before he goes to sleep. After you spend the night, he hopes you'll take one of his hoodies to bring home so that when you give it back to him, it has your scent. When he arrives at any function, you're the first person he's searching for the immediate second he walks through the door.
Because, sure, the two of you have always been friends. Friendly. Comfortable. But the first time you slept together and created your little agreement, Bucky already knew — from that moment forward — that there was absolutely no way he wouldn't fall for you. Fuck, the first night you fell asleep in his arms, he already knew he was in deep, simply because the mere sounds of your syncopated breaths brought him a sense of comfort no one else has ever been able to provide. And that was only the first night. His infatuation for you only augmented after that.
Meanwhile, your brain is slowly starting to work again.
"That's— When did— Are you sure?"
Bucky laughs boyishly, head tipping back and clearly amused with your shock as you stand befuddled. If you weren't so fucking blindsided right now, you'd take the time to appreciate the way the corners of his mouth crease and how his eyes seem to gleam at the mere sight of your slightly panicked demeanor, because how dare he have the audacity to look this handsome right now, especially when he's practically laughing at your self depreciation.
"Because I'm a lot," you continue pointedly, so serious contrary to his jovial nature. "You know that. It's not— Do you know what you're actually signing up for? Genuinely?"
"I've been signed up," he says casually, still coming down from his laughter. When he notices your perplexed expression, he cocks his head to the side. "What? Sweet girl, you must've known."
"How could I possibly have known?"
"I came immediately when we had sex for the first time."
"Well, I thought you were just...excited."
"Tried sleeping with another girl a week later to try and get over you, and said your name when I finished."
"Semantics."
"I measured your ring finger one night while you were sleeping."
The next retort dies in your throat as you quirk a brow at him, and given the way his eyes immediately widen and mouth agapes that he absolutely did not mean to say that. His pretty blues blink at you for one, two beats. You resist the urge to push the hair out of his eyes.
"For science," he adds quickly.
You suppress a grin. "I don't remember you ever having a PhD."
You don't let him respond before you move without thinking, gripping the collar of his hoodie and tugging him taut to you, stealing his breath with a kiss so sudden that he mmrphs low into your mouth, half in surprise and half in need.
His hand cradles your jaw, feeling the movements of your mouth beneath his palm and kissing you back with just as much fervor, if not more. His unoccupied hand takes its rightful place on your waist, pads of his fingertips indenting deep into your skin almost as a wordless claim, a confirmation that this is real, this is happening, you're here in his arms after what feels like forever. You make a noise you didn't even know you had in you — a mix between a sigh and a whine and something else entirely unholy — and Bucky swallows it immediately.
Your hands brace on his chest, palm over his erratic heartbeat and the other trailing down his abdomen, ghosting the waistband of his jeans, an act all too familiar to you. And to him, because he gets the hint immediately.
When he pulls away a fraction, resting his forehead against yours as his chest heaves, you let your heart speak.
"You really love me?"
Bucky responds immediately. "More than anything."
He's so close, so pretty like this. A bit dazed, soft, eyes set only on you and nothing else. Smile lines by the corners of his mouth, his thumb swiping over your bottom lip almost in admiration, his eyes darting at all parts of your face as if he's studying you intently, remembering your features and taking note of how they look in this lighting. As if he wants to remember how you look in every possible way. Just for his own sake, to picture you in his mind when you're not physically with him.
And your heart just...aches.
But in the best way possible, knowing all your worrying and self doubt was for nothing. In the time you spent wondering if you were his, he was already dead-set on being yours. Irrevocably. Occupying so much space in his mind that there wasn't much space for anything else. He loves you. He loves your smile, your laugh, the way you hold him at night and listen to his dreams and nightmares all in same breath, the way you've made him feel important, like he deserves to be happy, like he's a good person. There's no one else on this planet he can say has made him feel like this, already missing you before you've even left and already wondering when he's going to see you next.
"Sweet girl, let me show you, hm?" Bucky asks gently, a tone reserved just for you.
personally i had a really hard time trying to make dividers so i'm making this to hopefully help others who may be having the same problems as me.
1. Programs
i like to use clip studio paint since that is what i have but there are other free options too like: Photopea (free, browser), Canva (free, browser),IBIS Paint (free, ios/android), ect...
2. Canvas Sizes
this is where i struggled the most since it can be hard to judge how something will look in a post vs how it looks when you're making it. i put together some "guideline" dividers so its easier to see how things will look:
^ small divider 2000 x 40px ( good for pixel art )
^ medium divider 2000 x 100px (good for small doodles)
^ large/ medium divider 2000 x 140px (small text and drawings)
^ large divider 3000 x 225px ( good for titles )
obviously you don't have to follow these exactly but they are a good reference for what looks good at different sizes
3. Saving
the way that you save your drawings will affect how they look if you want parts to be "clear/ see through" make sure to save in .png these files may be a little bit bigger but they will keep any transparent parts of your divider / drawing.
^ a good example of this is my star divider
if you're ok with having no transparent parts/ a solid colour, pattern divider you can save in .jpg these files are smaller than .png so are good if you don't have a lot of space on your device.
All of the above "size example" dividers are .jpg so they don't have any transparent parts.
[Side note: if you have transparent parts in your drawing but save it in .jpg they will become white]
i hope that this was a helpful little tutorial, i didn't go through everything but i tried to give some good starting points!
Bruce Wayne's wife leaves everyone a little dizzy, but how could you not when she's so magnetic? Get to know a little about the daily life of Gotham City's hottest couple.
open request - thoughts - bruce masterlist
the bats wife some members of the league are still surprised by the way the Dark Knight's wife looks.
what did you buy? there is a problem in the surveillance system and Bruce isn't responding to the league's messages, so they go looking for him at Wayne Manor.
who did she date with? Batman had to stop a patrol for a meeting at the watchtower and the young Dick Grayson must wait there until his mother comes to get him, but something he heard once makes him start an investigation.
New romantics The press is chasing the alleged new couple everywhere, here are some headlines
your mom is such a mil- You didn't want to attract attention, you just wanted to spend a few minutes with your oldest son.
in all timelines. When the Justice League ends up in another timeline, they wonder what each of their lives will be like, but something surprises and traumatized Barry. (part one)
⤷in all the timelines, or not After passing through the portal to return home, everything apparently worked out fine, apparently... (parte two)
baby on board The entire League is invited to a dinner at Wayne Manor, but no one knows what it's about, so they start plotting until Bruce and you finally announce it.
⤷Why did your dad do that? League members already know the Wayne family is getting bigger soon, but your oldest son's friends are about to find out.
⤷he's such a dilf Bruce's wife is already four months pregnant, and her hormones aren't letting her live in peace. She can't stop seeing her husband for what he is: a hot DILF.
Toji Zen'in x f!reader - physical personal trainer toji x gym receptionist reader
synopsis: just the troubles of marrying to toji zen'in
warnings: none
author note: toji is a zen'in here! first work of mine, hope y'all enjoy it :)
“hey, i’m here for my 3pm pt training with toji zen'n” a squeaky voice came over from the gym counter
Glancing towards the counter for the said voice, you spot a woman aged probably in her mid 20’s suprisingly in an overly-exposed active wear
Nobara, who sat beside you nod her head in acknowledgment, “sure, would you mind waiting for a-bit? he’s currently out right now, he’ll be back in a few minutes”
The woman gave a thumbs up and took a seat at the bench, rolling her eyes
“lately, our gym has been receiving way too many private training sessions with toji. Did he blew up somewhere or something?”
Looking back at the past few weeks, Toji has been fully booked and most of his clients were woman too. Meanwhile the other physical trainers — suguru and satoru, were constantly complaining about the lack of sessions they were getting.
“yeah he blew up. Some lady recommended him on tiktok, and her comment section went wild” megumi came in and pulled up a chair, placing it next to you.
“Here, some takoyaki for you. Pa says he’s gonna be back in a while, blue eyes stopped him for a smoke” megumi said while giving a bite of the takoyaki to you, blowing it off ensuring it wasn’t hot
“hey don’t call him blue eyes, gumi! he’s your godfather” pinching your son cheeks
Marrying Toji Zen'in , wasn’t really for the weak. Sure he looks cold and all, but he’s been a great husband and a father. He’s been married to you for exactly 15 years and you are glad you were blessed with a great family.
You were 20 when a friend of yours invited you over for a group blind date, back then you were against of the idea but left to no choice as you were bribed against your own will.
Looking back, if you hadn’t attended you probably would not be married to Toji. At the age of 22, you were pregnant with megumi, toji refused to let you be alone thus always clinging to you at every possible moment. When megumi was born, toji became devoted to the both of you, always bringing the both of you up in every conversation he had with his colleagues, friends or family.
Cafe recommendations from satoru? Toji took both you and megumi out the next following week. New restaurant just opened? It’s in your dinner plans the next day. Toji has always been showing the love he has for the both of you, be it with gifts or just his existence itself.
Toji clingyness towards you was passed down to Megumi, whenever your husband is out for work, megumi would be a replacement in the household for him. There was even a time when you had been hit on by a random dude in the supermarket, and megumi who was only 7 years old scared the guy off. Megumi has often been called a mama’s boy by his close friends, but he does not really give a shit about it and carries with pride (as what his dad had told him to).
“gumi, arcade tomorrow?” yuji slid a note to his table
“sorry can’t. I’m helping my mum bake a cake”
“tsk.. stop being a mama’s boy” megumi rolled his eyes
Which was why, megumi has decided to get a part time job in the gym you and toji both owned, not leaving you alone at all. If you’re at the counter, he’ll be beside you, helping you in every single matter you had to attend to. Cleaning around the gym? He’s there along with his dad, both helping to do your duty.
The gym was practically owned by toji and satoru, with most of the physical trainers being mutual friends of theirs. Thus why this gym was frequently visited, but toji’s booking has just been booming recently with clients giving a call prebooking him in the next few months.
*beep* reaching out to your phone, toji had just texted you and you let out a slight laugh and showed the conversation to megumi, “look at your dad..”
my love: who’s my next client?
you: some lady…again…
my love: what’s with the sudden amount of women booking my sessions???????
my love: you have competition babe
you: haha funny!… megumi said you blew up
you: you have competition too with those men that frequents here
you: megumi fed me some takoyaki that we used to frequently go when we were dating
my love: not funny, ma
my love: i paid for that, save a kiss for me
my love: im omw back, let megumi know he has to set up the area
my love: im just kidding about the competition btw, you’re the only woman i’ll lay my eyes on
you: sappy.. Just get your ass back here..
my love: you love this ass though
“what can i say mom, dad really only has eyes for you” cleaning up the mess from the takoyaki earlier, leaving the counter to set up toji’s next session
the bell from the door chimed, and there stood toji, in a compression shirt with sweatpants as always, walking towards the counter
from your peripheral view you could see the woman hurriedly standing up and touching up her makeup, you let out a slight giggle, because you just know toji would never bat an eye towards her
“m-m-mr z-z-zen“ the women words were being cut off by toji himself
“let’s just do a consultation? afterwards i’ll see whether i would want to continue the session, yeah?” ignoring her, and entering his office
Less than 15 minutes, the door bell chimed signalling someone had exited the gym, and that could only conclude to one thing which is there’ll be no next session
“that’s a no to the next session, then” nobara cancelling the women session that was prebook for next week
shaking your head, you got yourself off the chair and walked towards your husband’s office where megumi was seated in his chair with your husband not in sight
“where’s your dad?” looking around
megumi pointed to the cardio area of the gym
“She’s not coming for the next session?” walking towards toji, you poked his biceps to indicate you were talking to him
“she is, just not under me. Had her redirected to satoru.” toji sighed, while kneeling down to rearrange the weights on the floor
“satoru? why? his session are quite intense don’t you think?” assisting toji with the weights, only for your hands to be slapped off by toji for carrying heavy weights
“tried to make a move on me, wasn’t serious at all” he shrugged his shoulders, with a grunt indicating he was pissed off
“she was unzipping her jacket trying to seduce dad” both you and toji looked at megumi, who was leaning on the wall making a disgusted face
you laughed, giving a peck to toji cheeks which
“what can i say, your dad is a charmer” ruffling megumi’s hair
“alright, gumi you off? Let’s go to maki’s cafe! Heard there’s some new cakes”
megumi nod, linking his arms to your arm which put a smile on your face
16 years old and still acts like a child, you’ll never want this to end
“without me?” the both of you nodding your heads
“stealing away my wife? nope” toji engulfs the both of you
