✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: you fell for bucky a long, long while ago. and you think about him, every day and every night. if only you knew that he thought about you too.✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, friends to lovers, light emotional angst, everyone's bad at feelings, fluff, smut, plot and porn mix (dirty talk, use of sex toys , fingering, pussy eating like crazy, fantasization, praise kink, manhandling, perfectly "appropriate" use of bucky's metal arm, nipple play, dumbification, semi-public sex, dry humping, sensitive reader, finger sucking, masturbation, bucky gets nasty, body worship, overstimulation, mean!bucky, oral m!recieving, praise kink, monster dick bucky, he fucks like a machine), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦
✦wc: 7.5k✦
✦Author's Note: request! who wouldn't fantasize about bucky barnes?✦
You think you might be a freak.
Compared to everyone else in the building, you’re perfectly normal. On the outside. Where everyone can see. You don’t have any powers, and you’ve never been shot up with serums or infinity stones. You’re a human, with a sharp tongue and shaper brain, pretty features and a charming smile, and absolutely no desire to be anything else.
Tony even asked you once. If you’d consider it. The whole hero thing. You’d laughed and shaken your head. You told him that you’re not that kind of brave. That you prefer to stay behind the scenes, helping with the tech and med services. Tony had laughed with you, and remarked causally that you’d be good at it.
You’d smiled and waved him off. But he was wrong. Because you can’t be normal about anything.
You’re not casual. You’re obsessive, and quietly insane. You don’t become the top of your field like this while being anything else. It’s easy to contain yourself in this kind of work, in it’s order and chaos all at once. There are rules that you to follow, then break, and everyone praises you and you glow like a diamond catching sunlight.
Not absorbing it. Because it passes right through, and it’s never enough, and you get addicted to it. The praise, from these living gods. They all love you, and you bask in it, and then you look at him.
Bucky.
The only one who doesn’t praise you. Who doesn’t treat you like a good dog, bringing them treats and newspapers. When you met him, he barely treated you like anything at all. Tony had introduced you, he’d looked you up and down, shaken your hand, and walked away.
But you.
You’d been a fucking goner.
Bucky’s handsome in the way you used to only see in movies. Your exact type, from the hair to the eyes to the way he carries himself. Silent and in control, kind but not overly nice, polite without expectation. You’d made it two years without developing a crush on anyone. Somehow, surrounded by some of the world’s most handsome men, you’d maintained that tiny sliver of your sanity.
Then there was Bucky. And you lost yourself.
You’re not weird around him. You’re not a stalker, and you’re not that kind of insane. You’re perverted in the privacy of your head, drooling over his massive hands and muscles, but swallowing it before it leaks out of your lips. You don’t react when Tony says his name, save for a traitorous pulse in your cunt.
“You ready to look at his arm?” Tony asks, and you hum.
“Think so. Just maintenance?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Tony sighs. “I’d work on Terminator myself, but Cap says I spend the whole time looking like I want to throat chop him. So,” he shrugs. “Don’t look like you wanna throat chop him.”
You laugh softly, and grab the tools off the bench. It’s not a big deal. You’re the only person besides Tony, in the whole building, who’s qualified to work on Bucky’s arm.
But that means you get to be close to him. Just the thought of it makes your skin hot, your heart buzzing more than thumping, your fingers fidgeting with the straps of your toolkit as you restlessly wait.
Bucky says your name, and your head shoots up. He’s there. He’s right there, and watching you with those careful, beautiful eyes.
“Hi,” you say, and it sounds so pathetically breathless.
Bucky tilts his head. His hair looks soft. You want to run your fingers through it, to pull on it, to feel it tickling over your face as he ruts into your drooling pussy-
He’s staring at you. He must’ve said something that you didn’t hear. Fuck.
“What?”
His lips twitch. Just the smallest movement up, almost impossible to catch. Your heart skips, and you almost miss his words again.
“You the one workin’ on me today?” His voice is low. It rolls through the air like thunder.
You wonder, if there’s any part of him that isn’t addictive.
You’re here for a job. You’re here to give him medical treatment. You plaster a sweet smile on your face, and gesture to the chair. You can be normal about this.
“Tony has bad bedside manner,” you say smoothly, and Bucky chuckles.
God, that’s worse than the smile. It echoes through your chest, and you almost choke on it. How fucking bad you want him.
“He does call me Schwarzeneggerevery time I’m here,” he mutters, crossing the room. “Don’t even know what that means.”
You hum, pretending to look at your tools. He’s sitting down next to you. Your knees are bumping. You’re normal. “Arnold Schwartzinagor. Actor who played the Terminator.”
“Ah.” Bucky pauses. “Sam calls me that, too. It a good movie?”
“It’s fine.” You shrug. “If you like stuff from the 80s.”
“I don’t know things from the 80s.”
You laugh softly, and look up with an apology on your tongue. You find Bucky staring at you, and your breath catches in your throat.
His eyes are so intense, you think they can see right through you. To the lust, pounding in your bloodstream. You have to open your mouth to breathe. Bucky’s eyes flick down. Just tracking a movement. Nothing about you.
You kick yourself internally, and push the casual smile back into place.
“I think you’d like some of it.” You reach for his arm, and Bucky turns it palm up, still staring at you. “I mean, any decade will have it’s ups and downs.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You run your fingers over the plates of metal, and for a second, forget all about the Bucky attached to them. It’s a beautiful artwork of technology. Overlapping, gold-inlaid, smooth under your fingers. You turn the wrist slowly, and there’s only a faint whir. No clicks. Shuri must be using a muffler, or some kind of fluid that moves the wires instead of gears-
“You want me to go?”
Your head shoots up, a panicked flush spreading over your cheeks. “No- No- I- I’m just-“
Bucky raises his brows, light amusement dancing in his eyes. Your words falter. He’s fucking with you.
“Shut up,” you roll your eyes, and Bucky chuckles again.
God, that sound. It’s going to be the death of you.
“It’s just- It’s amazing technology.” You mumble defensively, and Bucky shrugs.
“I can tell, from the way you’re eye fuckin’ it.”
“Eye fucking.” You shake your head, biting back your smile. “How do you even know what that means?”
“Too much time with Sam.”
“Hm,” you grab your screwdriver, running your hands up the mock muscle—he should be thanking Shuri even more, she didn’t have to give him biceps—looking for a panel. “Tony told me you weren’t going to talk.”
“Tony’s got that bad bedside manner,” Bucky shrugs with his good arm. “You gonna be nicer to me, doll?”
You just hum, ducking your head to hide your flush. Doll. He called you doll.
And Bucky huffs an amused laugh, at your non-answer. But he keeps talking to you. He tells you what Sam’s already gotten him to watch, and what Steve’s trying to get him to watch next, and what Steve’s saving so they can look at it together.
“Is Star Wars any good?” He asks, and you snort.
“Do you like cowboys?”
“I’m neutral.”
“Do you like space?”
“Yeah,” he pauses, then mutters, “I wanted to go to the moon. When I was a kid.”
You look up, and find a faraway look, etched over his handsome features. Your smile softens, and you lower your voice to a whisper, because this feels like a secret. “Yeah?”
Bucky nods, his eyes finding yours again. “I heard we got up there eventually.”
“We did. A few times.” It’s hard to hold his gaze. An unbearable ache is staring to pool between your thighs. “But now there are aliens on earth, so the final frontier is less… Coveted.”
Bucky’s lips twitch. It seems to be the closest he really gets to smiling. You want to see it over, and over, and over again.
“I think you’d like Star Wars.” You’re still whispering. You don’t know why.
“Alright,” Bucky says. And that’s it. He just… Trusts your words.
He asks for you again, next week. Tony claps you on the shoulder and thanks you, because Christ, he stares at me and I feel like I’m under surveillance. You roll your eyes and don’t respond. It doesn’t feel like that when Bucky stares at you, but he also does stare at everyone. So you’re not special. You’re just another person in his line of sight.
“I tried those donuts you were talkin’ about,” he tells you one afternoon, and you hum.
It’s the new routine. Bucky comes for you to work on his arm. You’re normal about it. You talk like people, and his lips twitch, and you feel something press on top of your chest, trying to gnaw your heart right open.
“Liked them,” he adds, staring at you. As always.
You hum, looking at him under your lashes. “Did you have the cookies and cream?”
He nods. “Just like you told me to.”
You smile despite yourself. It’s those small confirmations that he thinks about you, which get you the most. It means you mean something to him. It drives you insane.
“Sam says there are all kinds of ice cream flavors now, too.”
“Sam’s right.”
Bucky sighs. “Hate it when that happens.”
You laugh, a bubbly, pathetic sound that only Bucky pulls out of you. His fingers twitch under your hand, and you glance up.
It would be wise, if you stopped doing that. Every time you find him staring at you, you feel fucking insane.
“You should try cotton candy ice cream,” you murmur. “It’s fucking crazy.”
“That is my favorite kind of thing.”
“I know.”
Bucky’s lips twitch, and your heart almost bursts. “You got a good place? For ice cream?”
You shrug. “The grocery store?”
Bucky grunts, and his fingers twitch again. You focus back on his hand, because you don’t understand why they keep doing that. The rest of the session passes, and Bucky smiles at you before he goes, and you hold onto it like he just handed you a pearl-strung noose. Clutched between your teeth and priceless, but making your breathing short.
The rest of the day always passes in a daze, after you see Bucky. The seconds rush past you in an avalanche, and then you’re in your room, and you let it take over.
How much you want him. How much you need him.
You lay, flat on your back in bed, and let your thoughts run wild. Bucky’s massive hands, one cool and one burning hand, would wander up your thighs. He’d shove your knees open, and kiss over the sensitive, hidden patches of skin. The stubble he’s been growing would scrape and tickle, as he kissed over your weeping pussy.
“All for me?” He’d murmur, and you’d nod helplessly. “You just walk around, pussy leakin’ because of how bad you need it?”
And you’d whimper. You do. There’s nothing you can do to help it, but save that desire for locked doors and hot, tangled sheets. Your fingers—smaller than Bucky’s, but all you have—rub over the swollen lips of your pussy, spreading your arousal as you picture that it’s Bucky instead. You push one finger in slowly, then a second one because you need them to stretch you like Bucky’s would.
“Messy girl,” he’d coo in your ear, and your back arches. You start to fuck yourself, slow and tentative as your thoughts run wild.
This is what just one of his fingers would feel like. Pumping in and out of you, his palm grinding down on you clit until you’re trembling beneath him. You’d try to push up into his hand, but he’d shove you right back down and kiss over your throat. Licking and nipping and driving you out of your fucking mind.
“Buckyyyy...” You moan at the air, and when you squeeze your eyes shut you can almost feel him.
“There you go, babydoll,” he’d kiss under your ear, his body pressing over yours. Warm and massive, pinning you to the bed, forcing you to just take it. “That’s it. You like that, don’t you. Like fallin’ apart on my fingers.”
You whimper and grab at the sheets. Your wrist aches, and you can’t hit that gooey, wet spot inside you, but god you just need to cum.
“I know,” Bucky would hit deeper. Wet, lewd sounds would fill the room, as he pounded his fingers into you at an unforgiving pace. “I know, sweet girl. C’mon, show me how pretty you are when you cum.”
Your back arches off the bed. Your hand shoots over your mouth as you moan and cry out his name, your thighs shaking and pussy squeezing down on your fingers. You lay there for a while after you’re done, holding the sheets in a vague form of Bucky.
Tomorrow, you’re going to see him again. Maybe just over breakfast, or passing in the hall. But you’ll see him. And you’ll have to look him in the eyes, and pray that he can’t see it just under your features. That all he’d ever need to do it touch your head, and you’d fall to your knees.
You’re devoted to him. He thinks of you as a friend, and he’s not your boss, but he’s boss adject, and there’s nothing about him that’s accessible. There’s no world where this ever goes beyond fantasy.
But god, you’re going to fantasize. You can’t hurt anyone, by just fantasizing.
That’s what you’ll tell yourself over and over, to avoid the guilt.
It’s all just a fantasy.
You‘re perfectly professional about it. It’s not Bucky’s fault that he’s so handsome it feels like you shouldn’t be allowed to look at him. You can keep your desire bottled up, keep in the warmest, wettest pits of your stomach. It can seep out between your thighs when it becomes too much to bare. It can breed into itself and spread up into your heart, festering in the dark. But Bucky will never see it. You’ll be good, and you’ll act sane, and that will be it.
He’s been through too much already, to add your insatiable, ardors devotion to his list of problems.
You’ve developed an easy friendship. That’s all you’ll allow yourself to have, all you let yourself think about in his presence. When you’re working on his arm, you don’t think about those big, cold fingers being buried in your pussy until you’re alone in your room. All your daydreams are trapped in your sheets, and your moans absorbed and locked in your pillowcase.
You think about Bucky pinning you down with a warm, splayed hand on your abdomen. About his smirk, as he bullies three metal fingers into your pussy, forcing a perfect stretch before fucking you like a toy. His cold thumb swiping over your clit, sending shivers through your body. His eyes gleaming and attention burning, as he drags out orgasm after orgasm.
That hand would be like having a personal fuck machine, and he’d act like it until the very end. All taunting and teasing until you were spent and limp below him. Then he’d kiss the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the space between your eyes. He’d coo about what a good girl you were for him, and you’d whimper, your voice lost from screaming his name.
“What’re you thinking about?” Bucky says, sitting next to you at the kitchen counter.
You swallow, and shrug meekly. You never feel small around anyone but him, but you’ve never been this lost in anyone but him. It’s a miracle no one’s noticed, how Bucky shows up and suddenly you’re all flushed cheeks and girly giggles. You might as well be twirling your hair and kicking your feet. It’s pathetic. You can’t stop.
“Nothing?” Bucky pushes a little, and you give him a close-lipped, full smile.
“Nope.”
“You looked like you were thinkin’ about something.”
“I wasn’t.” You look back to the sandwich you’d been working on. Bucky keeps staring at you. He always does. “Nothing going on up here, Barnes.”
Bucky’s lips twitch.
The whole world seems brighter, like he’s just like some holy kind of candle.
“I don’t believe that,” he murmurs, and you shrug.
“You don’t have to.”
“Well, I don’t.”
“Good for you.”
“It is, isn’t it,” he chuckles. “I’m gonna love being right.”
You blink, shooting his a sideways look. “Being… Right?”
“I know you’re thinkin’ about something.” He shrugs. “I’ll figure out what.”
Oh. Under no circumstances can he find out what you’re thinking about. “It’s not anything interesting,” you try lamely, and Bucky smirks.
“Ah. So it’s something.”
“I- That’s-“ You sputter. “Why do you even care-“
“I like knowin’ what you’re thinking,” he shrug. “It’s always interesting.”
You blink at him. For some reason, that makes your throat close up, your eyes burning with embarrassing tears. Your knees are wobbling, and you’re sitting down. You grunt and look back to your sandwich, and Bucky chuckles.
“C’mon. Tell me.” He leans closer. There’s a gravity, from his heat, and it makes you want to just collapse over his chest.
You look at him from the corner of your eye, and you won’t tell him. That’s against the rules. It defeats the purpose.
But god, he’s looking at you. Really looking at you. You can count each shade of blue in his eyes. If you move just an inch, your noses might bump.
“I’m hungry,” you whisper, and Bucky’s brow knits.
He looks down to your sandwich. Then back to you. Adorable confusion flashes over his face. “You should… Uh- Eat.”
You nod, and he clears his throat, leaning back. You wish you could grab the collar of his shirt, and drag him back.
“You ever seen this thing called the Princess Bride?” He asks, not touching any food himself.
Just sitting there. With you. You try not to think about it too much.
You nod, chewing on your sandwich with puffed out cheeks. “’S a really good movie-“
“Chew then swallow, doll.” Bucky’s lips twitch, and you flush and obey.
“It’s a good movie,” you mumble, giving him a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”
Bucky shrugs, his gaze dropping to your mouth. Your breath hitches. You go perfectly still, afraid that if you shift, he’ll look away.
His tongue darts over his lips. He tips his head, his forearm flexes as he curls his fingers, and your breathing gets shallow. Something electric has shifted in the air, and it’s making you dizzy. Bucky reaches up slowly, and if you weren’t rooting in place, you think you’d fall out of your chair.
His thumb wipes the spot right above your lips, and a shock rushes through your body. His nostrils flare, his eyes lock onto yours, and his touch lingers.
When he pulls back, the movement is slow. Controlled. Your tongue flicks out, to lick where his thumb had been. Bucky’s nostrils flare.
There’s something on his thumb. Tiny little breadcrumbs that must’ve been stuck to your cheek from the sauce. Bucky brings the finger up to his mouth, holding your gaze, and sucks the crumbs away. Heat pools in your tummy, and your thighs press together.
Bucky stares at you. You grab the edge of your seat with white knuckles, trying to keep yourself from falling off.
“Crumbs,” he mutters, and you nod.
“Yeah.”
“I- Uh-“ He coughs, and looks away. Disappointment sinks like a boulder into your stomach.
You don’t know what you expected. Hell, you’ve told yourself what to expect. You’re not allowed to be disappointed by him. You’re not allowed to want anything from him, except for what your head can offer.
“Sam’s been tryin’ to make me watch it,” he mutters, and you blink.
“What?”
“Princess Bride.”
“Oh.” You’re still a little drunk on his proximity. He smells like something rich and spicy, and it’s fogging up your brain. “Cool.”
Bucky nods. “We’re gonna watch it next Friday. In that common room, where Stark makes us do game nights.” He gives you a sideways look. “I never see you at those.”
You shrug. “I’m not an Avenger.”
“Stark says you get invited.”
You do. But that would be a night of drinking and laughing and being closer to Bucky than you can handle, so you usually lock yourself in your room and pretend he’s fucking you stupid.
“You’re invited to movie night, too.” He adds casually, and you swallow.
Movie night. Where Bucky would be near you. In the dark. You can’t go there. You’ll lose your mind.
But he’s looking at you with such dim, cautious light in his eyes. There’s no expectations. Just hope. And it pulls the words out of you before you can stop them.
“Oh- Okay.”
Bucky beams, and that makes it worth it. The risk, that he might brush your hand in the dark and you’ll moan loud enough for everyone to hear.
He reaches up, and wipes a few more breadcrumbs from your cheeks. Time seems to stop, when he touches you. It’s dangerous, and you barely manage not to fall all over him before he pulls away.
“You get messy,” he mutters, and oh, God.
You shouldn’t have said yes. Why the fuck did you say yes. Now you’re going to have to sit next to him, after that.
You get messy. He has no idea.
That night, you end up back in your bed with a vibrator pressed over your panties. It makes the feeling stronger, with the friction of the fabric, and you toss your head back. It’s easier and easier to get lost in the fantasy, lately. The better you know him, the clearer it gets.
You can almost feel his hands, mapping over the curves and soft dips of your body. You can almost smell him.
He mouths at your breast, pinching and rolls your nipple between metal fingers. You make a broken, pathetic sound, and he smirks.
“I know, doll. Too much, isn’t it?”
You whimper, pressing the vibrator down. Bucky hums, his hand wrapping around yours, and your hips jerk when he angles it to shove right against your clit.
“Too much,” he coos, making out with the softness of your breast. “I’m barely even touchin’, and you’re already about to fuckin’ fall apart for me.”
Your eyes roll back, as Bucky starts to guide the vibrator up and down. Your mouth falls open in a long moan, as he grabs your hips and pushes them higher, further exposing your pussy. He bites at your nipple, then turns his attention to the neglected one. You writhe in the sheets, gasping his name, and he smiles.
“Dirty girl.” He pushes your hand back, just enough for him to rip away your panties, exposing your cunt to the cold air. “Look at that, pretty little pussy fuckin’ shining for me.”
You grind down, trying to find friction on the sheets. Bucky pushes the vibrator against your bare pussy, and your eyes roll back in your head. He starts kissing all over your chest, pawing at your breasts and swirling his tongue around you nipples, sending electric shock through your body. He licks the sensitive buds the same way he licked his thumb. Your hips start to roll mindlessly, as the coil in your stomach threatens to snap.
When you cum, it’s with a cry of his name. The coil snaps, and heat floods out of your pussy, all over the vibrator and your hand. Your body convulses with the sheer force of it, and Bucky kisses down. Over your abdomen, your hips, your inner thighs.
“What a mess, baby.” He mocks, before pressing the sweetest kiss to your clit.
You sob, trembling in the sheets, and grab at his hair.
But your hand finds nothing.
Because it’s just another fantasy, kept in the confines of your mind.
Movie night was a bigger mistake than you could’ve ever imagined.
You show up, and it’s just Bucky and Sam. Sitting on opposite ends of the couch, because men are strange creatures.
“Stevie’s on a mission,” Bucky says, staring at you like he’s seeing an angel. Like he didn’t invite you.
There’s an odd rasp to his voice, too. Maybe he’s just tired.
Sam says your name, that signature, I know something that everyone else doesn’t smirk on his face. You don’t think much if it. He always has it, even when he doesn’t know shit.
“Buck told me you’d be comin’. I didn’t believe him.”
“Sam.” Bucky grunts, and Sam shrugs.
“What? I didn’t.” He grins at you. “You never leave your lab-“
“She leaves her lab.” Bucky gives you an apologetic look, but you just laugh.
“No, he’s right. I really don’t.”
Bucky sighs, rolls his eyes, and pats the seat next to him. You smile to yourself, taking a long breath before you move. You’re going to be normal about this. Very, incredibly normal. So normal, they’ll think something’s wrong, because no one’s ever been this normal in history.
You last ten minutes.
The movie starts. You’ve seen it before, but you try to pay attention to every, tiny detail. The only other option is paying attention to Bucky. To the weight of him at your side, the way his knee brushes against yours and his arm is slung over the back of the couch. You’ve never seen him so relaxed and tense, all at once. He’s sunken into the cushions, but whenever you look over, his jaw is tight.
You could swear you catch his gaze, once or twice. If you do, he looks away immediately. And you feel it, that buzzing heat over your skin. But you’re supposed to be watching the movie. He’s supposed to be watching the movie. So you really, really try not to look over.
Bucky’s knee pushes against yours, and you swallow. His fingers trail near your shoulder, and you wrap your arms around your stomach to suppress the shiver. He’s warm. So fucking warm you can feel it, blooming in your core. You shift in your seat, and you’re already wet.
The movie isn’t even a third of the way done.
Bucky’s fingers rest on your shoulder. It’s so light, so casual, you’re not even sure he knows he’s doing it. You take the risk, and turn to fully look at him. He’s gotten even more relaxed, the knit of his brows loosened, pretty pink lips parted as he watches the TV. You want to reach up, and trace the stubble of his jaw. Maybe kiss up the column of his throat, dig your nails into his pecs and make out with that full, perfect mouth.
You let out a tiny sigh. Bucky doesn’t react to it. Too lost in the movie. Not paying you any mind.
And you should look away. You’re not here to Bucky watch.
You turn your head for three whole seconds, before your eyes start to ache. As if they can’t stand not to look at him. You try to resist it, but it plays over and over, on a loop in your brain. The image of him in the dark. The heat from him, almost penetrating under your skin and making you rise up like a balloon. Your head is in the clouds. You have to look at him.
You close your eyes, trying to fight it. Bucky’s hand drops from your shoulder, down to your upper arm, and your breath hitches.
Your eyes shoot open, and Bucky’s right there. Staring at you, with the same intense, focused need that’s clawing at your ribs and up your throat.
He grabs your chin, between strong but gentle fingers. You swallow, letting your gaze trail down his body. His massive chest, torso that looks perfect to hook your legs around, his thick thighs and his crotch.
The bulge, pushing through his sweats. It looks thick. Long and thick, demanding some attention. You look back to Bucky with your best, doe-eyed pout. He smirks, and leans down to kiss you. It’s slow and deep, his tongue swiping over your lower lip before pushing into your mouth. You moan, and Bucky weaves his hair through your hair, tugging slightly. Your second moan is downright pathetic. You grab his thigh, letting your nails brush against the outline of his cock.
Bucky hisses against your lips, and pulls back. You bat your lashes at him, and his lips twitch.
“Messy girl,” he mutters, before pressing a sweeter, mocking kiss to your lips.
He pulls away too quickly, but before you can give chase, you’re lost in a daze. Bucky’s pulling down his pants, taking his boxers with him. His cock springs free, thick and veiny, massive even in his own hand. He strokes himself slowly, giving you a prompting, amused look. You swallow, licking your lips.
“C’mon, doll,” he beckons. “Show me what you can do.”
Almost in a trance, you nod. Bucky’s eyes darken, as you crawl over his lap. You move his hand away, and fist his cock in one hand. He grabs the back of your neck, not to push, but for balance. A low, guttural sound rolls through his chest as you start to pump him, and you smile to yourself.
He really is perfect. A heavy, certain weight in your hand, jumping slightly whenever you squeeze him near the base. You shift back on your knees, using your other hand to massage his balls. He hisses, his grip tightening on your neck, and you smile.
When you look at him, there’s nothing but pure devotion in his gaze. You squeeze again, then pick up your pace, and he groans out your name.
You kiss him, pushing his head back against the couch cushions. He grunts, but lets you guide him. As if he knows that it’s all just a show, before you let him fuck your face like an animal.
“Relax, baby,” you breathe against his lips.
Bucky lets out a deep, rough laugh. “Little hard to do that right now.”
You giggle, swiping your thumb over the slit of his cock. “Is it? Hard?”
Bucky groans, and deepens the kiss. You slide off of him, before he can just grab your hips, pick you up, and sit you on his dick.
You move back, lowering down to your stomach so you’re eye level with his dick. He’s pulsing in your hands, trying to hold himself back. You don’t want him to. You want him to cum everywhere. Down your throat and over your face and tits, claiming you in one of the most primal ways possible.
“Doll…” Bucky rasps, and you look up at him under hooded eyes. He’s a wrecked. Bulging muscles and sweat, slicking on his brow. “Don’t tease- Jesus-“
You wrap your mouth around him, and take him as deep as you can go. He bumps against the back of your throat, but you suppress your gag reflex, relaxing to try and get even more. Your nose brushes against the hair at base of him. Your tongue presses flat against Bucky’s shaft, your fingers still working his balls, and he fists his hand in your hair.
“So- So fuckin’ warm-“ He chokes out. “Holy- You’re somethin’, sweetheart- God-“
You hum, and Bucky’s hips jerk up. He stutters out an apology, but you just moan again. He tries to pull you off, muttering more apologies, and you dig your nails into his thigh. You want it. You want him to use you.
He gets it, after a moment. His grip on your hair tightens. He starts slow, jerking his hips up as he pushes you a little further down, before yanking you back. You moan around his cock, drool falling from your swallow lips. Your eyes roll back. He’s using you, god, he’s using you, and it’s the best fucking thing in the world.
Bucky fucks your face like a fleshlight, and you grind your ass up against nothing. He hits the back of your throat, over and over, salty and heavy on your tongue. The sounds he makes are beautiful and sinful, and-
“Something on my face, doll?”
You blink, and Bucky’s cock isn’t in your mouth anymore. You smack your lips, trying to find it. Bucky frowns at you, the light of the movie making him even more, impossibly handsome. Sam ignores you both, popcorn stuffed in his mouth.
Bucky looks worried. He said something.
“Hm?”
“You were, you were- Uh-“ He clears his throat, then shakes his head. “Never mind.”
He looks back to the TV, and your face burns. His thigh is pressed right against yours. You can swear, when you lick your lips, you can still taste his dick.
You’re so, so fucked.
It only gets worse.
Eating breakfast becomes a trial, because Bucky is always there, and you’re always thinking about his fingers while he eats. How they’d feel stuffed down your throat, gripping your hips, scissoring deep inside of you. He wipes cream cheese off your cheek, and you almost moan.
“You feelin’ alright?” Bucky says, always so caring and worried, and you nod weakly.
“Yeah. Just- Just tired.”
He looks at you like he doesn’t believe you, but lets it go. If you were smarter, you’d be avoiding him. But you’re not. And you still have to work with him, anyway. It makes avoiding him rather impossible.
For a while you cling onto the idea that work would be sacred. That while Bucky’s in your office and you’re examining his arm, it’s purely professional. Not a single dirty thought.
You last about a week, with that one. Bucky startles you walking in. You trip, and he catches you around your waist.
“Careful,” he smiles down at you, all handsome and stupid.
“Uh huh,” you breathe out, and you could’ve sworn a flood gushed out between your legs.
Bucky’s nostrils had flared, and he’d helped you up to your seat. You’d already had the new fantasy, blooming in your mind like the little fucking pervert that you were. You’d tried to shove it down, swaying in the middle of the room, but then you’d looked at him. Sitting with his legs spread in your chair. And you’d been lost.
You imagined climbing into his lap. His arm wrapping around you as you sat down on his cock, grinding slowly, lashes flutters as he kneaded and pulled at your hips and breasts. He’d stand up, taking you with him like you weighed nothing, and pin you to the wall. One arm would stay around you, holding you in place as his mouth started to explore your dripping cunt.
His tongue would work you open, pushing in and out of your pussy. He would’ve already cum inside of you, and every stroke of his tongue would send a wave of your mixed arousals over his beard. You’d watch him, moaning his name, and his thumb would bully and flick and tease your clit, until your were dazed and gasping for air and-
Bucky says your name, and you could slap yourself. This is getting out of hand.
“Sorry,” you mumble, sitting next to him. He smiles at you, so kind.
Always so kind.
“You’ve been kinda out of it, lately.” His words are casual. You still daydream about shooting yourself and running away.
“Just getting lost in thought,” you murmur, and he hums.
“Anything I can help with?”
You shake your head, because if you speak you’ll start begging. Please, please, please, he’s the only one who can help you, you’re going insane with how much you need him, and he could save you, he could really save you-
“Movin’ usually helps me.” He offers softly. You almost don’t hear him. “Y’know. Using my body. Remembering that it’s mine.”
“Yeah?” You say softly, cleaning the panel near his shoulder. He looks at you, and you risk looking back.
You can’t read that expression. You’re not sure you want to.
“Yeah,” he mutters. His gaze might flick down to your lips, but you don’t trust your own mind anymore. “You wanna try it with me? I head to that gym in the basement every night. It ain’t bad.”
And you should say no, but you can’t help it. You nod, and Bucky’s lips twitch, and God, what you won’t do just so he smiles.
You will torture yourself, apparently. Bucky’s too hot to be allowed in a gym. Wearing a tank top that shows off his massive arms, smiling at you all lazy, in the way that’s more of a guard than the slip that you always crave, but a smile all the same.
First, you try walking on the treadmill and just watching him the mirror. He’s lifting weights, and his arms, they should be classified as weapons. You want those biceps keeping you in a head lock, against his chest or at his side. Keeping you still, while his cock pounds relentlessly into your pussy.
Bucky meets your gaze in the mirror. His lips twitch, and you look away, face burning.
You feel him, more than you see him coming over. The gravity of his presence, you think you’d be able to feel him blindfolded and dropped in a crowd of a million people.
“Come on,” he offers you a hand. “Lemme show you something.”
And you can’t say no to him. You really should learn how.
Because the something is training. Wrestling. Throwing fucking punches and trying to get the other down.
“Bucky, I can’t-“
“Yeah, you can.” He raises his fists, nodding to your own. “Up, doll.”
You sigh, raising them slowly. “You’re going to kick my ass-“
“I am. And then you’re going to get better.”
You scoff—he’s ridiculous—but listen. Bucky smirks, and lunges. You yelp and try to scramble away, but he’s too fast. You’re pinned under him in seconds, whacking at his arms and wiggling.
“Bucky- Get off-“
He laughs, standing up with a proud grin. You’ve never seen him so relaxed, so confident. It makes you hornier than you ever could’ve imagined.
He’d been over you. Everywhere over you. Pinning you down and manhandling you, and- Oh God-‘
“Up,” he beckons, and you swallow.
“I- I don’t know-“
“Yeah, you do.” He gives you a playful smile. “Get up.”
You sigh, and scramble to your feet. Bucky raises his fists again. You narrow your eyes, and match.
He chuckles. “Getting competitive?”
You shrug. “You wanted me to.”
Something flashes in his eyes. You’re not sure how to read into it.
“Damn right I do,” his voice is lower. You’re not imagining that.
You don’t get time to think about it, before he’s moving again. You hold your own exactly a second longer than before, but it ends the exact same way. You, pinned under Bucky’s broad, strong body. His face is pressed near your breasts, his fingers digging into your hips, his legs shoving yours apart to stop you from flailing around.
It goes on longer than it shoulder. This strange game that you like playing more than you should. Bucky starts trying to properly get you to throw a punch, but he gives up fast. Soon you’re more play wrestling than doing anything else. You’re giggly and dazed, charging at him like a bull, and he acts as bored and collected as always, but you can see the amusement dancing in his eyes, every time you try to climb him like a tree.
Then something shifts.
He gets you beneath him, and you try to shove at his chest. He catches your wrists and pins them up over your head. Your breath hitches, and he blinks. His hips drop against yours, and you can feel it. The bulge of his cock, pressing into your core.
He’s hard.
Not fully, but enough. Enough that you can imagine every ridged and curve of him, sliding between the puffy lips of your pussy. Your thighs clench, and Bucky grunts, rutting forward.
You both freeze, and your eyes lock. It’s one of those seconds, where you just stare hopelessly at each other. You almost apologize, but your tongue is limp. Bucky’s face is redder than you’ve ever seen it. His cock twitches in his pants.
And this isn’t a dream or fantasy. Bucky mutters your name, and it’s so real you think your heart might pound of your chest.
Bucky moves first. He clears his throat and moves to his feet.
“Better.” He offers you a hand. “That was…”
He trails off. You stare at each other, lost for words.
Bucky turns, and leaves without another word. You sway in the center of the room, breathing shallow, head spinning.
What the fuck just happened.
Bucky kisses up your spine, his mouth hot and possessive. His tongue flicks against your neck, and his fingers dig into your hips. He drags your ass up in the air and you mewl, pressing your face into the sheets.
“Ah,” he scolds, slapping your soaked, swollen pussy. “Lemme hear you, doll.”
You turn your head, moaning loud and shamelessly. Bucky chuckles, kissing a soft spot on your neck.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, notching his cock against your entrance. “Good girl.”
You coo like a baby bird, flushed and dazed. He’s big, so big that it almost hurts. He doubles over you with a groan, pressing his face into your shoulder as he slowly pushes every inch inside of you. The stretch burns in the best way, and you clench down around him.
“No,” Bucky leans down, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Nothin’ to apologize for. Just gotta relax, babydoll. Lemme do the rest.”
You hum, and take a deep breath. You’re grounded, in the feeling of Bucky everywhere. His warmer arm wraps around your neck, forcing you up enough for his lips to trail open kisses over your face.
“That’s my girl,” he mutters against your ear, bottoming fully out. “That’s it. Just take it for me, just like that.”
You mewl, pushing your ass back up, then crying out with delight as Bucky pulls out, and slams back in. He’s met with no resistance, from how your pussy is gushing out with every thrust, every touch, every hot kiss.
But there’s nothing else to be expected. Not with how Bucky’s using you, how worshipful his every touch and kiss is, all while he fucks into you so hard you think the bed is going to break. His breath is hot on your back, the head of his cock drill against that one, gooey spot deep inside you. His cold arm locks around your middle, and his fingers tease and graze over your clit. Rubbing in tight little circles, making your eyes roll back in your head.
Bucky grunts, hauling you up so you’re pressed against his chest. You’re pinned down on his cock now, wet and warm and tight. So fucking tight that it pulls a low, rumbling moan from his chest. His hips slam up in a barely controlled rhythm, chasing more of your heat. You’re limp in his arms. Dazed and smiling like you’re drunk. Bucky uses his arm around your neck to push your head further back, and you have the nerve to fucking giggle.
You’re so beautiful like this that he almost cums right there. Fluttering lashes and the sweetest sounds, you pussy milking him like a machine. He kisses you because he can’t help it, and you hum happily, grinding your ass down into him.
He needs you to cum first. He gropes at your clit, letting his fingers fumble for a second to work you up into a teased, messy frenzy, before he pushes down and rubs in a steady, unyielding rhythm. You cry out his name, squeezing down so hard on his cock, and Bucky buries his face in your neck.
He cums, so hard that his vision goes white. Thick ropes of cum spurt over his hand, squeezing hard at the base of his cock.
It’s not as warm as you’d be, he thinks.
And he thinks. All the time, Bucky just thinks about you. About how you’d feel, molding around him. About how you’d sound right in his ear, how you’d get smiley and drool, and he’s feed you his fingers just so you have something to do with that pretty mouth. You’d moan around them, and he’d thrust up into you so hard he’d knock the damn worries out of your head.
It’s his favorite time of the day, this. Your rooms are closer than you seem to think, or you just forget how good his hearing is.
And every night, right before bed, he gets to settle into the mattress and beat his cock into his hand, listening to you moan and call his name. He’d never tell you. You deserve better, than a broken robot like him. He counts himself lucky he even gets to be your friend, because he’s a man well practiced at restraint. At not getting what he wants.
But this space, where no one can see, he allows himself things. He allows himself you.
But only ever in his head.
✦End note: this might be one of my fave bucky fics i just got to be soooo horny with it✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
Summary : Benjamin Poindexter was hired to eliminate you, a former Red Room Widow. Unfortunately, he keeps putting it off because he likes going on dates with you a little too much.
Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x Black Widow! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : freak 4 freak (?), Violence, Explicit Content (Dex is a munch and kinda has an oral fixation), Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Manipulation, lowkey gunplay, crying during sex, The Red Room is mentioned to use food as a form of control, alcohol consumption. (Let me know if I miss anything.) set between DDBA s1&s2 (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word Count : 17.7k
Requested by : anon
Notes : This was written before I watched the season finale, and also inspired by a song of the same title by Gang of Youths. Enjoy!
Dex was trying to be good.
It sounded ridiculous, even in his own head. It was as if he had borrowed this part of his conscience from someone else’s life, someone who hadn’t been made into a weapon, manipulated and exploited over and over again. But still, he tried.
Being good, as it turned out, wasn’t something you could just decide. There was no moment where goodness just clicked into place, there was no sudden clarity where he understood how to live without the violence that had always defined him. He didn’t have the tools for that, so he simplified it.
He only knew how to aim, how to follow through, how to kill. So he told himself that if he pointed all of that in the right direction, it would count. It had to count.
Bad people existed. That much was obvious. And if bad people were gone, then… that had to count for something, right?
The Anti-Vigilante Task Force were easy enough to categorize as bad. They hunted vigilantes, tried to shut down the kind of people Dex had convinced himself were doing something close to good. And vigilantes were good. They had to be.
So if he removed the ones hunting them, if he cut those threads before they tightened around someone else’s throat, then that meant he was helping. It meant he was balancing something, somewhere, even if no one was there to see it. Even if no one thanked him. Even if the city didn’t change at all.
That was how he justified it. The only problem was that no one paid him for being good.
His rent didn’t care about intention. His bills didn’t pause because he was trying. The notice on his counter sat there, the very proof that the world moved even as he was laying down the foundations of whatever moral framework he was trying to build. Dex had been ignoring it for days, like it might disappear if he didn’t acknowledge it.
He was staring at it when his phone buzzed.
The sound was unsettling, mostly because Dex knew that people only messaged him for one of two reasons nowadays: to threaten him (best possible outcome, he could handle it) or to give him a job. When he looked at the notification, he knew it was going to be the latter.
The text came from an unknown sender. It was encrypted, of course. Dex picked it up slowly, thumb hovering for just a second. He frowned. He really shouldn’t. This was the part of his life he was supposed to be moving away from. He opened it anyway.
The file loaded quickly. As he suspected, it was an anonymous contract labeled high priority, with a bounty of… oh.
2.5 million dollars.
Dex leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose as that figure settled into place. It was much more than rent or bills. This kind of money would give him… breathing room. It would fund his good deeds for years. It would help his progress, right?
His eyes moved down to the target profile: a Former Red Room Widow.
Objective: extract intel regarding active Red Room operatives.
Secondary objective: termination upon completion.
Dex’s knuckles shifted slightly as he kept reading, attention narrowing the deeper he went. This wasn't a surface-level hit, like the usual contracts pushed into his number. He usually got the odd job of eliminating a business man’s biggest competitor (he never took those anymore) or a mother giving most of her life savings to him to kill her abusive husband (he did those ones more often than not), but this wasn’t it. Whoever had put this together knew what they were doing. They layered intel, cross-referenced sightings, stitched fragments of reports into something coherent enough to act on.
And then there was the ledger. Not labeled that way, but Dex knew what he was looking at.
Target Activity Log (Condensed):
Kiev — 12 confirmed targets, political dissidents turned assets. Execution, no witnesses.
Istanbul — Arms broker extraction turned termination. 7 additional casualties during exfiltration.
Lagos — Undercover infiltration of rival weapons trafficking ring. Operation successful. Entire network eliminated. Collateral: high.
Madripoor — Unverified mission overlap with Yelena Belova. Outcome classified.
Buenos Aires — Diplomatic attaché poisoning. Death delayed 48 hours to avoid suspicion.
Moscow — Internal Red Room purge survivor. Multiple handlers eliminated.
Dex’s thumb paused against the screen as he read through it again. The pattern was obvious to him in a way it wouldn’t be to anyone else. This wasn’t chaos. This wasn’t someone losing control. On the contrary, this was someone who was terrifyingly in control.
This target was a dangerous killer, and Dex didn't arrive at the conclusion lightly.
He liked patterns, needed them. They made the world more predictable to the point where he could sort through without it splintering into noise. And this file was full of patterns.
He scrolled back up, then down again, slower this time, eyes catching on the details most people would skip over: the timings, the methods.
The target made clean exits where possible and didn’t care much about collateral. Every action fed into the next like it had been mapped out long before the target ever stepped into the room.
Dex’s jaw tightened slightly as he read through the Kiev entry again. Twelve victims. It was not a firefight. It was twelve decisions. Twelve moments where the target could have stopped and didn’t. Istanbul, seven more added during exfiltration. They were not part of the objective, but handled anyway.
He understood that, and that meant he also understood what it took to do it.
You didn’t rack up a body count like that by accident. You didn’t walk away from operations like Madripoor, with entire networks wiped out and “high collateral” written off like a footnote, unless something in you had already accepted the outcome before it happened.
Dex leaned back slightly, phone still in his hand, thumb hovering but unmoving now.
People liked to pretend there was a line. A moment where someone chose to be good or bad and stuck to it. But that wasn’t how it worked. It was smaller than that. It was in the repetition. And this file read like repetition, over and over. It might happen in different cities and to different victims, but it always had the same result.
Dex couldn’t find signs of deviation or hesitation. There was no indication that the target ever stopped to question it.
His eyes flicked back to the ledger, this time reading the latest additions, entries that hadn’t had time to settle into history yet.
Recent Activity:
Prague — Corporate intermediary tied to OXE shell accounts. Interrogation lasted 18 minutes. Target terminated. Two security casualties. No witnesses.
DODC Supermax Prison — Perimeter sweep. Three armed contacts neutralized before engagement escalated. Surveillance equipment disabled. Exit undetected.
New York — Intelligence courier intercepted en route to New Avengers safehouse. Package recovered. Courier terminated. Civilian exposure: none.
Right.
The target was still active.
“Yeah,” Dex muttered, more to himself than anything else.
That was what tipped it for him.
Because even now, even with everything he’d done, Dex felt the resistance. The part of him that tried, however poorly, to redirect what he was into a force for good. The file didn’t show that.
It showed someone who had been made into a weapon and never really tried to put it down. That meant the target wasn’t in the same place he was. This target wasn’t trying to balance the scales like he was.
And that made this person not a good person in a way he could act on.
His eyes looked to the image of the target, like he was trying to reconcile the almost fragile and delicate-looking features with everything he’d just read. It didn’t match. It never did. Faces rarely carried the weight of what they’d done. But the file didn’t lie. The patterns didn’t lie.
Dex exhaled slowly, and decided this person was bad.
Not because of one mission. Not because of one mistake. But because of all of it stacked together.
And at this point, in order to preserve what precious progress he had made, he’d rather kill a killer for rent than his landlord. That would be inconvenient.
His thumb moved, tapping the file open fully, letting the image expand across the screen.
And for the first time, Dex really looked at you.
—
Dex expected you to be harder to find.
Most people with a body count like yours didn’t settle. They didn’t usually stay anywhere long enough to be known, didn’t leave behind anything that could be traced twice in the same way. He expected burner phones, rotating safehouses, and multiple fake ids that dissolved the second they were used.
But you hadn’t done that.
You were… easy. He found your address almost immediately. He found your number, your card details, and your passport quite quickly.
It took him a couple of hours to accept that it wasn’t an error in the data. Financial records were always messy, layered under shells and proxies, but not impossible. He followed the money the same way he followed anything else— patiently, methodically, letting the inconsistencies stand out instead of forcing them to make sense too quickly. One payment turned into a trail, then into repetition.
But still, he found nothing out of the ordinary. You were just a regular person living in New York, paying rent on time. Unlike him this month.
He stared at the screen longer than he needed today. The more he followed it, the clearer it became that this wasn’t temporary, wasn’t a waypoint or a cover that would disappear in a week. You weren’t passing through. You weren’t hiding. You were living here.
The rest of the records only reinforced it. He found your utility bills, with groceries spaced out in a way that suggested routine. He found nothing excessive, nothing careless. It was almost jarring, how normal it looked on paper, for someone with a history soaked in blood.
Next, Dex visited your building and expected that to be where the illusion broke, maybe an indication that this was all a front.
There wasn’t anything.
It was just a building. Unremarkable, forgettable in the way most of the city was. There were no visible security upgrades, no controlled access beyond the standard high rise. There was nothing that suggested someone with your file should be walking in and out of it every day.
He watched long enough to be sure. You came and went at predictable times, no visible countersurveillance, no adjustments to your movements that suggested you thought you were being watched. You carried your own groceries up the steps. You held the door open for someone once, an older man who thanked you without hesitation, like you were just another tenant, just another face he recognized in passing.
Dex didn’t like that it didn’t fit the rest of you. So he kept digging, because if there was going to be a crack, it would be in the routine and… you had one.
It took him three days to map it out in full, not because it was complicated, but because it wasn’t. You woke early. You jogged through Central Park along the same route almost every morning at the same pace, like it was muscle memory. You didn’t scan constantly, didn’t treat every passerby like a potential threat. You just ran.
After that, you hadcoffee at the same place every time, the same order.
Dex watched all of it from a distance, writing it down in his little notebook. He told himself it was for this job, that he needed to remember things accurately if he was going to finish the job.
By the fourth day, he knew watching wasn’t enough. It never had been. Patterns only got you so far before they started turning into assumptions, and assumptions got people wrong.
The problem was, he didn’t have a plan for that. He wasn’t a spy. He didn’t build relationships, didn’t ease his way into proximity.
But standing across the street, watching you disappear into the crown like you’d done every morning that week, he understood one thing clearly enough: He didn’t know how he was going to do this. He just knew he had to get closer.
—
The next day, he “accidentally” ran into you on that jogging trail in Central Park.
He already knew the exact time your foot would hit the gravel. All he had to do was figure which way you were going: was it the route you’d take when you wanted to clear your head, or the one you’d take when you wanted a challenge?
He waited outside your apartment today and…. You were taking the hard route.
He followed, and his plan of taking you until you got to the cafè, where he would sit next to you, would’ve been perfect until… Dex timed it wrong.
He knew he did the second he adjusted his pace to match yours and felt the rhythm slip. He was too fast for a clean pass, too close for it to look incidental.
This wasn’t what he was good at. There was no distance. Only proximity and the vague, uncomfortable awareness that if you were anything like the file said you were, you’d clock him immediately.
You didn’t. You just kept running.
He tried to correct it, cutting slightly across your path like he meant to pass you, like he belonged in your space. The movement was off by half a second, just enough to turn clumsy. His shoulder clipped yours, momentum carrying him forward a step too far. You caught before you could trip and looked at him like, what the hell, man?
“—shit, sorry,” Dex said quickly, breathing unevenly. He turned back, forcing himself to meet your eyes. “I didn’t… are you okay?”
Up close, everything went a little sideways.
He’d seen your photo. But a still image didn’t account for the way you actually were when you looked at him. You were focused, yes, but there was no immediate suspicion or recalculation behind your eyes. He could tell you were doing a quick assessment and—
“You’re fine,” you huffed, brushing it off like it really had been nothing.
Dex blinked once, recalibrating, trying to drag himself back to the whole point of this endeavour: Intel.
Simple, right?
Except now you were standing there, waiting just long enough that it demanded a response.
Right. Say something. Anything.
“Uh… there’s a coffee place just up ahead,” he heard himself say, the words coming out before he could fully filter them. “I can make it up to you. Buy you one or something.”
There was a lull of silence where even he registered what he’d just done.
That wasn’t part of any plan. That was stupid.
Dex forced himself not to react to it outwardly, even as his chest tightened in irritation. This wasn’t how he should’ve handled a target like you. He shouldn’t’ve improvised like this. What was he thinking, basically asking you out like some idiot who didn’t know what he was doing?
But you were still just looking at him.
And up close, all he could think about was how… disarming you were.
That was the word his brain landed on, unhelpfully. You made him lower their guard without realizing he was doing it.
Dex swallowed, keeping his expression neutral, like this was intentional, like this was just another step in a plan he actually had control over.
This is for intel, he told himself, firmly. Just intel via proximity. That’s all this is.
You tilted your head slightly, considering him in a way that made him feel, for a split second, like he was the one being assessed.
“Coffee?” you repeated.
“Yeah,” he said, a little more steady now. “Least I can do.”
“For what?” you managed an amused chuckle, and Dex could’ve sworn that hearing you make that noise lit up the world around him. “bumping into me? Is this a line?”
“I just…” he stammered, and bit the inside of his cheek. “I’ve seen you around.”
I’ve seen you around??? He mentally slapped himself. What kind of fucking stupid explanation is that? What does that have to do with anything?
Surprisingly, though, all you did was tilt your head and said, “Okay.”
Oh?
Dex forced himself to nod once, like he’d expected it, like this hadn’t just gone completely off-script.
“Okay,” he echoed, turning slightly to fall into step beside you as you started moving again.
He kept his focus forward, matching your pace, already running through what he needed to ask, what he could realistically get without pushing too hard, how to steer the conversation where he needed it to go.
And still, somewhere in the back of his mind, something felt off. Dex ignored it, because this was a job. You were a target.
And this was just the easiest way to get what he needed. Nothing more.
—
The café was small, tucked between a bookstore and a laundromat.
On the way there, you exchanged your names— he said he was “Tony,” and you, surprisingly, had given him your real name. You were easy to talk to, and you talked about the weather, the park, the surprisingly little snow last winter.
When you got to the café, Dex was relieved to see that it wasn’t too crowded, just a couple of people on laptops, a murmur of conversation, the hiss of the espresso machine every so often. Fewer variables, Fewer eyes.
You ordered first: iced latte, like you’d done it a hundred times. He followed with an Americano, mostly because he panicked and it sounded normal enough.
Now he sat across from you, fingers loosely wrapped around the glass cup, watching the condensation bead along the outside of your glass as you stirred your drink with your straw. You looked… relaxed.
You took a sip, then glanced at him over the rim, and there was mischief in your expression. A second later, you let out a giggle, tapping the straw lightly against the lid.
“So,” you said, dragging the word out just a little. “Why does Bullseye want to take me out to coffee?”
Dex choked.
It wasn’t subtle. The coffee went down the wrong way, and he had to turn his head slightly, coughing into his fist. For a split second, he thought he might actually spit it out all over you, which—thank fuck—the café being mostly empty made slightly less of a disaster.
His eyes snapped back to you.
“…You knew?” he asked.
You blinked at him like that was the stupidest question you’d heard all day, then shrugged, taking another sip like this was a casual conversation. “Of course,” you said. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know me.”
There was no accusation in it. You said it as if it was a fact.
Dex just stared at you. His brain tried to catch up, running through possibilities, angles, trying to figure out where this had gone wrong. Had you clocked him earlier? On the run? Before that? Had he missed an obvious tell?
You didn’t look alarmed. You didn’t look like you were about to bolt or reach for a weapon. If anything, you looked… curious.
“Oh,” he said, because that was all that came out at first.
Great. Perfect. Real smooth.
He forced himself to take another sip of his coffee, buying a second to gather his thoughts, to shove everything back into place where it belonged.
She’s a target. This is a job.
“Yeah,” he added, steadier now, nodding once like this hadn’t just blindsided him. “I mean—yeah. I just…” His teeth tightened for half a second before he settled on the first thing that felt even remotely usable. “I’m a fan of your work.”
You didn’t react immediately. You watched him over your drink, eyes narrowing slightly.
Dex held your eyes, forcing himself not to overcorrect, to let it breathe. Let it land.
“Right,” you said finally. You didn’t sound entirely convinced, but you let it go.
The silence stretched, but not too uncomfortably. It was just charged. You knew there was no chance of going back to a civilian conversation as you leaned back slightly, exhaling.
“Alright. No, we’re not doing this version,” you decided, more to yourself than him. Then you straightened again, meeting his eyes properly. “Can we start over?”
Dex blinked, thrown just enough to answer honestly. “I… yeah.”
You nodded once, resetting playfully.
“Hi. You already know my name, so I’m skipping that part,” you said, gesturing vaguely with your cup. “I’m a former Red Room Widow. I live in New York now.”
You said it like a random woman introducing themself as an accountant.
Dex opened his mouth, then closed it to filter through the responses. “Hi,” he tried again, because apparently that was all he had today.
You waited.
“Hi,” he repeated, then dragged a hand down his face, exhaling through his nose. “I’m Dex. Not—” he made a vague, frustrated gesture, “not Tony, I don’t…”
Your lips twitched. “I got that.”
“Right. Yeah.” He nodded once, a bit too quickly. Then, as if he was forcing the words out his throat. “I’m… a good guy.”
The second it left his mouth, he knew how weird it sounded. You blinked at him. Then, to his surprise, you chuckled, and it was not unkind.
“Hi, Dex Not Tony,” you said, teasing him. “That’s a strong introduction.”
His mouth pressed into a thin line, but his shoulder reluctantly eased a fraction. “It’s… yeah,” he muttered. “Workshopping it.”
That earned him a small huff of laughter, and just like that, the tension changed. It was not gone completely, but it loosened enough to breathe around.
“Mm,” you hummed, tapping your straw against the rim of the glass. “Maybe workshop faster.”
That earned you the smallest exhale that might’ve been a laugh.
“So,” you went on, glancing at his drink. “Americano?”
He looked down at it like he’d forgotten it existed. “Mmm.”
“Do you actually like that,” you took a sip of your own drink, “or did you panic-order?”
Dex hesitated, but decided against lying. “Panic-order.”
You grinned. “Thought so.”
“Yours?” he asked, nodding toward your cup.
“Iced latte. Always.”
He nodded once, filing it away without thinking. “Predictable,” he said.
“Consistent,” you corrected.
“Same thing.”
“Not even a little.” Your smile tugged a little wider, and for a second, it made your whole face look gentle in a way that didn’t match anything he’d read.
The conversation after that was not awkward, even as it came in uneven starts. You both drifted out half-finished sentences, small corrections, circling around what you weren’t saying more than what you were. But eventually, it found a rhythm.
You talked about nothing, mostly. The weather again, somehow. The park. The café. You made an offhand comment about the coffee being great here but the pastries were better two blocks over, and Dex filed that away without meaning to. He asked a question that sounded almost normal, and you answered it like it was.
For some reason, he could not bring himself to ask about intel. Still, neither of you got up as time stretched right before your eyes.
“Okay,” you said after a moment, glancing at your drink, then back at him. “For the record, this is the weirdest coffee I’ve had in a while.”
“Same,” he said.
“And I’ve had coffee in worse places.”
“Same.”
You narrowed your eyes slightly, amused. “You’re just copying me now.”
There was that pause again. This time, neither of you rushed to fill it.
You checked your phone briefly, then sighed, like you didn’t actually want to say what came next. “I should probably…” you started, gesturing vaguely toward the door. “…go.”
Dex nodded immediately. “Yeah. Yeah, sure.”
You stood, grabbing your jacket, then hesitated just slightly. You looked at him, like you were weighing your options, then reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone. “Give me your number.”
Dex tilted his head. “…What?”
You held it out, unfazed. “In case you decide to bump into me again,” you said. “Might as well schedule it next time.”
He stared at you for a second, like he was trying to find an explanation, a reason not to…
Then he took the phone.
“Right,” he nodded. “Yeah.”
He put it in and handed it back. After all, he had convinced himself that it was just so he could get the intel he was supposed to do today.
“See you around, Dex Not Tony.”
“Yeah,” he said, quieter now. “See you.”
You turned, heading for the door. The bell chimed again as you left.
Dex stayed where he was for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the space you’d just occupied, the echo of your laugh still sitting somewhere in the back of his mind.
Something about that had gone very, very wrong. Or very right
—
That night, Dex had trouble sleeping.
The apartment was too quiet, the city noise bleeding faintly through the windows, the weight of the day sitting wrong in his chest. He laid there for a while, staring at the ceiling, replaying the conversation in fragments: your voice, your eyes, the way none of it lined up with the file. Eventually, he gave up trying to sleep at all.
He sat up, reached for the notebook on his nightstand, and flipped it open. The logs he had on you were already there: Times, routes, and observations.
He stared at it for a moment, pen hovering. Then he added a new line, pressing just slightly harder than necessary:
Likes iced lattes
—
Two days later, Dex’s phone buzzed.
He didn’t get messages he wanted to open. He didn’t need another contract— he got his hands full as is. So for a second, he just stared at it from across the room, letting it vibrate once. Unknown number.
His jaw tightened before he picked it up and unlocked it.
There was a photo of a newspaper, slightly crumpled, held down by what looked like your hand. The headline was clear enough:
THREE ANTI-VIGANTE TASK FORCE AGENTS FOUND DEAD IN ALLEY
Below it, you had texted:
is this you?
Dex stared at the screen, figuring out exactly who it was. He read it again, trying to wrap his mind around this. His thumb hovered over the keyboard.
You knew. Or you suspected. Or you were testing him. All three were problems.
Dex exhaled slowly through his nose and typed.
Dex: no. Why would you think that?
He was lying, but then again, he was the one who’s supposed to do the interrogation here. It would be stupid to give anything away.
He hit send before he could overthink it. Three dots appeared almost immediately.
You: just thought I’d ask
Dex frowned. That was it? No pushback? No follow-up? Did you not think he was interesting enough?
Dex: You just ask people that? “hey did you kill three people”?
There was a pause this time. Dex found himself watching the screen, shoulders slightly tense without realizing it.
You: not usually, but you don’t usually “accidentally” run into me either so
Dex’s grip on the phone tightened just a fraction.
Right. You weren’t letting that go.
Dex: I said I’ve seen you around.
He only had to wait a few seconds
You: sure
He could hear the tone in it. That same almost-amused voice from the café. Not hostile, but curious. Dex leaned back against the wall, phone still in his hand, mind already thinking about what you knew, what you were pretending not to know.
You sent another message before he could respond.
You: also for the record, if it was you, I know you’d say no anyway
Dex managed a smile.
Dex: Probably.
You texted back just as quickly
You: so I’m choosing to believe you 🙂
You: congrats
He huffed, a dry laugh catching in his throat. This was… strange.
You weren’t pushing. You weren’t backing off either. You were just… there, talking to him like this was normal.
Dex stared at the screen for a moment longer, then typed again.
Dex: Why’d you actually text me?
The typing bubble came and went once. Then, it stayed.
You: because I wanted to
You: ???
You: do I need a better reason than that
Dex frowned slightly. That answer didn’t fit neatly anywhere that his brain could categorize,
Dex: People usually have reasons.
This time your reply took longer. Long enough that Dex caught himself rereading the earlier messages, analyzing tone, punctuation, timing, looking for something he might’ve missed.
You: okay, fine
You: I was bored
You: and you’re interesting
You: better?
Dex froze.
Interesting. Was that what you thought of him?
Dex: You don’t seem like you get bored.
He could almost picture you rolling your eyes
You: wow. you are a fan
He stared at the screen for a second, then forced himself to snap back into place.
You were a target, he had to remind himself. Nothing more. He needed intel to pay rent, and he could only get that after he eliminated you, so…
Dex: if you’re bored, we could go on another date
He hit send and immediately had what did you just do moment. This wasn’t part of the job. This wasn’t… date wasn’t the word he should’ve used.
The typing bubble popped up, disappeared, and came back within three seconds.
You: is that what that was the first time? a date??
Dex blinked.
“…No,” he muttered under his breath, already typing.
No. It was—
He stopped. What was it?
Dex: maybe?
That was all he could send. Oh, he was never playing spy after this job was done. Not ever again.
You: right
You: with a guy who “sees me around”
You: very normal
Dex pressed his lips together.
Dex: Do you want to go or not?
During the wait, Dex felt something unfamiliar settle in his stomach. It was something he could only describe as butterflies.
You: yeah sure
His grip on the phone loosened slightly.
You: same place? or are you gonna “accidentally” run into me again?
Dex huffed.
Dex: how about the pastry place you were talking about?
Oh so now he was paying attention to your recommendations?
You: okay. Friday?
The only thing he had on his calendar was killing task force, and that could wait, so…
Dex: Friday works.
He tapped on his phone screen, anxiously waiting for confirmation.
You: cool
You: try not to kill anyone before then. It ruins the vibe
Dex stared at that one for a second.
Dex: No promises.
There was no reply after that.
That night, in his notebook, he wrote another thing about you:
Initiates contact.
—
The second date felt different before it even started.
You were standing at the counter of the bakery when he saw you, pointing at something in the display case, smiling at the cashier like this was the easiest thing in the world. “Hey, Dex.”
You ended up at a small table by the window, a couple of plates between you. A flaky and golden croissant, a banana-flavoured donut-like dessert dusted in powdered sugar (his choice), a molten-in-the-middle pain au chocolate, and one with custard that looked like it might fall apart if you breathed too hard near it.
Adorably, he knew you had picked too many things. Dex didn’t comment on it, but he noticed then, how you pointed without overthinking, how you changed your mind halfway through, how you added one more at the last second “just in case.”
It felt indulgent in a small, contained way. Like this was the only thing you let yourself have.
The plate between you looked excessive now, but you nudged it toward him anyway.
“Try that one,” you said, already reaching for another.
Dex picked it up without arguing. It was… good, but he didn’t say that out loud.
You watched his face anyway, like you were waiting for the reaction.
“It’s fine,” he said.
You snorted. “Liar.”
“I’m not—”
“Don’t pretend it’s just fine,” you rolled your eyes, though you had said it with your mouth full, so it sounded more like downt pwetend it's jusft fwine.
“I’m not pretending.”
“You are.”
He hesitated, then let you win this one. “It is good,” he admitted begrudgingly.
“There it is.”
The conversation slipped into place easily after that. It was not smooth, but it didn’t catch as often. You didn’t circle each other as much. You just… talked.
You even went on for a good fifteen minutes about watching a squirrel in the park yesterday. You said something about how it would grab something, run halfway up the tree, stop, look around like it forgot what it was doing, then go back down and start over. You went on saying, it did this, like, five times, I think it lost the nut at some point but just committed to the bit.
Dex was surprised a former Red Room operative would even concern herself with things as trivial as a little rodent. He was even more surprised that he let you go on and on about it. It was as if he liked listening to you, no matter what you said.
You reached for the sweeter pastry next, taking a bite, and Dex’s eyes automatically tracking the movement. A small smear of custard caught at the corner of your lip.
You didn’t notice. You kept talking, mid-sentence about the squirrel again, something about it being “committed to chaos, like hoarding random park objects were its hobby,” and—
Dex raised his hand before he could stop it. “Hold on,” he said, almost a whisper.
You paused. “what…”
His thumb brushied lightly at the corner of your mouth, wiping the custard away, before licking the liquid off on his own tongue. The contact was brief and altogether too gentle for a man like him. For a second, neither of you moved.
His hand dropped back to the table. “You had…” he gestured vaguely. “Custard.”
“Oh.” You blinked once, then let out a small, surprised laugh. “Thanks.”
“Yeah.” Dex looked down at his hands. That felt… Unfamiliar.
He didn’t know when the last time he’d done something like that was. He didn’t know when the last time he’d wanted to.
There was this strange warmth sitting in his chest now, almost weightless. He didn’t even have a name for it.
And while he wasn’t sure he liked that, he definitely didn’t hate it.
You were the one to break the silence, coughing awkwardly like you couldn’t stand another second of silence.
“Ummm speaking of hobbies?” you echoed, wiping your mouth just in case. “You… don’t strike me as a hobbies person.”
“I had some,” he said, easing back into the chair. Thank fuck you could carry the conversation for the both of them, because his brain had just fully stalled.
“Past tense is concerning.” You leaned forward just a little. “What, like, knitting?”
“No.”
“Scrapbooking?”
“No.”
“Be honest,” you taunted, “I can see it.”
He almost smiled, and looked down when he said it. “Baseball.”
You paused, then nodded, like that made perfect sense.
“Yeah, I can see that,” you said, then added casually, “I used to do ballet.”
Dex blinked. He looked at you differently now. like he was trying to fit that into everything else he knew. “Oh,” he managed to say.
Oh, this was it. This was what he came for. This was the thread he needed. This was the confirmation that you had been trained in HQ, right? If you had survived it, then there were doors inside you that led back to places he couldn’t access any other way.
These were not guesses, not patterns he had to infer from distance, but direct proximity to the Red Room itself, to its methods, its remnants, its current reach. He just needed to keep you talking, keep you close, long enough to pull it apart piece by piece. So he asked, “What does that mean?”
You froze, as if a flash of memories ran through the back of your eyes. Then shook your head once. “Mm—nope.”
“What?”
“Not here,” you said lightly, but there was an immovable conviction underneath it now. “I’m not getting into that here.”
Dex watched you as held his hazel eyes. Then, just as quickly, you leaned forward, resting your chin lightly against your hand, expression shifting back from dark to a lighter tone. “Come by my place on Saturday,” you said, like it had just occurred to you. “We’ll call it our third date.”
Dex blinked. “What?”
You shrugged, completely unfazed. “If you’re really curious,” you added, a small tilt to your head. “There’s… fewer people.”
He stared at you, his eyes empty and calculating at the saw time, fingers anxiously tapping the underside of the table. This was… this was not in the plan. This was not one of his controlled outcomes. This was not…
“Okay,” he said anyway. The answer seemed to have left his mouth before he fully processed it.
“Okay,” you echoed.
And somewhere between the pastries, coffee, and conversation, he realized, a little too late…
This doesn’t feel like a job.
—
Dex had expected a decoy. A secondary location, maybe a shell apartment. He was expecting something stripped down and impersonal, designed to be burned the second it was compromised.
Not this. Not the exact place he had already mapped out in his notebook.
So yeah, you had given him your real address.
For just a second, he wondered if this was the play. If you knew how much he knew. If this was some test he hadn’t caught onto yet.
The building was exactly what he expected. It was a high-end high rise. The doorman glanced at him once, then nodded like he’d already been cleared.
“You’re expected,” he said simply.
Dex didn’t respond, already moving past him. The elevator took him straight up.
By the time he reached your door, he had an uneasy feeling in his chest. Was this… a trap?
He knocked, and the door opened almost immediately.
“Hi,” you said.
Dex opened his mouth to respond, but you interrupted his train of thoughts by pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, right at the scar.
Dex froze. By the time you pulled back, his brain still hadn’t caught up.
You smiled like nothing had happened, stepping aside to let him in. “Come in.”
He couldn’t find words to say, because apparently, his brain was on pause now.
Still, Dex stayed half a step behind you as you pushed the door open, his eyes already scanning past your shoulder and realised…
The place was… expensive.
Not in a loud, gaudy way. You had no gold fixtures or ridiculous statement pieces. It was intentional. It had floor-to-ceiling windows stretching across the far wall with a view that swallowed half the city. It had two bedrooms, if he researched it right.
“How…” he started, then cut himself off. What he meant to say was, how can you afford this? But decided against it.
You didn’t seem to notice. “Make yourself comfortable,” you said, already shrugging off your jacket and tossing it onto a chair like it wasn’t worth more than half the furniture in his apartment. “I just need the bathroom. I’ll be quick.”
And just like that, you disappeared.
Dex stood there for a second longer than necessary, processing everything.
You lived here. And not as a cover, not temporarily. There were no signs of rotation, no packed bags, no readiness to leave at a moment’s notice.
“That’s stupid,” he muttered under his breath. Or reckless. Or you were just arrogant to a fault. Maybe you just didn’t think anyone could touch you.
Dex stood still for a second, listening to the water running. He heard the slightly delayed pipes and realised you weren’t rushing. Good.
His eyes tracked the room the way they always did, scanning for inconsistencies. He didn’t try to look for what was there, but what didn’t belong. Because people like you didn’t leave things out.
Which meant if anything existed, it would be hidden. His gaze slowed down and shifted… There. A section of the wall paneling near the shelving was barely misaligned. It was not enough for anyone else to clock, but Dex didn’t miss patterns like that.
He stepped closer, fingers brushing lightly over the seam. There must be a pressure point. Eventually the panel gave just enough of a click to confirm it. Dex didn’t hesitate before easing it open.
Inside was a compact hidden compartment.
The first thing he saw was a keycard, worn at the edges. The insignia was barely visible, but he didn’t need it to be clear. He knew what it was the second he saw it: Hydra.
“Of course,” he muttered under his breath.
Red Room had a historical overlap with Hydra. Old, but not irrelevant.
It surely was a small enough thing that you wouldn’t miss it, right?
He pocketed it and moved on to the only other thing hidden in the panel: Documents. It wasn’t exactly a full archive, but it was enough.
He flipped through them, scanning fast. Inside were names of Red Room operatives. The dead ones were labeled. He assumed the ones who didn’t have a red Xs on their files were still active.
You had annotated them too, with locations, partial intel, and movement patterns.
This was the kind of access people killed for.
His thumb moved, grabbing his phone. He flipped through quickly, taking a picture of each page, each note, each annotation. He made sure, of course, that it was legible.
This was high-level access, closer than anything he’d gotten from a distance. This… This was the job.
Then he heard the sound of water shutting off.
Shit. Dex froze. Then, he moved. He closed the folder immediately, sliding it back in.
Everything went back exactly as it was, the panel sealed until the seam disappeared into the wall again like it had never existed. By the time you stepped back into the room, he was already on the couch.
“Sorry,” you said, drying your hands casually, completely unbothered. “That took longer than I thought.”
Dex looked up at you. There was a split second, where something in his expression didn’t line up. The. it was gone.
“You’re fine,” he said evenly.
You nodded, like that settled it, and stepped closer. You dropped down onto the couch beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushed his, as if this was normal. As if he wasn’t here to dismantle you piece by piece. He didn’t even realise that you had a bottle of wine and two glasses on your hand.
You leaned back slightly, turning your head toward him, “…So,” you said, more direct. “What do you want to know?”
—
It can’t be this easy right? Dex thought.
Turns out, it was.
Which was weird, because people like you didn’t just… hand things over. So either this was the cleanest setup he’d ever walked into, or you really didn’t think he was a threat. Neither option sat right with him.
His fingers flexed slightly against his knee as he watched you pour two glasses of red. You handed one to him, and Dex took it quickly. “Thanks,” he said, smaller than usual.
He didn’t even usually drink anymore. He turned the stem slightly between his fingers, watching the liquid catch the light. For a brief second, his mind did what it always did: it ran through possibilities.
It might be a sedative. It could be poison. He could handle most of that, maybe. And if he couldn’t… Well.
He huffed quietly to himself. What the hell.
Dex took a sip. It burned a little on the way down. Not unusual, just normal wine.
The first sign that it wasn’t poison was that you were drinking it, too. The second sign was that you didn’t react; you didn’t watch him like you were waiting for something to happen. You just leaned back into the couch and tucked your leg under yourself.
It was cute, Dex thought. You looked like a bird, nesting. He liked it.
Then, he took a deep breath and started asking questions. At first, it was light, like where did you grow up? Where were you trained?
You answered, and you sounded detached for the first couple of sentences. It was as if you were testing the limits and throwing pieces out to see what stuck.
But when the alcohol kicked in and your cheeks turned rosy pink, you spoke more candidly. About the Red Room. About being taken. About being trained.
Even Dex, who was starting to feel more bubbly, didn’t interrupt.
At first, he listened like he always did. He filtered, sorted, and pulled out what mattered. But somewhere along the way, that changed. Because you started giving less intel and more… context.
“You don’t really realize it when you’re in it,” you said, staring into your glass like the answer might be somewhere at the bottom. “It just feels normal. Like this is what life is supposed to be. You don’t question it because there’s nothing else to compare it to.”
Dex’s grip tightened slightly, and you kept going.
“They don’t just train you. They… build you. Strip everything out first. Then put back only what they need.” You gave him a small laugh.“Honestly? It’s basically a cult. You have no idea what it’s like to be manipulated like that.”
Dex looked down, and exhaled slowly through his nose. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”
You glanced at him then, and your eyes shifted. You were not shocked at all, but you recognised it as well as you would recognise kin. “Oh,” you looked down. “Right.”
Dex poured himself another glass without thinking. You kept talking, but slower now. It was less like you were explaining, more like you were… unloading. Like you didn’t have anywhere else to put it.
That’s when it clicked: This must not be a trap or a strategy, he concluded, because the reason you were telling him all of this on a third date was… because, like him, you had no one else.
You might have neighbors, maybe even actual friends. But surely, you had no one else who could possibly understand you the way he did, because who else could you possibly know in this line of work?
That was why you decided that he was the safest place to put it.
Dex stared at the rim of his glass for a second too long. That was stupid of you. And dangerous. And—
“…And you?” you said suddenly, nudging his knee lightly with yours. “C’mon.”
He blinked, pulled back into the moment.
“If we’re trauma dumping,” you added, a crooked smile pulling at your mouth, “we might as well commit. This is probably our only chance to say it out like.” You took another sip, then shrugged. “Doesn’t exactly look like either of us go to therapy.”
Dex huffed. “Yeah,” he muttered. His brain caught up half a second later.
He shouldn’t, though, right? He shouldn’t tell you anything about him that could possibly be compromising but… The booze was getting to him.
And, besides, what harm could trauma dumping to you be? The job ends one way: with you dead after he got all the intel. So did it really matter what you knew about him?
Dex leaned back slightly, exhaling a little.
And then, before he could stop himself, the extra bit of liquid courage bypassed his brain, and he told you everything.
The words came out flat at first. But the more he drank, the less he cared about what he gave away and what he did not.
You didn’t interrupt him. You just listened. And that, more than anything, kept him talking.
At some point, the wine started to blur the edges for you, too. Your shoulders leaned closer. Your knee stayed pressed against his. Your laughter came easier as he cynically explained being in prison, and because you felt bad when you did, you gasped and covered your mouth.
Dex didn’t seem to mind. He even smiled, the corner of his mouth warping the pronounced scar on his cheek. At one point, you tilted your head slightly, watching him with an understanding that hadn’t been there before.
“God,” you said, almost to yourself. “We’re so fucked up.”
Then, unexpectedly, you giggled. Dex, for once, cannot help but chuckle himself.
“Yeah.” He took another sip, “You more than me,” he added, almost immediately.
Your head snapped toward him immediately. “Excuse me?”
A faint smirk pulled at his mouth. “Y’know,” he said, “Child soldier and all.”
You stared at him for a second, before letting out a disbelieving laugh. “Really?” you shot back, leaning closer, eyes narrowing in mock offense. “I’m more fucked up?”
He lifted a shoulder slightly in a shrug.
You pointed at him with your glass. “Your boss broke your spine and you lived.”
Dex managed to roll his eyes.
“You got thrown off a roof and you lived,” you continued, leaning in further now, your voice picking up energy. “Sounds like you’re pretty far from normal.”
Dex huffed again. “Didn’t say I was normal.”
“Mm,” you hummed, satisfied. You sipped again.
The space between you closed without either of you noticing when it happened. Your knee pressed against his. Your shoulder brushed his arm. Neither of you moved away.
The wine kept going. Half a glass. Then another.Words came easier after that, less filtered, less controlled.
You interrupted each other more. You laughed more. You even talked over the ends of sentences like it didn’t matter who finished them. At some point, you were both smiling for no reason.
Dex didn’t realize when the room started to feel warmer. He didn’t realize when your voice started to blur slightly at the edges. He didn’t even realize when he stopped thinking about the job entirely. He just knew, at this point, that you were close. Really close.
And you looked… Pretty.
That was a stupid word. It was too simple. It didn’t cover the gnawing claws that were starting to take over his heart.
But it was the only word his brain gave him. You were smiling at something (he didn’t even remember what) and it made you look… harmless.
Dex felt a warmth shift in his chest. As unfamiliar as it was, he didn’t pull away from it. For a second, you looked at him, too.
Dex swallowed the last of the wine, mostly because it was the only distraction that could possibly take up all the space you had started to occupy in his mind.
The room had dimmed at the edges in that deceptive way alcohol always did. The lights seemed warmer.
Dex didn’t usually get to this point. He knew that with uncomfortable clarity. He also knew he should stop.
You were sitting too close, closer than before, closer than necessary, your shoulder pressed lightly into his as if neither of you had noticed the distance shrinking over time.
Your voice had gone gentler, words starting to come in slower waves instead of quick exchanges. There was less explanation, more confession disguised as conversation. And he was doing the same, even if he wouldn’t have admitted it out loud.
Parts of him he usually kept locked down were just… loosening, one by one, without permission.
You laughed at something he said, he didn’t even remember what it was, and the sound stuck in his head longer than it should have.
“You’re smiling,” you observed suddenly, tilting your head slightly like it was a fossil discovery.
“I’m not,” he said automatically.
You hummed, unconvinced. “You are.”
He should’ve corrected you. Instead, his eyes drifted without meaning to, down to your mouth when you spoke again. The way your words drooped at the edges when you were tired, or tipsy, or both. For the love of god, he could not get over you the way you kept licking your lip absentmindedly, like you weren’t even aware of it.
It made something in his brain go pop.
You noticed. “…What?” you asked, pouting adorably.
Dex didn’t answer right away. Because, really, there was no tactical reason for him to be looking at you like this. There was no intel angle. No extraction logic. No job framework he could hide behind.
It was just you. And him. And the space between you that didn’t feel like space anymore.
He leaned in before he could reassemble himself. He hadn’t planned on doing it. It wasn’t even a decision he consciously made, really.
It was, for lack of better word, gravity. As if he was a meteor falling into your orbit.
For a while, you didn’t move away.
Your breath caught in your throat, but you stayed there, watching him come closer instead of stopping it. Your eyes flicked down once, like you were considering it too.
Dex stopped just short of you. He wanted, no needed— to know you wanted it, too.
Still, he was close enough that he could feel your breath now. Close enough that if either of you moved even a fraction—
That would be it. The line would be crossed.
You lifted your hand slowly, but you were not pushing him away. You weren’t pulling him closer, either. Your palm was hovering for a moment against his chest like you were testing whether this was real.
Dex didn’t move. Neither did you.
You exhaled. It was a small, almost reluctant sound. “…Dex,” you murmured, and his name sounded different like that. His eyes flicked to yours again.
Too close. This was way too close.
Your eyes dropped again to his mouth again, and stayed there. For a second, he could clearly see that fraction of hesitation where neither of you could pretend anymore that you weren’t thinking the same thing.
Dex leaned in that final inch… but you didn’t meet him halfway. Gently, your hand pressed into his chest.
“Mm,” you murmured softly, almost like you were trying to convince yourself this was wrong. Then you pushed him back.
“No,” you said, breath hitching slightly, but your smile was still there, playful, light. “It’s only our third date.”
Dex blinked, still a little too close, like he hadn’t fully processed the words.
You laughed under your breath, giving him a small shove to create space.
“Besides,” you added, eyes flicking down to his mouth for just a second before meeting his again, “I want you to kiss me when you’re sober.”
Oh.
He leaned back this time, letting out a deep breath. There was only one way he could describe how he felt, and that was disappointment.
Oh, well. What else can he do?
“Yeah,” he managed to say. “Okay.”
Still, he didn’t move far, and neither did you.
And of course, his thoughts, intrusive as they always are, decided to ruin the only tender moment he had in years.
You have enough. Kill her.
Honestly, he had more than enough intel on the Red Room. Even the old Hydra keycard was a welcome addition to his anonymous employer’s request. It would most definitely make up for anything else they could have possibly wanted.
What are you waiting for? Kill her.
It was definitely more than what that had bargained for. So yeah, he could do it now.
He had clocked many sharp objects he could throw at you— from your vase to a cheese knife you left out on the island kitchen. He didn’t even need a gun.
Kill her.
And no, you wouldn’t even see it coming. His fingers flexed slightly against his leg.
Kill her.
But then he made the mistake of looking at you. And from there on out, all he could think was…
I want another date.
No. He shouldn’t want that, right?
Kill her.
He didn’t want that either.
But… he needed the money, and you had a body count higher than the Empire State Building. Killing you would make sense right? It would help balance the scales, right?
Right?
Would it still make sense, even after you laid your heart and soul to him? Would it still make sense, even after he realised you were brought up as an enslaved child soldier?
Kill her.
No, he told himself, Not yet.
I want just one more date.
And to Dex, that was reason enough not to kill you. Yet.
—
Dex didn’t go to rest when he got home.
The second the door shut behind him, he frowned, burying his head in his hands before pulling himself together. He had called forth the part of him that knew what to do, what this was, what it had to be.
He pulled the notebook out before he’d even taken his jacket off.
He sat down, pen moving across paper. It started the way it always did: Structured and efficient. Intel, in detail.
He wrote of the interior of your apartment; top floor, two-bedroom, open sightlines, minimal obstruction points. Entry points limited. Windows large but not easily accessible from exterior. Security: building-controlled, doorman compliant, prior clearance confirmed.
He flipped the page. He wrote about the hidden compartment: wall panel, right side of shelving unit. Pressure point activation. Contents: Hydra-era keycard, confirmed overlap with Red Room operations. Documents: active survivor list, partial intel, movement logs. Photographic evidence captured.
Another page. This was where he started writing about your routine vulnerabilities, your Behavioral patterns. Trust threshold: high. Counter-surveillance: minimal to non-existent. Open, disarming, prone to disclosure under informal conditions.
His handwriting stayed tight.
2.5 million dollars would only come after you were dead. That would fund his makeshift crusade for years to come. It was important work he was doing, balancing the scales.
Dex paused, just for a second. Then he kept going.
Timeline: Saturday meeting. Entry granted without resistance. Physical proximity established quickly. Target displays—
His pen slowed to a stop. It hovered there, a warmth blooming in his chest. Dex frowned slightly, staring at the page like it had changed on him.
Then, almost absentmindedly, he wrote… she kissed me on the cheek, right on the scar.
The pen froze again.
That wasn’t— He exhaled, teeth clenching. —this wasn’t important.
But still, he crossed nothing out. He just moved on.
Target displays lowered threat perception in close proximity. Conversational drift toward—
His handwriting had changed. Not messy, just less rigid.
… her past. She smells like vanilla. not perfume. Most likely clean laundry and sugar from baking.
Dex blinked. He looked at the lines then at the rest of the page.
What the fuck.
He flipped to the next page like that would fix it.
Red wine is her favourite.
His grip on the pen tightened slightly.
He should stop. This wasn’t relevant. None of the last couple sentences was relevant. Dex leaned back slightly in his chair, staring at the notebook in his lap.
He had everything he needed. He didn’t need to write anything else.
Dex scoffed quietly under his breath. Had he gone soft?
Then, without really deciding to, he added one more line underneath it…
She laughed when she said “we’re so fucked up.”
He stared at it for a second longer than necessary. Then he snapped the notebook shut.
—
The restaurant for the fourth date was nicer than most places he even bothered to go to nowadays. But if this was going to be your last meal, he might as well make it memorable.
It had soft blue lights, a low hum of voices, the whoosh of knives behind the counter. Dex noticed all of it the second he stepped in, cataloguing angles and exits, the reflective panel behind the chef that gave him a partial view of the room without turning his head.
You need to kill her today.
He exhaled slowly through his nose and followed the host to the table.
When you sat down across from him, smiling like you hadn’t just walked straight into the middle of your own funeral, the room blurred at the edges for Dex.
“Hi,” you said with a smile
Kiss her.
He blinked once, forcing his brain back into place. “Hi.”
You tilted your head slightly, studying him like you always did, like you were trying to solve a puzzle with a missing piece. “You look like you’ve been here for a while.”
“I haven’t.”
“You definitely have.”
“Maybe five minutes.” That was a lie. He had been there for more than ten, cataloging what he could possibly use to finish the job.
You smiled, pleased. “Knew it.”
She’s faking it. She actually likes me. Kill her.
Dex picked up the menu just to give his hands something to do. “You’re late.”
“I’m two minutes late,” you corrected, leaning forward slightly to peek at what he was looking at instead of opening your own. “And I brought personality, so it cancels out.”
He huffed, hiding a smile. “That’s not how that works.”
“It is.” You insisted, tapping the menu. “Also, you picked sushi? I didn’t think you were a sushi person.”
“I’m not.” He immediately said.
You blinked. “Then why…”
“Seemed efficient.” What he meant was; it’s a nice meal. You deserve a nice meal for the last day of your life. It’s efficient for him, who had an array of ceramic and silverware to kill you with.
You stared at him for a second, then broke into a grin. “You picked it based on efficiency.”
“Yes.”
“That is the least romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”
Kiss her. Tell her she’s pretty.
He didn’t do either.
“You’re still here,” he pointed out instead.
“Yeah,” you said easily, settling back in your seat. “Because I actually like you.”
Liar. Kill her.
Somewhere between you stealing sushi off his plate and laughing at how aggressively he held chopsticks, you asked, almost casually, “You know anything about the ports here?” Dex paused slightly at that, eyes flicking up to yours over his glass.
The question should’ve put him more on edge than it did, but you just looked curious, relaxed, like this was normal conversation. “Not much,” he admitted after a second. “Fisk uses them to move things through there sometimes.”
You hummed thoughtfully, listening closely, and Dex found himself talking a little more than he probably should’ve just because you kept looking at him like that.
After a while, though, he managed to change the topic. Work was getting a little old. He found himself wanting to talk about you. “You always order too much.”
You lit up like he’d just handed you a piece of chocolate. “Oh, we’re judging now?”
“I’m observing.”
“Rude,” you said, already scanning the menu. “Also, it’s not too much, it’s strategic.”
“Strategic how?” He tilted his head, genuinely curious.
You shrugged, but there was a stillness underneath it. “You ever go hungry enough that your brain just… rewires? Like you don’t trust ‘enough’ anymore?”
Dex had never felt that way before. He wondered if you were indulgent because you had gone through missions with little food. Would you have gotten days without it, a week maybe? Your Buenos Aires mission was six days, your Lagos mission was seven days. Was it those missions?
How did you even survive?
She’s a widow. She’s a weapon. She’s a person.
“…Yeah,” he said anyway.
Your eyes flicked up to his, and recognition passed between you. “Yeah,” you echoed. Then you nudged the menu toward him. “So I’ll over-order. It’s fine. We deserve it.”
We’re so fucked up. Kill her. Kiss her.
He nodded once. “Okay.”
You spent the next ten minutes ordering together, leaning over the table, arguing quietly over rolls like it mattered.
“Okay, this one,” you said, pointing. “We’re getting this.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“It has too much…. whatever that is.”
“That is eel,” you squinted.
“Exactly,” he shrugged.
“It’s just eel,” you pointed out. “You’ve eaten weirder things.”
He paused. “That’s not the point.”
You grinned. “I have enough of an appetite for the both of us.”
Kill her. Kiss her.
“…Fine,” he said, pushing his intrusive thoughts away.
You beamed.
By the time the food arrived, the conversation had settled. You didn’t hold back when you ate, and you never did. You leaned forward, talking between bites, pointed things out like it mattered that he experienced them properly.
“Try this,” you said, holding your chopsticks out toward him without thinking.
Dex looked at it, then at you. You didn’t even realize what he was going to do to you.
Kiss her. Kill her.
He leaned forward and took the bite. Your eyes stayed on his face, waiting.
“It’s good,” he admitted.
“I know,” you said immediately, all too pleased with yourself.
He shook his head slightly.
She’s dangerous. She could kill you. Kill her first.
You wiped a bit of sauce off your thumb absentmindedly and kept talking. “We used to have this thing—training-wise—where they’d reward you with food if you hit certain targets.”
Dex’s attention shifted immediately.
There it is. Focus.
“Targets?” he repeated.
You winced slightly. “Okay, that sounded worse out loud.”
He didn’t respond.
You laughed, a little self-aware. “I mean—it was worse. But at the time it felt like a game, you know? Like ‘hit this, get that.’ Pavlov, but with putting bullets between your classmates' eyes.”
You popped another piece into your mouth like you hadn’t just said that.
She’s a monster. She’s a victim. She’s both. Kill her.
“Do you ever miss that?” he asked before he could stop himself.
You tilted your head, chuckling at the absurdity of the question. “The food or the brainwashing?”
“Either.”
You smiled faintly. “Sometimes I miss knowing exactly what I was supposed to be.”
That…. He understood.
Kill her. Ask her about OXE. Ask her about the DODC. Kiss her.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me too.”
You didn’t make a big deal out of it. Instead, you just nudged his foot under the table. “Hey,” you said, lighter now. “At least now we get sushi instead of, like… boiled cabbage or whatever.”
His lips formed the ghost of a smile. “I didn’t get cabbage.”
“Oh, sorry,” you deadpanned. “Did your government program have better catering?”
“No.”
You grinned. “Then you get it.”
He did. He really, really did.
You started talking about stupid things again—bad takeout, a guy you saw trying to fight a pigeon, the way you animated everything just enough to make it feel real.
Dex found himself watching your mouth when you talked.
Kiss her. Kill her. She’s faking it. She actually likes me.
He picked up his chopsticks again, turning them slightly between his fingers. These would be a good weapon to finish you off. He had calculated the angle, trajectory, and distance. He could do it from across the table. It would be clean, straight through the throat.
You wouldn’t even—
You laughed suddenly, bright and unguarded, and it snapped the thought clean in half.
“Earth to Dex?”
He blinked, refocusing on the world around him.
You were looking at him like you’d caught his mind somewhere far away.
“What?” he said.
“You spaced out,” you said, narrowing your eyes slightly. “That was intense. Should I be concerned?”
Kill her. Kiss her. Tell her she’s pretty.
“No,” he said, coughing a little
You leaned forward slightly, studying him. “You do that a lot. Go somewhere else.”
He held your stare, feeling like an utter fucking coward. “I’m here,” he said. It came out quieter than he meant it to.
Your eyes softened. After that, you kept talking, and he kept listening, but the thoughts didn’t stop.
Kill her. She’s dangerous. She’s a Black Widow. She’s killed for corrupt governments. She’s taken down entire networks. She could kill you. Kill her. Kiss her.
He watched the way your fingers curled around your glass, the way you leaned closer when you got excited about a topic, the way your voice softened when you cared.
He imagined reaching across the table, but this time not to put a piece of cutlery through your windpipe.
Instead, he imagined reaching out with his hand, touching your wrist. He imagined pulling you closer, kissing you.
—
When the bill landed between you, Dex felt his chest pulled tight, like a thread being yanked too hard.
His hand moved first, grabbing it before you could even look properly. “I’ve got it,” he said, but it came out quieter than he meant, like the words had to push past thorns lodged in his throat. You started to protest, but he cut in, “I want to.”
That part slipped out, honest in a way he didn’t like. His fingers fumbled just slightly as he pulled his card out, a barely-there tremor that shouldn’t exist in a man like him, and he focused hard on the motion—insert, wait, sign—because that was simple, and that was something he understood.
Kill her.
He could do it after this. He would. After all, that was the plan. But when he glanced up, you were watching him. and it threw everything off balance in a way that made his chest feel too full.
His thoughts only sped up after that.
Kill her. She needs to go. She’s a monster. She’s a widow. She’s a fucking Black Widow. She could kill you. Kill her. She’s faking it. She’s dangerous.
He signed the receipt, but his grip was wrong. It was too tight, the paper crinkling under his thumb. When he set the pen down, his eyes betrayed him. They dropped to your mouth without permission.
It wasn't strategic. It wasn’t calculated. It was instinct, human and stupid all the same.
He imagined leaning forward instead of walking away, closing the distance instead of planning your doom, your lips against his instead of blood on his hands.
Focus.
His breath caught, and he looked away like that would fix it, like he could force himself back into the job he was supposed to do.
He needed to do it. Now. Outside.
He slipped a metal chopstick into his pocket.
But the idea of ending it before he knew what your lips taste like made him recoil.
Kiss her. Tell her she’s pretty. Kiss her. Kill her. She’s a bad person. She’s dangerous. She’s so fucking pretty. She actually likes you. Kiss her. Kill her. Focus.
He stood too quickly, the chair scraping harshly against the floor, and reached for his jacket like movement might help ground him. It didn’t. You stood too, close enough that your arm brushed his.
He could still do it but his eyes betrayed him again, flicking to your lips like he was starving for something he didn’t deserve.
The realization hit all at once: he didn’t want to kill you before he kissed you.
He needed that first. Just once.
“I’ll walk you home,” he said, and the words came out before he could stop them. You looked up at him, surprised. When you said “Okay,” it didn’t make anything easier. It just gave him more time to ruin himself, one step at a time, chasing something he shouldn’t want before he did what he came here to do.
Kiss her. Then kill her.
—
The street outside your building felt eerily quiet, like the world had thinned down to just the two of you and the glow of the lobby lights behind glass. The doorman had the day off, you mentioned. There were no footsteps. No interruptions.
Good. No witnesses.
Dex barely registered the thought this time. It flickered and passed, swallowed immediately by the thundering anxiety brewing in his mind.
Kill her.
“Hey,” you said. It was absurd, really, how shy you sounded.
He gulped. “Hey.”
His heart melted when a smile tugged at your mouth.
“I think,” you started, stepping just a little closer, your voice lowering like it was meant only for him, “you earned it.”
Dex didn’t get to ask what that meant, because you stepped in, closing that last inch of space like it meant nothing, and your lips met his…and everything in him just gave way.
His hand dropped from his pocket instantly, the weapon forgotten as his fingers caught your waist instead, pulling you closer like he was afraid you’d disappear. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was only warm for half a second before it deepened, before he leaned into it with a careful urgency that didn’t belong to him.
Kiss her like you mean it.
When you pulled back slightly, just to breathe, just to smile that pleased smile that made your whole face light up, he followed. He actually chased your lips, closing the distance again before you could get far, like he couldn’t stand the idea of it ending already. His hand slid higher, thumb brushing your jaw, tilting your face just enough to kiss you again. It was slower this time but no less hungry, like he was trying to memorize it.
You tasted… fuck! Sweet.
His brain latched onto it immediately, irrational and completely useless: Strawberries and cream. Probably lip gloss, but it didn’t matter to Dex.
Kiss her like you fucking mean it.
He smiled into it. It felt wrong on him, but he couldn’t stop it, not when you leaned into him like that, not when your fingers curled into his jacket like you wanted him just as much.
Kill her.
The thought slammed back in hard enough to almost make him flinch. His hand paused at your side. He knew the metal chopstick was still in his pocket.
Do it now.
He could, theoretically. You were right there. You were more than close enough. More importantly, you were trusting enough.
One movement, and you would be dead. He would cradle your lifeless body in your arms and the last thing you would ever do was… kiss him.
“I’ll see you soon?” you asked hazily when you finally pulled back, your voice carrying the echo of the kiss.
Dex froze.
You were smiling at him. You were not suspicious or guarded. You were just… hopeful. And all he could think about was the way you’d kissed him. The way you’d let him.
Kill her.
His fingers curled in his pocket, brushing the metal again. He imagined it: a quick thrust, handled efficiently…
No. Not like that. I can’t kill her like that.
It was too slow, too messy. You’d bleed. You’d feel it. You’d die a slow, painful death…
She didn’t deserve that.
That was it. That was his excuse this time.
You deserved to die a quick, painless death. Maybe a shot in the back of the head when you weren’t looking. Just… bang!
His chest ached at the thought. He was still leaning toward you, like part of him hadn’t caught up yet, like he might kiss you again if you gave him half a second more.
“I—yeah,” he said, voice, rougher around the edges. “You will.”
You smiled like that was enough. Like he hadn’t just made a decision that should’ve gone the other way.
Dex stood there for a second longer than necessary, like he was trying to memorize you again. He thought about your mouth, your eyes. the way you were still a little flushed… Then he stepped back, because if he didn’t—
Kiss her.
He almost did.
Instead, he let you go. And when he got home, all he wrote in the notebook was:
She tastes like strawberries and cream.
—
The park on a Sunday felt too bright for what Dex had come to do.
Sunlight filtered through the trees in shifting patterns, the grass warm and uneven beneath the blanket he had brought.
It was your idea, “a picnic!” said so casually over the phone, like it was something people like you did, like it didn’t involve him sitting across from you with a gun tucked under his shirt, pressed against his side like a second heartbeat.
He’d decided before he even got there, that today, he was going to kill you.
It ends today. Kill her.
Then you showed up. And the world tilted for him.
You were wearing a sundress that moved with you when you walked. It wasn’t tactical, it wasn’t anything like the person he’d read about in that file. You looked… beautiful.
Kill her.
He swallowed it down. “You look…” he started, then stopped, like the word wouldn’t come out right.
You tilted your head, smiling. “What?”
His eyes dragged over you again before he could stop himself. “Nice,” he settled on.
It was insufficient. He knew it.
You laughed anyway, pleased, like you hadn’t just undone him.
Kill her. She’s dangerous. She’s a weapon.
He swallowed, hard, forcing himself to look away, to move, to do something before he stood there staring like an idiot. He dropped down onto the blanket he’d set up, hands already busy unpacking what he’d brought.
You noticed immediately. “You brought strawberries and cream?” You asked in disbelief.
Dex shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal, like he hadn’t thought about it too much. “You like sweet things.”
You went quiet for a second. “I…” you started, “I do.”
He didn’t look at you. If he did, he’d…
Kiss her. Kill her. Focus.
You sat across from him, smoothing your dress under your legs, and that was so normal it made his chest ache.
For a while it was just conversation, the kind that didn’t feel like work. You started with small things, normal things. Then, maybe out of morbid curiosity, you asked him about Fisk, almost casually, like it was something you were only half-remembering. Dex hesitated before answering, more out of instinct than suspicion.
Red Hook came up next, and that made him pause longer, because it wasn’t the kind of thing people usually asked about in passing. Still, he gave you what he had, watching you the whole time for a reaction that never really came. You just nodded along like it made sense to be talking about it like this, and that made him talk more than he should have.
But how could he focus on any of that when his mind…
Shoot her in the head.
“I’ve never done this before,” you said after a moment, glancing around. “A picnic, I mean.”
That caught Dex off guard. “What?”
You huffed a small laugh, a little embarrassed. “Yeah. Not like this, anyway.” You picked at the edge of the blanket. “We used to pretend, though. In the Red Room.”
You said it so lightly. Like it wasn’t something that should gut him. “In the basement of the facility I was raised in,” you went on. “Some of the girls would lay out scraps of cloth, call it grass.” You smiled, but it was fragile. “We’d share whatever we could steal from the kitchen and pretend it was… nice.”
Dex stared at you.
Kill her. She’s a Black Widow. She’s killed people. She’s—
“You deserved better,” he said.
You looked up at him, surprised. Then you smiled. “Yeah,” you said, after a second of consideration. “I think so too.”
Make it quick, coward.
He grabbed a strawberry just to have something to do with his hands, dipped it into the cream, and held it out toward you. It was an imitation of what you had done with sushi the other night.
You chuckled, then leaned forward, taking it gently, your lips brushing his fingers just slightly.
Kiss her.
He watched you bite into it, watched the way your mouth curved, the way your eyes closed like you were enjoying it. Cream caught at the edge of your lips, but you didn’t notice. And that was it.
Kiss her. Indulge.
He leaned in because he couldn’t help it. He did it slowly, like he was giving you time to stop him.
You didn’t.
Your lips met his, and it was not rushed, not desperate like before. His hand came up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he tilted your face slightly, deepening it just enough to feel you respond, just enough to feel you lean into him.
You don’t deserve her. Kill her. Get it over with.
His chest tightened painfully as he pulled back, breathing uneven, forehead almost brushing yours.
You smiled at him, a little dazed, and he knew. He couldn’t do it here. Not like this.
He leaned back fully, dragging a hand through his hair, trying to put himself back together. “I don’t…” he started, then stopped.
You tilted your head. “What?”
He looked at you again, and felt his heart break in real time. “I don’t want to stay here,” he said.
You were now confused and a little unsure. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” he said immediately, more panicked than he meant to. “No. It’s not that.”
Kill her. Do it right.
He let out a deep breath. “Come back to mine,” he said.
Fucking coward. What are you waiting for? She’s a terrible person. She’s killed more people than you.
Your brows lifted slightly. “Your place?”
He nodded once.
If he did it there, it would be quiet. He would still make it quick and painless. And afterwards… he could mourn you in peace. He could hold your body as he cried into your neck. And maybe, some part of you would stay with him forever.
“Yeah,” he said, voice smaller now. “I just… want more time with you.”
That part wasn’t a lie.
You studied him for a second, then you smiled the same trusting smile. “Okay,” you said.
And just like that, you followed him home.
—
The walk should have been simple. It was a straight line, a familiar route, nothing Dex hadn’t done a hundred times before without thinking.
But inside his head, his thoughts were deafening.
Kill her.
It wasn’t a thought anymore. It was a command, pressing in from all sides until it felt like it might split him open from the inside.
Kill her. She’s dangerous. She’s lying. She’s done this before. You know what she is.
His jaw tightened, teeth grinding together as he kept walking, forcing his steps to stay even. You were beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushed his every few strides, like you hadn’t noticed the tension winding tighter and tighter in him.
Kill her. Do it before she does it first.
The words didn’t fade after they came anymore. They repeated, layered and stacked on top of each other until they stopped sounding like language and started sounding like pressure.
Kill her. Kill her. Kill her.
But then, another voice cut through.
Kiss her.
It didn’t argue. It pulled.
Kiss her again. Don’t let this end. She chose you. She’s still here.
His breath hitched slightly, chest tightening as the two sides collided, over and over, faster now, louder now, until there was no space between them.
Kill her. Kiss her. KILL HER. KISS HER.
It built and built, escalating into unbearable noise. They clawed and scraped and demanded all at once. His fingers twitched at his side, curling slightly like they were reaching for an answer, like his body was trying to decide for him.
One pull of the trigger. That’s all it would take, that’s—
Then, he felt your hand slip into his.
And for the first time in a long time, his brain was… quiet.
It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t forceful. It was almost tentative at first, how your fingers trace his thumb lightly before settling into his palm like you’d done it a thousand times before. Like you hadn’t even considered that you shouldn’t.
Dex stopped breathing. His step faltered, just slightly, like his body didn’t quite know how to move without the noise driving it forward.
The commands that had been screaming seconds ago, the overlapping voices, the relentless pressure…they just ceased. As if you had reached inside his head and flipped a switch.
Dex stood there for half a second too long. His mind, which had been a constant storm of instruction and contradiction, felt… clear.
His fingers closed around yours slowly, almost cautiously, like he was afraid the moment would shatter.
You didn’t pull away. You didn’t even hesitate. You just… walked with him.
And the quiet stayed. Step after step, it stayed.
By the time you reached his building, a fact had already settled into place inside his chest. He didn’t have to argue with himself about it. There was no internal debate, no weighing of outcomes or consequences.
He just knew he wasn’t going to kill you anymore.
Not tonight. Not later. Not at all.
Good person be damned. Bad person be damned. Rent be fucking damned. Whatever fragile system he’d built to justify what he did, none of it held any weight here, not anymore.
He wasn’t looking for redemption, and he wasn’t chasing some shallow kind of bliss that killing you might give him. That had never really been the point, no matter how many times he told himself it was. He just wanted you.
And it was a primal, wild want.
He wanted your mouth on his again. He just wanted you to kiss him deeply and show him everything he’d missed, everything he’d never been given.
Dex slowed as he reached his door, keys already in his hand, but he didn’t unlock it right away. Instead, his eyes dropped briefly to where your fingers were still threaded with his. Then he looked at you. And there was nothing in his head telling him what to do anymore.
His thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, a small, almost absent motion, before he finally unlocked the door. “Come in.”
—
His apartment was nothing like yours. In was just one open space, a bed pushed too close to the wall, a kitchen that barely separated itself from the rest of the room. No personality, no indulgence other than you.
You didn’t say anything, though. No teasing comment, no subtle comparison, just that same acceptance you always gave him, like this was enough. Like he was enough.
Dex barely gave you time to take it in. The second the door shut behind you, he lost any semblance of restraint.
His hand caught your waist and pulled you into him, his mouth crashing against yours with a kind of hunger that didn’t belong to a man who was ever in control. The kiss was messy, as if he was trying to take something he didn’t know how to ask for.
You gasped against him, your hands coming up to his chest, then his shoulders, leveling him and undoing him all at once.
He walked you backward without breaking contact. One step, then another, until the back of your knees hit the bed and you fell onto it with. He followed instantly, like space between you was unbearable.
His hands were everywhere, your neck, your sides, your thigh, like he needed to confirm you were real, that you were still here, that you hadn’t disappeared the second he let himself want you this much. And then you felt him shudder just a bit, shoulder shaking.
You pulled back just enough to look at him, your breath uneven, your hands coming up to his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones.
“Dex?” you whispered, concern threading through everything. “What’s wrong? ”
“Nothing,” he insisted, almost defensive. “Nothing.”
But his eyes were glassy. He swallowed hard, like he was trying to force it down, trying to push it away before you could see it. After all, he didn’t know how to explain it.
How would he even begin to explain that you made his head quiet? That just being near you feels like something he’s never had before? That he doesn’t know what this is, but it’s too much and not enough at the same time?
“I’m fine,” he added, but it didn’t sound convincing. Not even to himself.
You said his name again, gentler this time.
And that was it. That was the last thing holding him together.
“I wanna taste you,” he said honestly, almost reverently.
You were caught slightly off guard. A small, breathy laugh escaped you. “You’ve kissed me before.”
But he shook his head, his big hands already frantically bunching the fabric of your sundress with an urgency that didn’t feel casual anymore. It felt like a need. Like an instinct he couldn’t hold back even if he tried. One hand gripped on your ass as the other hooked on the waistband of your panties, tugging it down desperately.
“No,” he said, voice deeper now. “I want to taste you.”
Oh.
Your breath hitched, but you didn’t stop him. You didn’t pull away. You let him move closer, let him guide you, let him fall on his knees like he was praying to a goddess in the altar of an ancient temple. You let him take that space between your legs as he wondered how much sweeter you could get.
Here, he could at least pretend that he hadn’t been thinking about killing you not that long ago.
Dex sank lower, slower now, like he was trying to learn you, not take from you. His hands steadied himself against your thighs, his forehead dipping for just a second like he needed to breathe you in. He felt… wrecked.
His breath hitched softly as he leaned closer, the space between your heat and him shrinking until there was almost nothing left and then—
click.
It was quiet, but unmistakably the sound of safety coming off.
Every instinct he had lit up at once, snapping back into place so violently it almost hurt. His body froze, breath catching.
He lifted his head slowly. And there you were, with a gun pointed at his head.
It was small, and easy to hide, the red room insignia etched to the side. You probably pulled from that little purse you always carried like it was just an accessory.
Of course.
Dex didn’t reach for anything. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even try to put space between you. He just… looked at you.
And instead of anger, his chest folded in on itself. What he felt was closer to heartbreak than it was rage. Because for one stupid, moment he had naively believed you felt safe with him.
“…Oh,” he said softly.
The gun wasn’t the most horrifying part. It was the fact that even now, even with the metallic click of the safety still ringing in his ears, even with death staring him directly in the face, Dex could not stop looking at you.
You were sprawled beneath him on his bed, dress dragged up your thighs by his own hands, your breathing still uneven from the way he had kissed you seconds earlier. Your lips were swollen and puffy. Your chest rose and fell too quickly. One of your sandal straps hung loose around your ankle where he’d nearly pulled you apart getting you onto the mattress. And somehow… he still wanted you so badly it physically hurt.
How could he be this fucking stupid?
He should’ve known. Especially with questions about Red Hook. The ports. Fisk. That was why you kept asking.
Every little question over food and coffee and pastries. Every casual mention between laughter. Every moment he thought you were trying to know him better—
No. You were working. Just like him.
Your employer wanted information, and you had been sent to pull it out of him piece by piece while he sat there completely fucking mesmerized by you.
And now you had what they needed. Or maybe they realised he didn’t know enough to be valuable. That was worse, because it meant that he was just another loose end.
His stomach twisted hard enough to hurt. Not because you’d played him, because some pathetic, starving part of him had genuinely believed this had stopped being a job somewhere along the way. That maybe the way you kissed him outside your building had been real. That maybe when you held his hand and silenced every screaming voice in his head, it had meant something to you too.
Humiliating. Absolutely humiliating.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
It you had looked cold, detached, amused, even cruel, this would have been easier. He would have known where to put it. Would have known how to hate you properly. But you looked devastated.
Your hand trembled slightly around the weapon pointed at him, and your eyes kept betraying you, flicking down to his mouth before snapping back up again. You looked like you hated this.
“I…” You swallowed. “You’re not useful to OXE anymore.”
He had known something felt off. He just hadn’t cared enough to stop. He just wanted you more than he wanted to survive.
Dex let out a shaky breath that almost sounded like laughter. “Fuck,” he murmured softly, and you twitched, feeling his breath on your naked core.
You flinched immediately. “No. Don’t do that.”
His eyes flicked back to yours.
“Don’t act like this was just me manipulating you,” you said, and your voice cracked slightly now. “I know there was a contract on me. I know you got sent it. I know about the gun under your shirt. Don’t you dare pretend like you weren’t planning to kill me too.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. Because what could he even say? You were right.
The notebook was sitting in his apartment right now, pages and pages documenting your routines, your apartment, your vulnerabilities.
He had memorized the ways to kill you before he ever memorized the sound of your laugh.
And all this time, you had let him follow you, let him think he was in control in that “accidental run in” in Central Park, when you were planning to eliminate him, too.
And somehow, the two of you still ended up tangled together on his bed, half-dressed and breathing hard from kissing each other like starving people.
Dex’s gaze dropped involuntarily to your thighs, to the skin exposed beneath the ruined hem of your dress. To the way your body was still open for him despite the gun in your hand.
Fuck.
His fingers tightened unconsciously where they still gripped the fabric pooled around your hips.
You looked vulnerable.
And the absolute worst fucking part was that he still wanted to bury himself between your legs so badly he could barely think straight. Even now. Even knowing this was the end.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
“You know what’s pathetic?” he asked quietly.
Your brows pulled together slightly.
Dex looked up at you from between your thighs, eyes dark and wet and unbearably earnest. “I still want to taste you.”
Your breath caught audibly.
“There’s a gun pointed at my head,” he whispered in disbelief. “and all I can think about is that I never got to know what you taste like.”
“Dex…” you breathed shakily.
But he shook his head immediately. “No, listen,” he said quickly. “I know what this is. I know what happens next.”
You looked away for half a second. That almost destroyed him, because he realized then that you didn’t actually want to kill him either. And that made him want you even more.
God, I’m so sick.
“I know you’re gonna kill me because it’s the job,” he continued. “Fine. I get it.” His eyes dropped again helplessly to the way your thighs trembled around him, then back up. “But Christ…” His voice cracked. “Just let me have this first.”
Dex looked humiliated and ruined all the same. And still completely sincere.
“I could die happy,” he admitted. “Just… let me taste you first, sweetheart.”
Your hand trembled. Not enough to miss, but just enough that Dex noticed.
The barrel of the gun was pressed against the center of his forehead now, cool metal against flushed skin, and still he didn’t move away from you.
“Do it, then,” you whispered.
You swallowed hard, trying to steady yourself, trying to force your hand not to shake while he knelt there between your thighs looking at you like this was the closest thing to worship he had ever known. Amazed that even like this, you were soaked for him.
“Fucking do it,” you said again, almost pleading now. “Before I…”
Before you what? Changed your mind? Cried? Dropped the gun?
Dex could see every possibility running through your brain all at once.
His hands slid down your thighs reverently. “You’re shaking,” he murmured quietly.
“So are you.”
That almost made him smile.
The apartment felt impossibly small around the two of you. The warm yellow light above the kitchen sink made you look divine, coupled by the sound of your uneven breathing. The mattress dipped beneath your weight every time you shifted. Dex tilted his head slightly against the gun like he was accepting his fate. Accepting you.
That should have terrified him. Instead, all he could think about was how beautiful you looked above him— dress ruined, eyes glossy with tears you clearly didn’t want him seeing.
He had wanted you from the beginning, even if he hadn’t admitted it. But this was something else entirely. This hurt.
Dex tilted his head just enough to press a slow kiss against the inside of your thigh, and the sound you made nearly destroyed him.
His eyes flicked up immediately, watching your reaction with awe. He couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you like this. Like he couldn’t believe you were reacting to him this way.
Dex kissed higher, and your hand flew to his hair immediately, fingers tangling there hard enough to pull a rough sound from his throat in return. He moaned against you.
The vibration of it shot through you so suddenly your back arched off the mattress, breath breaking apart, embarrassingly needy.
Dex's eyes kept fluttering shut every time you touched his hair, every time your thighs trembled around him, every time another helpless sound escaped you. He looked less like a man in control and more like a vampire feeding on his first prey. It was overwhelming.
Every time you twitched or gasped or tried to pull away from how intense it felt, he noticed immediately. He adjusted immediately, making you feel good mattered more than breathing. Like your pleasure mattered more to him than the gun pressed to his skull.
And fuck, did his tongue feel so fucking good. You could barely think straight. The room blurred at the edges, your thoughts dissolving one by one. Every nerve in your body felt lit raw, burning hotter and hotter every time he moaned pathetically against you again like he couldn’t help himself.
Dex sounded addicted to you already. He was too consumed by you and the sounds you were making now. They were small broken noises you clearly hated letting out but couldn’t stop anymore. Too consumed by the way your body kept reacting stronger and stronger beneath him despite your obvious attempts to stay composed.
Your hands tightened helplessly in his hair as another wave hit you, harder this time, your thighs trembling violently around his shoulders. “Dex—” you gasped brokenly.
He looked up instantly at the sound of his name. His eyes were blown wide. His lips swollen from kissing your skin. Hair ruined beneath your fingers.
Then he sank back down, a man eating his last meal. He needed it to be a feast.
Too much. It was too much.
Your body tightened all at once, every nerve pulling taut as pleasure crashed through you so hard it hurt. A sob tore from your throat before you could stop it, your entire body shaking as you finally came apart beneath him. Dex held onto you through all of it.
Your fingers slipped from his hair eventually, weak now, trembling as you tried desperately to catch your breath. Tears blurred your vision completely by the time the waves finally started easing enough for you to think again.
Dex pulled back immediately the second he realized you were crying harder.
“Hey,” he whispered instantly, breathing unevenly as he came back up toward you. His hands slid shakily to your waist, then higher, like he didn’t know where to touch to make sure you were okay. “Hey— look at me.”
You were still trembling beneath him, chest heaving as you struggled to come down from the drug-like high of the orgasm he gave you, the barrel of your gun on his temple now.
His thumb brushed shakily beneath your eye, catching tears against the pad of his finger. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, like the idea genuinely horrified him.
“Fuck—no,” you sputtered immediately, breath still wrecked as you stared at him through blurred vision. “Dex, fuck! How could you even say that?”
The concern on his face was so raw it physically ached to look at.
You were still shaking, your body trembling, your thighs dripping with spit and arousal like neither of you knew how to stop this anymore.
You could trace every conversation backward now, see all the moments you carefully guided him toward the information you needed while he sat across from you like some fucking idiot who came to the conclusion you actually liked him. Except…
You had fallen utterly in love with him.
Somewhere between the pastries and the wine and him writing down your coffee order in that stupid little notebook of his, the job had become real. Somewhere between him kissing you and him looking at you like your body wasn’t shameful or weaponized or ruined… you had stopped wanting this to end.
And now here he was. Kneeling between your thighs with your gun to his head and your taste still on his mouth, looking at you like he’d die grateful if you asked him to.
It was as if, somewhere deep down, Benjamin Poindexter truly believed that if loving you ended in death, then maybe that was simply the closest thing he would ever get to being loved at all. That thought almost made you vomit from grief.
Your breathing broke unevenly as you stared down at him.
He still had one hand on your thigh, so fucking gentle.
“I don’t understand you,” you admitted shakily.
A sad smile ghosted across his mouth at that. He was exhausted. “I don’t either.”
You let out this awful sound halfway between a laugh and a sob as tears spilled harder down your face. “Fuck, Dex,” you choked out, “you were supposed to be a job.”
“So were you.”
You swallowed hard enough it hurt. “I should kill you,” you whispered suddenly. The sentence sounded wrong coming out now, like it was collapsing under its own weight before it even reached his ears.
Dex lowered his forehead slightly more firmly against the barrel of the gun, offering himself to you. He readjusted it, making sure that if you shot him now, it would be painless, like he was going to do to you.
“Do it,” he whispered. “It’s what you were sent to do.” He sounded like he genuinely believed his life was worth less than your mission.
Your vision blurred hard. “I can’t,” you whispered.
He exhaled through his nose. “Yes, you can.”
“No!” You shouted out, panicked. “Don’t fucking… don’t even try to make this easier!”
When your finger jerked against the trigger, Dex still wouldn’t move. Fuck, he really trusted you to end it quick, did he? Even with doom pressed cold against his skin.
Your eyes squeezed shut hard enough to ache. You tried to force yourself back into training, back into discipline, back into the little girl who would get extra pieces of scrap food if she finished her mission well enough.
But all you could feel was him. His mouth on your skin. The way he’d looked at you while you fell apart beneath him. The way he kept loving you despite knowing exactly what you were. “I’m gonna…” you whispered shakily, but you couldn’t finish the sentence.
You didn’t want to kill him. And that was the first truly selfish thing you had ever wanted.
You pulled the trigger anyway, and the gun went off.
The sound exploded through the apartment violently enough to shake the walls, but the bullet slammed into the floor behind him instead. You had missed a point blank shot intentionally.
Your hand dropped. You stared at the damage of the splintering wood, breathing hard, horror rushing through your body all at once like ice water. “Oh my god,” you choked.
Dex thought he was dead.
For one longs excruciating second. He truly thought you had killed him. When he realised he wasn’t, he said your name immediately, climbing up the bed toward you “Hey, look at me.”
You genuinely couldn’t. Your entire body started shaking harder now, all the adrenaline and terror and grief finally catching up at once. “I can’t fucking do this,” you sobbed. “I can’t… I can’t—”
Dex cradled your face in both hands immediately.
“I’m a monster,” you whispered brokenly. “Dex, I’m a fucking monster.”
Dex said nothing. He only leaned forward slowly and kissed the tears from your cheeks one by one, like guilt itself had become holy.
And suddenly you understood something terrible about him: He does not love cautiously, nor rationally.
Every ounce of affection he gave came directly from the part of him that had been hurt the most. His soul had been beaten bloody and kept reaching anyway. The heart is a muscle, and his had torn itself apart trying to hold both of you afloat.
“You don’t get to say that like you’re different from me,” he whimpered against your skin.
Your breath hitched and that was when he kissed you like he was trying to pour every shattered piece of himself into your mouth before the world took it away again.
When his mouth parted against yours, you could still taste yourself on him. That made it more devastating. This ruined, trembling man was still carrying evidence of your pleasure on his tongue while he kissed you like you were worth saving.
Dex made a small sound against your mouth when you started crying harder, and suddenly his hands were everywhere, trying to hold you together physically because he didn’t know how else to do it.
His forehead dropped against yours when he pulled away. “We’re both monsters,” he whispered.
But it didn’t sound cruel. It sounded heartbreakingly close to love.
pairing: single dad, farmer!bucky x florist!reader
word count: 72.9k
warnings: 18+, enemies to lovers, domestic fluff, sexual tension, no y/n, f!reader, angst/comfort, slow burn, smut, sex, divorced parents, daddy kink, found family, mutual pining, grumpy bucky || ao3 || playlist
synopsis:
After your grandmother's passing, you inherit not only an empty house but also a failing floral shop teetering on the edge of closure. as you settle back in town, your bad day only gets worse after a horrible run-in with none other than the grumpy local farmer and single dad, Bucky Barnes.
Immediately off the get-go, you despise eac other. You oth made a silent vow to never cross paths again.
But this town is too small for the both of you. Especially after you reluctantly hire a moody teenager named Jamie to help around the shop... not realizing he's Bucky's son.
one || two || three || four || five || six || seven || eight || nine || ten || eleven || twelve || thirteen || fourteen || fifteen
Tags: [mlw][potentially pwp, depending on if I feel a part 2][I do, I just don't wanna be the only one feeling a part 2][lowk a palette cleanser because I've been lacking][crack][mandalorian!reader x jedi knight!Anakin][enemies to lovers][more accurately, annoyed to lovers]
The catina is bustling with smugglers and soldiers alike.
Smoke filling the air, alongside barks of laughter, the loudness of some game with dice carved from bone, the scent of smoked meats and the general chaos that comes from a neutral zone.
Anakin surveys, stormy coloured eyes surveying the crowd. There's a stickiness on the table he's seated at, his back to the wall, Jedi robes dark against the palour of his skin, tanned from the sunny weather of Tatooine, but not enough to make him blend in amongst the colourful characters that surround him.
He's here on a mission.
Tracking a Separatist agent, and his fingers burn with the urge to simply start interrogating everyone in the room.
He could do it. No one could stop him.
"Oh my God, no way!" Your voice is a friendly chirp, carried along the wind, your footsteps heavy in your gear before you drop into the seat across from him, the chair creaking beneath you. And Anakin feels that familiar grimace pull at his otherwise elegant features, perfect brows creasing into a frown, his upper lip pulling into a scowl.
Don't acknowledge her. Don't—
"I'm starting to think you're stalking me," he can hear the smile in your voice, can picture the mischievous twinkle in eyes he's never seen, "maybe you stopped pining for that princess."
Anakin stills.
You're good. You're very good.
Incompetent in all the ways that irk him, but observant and sneaky in a way that annoys and frustrates him more than he's ever been. More frustrating than the fact that Padme barely spares him a glance because who are you, to be able to be unsenseable by him?
He should've felt you. Before you spoke.
He should've. But he didn't.
And the knowledge makes his skin itch.
"I'm not pining." Anakin's voice is steady, belying the internal conflict and the way his hands itch to wrap around your throat. The Force isn't what he wants to use when it comes to physically dismantling you.
And you snort. "Babe, baby, babe. Annie baby." You're motioning for a server with a gloved hand, an enthusiastic wave that makes you stand out all the more against the seriousness of your gear, the heaviness of the fact that Anakin could arrest you, on good account.
But he won't.
Why won't he?
"You look at her like she's the early morning sunlight." You deadpan. "It's very obvious. Anyone could tell. And anyone with eyes like mine; beautiful, deep, doe eyes that see all, can tell."
And you're right.
Padme is sunlight. She's the breath in his lungs, she's the first rays of dawn peeking between smoke coloured clouds, the warmth after a cold night.
You, on the other hand, are the painful moment of sunlight hitting him square in the eyes, bright, unforgiving and relentlessly annoying. The oppressing warmth that changes the air, regardless of where you happen to meet.
A cantina, a smuggler's den. An illegal market with damp streets and eyes that rove over him with suspicion.
You're everything Padme's not.
And it excites and taunts him, all in one.
You're paying.
The fact surprises him when you're handing the server more than enough coin. And his expression falls when he spots a bloodied coin, fresh blood from the looks of it and he's dragging his hand across his face.
Because what the actual fuck is wrong with you?
Paying with blood money, in front of a Jedi Knight?
"What do you want, Mandalorian?" He exhales heavily, eyes lowering to where the spiced ale is set down in front of him, filled to the rim and he glances back towards you, stormy eyes focused on you.
He can't see your face.
He can't read your features, and it disturbs him for a reason he doesn't want to examine too deeply, and he takes a drink.
And you watch.
You watch the way his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, eyes roving the long line of his throat from behind your visor and your mouth feels dry.
"Why do you always think I want something?" You huff, arms folding across your chest as you recline in your seat, lips forming a petulant pout and you catch yourself, internally grimacing because you're not that kind of girl.
And your tongue swipes across your bottom lip, before you're resting your elbows on the surface of the table.
"I think you want something."
Anakin watches the way your head tilts. He'd like to deck you in the forehead, watch that stupid helmet spin. Beskar coated steel, a few scorch marks that suggest that you're not as ethical as your manners would suggest, and he raises a dark brow, eyes focused like he's trying to look through the stupidly opaque visor.
"What do you think I want?" He cocks a dark brow.
And the action alone makes you shudder, your booted feet tapping a rhythm that's drowned out by the loudness of the cantina and you suck your teeth.
"You want information. You're looking for a Separatist. But that's not what you need."
Fuck, you hit it right on the nose. But the latter of your words make him stiffen, shoulders squared, back razor straight and his eyes narrow imperceptibly, a muscle twitching beneath his skin, at the curve of his jaw.
He knows he's taking a gamble by asking you this, but the words leave his mouth before his brain can tell him to shut up—
"Then what do I need?"
And oh fuck, do you feel your legs ache for shoulders they've never been on.
Because he's asking you what he needs, in that voice, with sandy coloured hair falling and framing his face, with those intense eyes locked on you like he's trying to see past your suit, and he's just...
You're hoping Padme gets struck down so you can scream dibs.
But you've read enough to know, a fancy girl always gets the super sexy bodyguard.
Your silence is deafening, an answer in of itself and you watch the dawning realization start at the tips of his ears, a ruddy flush spreading along the cartilage, down to the lobes and down the curve of his neck.
"You're disgusting."
You pause. Before gasping.
"Oh!" Your voice is high, "You're—"
"—no."
You raise your hands in mock surrender, the dim lighting reflecting off the metallic braces on your arms, and you let out a hum. "Usually, when a man rejects my advances, it's because he prefers something long and hard."
"Are you sure your personality has nothing to do with it?"
You're resting a hand over your chest, jaw slack, because that was such a good comeback. Well, not actually, but you don't have the highest hopes when it comes to Anakin.
Jedi Knights and their way of behaving with honour.
But still.
"Anakin, when did you stop liking me?"
"I have never liked you. And you tracking me like a hound, makes me like you less." Anakin hisses, gloved hand still curled around the curved wood of his drink, storm coloured eyes narrowing as he regards you with a mixture of contempt and begrudging amusement. "There's no possible reason that you and I, should be in the same place, at the same time, all the time."
You hum, leaning forward, the metal of your arm cuff reflecting the cherry of someone's cigar and your fingers, covered in reinforced materials, tap against the chin of your helm when you cradle your head.
"What if it's—"
"—don't— do not say fate—"
"—the force."
The silence is deafening, Anakin's eyes fluttered shut, long lashes resting against high cheekbones while he tries to recall why, exactly, beating you with the handle of his lightsaber, would be wrong.
"The force is just gonna keep pulling us together, until you stop playing hard to get." Your voice is conversational, easy. Like you're not propositioning the Chosen One.
Like you're not treating the Anakin Skywalker like some conquest to be won over, like some easy lay.
"Does this ever get you anywhere?" He questions. "With anyone?"
"It's getting me somewhere with you."
"It's getting you nowhere."
"It's getting me where I need to be," You lean in, close enough for Anakin to count the flecks of cobalt in his eyes, "and now I'm in your head."
The sound that escapes him is a bone deep sigh, shoulders slumping with defeat and Anakin's spreading a gloved hand across the front of your helm, pushing you back into your seat with an exhausted huff.
"This better be the last time I see you."
Your cheeks dimple behind your visor before you're bringing up a hand, tapping the ball of his nose playfully.
"We both know it's not." You hum.
And Anakin finds himself hoping, against his will, that you're right.
divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto
word count: 9.1k
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: Alrighty part 3 done, part 4 should be the last one... most likely... hopefully.
Hell. Bruce Wayne was certain he’d somehow been dragged straight into it.
He’d even gone so far as to contact John Constantine—just to be sure he hadn’t slipped into an alternate reality, a curse, or some particularly cruel cosmic joke. Unfortunately, Constantine had only laughed, lit a cigarette, and confirmed the worst truth of all:
This was real.
And you were truly set on divorcing him.
Ever since the news broke, Gotham had gone unnervingly quiet. The whispers of Batman’s foul mood had spread fast through the criminal underbelly, and like rats sensing a flood, they’d scattered. No muggings. No evil schemes. No desperate villains looking to cause their usual brand of chaos. For once no one dared to piss off the Bat.
Which meant Bruce had no outlet.
No criminals to bleed the anger into.
No bruises to dull the ache.
And no you.
He carried it all with him—everywhere. A volatile mix of fury, regret, misery… and want. Because even now, especially now, the thing he wanted most in the world was his wife.
Soon to be his ex.
And that knowledge burned hotter than any hell Constantine could’ve dragged him through.
“Why so glum, Bats?”
Bruce’s jaw tightened at the sound of Oliver Queen’s voice. He turned to find him perched casually nearby, clad in green, far too relaxed for someone standing within striking distance. The white lenses of Bruce’s cowl narrowed.
“Why are you here?” he demanded.
Oliver grinned, unbothered by the look as he spun one of his arrows between his fingers like a toy. “What? Not happy to see me?”
Bruce’s glare sharpened, a silent warning.
Oliver only laughed, the sound bright and infuriating against the weight pressing down on Bruce’s chest. “Don’t tell me you’re still brooding about that little dance I had with Y/N.”
Bruce’s jaw clenched.
Oliver sighed, long and theatrical. “Relax, Bats. It was a dance. No vows were broken. No laws were violated.” He tilted his head, mock thoughtful. “And if we’re being honest—she looked like she was having fun. Which is more than I’ve seen in a long time.”
Bruce’s fists clenched at his sides, leather creaking under the strain. “You don’t know anything about my marriage.”
Oliver’s expression shifted. The grin faded, replaced by something more serious. “I know you’re screwing it up.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened.
“You don’t get to have it both ways,” Oliver continued, voice firm now. “You don’t get to ice her out and then bare your teeth when someone else makes her smile.”
“Stay out of it,” Bruce growled, his voice low and dangerous.
Oliver stepped closer anyway, utterly unbothered by the threat rolling off him. “Don’t forget—I consider her like a little sister. And I won’t stand around and watch you keep hurting her.”
The punch came without warning.
A sharp crack split the air as Bruce’s fist connected with Oliver’s cheekbone, the impact snapping his head to the side. For a heartbeat, everything went still.
Then Oliver straightened slowly, infuriatingly calm.
He rolled his jaw once, testing it, before shrugging as though he’d taken an inconvenient elbow on the court instead of a full-force punch from Batman. With his thumb, he wiped the thin trail of blood from the corner of his mouth and glanced at it briefly, unimpressed.
“Feel better, princess?” he asked mildly.
Bruce only answered with a grunt, chest heaving.
Oliver watched him for a moment longer, then sighed, shaking his head.
“You know what the worst part is?” he said quietly. “You actually love her. I can see it. Hell, everyone can.” His gaze hardened. “But you refuse to let her in.”
Bruce turned back sharply. “I can’t.”
Oliver shook his head, frustration finally bleeding through. “This isn’t being fucking righteous, Bruce. It’s cowardice.” He stepped closer, voice dropping. “You’re hurting her. And you’re hurting yourself.”
Bruce said nothing.
“If you can’t let her in,” Oliver continued quietly, “then let her go.”
“I can’t,” Bruce ground out, the words dragged from somewhere raw and ugly in his chest.
Silence stretched between them, thick and volatile.
At last, Oliver stepped back, giving Bruce space, though his eyes never left him. “I’m not your enemy, B. But I won’t apologize for standing up for her.”
He paused, then added, almost too casually, “And for what it’s worth? If you keep hesitating, someone else won’t.”
Bruce’s head snapped up, eyes burning with anger. “You wouldn’t.”
Oliver lifted his hands in surrender, calm and honest. “You know I wouldn’t. Dinah and I are solid.” His expression sobered. “But someone else will. Let her in, or let her go. There’s still time to save your marriage—before it turns into something unsalvageable.”
Then he turned and walked away, boots echoing softly against concrete, leaving Bruce alone with the truth Oliver had shoved straight into his chest.
Four damn weeks passed in the blink of an eye, and Bruce was no closer to figuring out how to make you stay.
He’d been foolish enough to hope something would change—that the small, almost imperceptible lift in your mood meant there was still a chance.
Your conversations remained polite, cordial, and painfully distant. At work, any communication went through your assistant, who might as well have been a professionally trained guard dog. Invitations to breakfast, lunch, dinner—declined with perfect courtesy.
No matter what he tried, you stayed just out of reach.
The tabloids, courtesy of Lex Luthor, were having a field day. Speculation buzzed endlessly, theories multiplying by the hour—but neither of you confirmed a thing.
It was obvious you wanted this divorce to happen cleanly and quietly as possible. But unfortunately for you, Bruce Wayne had never been the better man when it came to letting go.
That morning, he sat at the kitchen table in a foul mood, nursing a cup of coffee that had long gone cold as he flipped through the papers. Gossip headlines screamed up at him from the page, each more ridiculous than the last.
This time, apparently, he’d caught you with a younger gigolo.
The article suggested you’d run off with the man because he couldn’t keep up with your voracious appetite.
Bruce stared at the headline for a long moment.
His jaw tightened. His fingers creased the paper.
“Remind me,” he muttered darkly, “to buy the Gotham press and fire this journalist.”
“Of course, Master Bruce,” Alfred replied with a weary sigh, already far too accustomed to damage control of this variety.
Before anything more could be said, the sound of heels cut sharply through the room.
“I trust your schedule is open,” you said coolly as you stepped in, gaze locking onto him, “so we can get everything finalized.”
Bruce blinked—once. Then again.
Confusion flickered across his face before realization hit like a gut punch.
Your eyes narrowed. “It’s been a month, Bruce,” you said evenly. “Today’s the day.”
His eyes widened just enough to give him away. “I—I have a meeting this morning,” he said quickly, clearing his throat.
Now it was your turn to blink.
“Oh?” you asked, voice deceptively calm. “I don’t remember seeing it on the schedule.”
“It was last minute,” Bruce said quickly, forcing a laugh that sounded way too fake. “You know how Winston gets.”
He made a point of not looking at Alfred, who regarded him with a look so unimpressed it bordered on judgment.
You studied Bruce for a moment longer than necessary, then let out a slow breath. “Fine. After the meeting, then,” you said evenly. “I’ll set it up for lunch.”
Bruce nodded a little too fast. “Of course.”
You turned and strode away without another word, heels clicking decisively against the marble. The moment you were out of sight, Bruce’s shoulders sagged. He dropped back into his chair and dragged a hand down his face.
A long, tired sigh left him.
“You cannot keep postponing this, Master Bruce,” Alfred said quietly. “If you are unwilling to tell the madam the truth, then you must give her what she wants.”
“I can’t, Alfred,” Bruce muttered, staring down at the desk. “I didn’t sign the papers.”
Alfred froze.
“…What?”
Bruce let out a rough breath. “I was hoping,” he admitted, voice low and bitter, “that she’d change her mind.”
Alfred closed his eyes for a brief moment, the disappointment unmistakable.
“Then, sir,” he said at last, “you are not buying time. You are only ensuring that when the truth comes out, it will hurt her far more than honesty ever would.”
Bruce only sighed, heavy and exhausted, staring at nothing in particular.
“Master Bruce,” Alfred continued quietly, “I have watched the madam for five years.” He folded his hands behind his back. “The first two—when you were gone—devastated her. And yet she kept the company afloat. She stood firm while board members challenged her authority, while shareholders doubted her, while the city whispered that Wayne Enterprises would crumble without its heir.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened.
“And the last three years,” Alfred went on, “were met not with your absence, but with your distance. Your coldness. Your relentless pursuit of the cowl, while she stood beside you in name only.”
The silence stretched.
“If you cannot let her in,” Alfred said softly, “then you must let her go. Let her find someone who can give her what you refuse to.”
Bruce swallowed.
“I love her, Alfred,” he admitted at last, the words stripped bare of bravado.
“I know,” Alfred replied without hesitation. “That is why your parents agreed to such a contract when you were still a child. They saw the love between you long before either of you understood what it was.” He paused. “But sometimes, Master Bruce, loving someone means setting them free.”
Bruce pushed back from the desk abruptly and stood, tension radiating from every line of his body.
“I’m heading to the office,” he muttered, already turning away—running from the truth he wasn’t yet ready to face.
Five times you called, and five times he let it go to voicemail.
Bruce knew he was late. He knew you were furious for him delaying the meeting. He just didn’t know how to tell you the truth: that he had never signed the papers.
A hesitant knock broke the silence.
His assistant cracked the door open, hovering nervously. “Mr. Wayne… it’s your wife.”
Bruce didn’t even look up from where he was staring at the ceiling. “Tell her the meeting is taking longer than expected.”
The door closed.
Then opened again.
Bruce exhaled hard, already preparing a sharp rebuke—but the words died on his tongue when he looked down and saw Clark stepping into the office. One glance at the pitying expression on his face told Bruce everything he needed to know.
Bruce sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Let me guess,” he muttered. “It’s your turn to tell me to let her in or let her go?”
Clark tucked his hands into his pockets, striding further into the room. His expression was carefully neutral in that infuriatingly gentle way of his—but the concern was there all the same.
“Oliver’s worried,” Clark said quietly. “So am I.” He paused, then added, almost dryly, “And for the record, punching me would only hurt you.”
Bruce scoffed and paced once across the office before turning back to him. “You all seem very invested in my marriage all of a sudden.”
Clark studied him for a long moment before answering. “Because this isn’t just about the marriage.”
Bruce stilled.
“This is about you,” Clark continued evenly. “And the fact that you’re letting paranoia and fear run your life.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I do,” Clark replied gently. “I’ve watched you push people away for years. I’ve watched you convince yourself that protecting someone means keeping them at arm’s length.” His gaze didn’t waver. “And now—” he gestured vaguely between them, “—now you’re finally facing the consequence of that working.”
Bruce dragged a hand down his face, exhaustion bleeding through the cracks in his control. “She’s asking me to sign my own damn heart away.”
“No,” Clark corrected quietly. “She’s asking you to respect her choice.”
Bruce let out a sharp, humourless laugh. “Easy for you to say.”
Clark didn’t rise to the bait. “Is it?”
That made Bruce look at him.
“You think I don’t know what it costs?” Clark continued. “Letting someone see the parts of you that scare you. The parts you’re convinced would break them.” He paused, voice soft but unwavering. “I chose to trust Lois with that. You never gave her that chance.”
“I can’t,” Bruce whispered, the word torn from him.
Clark stepped closer, his presence calm but unyielding. “Then let her go.”
“I can’t.”
“You’re hurting her like this, Bruce,” Clark pressed.
Bruce squeezed his eyes shut, jaw flexing. “I know.”
“Bruce—”
“I know!” he snapped, the restraint finally shattering. He surged forward, shoving Clark back against the wall, forearm braced at his chest. “I know,” he repeated, voice breaking now, raw and unguarded. “But I can’t. I can’t.”
His grip faltered, anger bleeding into desperation. “I love her, Clark. I love her too damn much to let her go.” His voice dropped, hoarse. “And I love her so much that I’m terrified if she gets any closer—if she really sees everything—she’ll get hurt.”
The admission emptied him.
Bruce sagged, the fight draining out of his body all at once, his forehead dropping forward as if the weight of it had finally become too much to carry alone.
Clark didn’t hesitate.
He stepped in and pulled Bruce into a firm, grounding hug, one hand braced between his shoulder blades. Clark exhaled slowly, feeling Bruce’s pain as if it were his own.
Protests sounded behind the door, muffled and frantic—but Bruce barely had time to register them before the doors slammed open.
You stormed in.
“Mrs. Wayne, please—Mr. Wayne is in a meeting—”
“Save it,” you snapped, already halfway into the office. “There is no damn meeting. I saw Winston at the restaurant with his wife—and he looked genuinely confused when I asked about some supposed meeting with Bruce.”
The assistant faltered behind you, but you were no longer listening.
You stopped short.
Clark’s arms were still around Bruce, in what looked to be an intimate embrace. Bruce’s hair was rumpled, his tie loosened, collar open—disheveled in a way you’d never seen in public.
Your mouth fell open.
Clark froze first, instinctively stepping back, hands lifting in immediate surrender. “This isn’t—”
“I can explain,” Bruce said quickly, straightening as he scrambled for words—any words—to explain why he hadn’t shown up for the settlement meeting. “This isn’t what it looks like.”
“You…” Your eyes flicked between him and Clark. “…You and Clark?”
Bruce’s brows drew together in pure confusion, while Clark promptly choked, his face flushing a deep, unmistakable red.
“What?” Bruce asked, completely lost.
You dragged a hand through your hair, pacing once before stopping short, eyes widening as if a realization had just slammed into place. “That makes so much sense…”
“What does?” Bruce pressed, genuinely bewildered. He was still trying to figure out why you weren’t yelling—why you weren’t demanding answers about the meeting.
“All these years,” you said slowly, disbelief threading your voice, “why didn’t you tell me you were into men? I would’ve understood.”
Bruce’s eyes went wide. “What?!”
It was your turn to blink. “You and Clark…?” You looked between Bruce’s baffled expression and Clark’s mortified one, your brows knitting together. “You two aren’t together?”
Clark cleared his throat, straightening immediately. “No, ma’am. I assure you—Lois and I are very happily engaged. Bruce just… tripped.” He gestured awkwardly between the two of them. “And you walked in when I caught him.”
You stared at him.
“He tripped,” you repeated flatly.
Clark nodded far too quickly, already backing toward the door. He shot Bruce an apologetic look. “I—I appreciate you agreeing to the interview, Mr. Wayne,” he said, lying with as much professionalism as he could muster.
And with that, he fled.
The door closed with a soft click, leaving the office awkwardly quiet. You turned back to Bruce slowly. He stood there, shoulders tense, jaw set, clearly scrambling for something—anything—to say.
“The meeting went late,” he began.
You lifted a hand.
“Save it,” you said coolly. “I saw Winston at the restaurant. There was no meeting.” Your voice didn’t rise but it was lined with determination. “Enough is enough, Bruce. Let’s finalize this.”
“Y/N…” he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.
“What?” You threw your arms out, frustration finally breaking through. “What could you possibly say this time?”
His mouth opened. Closed. Then, quietly—too quietly—
“We can’t finalize it.”
Your expression stilled. “Excuse me?”
“We can’t finalize it,” he repeated, voice low, steady in a way that made your stomach twist.
“Why not?” Your eyes narrowed. “Everything is settled for a clean and quick break. I want nothing from you.”
His throat bobbed. “Because I never signed the papers.”
The words didn’t register at first.
“What?” you whispered.
“That night,” he said, barely breathing now, “I never signed them.”
Your jaw clenched, a sharp, aching pressure building behind your eyes. Bruce felt it the moment he saw the tears gather there—the betrayal, the hurt, the quiet devastation he’d been trying so desperately to delay.
But you didn’t yell.
Without a word, you turned on your heel and walked away, fury radiating off you in controlled, lethal waves.
“Y/N!” Bruce called, panic crashing through him as he moved after you, his long strides barely keeping up. He nearly had to run to catch you as you stormed down the corridor, heels striking marble like gunshots.
“Stop,” he pleaded. “Please—just let me explain.”
Julie chose that exact moment to step out of the elevators, a bright, hopeful smile on her face and a bakery box cradled in her arms. You nearly collided with her. She gasped in surprise, stumbling back—but you didn’t slow, didn’t apologize, didn’t even look at her.
Neither did Bruce.
He caught up to you a heartbeat later, fingers closing around your arm.
“Y/N—wait, please—”
You whirled around and slapped him across the face. The sound cracked through the office Gasps rippled outward as heads snapped up from desks and glass-walled offices. Julie dropped the box in shock and rushed forward instinctively, hands already lifting toward Bruce’s face.
“Oh my God—Bruce—are you okay—”
He didn’t even register her.
His head was still turned from the impact, jaw tight, cheek stinging—but his eyes were locked on you. And when he saw the tears finally spill, something inside him broke.
“I’ve never asked you for anything,” you whispered, your voice breaking despite your effort to keep it steady. “Not your money. Not your time. Not your secrets.” A tear slipped free, tracing down your cheek. “I asked you for one thing. Just this. And you still couldn’t give me that.”
Julie bristled, stepping forward like she had a right to be there. “How could you hit him?”
You let out a hollow, disbelieving laugh and turned on her, eyes flashing. “Don’t worry,” you snapped. “It gives you a chance to kiss it better.”
Then your gaze swung back to Bruce, glaring through the tears.
“My lawyers will be in touch,” you said coldly. “I wanted to do this cleanly.” Your voice trembled once, then steadied. “But you’ve made it very clear you had no intention of that.”
With that, you pulled free of his grip.
“Y/N—”
You didn’t let him finish.
Your hand came up, fingers shaking as you slid off the ring from your finger. For a split second it caught the light, the silver diamond gleaming, before you hurled it at his chest. It struck him just below the collarbone and fell to the floor with a soft, hollow clink.
You shook your head once, conveying your disappointment and disgust, and turned away.
Your heels carried you down the hall toward the elevators, back straight, shoulders tight, every step an act of will. You didn’t look back. If you did, you knew you wouldn’t keep moving.
Behind you, Julie reached for him, her voice urgent, hands hovering at his arm, his shoulders, as she fussed over him but he still didn’t even look at her.
His eyes were locked on you as the elevator doors slid open. Locked on the way your reflection fractured in the polished metal, on the tears you hadn’t been able to stop.
He stood frozen, cheek burning, heart in ruins—watching the woman he loved disappear as the doors shut, knowing with brutal clarity that this time… he might have finally lost her for good.
“I hate him,” you groaned, tipping back your glass and draining it in one go.
“Mhm. He’s an idiot,” Selina agreed easily, already flagging the bartender for another round.
Your phone buzzed against the bar. You glanced down, thumb fumbling slightly as you opened the notification—and then your vision went red.
There it was.
Bruce, Julie, and… Andrew.
You downed another drink without thinking, the burn barely registering. “I hate him, I hate him, I hate him,” you hissed, slamming the glass down. “Now he’s trying to hijack my project.”
Selina leaned in to look at the screen and winced. “Yikes.”
“I don’t understand what his problem is,” you went on, words spilling faster now, alcohol loosening every restraint you’d been clinging to. “I mean—I walked in on him and Clark in his office today, and for a second I finally got it. I thought—oh. That’s it. He’s gay. That’s why this marriage never worked.”
Selina choked on her drink. “You what?”
You didn’t hear her, too busy spiralling. “Five years, Selina. Five years I wasted on him. Trying to understand him. Trying to love him.” Your voice cracked, just barely. “Is it me? Because he never had a problem sleeping with me…”
Selina snorted, sharp and immediate. “I promise you, that is very much a him problem.”
You frowned at her, squinting slightly. “What do you mean? He never had performance issues or anything—” You paused, brow furrowing as a new thought occurred to you. “You know what? If he doesn’t want a divorce so badly, maybe I should stop fighting it. Reap the benefits. Find myself a side piece with his money.” You lifted your glass in grim mockery. “I mean, he has Julie. Why can’t I have my own?”
Selina’s eyes widened—and she had to bite down hard to keep from laughing.
“If you did that,” she said, barely holding it together, “I’m pretty sure Bruce would finally break his no-kill rule.”
“Mhm,” you nodded solemnly, as if this were the most logical conclusion in the world. Selina’s words not truly registering. “Maybe I should. Show him exactly what he’s missing.”
“Yeah, no,” Selina said immediately.
You pushed yourself off the barstool anyway, triumphant—only for the room to tilt violently. Your knee buckled.
“Woah, woah—easy, kitty,” Selina caught you just in time, looping an arm around your waist. “Let’s postpone your revenge tour until tomorrow, yeah?”
You groaned but didn’t argue, your head dropping briefly against her shoulder in defeat.
“Good,” she muttered. “Because drunk you has terrible judgment.”
She shifted your weight more securely against her and began steering you toward the exit, already fishing her phone out of her pocket. As the cool night air brushed your skin, she brought the phone to her ear and tapped a familiar number.
It rang once.
Twice.
“Hello?” Bruce’s voice came through, tense even without context.
“I have a very drunk and extremely pissed-off—” Selina began.
She never finished the sentence. She was cut off as something struck her from behind hard.
The sound was dull and sickening. Selina’s body went slack instantly, her grip loosening as she collapsed, dragging you down with her. The world lurched, asphalt rushing up to meet you as you hit the floor.
The phone clattered nearby, still connected.
On the other end, Bruce’s voice had turned panicked and demanding.
“Selina?”
A beat.
“Selina—answer me. What the hell just happened?”
There was no answer, and then he heard the distant sound of your voice. weak and dazed.
Your senses lagged behind reality. The impact registered too late as Selina’s weight vanished beside you, her body crumpling bonelessly to the pavement. Your shoulder struck first, then your head, the sound ringing sharp and hollow inside your skull.
Pain bloomed—hot, blinding, swallowing every coherent thought.
“Selina—” you slurred, trying to crawl toward her. Your fingers scraped uselessly against the asphalt, refusing to obey.
Footsteps approached, measured and unhurried.
“Well,” a voice said pleasantly from somewhere above you.
It sounded distorted, warped by the ringing in your ears. You blinked hard, trying to focus. The world swam, colours bleeding together—green smearing into black. A cane tapped once against the pavement, the sound sharp and echoing far too loudly in your skull.
“This is… disappointing,” the voice continued, almost thoughtful.
Your vision tilted as you tried to lift your head. The effort made nausea roll violently through you.
“Drunk,” the voice went on, faintly fond. “Alcohol always introduces errors.”
You tried to speak. Tried to scream.
A gloved hand clamped over your mouth, cutting off the sound before it could form. Something pressed against your face, the scent acrid and sharp.
You struggled weakly, panic flaring as your limbs refused to respond.
“Shhh,” the voice crooned close to your ear. “You’re already very bad at staying conscious. Let’s not fight this.”
Your last clear sight was Selina lying motionless beside you, blood dark at her temple, her chest frighteningly still.
Then the world collapsed inward.
And everything went black.
Bruce arrived to chaos.
Red and blue lights cut through the night, washing the pavement in violent flashes. Police officers moved in tight clusters, radios crackling.
His chest seized.
“Bruce!”
He turned sharply. Selina was sitting on the edge of an ambulance, an EMT hovering nearby, clearly mid-argument with her. She waved them off with irritation the second she saw him, her head snapping up despite the bandage already wrapped around her temple.
Bruce crossed the distance in seconds.
“What happened?” he demanded.
Selina shook her head, frustration and fear threading through her voice. “I don’t know. Y/N was upset and drinking. I called you to tell you I was taking her back to her penthouse, and then…” Her brow furrowed as she searched the moment. “Everything went black. The bastard came up behind me. Knocked me out cold.”
Bruce’s breath stuttered.
“When I woke up,” Selina continued, swallowing hard, “she was gone.” Her eyes locked onto his. “He took her, Bruce.”
“No,” Bruce breathed.
The word tore out of him as his gaze swept the scene, frantic now,
“No. No—”
An EMT reached for his arm, voice calm but firm. “Sir, you need to—”
Bruce shook him off without a second thought.
“Bruce.” Selina’s voice cut through the noise.
He turned back to her just as she reached into her jacket and pulled out a small, neatly folded card. Even from a distance, the colour made his blood run cold.
Bright green.
Slowly, carefully, he unfolded the card, his fingers steady even as something feral clawed its way up his spine.
Inside, a single line was typed.
“What did you assume was safe
simply because it was yours?”
Bruce’s jaw clenched, the card crumpling in his fist as something raw and violent surged through him. He turned and stormed off without a word, ignoring the officers calling after him, brushing past EMTs who tried to slow him down. Nothing mattered except one thing.
You.
Behind him, Selina watched the moment his control finally snapped—and took her chance. She slipped out of the ambulance before anyone could stop her, landing lightly on her feet and disappearing down the alley. In seconds, she was scaling the brickwork, agile as ever, until she reached the rooftop where two familiar figures stood watching the chaos below.
“You think this’ll work?” Oliver asked, arms crossed, eyes never leaving Bruce’s retreating form.
Selina scoffed. “Nygma owes me a favour. He knows better than to hurt her.”
Clark tilted his head, eyes unfocusing as he listened to something only he could hear. After a beat, he relaxed slightly. “She’s fine. Still out cold.” He looked at Selina, uncertainty flickering across his face. “Are we sure this is the right way to handle this?”
“Relax, Boy Scout,” Selina said dryly. “That’s why you’re here—to get her out if anything goes sideways before Bruce finds her.” Her gaze sharpened. “He needs this push. Otherwise he’ll let her go, convince himself it’s the right thing to do, and rot in his misery instead of fighting for her.”
Oliver nodded slowly. “She’s not wrong. You know how morally self-destructive Bruce can get.”
Clark sighed, the sound heavy with reluctant agreement.
Below them, Gotham raged on—unaware that its darkest knight had just been given a reason to burn the city apart if he had to.
You came back to consciousness slowly.
The ache in your head was the first thing you noted and the second was the awareness that something was wrong. A faint hum vibrated beneath you, mechanical and steady, like a server room.
You tried to move.
Your wrists were bound but found yourself secured against the cool metal of an armrest. The chill seeped into your skin. Overhead, a single light burned bright, casting harsh shadows along concrete walls painted an unsettling, nauseating shade of green.
“Good,” a voice said calmly, almost pleasantly, “You’re awake.”
You lifted your head, vision swimming.
Edward Nygma stood several feet away. His suit was perfectly pressed, his posture relaxed. The glare from the light reflected off his glasses, obscuring his eyes and making him look less like a madman and more like a professor preparing a lecture.
“Oh—don’t bother screaming,” he added mildly. “The soundproofing is excellent. Very expensive.”
Your throat felt dry as sand. “What do you want?” you managed.
Riddler smiled faintly. Looking almost curious.
“I want an answer,” he said calmly. “And you’re going to help me get one.”
He stepped closer, the soft click of his shoes echoing in the too-quiet room, and placed a single bright green card on the table in front of you. The typed text, perfectly aligned, stared back at you.
“Consider this,” he continued, voice smooth. “A riddle—for you.”
Your mouth felt like cotton as you leaned forward just enough to read it.
“What man disappears at night,
yet leaves his shadow everywhere?”
You frowned, confusion knitting your brows as you read it again.
You shook your head, irritation cutting through the fog in your thoughts. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He studied you for a long moment, head tilting slightly, as though you were a specimen under glass. His gaze sharp and assessing.
“Interesting,” he murmured.
“I don’t play riddles,” you snapped, the words coming out harsher than you intended. “If this is about Bruce—if you think kidnapping me gets you money—”
“Oh, no,” he interrupted. “Money is boring.”
He began to circle you, footsteps soft against the concrete, unhurried. The faint hum in the room seemed to grow louder with every step he took.
Your pulse picked up. “You’re not making sense,” you snapped. “If it’s not money, then what do you want?”
Riddler stopped directly in front of you. For the first time since you woke, his expression shifted, looking genuinely puzzled.
“You really don’t know,” he said.
“Know what?”
He straightened slowly, studying you as if recalculating something in his mind.
“You don’t know,” he repeated, this time with a trace of disappointment. “How deeply inefficient.”
You let out a frustrated groan, your head tipping back against the chair. “Again—if this is about Bruce,” you said flatly, “I hate to break it to you, but we’re divorcing.”
Riddler looked at you again, eyes narrowing.
“…Divorcing,” he repeated slowly, testing the word.
“Yes,” you snapped. “So if this is some leverage play, congratulations—you kidnapped the wrong woman.”
Silence stretched.
Riddler adjusted his glasses, studying you the way one might study a malfunctioning instrument.
“No,” he said at last, voice tightening with displeasure. his expression darkened and something manic entered his gaze. “No, no, no… that won’t do at all.”
“What won’t?” you demanded.
Suddenly, the room erupted.
Alarms screamed to life, sharp and piercing. Riddler’s head snapped toward a nearby monitor as lines of green code began cascading down the screen far too quickly to decipher.
“…Ah,” he murmured, almost fondly as the darkness in his expression seemed to vanish. “It seems someone finally found us.”
The lights cut out.
Darkness swallowed the room whole.
A violent crash split the air. Metal screamed as it tore free, followed by the unmistakable sound of something—someone—landing with a heavy thud.
Your breath caught.
A silhouette moved through the dark, tall and solid, every step looking predatory. The very air around him felt as if it was charged with barely restrained violence.
“Step away from her,” a low, gravelly voice commanded.
Batman.
He was on Riddler in seconds.
You barely registered the fight beyond flashes of motion—black against green, a blur of limbs. There was a sound of bone meeting concrete. A sharp grunt cut short. Riddler’s cane clattered uselessly across the floor before his body followed, hitting hard and not getting back up.
Heavy boots approached. You felt him before you saw him. There was sharp clink as the metal cuffs released you and you immediately rubbed your wrist.
A gloved hand reached out, careful now, nothing like the force he’d used moments ago.
You took it and tried to stand.
Your legs immediately betrayed you.
A sharp gasp left your lips as the room tilted, and before you could even think to be embarrassed, he was already there—one arm braced around your back, the other steady at your knees. You clutched his suit instinctively, fingers digging into armoured fabric as he lifted you with effortless strength, as if you weighed nothing at all.
“I’ve got you,” Batman said, his voice lower now, roughened with something that sounded dangerously close to relief. “You’re safe.”
He wrapped his cape around your shoulders, cocooning you in warmth, blocking out the sight of Riddler’s unmoving body behind him. The cape smelled faintly of smoke and rain and something deeply familiar you couldn’t quite place.
As he carried you toward the exit, you looked up at him—at the dark cowl, the shadowed line of his jaw, the way his hand stayed firm and steady at your back, thumb pressing once as if to reassure you.
Your chest tightened at such a familiar gesture. You turned your face away, blinking hard, and only then realized he was already moving toward the exit.
“No,” you said breathlessly. “Please—stop.”
He froze instantly, muscles locking beneath the armour.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, already scanning the room again, body angling subtly to shield you, prepared for another attack.
“I—” You swallowed, fingers tightening in his cape. “I don’t want the paparazzi to see me like this.”
He stared at you for a long moment. “Is there someone I can call?” Batman asked finally. “Mr. Wayne.”
A bitter laugh slipped out before you could stop it. “He’s the last person I want to see right now.”
You let out a slow breath. “I have a high-rise in the East End,” you added quietly. “Would you… mind giving me a ride?”
He was silent for a long moment and you prepared for him to deny your request.
“All right,” he said at last.
He turned away from the exit without another glance, cape settling more securely around you as he adjusted his path—already choosing a route that would keep you out of sight.
“Hold on,” he murmured.
“We’re here,” Batman said at last.
You peeked up from where your face had been tucked against his shoulder, relief washing through you as solid ground replaced the dizzying rush of rooftops. Being carried across Gotham by a man dressed like a bat was—decidedly—not an experience you ever wanted to repeat sober.
He set you down carefully. Your knees wobbled, and instantly his hands were there—firm, steady, almost reluctant to let go until he was sure you had your balance.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
You let out a soft, breathy snort. “You’d think being kidnapped would sober a girl up.”
His mouth tightened beneath the cowl. “You need to be more careful drinking at night,” he said. “Gotham isn’t safe.”
“Usually I am,” you replied, straightening. “Tonight was a special occasion.”
He glanced at you, clearly debating whether to ask. You spared him the effort.
“I mean,” you continued, voice sharp-edged with exhaustion, “when your husband lets you believe he signed divorce papers—then casually reveals a month later that he never did—I think it would drive any woman to drink.”
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then, quietly, a sound slipped from him. A low, restrained grunt, almost like a grumble. “Still,” he said, steady and firm, “it’s always best to be careful.”
You hummed softly, the sound thoughtful—and then you swayed just a little closer than necessary, close enough to feel the solidity of him again. Your voice dropped, almost conspiratorial.
“You know,” you murmured, “you’re much nicer than my husband.”
For a fraction of a second, something in him stilled. His hands tightened just enough to keep you upright.
His jaw flexed. “I’m not—”
“Don’t,” you interrupted softly, one finger lifting to trail slowly down the hard line of his armoured chest. “I know. Boundaries. Rules. The heroic image to maintain.” You smirked mischievously. “But even heroes break the rules occasionally.”
His breath caught—just slightly. “You’re not thinking clearly.”
“Clear enough to know what I want,” you purred, the boldness in your voice something you’d never allow yourself sober. A faint smile curved your lips. “You can even keep the mask on. I promise I won’t peek.”
Your fingers lifted to his jaw, brushing along the edge of the cowl. He barely flinched—barely breathed. Slowly, you rose onto your toes, closing the last inch between you, and pressed a soft, tentative kiss to his lips.
Bruce’s restraint finally snapped.
Weeks of distance, of watching you slip further from him, of wanting and denying himself all at once—it shattered in a single breath. A part of him knew this was wrong, knew every rule he was breaking. But another part justified it just as fiercely. You were still his wife. He knew you well enough to know you were sober enough to consent to this. And you had made it clear—you didn’t want the mask off.
His arms came around you, strong and certain, as he kissed you back with a hunger he’d kept leashed for far too long. You gasped when he lifted you effortlessly, your legs instinctively locking around his waist. He moved without hesitation, sure-footed and you were too lost in him to question how easily he seemed to know the layout.
By the time you realized where you were, you were in the bedroom.
Pieces of armour and discarded clothing lay scattered across the floor, silent evidence of how quickly both your and his control had unraveled. He set you down on the bed, and you watched him with parted lips as he removed the last of the heavy plating, revealing the powerful lines of muscle beneath.
Then he reached for the cowl.
Your breath caught—only for relief to follow when, beneath it, there was only a simple domino mask. Whatever relief or confusion you might’ve voiced was stolen as he was suddenly there again, his presence overwhelming, his kiss deep and consuming.
His lips devoured yours hungrily, urgency bleeding through every movement. Your fingers clutched at him instinctively—one hand gripping his shoulder, the other sliding to his waist, curling up his back.
His mouth found your neck and you arched up, a breathless moan slipping past your lips.
Your fingers brushed over his skin, slow now, deliberate. A scar—raised, familiar beneath your touch. Your breath caught. Your hand shifted slightly, tracing along muscle and heat until you felt another. And another.
The hand at his shoulder slid lower, mapping instinctively, and there it was again.
You stilled, but he didn’t seem to notice.
Batman's body was a canvas of scars just like Bruce's. They were etched deep, earned over years—Like the ones you had traced countless times in the dark, memorizing each ridge and groove without ever questioning where Bruce had gotten them.
Your pulse roared in your ears.
“What man disappears at night, yet leaves his shadow everywhere?”
The riddle crashed back into your mind like ice water.
Nygma had been telling the truth, It hadn’t been about money. It had never been about money.
Riddler had known something that you hadn’t allowed yourself to see. His irritation at the divorce. His certainty. The way he’d looked at you.
The answer had been in your hands all along.
Your breath hitched as the pieces slammed together with brutal clarity.
Your palms pressed flat against Bruce’s chest, shoving him back before you even realized you were moving.
He froze. The movement stopped instantly, concern flickering across what little of his face you could see beneath the mask.
Your breathing was shallow now, uneven. Your eyes dragged over him, no longer seeing the mask meant to hide his identity, but everything beneath it.
Your fingers trembled as they hovered over his skin, tracing paths you had memorized a hundred times before. The same healed gashes. The same ridges beneath scar tissue. All those late nights. All those silences. All the things you had noticed and never questioned.
It was the same body.
Slowly, your gaze lifted to his face.
To the man who vanished night after night, leaving you alone with questions you never dared to ask—what he was doing, where he was going, who he was with—never once imagining this.
The sound that tore out of you was sharp and breathless, bordering on hysterical. A laugh that didn’t belong to humour so much as disbelief.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me…”
Your eyes burned as they locked onto his.
“You,” you said hoarsely. “It was always you.”
Bruce didn’t move. Didn’t bother to deny it. Didn’t reach for you again.
Slowly—carefully—he lifted his hands away from you, palms open, as if you were something volatile.
“Say it,” you demanded, your voice shaking despite your effort to steady it. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
For a long moment, he only looked at you.
Then, with a deliberate slowness, his hands rose to his face. He hooked his fingers beneath the edges of the domino mask and pulled it free.
Your husband’s face stared back at you.
The sound that tore from your chest was broken—half laugh, half sob—as the world tilted violently beneath your feet. Tears burned hot and sudden, blurring your vision as everything you had ignored, excused, rationalized came crashing together all at once.
“No,” you breathed, even as the truth settled deep into your bones. “No—because of course it is.”
Bruce’s face was bare in a way you’d never seen before—no armour, no charm. Just devastation written plainly across his face.
“I never wanted you to find out like this,” he said quietly.
“Oh, don’t,” you snapped, pain sharpening your voice into something jagged. “You never intended for me to find out. Period.” Your chest heaved as a new thought crystallized. “Tell me—was that why you refused to divorce me? Because I was a convenient cover? An alibi?”
Bruce flinched like you’d struck him.
“No,” he said immediately. “God, no.”
You laughed, the sound brittle and sharp. “Then what, Bruce? Because from where I’m standing, it looks a lot like I was useful. The perfect Wayne wife. Smiling beside you, keeping the questions away while you disappeared every night.”
His hands curled into fists at his sides. “You were never a cover.”
“Then explain it,” you demanded.
He dragged a hand down his face, the movement slow, showing just how wrecked he felt. His eyes shone with something dangerously close to panic. “Because I was trying to protect you,” he said hoarsely. “Because if I stayed distant, you wouldn’t start seeing the patterns. You wouldn’t put together the connection between me and Batman.”
He swallowed hard.
“And you wouldn’t be dragged into the darkness I fight every night just to keep this city standing.”
Your chest tightened. Your voice, when it came, was quiet—deadly in its calm.
“So I was an acceptable loss,” you said. “As long as Gotham stayed safe.”
His breath hitched. “No.” His voice broke on the word. “You were the one thing I couldn’t afford to lose.”
You shook your head, tears blurring your vision. “Bullshit!” you snapped.
You drew in a sharp breath, forcing your voice down, forcing control back into it even as your hands trembled.
“Bullshit,” you repeated quietly. “That’s just an excuse.”
He took a step toward you—then stopped, hands flexing uselessly at his sides, as if touching you might shatter what little remained.
“I didn’t refuse the divorce because I needed an alibi,” he said, voice raw. “I refused because signing those papers felt like ripping my own heart out.”
“What are you saying?” you asked shakily.
You pressed on before he could answer, years of hurt spilling out at once. “I spent years loving what might as well have been a ghost. Making excuses for your absence. Convincing myself the problem was me.” Your voice trembled. “Feeling used. Alone. Like an afterthought whenever you finally decided to show up.”
Bruce closed his eyes, like every word was another stab to his heart.
“If you’d told me,” you whispered, broken now, “I would’ve stayed.” A tear slipped free. “I would’ve chosen you.”
That was what finally broke him.
“I know,” he said, the words barely audible, like they were torn straight from his chest. “And that’s what terrifies me.” His breath hitched. “Y/N… I love you. I love you so much that I’ve been selfish. So selfish that I’d rather keep you safe at any cost—even if it meant doing everything except the one thing I should’ve done.”
He dragged a shaky hand through his hair, eyes shining, voice rough with emotion he’d been holding back for years.
“I wake up every night knowing there are people out there who would use you to hurt me,” he went on. “People who would enjoy it.” His jaw tightened. “And every time I put that mask on, I tell myself the same lie—that keeping you in the dark keeps you safe.”
“But it didn’t, did it?” you said, your voice stripped of emotion. “Tonight is proof of that.”
Bruce flinched.
“I know,” he admitted hoarsely.
You drew in a steady breath, forcing your voice to remain even. “We live in Gotham, Bruce. We come from two of the richest families in the city. Danger was never something we could opt out of—Batman or not.”
You met his eyes then, unwavering.
“I was always a target,” you continued quietly. “Because of my name. My money. My influence. The difference is that while you were preparing for that reality, I was being kept ignorant of it.”
You shook your head.
“You didn’t make the world safer for me,” you said. “You just made me less prepared to face it.”
Bruce’s shoulders slumped, his head bowing his head because you were right. Everyone had told him the same thing, over and over. Let her in, or let her go. And still, he had clung to the space in between, too stubborn and too afraid to choose.
Afraid you would get hurt.
Afraid this world would be too much for you.
Afraid that if you truly saw him, you wouldn’t accept what you found.
So he had done the one thing he knew how to do best.
He had taken control and made the decision to keep everything concealed from you.
And in doing so, he’d hurt the one person he’d been trying so desperately to protect.
“I was terrified,” he admitted quietly. “Terrified you’d look at me and see a monster. That you’d realize loving me meant living with this—” he gestured helplessly to the suit, the scars, the truth “—and walk away.”
His voice broke.
“So I chose for you,” he said quietly. “And I was wrong.” A breath shuddered out of him. “I’m sorry.”
You stared at him for a long moment, stunned by the rawness in his voice. Your mouth opened, then closed again—too many thoughts colliding, none of them lining up neatly. You’d spent years bracing yourself against his distance. You didn’t know what to do with this version of him.
“And what about Julie?” you blurted at last.
The name seemed to genuinely catch him off guard. His brows pulled together. “What about her?”
You let out a hollow scoff. “She has been in love with you forever, everyone knows it.”
“And?”
“And what, Bruce?” The words came out sharper than you meant, tears blurring your vision despite your effort to hold them back. “I know she’s the one you truly love. I’m just the one you were forced to be with.”
His expression shifted instantly—shock, then something like hurt. “What are you talking about?” he asked, voice rising. “The only person I’ve ever loved is you. I never even touched Julie.”
You laughed bitterly, the sound breaking in your throat. “You two were always together, going out for lunch and dinner. She clings to you shamelessly—”
“Y/N, that’s not—” Bruce tried to cut in, already shaking his head.
You shot him a sharp look, stopping him cold. “Don’t,” you said, voice trembling but firm. “I saw you two kiss.”
Bruce stiffened. “When?”
“Back in university,” you said, swallowing hard. “In the hall. When no one else was around.”
For a split second, he looked genuinely confused—then his eyes widened, memory snapping into place. “That’s not what you think.” You scoffed, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he caught your hand and pulled you closer, his other hand rising to cup your face, forcing you to look at him.
“I’m serious,” he said urgently, the words tumbling out of him now that the truth was finally in the open. “I came to pick you up from class when she approached me. She told me how she felt, it caught me completely off guard. And she took the chance to try and kiss me.”
Your breath hitched.
“I pushed her away before she could,” he continued, voice rough, desperate for you to believe him. “I told her it was never going to happen. That it was always you.” His hand tightened around yours. “I never loved her,” he said firmly. “Not once. Not for a second. You have always been the only woman for me. There has never been anyone else.”
Your gaze searched his face—really searched it—and what you found there wasn’t deflection or guilt, but raw sincerity. He looked like the boy you’d fallen in love with long before Gotham had beat him down.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice softer now, stripped of its defences. “For every night I wasn’t there. For every truth I buried. For letting you believe—for even a moment—that you were anything less than the center of my world.” His breath shook. “If she bothers you this much, then she’s gone. Whatever you want, I’ll give you. Just—” his voice broke, “—not a divorce. I can’t lose you.”
Your breath hitched at the raw desperation in his words.
“Then why?” you asked, your voice shaking despite yourself. “Why did you let her hang around you? All those lunches, the dinners, the way she was always there—why?” You searched his face, aching for an answer that would finally make sense of it all.
He hesitated, eyes flicking away as his jaw tightened. His head shook slowly. “I…”
You laughed bitterly, the sound thin and fragile. “You still don’t get it,” you sighed as you pulled away from his touch. “Trust, Bruce. This all comes down to the fact that you still don’t trust me.”
“Do you have any idea what it feels like,” you continued, words spilling faster, sharper, “to love someone who’s always half gone? To lie awake wondering if tonight is the night you won’t come back—and not even knowing why?” Your throat tightened. “To feel unstable inside your own marriage?”
Line of guilt carved deep into his face.
“Even now,” you went on, voice cracking, “you won’t tell me why you kept Julie so close.” You shook your head. “Do you know what that did to me? It made me feel like I wasn’t even an option. Like I was unwanted. Like I was something you settled for.”
“That was never true,” he said hoarsely.
“It doesn’t matter,” you said quietly. “Because that’s how you made me feel.” You swallowed. “Now you’re telling me it was all for my protection? That the pain I went through was just… acceptable collateral damage in your eyes?”
“You were never collateral,” he said immediately, the words ripped from him.
“But somewhere along the way,” you replied softly—devastating in its calm, “you decided my feelings were expendable. In the name of safety and secrecy.” You held his gaze, unflinching. “At least in your calculations.”
He looked at you like the ground had fallen away beneath him.
“I thought loving you meant carrying the burden alone,” he said quietly. “Shielding you from the darkness that’s been my life.”
Tears slipped free before you could stop them. You wiped them away angrily, refusing to let them soften your resolve.
“Love isn’t martyrdom, Bruce,” you said. “It’s partnership. It’s choosing each other with the truth—not in spite of it.”
He nodded slowly. “I’m realizing that now.”
Silence stretched between you. It was fragile and raw, honest in a way it had never been before.
At last, he spoke again, voice low. “I can’t promise you’ll be safe. Not if you stay. Not if you know everything.”
Your heart thudded painfully in your chest as you held his gaze. “I’m not asking for safety,” you said. “I’m asking for choice.”
Something in him shifted. You saw it in the way his jaw tightened, then eased—as if a long-held tension finally loosened.
“Then whatever you choose,” he said softly, resolute. “I’ll live with it.”
You exhaled, your breath trembling as it left you. “Not tonight.”
Pain flickered across his face, but he didn’t argue.
“I need time,” you continued. “Time to decide if I can forgive you. It’s years of hurt and neglect, Bruce. I can’t look past that so easily.”
He nodded once, the motion dejected. “Take all the time you need.”
You turned to leave, but he reached out and caught your hand once again.
“And Julie,” he said softly. “Give me until Monday to explain. Please.”
You didn’t answer.
Instead, you slipped your hand out of his grip and got off from the bed, gathering your dress, and pulling it on with a strange feeling of detachment. When you walked away, you didn’t look back.
For the first time, it was you leaving Bruce alone in the bed.
Behind you, Bruce Wayne stayed perfectly still, realizing that saving Gotham had never been his greatest test.
divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto
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.
divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto
word count: 7k
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: Whelp I guess its gonna be three parts...maybe even four. It just keeps getting bigger and there's almost 8k more words to edit.
The gala was already in full swing by the time you stepped inside.
Crystal chandeliers bathed the grand hall in warm, golden light, their reflections glinting off polished marble floors and silk-clad shoulders. The room hummed with low murmurs and whispered gossip. At the sight of you and Bruce, heads turned almost immediately to watch you two walk in.
Whatever your private problems there was no denying that you two made a striking pair. Both attractive and powerful, the two of you were considered untouchable…if only they all knew.
You moved through the room together, making the customary rounds, and the whispers followed.
Some were appreciative.
Some were disapproving.
Your attire was certainly one of the main points of conversations. A few women looked at you with open admiration, eyes bright with envy or respect. Others smiled tightly, their disapproval thinly veiled behind practiced civility. Compliments were offered freely, as they gushed over the dress asking where you got it, who the designer was, so and so forth. Even the criticism came wrapped in backhanded praise, because no one in the room was foolish enough to be openly unkind. Not when no one dared to incite the wrath of the Waynes.
You accepted it all with easy grace.
Their opinions held no real weight with you. Gotham’s elite were nothing if not fickle, and truly genuine souls were rare among them. You had long since lost any desire to entertain the judgments of people who smiled sweetly to your face, only to stab you in the back the moment you turned away.
Bruce remained at your side as the evening unfolded, his hand a constant, careful presence at the small of your back. Together, you moved through the crowd with practiced ease—greeting donors and board members, pausing for photographs, exchanging pleasantries that meant little to you but was necessary to maintain images. You both played your roles flawlessly.
If Bruce noticed the way people looked at you, he didn’t say a word. But you felt it. The subtle tightening of his hand whenever someone’s gaze lingered too long where it shouldn’t, the slight shift of his stance between you and them, his possessiveness without being overt.
Eventually, he was pulled away by Winston, the CEO of another major energy corporation. You’d been about to follow, intent on polite introductions, when a familiar figure caught your eye across the room.
Andrew.
The CEO of Nexus.
Your focus sharpened instantly. Without hesitation, you angled toward him, weaving smoothly through the clusters of guests.
“Andrew,” you called as you approached, deftly lifting two flutes of champagne from a passing tray and offering him one.
He turned at the sound of his name, surprise flickering briefly across his features before recognition settled in. “Mrs. Wayne.”
You took his hand, your grip firm and assured. “Please,” you said lightly. “Tonight, just Y/N.”
A quiet laugh escaped him as he accepted the glass. “Only if you call me Andrew.”
You smiled. “Deal.”
You angled your body toward a quieter corner near the terrace doors, away from the hum of overlapping conversations and polite laughter. The music was quieter there, the city lights visible through tall panes of glass. Andrew followed without hesitation.
“I’ve been reviewing the Eden proposal again,” he said once you both were out of earshot from the other guests, lowering his voice. “I won’t deny it—it’s a visionary project.”
You waited.
His gaze drifted toward the city beyond the glass, thoughtful. “But the board at Nexus remains… cautious. The cost alone is substantial. The resources required to rehabilitate land that compromised—it’s not insignificant.”
He turned back to you, expression careful now, measured the way men in his position learned to be. “And Gotham isn’t exactly known for rewarding humanitarian efforts. There’s no guaranteed return value. No clean projections.”
You inclined your head slightly, acknowledging the concern, inviting him to continue without interruption.
“In the end,” Andrew said, meeting your eyes again, “Nexus has to be confident it’s securing the best possible deal for the company.”
“I understand that,” you replied calmly. “Eden was never designed to be a quick return. It’s a long play—expensive upfront, slow to show dividends.”
Andrew took a measured sip of his champagne. “That’s exactly the concern. Nexus isn’t a charity.”
“Neither is Wayne Enterprises,” you said evenly. “But we’re also not blind to the cost of doing nothing.”
That caught his attention. He tilted his head slightly, inviting you to continue.
“Those properties Nexus owns?” you said. “They’re liabilities disguised as assets. Every year they sit untouched, they cost you—environmental penalties, insurance premiums, quiet settlements. And even public scrutiny.”
Andrew exhaled. “You’re not wrong.”
You met his gaze, steady and unflinching. “Eden doesn’t just address the damage. It transfers the risk. Wayne Enterprises absorbs the cleanup costs, the audits, the remediation. Nexus walks away with regulatory goodwill and equity in the redevelopment phase.”
He frowned slightly. “Equity that won’t mature for years.”
“Equity that will,” you countered without missing a beat. “And when it does, it’ll be tied to housing, infrastructure, and clean water—not facilities that raise questions five years down the line.”
Andrew studied you for a long moment, the glass forgotten in his hand. “You’re asking us to bet on patience.”
“I’m asking you to bet on inevitability,” you replied. “Because whether Nexus chooses Eden or not, that land will have to be addressed eventually. “
Andrew sighed. “LexCorp would move faster.”
“Too right on that.” The voice slid into the conversation like oil on water.
You stiffened, fingers tightening around the stem of your glass before you forced them to relax.
“Lex,” you said coolly, the name tasting sour on your tongue.
“Mrs. Wayne,” Lex Luthor drawled, his eyes roaming with open appraisal. “My, you are a vision tonight.”
His gaze lingered far too long, unapologetic and hungry. You resisted the instinctive urge to step back, lifting your chin instead and meeting his look head-on.
“Come to enjoy the view, Mr. Luthor?” you asked flatly.
“I have,” he purred, sending you a smug smile. His attention flicked briefly to Andrew. “I couldn’t help overhearing—Nexus weighing its options.”
Andrew’s expression cooled. “We’re in the middle of a discussion.”
“Of course,” Lex said smoothly. “I simply thought it worth mentioning that LexCorp doesn’t believe in dragging its feet when opportunity presents itself.”
Andrew’s shoulders stiffened beside you. “We were just—“
“—discussing speed,” Lex cut in smoothly, his gaze never leaving your face. “Efficiency. Things Gotham could certainly use more of.” His smile sharpened. “Nexus has an impressive portfolio of land assets. Wasted potential, really. Left to rot for years. I’m surprised it’s taken this long to divest land that continues to cost the company billions.”
“Some would call it restraint,” you said evenly. “After all, Nexus should consider all of its options before committing to a course of action—and choose the one that truly serves the company’s long-term interests.”
Andrew glanced at you, surprise flickering across his face before settling into something closer to gratitude. He inclined his head slightly, as though acknowledging the support.
Lex laughed softly, the sound smooth and dismissive. “Some would call it fear.”
Andrew shifted beside you, his discomfort plain now. “We were discussing long-term viability.”
“Of course you were,” Lex replied easily. “Eden.” He let the name linger, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Wayne Enterprises does love a legacy project. Very… sentimental.”
Your spine stiffened at the casual familiarity he seemed to have of the project. The details and the name hadn’t been released publicly yet, and the way he said it made your skin prickle.
Lex’s gaze flicked briefly to Andrew. “But sentiment doesn’t clean land faster. It doesn’t quiet regulators. And it certainly doesn’t protect a board when things get messy.”
You turned fully toward him then, your expression cool and unflinching. “And cutting corners doesn’t make consequences disappear,” you said evenly. “It just delays them.”
You made a deliberate choice not to acknowledge the fact that he clearly knew confidential details. Calling it out would only open the door to questions you had no intention of answering. Like questions about who leaked the information, about how secure the internal security of Wayne enterprises really was, or about how Wayne Enterprises could promise to protect and reassure Nexus if it couldn’t even safeguard its own information.
Lex would relish that opening. You would be damned if you would give it to him.
Lex’s eyes gleamed with interest. “You really believe Eden won’t become a money pit?”
“I believe,” you replied calmly, “that burying contamination under concrete is what turned Gotham into a liability in the first place.”
The smile on his face tightened, just slightly.
Lex’s gaze dipped down to your body again. His gaze leering but purposeful. He wanted to make you uncomfortable.
“You’re passionate,” he said smoothly. “I’ll give you that. I can see why Wayne married you.” His lips curved. “Shame to see the marriage ending so soon.”
Your spine went rigid, but your expression remained composed.
“My marriage,” you said calmly, “is not a talking point for business negotiations.”
Lex chuckled softly, entirely unbothered. “Everything is a talking point when it affects stability,” he replied. “Nexus is choosing a partner, after all. Continuity matters.”
Beside you, Andrew shifted, the discomfort written plainly across his face.
“Funny,” you continued, unfazed, your voice cool and precise, “how concern for stability only seems to arise when it suits your narrative.”
Lex’s eyes narrowed just a fraction.
“I’m merely pointing out,” he said evenly, “that if the rumours about you and Bruce’s divorce are true, it could result in a change of leadership—and therefore a change in how this project is handled.”
“And I’m pointing out,” you replied without missing a beat, “that Eden doesn’t hinge on my marital status. It hinges on contracts and mutually agreed-upon terms.” Your gaze held his, unyielding. “Rest assured—Wayne Enterprises, with or without me, will continue to conduct every deal with integrity and honour.”
Lex snorted dismissively, lips parting as he prepared to respond—
—but before he could, an arm slid around your waist.
The scent of the cologne instantly told you who it was as Bruce stepped in close. Close enough that you could feel the steady rise and fall of his breath, the solid warmth of him seeping into you. His hand rested easily against you, thumb swiping along your hip in what seemed like his attempt at comfort.
“Is there a problem?” he asked lightly.
His voice calm, deceptively mild but you knew your husband well enough to know he was far from happy. Playboy or not, Bruce Wayne could be viciously sharp when he chose to be.
Lex turned, surprise flickering across his features before his familiar smile snapped back into place. “Bruce. We were just discussing stability.”
Bruce glanced down at you briefly, noting the tight line of your jaw, the unmistakable glare aimed Lex’s way. Then he looked back at the other billionaire, smile never wavering.
“Stability,” he repeated, as if tasting the word. His grin widened just a touch. “Interesting choice…I didn’t realize you’d developed such an appreciation for long-term commitments.”
Lex’s mouth tightened a fraction.
“Any project of this magnitude requires confidence in leadership,” Lex replied smoothly. “Rumours don’t help.”
Bruce gave a soft laugh, the kind that sounded friendly and easy-going to anyone listening—but carried an edge if you knew him well enough.
“Oh, rumours are Gotham’s favourite pastime,” he said lightly. “Right after bribery and blackmail. I’m sure you’re used to it.”
Lex lifted his glass, eyes narrowing just a shade. “I’m simply pointing out that projects of this scale require confidence in leadership. Uncertainty makes investors nervous.”
“Oh, investors are always nervous,” Bruce replied with effortless charm. “That’s why they pay people like us obscene amounts of money—to pretend we’re not.”
He reached out smoothly, plucking a champagne flute from a passing tray, and tapped it lightly against Lex’s glass.
“Besides,” Bruce went on, his tone easy, conversational, “if rumours were enough to derail Wayne Enterprises, I’d have been bankrupt by the time I was twenty.”
A ripple of polite laughter spread among a few nearby guests, who took the remark for self-deprecation—a billionaire poking fun at his own tabloid reputation.
Lex, however, didn’t laugh. His eyes sharpened, the humour missing him entirely. “Public perception matters.”
“Of course it does,” Bruce agreed cheerfully, unbothered. “Which is precisely why I’m very selective about who I’m seen aligning with.” His gaze flicked narrowing—pointedly—at Lex. “But if you’re that concerned about Wayne Enterprises, Lex, then allow me to put Andrew at ease.”
Bruce turned to Andrew.
“Wayne Enterprises doesn’t make decisions based on gossip,” Bruce said calmly. “We make them based on contracts, results… and whether the people across the table are actually capable of delivering what they promise.”
He let the words settle, then continued with an easy, almost careless lift of his brow. “And since we’re talking about leadership, I should probably clarify something else.”
He shifted just enough to angle himself subtly between you and Lex—an unspoken line drawn. The message was clear. Off limits.
“Wayne Enterprises isn’t fragile,” Bruce went on, his voice smooth as aged whiskey. “It doesn’t hinge on headlines, rumours, or who the tabloids think I’m having dinner with this week.” He paused. “…Or my marital status.”
A few nearby guests chuckled again. Andrew, however, was watching closely now, his interest sharpened.
“Trust me,” Bruce added lightly, lifting his glass and taking an unhurried sip, “if it did, Gotham would’ve eaten me alive years ago.”
He lowered the glass, his gaze never leaving Lex.
“What does matter,” Bruce continued, “is follow-through. Environmental accountability. And not cutting corners just because no one’s watching yet.”
Lex let out a force chuckle. “You’re painting me as careless.”
Bruce shrugged lazily. “I’m painting you as… efficient.” His smile was easy, almost friendly. “It’s just that some of us prefer efficiency that doesn’t come with congressional hearings attached.”
You nearly snorted, catching yourself just in time to disguise it as a cough. Bruce turned toward you at once, concern flickering across his face, but you waved him off casually. Reaching out, you plucked the glass from his hand and took a quick sip—only to pause mid-swallow.
That wasn’t champagne.
You lowered the flute slightly, confusion knitting your brows as the mild burn of ginger ale registered. You glanced at the glass, then at Bruce, suspicion blooming just as he offered you an infuriatingly innocent look. Before you could say anything—or demand an explanation—Andrew cleared his throat.
“Wayne’s proposal does offer long-term insulation from regulatory fallout,” he admitted, his tone thoughtful now rather than guarded. “That’s been a significant point of debate at Nexus.”
Taking the glass back from you, Bruce lifted the glass toward Andrew, a friendly grin settling easily into place.
“Let’s be honest,” he said lightly. “Eden isn’t sexy. It’s boring. Expensive.”
You shot him a sharp glare, one he absolutely deserved—but your infuriating, soon-to-be ex-husband ignored it entirely. If anything, he looked amused. His smile widened, smooth and unbothered, as though he hadn’t just dismissed years of work with a handful of carefully chosen words.
“It’s not a publicity stunt,” Bruce continued easily. “There won’t be any dramatic unveiling. No glowing towers, no flashy press releases. No me cutting a ribbon and pretending I know how all the construction put into the project works.”
He tilted his head, mock thoughtful.
“Well. I could pretend,” he added, glancing down at his suit. “But who would believe that coming from a man in a hundred-thousand-dollar Armani?”
Andrew snorted despite himself, the tension easing just a fraction.
“But what Eden is,” Bruce continued smoothly, his tone shifting into something more sincere without losing its casual cadence, “is solid.”
He spoke as though he weren’t discussing a project worth billions—like this was just another conversation over drinks rather than a turning point. His arm remained firm at your waist.
“Every aspect has been meticulously thought out to benefit all parties involved,” he went on. “And what’s even more solid than the numbers is the woman behind the project.”
Your glare faltered, softening into something closer to surprise, and your throat tightened despite your best efforts to remain composed. The praise hit you harder than it should have, you didn’t expect him to sound this sincere and confident in you. As if sensing the shift, his thumb moved almost imperceptibly at your side, a gentle, grounding stroke meant only for you.
Damn this man.
“Rest assured,” Bruce finished smoothly, lifting his glass once more, his tone all effortless confidence, “Wayne Enterprises has every intention of honouring the terms agreed upon by Nexus and Y/N.”
Lex studied him, his gaze flicking briefly to where Bruce’s hand remained possessively in place. “Spoken like a man protecting his interests.”
Bruce’s smile softened—but only on the surface. “Spoken like a man who knows them.”
Lex’s lips pressed thin. “You’re awfully confident for someone whose personal life is currently under a microscope.”
Bruce’s grin turned razor sharp.
“Oh, my personal life is always under a microscope,” he replied lightly. “That’s what happens when you’re rich, handsome, and tragically charming.” He tilted his head, mock-curious. “Must not be something you’re used to, I guess.”
Both you and Andrew coughed at the same time as Bruce lifted his glass in a lazy, mocking salute.
“But don’t worry,” he added, voice almost playful. “When Eden moves forward, it’ll give the tabloids something new to obsess over.” The smile Bruce gave didn’t reach his eyes. “You’ll be able to read all about it in the papers—just like everyone else.”
Lex’s grip tightened around his glass, knuckles blanching as crystal creaked softly under the pressure. For a fleeting moment, you half-expected it to shatter in his hand.
Having grown up with that egomaniac, both you and Bruce knew exactly where to poke. And the most effective blow of all was the same one every time—implying that Lex Luthor was no different from anyone else.
You half expected him to stamp his foot and throw a tantrum but instead, Lex only levelled Bruce with a cold glare and a tight, brittle smile, his teeth audibly grinding behind it.
Andrew’s attention shifted between the three of you now—no longer weighing numbers alone. Something more contemplative crossed his expression.
“I think,” he said slowly, “the board will want to revisit the ethical framework before making any decisions.”
“Of course,” you replied smoothly, unfazed. “We look forward to Nexus’s decision.”
Bruce inclined his head with polite ease. “Take all the time you need.”
Then, turning slightly toward you, his hand firm at your waist, he added with casual authority, “Now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us—I believe I owe my wife a dance.”
He didn’t wait for an answer.
He guided you forward, seamlessly pulling you into the crowd. Lex’s stare burned into your back as the two of you disappeared beneath chandeliers and shifting bodies.
“Has Lex been causing you trouble?” Bruce murmured near your ear, his voice low, the easy charm gone—replaced by something darker.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” you replied tightly, lifting a hand in dismissal as you took a half step back, ready to put space between you and him.
Bruce caught your arm.
The touch was gentle, but decisive enough to stop you cold. You turned, meeting his gaze. For a moment, the noise of the gala seemed to fade, leaving only the two of you suspended in something unspoken.
Bruce exhaled slowly, as if choosing his next words with care. “Lex doesn’t play fair. If he pushes, if he tries to undermine you—”
“I’ll deal with it,” you cut in firmly. “This is my project. And I’ve been putting Lex in his place since we were kids.” Your gaze didn’t waver. “I can handle him.”
A corner of his mouth lifted, something close to admiration softening his expression.
“I know,” he said.
You studied him for a beat longer than necessary, searching for a crack in the armour he wore so effortlessly. Instead, he offered you a lazy, practiced smile, all playboy ease as he held out a hand in offering.
“Shall we, Mrs. Wayne?”
You swallowed, then nodded.
His hand settled at your waist, fingers warm even through the fabric of your dress, guiding you closer as the orchestra swelled. You let yourself follow his lead, moving with him easily, muscle memory carrying you through the steps—an old familiarity born of countless lessons you’d been forced to endure as children, ironically enough with Bruce as your partner.
“You’ve been turning heads tonight,” he murmured, voice low. “Even more than usual.”
You gave a noncommittal hum, deliberately keeping your eyes elsewhere, unwilling to meet his gaze when it felt so gentle looking at you
“And the dress—” He paused, his attention dipping briefly before lifting again. “It suits you.”
“So you’ve already said,” you replied blandly, though your heart betrayed you with its uneven rhythm.
He let out a soft, breathy chuckle.
Something shifted then—his expression morphed into something determined and resolute. You felt it in the way his grip tightened at your waist, the way his attention narrowed until it seemed as though the rest of the ballroom had fallen away. He leaned in, close enough that his breath brushed warm against your ear.
“There’s something I need to—”
“Bruce!”
Julie’s voice cut cleanly through the moment. So very perfectly timed.
She appeared at his shoulder, all bright, polished smiles, her hand already reaching out to rest on his arm as though it belonged there. “I was hoping I’d get a dance before the night was over.”
For a moment, you simply stared at her—at the innocence she wore so convincingly. Of everyone who knew about the impending divorce, she was the only one connected to Lex Luthor, and the only one you wouldn’t put it past to let something slip.
You wondered, whether Bruce realized she was still in contact with her ex—one of Wayne Enterprises’ biggest rivals, no less.
Soon, it wouldn’t be your problem.
Bruce had chosen her. He could deal with the consequences of that choice, so long as it didn’t touch Eden.
And yet…
The worrying question lingered: who had been leaking private information about the project in the first place? Eden’s details weren’t public. Access was restricted, tightly controlled. Julie shouldn’t have known anything—unless—
Your fingers curled slowly at your side.
Unless Bruce had been careless enough to leave sensitive files open in his desk. Unless, in his distraction, he’d left her unattended in his office.
“—Y/N?”
You blinked, the angered edge of your thoughts dissolving as your fingers uncurled. Julie was looking at you now, her expression open and expectant. Bruce stood beside her, concern flickering across his face as he searched yours.
“Hm?” you murmured.
“Is it alright if I steal Bruce away for a dance?” Julie asked lightly.
Your expression smoothed instantly, composure sliding back into place like a well-worn mask. You offered a polite smile. “Of course,” you said evenly.
After all, it wasn’t as though Bruce actually belonged to you to be stolen.
Before Bruce could protest—before he could even open his mouth—you released him and stepped back. Then you turned and slipped away into the crowd, not daring to look over your shoulder. You couldn’t bear the sight of him and Julie together, couldn’t stomach watching history repeat itself in real time.
By the time you reached the bar, you had made the decision to drink your feelings away. If you were going to feel this hollow, this exposed, then you might as well numb the edges.
All your worries and problems would be a tomorrow you’s problem. Tonight, you needed a distraction
You slid onto a barstool and signalled for a drink without bothering to specify what kind, just motioning to the top shelf. The bartender moved quickly, glass appearing in front of you moments later, amber liquid catching the light.
You wrapped your fingers around it and took a generous sip.
The burn was sharp and welcome, cutting through the tightness in your chest.
“Now this,” a familiar voice purred beside you, “is a sight I don’t see often.”
You turned, a rueful grin tugging at your lips as Selina slipped into the empty stool next to you, black dress clinging like it had been painted on, confidence radiating off her in waves.
“Care to join me in drowning my pathetic emotions?” you asked, lifting your glass slightly in invitation.
Selina snorted and flagged the bartender for her own drink without hesitation. “Always.”
Selina accepted her glass, took a measured sip, then leaned back against the bar, one arm draped loosely as her eyes swept the room with sharp, feline interest.
“I swear,” she said dryly, “that man does not deserve you.”
You huffed a quiet laugh. “You’re biased.”
“Wildly,” Selina replied without a hint of shame. Then her head tilted, gaze narrowing as she searched the ballroom. “So—where is our favourite emotionally repressed billionaire tonight?”
You tipped your chin toward the crowd.
Bruce and Julie moved together with an ease that looked far too natural. The sight tightened something in your chest, and you looked away before the ache could deepen. You missed the way Bruce’s gaze tracked you anyway, unguarded and yearning, until it collided with Selina’s. Her eyes narrowed instantly.
You’re an idiot, she mouthed at him before turning her back.
“Mhm,” you said lightly, lifting your glass. “Well, we’re getting a divorce. So he’s free to do as he pleases.”
Selina’s head snapped toward you, outrage flaring bright and theatrical—as if she hadn’t already heard the news straight from him. “He wanted a divorce?” she demanded. “That bastard.”
“Actually,” you corrected calmly, taking another sip, “I did.”
She rose a brow. “You?”
“I can’t keep doing this with him.”
Selina took a slow sip, eyes never leaving your face, then set the glass down with a quiet clink. “He’s still a bastard.”
A soft, humourless huff escaped you. “What did I expect from the richest man in Gotham?” you said lightly. “It was stupid to think an arranged marriage could tame the city’s billionaire playboy. Bruce will do what he’s always done—what he wants. I’m just making it easier for him.”
Selina’s jaw tightened. “He never deserved you,” she muttered. “You’ve been more patient with him than anyone I know.”
You shrugged, the motion deceptively light. “Maybe. But it was because I kept clinging to the hope that we could actually make this marriage work. We were close, once upon a time.”
Unable to help yourself your gaze drifted, unbidden, to the dance floor.
You swallowed, the memory sitting heavy beneath your ribs. “I thought… maybe we could find our way back to that.”
Bruce stood with Julie hanging comfortably off his arm. The sight had your throat tightening and you wondered why you still cared.
“Now I realize,” you added, your voice softer still, “that was wishful thinking.”
Selina opened her mouth, clearly ready to say something, but another voice cut in.
“Every time I see you,” it drawled, rich with amusement, “you somehow get more stunning.”
Your head turned at once, and a genuine smile bloomed across your face. “Ollie.”
You rose from the bar stool and stepped into Oliver Queen’s open arms, returning the embrace without hesitation. When you pulled back, his gaze flicked to Selina, a spark of recognition and mischief lighting his expression.
“Kitty.”
She rolled her eyes, unimpressed. “Robin Hood.”
Your brows knit together at the exchange, confusion flickering briefly—but before you could voice it, Oliver had already turned his attention back to you, all easy charm and curiosity.
“So,” he said casually, leaning an elbow against the bar, “what are we drinking to tonight?”
You opened your mouth—
And Selina beat you to it.
A wicked smirk curved her lips as she lifted her glass. “Y/N and Bruce’s divorce.”
Oliver blinked, his gaze snapping between the two of you, disbelief written plainly across his face. “Wait—what?” he demanded. “He asked for one?!”
You took a slow sip of your drink, letting the burn steady you as you ignored the uncomfortable truth behind his assumption. Had you really been that obvious? That much of a lovesick fool for a man who never quite chose you?
“Actually,” you said calmly, setting the glass down, “I did.”
Oliver’s expression shifted—surprise giving way to something darker, more contemplative. His gaze flicked briefly toward the dance floor, where Bruce still stood with Julie at his side, before sliding to Selina. She met his look with a subtle shake of her head, a silent warning, before his attention returned to you.
What you didn’t realize was that both Selina and Oliver knew the truth.
They’d seen it—in the way Bruce watched you when he thought no one was paying attention, in the way his composure fractured whenever your name came up, in the quiet restraint he wrapped around himself like armour whenever you were near. They knew how deeply, how disastrously, he loved you.
And neither of them could believe—truly believe—that Bruce Wayne would ever be foolish enough to let you go.
“Well,” he said at last, lifting his glass, his tone carefully measured, “that’s… incredibly unfortunate.”
You arched a brow, unimpressed. “Don’t sound too devastated,” you remarked dryly.
His grin widened immediately, all charm and audacity as he leaned a little closer. “How could I be?” he said lightly. “Gotham’s most desired woman is officially back on the market.”
You blinked—just for a heartbeat—caught off guard long enough to register the unmistakable glint of mischief in his eyes. Then a laugh escaped you, genuine despite yourself, as you shoved him lightly in the chest.
“You are so full of shit, Oliver Queen,” you said, shaking your head.
He winked, entirely unrepentant. “I’m just saying—I’m thrilled we can finally go out and cause trouble without the guard bat glaring at us from across the room.”
Your brows knit together, confusion flickering across your features. “The what—”
You never got to finish the question.
An arm wrapped firmly around your waist, tugging you back into a hard chest that made your breath hitch despite yourself. The scent of his cologne washed over you.
“It looks like I’m missing the private party over here,” Bruce said, laughing lightly—too lightly—as his gaze swept from Oliver to Selina before settling on you. His hand remained at your waist, possessively as he glared at Oliver over your head.
Oliver’s grin sharpened. “Nothing private about it, B. Just friends catching up.”
Selina lifted her glass, eyes gleaming with mischief. “You should try it sometime.”
Bruce ignored her completely, his attention shifting onto you. “Everything alright?”
You gently but unmistakably removed his arm from around your waist, stepping out of his reach before answering. “Perfectly fine.”
The distance was subtle, but it landed like a slap. Bruce’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, the muscle in his cheek flexing as he restrained whatever instinct threatened to surface.
“We were just talking,” Oliver continued easily, leaning back against the bar as if nothing at all were amiss. “You know—life, changes… fresh starts.”
“Is that so?” Bruce replied coolly.
Oliver hummed in response, completely unapologetic.
You rolled your eyes and reached for your glass, taking a measured sip before turning slightly back toward Oliver, pointedly excluding Bruce from the exchange. “You were saying?” you prompted, hoping—vainly—to derail the brewing dick-measuring contest.
Oliver’s gaze flicked between you and Bruce, amusement dancing openly in his eyes. Then he smiled—slow, knowing. “I was saying that change suits some people.”
Bruce’s eyes narrowed sharply, the infamous bat glare making a brief appearance. Unfortunately, Oliver was one of the very few people immune to it, having grown up alongside him.
Oliver’s grin only widened, tauntingly.
Bruce’s fingers twitched at his side—an almost imperceptible tell, but one Selina caught instantly. She stiffened, eyes narrowing as she watched him closely, already bracing herself.
He was seconds away from doing something incredibly stupid.
Like punching the Queen billionaire square in the face.
But in that moment, Julie appeared.
“There you are!” she chimed brightly, looping an arm through Bruce’s as if reclaiming territory. “You disappeared on me, Bruce!”
The contact broke whatever fragile tension had been simmering.
Your fingers tightened around your glass, knuckles whitening for the briefest moment before you forced them to relax. You took a slow breath through your nose, schooling your expression into something cool and unreadable.
Julie’s gaze drifted—first to you, then to Oliver, then to Selina. Her smile thinned. “Oh. What are we all up to?”
Selina lifted her glass in a mock toast, lips curving. “Drinking.”
Oliver smirked. “Catching up.”
Bruce said nothing. His attention had narrowed to you alone now, jaw tight, the arm Julie had claimed stiff beneath her grip—as though he were tolerating the contact rather than welcoming it.
Before you could add something, Selina cut in smoothly, her tone calculated. “Actually…Oliver and Y/N were about to go dance.”
You blinked at Selina, momentarily caught off guard, but she only sent you a conspiratorial wink.
Julie’s lips dipped, just barely. “Oh…”
You raised a brow, the challenge unmistakable. “Problem?”
She hesitated, eyes flicking to Bruce for half a second before returning to you. “Well… I mean, would that be appropriate?” She asked innocently.
Your voice remained cool. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Well,” Julie said, choosing her words carefully, “you are married.”
Selina snorted outright. “If that’s the standard,” she said dryly, “then why are you hanging off a married man?” Her gaze swept pointedly over Julie’s grip on Bruce’s arm. “You’ve been glued to him all night like a leech.”
Julie’s face flushed several shades darker. “That’s different,” she snapped. “Everyone knows Bruce and I are childhood friends.”
“And so are Oliver and I,” you said calmly. You offered her a look of mock innocence, all wide eyes and pleasant composure. “I know we don’t always run in the same circles, Julie, but most of the old families grew up together.”
Oliver smiled, lazy and unapologetic, slinging an arm comfortably over your shoulder. “Playdates, boarding schools, shared nannies,” he said with an easy grin. “Really charming stuff.”
Julie’s gaze darted between the three of you, her confidence visibly faltering as she scrambled for footing. “That’s not what I meant,” she said quickly. Then, realizing she was outnumbered, she turned toward Bruce—crocodile tears already welling in her eyes. “I didn’t mean it that way. I was just trying to look out for you two.”
Bruce let out a weary sigh, clearly on the verge of stepping in—but you didn’t give him the chance.
“As sweet as that is,” you said evenly, your tone polite but final, “there’s really no need. I’ve already told you—Bruce and I are getting a divorce. So if that’s all…”
You turned away from her without another glance and faced Oliver instead, extending your hand.
“Care to dance?”
He took it instantly, eyes lighting with unmistakable delight. “Thought you’d never ask.”
You didn’t look back as Oliver led you onto the dance floor. You didn’t need to. The music wrapped around you, and you let yourself fall into it. Your shoulders loosened, your steps grew lighter, and the smile that curved your lips was real.
Behind you, Bruce remained where you’d left him—rigid and silent—with Julie’s hand still looped through his arm.
Selina watched the scene unfold with open amusement. She rose gracefully from her stool and crossed the space toward Bruce, heels clicking softly against the marble. Reaching him, she gave his chest a light pat—almost fond—and leaned up to murmur in his ear.
“I’ll tell you again,” she said softly, “you’re an idiot.”
Then she straightened and sauntered away without another glance, leaving Bruce standing alone with the truth he’d been avoiding.
On the dance floor, Oliver spun you once, and laughter bubbled free from your chest before you could stop it. The lights caught the fabric of your dress as you moved, effortless and alive.
Across the room, Bruce could only watch, heart aching as he realized you were slipping through his fingers.
For once, it was Bruce who decided to end the night early.
He found you on the edge of the crowd and minutes later, the two of you were standing outside beneath the portico, waiting for Alfred to bring the car around.
You immediately regretted not bringing a jacket.
What had been a cool, refreshing evening had dropped into something far less pleasant. The cold cut through the thin fabric of your dress, and you crossed your arms tightly over your chest, willing the shiver crawling up your spine to stop.
Suddenly, warmth settled over your shoulders.
You looked up in surprise to find Bruce standing close, his suit jacket draped around you.
“Next time,” he grumbled, “remember to bring a jacket.”
Your eyes narrowed at the tone. “I’m fine,” you replied, already moving to shrug it off.
His hand closed over the lapel, stopping you.
“You’re trembling,” he said flatly. “Keep it.”
You grumbled under your breath, but another sharp gust of wind had you pulling the jacket closer instead. The scent of his cologne lingered—clean, dark, unmistakably him—and before you could stop yourself, you inhaled subtly.
Damn him. You hated how good he smelled.
“Bruce!” Julie’s voice called. You stiffened, biting back a groan. Selina had been right—this woman clung to him like a leech.
Julie slipped up beside him, her smile bright and practiced as she latched onto his arm, giving him a mock frown. “Where’s your jacket? You’re going to catch a chill,” she said, hands roaming over his biceps under the guise of concern. Her fingers rubbed along his sleeves in a way that was anything but subtle.
“I’m fine,” Bruce grunted, neatly stepping out of her grip.
Julie frowned at the rejection, surprise flickering across her face before she smoothed it away. “I was hoping you could give me a ride,” she added lightly. “My driver says the car has a flat.”
Bruce’s gaze flicked to you.
You pointedly looked away, staring straight ahead, jaw clenched tight enough to ache.
“It’s late,” Bruce said evenly, “and my wife isn’t feeling well.” He lifted a hand, flagging down a cab before Julie could respond, and pulled a wad of cash from his pocket. “Make sure she gets home safely.”
Julie’s mouth fell open. She tried to protest, but Bruce was already guiding her toward the cab, practically ushering her inside before shutting the door in her face—just as Alfred’s car rolled up to the curb.
Without sparing the cab a second glance, Bruce turned back and opened the door for you, gesturing for you to enter first.
You ducked your head as you slid inside, hating the way warmth bloomed in your chest at the gesture.
One small moment of care, you reminded yourself, didn’t erase years of distance.
The car pulled away smoothly. Silence settled between you and Bruce, thick and heavy, broken only by the muted hum of Gotham passing outside the windows. You didn’t look at him, but you could feel the tension radiating off him—coiled and restless. He had something to say. It was obvious in the way he shifted, the way his jaw flexed.
After a few minutes, he finally broke.
“Do you realize you’re still Mrs. Wayne?” Bruce said, his voice controlled but edged. “Dancing with Oliver will only fuel the rumours going around.”
You scoffed softly, the sound sharp with disbelief. The sheer audacity of him—after weeks of Julie on his arm, paraded openly without a shred of consideration.
“Like you have any room to talk,” you muttered, barely bothering to keep the bitterness out of your voice.
Bruce turned to you fully then, eyes narrowing. “What was that?”
You faced him at last, something hard settling into your expression. “I said it’s not much of a rumour when it’s true,” you replied evenly. “And if you find it that scandalizing, then sign the papers and let’s finalize this divorce as soon as possible.”
With a sharp motion, you reached into your bag, pulled out the neatly folded documents, and shoved them into his chest. The papers rustled softly as they struck him.
His jaw clenched. “I’ll need a lawyer to look them over.”
You rolled your eyes, exhaustion bleeding through the irritation. “Then I suggest you do it soon, Bruce. I want nothing from you. I’ve already agreed to transfer my Wayne Enterprises shares back to you. I don’t want your money. I don’t want your assets.” Your voice steadied, firm and unwavering. “I’ve never asked you for anything—except this. So give me this one thing. It takes a month to finalize.”
His teeth pressed together harder.
A month.
That was how long he had. How long he could stall. How long he could figure out a way to stop this from becoming real.
Reluctantly, he pulled out his pen. He hesitated, eyes flicking from your expectant expression down to the papers, then back again. His jaw tightened, the conflict written plainly across his face. Part of him wanted—needed—to give you what you were asking for. The other part couldn’t accept a world where you weren’t his.
With a quiet exhale, he signed.
Or rather, he made a show of it.
He closed the file quickly and handed it back to you, expression carefully neutral, controlled.
You didn’t notice the way his grip lingered for half a second too long on the folder, not wanting to let it go.
He would find a way to change your mind before the month was up. He had to. Because in no world could he let you go. He was too selfish for that—and he knew it. A hypocrite, through and through. He had kept you despite knowing he couldn’t give you what you needed. And now, faced with losing you, he realized the truth he’d been avoiding all along.
You were what he needed.
You let out a small breath as you took the folder back. Something heavy in your chest sank when you saw him give in and sign without a fight—but alongside it came a strange lightness, as if a weight you’d been carrying for years had finally loosened its grip.
You didn’t bother to check the document. There was no reason to distrust him. Not with something like this. Not after everything you’d shared.
In Which: you tell your friend all about your thoughts on your local green lantern, not knowing he’s behind you.
Warnings: suggestive, fluff, despite the title this is a gn fic, your friend calls you ‘babe’ twice, they also judge guy and kyle’s suits (and your taste in men </3), you are the green lantern defender (and admirer), kyle chokes on his coffee, superman 1987 #170 reference. I reread two of his comics before writing and another three before editing but this still feels ooc :(
Word Count: 1416
You watched as your friend scrolled through their social media, occasionally stopping to discuss a post with you. Your textbooks had long been abandoned in favour of conversation and cookies, drinks half-gone and starting to go cold.
The bell above the cafe door jingles, drawing your attention to the man walking in. From where you sit, he’s not bad looking; hair dusted with half-melted snowflakes, dimples appearing on his cheeks as he smiles at the barista, thanking her before making his way towards you—well, the booth behind you, rather. You make eye contact as he passes by and he smiles, warm and soft. The action confirms that he is, in fact, unfairly pretty.
You look away, reaching for your mug and taking a sip, wishing the liquid was warmer; an excuse for the heat blooming in your cheeks.
“Ooh! We should do this!” Your friend says, flashing you their phone screen before tapping away on it again. “I’m sending it to you right now.”
Your phone dings and you open your texts, looking at the link. “‘Which Justice League member is your perfect match?’ Aren’t there, like, 200 of them?”
“And? Variety is the spice of life.” Your friend squints at their screen. “Says they only put 15 in here though. We can work with it.”
“If you say so.”
Your friend lets out a little cheer when they finish the quiz, turning their phone screen to face you. “Black Canary, baby! Who’d you get?”
“Martian Manhunter.” You shrug. “He’s cool.”
“‘Cool’? Babe. He can shape-shift. Can you imagine—”
You blink at them. “Your mind travels down avenues I didn’t even know were on the map.”
“That felt slightly judgemental but I’ll allow it.” Your friend mutters, shifting to lean back against the booth. “Who would you rather get, then?”
“I don’t know,” you shrug. “One of the Green Lanterns.”
“The glowsticks?!” A beat. “Oh god, please don’t tell me it’s the one with the bowlcut.”
“What? No, he’s not my type. His suit’s cool though,”
Your friend stares at you like you’ve grown a second head. “His suit. The one with the vest and clunky boots. You think that’s cool.”
You swear you hear snickering from behind you as you speak. “Yeah, I do. It’s unique. That’s what makes it cool.”
“O-kay then.” Your friend says, clicking their tongue. “So, which one? It can’t be any worse than Bowlcut Lantern.”
You roll your eyes at their comment. “If you must know,” you start dramatically, “it’s our lantern. The New York one.”
“The New York o—CRAB BOY?”
“He’s not a crab!”
“Babe. His mask. He wears a crab-shaped mask on his face.”
“And? It’s creative. Whimsical, even.” You hum, taking the last cookie and breaking it, handing one half to them. “I think it’s cute.”
“You can’t even see his face!”
“Yeah, but have you seen the rest of him? I could swear his suit’s painted on.” You think—though you could just be imagining it—that you hear a wheeze from the booth behind you.
Across from you, your friend gasps, pointing at you like you dared show a little ankle in the Victorian era. “Ohmygod?!”
“What? You were literally just talking about Martian Manhunter’s—”
Your friend gapes like a goldfish, their face going through the stages of grief before settling on acceptance. “Touche. What about the other ones though? Isn’t there one out west somewhere? Oh, and the girl, and the guy that has like… Batman’s mask without the ears?”
“They’re all unfairly attractive.” You sigh. “And I think it’s called a cowl? And all the interviews I’ve seen look to me like he and the lady lantern are into each other. Plus, I think the west coast one has something going on with the flash, or something? There’s definitely an energy there. And the other green one, the one that doesn’t wear a mask? John…” you pause, eyes darting around the room as you try to think. “John I-can’t-remember-his-last-name-right-now and the other new lady lantern, the one with the cool glowing glasses? Both super hot but way out of my league. I could not pull them, I fear,” you say, a tinge of sadness in your voice.
“So you chose Crab Boy since he’s your last hope?” Your friend asks, tapping away at their phone again. “Dang, you were right about his suit,” they say, zooming in on something on their screen. “And I was right when I called him a glowsti—”
You smack their hand, making them drop their phone on the table. “Why would you zoom in there?!”
“Like you haven’t. Are you claiming you just think about cuddling him in bed?”
“Oh, if I got him in bed we would not be sleeping.”
Your friend’s about to say something you expect is about your ‘freaky’ statement when your attention is pulled to the booth behind you, the occupant sounding like they’re aspirating.
You quickly slide out of the booth, checking on the unfairly pretty man from earlier. A few minutes later and his coughing calms down, he throws you a thumbs up, you bring him napkins. Your friend gathers up their stuff, saying something about work, the weather, and seeing you in class tomorrow. You wave goodbye, telling them to be safe and text you when they’re home.
You hover at the edge of the booths, wanting to make sure the pretty man is okay, wondering if you should go home too.
“I, um-” the pretty man coughs again, but this time out of awkwardness instead of necessity. “Thanks for checking on me. I’m Kyle.”
“You’re welcome,” you say, telling him your name. Your eyes flick to the notebook on the table, from the doodles to the more detailed sketches on the page. “You draw?”
“Hm?” He follows your gaze, a nervous chuckle leaving his lips. “Oh, yeah. I’m an artist.”
“That’s cool, I-” you pause, eyes landing on a doodle of a dog. “You drew that?” You ask, pointing to it.
“Yeah?”
“Can you draw another one? A dog, I mean.”
“Um, sure?” he says, blinking at you in confusion before setting to work on a new doodle of a dog. He shows you, and you smile.
“You’re the Kyle that drew Krypto in A Tale of Krypto the Superdog?”
Kyle stares at you for a moment. “I- yeah, that was me. How’d you figure that out?”
“You draw a very recognizable puppy,” you say, gesturing to the page. “Plus, my niece loves that book. She makes me read it every time I babysit.”
“Really?” His eyes drop back to his page. “Well, I’m glad she likes it.”
You smile, standing at the edge of the table in awkward silence, trying to think of a way to excuse yourself and all the things you had to do at home.
Kyle, trying to think of a reason to keep talking to you, blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. “I heard you like Green Lantern?”
“Oh!” A nervous laugh bubbles in the back of your throat. “How- how much of that did you hear?”
“Just you talking about his mask,” He lies. “You think it’s creative?”
You let out a sigh of relief, thanking whoever was out there that he either didn’t hear what you said about your local lantern and your bed, or was courteous enough to not bring it up. “Yeah! I just think it’s really cool how all of their suits are different, y’know? It’s like how we customize our outfits and accessories to show our personality.”
“It’s exactly like that! I mean, I assume it is. I wouldn’t know.” He says, correcting himself with a sheepish smile.
You’re about to say something else when your phone dings, a text from your friend saying they made it home, reminding you that you should be leaving soon too.
“Well, it was nice talking to you, but, ”You point to the door. “I really should be heading out.”
“Oh, right. No problem.” His eyes darted to the window, the snow starting to fall in heavier flakes. “Be safe, yeah?” He says, watching as you pull on your coat and zip up your bag.
“Yeah,” You hum, following his gaze to the snowy streets. “It was nice talking to you,” you say again.
After exchanging goodbyes, you make your way to the door, pausing just long enough to wave, a small smile on your face as you walk out into the snow.
He smiles back, face warm and eyes soft.
A/N: I started writing this the first time it snowed and it hasn’t snowed again for a month 💔
dividers by @uzmacchiato and @toxisyddy | photos from pinterest
Summary: The night you confess your feelings to Hal only leads to heartbreak, tears and promises to never see each other again.
Now, two months later, Hal is back—hurt, haunted and craving you with a vengeance. He doesn't talk about where he went during his time away or what happened, but you know one thing for sure: something's wrong with Hal Jordan.
Word Count: 7.4k
Content/CW -> angst, canon typical violence, blood/injury, situationship, gn! reader who is part of the JLA, (some) comfort, unrequited love, alcohol, slightly suggestive, pining, cursing
froggi yaps -> its finally here!! if anyone was wondering what that no context poll was about, this was why :p it was either Wally or Hal for this one (but when i first had this idea in october, it was written for Hal) anyway i kinda put my blood sweat and tears into this one <3 hopefully it's alright
title stolen from this tiktok (thanks kat)
Hal Jordan doesn’t believe in fate. He doesn’t believe in coincidences, or some mysterious force bringing things together. He’s more practical than that, or, he likes to think he is. Hal believes in will. In decision, in choices, in taking a knife and carving his own destiny into the fabric of the universe.
He’s never been one to do what he’s told, and above all that, he’s never been one to stay in one place for long. You knew that going in.
So why, why when you’re laying in your bed, watching him button his jeans to leave, do you have the urge to ask him to stay? It’s humiliating, really, the way the feeling gnaws at your chest. The way your fingers reach out to him on instinct, the way the words catch on your tongue.
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” Hal winks, flexing for you.
You snap back to reality, blinking at him slowly. The fading evening sun is out to get you with the way it has his skin glowing, illuminating him in godly light. It threads through his hair, catches on the lighter streaks and turns them gold.
His shirt hangs haphazardly from his hand. “Hello? You still with me, or was I that good?”
His cocky words break you free from your trance. “As if.”
He tugs the white fabric over his head, hiding his abs and the marks you left on them. It’s unfair how easily it settles against his skin, how it fits him in all the right places.
“And here I thought I was special.”
“You—” The words catch in your throat. You are special. A deep breath, and then, “don’t flatter yourself, Hal.”
The words are stiff, awkward, lacking that usual playfulness that comes so easily. Hal clocks it immediately, eyebrows raising, hands stilling where they tug down the hem of his shirt.
“Everything alright?”
It’s the concern that gets you, the warmth laced behind his words. He cares about you, of course he does. You don’t spend this much time with someone you don’t care about. It’s the nature in which he cares about you that’s hard to decipher.
You’re friends, yes. Something more, obviously. For a year now, it’s a weekly occurrence that one of you ends up in the other’s bed, clinging to each other to escape the world. But it’s this—the leaving in a haste, the playful banter that never goes anywhere deeper—that leaves you dazed.
Questions rise to your throat as quickly as they die. What am I to you? What is this? Do you feel as broken up about this as I do?
“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Just tired. Think I need a nap.”
“So I did do a good job, got it.”
You toss your pillow at him, Hal easily catching it in his hand and laying it over his side of the bed. You cringe. His side of the bed.
Hal says his goodbyes, leaving you with a kiss on the cheek and a lazy salute the way he always does. You rub your cheek after he leaves, stuck sitting in your bed. Hal Jordan may very well be the death of you.
The air in the Watchtower is tense following the meeting, everyone stewing in their silence and going their separate ways. An argument between Hal and Bruce had left everyone on edge, the former storming out of the room.
You wait a few minutes to follow, the room clearing out before you feel comfortable enough to trail after him. You find him in his room, angrily pacing around while he tugs on his hair.
“Hal?”
“What?” The word is harsh and cutting, the frustration from his fight with Bruce clearly still lingering. Catching himself, he takes a deep breath, “what is it?”
The door closes softly behind you. “Are you sure this is a good idea? This mission, I mean.”
“What, are you worried about me?”
It’s the way he smiles when he says that that tugs on your heart strings. The way something lingers behind it, a quiet question he’s begging you not to answer.
“Kinda,” you admit, finding yourself sitting on the edge of the small, standard-issue bed. “I have a bad feeling about this, I feel like-like you’re in over your head.”
His smile flickers and dies. “I’m never in over my head.”
Wrong thing to say. Your nose scrunches on instinct, your head spinning as you try to find the right words. You know deep down for all that bravado, all that fearlessness, there’s something beneath it. A deep seated insecurity that’s slipped through the cracks during his stolen moments with you.
“Promise not to die on me?”
He’s come to rest on the bed next to you, the side of his knee touching yours. It’s such a small gesture, miniscule in the grand scheme of things you’ve done together, but still it has your heart jumping into your throat.
“Don’t worry about me, sweetheart.”
He rests his hand on your thigh, tingles burning their way up your spine. You swallow, and for just one moment, just this moment, allow yourself to have him more than you do. Allow yourself to feel for him more than you should.
You kiss him, lips fumbling awkwardly to find his. Hal takes it in stride, moving against you the way he has so many other times. The world falls away from under you until all that’s left is you and Hal. No Watchtower, no missions, no colleagues to hide from.
And then he’s pulling away, costume suddenly on. “Try not to miss me too much, yeah?”
“Ha—”
He’s gone before you finish saying his name.
Fate’s always been a funny thing to you. This moving, breathing force that ties people together through red string and irony. This intangible thing that can only be explained through feelings of dread and an inexplicable pull.
And looking at Hal Jordan, unconscious and injured, fate has a cruel sense of humour.
You’re exhausted, eyes dry and heavy sitting by his bedside. You’d been asleep when you got the call, Barry Allen’s hushed voice beckoning you back to the Watchtower. You’re not sure you’ve ever moved that fast in your life.
Barry had been outside the infirmary doors to greet you, pacing back and forth, his blond hair a mess. He’ll live, he’d said. He’s still Hal, unfortunately, but he’ll be just fine after some rest.
You cracked a smile at that, Barry leading you into the infirmary to see him. The sight of him left you winded, hot tears burning in the backs of your eyes. After giving you a big hug and telling you to call if anything changes, the man had left you to sit at Hal’s side.
So here you were, hours later, fatigue plaguing every bone in your body while you prayed to every god you could think of for Hal to wake up. Don’t worry about me sweetheart, his words ring in your ears.
Fucking liar.
The only thing worse than seeing Hal hurt is the gnawing regret, the words unsaid that linger around you like ghosts. The questions that have plagued you lately, the ones you hadn’t yet worked up the nerve to ask, burn at the back of your throat.
You’ve just made it through the L’s on your list of gods when there’s a groan followed by the sound of sheets shifting. Hal opens one eye at a time, the infirmary dark except for the IV in his arm and the dim lamp beside you.
“What time is it?” He rasps.
You fight desperately against your tears of relief, your chest feeling a thousand kilos lighter. You open your phone, checking the time as if you hadn’t been staring at the clock for the better part of the night.
“It’s about six in the morning,” you say. “How–how are you feeling?”
He winces as he pulls himself into a sitting position, the wound on his side clearly bothering him. “Like I got hit by a bus.”
Given what Barry had told you about the nature of his injuries—mild head trauma and cracked ribs—you figure that’s an apt description.
“I was worried.”
“I know.”
His nonchalance grates on you. You sink down in your chair, your heart sinking even lower in your chest.
“I mean, tonight. When you got hurt.” You risk a glance at him, “I was worried.”
It’s as though he’s sensed the emotional turn the conversation is about to take, using all of his strength to steer it the other way. He cracks a smile, “I’m fine, aren’t I?”
“I know, I just…” Missed you? “I was worried.”
“You don’t have to be.” He stretches all of his limbs like a cat, yawning, “I always make it back.”
A bitter mumble. “Except when you don’t.”
He freezes, that easygoing smirk melting right off of his face. He’s not sure he’s heard you right. “What?”
The frustration that’s bubbled under your skin for so long comes to the surface, having caught a ride with the relief that flooded you when he woke up. It rises to your throat like bile, stings at your eyes like tears.
It tumbles out before you can stop it. “What are we?”
He gets it now. The sudden change in your tone with him, the vacancy in your stare, that look on your face like you have something to stay. He understands now. Guilt wracks him, filling his veins until it’s all he’s made of.
“What?”
“Us, this. I—you must be feeling it too, right?” You force away your tears, force yourself to be steady. “I feel like I’m going crazy, Hal.”
The knife in his chest twists. The room before he left, the way you’d kissed him, the way you’d worried for him. How stupid he’d been to not see it, how stupid he’d been to think you could go on doing this without getting attached.
How stupid of him to get involved, knowing this is how he’ll lose you.
“I care about you, but I—” A rare moment where Hal considers his words instead of diving in head first. “You know I would never hurt you, right?”
Oh. Oh no. No sentence, nothing good in the history of ever, has started with those words. You brace yourself, arms falling around your body, because no one ever says that unless they’re about to hurt you.
“I thought you knew what this was, I-I didn’t think you felt that way!” His stomach churns at your inability to look at him. “I don’t…it’s not—”
Betrayal lingers in your bones. All of the tenderness, all of the moments spent together, the words spoken through late nights and early mornings, it had all meant nothing to him?
“It’s not what?” You snap.
He tugs at his hair, trying to find the right words to say without crushing your soul entirely. He sees the tears that pool in your eyes, the way you desperately try to swallow the lump in your throat. He did this to you, with his carelessness, with his inability to settle down.
“I don’t want what you want,” he says finally. “I don’t feel the same way.”
He sees the exact moment the hope in your eyes is snuffed out. He can feel the shift in the air, the sudden cold, the detachment. He sighs. Time of death: 6:13am.
You rise to your feet, wiping at your wet eyes. “Okay.”
“‘Okay’?” He repeats. “So we’re good?”
You take a few steps towards the door, your hand hovering over the handle. It’s just metal, just a door, and yet it feels like so much more. Like a portal to a world without this hurt, without Hal Jordan.
“No.”
Hal’s stunned, not sure if he can remember a time you’ve spoken to him this way, if this bitterness is something new or something that’s evolved for him over time.
“No, we’re not good.” You tug open the door, “and I hope I never see you again.”
You slam it shut behind you, ignoring Barry Allen’s concerned face when you do.
Two months. That’s how long it takes to untangle the threads of your life from Hal’s. You move further away from him, throw yourself into work, and do your damndest to scrub every trace of the lantern from your life.
It helps that Hal’s been gone since that night, disappearing without telling anyone where he was going. You’d been concerned, initially, the remnants of your feelings for him leaving you wondering if he was even alive. But then Dinah Lance had showed up at your door with a bag of takeout and an offer to join her team, and all thoughts of Hal Jordan went out the window.
Barry Allen’s been a constant in your life, too. He’d taken you home that night, having heard the last bits of your conversation with Hal and seen the devastation on your face. Barry lingered after that, taking you out for drinks and letting you rant about the stupid man who’d broken your heart.
To some degree, he’d known about your relationship with Hal. He caught the longing glances and heard the occasional detail from his friend. He just never saw what was happening beneath the surface, never thought Hal could break you so thoroughly.
The night he’d seen you cry, Barry had pledged to punch Hal in the face the next time he sees him. He just never thought that day would take so long to come.
“You’re hurt,” Barry frowns when you meet him outside the restaurant. Instinctively, he reaches for the small cut on your forehead. “What happened?”
Your hand reaches it first, shrugging him off. “This? It’s nothing, just something that happened with the Birds.”
“You and Dinah,” he shakes his head, holding the door for you, “kind of a terrifying pair, if you ask me.”
You duck into the restaurant, a weekly staple for you and Barry. “Me? Terrifying?”
“Yes, you.”
He bites his tongue while you speak to the host, following along in silence to your table. Barry shrugs off his jacket, hanging it on the back of his chair and settling into his seat. He’s fidgety today, a bundle of nervous energy.
“You can run faster than the speed of light and you’re saying I’m the scary one?”
He shrugs, investing himself into the laminated menu laid out in front of him. You narrow your eyes. You’ve been here no less than half a dozen times over the past few months, Barry knows the menu like the back of his hand. He twists his ring around his finger, your frown grows deeper.
Something is wrong.
You frown. “Is everything okay?”
“Me?” His head snaps up, too quickly, too unnaturally. “Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine.”
“You’re a horrible liar, Barry.”
His nose crinkles, cheeks pinkening. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t think you’d want to talk about,” he drops his voice, eyes darting around the room like someone might be listening, “him.”
Your stomach drops, fresh anxiety replacing the lining. “What about him?”
Barry cringes, bracing himself before he speaks. “He came to see me today.”
“He’s back?”
And suddenly, two months and several hundred miles of distance doesn’t feel like enough. You’re not sure any distance could ever be enough to sever the ties that bind you to him. Fresh nausea rolls over you.
“Yes, but I—he—” Barry sighs, “you guys should talk.”
“Talk? Talk? After everything, after all this—” You look up at him in utter disbelief, gesturing around the room. “—you think we should talk?”
“I know, I—”
“You were there Barry, you heard what he said, and I-I can’t believe you’d say that after everything.”
You grab your jacket off of the back of the chair, storming out of the restaurant.
Barry comes by later that night with apologies and your favorite dessert. A peace offering, he says. One that you’re more than willing to accept after your initial Hal Jordan-induced meltdown comes to an end.
The days that follow pass quicker, laced with constant nerves and an impending sense of doom. You don‘t sleep as well, your days with the Birds feel less rewarding and the very thought of returning to that Watchtower, knowing he’s there, ties your stomach up in knots.
By some miracle, or emergency, really, Dinah and Ollie manage to coax you back to the Watchtower. You can feel his presence the minute you enter the room, and you don’t need to look to know he’s staring at you.
You avoid his gaze, sticking to Dinah’s side like glue. Her and Ollie settle in next to Barry, the blondes creating a sort of protective barrier on all sides. Barry grabs your elbow, and your attention, offering you a reassuring smile.
“This’ll probably be quick,” he says quietly. “And then we can go for food or something.”
“Food,” Dinah agrees from your other side. “I forgot to eat before we came here.”
Your chatter dies down slowly, the meeting commencing. Batman’s gruff voice fills the room, pointing to pictures on the screen. You try your best to pay attention but it’s hard when you can feel Hal looking at you like he’s plotting the next way to ruin your life.
You bounce your leg under the table, trying to burn off some nervous energy. Barry lays a careful hand over your knee, thumb rubbing the seam of your pants reassuringly. The burning feeling of eyes on you seems to fade and finally, for the first time in two months, you manage to look at Hal Jordan.
He’s not looking at you anymore, his gaze locked onto the hand Barry has on you. He looks nauseous, sickly, even. His undereyes are dark and hollow, his hands shaking slightly. He’s shaved and cut his hair since he’s been back, but the remnants of a lost man remain. You can’t cut away that haunted look in his eyes.
You don’t feel the joy you expected to feel at the pathetic sight, the air in your lungs stilling instead. A familiar feeling comes creeping in, fanning the flames that once burned for him, that once threatened to consume you.
You cast your gaze ahead and push your feelings aside.
He catches you on your way to the bathroom.
The meeting had ended, everyone mingling, but your nerves had gotten the best of you. Five minutes alone, that’s all you asked. Just a handful of time to yourself to catch your breath, to get your head straight and snuff away your feelings. Dinah had offered to come with you, joking about being your bodyguard.
The minute Hal’s fingers had closed around your wrist, you regretted not taking her up on that.
“Don’t touch me.”
His voice is dry, devoid of that usual fight. “I—sorry.”
He drops your arm, folding his own behind his back like a soldier waiting for instruction. He shifts his weight between his feet, a telltale sign of his nerves.
“What do you want, Hal?”
The words stick to the back of his throat, his knees suddenly weak. He doesn’t know where to start or what to say. He’d had it all planned three hours ago—see you, talk, tell you what he needs to say. And then he saw Barry with his damn hands on you and that plan went out the window.
“You and Barry seem…close.”
You scoff. “Is that what this is about? Seriously?”
“I’m just asking—”
“Jesus, Hal.” You shake your head, taking a step back from him. “You’ve been gone for two months, and I don’t know if you remember, but it wasn’t like we were exactly best friends when you left. You have no right, none, to ask about my love life.”
“That’s not—”
“Fuck off.”
You walk away, locking yourself in the bathroom before he can see the way your hands have started to shake. The foundation you built over the past few months wavers, threatening to crumble from under you. And the resolve you had, that certainty you were over him? In two minutes, Hal had chipped away at that, too.
It takes a lot of coaxing from Dinah, and ultimately a threat to break down the door, for you to come out of the bathroom. Your tears had dried a while ago, but the possibility of seeing Hal had left you tethered to the bathroom.
You peek your head out of the door. “Is he still here?”
She quirks an eyebrow, “do you think I’d let him live if he was?”
Good point, you think, and inch your way out of the bathroom and back into society. Dinah clamps a hand over your shoulder, guiding you down the hall.
“He asked me about Barry,” you say.
“God,” she groans, “of course he did.”
“I told him to fuck off.”
She laughs, “and that’s why you had to hide in the bathroom for thirty minutes?”
“No, I was hiding because—” You blank, unsure of what to say.
“Because you hate him?”
And hearing it out loud has something heavy settling in over you. You stop in your tracks, looking up at her with that hopeless look you’d had in your eyes the night she came for you.
“Because I don’t.”
Hal is everywhere after that. Every mission, you’re partnered up with him. Every debrief, he’s there, sitting across the table with that haunted look in his eyes. Fate is playing tricks on you. Offering you two paths knowing they both lead the same place: all paths, it seems, lead to Hal Jordan.
He doesn’t talk about where he went the two months he was away, or what he saw to have him so spooked. People talk, theorize as they usually do. He was on a bender, he had an affair with a space princess, he was hiding in Batman’s basement.
The people who do know don’t say much. Barry, the other Lanterns, Bruce. Their silence speaks volumes, and the knowing glances that follow tell you they know more than they’re letting on.
Your missions with Hal are usually filled with silence and longing gazes. You can’t talk about your relationship before he left or your life after. He refuses to talk about where he went, or how he’s been living with a friend because he lost his apartment.
So you settle into silence.
Walking up the rocky hill, your joints aching and your throat clogged with dust, the heat is almost unbearable. Hal pants behind you, equally as winded from your long trek. You’d insisted—begged—him to just fly on his own, but Hal, stubborn as ever, had refused.
Hope swells in your chest when you reach the top of the hill, seeing the flat clearing that marks your extraction point. It’s a small area, less than 10ft in either direction, the edge opposing you giving way to a massive ravine.
You don’t bother to scope the area for threats before sitting down on the cliff’s edge, letting your legs dangle over while you look on to the world ahead. The sun is just starting to sink, the sky tinged pink at its departure.
Hal settles in next to you, leaving a generous distance. “This is stupid,” he throws a pebble over the ravine, “why even call for an extraction? I can fly.”
It tugs at your heart to remember the times there wasn’t so much distance between you, when you worked well together on missions and let yourself rest with him afterwards. Nowadays, you can’t wait for the mission to be done so that you can get away.
“Because not all of us fly, Jordan.”
He cringes at the sound of his last name. It’s a low blow, really. A desperate scramble for you to take some control of the situation, to once again solidify the cold shoulder you’ve given him.
“Yes but I fly, I’m strong. I can fly both of us.”
“If you want to leave,” you gesture to the open sky, “by all means.”
He frowns, shoulders slumping, and makes no move to leave. The sun sinks lower, the sky shifts to pink and then orange and then purple. The heat of the day starts to melt away, replaced with a gentle night breeze. It would be a perfect night if not for the man sitting next to you.
“Do you have plans after this?” He glances at you, “like, with anyone?”
You scoff. “You mean with Barry?”
He chews at his lip. His silence means yes.
“You’re unbelievable. Why are you so obsessed with me and Barry?”
“Because I left for two months and now you’re fucking my best friend!”
“For fucks sake, Hal, we’re just friends!” Your head snaps to the side, eyes narrowed on him with thinly veiled anger. “And I don’t fuck people I only view as friends.”
“Oh.”
Hal casts his gaze away, he doesn’t deserve to look at you right now. Instead, he focuses on his hands, on the calloused skin over his fingers, He looks to the horizon, to the darkening sky. He’s been here before, seen this before.
He twists the ring around his finger. “We watched a sunrise like this once.”
The memory doesn’t come to mind. You blink, shooting him a look out of the corner of your eye. It’s one second of vulnerability, one second spent where you’re not hating him. And for Hal, that’s enough.
“I don’t remember that,” you say dryly. “Must’ve been someone else.”
Hal focuses on the stars blooming in the sky. “Yeah, must’ve been.”
There are some things in life that have always just made sense, like the universe designed for them to be together. Dalmatians in firehouses, peanut butter and jelly, and formerly, you and Hal Jordan.
You’d felt a pull to him from the day you met, something in him sparking something in you. Every night spent together only made the flame burn brighter until it was unbearable, threatening to consume you. And then it was killed, pronounced dead in the Justice League infirmary.
Your chemistry died with it, and every mission with Hal since, has been stiff. Awkward. He’s overbearing, hovering too close to you during fights and getting in the way. You’re mistrustful, not counting on him to have your back the way that you should. The way that you used to.
It’s late in the Watchtower, the cup of coffee in your hands half-finished and completely cooled. The plush office chair you’re sitting in does little to ease your aching body, Hal’s presence doing even less to ease the nerves that chew on your stomach lining.
After four hours, the computer is only three quarters finished analyzing the USB you’d plugged into it. It’s already been a long night and at this rate, it’s only going to get longer.
“He’s fucking with us, right?” Hal groans, spinning in his chair, “surely we don’t actually have to sit here all night and watch it.”
You nod, lips pulled into a tight lipped smile. “Do you want to be the one to explain it to Bruce if something goes wrong?”
“...no.”
The mechanical whirs of the machinery cut through the silence that grows between the two of you. You’re never quite sure what to say to Hal, if you should even say anything.
Hal’s just as surprised as you are when you’re the first one to speak.
“Are you…doing anything later?”
His head perks up like an excited puppy being offered a treat. “Sleeping, probably. Why?”
“Sleeping alone?”
And Hal’s heart sinks at the underlying question, the silent intonation of hurt. That hopelessness reaches out and threatens to drown him again.
“Always alone, lately,” he grumbles.
“I find that hard to believe.”
“It’s true!” He raises his hands in surrender, “I’m a changed man.”
“That’s even harder to believe.”
Tension, a new norm for the two of you, thickens the air.
Hal does another spin in his chair, head tipped back lazily. He gestures to the computer, “why don't you take a crack at that? See if you can speed it up.”
“Me?” You shake your head, “why don’t you do it?”
“Because you’re the one that’s good with…”
He trails off upon seeing the strange look on your face. Brows drawn together, mouth twisted in concern. He breathes, snapping himself back to reality.
“Hal, is-is everything okay with you?” You lower your voice, “you’re not losing your memory from old age, are you?”
“Old age?!”
His reaction makes you laugh and Hal would be lying if he didn’t treasure the sound like the last day of sun before winter falls.
“Do you…can I buy you a drink?”
Your laughter stops, winter comes.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
He frowns, “it’s just one drink. Come on, please?”
“Hal…”
And his resolve breaks. He rises to his feet, getting up to leave before you can break the rest of him. “Sorry,” is all he says.
You don’t see Hal for almost a week after that, and part of you wonders if maybe it’s a sign. If not seeing him means that chapter of your life is finally done.
The shower water is hot on your body, washing away the dirt and blood from your late-night venture with Dinah. Having been too tired to head to your own place, she’d invited you to crash in their guest room.
You hear voices when the water stream in the shower dies down, the dripping from the tap interrupted by voices downstairs. Mopping up the water on your body with the towel Dinah left for you, you tiptoe your way to the door.
With your ear pressed against the lavish veneer, you can just barely make out Dinah’s voice.
“Absolutely not.”
Hal Jordan’s voice has you freezing in your tracks, the warm water on your body turning to frost. “Why not? Give me a good reason and I’ll leave.”
“For one, if you don’t leave, I’ll make you.”
“She will,” Oliver shouts, sounding further away than the other voices.
“Dinah, please. Five minutes, that’s all I ask. Don’t be—ow!”
You’d be lying if his sudden cry didn’t bring a smile to your face. The voices go quiet and you finish dressing, pulling on a clean pair of clothes you’d left here forever ago.
You’re barely out the bathroom door, steam pouring into the hallway like smoke, when Oliver catches your arm. “Before you go down there,” he starts.
“Hal’s here, I heard.”
“Dinah smacked him”
You laugh, “I heard that, too.”
Oliver retreats down the hall, presumably headed to their bedroom. You march on in the opposite direction, making your way down the stairs. It’s gone quiet now, which can only mean two things: he left, or Dinah killed him.
There’s no dead body when you enter the foyer, so clearly it’s the former. You hate the way your heart sinks just a little at his absence.
Hal’s unconscious on your welcome mat when you get home. A bottle in his hand, snoring, his body unphased by the cold night air. Digging your keys out of your bag, you poke him with your shoe. He stirs a little, eyelids twitching. Good, not dead at least.
Opening the door with a click, you watch as he slumps further, knocking his head against your doorframe. His eyes snap open, lashes fluttering while he deciphers his surroundings. His cheeks pinken and he relaxes a little at the sight of you.
“You—you’re home,” he slurs, and the heavy scent of alcohol stings your nose.
“Jesus, Hal,” you sigh, offering him a hand up. “What are you doing here?”
He takes it, putting just a little too much weight on you as he uses your body to lift himself up. You stumble, chest colliding with his, his arm reaching out to steady you. It’s instinctive, an all too familiar position for the both of you.
You peel yourself away from him, taking a big step back. “You didn’t answer the question.”
He stumbles in after you, wrist flopping awkwardly as he goes to slam the door. You pinch the bridge of your nose. He can barely stand.
“Missed you,” he slurs, “always missing you.”
He pitches forward, knees failing, but you’re there to catch him. Ducking under his arm, you manage to keep him up long enough to get him to the couch. Hal’s not much help, mumbling something about a wedding into your ear and dragging his feet.
You abandon him on your couch, the man slumped over uselessly, before coming back with a bottle of water. He manages to grab it—at least he’s good for something right now—and downs half the bottle in one go.
“You shouldn’t be here, Hal,” you say softly. “We’re not—I don’t feel the same way.”
Liar, the weight in your chest screams, but Hal doesn’t need to know that. He doesn’t need to know the way your heart beats for him, that even through the layers you’ve used to shut him out, you still yearn to touch him again.
“The wedding,” is all he says.
Your brows furrow in confusion, a hand reaching for him before you pull back. He’s not yours to touch anymore. You scan his face for any sign of him being high, red eyes or a loopy smile. You clock none of that.
He’s just Hal. Drunk, incoherently babbling Hal.
“The wedding?” You question.
He looks up at you, brown hair falling in his face and half-obscuring his eyes. “The wedding,” he says again. “You love—you would’ve loved it.”
“Who’s wedding, Hal?”
You hate this, playing into what he’s saying, hanging onto every word like you’re still hopelessly in love with him and just wanting him to love you back. Really, you should be going to sleep and leaving him on your couch to rot, but just as you draw up your knees to stand, he speaks.
“I hated watching you get married to another man.”
Your heart stops beating. “Hal? I’m not—I’m not married, you know that.”
His eyes go vacant for a moment, jaw clenching in that way it does when he’s said something he shouldn’t have. The way it does when he spits venom in an argument, or when he tells you he doesn't love you the way you love him.
“There were flowers,” he says, “Frangipani. Your favorite.”
“Hal I-I think you should go to bed.” You look at him seriously, “you’re drunk, you’re not making any sense. Just—sleep, okay? We’ll talk in the morning.”
He frowns, deep and sad. “You mean it?”
“Goodnight, Hal.”
You flick off the lamp, quietly leaving the room before he can say anymore.
You’re all geared up for your mission, costume on, weapons stocked, when you pull Barry aside.
“What’s going on?” He has that curious look in his eyes, the blue glistening with worry. “Is everything okay?”
“I think…” You glance around, making sure no one’s listening in. “I think something’s wrong with Hal.”
“Oh?”
“He keeps…saying these things that don’t make sense. I thought it was just forgetfulness but then he started talking about my wedding, and all of these things that didn’t happen and—”
The look on Barry’s face tells you everything. A flash of guilt and a mix of shame answering your question before you have time to ask it. Your eyes narrow, you take a step forward, cornering him.
“I don’t—he hasn’t told you yet?”
“Told me about what?”
Barry sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Hal said he would tell you.”
“Hal says a lot of things.”
“Believe me, I know.” He rests a hand on your shoulder, “it’s nothing you need to worry about, alright?”
“Barry—”
“Just trust me, okay?”
You open your mouth to say his name but then the speedster is taking off, a trail of lightning in his wake. You stare at the spot he was just standing, dumbfounded.
What could possibly be so bad, so top secret, that Barry himself can’t even tell you? The question sticks to the back of your mind.
It’s a cruel trick of fate that you’ve ended up here, back in this damned infirmary, with Hal at your side.
You’d been distracted on your latest mission, your conversation with Barry lingering in the corner of your head until it was all you could focus on. You got sloppy, every fight, every decision, worse than the last until finally, something gave.
A searing hot pain in your shoulder, blood trickling down your chest. You don’t remember much aside from the pain and the dizziness that followed. Hal had run to your side, had scooped you up into his arms. You passed out some point after that, but the look on Hal’s face is burned into your mind.
You open your eyes to the dim light of the infirmary, the scent of sanitizer and copper burning your nose. You’ve been in here enough to recognize the patterns on the roof immediately, the familiar burn mark that had come from Clark years ago.
An IV is in your non-wounded side, your injured shoulder now bandaged and cleaned and resting against the pillows. You stir, shimmying your way up the cot until you’re in a half-sitting position.
Hal’s head snaps up. “You’re awake.”
His eyes are bloodshot, hair messy and sweaty. His costume is gone, replaced with the same civvies he always wears—white t-shirt, blue jeans, work boots.
“What—” You clear your throat, your voice dry from lack of use. “What time is it?”
“Late, really late.” He rises to his feet, stepping closer to your bed to get a closer look at you. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
The air thickens with weeks worth of tension. Hal rubs his thumb against his palm, blinking slowly, trying to will the words to come to mind. But not even his ring can give him the right words to say, not right now.
He takes a deep breath. “Is this how you felt? That night, I mean.”
Bile rises in your throat, the monitor connected to your index finger beeping with the rise in your heartrate. Hal glances at the monitor, clocking the sudden change.
“No,” your voice breaks, emotion seeping through the cracks. “No, I actually loved you.”
Loved. Hal’s ears ring with the word, and though he’s been told—by himself and others—in a million different ways how badly he fucked up, how much he sucks, hearing it from you hurts the worst.
You cut off his thoughts. “Where’s Barry?”
“He had to step out, but I’m here—“
“I didn’t ask for you.”
And maybe it’s the hint of emotion in your words, or the way every second spent this close to you without touching you sends his stomach spiraling, but Hal can’t help himself. The words slip out like they’ve longed to for so long, the things he wouldn’t let himself feel rising to the surface.
“And you think I did?” He tugs on his hair, “fuck, do you think I wanted this? All of this?”
Your eyes widen, you sit up fully in your bed. “Nobody is forcing you to be here, Hal. You can leave if you hate me so much.”
“I can’t!”
You blink, shocked at the sudden outburst. You’re used to Hal’s yelling, to the constant arguments. But this, this bleeding of emotions, wearing his heart on his sleeve, it’s new to you. Uncharted.
“Can’t you see that? I can’t! You’re—you’re fucking haunting me.”
“Haunting you?”
His shoulders slump, forearms braced on the side of the bed. He dips his forehead between them. “Yes, haunting me.”
“I’ve barely been near you, how am I—how could I possibly..?”
“I left,” he says plainly, “to get away from you. I thought—I thought if I could just get off the planet for a little while, maybe I could figure out a way to make things right.”
You tilt your head in confusion, that earlier fight fading with every word he says.
“But I fucked up, I got caught in a wormhole and it–it sent me to another world. A lot of other worlds.”
And suddenly things start to make sense, the puzzle pieces that had been in front of you this entire time lining themselves up. That haunted look, the cryptic sayings, the sudden forgetfulness.
“I left to get away from you but in every world, in every last one of them—”
He wipes a few tears miserably on the back of his hand. You’ve never seen him like this, all miserable and broken, falling apart in front of you.
“It was you, it was all you. It—“ His voice cracks, “in every goddamn universe, I was with you. Always you.”
“Hal…”
“I watched us get married. I saw you up on that altar, marrying me and I just—I had to wonder.” He looks at his palms like they’re stained with something ugly, “what is so wrong with this version of me that I couldn’t seal the deal? That I’m the one Hal Jordan in the multiverse that doesn’t get to be with you?”
He’s fully in tears now, keeping his head down so that you can’t see the way they burn trails into his cheeks. His hands shake slightly, muscles in his back pulled tight in his frustration.
“The wedding,” you say finally. “I thought—I thought you were just drunk. You mean to tell me this whole time…?”
Your own nose stings with the threat of tears. All of this time, all of this heartbreak. You’d assumed he’d left to give you space, to go on some bender. Never did you ever consider he was doing it for himself, that this was as painful for him as it was for you.
“I had the chance and I fucked it up.” His eyes finally meet yours, “and I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry that you got stuck with the one me in the universe that fucks everything up.”
Instincts take over, your body on autopilot as you reach for his hand. He twitches at the contact but then his palm is swallowing yours whole, latching on to anything he can get from you right now.
“I wanted to fix it. When I came back, I came to fix it.” He squeezes your hand, “But you seemed so happy without me and I-I don’t want to take that way from you.”
Not without you, never without you. The words fill your mind but not your tongue, you’re left entirely speechless by his sudden confession, wondering how many different versions of you he must have seen in the months he was gone.
“How many?” You ask.
“What?”
“How many worlds?” You keep your tone even despite the lump in your throat, “how many versions of us?”
“Hundreds,” he confesses. “If not thousands.”
You suck in a breath, the air in the room suddenly feeling heavy.
“I’ve seen a thousand versions of you and this one—this one is my favorite.”
You break. Everything you’ve locked up and hidden away, everything you pushed through in an attempt to try and forget him, everything floods you. The dam is broken, the tears finally come and in your haze, you find yourself reaching for the fabric of Hal’s shirt.
Hal lets you manhandle him closer, your teary face stuffed into his chest. His arms go around you automatically, fitting against your body the way they’re meant to, the way they always have.
His scent helps calm you a little, his body heat and strong arms pulling you back even when your tether is broken. You sob against him for a while, breathing shakily until you finally come back to yourself.
“Hal,” you start.
“I love you.”
The air leaves your lungs.
“I-I know I fucked up, I know I didn’t say it before but fuck, sweetheart, I love you. I love you so much.”
He stares at you hopefully, expectantly. His heart is in his hands, presented to you on a silver platter, yours for the taking.
“Please say somet—”
You cut him off by smashing your lips against his, using the collar of his shirt for leverage. Hal’s eyes flutter shut, leaning into you, giving himself to you in a way he hasn’t been able to before. You feel the difference now. The sudden devotion, like you’re the altar he’s come to worship.
“I love you too.”
Hal sighs in relief, taut muscles finally relaxing. “Does this mean we can finally get that drink now?”
“Only if you tell me about these other me’s,” you tease. “Surely there’s one that’s a Green Lantern, right?”
“God, if only you knew the half of it.”
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thanks for reading & if you like it, please consider commenting, liking & reblogging!! /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡
a/n: a request for soulmate-bonded Hal Jordan and Batfam!Reader. Hope you enjoy! :)
cw: soulmate markings, flirting, cursing, painful soulmate bonding process (brief), gn!reader (no description of features/clothing)
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PREVIEW:
“So Hal’s come back on our behalf.” It sounds like the behalf that is being mentioned is not Bruce’s, though he has little to speak of about it.
It’s a privilege few on the team have to keep needling for information, so you exploit it for what you can.
“You don’t sound very excited about that.” You advance forward cautiously. The Watchtower grows greater still, and Bruce’s hand clicks several different switches, one prompting a light to let out a slow ebbing glow. A signal, you presume, to let them know that the two of you are en route for arrival.
“Hal is a lot.” Is all that Bruce supplies to you.
You can’t help but let your eyebrows dart up again in disbelief at the hypocrisy of the statement.
tl;dr: above the turn of the world, you meet your destiny. Hal Jordan/Batfam!Reader
The cockpit of the Batplane is a familiar enclosure to you at this point. There’s the sleek, streamlined technology all backlit by dimmed, sophisticated lighting, the leather interiors that plushly sink as they accept your weight. But most importantly, there’s the ample 360 degree view that it offers of the wide, yawning sky that seems to blur past you as the two of you hurtle through the stratosphere.
And, of course, there’s the pilot that you know all too well by now, known for a storied duration of your life. You watch through the darkened, shadows at that implacable cover of his cowl which reveals nothing, the rigid posture of his set shoulders insinuating authority as you wink into what seems to be neverending night. It’s silent save the thrum of technology, of bells and whistles for this testament to luxury that money can buy, that all is well and all systems are functional.
Far be it from you to break the silence. But there’s a tepid nervousness that’s grown restless as the two of you reach your destination, floating miles above space. You swear if you squint through the horizon line of stars that you can almost see the Watchtower completing a rotation. But maybe that’s your anxiety talking.
“Anything I should know before we meet the big boys?” You find yourself asking, keeping your voice regulated to a volume that, were others tagging along for the journey, they might not have the wherewithal to consider. Maybe this is why Bruce’s grip on the steering wheel doesn’t clench instinctively, but merely relaxes as he reaches out to flip a switch—something beeps affirmatively as he does so.
His voice retains that same level of calm jurisdiction you’ve spent what feels a lifetime hearing.
“Nothing you haven’t heard already.” His voice is a low timbre in the noiselessness of space. “You know Clark.”
“Yeah, I sure do.” You say, and this helps to alleviate some of the tension wracking through your body, thinking of that kind Midwestern smile. How odd that at this glib tone that you assume, you notice the tight knuckling of one of Bruce’s hands around the wheel. “Say, when is ol’ Clark coming back to dinner, anyways?”
If it weren’t for Jason and Dick witnessing the soulmates being bonded together in the flesh, you wouldn’t believe it yourself. Probably didn’t save for the symbol that’s been branded by supernatural forces under Bruce’s right forearm. The same right forearm that he turns downwards, as though this will keep it out of sight, out of mind.
There’s a marked rigidity in his voice from the front when he asks, “Do I have to lump you in with the kids on this one?”
You put an insulted hand to your chest, though Bruce can’t see it—this is why it matters that you do so.
“And bring me down to Dick and Tim’s level? Perish forbid the thought. You’d never regret bringing me to the Tower the way you would with them.”
“I’m reconsidering that statement right now.” He returns in a stark monotone that makes you realize that the wells of patience only run so deeply. You hold up your hands in defeat, keeping your eyes trained on the plateau of shoulders that still remain inexorably still.
“No, please—”—It’s an exercise in restraint to smother the smile in your voice, but you do—“—I’m house trained, Bruce. Promise I’ll be good.”
In a span of seconds measured by your slow-plodding heartbeat, in which Bruce is probably calculating the cost of jet fuel to go back home and drop you off, he finally responds. It would take a consummate professional like you and Dick to note that there’s a touch of weariness where there wasn’t before.
“There’s Diana. The Amazonian princess.” Bruce continues as he draws down the roster of the fabled Justice League. You perk up at this one.
“Oh, the one that Jason got flustered in front of, the first time he met her?” You ask with a degree of relish, recalling the slow-simmering fury that Jason reacts with any time the story is brought up.
Bruce considers the confidentiality he bears as Jason’s guardian when he returns with, “Jason would elect to call it selective mutism.”
“Oh, I’m sure he would.” You find a grin making its way onto your face as you stare out to the distance elapsed between you and Earth. Something in you feels an ancient wonder at the tread of the continents that are already turning face away from you with another axial tilt.
“Barry Allen will be there.” Bruce tacks another name onto the list, taking care to clarify, “The speedster.”
You nod in recollection. “He’s the forensics scientist, right?”
“Yes.” Bruce is monotonous in reply. “He’s worked with me on a few cases.”
“Has he really?” You ask at this tidbit of information, feeling your eyebrows jump up your forehead. It sounds odd to hear of your mentor collaborating with any hero beyond the confines of Gotham—it took so long for him and Clark to work together, even though they both debuted on the scene at the same time.
“On a few of my first cases.” Bruce says, and it almost sounds like a confessional when he informs you of this. “He’s by the book, a good, honest man.”
Glowing praise by any of Bruce’s vaunted standards. You let a good degree of cheer leach into your voice as you respond, “What a very high opinion you have of him.”
“It’s because he’s earned it.” Bruce returns. “Much like J’onn—”—He presses a few buttons as the marked arc of the plane settles into something more akin to cruising speed—“—Although he’ll most likely be busy monitoring some situations that have been brewing intergalactically.”
”Shame.” You reply, because it is; you feel your shoulders tick down in disappointment. “I would have liked to have met him.”
“You’ll get the chance.” Bruce says, which means that this isn’t the last time that you’ll get to come up here with him. Which makes the furtive smile that you feel rising to your face grow all the more.
Beyond you, you can see the blip of the Watchtower loom unhurriedly larger before your eyes. You make mental count in your head and frown in confusion at the tally that you create.
“Is there anyone else?” You ask to Bruce’s back, and find another elapsed silence that spans out much greater than the previous.
Finally, when Bruce speaks, there’s a degree of irritation that is unmistakeable. “…There’s Hal.”
“Hal? Hal Jordan?” You ask, inching forward on your seat. Here, you see the broadening of shoulders before you, as though an instinctive defense against the litany of his name. “The Green Lantern? I thought that John was on retainer.”
“The Guardians called him back to Oa for reasons undisclosed,” Bruce says, very clearly grieving this knowledge, “So Hal’s come back on our behalf.”
It sounds like the behalf that is being mentioned is not Bruce’s, though he has little to speak of about it. It’s a privilege few on the team have to keep needling for information, so you exploit it for what you can.
“You don’t sound very excited about that.” You advance forward cautiously. The Watchtower grows greater still, and Bruce’s hand clicks several different switches, one prompting a light to let out a slow ebbing glow. A signal, you presume, to let them know that the two of you are en route for arrival.
“Hal is a lot.” Is all that Bruce supplies to you. You can’t help but let your eyebrows dart up again in disbelief at the hypocrisy of the statement.
“Says the man with seven kids and counting.” You aim back with relative ease.
“I don’t count you as one of the kids.” Bruce says, though still he sounds like he may be reconsidering the validity of this assertion.
“I’m flattered.” You respond, because you are. But there’s still an answer that’s yet to be provided.
“But you’ll understand Hal for yourself soon enough.” Is the final word on the matter, as a hatch on the Watchtower hisses noiselessly open to admit the plane housing you both.
“I’m sure I will.” You say, allowing yourself to marvel at the wonder of technology that Bruce has bled sweat and tears into.
Within the first few minutes of being Towerside, you run into a familiar smile paired with a set of gleaming blue eyes, the warmth of a wide, working man’s palm. You can’t help but accept it as its strong fingers curve around you into a handshake.
The way that Clark says your name is friendly, easy on his lips as he says it aloud. You can’t help but respond with similar good cheer as you shake once, twice and he says, “Good to see you again.”
“Good to see you too, Clark.” You offer winningly as the gargoyle besides you does nothing more but offer stunning impression to his namesake. “Will we be seeing you at dinner tomorrow?”
With the look of abject surprise mingling with blatant delight on Clark’s face, you know that you’ve certainly hit the jackpot. Save, of course, for the voice beside you that sounds akin to the glacial shelf splintering apart.
“Drop it.” Bruce warns, but it’s too late. Clark has already released you and is putting a sheepish hand to the back of his neck. As he thinks on the offer you’ve made on Bruce’s behalf, you get an ample glimpse of the batsign, the soulmate mark, that peeks out from under the sleeve on Clark’s wrist.
“Well, I’m not too busy,” Clark says, already casting a musing glance up to the ceiling, “I bet I could—”
“Oh, really?” You dart forward into the conversational fray before Bruce can stop you, “Bruce has been talking about how nice it was to have you over last time—”
Bruce appears to be voicing something that sounds similar to him threatening bodily harm, but it’s drowned out by Clark’s diverted attention, towards him. And Bruce, for all of his esteemed intimidation tactics, fearful symmetry, imposing presence—all of it melts by the wayside as the epitome of the sun turns to regard him.
“Oh, really?” Clark beams at the very possibility. “Well, I was actually making some shepherd’s pie tonight, I wouldn’t mind bringing it by. What do you say, Bruce?”
You sense that the likelihood of Clark having to prevent a homicide grows the longer that you stay with them, so you cast an eye to the hallway over Clark’s shoulder. As you take a tentative step in that direction, you offer before them your final throw of the gauntlet.
“I say Bruce likes it,” You agree with Clark’s sentiment, “And that the two of you should discuss it while I find a bathroom.”
The look that Bruce sends you as you beat hasty retreat signifies imminent doom for your mortal prospects. But there’s no denying the subtle smile that he would never acknowledge, to you or Dick or Barbara or anyone, that is present on his face.
You slink away with stunning alacrity as the volume of their conversation dwindles and eventually vanishes to nothingness. Each uniform hall you meander down reveals new uniformed attendants—some of them workers that you recognize from the R&R department at Wayne Enterprises—putting distance between you and your chaperone. The whole thing, as you walk through these cloistered halls with doors that whisper open automatically at your very approach, with high-tech arrays that demonstrate top-of-the-line skill metered into every square inch, impresses you more and more.
But it’s not until you pass through another set of doors that exhale apart, revealing a wall-to-wall window to Earth below, that you feel your breath taken away.
It’s all you can do to approach the thick plexiglass with utmost restraint, keeping your hands steepled behind you, as you regard the view. The Earth was already impressive at the distance you observed in the plane. But here, in the Tower, where she is a distant orb encapsulated in the inky blackness of the star-dotted sky, she is beautiful.
She is the summation of the life you’ve lived, the experiences, the memories. Something in you feels melancholy at being apart from her, another part in you adores her abject beauty as the world turns into another silent orbital. It’s incredible, as you look on to the world below.
You don’t realize that you have an audience to your observation until they make themselves known, interrupting your reverie.
“You know, I don’t think there’s ever anything that compares to it.” Speaks a light, unfamiliar voice. When you turn, surprised but leisurely—after all, it wouldn’t do to besmirch the training Bruce has taken decades to instill in you—you take ken of the Green Lantern emblazoned proudly onto that broad chest. Then, you allow yourself to take heed of the handsome, strong jaw, that crooked smile, those green eyes that are growing closer yet for you to admire.
You find yourself armed with an answer more easily than you expected. “I’m sure you see it all the time. Rube like me, this is probably my first and only time.”
“Well, you know what they say—”—He returns easily as he draws within a few paces of you—“—Nothing like the first time.”
Part of you is impressed and amused at the audacity of the implication that you’re certain he means to make. Now that he’s stopped and significantly closer, you find yourself being deliberate to avoid ogling him up and down.
“I guess so.” You say. “How does she compare to the other ones you see out there?”
You nod your head in the direction of the steady-moving heavenly body before you.
When he smiles, there’s no underlying angle in his honesty. “She’s still the belle of the ball to me.”
It’s gone before you can really register the fondness apparent in his voice; he turns from the window back to you, settling those bright, curious eyes upon you. “You, uh, new around here?”
“New to the tower,” You gesture to the testimony to money well-spent around you, “Not new to the life. I’m with Bruce—he’s my chaperone.”
You watch the slow, dubious cock of his eyebrow, disbelief layered with good humor in his voice.
“Bats? Really? I never would have figured with how you, uh, smile,” He jokes, and damn if this doesn’t make your own smile grow at this, “And can have friendly conversation—who’d’ve thought.”
You can’t help but let out a small chuckle at this, giving him a mighty one-sided shrug. “Someone’s gotta be PR for the team.”
Your mysterious stranger crosses his arms over his shoulder, which gives you the opportunity to look at the muscle coiled into the motion. God, he is handsome. “I didn’t know he thought that was necessary for Batman Incorporated LLC.”
You roll your eyes good-naturedly. “Good thing he’s got people who can point out the errors of his ways.”
His voice is slick as he shoots back, “I’m surprised he lets someone do that.”
You feel yourself shifting your weight to one leg, letting a hand drape over your hip. It’s a task in itself, ignoring the racing of your heart as you watch this Green Lantern track the movement with his eyes, before they dart back up to you.
“We have a pretty solid democratic system down in Gotham.” You assert brightly.
He makes an airy scoff of surprise. “That’s crazy, I would have assumed it was a dictatorship over there.”
You give him a pert smile, confident as you declare, “Not when you have the best people to back you up.”
“That must be why he keeps you tucked away in Gotham,” He says, and at this he takes another step towards you to eat up the distance, “Away from the rest of us, huh?”
He is flirting with you, you realize, and this summons a flare of heat up your body, a pleased warmth humming under your cheeks. You may as well respond in kind.
“Sometimes you have to let the kids grow up and explore outside of the nest.” You venture forward bravely, admiring the way that smile seems to accentuate his features.
“So do you like what you see?” He asks. You have to hesitate for a second as you realize that he’s turned in the direction of the revolving Earth.
“Oh, the view?” You ask. It’s a slim hope that the embarrassment isn’t audible in your voice. You try to ignore the very enticing way the span of his hand is curled around his bicep.
“Yeah, the view.” He says, and there’s a rush of adrenaline as you see that he’s no longer looking in the direction of the skies—but you. He’s caught you out, taken heed of your interest. Your pulse is all-but-humming in your throat as you delve for reserves of fortitude that you’ve honed in Gotham.
“Depends on which one we’re talking about.” You maintain. You’re not entirely aware of the way that you’re drifting closer to him, invading the space that he seems happy for you to press advances into.
“Well, which one are you talking about?” He asks, and his voice is still light upon delivery, but there’s something charged in it now, taut with rough curiosity. You don’t think you’ve met someone so brazen before.
“Does being cocky come with the territory of being a Green Lantern?” You ask, letting your gaze fall to that logo—and perhaps, the plane of his chest—before you stare back up at him.
“Maybe you should find out.” He’s all smiles now, confident that he’s got you—and maybe he has. Maybe you want to see where this’ll go. “You got coffee places in Gotham you like?”
“Maybe I do.” You tilt your head as you admire the moves on this man. “What’s your name, Green Lantern?”
“Hal Jordan.” Hal says, and something finally seems to click into place. “Yours?”
He holds out his gloved hand, letting you take view of the landscape of that palm you feel very interested in admiring the skilled capabilities of. You say your name as you raise your hand to meet his.
He repeats your name as your hands touch, the final thing you hear, “Sounds like the start of a beautiful relationship.”
That’s the last thing that you remember, the graze of his hand against yours, the ridge of his knuckles, the grooves of his palm, the pads of his fingers—and then there’s a terrible, agonizing burn that seizes itself over you, white-hot. You gasp, hearing a similar grunt of pain from your companion, as a terrific fear chokes the breath from you. But then the physical anguish soothes, coalesces into a euphoria that rushes over you, bathes you in a tranquil buoyancy that you’ve yet to feel before.
It’s all you can do to remain elevated and standing, huffing for breath that seemed so difficult to reclaim seconds before. Your eyes dart across to your companion, who is quicker to recover than you, and watch as he slides his fingers under his glove, coaxing the fabric down—
It’s all that you can do to gape in mute shock as you see the very batsign on your chest, etched perfectly into the inside of his wrist. You allow yourself one shared glance with those beautiful green eyes, before you numbly paw at your own glove and tug it down.
There’s a perfect Green Lantern inked into the inside of your wrist. Much like how Bruce’s wrist bears Clark’s surname, that comforting, all-encompassing S. Much like how Clark’s own wrist bears the mathematical precision of Bruce’s own symbol. Much as any soulmate would find, the second they came into physical contact with each other for the first time.
“Holy shit,” You say, punch-drunk and dazed, and find yourself looking back up to your soulmate, who seems to only have eyes for you. And at the flash of movement beyond him, your gaze slides past, looking at the duo arriving at the scene of the crime far too late to stop it.
Clark and Bruce seem to take assessment of the situation at the same time, delighted shock passing over Clark’s face. Bruce, however, seems to bear an unhappy stolidity—though this seems different from other times that you’ve seen it. But you couldn’t for the life of you, at this moment and time, understand why.
Not when your soulmate finally gathers himself, closing the distance to you as he draws the arm unmarked by your touch around you. You find yourself looking away from the past, to the future in front of you, that smiles with the brilliance of the galaxy you’ve yet to explore.
Hal Jordan is waiting for you, his arm a tether to a world that you feel like you’ll never set foot on again.
“How about we try this one more time, soulmate?”
Dividers provided by the wonderful @toxisyddy and @cafekitsune
Summary: in which it must be your lucky night, getting to go skinny dipping with the Flash and Green Lantern
Word Count: 1k
Content/CW -> alcohol, semi-public semi-nudity, suggestive, fwb! Hal Jordan
taken from this idea by @impossible2cache <3 ty for letting me use it bb
froggi yaps -> i wanted this to be smut i wanted it to be smut SO BAD, considering making a 2nd ver. with smut bcs the potential for this is so 🤩🤩 but for now, it is simply suggestive <3
Barry Allen is naked. Well, almost naked.
Kneeled in front of you, lithe fingers working to untie his shoelaces, the man is dressed in nothing but his boxers. The muscles in his back flex with every shift of his arms, rippling deliciously under his skin. The soles of his sneakers have sunk into the sand, the soft powder already half-covering the clothes he discarded on it.
Hal Jordan curses somewhere off to your left, a beer in his hand while his other fumbles to pull off his t-shirt. His cheeks are flushed from both the heat of the day and the alcohol you consumed throughout it.
Four hours ago, the sun had been cresting over a dreadfully boring League meeting. An hour later, the three of you had been at Hal’s favorite dive bar in Coast City, trying to answer the much awaited question: how much alcohol does it take to get the Flash drunk?
The answer, apparently, was none—something about his metabolism being too fast to feel the effects. But you did learn that three hours of conversation was more than enough to coax the man out of his shell and to your surprise, the beach.
Fumbling for the button of your own jeans, you slip it through the fabric and open the zipper.
Barry pitches forward, the air leaving his lungs. He blinks, catching himself on a strong forearm before he can hit the sand.
“Barr, you okay?”
His cheeks are flushed, blue eyes locked onto the waistband of your jeans. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath.
Your hands still, leaving the zipper where it is. “Barr?”
He opens and closes his eyes, blinking slowly at you like a cat. “Your jeans,” he says.
“What about them?”
He points, finger inches away from the soft red thread of the embroidered words on the inside of your zipper. Just behind it, your red underwear peaks through.
“That?” You laugh, running your thumb down the span of words that reads ‘Lucky You ☆’. “It’s cute, huh?”
“Cute, yeah,” he scratches the back of his neck, very much aware that he’s on his knees in front of you, almost completely naked. “Really cute.”
Barry goes back to untying his other shoe, grateful to have something to focus on other than the blood rushing away from his head. He fights against the part of him that wants to kiss you right on top of that star, to look up at you while he pulls down your pants and—
“What’s got Barry so hot and bothered?”
The blond cringes, pinching the bridge of his nose. As if this couldn’t get any worse. Drawing his gaze away from his shoes to greet his friend, his eyes almost bug out of his head.
Hal stands at your side, his shoes and shirt gone and his beer bottle long empty. His jeans are also unbuttoned and just peaking through the top, ‘It’s not gonna suck itself’.
Barry opens and closes his mouth like a fish, his words failing him.
Luckily, you speak first. “He liked my jeans,” you grin, “thought they were cute.”
“Cute,” Hal repeats, an eyebrow raised. He smacks your ass, “yeah, they’re real cute.”
“Bet he likes yours, too.”
If Barry was warm before, he’s burning up now.
It’s not like he didn’t know the nature of your relationship with Hal—he’d heard enough details from both sides to last him a lifetime. He just never considered he’d see it in person, let alone see either of you half-naked and about to skinnydip with him.
You frown teasingly at the flustered man, “you don’t like them?”
“No, no, I—” He kicks off his shoes and rises to his feet, now dressed only in his Calvin Klein’s. “They’re hot,” he says finally. “They’re really hot.”
You glance at Hal, “you hear that? The Flash thinks I’m hot.”
You expect Barry to flush, to back down and leave it at that. But the Flash doesn’t run away from a fight, he runs towards it.
He takes a step towards you, fingers hooking into the loops of your jeans and tugging you towards him. You’ve always known Barry was strong and tall, but being only inches away, it takes your breath away.
One of his hands rests on your hip, the other on the back of your neck. “I do,” he says, none of that earlier sheepishness. “I really do.”
“So what’re you gonna do about it?”
A brief glance at Hal who nods approvingly and then he’s dipping his head down to crash his lips on yours. It’s messy and eager and desperate, tasting like empress gin and blackberry tonic.
He pulls away, a strand of drool connecting your lips to his. “Fuck.”
Hal cuts in, looking at you with a grin and eyes that contradict it. “Got room for one more?”
You hum, defiant. “What’s in it for me?”
“I don’t throw you into the water?”
“Throw me into the water,” you trail your hands up his chest, “and I’m drowning you, Jordan.”
“Okay, okay, no need to get drastic.”
You stand on your toes, arms snaking around his shoulders to kiss him. He tastes like beer and sandalwood, the flavour drowning you. One of his hands cups your ass, giving it a squeeze.
He’s breathless and flushed when you release him. Barry jumps on the opportunity to get one up over Hal, a shiteating grin on his face.
He clamps a hand on his shoulder. “You alright, buddy? Looks like you need to cool off.”
“Shut up.”
You trail a hand down the length of the words on Hal’s jeans. “Need some water? You look flushed.”
Hal drops to his knees in front of you, kicking up sand from the fall. “Water’s not really what I had in mind right now.”
“You know what…” Shock pangs in your chest when Barry follows suit, settling into the sand next to Hal. “I was thinking the same thing.”
Your eyes move from Barry to Hal, the same hunger lingering in both of their eyes. Behind them, the waves lap over the shoreline but your skinnydipping adventure is long forgotten.
“Lucky you,” Hal winks.
Barry nudges him in the ribs, looking up at you for approval. “It’s not gonna suck itself."
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thanks for reading & have a wonderful week /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡
