ââșââ ËâĄË âŸââșââ ââșââ ËâĄË âŸââșââ
i write and draw sometimes

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@saintborneveil
ââșââ ËâĄË âŸââșââ ââșââ ËâĄË âŸââșââ
i write and draw sometimes
My Boy, Your Girl
509 words 2,713 characters,
fluff, i feel like the title has angst undertones but i assure u this is the fluffiest fluff #typeshit
short lil bit of whatever with a side of meow,
you own a cat and its a girlypop x
also ik i use ___ for y/n but i dont like y/n and not having anyone say your name in a story makes me feel like a npc lol
-Veil
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------â
âWho is sitting on my backâ Damian hums, shirtless, while laying on his stomach next to you.
Itâs been a lazy kind of day for the two of you, which took extensive persuasion on your part
since youâve both been knee-deep in balancing missions as well as your studies, but alas, as
he always does, he gave into the pitch of a day consisting of just you two in the serene
comforting of your skyrise apartment - looking over the city with 0 responsibility for just one day. You even dedicated your night to cleaning the place up and down so that when Damian got home from patrol it would be nothing but a stress-free environment with âweâll need to do that laundryâ thoughts breaking through your morning laze about.
You were thanked thoroughly for that, too - hence the no shirt on your fiancee.Just you. Your sweet devoted lover. A beautiful sunrise. And-
âMewâ ___ chirped from Damianâs back as he leaned on his elbows, on his phone right next
to your blanket covered form, still curled up while Damian was half-committedly goading you to come make breakfast with him.
âTitusâ you murmured, slowly lifting your eyes to his, smiling.
He lifts his eyes from his phone (probably checking for emails from his classes which you would scold him for because heâs looking at not chill things on your designated chill day) and gives you a raised brow, the dimples around his deadpan a clear sign heâs holding back a smile of his own.
âYou know I hate to doubt you, beloved, but-â he reaches behind him to his back to pet your cat that was perched on his bare back âI was more askingâ her scoops the cat up and tucks her into his chest before resuming his scrolling. âIf it was Alfred orâŠthis oneâ he looks down at her.
You scrunch up your brows before poking his forehead, he looks up as you push his head to look up at you.
âDo I sense favouritism, Wayne?â you cat meows in concurrence, ride or die as per usual, you note.
âYou observe analysis. Alfred is my boy. This little critter is your girl.â your eye twitches at the word critter, he flicks your finger from his forehead
âand my boy is my boy, your girl is your girlâ he says, matter of factly.
Now, if his voice didnât have that morning gravel, if he didnât stretch as he threw his phone in front of him, if he didn't place your cat on your chest and then flop down next to you in a way he never does on your busy days and wrap his arms around your middle, using his other to stroke your bedhead, face now nestled in your neck - you mightâve fought for your babyâs honour and denied her title of CRITTER. But, he did all of that so youâre kind of catatonically swooning.
âYouâre my boy, Damesâ you peck his cheek, the closest of him you can reach. He untucks his head and kisses your lips sweetly, inhaling you to start the day.
âYou are my love, ____â
im scrolling through the x reader tags on here and you guys are so mean to writers if you donât like something donât read it like itâs so frustrating to see so many people make memes about âcringey and shittyâ writing and im so confused because last i checked youâre not writing any of your own stories so what gives you the right to be so critical the people on here are doing this for fun not everyone is gonna write professional award winning stories and itâs tumblr man like people write smut on here for the giggles its truly never ever that serious ALSO ALSO youâre reading fanfics bro this is as cringe as it gets so you canât even be like oh youâre cringe for writing that babe we are all in the same place LOL the traction is already so low on this app and itâs so discouraging when every second post you see in the popular tags is about someone complaining and then you guys also complain about having nothing to read like yeah no shit bro no one wants to write when youâre being so mean
i need help finding a series chat
so basically dick meets reader and kori at this party they both go to (theyâre like besties but i forgot if they were roommates or not) so reader loses her lipgloss and dick gives it to her a couple days later
kori and dick are also going out on a couple dates after meeting at the party, while wally and reader are close, too which kinda makes dick jealous (but wally likes kori)
but yeah and kori and reader like dick at the same time
and the account could be deleted perchance no idea soo yeah
đŹ 1  đ 37  â€ïž 242 · icarus to the sun // r. grayson it was supposed to be a meet cute. it was supposed to be easy. it was supposed to be Ko
this mayb? i cant comment on ur post idk why but i think i got u girl
on my gratitude shit casually no biggie just a day in the life of being chill as fuck and an all round stand up gal
blocking, muting, filtering tags = adult behavior demanding strangers stop writing = toddler behavior
They called the batfam because no one in that family saying ily
#emotionalconstipation #brooding #vengeance
Just leaving these here as a reminder to those saying damian is exclusively a kid. If you dont allow the fandom to explore Damian at this age because youâre fixated on him being a child then thats ur bad - and youâre missing out :p
feel free to add more because there are plenty more LOL
Me looking at the imaginary camera when there is a plot twist in the fanfic I'm reading
TAKE HIM BACK TO EDEN
Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader
divider by: @cafekitsune word count: 8.3k synopsis: You accepted you would never be his first choice and after five years you decided enough was enough and decide to divorce Bruce. warning: Divorce, miscommunication, Bruce being emotionally constipated a/n: Okay, I was not planning to turn this into two parts, but it just kept getting bigger and bigger. I still have about 8,000 more words to edit â 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. Thatâs 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 practicalâan 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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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 forgetâif only for a momentâhow alone you truly were.
Afterward, he would disentangle himself, murmuring something noncommittalâor sometimes saying nothing at allâbefore 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.Â
In the last three years of marriage you two barely ever slept in the same bed.Â
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 waitedâfoolishlyâfor 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.
âBruce⊠we need to talk,â you said at last. You watched his head turn slightly toward you. âI think we should get a divorce.â
Bruce stilled.
His fingers, halfway through fastening his shirt, slowedâthen stopped altogether. For a moment, he didnât 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.
ââŠA divorce.â
He said the word slowly, as though testing its weight.
âYes,â you replied quietly.
Your gaze remained fixed on the rumpled sheets, on the faint crease where his body had been moments ago. You didnât trust yourself to look at himânot when youâd worked so hard to keep your voice steady, to sound composed instead of heartbroken.
âThis arrangementâwhatever it was meant to beâis nearing three years,â 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. âBoth sides of the agreement have been fulfilled. Our businesses share mutual benefit, and Iâll make sure any remaining terms are honoured after we separate. As for personal assets, Iâll transfer any Wayne stock I hold back to you. Thereâs nothing I want. The proceedings should be smooth.â
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.
âAnd what does your family think of this?â he asked at last.
You lifted one shoulder in a small, detached shrug. âWe are no longer children,â you said evenly. âIâll handle them.â
Then, after a brief pause, you added, âIâve already had my lawyer draft the papers.â
That finally made him turn fully toward you.
âTheyâre ready,â you continued, your fingers curling into the blanket as if it were an anchor. âSign them when you have a chance.â
Something dark and unreadable crossed his expression. Not angerânot quite. It was more as though a realization struck him. His jaw flexed once.
âYouâve been planning this,â he said.
âYes.â
There was no apology in your voice, despite the quiet admission.
Bruce studied you thenâtruly studied youâas 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.
âAnd if I donât sign?â he asked quietly.
You finally lifted your eyes to his.
âI see no reason you wouldnât,â you said evenly. âWeâve been bound long enough to understand the politics involved. The expectations. The image expected of us.â Your voice remained steady, even as something fragile drew tight beneath your ribs. âWe can continue to honour the terms our parents agreed uponâsharing company resources and maintaining professional relationshipsâwithout being tethered to each other.â
You drew a slow, careful breath.
âAt least this way,â you continued, âweâll both be free. Free to see whoever we want,â you added factually. âWithout pretending this is something it isnât.â
Bruceâs gaze sharpened at that.
For the first time that night, something cracked through his composure. You werenât sure whether it was anger or jealousyâneither 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.
âIs that what this is about?â he asked. âSomeone else?â
You didnât 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 himâthat 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.
âIf youâre implying Iâve been disloyal in our marriage, Mr. Wayne,â you said coolly, âthen youâre mistaken. But a divorce,â you continued, your voice carefully controlled, âwould certainly make things easier for you.â
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.
Bruceâs brows furrowed, and for a laughable moment, he almost looked confused.
Images surfaced in your mind of all the glossy tabloid photos youâd 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 expectationâthen 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.
âLetting each other go,â you said quietly, âis the only honest thing left for us.â
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.
âVery well. We can discuss the details in the morning.â
The finality of it struck harder than anger ever could have.
âI gave Alfred the papers,â you said, forcing composure into your voice. âYou can review them with your lawyer. See if anything needs adjusting.â
He paused at the door.
For the briefest moment, his hand rested on the handle, fingers stilled, as though he might turn back. Hopeâdangerous and unwelcomeâflared 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.Â
Only then did your composure falter.
A shaky breath tore from your chest as your shoulders sagged, the tension youâd 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.Â
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 foolishnessâand 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 chestânothing 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 arrangementâan 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 freedomâspace 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.
Wasnât that what a husband was supposed to do?
And yetâ
There were things he had never given you.
Truth, for one.
You didnât know about Batman. You didnât know about the bruises hidden beneath tailored suits, or the blood scrubbed from his hands in the dead of night. You didnât 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 thenâwhen he was too young to understand what the warmth in his chest meant whenever he looked at youâBruce 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 didnât 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.
Youâbrilliant as everâwere 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 didâhe knew thatâbut at the time, he simply hadnât cared enough to try.Â
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 feelâjust faintlyâlike 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 Chillâs 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 cruelâunforgivable things he didnât 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 clarityâjust how far heâd 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 returnedâscarred and remade by violence and disciplineâthe 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 heâd made.
He had thought what the two of you shared was enoughâthat 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 youâjust 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.Â
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 cityâs 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 hadnât 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 outletâand Gotham was paying the price.
âMy, my,â a familiar voice purred from the shadows, silk and amusement woven through every syllable. âSomeoneâs in a mood.â
Bruce stiffened, then exhaled slowly through his nose. He didnât need to turn to know who it was.
âNot tonight, Selina.â
She stepped fully into view atop the adjacent rooftop, black leather catching the glow of a flickering streetlight. âWhatâs got your tail all twisted up?â Selina drawled, her head tilting as she studied him with open curiosity.
His jaw tightened beneath the cowl.
His silence was answer enough. Selinaâs gaze lingered, sharp and perceptive, tracing the rigid line of his shoulders, the coiled violence he hadnât quite burned off yet.
âAh,â she murmured, a knowing note creeping into her voice. âThat bad.â
He finally turned to face her, his cape shifting with the movement.
âDrop it.â
She smirked, utterly unoffended. âYou know I never do.â
A beat passed. Then another.
âYouâre usually better at pretending to be emotionless,â she continued, her tone light, though her eyes were anything but. âTonight? You look like youâre one bad thought away from breaking someoneâs jaw because they looked at you wrong.â
His fingers flexed at his sides, the leather of his gloves creaking softly. âIâm handling it.â
Selina arched a brow. âSure you are.â
She stepped closer, her boots soundless against the rooftop. âWhatever it is, itâs eating you alive. And last I checked, that never ends wellâfor anyone.â
Bruceâs gaze hardened, cutting back toward the city that demanded so much of his attentionâexcept tonight, it seemed intent on giving him space he didnât want.
âItâs none of your concern.â
Selina rolled her eyes, any trace of coyness evaporating in an instant.
âOh, spare me the bullshit, Bruce,â she snapped. âWhatâs going on?â
He hesitated.
The pause was smallâbarely perceptibleâbut 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.
ââŠShe wants a divorce.â
Selinaâs expression stilled. Surprise flickered across her face before settling into something more softer. He didnât look at her when he said it. Couldnât.
âWell,â she said slowly, exhaling through her nose, âthat explains the excessive force.â
He shot her a sharp look.
âIâm serious,â she added, her tone hardening, humour falling away. ââŠI didnât think sheâd be the one to pull the plug.â
Neither had he.
âSheâs already had the papers drawn up,â Bruce continued, voice low. âGave them to Alfred.â
Selina blinked. âDamn.â
She crossed her arms, studying him in a way that made his skin prickle beneath the armour. It was too uncomfortably perceptive. âAnd how do you feel about that?â
âIâll handle it,â he replied automatically.
She snorted. âYou always do. Or ratherâyou bury it under a mask and hope it stops hurting.â Her gaze softened, just a fraction. âDo you want the divorce?â
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 himâthe city he was trying to fix. Some days, he wasnât sure if he was failing at that too.
Selina sighed at his silence, already knowing what his answer was. âYeah,â she said quietly. âThatâs what I thought.â
She stepped closer, her voice lowering. âYou know, for someone who prides himself on control, youâre awfully bad at fighting the battles that actually matter.â
Bruceâs hands curled into fists again, the truth pressing uncomfortably close. Because for once, the enemy wasnât something he could punch. And he had no idea how to stop himself from losing.
âIâm not going to keep her tied down if sheâs not happy,â he murmured, the words dragged from him like a concession he wasnât ready to make.
Selina scoffed, the sound sharp against the night air. âGod, youâre impossible.â
She stepped closer, boots silent, eyes hard now.
âSometimes youâre a real idiot, Bruce,â she said bluntly. âAnd take it from a womanâif you love her, you donât just let her go and call it noble.â
His jaw tightened. âYou donât understand.â
âOh, I understand just fine,â Selina shot back. âYou think giving her space is protecting her. But from where Iâm standing? All she sees is a man who never chose her.â
The words hit harder than any punch.
âShe loves you, Bruce,â Selina continued, her voice lower now, edged with something almost gentle. âBut love doesnât survive neglect. It survives effort.â
He looked at her then, something raw flickering beneath the cowl. âI donât know how to do that without dragging her into my mess.â
Selinaâs expression softenedâjust a fraction. âYou donât have to give her your mask or your war,â she said quietly. âYou just have to give her you.â
A beat passed, and Bruceâs jaw tightened. âBatman is who I am,â he said quietly. âThis shouldnât be her burden. She deserves more than my darkness.â
âFight for her,â Selina urged. âBecause if you donât, someone else willâand youâll be left wondering when exactly you convinced yourself that letting her walk away was the right thing to do.â
With that, she turned and disappeared into the night, leaving Bruce alone to mull over his thoughts.
You didnât see Bruce at breakfast the next morning.
The absence was expectedâyet 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. âMaster Wayne had an urgent meeting to attend to,â he said gently.
You swallowed and nodded in acknowledgment. There was no point pressing him; Alfred had always been loyal to Bruceâs 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. Wayneâand after his disappearanceâyou had taken on operations at Wayne Enterprises rather than returning to your familyâs 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 familyâs business. You would no longer be Mrs. Wayne. Titles mattered in rooms like those, even when people pretended they didnât.
Still, you wouldnât leave recklessly.
If everything proceeded smoothly, the divorce would be finalized within a monthâtwo 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 Bruceâwhether he realized it or notâdeserved someone who wouldnât 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 cleanlyâwithout 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.
âWhatâs wrong?â you asked.
She hesitated, then exhaled. âI⊠I thought you should knowâJulie is at Wayne Enterprises.â Her mouth tightened as she added, rolling her eyes, âShe came to see Bruce.â
Your body went still.
Julie.
The name alone was enough to tighten your chest. She had been a childhood classmateâmore Bruceâs 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 youâd heard, sheâd 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 arrangementâif not for the contracts and the expectations of parents who treated marriage like a mergerâyou 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.Â
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 youâd 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.
âThank you for telling me,â 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 Julieâs presence meantâwhatever history was resurfacingâyou 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 driedâŠthen you would find a way to move on too.
You arrived just as Bruce appeared to be leaving the buildingâJulie 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.
âY/N!â
Julieâs voice was bright. âHey! Long time no see!â she said warmly, stepping forward for the customary cheek kisses before retreating back to Bruceâs side. âBruce and I were just going to grab lunch and catch up. You want to come?â
You ignored the knot tightening in your throat and shaped your mouth into something that resembled a smile, shaking your head once. âUnfortunately, I have a lot of work to get done,â you said evenly. âIâm sure we can catch up another time.â
Your gaze slid past herâunavoidable nowâand landed on the man who would soon no longer be your husband.
âBruce,â you said calmly, âI trust youâve had a chance to review the papers and get them signed?â
Julieâs smile faltered, confusion flickering across her face as her gaze moved between the two of you.
Bruce hesitated. âNot yet,â he replied. âItâs been a busy morning.â
Your eyes slid back to Julie.
âI can see that,â you murmured, tension threading its way into your voice despite your efforts to keep it even.
âWhat papers?â Julie asked.
You raised a brow, something cold and brittle settling neatly into place. âBruce hasnât told you?â
âY/NâŠâ Bruce warned quietly.
You didnât look at him.
âWeâre getting a divorce.â
Julie blinked.
âOh.â
The single syllable hung thereâsurprised, yet almost hopeful. Julieâs gaze darted to Bruce and then back to you, something unmistakably hungry flickering across her face.
âIâI didnât know,â she said, her voice deceptively softer now. Her hand fell to Bruceâs arm, almost as if to comfort him.
âThatâs understandable,â you replied evenly. Your gaze flicked briefly to Bruce, whose expression had gone entirely to stone. âIt was a recent decision.â
Bruce stepped forward at last. âThis isnât the place for this.â
You met his gaze without flinching, then inclined your head with a forced smile. âYouâre right. It isnât.â Turning back to Julie, you offered a polite nod, âEnjoy your lunch.â
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.
âGod, sheâs such a fake bitch,â 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 Bruceâs gaze boring into your back as he watched you disappear into the building.
And when the doors slid shut behind youâsealing you away from the sight of them togetherâyou 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 youâcoffee 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.Â
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 youâd shut your laptop. Youâve 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 assâand 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 Nexusâland poisoned by decades of Gothamâs chemical runoffâwould 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 acquisitionsâperfect places to bury private facilities and questionable labs behind closed doors. You couldnât 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 rigidâas though heâd been waiting there for some time. The sight of him made something in your chest tighten despite your efforts to keep yourself steady.
âYouâre home late,â he said, his gaze sweeping over you, unreadable.
âI had a lot of work to get done,â you replied, rubbing at the arch of your foot before straightening. âI want the Eden Project locked in before my departure.â
âItâs too dangerous to be out in Gotham at this hour,â he said, his tone firm, his gaze tracking you as you started up the stairs.
You exhaled slowly, exhaustion threading through you. âGotham is always dangerous,â you replied without turning back. âAnd like I said, I had work to finish.â
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 wasnât roughâbut it was firm, unyielding, as though he were anchoring himself as much as he was trying to keep you there.
âIs there something you needed?â you asked quietly.
âWhy?â he said.
The single word stopped you.
 You raised a brow, feigning calm ignorance even though you knew exactly what he meant. âWhy what?â
âThe divorce,â he clarified.
You studied him for a momentâreally 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.
âWe both know this was a business transaction between our families and nothing more,â you said evenly. âI thought I could handle that. I truly did. But thisââ you gestured faintly between the two of you ââisnât what I want.â
Bruceâs jaw tightened. In his mind, the meaning was clear: him. He wasnât what you wanted.
âSo I see,â he said quietly. âAnd was I such a bad husband that you decided to end it?â
You lifted a brow, the question landing somewhere between disbelief and exhaustion.
âDo you think youâve been a good one?â
The words werenât cruel. They were simply honest.
Bruce didnât answer right away. His mouth opened, then closed again, the silence stretching thin as he searched for somethingâanythingâthat might justify him.
âYou were never unkind,â you said, your voice softening despite yourself. âBut I see no reason to keep us trapped in a loveless marriage. Iâm setting us both free, Bruce.â
You hesitated, the truth pressing at your chest before you let it out.
âSo you can be with someone you truly want to be with.â
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 touchingâyet 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.
âAnd who said I donât want you?â he murmured.
It took everything in you to press your palms against his chest and push him backâgently, but firmly. You turned your face away, your gaze dropping to the floor as you swallowed hard against the tightness in your throat. You couldnât look at him. Not when your resolve felt so fragile.
âYou want my body, Bruce,â you said softly. âAnd I need more than that.â
You straightened, drawing your composure back around you like armour.
âSign the papers, Bruce,â you finished quietly. âSo we can start the proceedings.â
Before he could respondâbefore he could reach for you againâyou 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 didnât 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 couldnât.
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 Julieâs 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 workâin the Eden Project. You were so close now, you just needed to seal the deal with Nexus and kick Luthorâs arrogant ass to the curb.
Youâd planned to spend the entire day sealed away in your office, insulated by schedules, reports, and decisions that didnât ask anything of your heart. It was almost workingâuntil 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 heâd set foot in your office.Â
Your assistant peeked in behind him, mouthing a silent apology. You waved her off. If Bruce wanted to see you, there wasnât much she could do about it.
âLucius tells me you have him looking for your replacement,â 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.
âI do,â you said simply.
âWhy?â he asked. âIs it the pay?â
You blinked, genuinely taken aback. âBruce⊠have you even looked at the papers?â you asked. âWeâre getting a divorce. Once it goes through, all my shares revert to you. I wonât be a Wayne anymore.â You gestured faintly, as if the logic should be obvious. âIt would be a conflict of interest for me to stay here while returning to my familyâs name.â
âKeep the shares,â he said immediately. âYouâve been the backbone of this company for years. A name change doesnât erase that. Weâre not replacing you.â
You sighed, rubbing at your temple as frustration edged in. âBruce,â you said patiently, âitâs not proper.â
Something shifted in him then.
In one swift motion, he surged forwardâone 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.
âYouâre not leaving, Y/N,â he said quietly, as though the decision had already been made. âIâve already told Lucius to stop the search.â
Your eyes narrowed.
You leaned forward in anger, closing the already dangerously close distance until your faces were inches apart. âYou canât do that, Bruce. Once the divorce is finalized, Iâm leaving.â
His jaw tightened. âWhat do you want?â he demanded. âWe can renegotiate your contract. Iâll give you a raise. A larger stake in the company. Another officeâhell, name any price.â
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. âWhat I want isnât something money can buy, Bruce.â You needed distanceâclean, undeniable distance. A clean slate, far from him, so you could finally move on.
He stilled.
âYou donât get to decide this for me,â you said calmly. âNot as my husband. And certainly not as my employer.â
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.
âVery well,â he said evenly. âBut as we are still legally married, there are obligations we canât ignore.â
You tensed. You already knew what was coming.
âTonight is the gala,â he continued. âBoth our presences are required.â
You raised a brow. âWe donât usually attend together.â
He shrugged, deceptively casual. âIf youâre insistent on the divorce, we might as well let people see that weâre parting on amicable terms. It avoids rumours.â
You exhaled slowly, resignation settling in. You wanted to stayâwanted to keep working on the Eden Projectâbut 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.
âIâll meet you there,â you said.
âNo need,â Bruce replied without hesitation. âAlfred will drive us together.â
You held his gaze for a beat longer, searching for something to explain his odd behaviour but his face gave nothing away.
âFine,â you said at last.
Bruce gave a curt nod, already turning toward the door. âWeâll leave at seven.â
One thing about being old money in Gotham was the endless procession of galas. Charity dinners, fundraisers, benefit auctionsâeach one requiring polished smiles, practiced charm, and carefully chosen outfits designed to show that you belonged among Gothamâs elite. These events demanded hours of preparation, a luxury you rarely had. Fortunately, youâd 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 youâd wear it someday. A promise youâd 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 wouldnât 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 shapeâa 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 wantedâjust onceâto 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.
âGoddamn,â she breathed. âYou look fucking hot.â
A surprised laugh slipped from you, light and genuine despite everything. âThank you.â
She circled you once, hands on her hips, shaking her head in disbelief. âSeriouslyâif Bruce even looks at anyone else with you dressed like this, heâs an idiot.â
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 didnât have all this expectation piled on you. Yet even then, he had chosen Julie.
That was the truth youâd 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, youâd 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.Â
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 heâd been wearing faltered at the sight of you.Â
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.Â
ââŠYou look,â he began, then faltered, his jaw tightening as though the right word had slipped just out of reach. âYou look⊠beautiful.â
There was something unsteady in his voiceâjust enough to make warmth bloom traitorously in your cheeks.
âThank you,â 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.
âShall we, sir? Madam?â
Bruce straightened, and you could see his walls coming back up. He gestured toward the open door. âAfter you.â
You hesitated, just for a second, turning back to meet his gaze. If you hadnât known him as well as you did, you might have missed itâbut there was something there. You couldâve sworn it was regret. Or longing swirling in his eyes.Â
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 unfoldâfamiliar streets, familiar towersâeverything 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.
âIs that a new dress?â he asked at last breaking the silence.
âMhm. Not really,â you hummed. âIâve had it hanging in the closet for a while. I just⊠thought it was finally time to wear it.â
He glanced at you then, his gaze lingering longer than necessary, something unreadable flickering across his face.
âIt suits you,â 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 didnât 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.Â
Thisâthisâwas 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.
OUCH
i love pride and prejudice because the level of drama makes it feels like a murder mystery when itâs literally just elizabeth trying to figure out why darcy is such an asshole
I don't care how much AI chatbots do to discredit use of the em-dash and the using-too-many-hyphens-to-describe-complex-concepts-in-noun-form, they will never take these things from me. I have been overusing em-dashes in my online writing for longer than some of my followers have been alive. I did not get the em-dash from ChatGPT, ChatGPT got the em-dash from me. Molon labe
i just saw a post on reddit titled "the writer is cooking but the food doesn't agree with me" and it was about OP clicking off a fic because they don't like the direction it's going in. slightly different context but can we all be more like this reddit OP. i think "the writer is cooking but the food doesn't agree with me" should be the new "don't like don't read." dead doves may give you diarrhea but don't make that everyone else's problem.
this is a great way to frame it lol like just bc i'm lactose intolerant doesn't mean i should leave a bad review on the ice cream parlor
A doodle of Damian. A damidoodle, if you will