When you woke up this morning, your body had been sore. Like you had been through the meat grinder kind of sore but in a good way.
You had looked over at Dick sleeping soundlessly. Half his body on top of you and half on the bed with his messy raven hair falling over his eyes, his long lashes almost brushing his sharp cheekbones.
Yeah, a very good way.
But when you got out of bed and basically limped around the apartment, he gave you the smuggest look ever. Seriously no one had ever looked as proud of themselves as he had.
You wanted to slap him. Or kiss him. You were still deciding.
That didn’t stop you for asking him for help though, since he had been the one to carry you around the apartment and draw you a warm bath. The shoulder massage he gave you in the bathtub wasn’t too bad either. Plus the pancakes he had prepared with a little smiley face on top with chocolate syrup.
But that didn’t take away from the fact that he was an unserious man.
He had known you were supposed to have lunch with your friends today so he had been an exceptional tease last night in bed. Not just a tease, he was also apparently under the impression that you were made of rubber and could bend you however he pleased.
Just because he worked out eight hours a day didn’t mean you did too. You’d be lucky to even squeeze in a workout once a week and he knew that and yet he chose to manhandle you.
Not that you were against it. He was very skilled in the bedroom and the nights where you had to just lay there for him to do all the work were your favourites.
But damn now you were limping on your way to meet your friends. You and Dick walked out of the car, hand in hand towards where your friends were sitting outside the cafe.
And he had the audacity to snicker.
“It isn’t funny!” You huffed out, hands clutching his arm to hold for balance since your legs were way too sore to even walk.
“You weren’t complaining last night,” he replied and pushed his sunglasses up on his nose, looking way too amused.
“Shut up,” you scoffed instead of replying since thats all you could do. He wasn’t wrong.
Once you reached the table, Donna, Wally and Roy immediately greeted you with hugs.
“You okay?” Donna was the first one to speak, noticing your limp.
“Yeah,” you swallowed and sat down on the chair next to Dick’s, shifting a little. “Just walked into a chair.”
“Uh huh,” Roy narrowed his eyes at Dick’s smug face.
“And was the chair named Dick Grayson?” Wally added.
“Wally!” You gasped and looked at Dick for help but he just laughed and draped his arm over the back of your chair.
The rest of the lunch went by with way too many jokes about Dick’s dick and you’d think he’d be offended by it but he was the one initiating most of them.
Like you said, unserious.
✶ JASON TODD
Jason was out running when you woke up. It was your usual morning routine –he woke up before you, gave you a small kiss on your forehead and left for a run then returned an hour later with coffee and sometimes pastries.
This time however, you had told him you were making pancakes so he wasn’t surprised to find you standing in the kitchen wearing his shirt that he discarded last night.
He walked over to you, black tank top clinging to his body due to the sweat like a second skin and if you weren’t sore from last night you would have done something about it.
The minimal clothing you were wearing –Jason’s t-shirt and panties– didn’t do a lot to hide the marks he had left on you last night. Your thighs looked like a crime scene with how many hickeys he had left there.
You waddled over to the fridge to grab the eggs when Jason noticed you.
“What’s up?” He frowned and came up behind you.
“Hmm?” You asked and cracked an egg in the bowl.
“You’re waddling like a penguin,” he pointed out.
“Oh,” you blushed and immediately looked away from him. “You know,” you shrugged.
“Babe what?” He asked and turned you around to steal all your attention.
“Last night,” you said. “You’re not exactly small.”
“Well thanks,” he gave you a confused smile. “Is that why you’re limping?”
“That and my legs being folded like a lawn chair over your shoulders for over an hour yes,” you quipped.
Jason in response let out a cackle.
“Great, hope you’re proud of yourself,” you scrunched your nose and turned back to prepare the pancake batter.
“I mean it does wonders to a guy’s ego,” Jason let out a dramatic breath. “Seven orgasms in one night is my new record.”
“Jason!” You huffed and pushed him away. “You cannot count my orgasms you freak.”
He laughed again and came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your middle before nuzzling his head in the crook of your neck.
“Seriously though, I didn’t hurt you, did I?” He asked, pressing fluttering kisses to the hickeys he had left on your neck.
“No,” you hummed and craned your head back.
“You liked it?”
“Yes,” you breathed as his kisses made their way down to your shoulders.
His fingers busied themselves with massaging your hips, causing you to close your eyes in relief and rest your head back on his shoulders. Which gave him even more room to kiss on your neck.
“Let me make you feel better,” he murmured and turned you around before getting down on his knees.
“Jason,” you said through a shaky breath.
“Yeah?” He looked up at you through dark eyelashes and hooked your thigh over his shoulder. “Is this okay?”
You nodded your head which was all the permission he needed.
It was going to be a long morning.
✶ TIM DRAKE
In hindsight, waiting for your boyfriend to return from his week long mission at the manor probably wasn’t your brightest idea.
He had texted you that he would be back today and would just crash at the manor instead of coming back to your shared penthouse.
But you hadn’t seen him in a week! So it was only fair you drove to the manor and let yourself into the batcave to wait for him.
It had almost been an hour since you made yourself at home on the little beanbag chair with a book in your hands in the Batcave along with Barbara who was perched at the Batcomputer, doing whatever it is that Oracle did.
Tim returned soon along with the rest of the Bats on his Batcycle (Batman wasn’t a very creative person you were beginning to realise).
Damian made a ‘TT’ sound at you before making his way towards the shower area.
Tim on the other hand broke out in a grin the second he looked at you. He didn’t even bother taking off his mask or the suit before he was launching himself at you on the beanbag.
“Tim!” You grunted when his armoured chest collided with yours. “You’re crushing me.”
“Don’t care,” he muttered and pushed his head in the crook of your neck.
“Take a shower you stink!” You said and pushed him off.
“I see how it is,” he raised his head to look at you and if you could see his eyes behind his domino mask, you knew he would be narrowing his eyes at you. “I come back a week later after saving the world and my girlfriend says I stink.”
“You do,” Jason mumbled somewhere behind him.
“Ignore him he’s jealous,” Tim said to you before leaning down to give you a fleeting kiss. “I’ll be back,” he murmured and finally got off the beanbag to go take a shower.
That had been enough of your loving and sweet boyfriend for the night.
Because he was soon coming out of the shower without a shirt and in only a pair of sweatpants. He didn’t even bothering talking to anyone or even debriefing the case like he usually did, he just made his way towards you and picked you up and threw you over his shoulder.
Thankfully everyone else was busy cleaning themselves and only Barbara was present in the Batcave. She shook her head at you like she knew exactly what was happening but didn’t want to be a part of it.
It had been a very long night.
The night for which you were paying now.
Tim’s heavy arm was thrown over your stomach in a tight grip like he never wanted to let you go.
Squinting open an eye, you flicked the bedside lamp on –having no clue what time it was outside due to the blackout curtains being drawn.
You turned over in Tim’s iron grip and looked around the room which looked like it had gotten robbed last night.
Your shirt was thrown on the floor along with your shorts, your bra dangling down the knob of the door –no clue how it got there. And your panties were probably torn in half somewhere. Even the pillows were thrown haphazardly, the covers weren’t even covering you.
Half the reason you woke up was the chill in the room causing goosebumps to rise on your naked body. The only source of heat you had was Tim’s equally as naked body wrapped around you like a koala.
You rubbed your eyes and tried to look at him. The first thing you saw were the red scratches on his chest, glowing against his pale skin and you were sure if he turned around his back would look the same.
“Tim?” You whispered and brushed his hair away from his face.
He only groaned in response and tugged you closer but his grip on your back was beginning to hurt.
“Hey,” you tried again and pushed at his shoulder –which you now saw had a bite mark on it.
Images of Tim’s bicep wrapped around your neck came to your mind but you quickly shook them off. Not the time.
“Tim come on, you’re hurting me,” you winced, which finally caught his attention.
“What?” He asked, voice laced with sleep and somehow deeper like you’ve never heard before. “Where are you hurt?”
“It just feels sore.”
“Fuck I’m so sorry,” he sat up straight in bed and leaned down to pull the covers up.
“It’s okay, you didn’t do anything I didn’t like,” you giggled when he turned around and yep his back looked every bit like his chest. Red scratches all over.
“Your back,” you whispered and reached out to lightly brush your hand over the marks. “What the fuck did we do last night?”
“I think I just missed you too much,” he chuckled. “Turn around let me give you a massage.”
“Yes please,” you moaned and turned around on your stomach to let Tim rub the soreness out of your muscles with his nimble fingers.
The knots in your muscles immediately came loose with each movement of his warm hands on your much colder body. Maybe they taught massaging the pain away at vigilante school or wherever Bruce took all the kids of his he seems to adopt.
His hands went lower to gently rest your calf over his shoulder –much gentler than last night. He pressed soft kisses to your leg as his fingers rubbed all the way to your ankles.
Later when you two went down for breakfast (it was around lunchtime), Cass and Damian gave you a disgusted look. Jason raised an eyebrow at the bite marks on Tim’s forearm while Dick only laughed in amusement. Even Barbara was staring at the hickey on your jaw since apparently Tim had forgotten he was human.
✶ BRUCE WAYNE
You were sitting on the chair in the little breakfast nook when Bruce entered the kitchen. A crossword puzzle was sat on the table next to a plate of toast and orange juice in front of you as you mindlessly scribbled on the puzzle.
Bruce came up behind you and gave you a little kiss on the back of your head before walking over to the cabinets to pull out a mug.
“Oh wait! I made you a yogurt bowl,” you said and hopped off the chair.
Bruce raised an eyebrow and watched you limping towards the fridge in nothing but his old uni sweatshirt. Your hair was falling over your shoulders, messy from a good night’s sleep. And other activities.
His eyes wandered lower to the backs of your knees where he was gripping your legs last night and sure enough there were marks to show it. For a second he was worried but when you turned around and gave him your million dollar smile, he forgot what he was thinking about.
“It has raspberries, nuts, pumpkin seeds, chia seeds. It’s good for your health,” you beamed and set it down in front of your own breakfast on the table.
Bruce joined you in a beat and eyed you as you grimaced a little while sitting down.
“Everything okay?” He asked.
“Yeah,” you said, voice a bit sarcastic which he didn’t miss.
“That’s not convincing,” he frowned.
“You rearranged my guts last night. I think that has something to do with me having trouble sitting down,” you smirked and he immediately blushed.
You heard a sudden noise from behind you and when you turned around to look, Tim was standing there, looking nauseated. “I’ll uh… have breakfast in my room…” he said.
“I didn’t know you stayed here last night,” you said to him.
“I wish I hadn’t,” he gagged and grabbed a cup of coffee before leaving the two of you alone.
Bruce scrunched his nose and turned his face towards his breakfast.
“Oh don’t go all shy now! You were very vocal last night,” you teased and nudged his foot with yours just to watch his ears turn even redder.
“I think we should take a warm bath together to you know, let our bodies heal,” he suggested.
“Uh huh,” you narrowed your eyes. “And no other reason at all.”
“Of course my darling,” Bruce smiled and tugged you out of your chair before picking you up in his arms.
“No other reason at all.”
my first multi part fic ever feeling nervous
didn’t know which photos to use so…
if you couldn’t tell i’ve been extremely tim drake pilled lately thanks to all the requests ive received for him 😭
likes comments and reblogs appreciated, hope you guys enjoy <3
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.
Don't think that it has anything to do with your size or weight- he could probably lift ten of you, and then some.
It's because it reminds him too much of his mother. How she stood in front of him on the night she died, not an ounce of hesitation in her posture. It reminds him of how it felt to be the one protected, so useless in the face of danger when stood in front of.
Don't even get him started with you covering him with a satin sheet as you sleep on his chest, the material so simliar to that of Marha's shawl that she covered his eyes with that night.
So, no, your husband can't sleep with you on top of him.
He needs to be the protector.
He needs to be the one resting just that little bit of his weight on you like a silent, secret promise. He needs to be the one to cover you up with the mosg beautiful, silk sheets money can buy. He needs to be the one sleeping closest to the door, the closest to any potential danger.
You were a child far too good for the world you were born into. Affectionate, dreamy, always offering love like someone who extends their hands into the dark, hoping someone would hold them back. It never happened.
You were left at the door of Wayne Manor on a cold night, wrapped hastily, like something that needed to be discarded. A single note accompanied you, crumpled, written in anger:
"Here is your daughter, you bastard. Take care of this child, who was treated like a jinx"
It didn’t take long for the truth to come out: you were Bruce Wayne’s biological daughter, the result of an affair he would rather erase from his own story. He didn’t want you. Gotham was already on his shoulders—too many secrets, too many wars—a baby wasn’t part of the plan.
Still, he didn’t abandon you. Not out of love, but out of duty. Gotham wasn’t a safe place for a child alone, and that, for Bruce Wayne, was reason enough. Love never was.
You grew up inside the mansion as a constant reminder of something he couldn’t control. Bruce was distant, silent, absent even when he was present. The one who truly raised you was Alfred. He had been there from the beginning—through sleepless nights, scraped knees, and held-back tears. He was the one who put you to bed, who listened to your stories, who made you believe that maybe, just maybe, you were loved.
But Alfred never stopped anything either.
You remember the day you brought Bruce a drawing. It was simple, childish, full of color— you, him, the family you so desperately wanted to believe existed. He barely looked at it. When he thought you had left the room, he threw the paper in the trash without hesitation.
Alfred found you crying afterward, kneeling beside the bin, trying to smooth the crumpled paper as if that could fix anything.
Dick Grayson was the first brother you tried to love. And perhaps the one you felt the most pain losing, even though you never truly had him.
How many times did you dress up excitedly to go out with him, only to hear at the door:
— Bluebird, he needs me more than you do. — he’d say, with that smile that was too light. — Damian just joined the family. You understand, right? You’re so mature.
You didn’t understand. You just wanted your brother. And once again, you were left behind.
Jason never pretended. The disdain came straight through his gaze, heavy, as if you didn’t deserve to share the same air.
Tim… Tim was too polite to be cruel, but distant enough to hurt just the same. You remember when you made coffee for him, carefully, waiting for a “thank you.” He looked at the cup as if it were contaminated and discarded it without a word.
And Damian… Damian was the worst. He destroyed your stuffed bears—your only company during long nights—and laughed at your crying like it was entertainment. As if your pain was too small to be taken seriously.
Alfred always comforted you. He dried your tears, spoke kind words, hugged you when no one else did. But he never stopped them. He never called Bruce out. He never told the boys that it was unfair. His silence hurt too.
So you decided to try the only way you knew. If they only saw each other through fighting, you would fight.
You spent days—nights—in the Batcave, training until your muscles burned, until exhaustion erased any remaining hope. You wanted to be perfect. You wanted to be useful. You wanted to be seen.
You dreamed of the day your father would let you fight beside him.
That day never came.
The mantle of Batwoman was passed to someone else. Someone better. Someone sufficient. You never would be.
Still, you kept trying. You baked cookies, gave gifts, were present whenever they needed. You never stopped begging for attention, even when every attempt only reminded you of a simple, cruel truth:
In the Wayne family, you were always just a mistake no one had the courage to fix.
The mansion was on alert that night. It wasn’t an emergency, but it wasn’t routine either. Bruce had received information about unusual activity around Gotham, and the security systems were running at heightened monitoring. Nothing that required Batman yet—just surveillance.
And, for some reason, you were included.
— You’re in charge of the secondary panel, — Bruce said, handing you the task like a silent test.
— Just monitor. Don’t make adjustments without telling me.
You nodded immediately. Your heart raced.
He trusts me.
Even if it was small, even if it was technical, it meant something.
The improvised control room—an extension of the Batcave—was busy. Tim analyzed data on one screen. Dick checked equipment. Jason observed everything with that suspicious air of his. Damian leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching your every move.
You sat in front of the panel. The blue lights reflected on the glass—cold, demanding.
Alfred passed behind you and lightly touched your shoulder.
— If you’re unsure, call — he said softly.
You promised you would
For a few minutes, everything went well.
Until an alert flashed in the corner of the screen. A yellow, unstable warning.
You frowned. The manual Alfred had shown you said it indicated light interference—something that usually corrected itself. But it wasn’t correcting.
You thought of calling Tim. Thought of calling Alfred. Thought of raising your hand and saying I don’t know.
But the memory of all the times you were left behind weighed heavier.
I can do it.
You touched the panel to recalibrate the signal.
The system responded too quickly. The screens flickered. A short alarm sounded—louder than it should have. Monitoring dropped for exactly twenty-seven seconds before restarting.
Twenty-seven seconds.
— What was that? — Jason asked, already advancing.
Tim approached the screens, fingers flying over the keyboard.
— Manual drop. Someone forced a recalibration.
Your blood froze.
The alarm still echoed softly when the system returned.
Twenty-seven seconds of operational silence.
For Gotham, nothing.
For Bruce Wayne, unacceptable.
— Who did this? — his voice cut through the room, cold, without room for error.
You didn’t wait for them to point.
— It was me.
Tim’s typing stopped.
Bruce turned slowly, as if every movement was calculated.
— Explain.
— The alert wouldn’t stabilize. I thought it was light interference, I just tried to recalibrate—
— Without authorization, — he interrupted. — Without understanding the system.
— I understood, I just— I just pressed the wrong button, I didn’t know that—
— Exactly — Jason stepped in, with a hard half-smile.— You didn’t know.
Dick stepped forward.
— Bruce, it wasn’t on purpose, the bluebird just..
— It doesn’t matter, — Bruce replied, not taking his eyes off you. — Here, there is no “on purpose.”
Damian stepped closer, voice cutting.
— This is basic. Even I know not to touch what I don’t understand.
You felt your face burn.
— I just wanted to help — you insisted, voice already failing.— You always say I don’t belong, so when you give me something, I try to do it right—
— And you fail, — Jason finished.
— As always.
Tim finally turned to you. The look wasn’t cruel—it was analytical. The problem isn’t the intention. It’s the pattern.
Pattern.
The word pierced deep.
— What pattern? — you asked, almost begging.
Damian didn’t hesitate:
— The risk pattern.
The air grew heavy.
— You shut down the system, — he continued.
— Even if for seconds. If someone was watching, you would have delivered the entire mansion.
— I’m not stupid, — you snapped, your voice breaking for the first time. — I just made a mistake.
Bruce stepped forward.
— A mistake here kills people.
Silence.
You swallowed hard.
— Then why did you put me there?
The question hung in the air.
Bruce didn’t answer immediately.
When he did, it was worse.
— Because I needed to see if you were capable.
Your chest collapsed
— And I wasn’t, right?
He didn’t say no.
Jason scoffed.
— It always falls on us to fix it.
Dick looked away.
Tim shut his laptop too hard.
— You shouldn’t have tried to prove anything.
— I spend my whole life trying to prove something! — you exploded.— I do everything you ask, I stay quiet, I help, I make mistakes and apologize, and it’s never enough!
The whole room fell silent.
Damian stared at you, without any empathy.
— Maybe because you’re the problem.
The phrase fell like a verdict.
— Everything you touch breaks, — he continued.— Just like the woman who left you said. You’ve been nothing but a jinx since day one.
The world seemed to tilt.
— I’m not a jinx.— you whispered, voice barely there.
— Don’t you? — Damian tilted his head.— It’s all you do. She was right.
Before you realized it, tears were streaming down your face—hot, silent.
You didn’t wipe them away.
You weren’t going to beg anymore.
— If I’m a jinx… — you breathed, your chest aching.— then why did no one ever send me away?
Bruce answered without emotion:
— Because responsibility isn’t disposable.
Not daughter. Not family.
Responsibility.
Something inside you died right then.
— I understand, — you said, in a thread of a voice.— So don’t call me anymore when you need someone or when you need someone to blame.
Alfred stepped forward.
— My dear—
— No, — you cut him off, firm for the first time — Not now.
You stepped away from the table, each step heavy.
— You didn’t lose anything today. — You looked at all of them. — But I lost the last thing I still tried to believe in.
You left without thinking.
Not to your room—that place no longer fit you.
You needed air. Needed to exist outside the mansion for a few minutes without being a walking mistake.
__
Gotham was cold. Cruel.
The empty streets cut through your skin, and you didn’t even notice you’d left without a jacket.
The only warmth came from the tears burning your face, falling uncontrollably as you walked without direction.
And then…
A jinx.
Or maybe fate.
The laughter came before you saw him.
Sharp. Drawn-out. Familiar enough to any Gotham inhabitant.
— Look what the alley gave me as a present— the voice sang, amused.— The little princess outside the castle.
When you tried to run, it was already too late.
You were there.
Sitting in a hard chair, your arms tied behind your body, wrists burning.
The Joker’s hideout smelled of rust, gunpowder, and old madness.
Your body hurt—the blows had been calculated, enough to hurt, not to kill.
Your mind… that was in pieces.
He walked circles around you, hands behind his back, humming softly.
— So… — he said, stopping in front of you, leaning until he was eye-level.— What was the daughter of Gotham’s richest man doing wandering around alone, crying like the world had ended? Fighting with your boyfriend?
You laughed without humor.
— Boyfriend? — you murmured.— My problems are bigger than that.
He made a theatrical pout.
— Oh. Family drama? I love it.
A henchman approached and whispered something in his ear.
The Joker clicked his tongue, disappointed.
— Nothing yet.
He looked at you again.
No movement.
No bat.
No hero running to save the day.
Two hours had passed.
Two hours since you disappeared.
Two hours since anyone should have shown up.
Your body trembled.
Not just from the cold.
— He won’t come, — you said, voice hoarse, too tired to lie.
The Joker arched a painted eyebrow.
— Huh?
— They won’t come, — you continued, staring at him.— Not for me.
He tilted his head, now curious. Truly interested.
— Oh, sweetie… — he said, almost gentle.— Everyone comes when I call. Gotham knows what happens when I get bored.
You swallowed hard.
— He knows. — Your voice failed. — But he won’t come because… I’m nothing but a jinx.
The silence that followed was different.
The Joker didn’t laugh immediately.
He watched you. For real.
The pain on your face. The conviction in your voice.
It wasn’t self-pity—it was something deeper. Something broken.
A slow smile appeared.
— Aaaah… — he murmured. — So that’s it.
He crouched in front of you, resting his elbows on his knees.
— Jinx, huh? — he repeated, savoring the word — I like that. Bad luck is just another name for chaos… and chaos is incredibly honest.
You closed your eyes, exhausted.
— If they don’t want me… then kill me already. Or let me go. Because no one’s coming.
He laughed loudly this time, clapping once.
— Oh no, no, no! — he said, excited. — That would be wasting a masterpiece!
He came closer, his voice lowering, becoming dangerous.
— If they hate you so much… why do you still suffer for them?
You opened your eyes.
— Why do you still beg for crumbs? — he continued. — Why do you keep trying to be good in a family that only uses you as a scapegoat?
He placed a gloved finger under your chin, lifting your face without force—just intention.
— You call this a jinx. — He smiled— I call it potential.
Your heart raced.
— Take that fire burning inside you, — he whispered.— That pain they gave you as a gift. Use it.
He stepped back, spreading his arms as if showing the world.
— A Jinx doesn’t destroy the one who carries it… — he said, with a feverish shine in his eyes.— A jinx destroys others.
He looked at you again, wide smile, cruel, seductive.
— Let them bleed for making you believe you were worth nothing.
For the first time that night… the idea didn’t sound absurd.
It sounded fair.
And the Joker noticed.
Your disappearance was noticed too late.
At first, nobody questioned it.
You always distanced yourself when the atmosphere became too heavy.
Bruce assumed you were in your room.
Dick thought you needed space.
Tim believed Alfred was with you.
Damian simply didn’t care.
Time passed.
And no one went after you.
When Alfred answered the phone in the Batcave, the premonition came before the voice on the other end.
He didn’t interrupt.
He didn’t ask questions.
He just listened—and each word seemed to tear years of composure from him.
When he hung up, his voice came out low. Unrecognizable.
— She… is with the Joker.
The air was sucked out of the cave.
— Damn. —Jason ran his hand over his face.— I didn’t like her, but… not like this. Not with him.
There was no argument.
The Batcave turned into chaos.
Suits being put on, engines roaring, systems activating.
There was no room for guilt yet—only urgency.
They arrived fast.
Too fast to find anyone alive.
The Joker’s hideout was already a hell when the bats reached the place.
Flames climbed the walls, devouring concrete, metal, any trace of life.
A captured henchman coughed laughing, his eyes shining with something sick.
— When the bats show up, — he said, spitting soot, the clown orders everything burned.
Nothing stays.
Nothing.
Bruce advanced first, ignoring the heat, the alerts in the communicator, the screams of “it’s too late.”
He needed to see.
He needed certainty.
Among the charred debris, something caught his attention.
On the floor, half buried in ashes, was a bracelet.
Poorly made. Colorful. Childish.
The pair.
The bracelet you had made for him.
He never wore his.
Never cared.
Yours, however, you never took off your wrist.
Never.
Bruce fell to his knees.
The fire licked his cape as he held the object with trembling hands.
This wasn’t just debris.
It was proof.
It was goodbye.
You were there.
You didn’t leave.
You died.
The understanding came like a physical blow. His last interaction with you had not been a hug. It had been coldness.
Rejection.
Silence turned into sentence.
Bruce Wayne felt something he had never allowed before: grief without a mission, without an immediate enemy, without a way to fix it.
Dick turned his face, unable to look.
— We should have noticed.
Tim stood still, his brain trying to deny while the facts piled up.
— Time… the fire… it wouldn’t have been possible.
Jason clenched his teeth, anger overflowing too late.
— She just wanted to help.
Even Damian fell silent.
The remorse did not come in tears.
It came as something permanent.
It etched itself into each of them, burning inside with the same violence as the flames around them.
There was no body to bury.
No farewell.
Only the cruel certainty that when you needed them…
includes:: bruce wayne x fem!reader, ex-wife!reader, mature content (17+), angst, hurt / no comfort, ambiguous ending, exes to... something, making out, fingering, brief finger licking, begging, desperate sex, piv, exhibitionism (semi-public), outdoor sex, balcony sex, cream-pie, dick grayson mention, jason todd mention, batmom!reader allusions, 8.0k words.
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extras:: for context, bruce and reader got married 2 years before bruce adopted dick and 4 years prior to adopting jason. dick and jason are 5 years apart (for my batmom!au; i doubt this is canon). also -> reader's upset is meant to mirror AK jason's outbursts at bruce, which stem mainly from grief / sadness and are exhibited through anger; momma's boy jason u are so dear to me
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loren's thots:: oh i missed yall come give papa a smooch. sorry this took me a hot minute to write, the angst was throwing me off icl. i think this feels a lil diff from anything ive written before !! yall lmk what u think mwahhh
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main m.list.
PERHAPS IT had been the champagne. flute after flute, trickling down your throat in a measly attempt to distract you from the insufferably monotonous speeches that ensued at the top of every hour.
maybe it had been the music. talented, of course, violins and cellos and clarinets serenaded the gala attendees into a coma-inducing slumber; several guests bent half-heartedly against the expensive cloth of their assigned table-- shame nowhere to be found as the event chimed on without them as they slipped further and further into a dream ridden state. how you had envied such brazen behaviour-- wishing nothing more than to fall fast asleep to scratch the fiery itch of boredom simmering beneath your skin.
your title as a wayne had once bound you to these events-- and to any sort of blasphemous behaviour that would get your name plastered across news headlines the following day: 'wife of bruce wayne caught comatose at the latest W.E gala-- do the waynes truly care about their dear old gotham?'
but now, many years following your official end of marriage to bruce, there was no reason for you to fight off lethargy. zero obligations, such as a sparkling set of wedding bands accompanied by an engagement ring, to keep you tied to the main event. so you had slipped away, seemingly unnoticed, down a slithering hallway-- the packet of cigarettes within your purse whispering your name.
you pondered the possibilities-- the endless options as to the reasons you had now found yourself perched on a balcony, fur scarf drawn tightly to your neck as smoke curled upwards and towards the night sky. gotham's wind bit at your exposed fingertips-- the heat of your lit cigarette doing little to soothe the ache of the cold-- and you sniffed. december in your dear old gotham was nothing short of bone chilling-- seeping into your veins and clinging to the hairs bound to your body. despite its harshness, though, you welcomed the withdrawal from the event; your mind drifting once again to why you were here in the first place.
your divorce to bruce had meant the end of a lot of things-- of warm mornings that held the fondest of memories surrounding what you and the man had once been. of unusual lazy afternoons slow-dancing to the music of the wayne manor; creaks of decade old wood and pangs from sturdy pipes underneath the walls song enough for you to waltz with your husband. of solacing dinners, beginning with you on one end of the dining table and bruce on the other; ending with his body barely a foot away, plate cleaned and face content-- closing the gap between the both of you the final ingredient to your sweet evenings.
your divorce had meant the end of these same dinners, now littered with tiny feet swinging from slightly bigger bodies, talking with mouthfuls of food enthusiastically about school and patrol and perhaps, even the circus or stealing tires from cars. of those rare afternoons, where you and bruce still remained intertwined and swaying not only to the rhythm of your heart-beats, but two other, tinier ones, too. of those hazy mornings, where your sons-- innocent and wild and far too vincible-- clambered and jumped onto the mattress you and bruce shared; giggles and snickers laced with "c'mon, bruce, time to get up! you promised you'd teach me that new trick today, you promised!' and 'yeah, B, you heard jay-- you too, mom!'
something sour and ugly and hot boiled within your gut as you recalled what you had once had. inhaling sharply, smoke infiltrated your lungs-- burning at the organs, begging for release.
why were you still here? why had you come in the first place?
you weren't even sure if bruce had noticed you-- not that that had been the reason for your attendance to the gala, but-- the confirmation would not have been terrible. you had told yourself it was because you had owed it to someone; maybe yourself, maybe bruce, maybe your sons (especially the one buried beneath the manor's soil, cold and afraid and terribly lonely), you hadn't known who-- but you were here nonetheless, in your sunday best, and had lasted far longer than you believed you would have without needing to escape.
tears prickled at the corners of your eyes, but gotham's cold and your cigarette's hot were both enough to scare them off. you swallowed, ash heavy along your tongue.
"old habits die hard," a voice from behind you-- one entirely too familiar (and somehow, entirely too foreign) broke you from your disheartening train of thought.
you turned your face; your side profile lit briefly by the trickles of light from the hallway inside. "funny," you started, cigarette resting idly between your fingers, "this was the habit you hated the most."
the man's head tilted softly, the crunch of his dress shoe meeting the sturdy balcony painted with snow echoing between the both of you. "i hated that it hurt you," bruce corrected lowly, ocean irises locked on your face. locked onto the same tick of your jaw you did when mildly annoyed. locked onto the same flutter of your lashes against your cheeks, the pucker of your lips and shine of whatever coated them. "i still do."
your gaze could not linger near the man's feet anymore-- and it travelled up his pant leg, along his torso, his strong arm, past his chin-- stopping only on his eyes. the silence bounded by the both of you was deafening; stuffy, despite the open air that surrounded you. "you didn't have to come find me," you finally whispered, knowing bruce all too well.
"i know i didn't have to," he replied easily, stepping closer-- his shadow elongated and warped onto the balcony's railing, dark disappearing into the night. "but i saw you leave, and..." bruce's voice trailed off, as if leaving his sentenced unfinished was answer enough to his company. as if silence could speak for itself.
you wished it couldn't-- but a mutual understanding bloomed and sprouted between you, and the hairs on the back of your neck stood.
from inside, fits of polished laughter and perfected small-talk wandered outwards, falling onto your ears-- almost mocking, as if your old life was simply a hallway away. as if you could take bruce's arm in yours, step back inside-- and be whisked away by guests and company, with one impossibly shy guest tangled between your legs and another perched in your husband's arms like he belonged there.
your cigarette crackled between your fingers.
as if you could go back.
leather, tonka bean, sage; bruce's cologne wafted in your direction, aided by the whip of gotham's wind as he stepped closer. the heat radiating off of his body was terribly enticing, and for one awful moment you considered curling into his frame-- the same way you had done a million and one times before-- but the barest threads of dignity stopped you.
"you could have said something," you began before you could halt the words from tumbling from your throat, "could have said anything, back then."
the way bruce uttered your name felt heavy. full of regret, grief, despair. you held up a finger to stop him from speaking further.
"but i understand why you didn't," your voice wobbled. reaching your free hand forward, the railing to the balcony-- bitterly cool and marble-- kept you upright, despite your unmoving position. "i understand why you chose silence; why you thought handling it all by yourself would be easier than letting me in,"
"i thought i was protecting you," bruce offered quietly.
a mangled, choked out scoff fell from your lips. "you couldn't have protected me from the fact that my son was dead, bruce."
bruce's eyes remained glued to the floor.
"because despite whatever you had thought then or think now--" your voice was impossibly gentle, "jason was my son too."
"jason is our son," bruce confirmed, as if there was no other possibility, no other universe where it was not true, "and i can't put into words how incredibly sorry i am that i ever made you feel as if you weren't his mother, because you are."
"it wasn't fair," you choked out, fingers gripping the balcony fatally hard.
bruce continued talking, hands coming out in front of his torso-- inching desperately towards your body, like the man wanted nothing more than to hold you in his arms. "there isn't a morning i wake up where i don't regret how i went about things," he swallowed, "where i don't wonder if i had just let you in, if we could still--"
"it wasn't fair to me, and it wasn't fair to dick," you cut bruce off, lifting the dying cigarette to your lips. "god-- dick lost his little brother and you didn't even tell him,"
"if we could still--" bruce tried.
"you lied to me bruce; you said you told dick, you said you didn't know why he wasn't at the funeral," your voice had beaten bruce's, "and worst of all," you shuddered as the wind snaked its way along your arms and down your spine, "dick and i didn't just lose jason," anguish pitted itself heavily in your throat, "we lost you too."
bruce faltered. he faltered as if you had stabbed him, twisted the knife, and pushed deeper. he faltered as if there was nothing more horrid than the sentence you had just spoken, as if he was reliving the moment he had found his little boy dead, as if he was reliving the moment his other little boy had decided bruce was dead to him. reliving the moment he had walked into the manor and found your belongings gone, save for a singular document on the kitchen counter; a file for divorce.
"i'm so sorry."
something in the conviction in bruce's voice, something in the raw and terribly worn down voice you had once, and never stopped, loved, made you drop the cigarette. it fell, mockingly gentle, to the snow-- fizzling and popping softly, ashes and flames dying out in gotham's wintry.
you nodded, sucking on your teeth to will away the tears behind your eyes. "i know."
"i'm so, incredibly sorry." bruce repeated, hands falling limply to his sides.
there was a certain stillness that encased the balcony. not quite the same as the day jason had died, or the day you had left the manor, but akin enough to make you want to vomit.
"i'm not angry, bruce." you offered, finally. "but i'm your wife, i deserved to be let into the parts of you you closed off to everyone else."
the title had come out easily; naturally, instinctually. for a haggard breath where the oxygen from your and bruce's lungs twisted upwards and lingered in the far too large space between you and him, it was almost as if you both believed it belonged to you. as if it had never been revoked, never been doubted, never been ignored.
you cleared your throat, shame prickling loudly at your cheeks. "i was your wife."
the correction had bruce making a pained expression, and before he had any time to regret his actions-- a warm, steady palm reached forward to clutch your shoulder.
the contact was like fire-- scorching, all too loud (all too intimate) and yet, reticent at the same time. glancing downwards at his hand on your frame, you swallowed. part of you had expected to see the same sleek, silver wedding band you had picked for him all those years ago, still finding purchase on his ring finger.
the jab to your gut was brief, but exceedingly sharp, when you saw there was not a singular piece of jewelry adorning the man's hand.
why had you returned?
peeling your vision from his extremity, you met his irises again. the passage of time was glaringly obvious against bruce's face. the beginnings of crow's feet near his eyes, harsher lines sinking into the scowl between his brows-- though beneath the ageing, the boyish bruce wayne you had married laid dormant in what was now a stranger's body.
"i never stopped seeing you that way," he said softly, so softly it ached, "how could i?"
"bruce," you murmured, eyes softening with a terrible sort of pain (and something else you really had not wanted to confront). bruce's hand moved cautiously, slowly-- as if he was scared you would push him away-- from your shoulder up to your jaw.
the man cupped your face as if you were built from porcelain; he trembled from adrenaline, which was quite worrisome for the batman did not tremble-- thumb ghosting across the expanse of your cheek. his adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed thickly, allowing himself to commit your expression to memory. "it's selfish," bruce begins, "selfish the way i think about you, selfish the way i can't get you out of my head,"
wordlessly you let him continue.
"i think, there are so many things i would do differently if i could go back," unthinking, he brought his second hand upwards to cup the other side of your face, his body impossibly close now. every grey hair that littered his raven locks glimmered underneath gotham's moon-- like silver cod dashing upstream, caught only by the glisten of their scales.
blink, and you'll have missed it-- much like the vulnerability bruce was giving you now; something he had not offered to anyone in years.
"of course, that applies to the boys-- to jason, to dick-- but," bruce drew in a breath, sharp; like the exposure of emotion was jarring, "but most of all, it applies to you."
"bruce," you repeated, a thick lump forming rapidly in your throat.
the man shook his head. "please," he begged, "i am forever worse off if you aren't by my side," his pupils were dilated, dark; searching so desperately within yours to hook onto something, anything, that told him he was not alone in his feelings. "in fact, i don't quite really know how i have survived without you,"
"don't say that," you warned, though any sort of upset in your voice was lacking-- dignity slipping away between your fingers like sand.
"but it's true, my love, please," bruce pleaded. "i am an awful man, i know, and i understand it if you will never come to forgive me for how everything played out,"
"bruce," something loud burned beneath your fingertips, and your hands came to rest above bruce's where they laid on your jaw.
"but i just--" bruce's eyes screwed shut as if he was living through the worst type of agony that existed; blood rushed to his cheeks and nose, the tips of ears burning the same cherry hue as gotham's frost nipped away at him. "i will take whatever you can give," his thumbs pressed deeper into your jaw, grounding himself, "anything." his words choked and bent awkwardly as they tumbled from his mouth-- clumsy in a horribly human, raw sort of way, "i just-- i just need you back in my life."
the distant sound of the gala deeper within the manor felt so impossibly far.
"because i had that once," bruce continued, "and i took it for granted. i took you for granted. i treated you as if i didn't promise you i'd hold you for better or for worse," he shook his head, several strands of dark hair falling into his face. "and i won't ever make that mistake again."
goosebumps raised along your skin-- southward wind from inner gotham making its way to the outskirts, near the manor, snapping at the hem of your dress. your necklace felt desperately heavy against your sternum, and your eyes-- god, you hadn't wanted them to drift down-- landed on the plump fat of your ex-husband's lips.
neither of you moved. not as the gala from inside continued to churn lively around you; not as snow delicately fell from above, flakes dancing around you and bruce in a cruel promenade. bruce's hands still remained planted on your cheeks, unmoving; he didn't dare pull them away, and you had not thought to ask him to remove them.
he breathed, broad chest heaving up and down. your own chest rose too-- once, twice, too fast! because suddenly your body moving before your brain could decide what to do; your body was magnetized, drawn to bruce's, and your lips were on his.
this is awful, you thought, hands tangling themselves into the man's hair, we shouldn't be doing this.
bruce made a startled noise against your mouth, before his body began to move in tandem with yours. hands freeing themselves from your face and landing on your waist-- gripping tighter than before, holding you, containing you-- because part of bruce was scared to let go, in fear of you never returning. the pads of his fingers dug into your flesh as his tongue swiped greedily against your bottom lip; a silent plea for permission.
this is a mistake, you thought briefly; but the thought had been futile in preventing any further action, as your jaw widened and bruce's tongue slipped into your mouth.
your sighs echoed in tandem, and bruce's grip tightened on your waist.
it was not tender nor gentle-- it was hungry. a certain hunger you had not felt since you and bruce used to share a bed; a certain hunger that could not be satiated, suddenly, by a meager kiss. it was a hunger so visceral, you felt yourself practically vibrate against the man. your teeth knocked and surely, the make-up on the bottom half of your face was ruined-- and your mouths were clashing with far more urgency than grace. almost as if you were trying to erase the space from then until now by sheer force and lust alone.
bruce angled his body slightly, pressing into you harder, gently knocking your back into the thick, marble railing. the sensation was icy and startling-- a sheer shock to your system-- but it had not torn you and the man apart.
your lower spine rocked incessantly into the balcony's railing edge. his painfully familiar heat burned everywhere else.
i shouldn't, you thought dimly, nails scratching at bruce's scalp-- i really shouldn't.
but the weight of bruce's body alone forcing you onto the marble had your legs falling open-- cool, winter air snaking its way between your newly exposed inner thighs; and mr. wayne had wasted no time in stepping in between them, a hand falling from your waist to your knee.
bruce groaned against your lips, tongue diving rashly down your throat-- hands possessive on your waist and leg, squeezing and molding the flesh he had once known. once, seemed forever ago in reality; but once was far too recent for your bodies-- slotting together as if yours was his kryptonite, as if his was your missing piece.
gasping into his touch, your hips bucked as his sturdy fingers drifted from your knee to your inner thigh. there was a certain rush, anticipation that buzzed beneath bruce's fingertips; a certain hesitancy fogging the man's brain, preventing him from pushing forward.
"you don't have to do this," bruce spoke suddenly, peeling himself from you as if your mouth had seared his own. navy irises squinting at your face, his expression was etched with heart-wrenching concern. "i didn't tell you those things to force you into--"
manicured nails of yours scratched at bruce's scalp. "you're not forcing me into anything," you whispered hoarsely, "just--" god, how i have missed you; and god, how i can't admit that. "just don't stop."
at your words, bruce rested his forehead against yours-- lowered hand dipping past your inner thigh to your clothed cunt. his lips were barely an inch apart, shared oxygen spiraling in white ghosts as you both breathed heavily. tentative fingers pressed down, two of them, onto your pussy-- and your bottom lip immediately found itself caught between your teeth. agonizingly slow circles bruce traced onto your cunt; running up and down the outline of your folds and paying acute attention to your clit.
"god," you choked out, sliding backwards to sit fully onto the balcony railing with bruce's fingers still teasing your throbbing cunt. the stone did little to bring sense back into your clouded mind; for bruce was still the host of the gala you had retreated from childishly, for bruce was still your ex-husband and for bruce, you were certain, was still grieving-- and you had not made any movements to free yourself from his grip.
especially not as bruce's patience wore thin-- and those same two digits slipped underneath the soaked fabric of your panties to caress you properly.
it was the man's turn to groan-- though it was more airy than you remembered it (like bruce was in heaven, like bruce couldn't bring himself to fully believe you were real) and far heavier. your slick coated the pads of his fingers crudely; the tight, precise circles he had drawn onto your pussy once now becoming sloppy with lubrication. still, his ministrations did not stop. "still so gorgeous for me," bruce sighed, pinching and rolling your clit with a certain routine that made more than your cunt clench.
tilting your head backwards, you used the palm tangled within his hair to press bruce's face into your neck; plump, saliva ridden lips planted themselves against your pulse-point, your perfume invading bruce's senses and enveloping him wholly. your hips jut into the man's hand, chasing ecstasy and friction like it was the only thing your body knew it wanted.
although disguising your visceral ache for bruce as arousal was sure to crumble-- a nostalgic reality only being held a dangerous set of orgasms away.
mewls and gasps of pleasure crawled out of your throat as bruce continued to drag two, heavy fingers along your folds-- your jaw going especially slack underneath his touch as one of them began to prod gently at your weeping hole.
"please," you whined, logic and reasoning abandoning your body entirely as you felt bruce's canines sink into your neck.
lapping at the bite marks imprinted against your throat, bruce's voice was shaky with eroticism. "i know," he purred, finger barely dipping past your entrance, "just let me savour this,"
your complaints and groans of eagerness died out almost instantly-- bruce finally giving in and letting your cunt stretch and re-familiarize itself with his middle finger. your eyes rolled into the back of your skull as the man allowed you little time to adjust (for you had not needed the time-- your pussy remembering the feeling of his finger inside of you all too well) before he began to piston and pump his hand in and out and in again of your pussy at a solid pace.
"bruce--!" you gasped, letting yourself indulge in the sensation of his long, finger inside of you. whistling wind slithered around you and bruce; the cold air a welcome aid to the burning ferocity of flush against your cheeks.
slipping another finger inside, bruce lapped at the salty skin of your neck-- from your collarbone to your jaw-- and groaned. the obscene noise of your cunt swallowing bruce bounced off the marble of the balcony, and you arched into his touch. the satin of your dress continued to bunch and bunch and bunch at your hips, as bruce's hand worked steadily at your pussy.
two digits curled against your g-spot and you cried out; clasping a hand over your mouth, you attempted to muffle the noises of your desire-- fearful an innocent gala attendee could possibly stumble upon you and your ex-husband. bruce, however, did not let up in his actions. knuckles deep inside of your cunt was exactly where he had wanted to be-- and the crease drawn between his brows as his fingers pressed and pressed and pressed, urging you closer to your orgasm, was indicative of his devotion to you.
"i'm so sorry," he huffed suddenly, fingers working tirelessly inside your sopping cunt, "you don't have to forgive me."
your pussy spasmed against his fingers, dripping and coating his digits in your slick-- "mhm, i know," you moaned, eyes screwing shut at bruce's actions.
upon feeling your thighs begin to close around his wrist-- bruce peppered and littered chaste, sloppy kisses to your neck and collarbone, using his free hand to pry your legs apart. dipping low, a second set of fingers found your clit and began to press harshly onto the bud; both hands now coaxing your orgasm out of your swollen cunt.
"please cum for me," bruce moaned, entirely uncharacteristic of the man you had married; his words dripped with intensity, a certain devotion and desperateness tinging the balcony. the wetness trickling from your pussy was beginning to soak the cuff of his suit jacket-- a dark, almost invisible stain confirming the physicality of your and bruce's altercation; proving it to be real, and not a horribly pathetic and yearning wet dream of his. "it's the least i can do, i'm sorry, please,"
your hips had begun to thrash against bruce's form-- cunt clenching and contracting violently in search for release. "oh, bruce," your wail caught itself in your throat, legs twitching, as you finally began to unravel on bruce's fingers.
left hand pinching and rolling at your clit, right hand fucking and curling passionately within your pussy-- bruce was in a reverence induced coma; ignorant to the rest of the world around him, he worked relentlessly to milk you for every drop of cum your cunt offered.
as your orgasm rolled and crashed over your body like tidal waves-- bruce had kept you grounded. his thumb still gently kneaded your clit and his lips had found your jaw again, dancing upwards to the corners of your mouth; even as you moaned into his, he kissed you like there was not anywhere else in the world he would rather be.
you shuddered as bruce pulled his fingers out of your cunt. nor did you stop shivering as he lifting his soaked digits to his mouth and licked them clean. the man hummed against his fingers, almost to make a show of tasting you. "still taste so good," he whispered, breath fanning across your lips.
for a moment-- there was silence. neither of you spoke, only sharing the way your lungs inflated and deflated rhythmically. the orchestra from within the manor, from within the gala you had both abandoned, chimed on.
blinking slowly, purposefully, as if you were a cat-- you broke the tranquility of the balcony. "they'll come looking for you soon, bruce."
bruce's jaw ticked, and he uttered your name, nearly agitated that you had brought up the gala. "i don't exactly wish to be found any time soon."
despite yourself, you felt heat rise to your cheeks and a chuckle bubble from your throat. "beggars can't be choosers,"
"i haven't begged yet."
an eyebrow of yours twitched upwards, and you licked your lips.
bruce could feel the burning question resting on the tip of your tongue. "not to the extent that i wish to, anyways," he swallowed, clearing his throat, "if you'll let me."
blue irises tracked south-- to the terribly tantalizing tent within his dress-pants. something in your belly flipped, and your cunt clenched desperately around nothing.
but reality grounded you, even if momentarily. "you know this won't resolve things."
"i know." bruce answered easily; like he had already weighed all of his options, like he was familiar with a gamble that could change his life. for better or for worse.
something infiltrated your veins-- desire, longing, an aching need-- and suddenly your hands were moving with a concerning amount of enthusiasm to unbuckle your ex-husband's belt. "you know i can't forgive you right now," you continued, "and that i don't know how to be your wife again."
bruce's hands met yours on top of his belt-- ceasing your movements. "i'd never ask for you to make such a significant decision without time to think it over," bruce looked at you, really looked, "nor am i deserving of an answer right now," he exhaled, "but i--"
patience growing thin, you brushed his hands away from yours, and undid the zipper to his pants, effectively cutting the man off. "i never said i'm not willing to re-teach myself, bruce," your fingers traced the outline of his hard cock, remembering the way it felt in your hands, in your mouth, in your cunt-- "just-- fuck," leaning forwards, your lips collided with bruce's chin, "please, just fuck me,"
the confession, the plead, perhaps even the humiliation with the request sent goosebumps down your spine. it was terribly pathetic-- begging for something you had no right to-- but needing it despite the lack of entitlement you seemed to have.
bruce seemed just as taken aback; dark browns shot upwards and mouth ever so slightly agape-- though the stutter in his movements only spurred the man on tenfold. gotham whined and nipped at your skin as he reached past his pants and into his boxers. his dick pulsed within his grasp as he freed it, and he hissed as the cool air snaked around the extremity. "i can do that," he mused, fighting back a grin in spite of himself.
your fur scarf hung dangerously low on your shoulder, providing no warmth to your exposed body-- but little had you cared as your ex-husband stepped impossibly closer to your body, tilting his hips juuust right, to align himself with your dripping cunt.
"i can do that." bruce repeated the line for a second time as his flushed tip-- a pretty shade of pink, doused in pearlescent pre-cum-- dragged heavily along your folds. he bumped and he grinded it against your clit, feeling your legs instinctually raise and lock around his hips. his sizeable frame still towered over yours, (just as it had all those years ago), and large palms encased and kneaded your flesh anxiously.
pressing your hips forward, you let the sound of the gala behind you both become drowned out by the far louder noise of intoxication-- bruce's cock becoming acquainted with your sticky cunt once again. you clenched-- pussy pulsing as his tip snagged itself against your hole-- the overwhelming desire for your ex-husband to stuff and fill you to the brim maturing into something entirely far too dangerous.
"bruce, please," you groaned lowly, irises cemented to where your bodies connected.
the sensation of the man's dick twitching against you made your stomach flutter. he hummed in acknowledgement, grinding himself along your pussy for a few more strokes-- up and down n' up again, coating himself in your slick-- before he began to pierce you onto his cock.
the squelch of bruce entering your cunt was pornographic. both of your breaths hitched, the sharp sting of his cock beginning to streeetch you out a welcome pain; "fuck," bruce groaned, leaning forward to press his forehead to yours.
every inch, every vein-- sliding perfectly into your sopping pussy. your toes curled within your heels and your chest was pressed directly onto bruce's-- the arch you were sporting obscene. jaw falling open, your moans belted silently into gotham's night; only coming out in short, erratic exhales.
you had taken bruce before-- of course you had--! but something in the way he fit snug, entirely encased within your most intimate area, just the same as he had before, was deliriously enticing. snow prickled against your skin; an odd juxtaposition to the burning rush thrumming throughout your body-- but nonetheless going unnoticed by you and bruce as he bottomed out within you.
his tip grinded against your g-spot, spasmodic pulses keeping your voice lodged within your throat. "oh, i know," bruce cooed gently, suddenly, before reaching upwards to swipe a stray tear off of your cheek. embarrassment swiftly raged up the back of your neck, for you had not even realized you were crying. thumb lingering on your cheek, bruce spoke again, "it's a lot, but you can take it."
his reassurances echoed mildly within your ears-- but did little to steer your attention away from his dick jumping within your cunt. especially as he, finally, dragged himself almost entirely out of you (save for the tip) only to push in again.
his thrusts were not harsh-- no, it was clear bruce was not intending to fuck you like that, tonight-- but where they lacked in intensity, they exceeded in passion. hips colliding with yours again and again and again, your eyes flicked upwards to bruce's face: his expression scrunched, a singular drop of sweat pooling at his hairline. his cock repeatedly kissed your cervix at the end of every deliberate thrust, milking your cunt despite just having started to fuck.
the soft jangle of bruce's belt buckle partnered with slap of skin was worrisome-- for someone could peek around a corner and see the host of the gala and his ex-wife caught in a scandalous fraternization-- but neither you nor bruce gave a fuck. not as he continued to drive his painfully erect dick into you, not as your cunt sobbed around bruce's extremity, and not as bruce released your jaw and brought his hand to the back of your neck to capture your lips in a searing kiss.
it was open-mouthed and sloppy. bruce suckled on your tongue eagerly, as if he was trying to apologize without words, and moaned into your mouth. you moaned into his as well, eyelids screwed shut hiding the fact that your pretty irises had rolled into the back of your skull for the umpteenth time that night.
your cunt clenched at his new-found ministrations, causing bruce's hips to stutter-- breaking their solid, enrapturing rhythm-- and cock to pulse inside of you. white was beginning to leak down your thighs, splash onto bruce's lower stomach-- but his dick remained unrelenting in its plunges.
"missed my wife's pussy," bruce moans softly, pulling away from your mouth-- a trail of saliva keeping you both conjoined at the mouths.
you grinned, far too fucked out (already) to filter any of your thoughts and prevent them from spilling out from your mouth. "missed my husband's cock."
bruce groaned in front of you-- one of his hands squeezing and kneading the flesh of your exposed thigh as he continued to rock into you. his thrusts were becoming less gentle as the night progressed onwards-- soothing, gentle, reminiscent flourishing into desperate, needy, insatiable.
his cock drove again and again and again--! into your pussy with crumbling a resolve for your frame. his tie had become lose at his neck, hair disheveled, and his dress-pants were inching their way down his thick thighs; and you moaned whorishly at the sight. "yes, bruce,"
bruce nodded, hissing and exhaling distinctly-- the tiniest gap between your mouth and his becoming entirely too large. one of your ankles lifted upwards, to rest on the small of bruce's lower back, and you used your new position to force the man into bottoming out inside of you.
breathing shakily, bruce's eyes darted towards your face; landing, sheepishly, on your lips.
but you figured there was nothing to be sheepish about anymore. what was done was done-- there was no un-doing of the rekindling you and bruce had done in the past hour, no un-doing of your pussy needily fluttering around his dick-- so you had leaned forward and kissed him again.
the faintest edges of romance had begun to bleed into this kiss; tender touches, such as your nails dragging down the expanse of bruce's broad shoulder-blades and his consolatory clutch on your thigh, almost had you forgetting the reality of your situation.
almost.
almost, until you realized what was happening-- and shoved your tongue down his throat and rocked your hips forward to signal for the man to move again. the noise bruce had made sounded particularly foreign (but you knew it had been disappointment) though he began his movements again.
your walls tightened impatiently around his cock, only to met with a punishing set of thrusts from gotham's knight-- as if to say you knew i'd keep going, why'd you make me stop kissing you, you know i still love you, can't you love me back?
but you had ignored the underlying harshness in his fucking-- and let your head loll backwards in euphoria. tears slipped down your cheeks again, bruce's cock stuffing and stuffing and stuffing you repeatedly; molding your pussy to the shape of his dick, as if you hadn't already been familiar.
bruce released your thigh from his grasp, abruptly, and snaked it in-between both of your bodies; the pad of his thumb found your clit, and he rolled. purposeful circles, eased by the lewd amount of slick and pre-cum omitted from both of your bodies, sending shock-waves down your spine.
"fuck, baby," you moaned, a hand gripping bruce's bicep in attempt to steady yourself.
teeth gritted, bruce's voice sounded torn-- conflicted, drawn apart by pleasure and reality. he twitched within you as he spoke, "i'm sorry," he groaned into your neck, dipping his head low.
"stop apologizing," you replied.
"no," bruce fought, thrusts turning erratic as his eyes fluttered shut. "i don't-- haah-- i can't say anything else,"
"y-you can."
"i don't know how else to-- fuck-- tell you i'm sorry besides saying it,"
you, too, were quickly unraveling. with ecstasy approaching, forming coherent sentences was becoming difficult. your pussy spasmed and clenched with every pointed jab of bruce's cock inside, and with every sensation your clit received from his trained fingers. "your apologies won't-- ooh shit--! won't change my mind,"
bruce's lips landed clumsily on the corner of yours. "i know," he moaned, "b-but i hope to god they, at least in the slightest, reinforce how much i loved you,"
there was a beat; bruce's thrusts halted, and suddenly the cool air of gotham was penetrating the odd grief and lust stricken bubble you and bruce had formed.
"how much i still love you."
before you could even truly absorb the intensity of his words-- bruce's thrusts started again, and his fingers began working on your clit with double the effort.
you gasped, hips tilting towards and simultaneously away from bruce's movements-- all at once, you felt your orgasm beginning to creep into the edges of your brain-- before maturing into something all encompassing.
"i know my wife, c'mon, i know you want to cum," bruce cooed suddenly, hips practically slamming into yours with a renewed intensity.
"bruce--" fingers clawing at his back, your cunt had begun to convulse around your ex-husband's cock. through your hazed state of mind, something tore through your body. "y-you want to prove you're sorry? that you-- shiiit-- want me back?"
bruce nodded vigorously, dark locks sticking to his sweat-slicked forehead. the sensation of your thighs shaking, remaining tortuously bound to his hips,
"cum inside me then."
at your words, you felt his dick twitch violently within your spasming pussy; he was struggling not to cum, not to finish before your own orgasm had ended, without your permission.
always the gentlemen, you thought mildly, still moaning and squeezing around bruce's cock.
all he could reply with was a strangled reciting of your name.
"inside." you groaned, body shuddering as the after-shocks of your orgasm began to crash onto you.
it only took a few more thrusts-- harsh, greedy plap, plap, plaps-- before bruce moaned into your neck; his cock spilling cum into your pussy vehemently.
you quivered. full body, head to toe; goosebumps raised along your arms and your heart spiked beneath your ribcage. you hadn't felt this sense of elation in years-- hadn't felt bruce's hot cum seep and flood into your cunt, stuffing you impossibly full, in years. jagged rocks of his hips had the sharpest, most caught off-guard moans and shrieks flying from the back of your throat.
dick pulsing, bruce slammed his mouth onto yours to stifle your noises. your moans entangled and became one, vibrations across your lips lewd, eyes screwed shut as if to blur out any sense of urgency or reality from your minds. flashes of your past, of what once was, danced across your mind as the man continued to kiss you like his life depended on it.
despite all common sense-- you and bruce remained kissing, slowly and messily, for what seemed to be hours. of course, it truly hadn't been that long-- but hadn't time always slipped between your fingers, just out of your grasp, whenever you were with bruce?
hot cum dribbling down and in between your thighs, as well as onto bruce's lower stomach peeled you both off of each other (eventually). both of your irises glanced downwards, watching where you still remained connected, and solemnly-- bruce cleared his throat.
it was with the slightest of quivers, did the man finally pull out of you. his cock was soaked in the combination of your bodies' slick and orgasms-- and it only took a few seconds for his cum to begin seeping out of your cunt. it dripped crudely in between your bum, and onto the piercingly cold marble of the balcony, yanking you and bruce back down to earth.
your chests heaved in sync; the orchestra inside began again, starting another ballad, and someone popped a champagne bottle.
slowly, (perhaps even excruciatingly), bruce stepped out from the space in between your legs. he had tucked himself back into his boxers, and was beginning to do up his leather belt. the clank and chime of the expensive metal belonging to its buckle was terribly mocking.
the man reached into the pockets of his suit jacket; when his hand re-appeared, you recognized two handkerchiefs-- the initials b.w. sewn delicately into the fabrics. "here," he said softly, (but the tentative nature of his voice was not out of care-- no, it was caution), "you'll need this to clean yourself up."
something was off in the man's voice-- and if you hadn't once been married to bruce for ten years, you might've missed it; but you had, and so you recognized his discomfort at the entire situation instantly.
your fingertips grazed as you gingerly took the handkerchiefs from bruce's grasp.
there had not been a singular time in your entire relationship with bruce where he hadn't cleaned you up after sex. it was always with the utmost care and love and devotion, bruce had run a warm, damp cloth along your sticky skin. it was always with the most pain-staking responsibility that bruce had peppered your body with kisses, wiped away any tears, and tucked you into the sheets of your shared bed. now he stood before you, restrained; he knew he had no right to care for you like that anymore. knew he had zero obligation to whisper sweet nothings into your ear, tell you how much he adored you, promise you tomorrow-- and yet--
he stood achingly still in front of you. his arms had twitched once, watching you dip the cloth between you legs to clean yourself off, as if it was the worst thing in the world to observe. like the memory of fervor was still baked into his joints, as if it was painful to leave you to tend to yourself after he had taken something (albeit consensually) so intimate from you.
something akin to grief washed over his face, and you watched the adam's apple in his throat bob as he swallowed again. "you can't go back inside like that, my dear,"
don't call me that, clawed bitterly (no, sorrowfully) at your throat. "i know."
bruce grimaced at your short response. "i didn't mean to offend--"
"i know." why were you so angry all of a sudden? "i will take my leave, bruce," an odd, unwelcomed lump formed in your throat, "i wasn't planning to stay for much longer anyways."
silence engulfed the balcony. with little struggle, you hopped off of the railing and wrapped yourself up in your once abandoned fur scarf.
"let me call for a driver," bruce offered, "it's the least i can do."
your mouth flattened into a thin line. "you don't need to,"
"please."
you weren't angry, why suddenly were you yelling? "haven't you begged enough tonight? i think we've both embarrassed ourselves quite sufficiently this evening,"
bruce's brows drew together tightly. when all he said was your name, something in your lungs sparked. you weren't sure how the grown man had managed to make dangerously blue eyes appear so doe, but it tugged at something deep within your memory. "what are you talking about?"
"i just--" your fingers found your temples with ease, pressing into them as if to soothe an on-coming migraine-- "we shouldn't have done this."
bruce opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. his lips drew together again. you recognized his face-- the beginnings of a deep scowl.
"that came out wrong," you cringed, "i just mean that we took advantage of each other's vulnerability. we shouldn't let our emotions cloud our judgements," you said carefully. cautiously, because if this was the beginning of something with bruce (again)-- then you hadn't wanted it to start off like this; built from the foundations of grief and lust.
there was a beat of silence-- almost as if bruce disagreed. "or nostalgia," he added gravely.
"or nostalgia," you echoed. something tore at your insides.
"you should take the back way out," bruce said suddenly, straightening his tie. "by the cave; remember?"
you barely managed to suppress an ironic scoff. "i remember."
bruce nodded, running a hand through his hair. surely, bruce couldn't return to the gala looking like that either. "good."
what lingered now was uncomfortably anticipating. anxious, even. this exchange was far overdue, as was your reconciliation-- but in this moment? it felt entirely too suffocating, for both you and bruce, for the possibility of a future with him again-- so you watched as bruce took a series of steps backwards, back into the hall and off of the balcony, before he turned to go for good.
he turned his head, offering you a final glance; etched within the crevices of his face, there were so many emotions you could not read. and that saddened you immensely-- more than you'd ever admit-- because there had been a point in time where you had known bruce like the back of your hand. for him, someone who was once so familiar to become so foreign was something to grieve on its own.
a loss so terribly giant it was unfathomable-- a loss that had been buried beneath an absolute, definitive grief: losing jason.
but both burned and burned and burned-- why had you not been able to mourn your son? and why were you not able to mourn your living, breathing, husband?
caught in your own thoughts, you hadn't noticed bruce leave. perhaps he hadn't wanted you to notice either, because if there was one thing you still knew about the man-- it was that he never knew how to say good-bye.
though, you'd be the first person to argue that silence was a valediction on its own.
still in your hands, bruce's handkerchiefs looked pearlescent underneath the moonlight. the fabric barely warped as you clenched your fists around them, trying impossibly to bury your upset, your mourning, your longing.
your heels clicked against the balcony's stone, and then the hallway's tile, as you took the back, hidden way out of the manor. the one that remains engrained into your soul, regardless of how hard you try to forget.
within your hand, the initials of the handkerchiefs sizzle into your palms; b.w.
summery : over the course of five days, tracing the aftermath of one devastating argument. as hurtful words linger and silence stretches on, love, fear, and regret collide, forcing both of you to confront what it truly means to stay, to leave, and to choose each other when it hurts the most.
warnings: heavy angst, emotionally charged arguments, verbal conflict and hurtful words spoken in anger, emotional distress and heartbreak, abandonment fears, panic attacks and anxiety spirals, guilt and self-blame, miscommunication within a relationship, crying and emotional breakdowns, clinginess as a trauma response, fear of loss, relationship conflict with eventual comfort, hurt/comfort dynamics, themes of forgiveness and healing.
[7k word count]
you don’t even remember what started it.
maybe it was the late nights. the blood on his knuckles. the way he shut you out like a slammed door every time something bothered him. maybe it was the way you kept asking, over and over, “are you okay?” and getting that practiced silence in return. or maybe it was you. wanting too much. needing answers he wasn’t ready to give.
It starts with the quiet. the kind that creeps in before the thunder hits. jason walks in, his jacket soaked with rain and something darker. his eyes avoid yours. you’re used to it, but tonight something in you snaps. “did you kill anyone yet?” you ask. not because you want to accuse him. but because you have to know.
he stiffens. “what the hell kind of question is that?”
you don’t back down. “a serious one. because I can’t keep pretending I don’t know what you’re doing out there.”
jason tosses his helmet on the counter with a loud clatter. “don’t start this.”
“no, you don’t get to tell me when I start. you come home covered in blood, you don’t talk to me, you shut me out—”
“because it’s none of your business!” he snaps.
that stings. you feel it in your chest, sharp and immediate.
“I am your business, jason. or am I just something you keep around to feel normal?”
he laughs—bitter, cold. “don’t flatter yourself.” —silence.
you blink. his words hit you like a slap, and he knows it. he flinches for a second. just one. but he doesn’t take it back. you try to keep your voice steady. “so that’s what I am? just… convenient?”
he doesn’t answer. you’re waiting for him to say no. to soften. to say he didn’t mean it. instead, he mutters, “you knew what this was. don’t act like you didn’t sign up for it.”
that’s the thing. you did know. you knew loving jason todd would mean long nights, fear gnawing at your ribs, and blood on his knuckles when he kissed you goodnight. but what you didn’t sign up for was being invisible.
“I didn’t sign up to be treated like an afterthought,” you say, standing now, voice rising. “I didn’t sign up for being ignored, for being lied to. you don’t talk to me, jason. you just disappear.”
jason scoffs. “and what, I should be reporting in every five minutes? you want a boyfriend or a lapdog?”
your heart aches, but you don’t back down. “i want you. the version of you that lets me in. the one that doesn’t shut down and push me away every time something gets hard.”
“I don’t need you to fix me!” he shouts, voice suddenly cutting through the air like a whip. “I don’t need your sympathy or your constant hovering. you think loving me gives you the right to pry into every dark corner of my life?”
you stare at him, stunned. “It’s not prying when I’m trying to help jay..”
“I didn’t ask for your help!” he barks. “god, you’re so damn exhausting. always needing something. always complaining. maybe I’d be better off without you dragging me down all the time.”
you stare at him like you’re seeing someone else entirely. “you’re a coward.” — wrong thing to say.
jason steps forward, eyes burning. “you think I’m the coward? you sit here in your nice little apartment, judging me like you’re above it all. you don’t know what it’s like out there. you couldn’t last a week in my world.”
“and yet I’ve been trying for months!” you shout, your voice breaking. “but you don’t care. you never really let me in. you just wanted someone to come home to—someone who didn’t ask too many questions.”
“you think you’re some kind of savior?” he sneers. “you’re not. you’re just another person who thought they could fix me.”
you stop. you feel it crack right there—something fragile and important inside you. “i didn’t want to fix you,” you whisper. “ i just wanted you to let me in.”
he scoffs. “then you wanted too much.” and that’s it. a finial look into jason’s eyes of any hint of regret— nothing. just pure frustration and anger. a weight in your heart dragging you towards the door. no dramatic exit. no final scream. just you walking past him, grabbing your bag, and shutting the door behind you.
at first, jason doesn’t move he doesn’t feel much of anything, honestly. just numb. tired. angry in that hollow way that doesn’t have a target anymore. he just stands there, staring at the door like it’s going to swing open again. It always does.
you always come back. — he grabs a beer from the fridge. sits on the couch. flips on the TV. something violent and loud, because silence feels like guilt.
hours pass. no call. no message.
he scrolls through his phone. no unread texts. he opens your thread—nothing. his fingers hover over the keyboard, then stop. he locks the phone and throws it on the table.
then he starts thinking about what he said. really thinking.
“you’re just another person who thought they could fix me.”
the way your face changed. he remembers the silence right before you walked out, how final it felt. and something cold settles in his chest. it’s been almost 4 hours since you left.
he starts pacing. that tight feeling in his chest creeps in like smoke under a door. his palms feel clammy. he’s sweating. his vision is narrowing. he can’t think. — you didn’t come back.
you always come back. “shit,” he whispers, running a hand through his hair. “shit, shit—”
the room feels like it’s closing in. the walls are too close, the ceiling too low, like everything’s pressing down on him at once. he can’t breathe. his knees buckle, and he slides down against the wall, gasping for air, chest heaving like he’s drowning. his hands shake. his throat burning.
he didn’t mean it. — of course he didn’t mean it. you’re not convenient..you’re the only thing that’s kept him afloat. you’re the light he pretends he doesn’t need but clings to in the dark.
and now you’re gone. the words he threw at you, the venom he spit out just to win a fight, ring louder than the silence you left behind. he says your name into the empty apartment. once. then again. then louder. like if he says it enough, you’ll hear him. — but you don’t. and now the silence is unbearable.
he can’t breathe. now It’s been five hours since you left, and jason’s chest is on fire. not the kind that comes from bruised ribs or a bullet wound—he knows that pain. he’s good with that pain. this is worse. this is panic. helplessness.—this was worse kind of hurt because it doesn’t bleed.
his phone is clutched so tight in his hand, his knuckles have gone white. he stares at the screen, thumb hovering over your name in his contacts again. he’s already called five times.
no answer. — just the sound of your dumb voicemail message, cheerful and playful and now completely soul-crushing. “haii! Its (y/n), im sorry i missed your call! im not home right now! but i can take a message… let me grab a pencil…hm okay! what would you like me to tell me?” it used to make him smile. now it makes him sick. he hits redial.
one ring.
two.
three.
voicemail. — again. again. again.
he runs both hands through his hair, dragging his fingers hard through the strands like maybe pain will wake him up. like maybe this isn’t real. like maybe you’re still coming home, keys jingling, saying his name like you do when you’re trying not to smile. but the apartment is dead quiet. and it smells like rain and blood and something fading.
“pick up,” he mumbles to no one. “please (y/n).. please just pick up.” he calls again. and again.
his hands are shaking now, so bad he nearly drops the phone. his mind is running circles around itself—what if something happened? what if she didn’t look crossing the street? what if someone followed her? what if she’s hurt?—and he can’t shut it off. his heart is pounding too loud in his ears, drowning out reason. he stands up fast, then stumbles forward, grabbing the edge of the counter to steady himself. everything’s spinning.
he opens your location on his phone. nothing.
either you turned it off or the battery’s dead. or worse. his brain fills in the blanks faster than he can stop it. “goddammit,” he breathes, slamming his hand down on the counter. the sound echoes in the empty room.
this wasn’t supposed to happen. you were supposed to yell, slam a door, crash on the couch, and by morning everything would be fine. that’s how it’s always gone. you fight, you cool off, you come back. you always come back.
but not tonight. tonight, you left like you meant it.
and jason realizes—too late—that he pushed you harder than he ever had. too far. past the point of no return. past the point where an “I’m sorry” could fix it. he scrolls to your name again.
calls. again. “haii it’s (y/n)! im sorry i mi—” he shuts his eyes and grips the phone like he could tear it in half. your voice is soft, light, untouched by the mess he made. It makes him want to scream. It makes him want to curl in on himself and disappear.
you’re gone. and you’re ignoring him. that’s what finally breaks something inside him.
because jason todd—red hood, vigilante, killer, survivor—can handle almost anything. bullets. torture. death. — but he could not handle being ignored by the one person who made him feel human.
he sinks down against the wall again, chest heaving, lungs burning. his phone slips out of his hand, landing face-up on the floor, screen still lit up with your contact. a tiny, cruel reminder: your not picking up. you don’t want to talk to him.
his mouth is dry. he tries to swallow, tries to breathe, but every inhale feels like it’s too shallow. like he’s not getting enough air. his arms wrap around his knees. he’s shaking. his thoughts are racing.
‘she’s not coming back. you blew it. you pushed too hard. you said too much. she hates you. she should hate you. why would she come back after that?’ he doesn’t know how long he sits there like that—maybe twenty minutes, maybe an hour. All he knows is the silence. and your stupid voicemail. and the gnawing, tearing fear that he might’ve lost the only good thing left in his life.
“I didn’t mean it,” he says aloud, as if the room cares. as if his regrets can travel through walls and streetlights and find their way to wherever you are. “I didn’t mean any of it.” but the universe doesn’t answer.
he pulls himself off the ground. head still spinning, he can’t keep sitting around for you. he needs to find you. the air outside hits him sharp and cold, but it doesn’t clear his head. the city is still dark, the streets damp with leftover rain. his helmet is in his bag. he doesn’t wear it. doesn’t need it. he’s not red hood right now— he’s just jason. — and jason’s falling apart.
he makes his way through the city on his motorcycle, his mind endlessly searching for you. stopping when he even sees a glimpse of someone with your same hairstyle. everything reminding him of you. he feels hopeless knowing how huge gotham is, even more so how dangerous it is.
he ultimately decides to stop at some of your favorite places, maybe to soothe him with precious memories. he knows it’s to early in the morning for most of these places to be open, but he needs to check. needs to try anyways.
his first stop was a café. your favorite locally owned coffee shop, where you two became regulars. it was a small business, on a strip walk between a laundromat and boutique. — the coffee’s always too strong and the chairs wobble if you don’t sit just right. you loved that place.
he memorized your order. it was always the same thing everytime you came here— your order barely changed. — the smell of coffee, occasionally tea on ur breath, he was craving to kiss your lips just to taste your order again.
jason stands across the street for a second. the lights are off. homemade “closed” sign hangs crooked in the window.
he still walks up. presses his hand to the door like it might open. It doesn’t. he presses his palms to the glass, looking in
your spot is empty. the corner table by the window where you used to sit and steal sips of his coffee when you swore you didn’t want one. where your eyes would crinkle when you laughed, lips covered in foam you never noticed until he wiped it away. he stands there, remembering the time you convinced him to try that stupid seasonal drink with cinnamon and syrup and something else sweet that he pretended to hate—but secretly liked, because you liked it.
he thought if he came here, maybe you’d be sitting there again. your beautiful eyes locked in a book he’d recommend while eating a pastry. but there’s nothing. only cold glass and silence and now an emotional memory.
he sits on the bench outside and closes his eyes, trying to summon your laugh. where you are the happiest, and he remembers your smile when he took you to his favorite library.
it became a sacred place for you to. both calm and quiet while enjoying each-others company. so that was his next stop.
the library.
not a big, fancy one. no marble columns or quiet rules. this one’s cramped, unknown, smelling of dust and secondhand pages. you loved it for its charm—for the creaky floors and mismatched chairs and the old man behind the desk who always smiled when he saw you.
jason picks the lock with trembling fingers. slides through the back door like a ghost. third floor. far left corner. your nook.
he stares at the armchair you always claimed, the stack of dog-eared romance novels that you teased him with—the window seat you used when the weather was just right and the sun poured in like liquid gold. he walks through the aisle, trailing his fingers along the spines of books you once handed him. he can almost hear your voice echo in the stillness.
walking around until he was in the aisle where he first met you. making his eyes burn, to many memories flooding in his head— where he tried so desperately to be cool in front of you, and staring at you from afar admiring how divine your presence felt. — jason reading all the books he thought you’d like before even knowing you and putting his name in the checkout card. and watching your face light up from seeing his name once again. giving him the courage to go and talk to you.
a tear burning his cheek, he puts his head down feeling ashamed of pushing you away when memories like these made him feel alive again.
jason left the library, riding off having the city district him. he rides for a while thinking of any more possibilities. he was about to run out of gas and just decides he needs to take a walk anyways— and when he gets off his bike, he notices he’s at a familiar park — It’s further out, away from the main drag, quiet enough that the chaos of gotham doesn’t touch it. you both used to go there when things got loud—inside his head, inside the world.
It’s mostly empty, just a jogger in the distance and birds rustling in the trees. jason walks the winding path slowly, like a man retracing his own history — here—this is where you tripped over your own feet and he caught you, both of you laughing like kids. over there is the tree you climbed and got stuck in, yelling at him between laughs while he pretended he wouldn’t help you down. there’s a bench under the big oak tree. you kissed him there for the first time. real, honest, vulnerable. no masks, no walls. just lips and nerves and something too tender to say out loud.
he passes through more bench where you sat one night, eyes puffy, telling him things you hadn’t told anyone else. and he’d wrapped his jacket around you and promised—promised—he’d never be the one to hurt you.
he sits down there now, gripping the edge of the bench so hard his knuckles go white. — “i lied,” he whispers to no one, his voice strained. becoming angry with himself.
but there was still no sign of you.. and so he knew despite it all he had a couple more places to check. his mind became desperate. he heads where he should’nt, hoping you’re not there. he still had to check— ‘the narrows’ — ‘ park row ‘ — ‘crime ally ‘
he checks alleyways where addicts linger and criminals circle like vultures. every step, he begs he won’t find you there. But he has to check. has to know. he’s on a rampage now, eyes wild, heart racing. he gets in a guy’s face just for looking at him too long. knocks someone out cold when they make a comment about “that girl he used to walk with.”
he checks rooftops. alleys. places you shouldn’t be, but maybe are. places where bad things happen. — places he belongs, not you. he asks around. no one’s seen you. and those who know who he is don’t dare lie. — still nothing. jason’s a mess—bloodshot eyes, raw knuckles, unshaven. he looks like he hasn’t slept in years instead of just a night.
and then — “jason?”
jason turns around. it’s dick.
“jason?” dick calls, landing on the fire escape in full nightwing gear. “what the hell are you doing back in this part of town?”
jason doesn’t answer at first.
dick jumps down in front of him, blocking his path. “jay—hey. talk to me.” — “I messed up,” jason says hoarsely.
dick blinks. “with…?”
jason swallows hard. “(y/n)... she left. and she’s not answering. It’s been hours. I’ve checked everywhere. the café, the library, that damn park. nothing. I don’t even know if she’s okay. I just—I said too much. I said shit I didn’t mean and now she’s just… gone.— dick, i can’t breathe.”
dick moves quickly, placing a hand on jason’s shoulder. “hey. breathe. look at me.” jason meets his eyes, jaw clenched so tight it hurts.
dick doesn’t say anything for a moment. then: “alright. sit down.” dick says guiding him to sit on a nearby stoop.
jason does. because for once, he has nothing left to fight with.
“you love her?” dick asks, voice low. jason nods without thinking, like it’s a reflex. “then tell her. find her and tell her. but not like this. you’re spiraling.”
“I can’t stop,” jason whispers. “every second she’s not answering, I keep thinking she’s hurt. that it’s my fault. that I broke her. I can’t even hear her voice without thinking of what I did.”
dick sighs and puts a hand on his shoulder. “you didn’t break her. you pushed her away. that’s different. and maybe you don’t get to fix it. but you sure as hell don’t stop trying. not until she tells you to.” jason looks at him. “and if she never does?” — “then you mourn. but not until you know for sure.”
jason’s quiet for a long time. watching gotham pass by with his brother “never give up jay, i believe in you” and jason stands up, continuing his search.
but he doesn’t find you.
he checks safehouses. rooftops. he climbs halfway up wayne tower before turning around because he knows you wouldn’t go there.— by the time the sun rises, his hands are shaking.
his head is pounding. his legs feel like lead. and you’re still gone.
he stumbles home like a ghost. kicks off his boots. sinks to the floor. doesn’t even make it to the couch. just sits there.
and stares at the door. It never opens.
three days pass.
no texts. no calls. not even a read receipt.
jason doesn’t eat. doesn’t sleep. barely moves. the apartment is dead quiet except for the occasional replay of your voicemail, like he’s torturing himself on purpose. by the fourth morning, he can’t take it anymore.
he grabs his bag and heads to wayne manor.
bruce meets him at the batcomputer. he doesn’t ask why jason’s there. just takes one look at him—pale, tired, shaking, blood shot eyes — and knows. “use whatever you need,” bruce says softly, walking away.
jason nods, throat tight. while the system loads, alfred appears at his side with a quiet sigh and a fresh mug of coffee and a blanket. he doesn’t speak right away.
then, gently, “would you like to talk about it, master jason?”
jason’s jaw clenches. he shakes his head, but then his voice breaks. “I ruined it.” a lump in his throat, looking at alfred.
alfred sets the coffee and blanket down and pulls him into a hug without a word. just strong, steady arms and that grounding kind of warmth jason hasn’t let himself feel in years. “i don’t know how to fix this,” he whispers.
alfred holds him tighter. “you start with the truth. then you wait. and if she’s worth it—and I suspect she is—you never stop.” jason nods against his shoulder
and for the first time in days, he lets himself cry. sobbing into the older man’s shoulder releasing all the pent up sadness and anger he kept inside for days. “I’ve cleaned blood off your boots, patched holes in your uniform, and stayed up more nights than I can count wondering if you’d make it back. but what worries me most… is how quick you are to believe you don’t deserve good things.. ” he said rubbing jason’s back soothing him, letting himself cry. “i love her so much, alfred— I don’t know how to hold on to good things without breaking them.” jason hiccups “it hurts how much i love her”
and they stay like that for a while, talking about jason’s feelings and what happened causing you to walk away. alfred listening and making him eat and drink to get something in his system. jason slowly getting tired, the comfort he craved slowing his brain down. alfred replacing you for a little while.
you always comforted jason, your touch melted him into a different man. you were his safe place and made him feel completely loved. the unconditional love he never felt before, ‘she’ll come back..’ - ‘ she’s okay, she’s safe’ — he kept repeating to himself, trying any possible way to soothe himself — jason became tried once again, but this time he was willing to sleep. he slept next to the computer, with the blankets alfred placed over him. he got a couple hours in until he woke up, a reminder of what happened.
now five days have gone by—
the coordinates come in just after midnight.
a quiet ping from the batcomputer—courtesy of a city-wide search bruce helped set up. jason had loaded every street cam, signal ping, and facial recognition tool he could, but deep down, he hadn’t really believed he’d find anything.
until now. a small rental apartment in the east end. under a friend’s name. you hadn’t left the city—you’d just gone off the grid. he finally found what he was looking for.
the screen flickered, and your image appeared in the facial recognition software. jason’s heart dropped as he studied the image that was pulled from surveillance footage. your face, usually full of life and fire, looked hollow. the light in your eyes were dimmer than he remembered, like you’d been carrying an unbearable weight for far too long.
your skin was pale, darker circles under your eyes indicating sleepless nights and too many tears shed. lips, once always curled into a small, knowing smile, were now pressed into a thin line. the fight had drained you, and he could see it in every inch of your face.
the camera hadn’t caught the vulnerability posture, but jason knew. you weren’t just physically tired—you were emotionally worn out. the woman he loved wasn’t the same one who had walked out five days ago. this woman, this (y/n), looked like someone who had been pushing through the world alone, all the weight of her pain carried on her shoulders.
he gripped the edge of the desk, eyes locked on the screen, his chest tightening. guilt, sorrow, and a deep sense of regret clawed at him. he had to find her. he had to make things right before it was too late.
he reads the address three times to be sure, then grabs his helmet and jacket and is out the manor doors before bruce can say a word. he jumps on his motorcycle and starts the engine, the loud sound of his tires screeching in the cave as he raced out to find you. he was lighting on the road, dangerously weaving in and out of cars, adrenaline of seeing you alive making him rush even more.
then he makes it to your location. his feet on the pavement, one flight of stairs, then two. his heart is a riot in his chest. his hands are sweating, shaking, cold. an a rush of anxiety washes over him.
what if you slam the door in his face?
what if you don’t even open it?
what if you’re gone again?
what if you don’t want to see him?
but he still knocks. soft at first. then harder.
he hears the lock click. the door creaks open a few inches. you stand there in sweats your friend let you have, eyes puffy, hair lazily in your face like you stopped caring how you looked days ago. and you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
your eyes widen when you see him. and that’s all it takes. jason breaks down.
his legs give out. he drops to his knees like something inside him finally caved in. and before he can even stop himself, he wraps his arms around your waist and presses his face into your stomach, sobbing. not the angry kind. not the kind that comes with yelling and fists through walls.
the kind that’s quiet and raw and scared. the kind that says thank god you’re alive and I’m sorry and I missed you all at once. he was relieved.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “I’m so fucking sorry—please, I didn’t mean it, I was angry, I didn’t know how to say it right, I—god, I thought I lost you—” you freeze. shock, sadness and joy all overwhelming your head. your hands hover for a second, unsure, still hurt, wondering if this is a dream or not.
but then they come down gently, slowly, fingers threading through his hair as you hold him against you. your voice is quiet. “jason…” a melody to his ears.
he can barely speak. “I looked everywhere. I thought something happened. I thought—god, I thought maybe I deserved it. maybe you were better off without me. — I’ve never been this scared in my life.” you listen to him, his words muffled into your stomach. as he plants small kisses in between each sentence— his words rambling and gasping in-between for breaths. “baby.. come here.”
you helped him stand up and stared at his face. “I was angry,” you admit. “you hurt me.” — “i know.. i never wanted to hurt you.”
he leans into you like he needs your heartbeat to breathe.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispers. “I keep ruining everything good in my life. I say the wrong thing. I push too hard. I scare people off. and then when I finally realize what I’ve done, it’s too late.” you pull back just enough to make him look at you. — his eyes are red. wet. desperate.
“you didn’t scare me off,” you whisper. “you hurt me. but I left because I didn’t want to say something I’d regret. I needed time.”
jason swallows. “you should’ve. said something worse. hit me. I deserved it.” — “you don’t get to decide what you deserve, jason. I do.”
a beat. “and I still choose you.” he exhales a breath that sounds like a sob.
his eyes are rimmed red, exhausted, glassy with the tears he’s still trying to keep at bay.
“I went everywhere. the café, the library—the park,” he continues, his arms tightening like he thinks you might slip away again. “every place we made a memory. every place that still smells like you. I kept thinking, maybe I could find one more piece of us that wasn’t broken yet.— I needed to find you. I was losing it, sweetheart. I checked alleys. dangerous places. I—fuck, I was hoping I didn’t find you there but I had to check. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t sit still. I just wanted to see you. to say I’m sorry. to fix it.”
you nod slowly, listening to him. watching the way he talked.
“I knew I took it too far, even when I said it,” jason continues, clutching you tighter. “I was mad at the world, not you. but I threw it all at you because I knew you’d still love me, and that makes me the worst kind of person.”
you press your hand to his cheek, and he leans into it like it’s the only thing keeping him together. “I didn’t mean it,” he whispers. “not a single word. I was angry and afraid and so fucking overwhelmed that I—” his voice cracks. “I lashed out. at the one person who loves me the most. and when you left, I knew. I knew I deserved it.”
you stare at him for a moment. because your silence isn’t punishment—it’s your own unraveling. choosing your next words — “you said I was just a distraction,” you whisper finally, voice shaking despite how hard you try to steady it. “that I make things worse for you. that I don’t understand you, and maybe never will.”
jason flinches. physically recoils at the words he remembers far too well. the words that have been haunting him for the past few days.
you swallow, continuing. “you didn’t just lash out, jason. you hit where you knew it would hurt. you said things I’ve been afraid of ever since we met.”
“I didn’t mean any of it,” he whispers again, desperate. “god, if I could tear the words out of the air and bury them, I would. I would’ve rather taken a bullet than see you walk out that door. I just—” he breathes in deep. “I’m not good with… emotions. with fear. and losing you? that’s the scariest thing in the world to me...”
you nod slowly. “you self-destruct.”— he presses his forehead to yours, eyes shut. “yeah. and I took you down with me.”
silence stretches again, but it’s different now. heavy, but not hostile. like the fog after a storm. “I wasn’t leaving forever,” you whisper. “I just needed time. space. I needed to remember who I was outside of what you said.”
running your fingers through his hair. “I love you, jason. that didn’t change. but you hurt me. bad. I will never stop loving you. i will always come back to you— I needed to know I could still choose to come back on my terms. not because you begged. not because you were falling apart. but because I wanted to.”
his arms tighten around you again, and for the first time since last night, his tears start to fall freely. once again. no restraint. no pride. just a man drowning in his own grief, relieved to be seen, still loved despite everything.
“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers into your shoulder, his voice small and shaky.
“no,” you say gently. “but you have me. and that means doing better.” and you both stand there for a while. two exhausted people wrapped around each other like maybe the world will stop spinning if you just stay still long enough.
after a while, you hold out your hand. “come inside.” and he does.
the apartment is small, quiet. the kind of place that smells like lavender and old books and something that’s just you. jason steps inside like he’s walking on glass—like the walls might collapse if he breathes too hard.
you close the door behind him. lock it gently. like you’re not locking him out, but keeping the world away.
neither of you says much as you move to the small couch in the living room. he follows you, slow, cautious. sits on the edge like he doesn’t deserve the whole cushion. like if he gets too comfortable, you might change your mind and tell him to leave.
you notice the way he keeps stealing glances at you from the corner of his eye. the way his knee’s bouncing, nervous. his shoulders are curled in, defensive, like he’s ready to run the second you flinch.
finally, you break the quiet. “why are you sitting like you’re afraid I’m gonna hit you?” jason freezes.
you don’t say it to hurt him. you say it softly. genuinely. because you see it—the hesitation, the fear, the way he’s pulling away without moving an inch.
he exhales. “because I don’t wanna fuck this up again.”
“you think being quiet is safer?”
he shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t know what’s safe with you anymore. I keep playing every version of this in my head—if I say too much, if I touch you too soon, if I breathe the wrong way—maybe you’ll walk out again.”
you shift toward him slowly. “I didn’t leave to scare you.”
“I know.” he finally meets your gaze. “but it scared me anyway.”
you nod. “and now you’re trying not to want anything.” he doesn’t answer. “jason, you’re allowed to want me.”
his breath catches. you reach out, gently covering his hand with yours. he looks at the contact like it might vanish.
“you’re not scaring me off,” you say, voice soft but sure. “you’re hurting. and so am I. but I didn’t stop loving you. I didn’t forget all the good just because of one night.”
jason’s voice is raw when he answers. “It was more than one night. I’ve been shutting you out for weeks. I didn’t let you in when you were trying. I turned everything into a war when you just wanted peace.”
“yeah. you did.” he flinches. “but,” you continue, tightening your grip on his hand, “you came back. you searched for me. you let yourself fall apart. that means something to me, and im sorry too. i didn’t intend on being away this long. i just felt so lost” he closes his eyes, jaw clenching.
“i’ve never felt this afraid,” he murmurs. “not even when I died.” you squeeze his hand.
“I’m not good at soft,” he admits. “I can be violent, I can be angry, I can be the guy who kicks in doors and breaks bones. but being… gentle? I don’t know how to do that without thinking I’ll screw it up.” you lean forward, pressing your forehead to his.
“you’re being gentle right now.” he nods, barely. and for the first time since that fight, he lets his hand curl into yours. not tight. just enough.
enough to say I want this.
enough to say I still love you.
he presses his lips to your temple, hesitant at first, then lingering. not hungry. not desperate. just present.
“i love you eternally jason, im sorry too, i’m truly sorry for walking away.”
“i love you so much (y/n), so.. so much it’s a unbearable pain i never want to let go of. you are my heart.. my soul.. my person”
he pressed kisses on your hand inbetween words. whispering softly to you, sweet nothings. just wanting to cherish you. “i cried to alfred, cried like some damn kid and I was just—gone. full-on sobbing in his arms like I was ten again.”
(y/n)’s eyes softened, reaching out but letting him keep going.
“I told him everything. told him I screwed up. told him I was scared you’d leave for good. and he just… held me, made me miss your touch.— i’m still sorry,” he whispers
“I know,” you say. “i am too jay”
the two of you sit there, wrapped in the silence that used to hurt—but now, maybe, it’s just healing in disguise. you pulled jason in to cuddle him. he wraps his hands around your body. feeling fortunate to have you, to touch you, to kiss you. he hasn’t been able to breathe normally since you left, but now his chest feels lifted. he’s calmer and exhausted. he can tell you were too. he rubs your body while kissing all over you until he knows your asleep in his arms. watching you sleep so peacefully puts him at ease, helping him drift off into a wonderful slumber he’s been dreaming about for the past five days.
*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚
ahhh :3 i couldn’t do a sad ending— i was going to!!, but he’s been out through to much already!! haha
hope u enjoyed!! im trying out different writing, angst is one im not the best ask but i like trying! it feels repetitive sometimes :p
🗯️･ ˖ · purring at the thought of beekeeping age BRUCE WAYNE still being attracted to his high school sweetheart after decades
you'd been the apple of his eye all night , skin glowing under the bronze lights , dress turning heads as it's trail followed you around the ballroom of wayne manor.
the sight of you was driving him crazy as he stood in a corner with a few business men. he'd had relationship after relationship since you and yet there was something there. something that bruce couldn't ignore.
he took down the rest of his wine and slipped it to a waiter before making his way towards you. you'd just left a conversation with some older lady and snuck out the main doorways into the halls.
he was hot on you , like a cheetah , careful not to be caught following you. hands in his pockets , head tilted downwards , he tailed you until you reached a lounge area.
you slumped down on a leather couch , feeling uncomfortably tight in your ball gown. the shape wear underneath was doing everything it needed to but it was hardly worth the restriction.
'dresses still not your thing ?' his voice emerged with his figure from behind a marble pillar. your breath hitched , a hand grasping your side as your heart raced in your chest.
when the light hit his face , revealing his darkened features and course skin , you were certain it was him. 'social cues still not yours ?' you breathed , teasing the man from the shadows.
the bruce wayne.
he looked changed. taller. more brooding. more manly. his biceps fought against the seaming of his suit , stray black hairs falling as they desired around his chiseled face and blade-sharp brows.
your breath picked up , chest struggling against the corset binding it. bruce frowned , edging closer. 'are you okay ?'
'yes ... no. this corset is-it's too tight.' your hands met your back , trying something to unzip the dress and loosen the chest piece. but it was no use.
bruce walked over , seating himself on the dark wood coffee table , a hand catching hold of your waist. 'turn around.' his voice was commanding. he wasn't angry , no , he was worried. and it was almost indecent.
you huffed , turning so your back was facing him and pulling your hair over your shoulder. Bruce leaned forward , cold fingers brushing top of your spine in the processing of pulling down the zipper.
he grunted , noticing just how tight the corset really was tied. gently , his hands made work of untying the ribbons , gradually easing the hold of the accessory and making it easier for you to breathe.
as his fingers manoeuvred , he started to lose control. everything about this was ridden with filth. flashbacks to undressing you on his bed on a steamy night , or in his bathroom after a drinking game gone wrong.
what happened to the two of you ? and why did you both waste so much time avoiding each other when you both knew there was nothing you yearned for more ?
slowly , his hand crept upward , brushing against the nape of your neck , then climbing over your shoulder and lingering at your chest.
'bruce .. ' you rasped , gasping when his hand cupped your tit. your dress was starting to fall down your shoulders , his veiny arm being the only thing stopping you from being completely disrobed.
'god , say that again. say my name.'
'.. bruce ?' he was whipped , like completely gone.
'mmh , i missed that.'
the man's lips teased under your ear , teeth nibbling the sensitive skin. a burning feeling had set in his chest. guard down. game over.
the kisses travelled , against your throat , along your shoulders , till his head was buried in the crease of your jaw. he inhaled deeply through his nose , smelling that sweetness peppered rather generously on your skin , melting over his plush lips.
't-too long.' you whispered , all self-control and restraint shattered at the hands of his touch.
'hm ?' bruce's hum was muffled , sending warm ripples through your body.
'it's been too long.'
'we can make up for that.'
you shook your head weakly , jaw dropping open when he pulled you fully against him , your back to his chest. 'bruce .. we can't just have sex . not here .. not now.'
'tell me to stop.' fuck , the husk in his tone sent your system into overdrive. you couldn't say anything , not honestly. you wanted it bad. you wanted it now.
'we'll call it .. an apology. yeah ? for all those lost years. can you forgive me ? you gonna forgive me baby ?'
fucks SAKEE. me 🤝 older men. bruce actually run me over with the batmobile rn. it's literally not okay for a fictional man to be this sexed-out. i'm licking my paws , who wants a part II ??
