Angst And Fluff - Tumblr Posts

I just thought of something as I'm making my Durge's little backstory... Before the amnesia, was there ever a time they had a pleasant or gentle physical contact with anyone? Like a hug or a simple hand holding?

It would be intresting and very much messed up if they, after killing their foster family at a young age, didn't have ANY physical contact (aside from their victims).

That would also be interesting when they hug Astarion for the first time, they kind of don't want to let him go because it's the first time they touch someone without hurting them.

Ah... I love the sweet angst and a bit of fluff in the morning before work ☺️

A Shot and A Miss

Pairings: female reader X non-idol! Yoongi

Summary: A single night changes everything in Yoongi's life. A small mistake is made but the repercussions are many.

Genre: Just some angst

Warnings: nothing much, it’s just plain angst?

Rating: PG-13

Word count: 3.9 K+

A/N:Hello again everyone! I wanted to write a fluffy one-shot for Yoongi's birthday, but ended up writing this. I am thankful to @moonleeai and @queentiti72 from @bangtanwritershq who beta read the story for me within a short period of time.

This is for the square "Min Yoongi" for the @bangtanwritingbingo spring event. This is also for "Greatest of All Time" story event by @bangtanwritershq for Yoongi's birthday. I hope you enjoy the story. Feel free to give me any suggestions regarding my writing.

The basketball was being passed continuously. The match was getting intense by every minute. You only needed to score 3 more points to win. Jin passed you the ball, which you couldn’t receive as Yoongi came in the way, taking the ball and scoring another point for his team. You were getting impatient. The last quarter was about to end; you needed to score.

As the game progressed and Yoongi dribbled his way to the basket, you cut his way, blocking him. You expertly snatched the ball, passing it to your boyfriend who swiftly scored 3 points. Yoongi looked at you with an indecipherable look. You just smiled and continued with the game.

Yoongi tried passing the ball to Taehyung, but it instead landed in your hands which led to you scoring 2 more points. The quarter ended with your basket. Your team members quickly surrounded you cheering your name and lifting you off ground. You laughed happily giddy with excitement and adrenaline that pumped through you.

You didn’t notice Yoongi looking at you from a distance. Jin embraced you, hugging you, and gently pressed a kiss over your head. Yoongi physically backed away. He looked away, feeling his heart heavy and clenching.

If only he had been more responsible that night…

*1 year and half ago*

Yoongi was dressed in the local basketball jersey. His team’s name was ‘The D-Fence’. He was the shooting guard for his team and one of the best players they had. He played basketball regularly as a hobby. He also participated in the local championship games that took place every 6 months.

“Hey! Yoongi, are you coming for the party to celebrate our win? My house” a sweaty Taehyung asked who came jogging towards him. “Definitely” Yoongi said, taking off his sweaty jersey and putting it in the duffel bag. “Hey Y/n. You are invited too, all of your team members are” Yoongi heard Taehyung say near the door of the changing room. He pulled the shirt all the way down and came towards the door, to greet you, his girlfriend. “I will think about it” he heard you say.

“Hey love” he said, opening his arms for you. You moved into his arms hugging your boyfriend tightly as he pressed a kiss on your head. “You were amazing today” Yoongi said, recalling today’s match. You played from the Cheetah’s side. The local tournament was unisex, so the teams were unisex also. You were his rival in the game, but lover after it was over. “But not better than you” you said, pouting.

He found it absolutely adorable, your competitive nature to always try and beat him in everything. “I want to beat you in something, Yoongi. One day I will. Wait and watch Min Yoongi” you said, pointing a finger at his chest as you challenged him. He chuckled, amused at your antics.

But little did he know, you will win… win in breaking his heart.

The rest of Yoongi’s and your teams joined you after changing. Taehyung was busy inviting everyone to the party as he dragged his boyfriend Jungkook along with him. Jin, your team’s captain, came up to congratulate Yoongi. “Well played Yoongi” Jin said and also complimented your play and slightly tousled your hair before walking away with the others.

“Are you going to the party Yoongs?” you asked as you and Yoongi walked towards your home. He always walked you back to your home. He always found ways to spend time with you. “Yes. You are also coming right?” he asked. “I don’t know Yoongi. I’ve got to help my mom clean the house. I was hoping you would help me…” you trailed as you looked at him with puppy eyes. “Y/n. Don’t. I- ugh… I really wanted to attend my win party though” he said with his puppy eyes now. You rolled your eyes at his retort, “Okay, you big cutie” you told him squishing his cheeks, as he tried to run away from your grasp.

If only Yoongi had stayed and helped you…

“Hey guys!” Yoongi announced as he came to Taehyung’s party. The team was sitting on the large L-shaped couch. The party began with light drinking and some dance, but when did it turn into a rave, nobody knows. People blasting music loudly, some even grinding on each other in the intoxicated state. Taehyung and Jungkook mimicked goldfishes? Jin danced like there was no tomorrow, while Namjoon was crying telling Hobi about how cute his bonsai plant looked. It was chaos. Yoongi had somehow managed to remain sober enough to call you.

“Hey babe!! CAN YOU HEAR ME?!” Yoongi shouted over the loud music playing. “Yes Yoongi. Why are you calling me at 1am in the morning?” you asked your voice slightly gruff. “Because I miss you my cute potato” Yoongi said. “Don’t tell me you are drunk Min Yoongi” you said rubbing your temples. “Maybe… Okay, I am. Please drive me home” Yoongi said. “Stay there, I will come by” you said as you got your car keys and put on a jacket. “Okay babe. You the best” he slurred as you giggled.

If only he had never called you…

He waited on Taehyung’s doorstep. Time just passed but you never came. He just slept on the porch. He woke up with a heavy throbbing head. He was upset that you never came after promising you would. He got out his phone to ask you the reason for blowing him off, only to find tons of missed calls from you. He must have not realized his phone ringing in his intoxicated state.

If only he had checked his phone…

He called you. The phone rang for a long time, until it was answered. “Y/n. Where are you? I slept on the porch, my back hurts” he whined. “Yoongi, it’s me” Jin answered. Yoongi was startled as his cheeks flushed. Why did he have your phone? And when did he leave the house? He decided to raise his questions. “Jin?! Where is Y/n?” he asked.

“She had an accident yesterday Yoongi” Jin answered somberly. It was like the air was knocked out of Yoongi’s lungs. His legs seemed too weak to hold his weight. He was still drunk and was imagining things right? This was just a figment of his imagination. If he tries hard enough, he will wake up in your arms…

“Yoongi? Yoongi!” Jin called him back to reality. “Why didn’t you wake me up? Where is she?” Yoongi asked, raking his hands through his black hair. “I tried to. But you didn’t seem to wake up. The hospital staff called you first since your number was saved in emergency contacts, but since you didn’t pick up they called me. We are in the Newlife Hospital. Come quickly” Jin said.

Yoongi wanted to slap himself. Why did he drink so much? He immediately borrowed Taehyung’s motorbike and arrived at the hospital. When he reached your ward, he was met with the sight of you with scratches all over you. Tubes were connected to you, which supplied blood and oxygen. He broke down sobbing at the door. Jin came forward, getting Yoongi away from the ward and sitting him in the waiting area.

Yoongi just sobbed. How could he let this happen? It was his entire fault. “She is in a coma. It may take from a few days to months for her to wake up” Jin said as he rubbed Yoongi’s back soothingly. Yoongi just cried harder, unable to process the whole thing.

You remained in a coma for a week. People came in and checked on you every day. Yoongi came in every day. He almost never left the hospital. He only went home to get changed out of his clothes. He held your hand, waiting for any small movement, any reaction you would give him. But you didn’t. Jin was a regular visitor too. He came in and made sure that Yoongi had his meals and took care of himself too.

It was only after a week that you opened your eyes. As usual Yoongi was holding your hands, caressing your face when your eyelids moved. He immediately called for the doctors as he waited for you to open your eyes. You slowly blinked your eyes, slowly adjusting your sight to the bright white walls and plain white sheets. Before you had the chance to fully register your surroundings you were engulfed in a hug. You could only see a bush of black hairs. “Y/n, please never do that again” cried the familiar voice. You felt tears drenching your shoulders. The man finally sat back taking your hands and bringing it to his lips.

You pulled out your hands from his when his lips touched your wrists. “Who are you?” you asked glaring at Yoongi as you held your hands close to your chest. Who are you? The question was left hanging in the air as both Yoongi and Jin, who had entered the room when he heard Yoongi call for the doctors, were taken aback.

“Y/n. It’s me. Yoongi, your Yoongs. Your big cutie” Yoongi said as he tried to hold your hands while you just pulled your hands inwards, away from his reach. “I don’t know any Yoongi. And I don’t know who you are either” you said pointing at Jin in the last statement. Yoongi couldn’t believe anything you were saying. “You are joking right babe? You are pranking me as revenge aren’t you? But please, this joke is too mean” Yoongi said as he tried to smile.

“I don’t know you. Please go away” you said, almost sounding scared. Tears filled Yoongi’s eyes as he couldn’t see anything. You were reduced to nothing but a blotch in a white backdrop. One of the head doctors ushered Yoongi out of the room. “Mr. Min, you are Y/n’s boyfriend right?” the doctor asked with a sympathetic expression. Yoongi nodded. “Miss Y/n has brain damage which has resulted in her having amnesia. She doesn’t seem to remember the last 3 years of her life” the doctor said, placing his hand on Yoongi’s shoulder.

“But she will remember everything won’t she?” Yoongi asked hopefully. “The injury is very deep. The chances are very slim, but not zero. She shouldn’t be forced to recall any memories; it may harm her more than help. In case of a permanent memory loss, just help her create new memories” the doctor said, patting Yoongi’s shoulder. Yoongi just cried. He felt helpless. He couldn’t do anything other than crying. His girlfriend lost her memory; she couldn’t remember him or the 2 years they had been together. She was suffering, while he couldn’t take the pain away.

Jin hugged Yoongi. He couldn’t see Yoongi suffer. He couldn’t bear to see your condition too. Everything was too overwhelming. Yoongi’s eyes had dark circles due to all the crying. He looked pale and ill. He came back to your room after collecting himself. You still looked at him skeptically from your bed. He wasn’t used to this gaze. You had always looked at him so affectionately, like he was the reason the galaxy existed. But today, you just looked at him with a look which screamed suspicion.

“Hi Y/n” he said trying to sound chipper. “I am Yoongi and this is Jin. We are your friends” Yoongi said. You just nodded.

And everything went downhill from there. You got better physically, but you didn’t recall any previous memories. Yoongi and Jin slowly tried to reintroduce to your old lifestyle. They reintroduced you to your teammates and your coaches. You were reserved but you tried to learn everything and accept as much as possible. Seeing you like this had made Yoongi also withdrawn. He tried his best around you but was losing hope to win you back.

He tried to get your attention, he cared, and he did everything he could do from a distance. He could not come closer. It hurt him, but he couldn’t do anything about it. Even when they taught you basketball, he made sure to get your things. He helped you when you had difficulty with any move. He was just always beside you.

Everything seemed to be going back to normal as he saw that you were slowly letting your guard down around him, talking to him like you used to do. Everything seemed like sunshine and rainbows till the rain clouds appeared.

It was a cloudy day Yoongi remembers, you and him were supposed to meet at the local library. You had acquired the hobby of reading after your amnesia and Yoongi decided to take part in it. The cloud seemed to grow darker as Yoongi waited for you. You didn’t recall any memories, but that was ok. Yoongi could always make you fall in love with him again, right?

You arrived after a while. Your dusky skin in contrast to the off-white scarf around your neck. Your wild wavy hair frames your face, slipping out of the ponytail. He looked at you, still very much in love with the way your nose scrunched up quite a while before you sneezed, how you rubbed your nose with your index finger under your nose to hold the sneeze in. it was all the same. Just perfect, you and him, everything the same except now the conditions were different.

You came over and sat in front of him smiling at him. His heart still fluttered at the sight of your cheeks squishing your eyes into crescents, two upside down smiles, he would call them. Both of you got the books of your liking and sat reading in silence. Yoongi looked at you, as you indulged in the book. He never came to the library with the intent of reading the book, he came with the intent of reading your face.

He watched you read as a small strand of hair slipped from behind the ear and rested softly on your cheek. He held in the urge to tuck it back in the place. He knew the emotions you were going through with just the twitch of your lip, the scrunching of your eyebrows and every other detail you thought were insignificant about you.

After some time you put down the book and looked right at him. Yoongi fumbled through the pages, afraid that he was caught in the act of staring at you. “Yoongi… Can I ask you something?” you asked as you scratched your nose. You were nervous, Yoongi could sense immediately. “Yes” he simply answered. “I still haven’t gotten my memories back. I still don’t remember my relationships with any of you. But I don’t want to wait any longer for my memories to come back, I want to live normally again, not in the thought that a part of me is missing” you said, fumbling with your fingers.

“That is totally normal. It is not necessary for you to get back your memories to get back your relationships Y/n” Yoongi said smiling at her. “Thank you Yoongi” you said, placing your palm on top of his to show your gratitude. Yoongi felt butterflies in his stomach. This was the first physical contact you had initiated with him, even though it was months after the accident Yoongi couldn’t be happier.

“Yoongi, you are like my best friend. I can go as far as to say that you are equivalent to me like a brother” you said as Yoongi’s smile faltered. Brother? Did you really not understand his love? “You have always taken care of me, so I feel the most comfortable in getting your help” you said lookind away shyly as Yoongi blankly stared at you. “I like Jin. Can you help me confess to him?” you asked, your eyes sparkling with hope.

Yoongi had never denied you anything. But today? How could he help set up his best friend with the person he thought is the love of his life? Yoongi got his hand out of your grip and stared at the table. “You don’t have to…” you said as your voice faltered. You didn’t know what was wrong. It was just an innocent request wasn’t it?

“Ah…”Yoongi swallowed. “I will see what I can…do” Yoongi said, trying very hard to not let his voice crack, but it did. Before you could answer he grabbed his jacket and ran out. He heard you call his name but he couldn’t stop. He just ran the way his feet took him. His eyes were blurring. Nothing but a smudge of colours was visible. Different colours mixed together in an unpleasant way, like his feelings, torn between accepting your growth and losing you.

He stopped when he reached Jin’s home. He wiped his eyes to the sleeves of his jacket. “Jin!” he called. He called again and again till Jin came out. He immediately came towards Yoongi with a concerned face. “What hap-“before Jin could finish his sentence, Yoongi had punched him square in the jaw. Jin stumbled back due to the impact, his face didn’t show anger, but showed confusion and concern.

“What- “again Yoongi punched him as Jin fell back. Yoongi straddled him as he threw punches at his chest as he cried. His punches grew weaker with each sob, until he collapsed beside Jin, crying. Jin got up and moved a little away from Yoongi who was crying on his garden. He rubbed his chest and face and found a little blood on his lip. Yoongi curled into a ball crying. Jin couldn’t see his friend in pain anymore. He slowly approached Yoongi and touched his shoulder.

Yoongi’s cries subsided to sniffles as Jin rubbed his back soothingly. “I am so sorry. I am sorry” Yoongi said, not looking at Jin as he sat up, facing a kneeling Jin. “It’s ok” Jin said as he looked at Yoongi’s lifeless eyes. “What is the matter?” Jin asked, sitting in front of Yoongi as he shook his shoulders, when he realized he isn’t violent anymore.

“It’s over. Y/n doesn’t love me, not anymore anyway. She has feelings for you” Yoongi said as he looked straight into Jin’s eyes. Jin physically flinched at the glimpse of anger in Yoongi’s eyes. Jin didn’t know what to say. He seemed to be the villain of Yoongi’s story.

“Do you like her?” Yoongi asked way too calmly. Jin didn’t know where to put the calmness. Was it the calmness before the storm arrived or was it the calmness after the storm had destroyed everything? But Jin didn’t know the other type of calmness which arises midway. The calm which arises when a day of war is over but you know it will continue the next day.

Did Jin like you? He mulled over this thought. “Yes” Jin said, looking away. Yoongi looked at his friend. The blood was slowly clotting at the end of his lips. So it was mutual huh. He was the extra one sided lover. He laughed a self deprecating laugh. Jin looked at him startled. “Date her then” Yoongi said simply. Jin looked at him wide eyed. “No. don’t worry I won’t date her. She will realize your love for her and come back to you. I can’t do that to you” Jin said, panicking. He didn’t want Yoongi to misunderstand him. He liked you, but years of friendship mattered more to him.

“You will not break her heart and neither will you get heartbroken” Yoongi said, pointing Jin at chest. “I can’t force her to love me. Love can never be forced. She doesn’t have to love me for me to love her. Love is not barter, I love her and she doesn’t love me, I can accept that” Yoongi said getting up and Jin followed his suit. “Just take care of her” Yoongi said as he walked away. He heard Jin call him but he didn’t stay.

Running away was the only thing he could do anyways. So he ran. Ran past the garden where you had your first date. Ran past the street lamp where you shared your first kiss. Ran past the tree where you had asked him to be your boyfriend. Ran past your home. He ran to his room and slammed the door shut. He sank down to the floor with his head against the door. He looked straight and saw your photo beside his bed. He could never outrun you, could he? He gave a bittersweet smile. Tears didn’t even flow anymore. He was just exhausted. He dragged himself to his bed and held the photo close and slept. Maybe in dreams you would be his.

*present*

Yoongi was brought back to reality when Taehyung clapped his back, “Good game” and walked away. He watched from the sidelines as you talked animatedly to Jin about how you had scored. How you had mastered a difficult move. Did Jin know the way your hands clenched to form tiny fists when you were excited? Did Jin notice the way you jumped in your place when you thought you deserved praise? Yoongi wondered.

You waved Yoongi over to go to your regular hangout place after the match. Jin was awkward when he first started dating you. The guilt tortured him. But soon he came to terms with it. Yoongi had permitted him, right? You linked your arms with Jin and Yoongi as you pulled both of them to walk with you. Yoongi simply followed you. If he can’t have you in his arms at least he can have you in front of his eyes.

At the small café, you, Jin, Yoongi, and Jimin sat on a table. Jin sat beside you while Yoongi across. Jin slightly tucked a stray hair behind your hair, which Yoongi used to do. You looked at Jin with such a tender gaze, Yoongi wished it was him. The coffee arrived with some donuts. Jin got a call from his workplace and left to attend to it while Jimin got called over by a wild group of Namjoon and Hobi who were trying to stack donuts on their foreheads. It was just you and Yoongi, same people in a different scenario.

Yoongi lifted the cup to his lips when he heard a small yelp. You had accidently spilled some hot coffee on your hands and burnt it. Yoongi instinctively grabbed a water bottle from his bag and pulled your hand over and pulled your hand towards him. He was glad that this café was situated in between an open lawn as he could easily pour water on your hands without making a mess. After some hissing from you and some warning from Yoongi about being careful, Yoongi dabbed your hand clean. He looked at you, the memories flooding back. He lowered his gaze before he could look at you for too long.

Jin came back after the call ended. Seeing your bright red hand he gently kissed it. Yoongi couldn’t do that, he could just dab it clean. Yoongi, Jin and you talked while you drank your respective drinks without spilling. Mostly you and Jin talked while Yoongi kept reading your eyes, hiding from your eyes for any sign of discomfort from your burnt hand.

Jin and you left after finishing the drinks. You walked leaning your head lovingly on Jin’s shoulder while he had an arm around your shoulder. Yoongi drank the remaining coffee and stared at your empty seat.

If only he had been more careful that night…

A/N: Also feel free to request for any fanfiction. My request box is open. I will be writing whenever I find time, but my next post may take time. Reblog and Comment if you liked the story. It keeps me motivated to write.

Goodbye Dear Love, Meet You Again in Another Life.

Summary: You had been in a bad condition for as long as you can remember. And Trey hasn’t seen you ever since you both parted ways years ago. But he met you just to see you for the last moments ever

Pairing: GN! Reader x Trey

Genre: Fluff and angst

“Is this really worth it, (Y/N)?” Trey asked you. You were giving him no hope what’s so ever. You sighed as you looked at him in the eyes, “Yes. I’m doing this because of my family. I’m sorry Trey. They mean a lot to me.” You explained. Trey tried not to cry, but he can’t keep it to himself. “Promise me you will remember me, will you?” You smiled while shedding a single tear, “I will, Trey. I will always remember you every second.” You said, then you kissed his cheeks.

He doesn’t wanna let you go, but knowing how much family means to you, he let you go with a heavy heart. “(Y/N), we have to go now!” Your mother shouted to you from the train window. You then looked at Trey again, he smiled as he stroked your hair, “Go on. Don’t wanna dissapoint your family.” He said as his tears keeps coming out, “Thank you, Trey, for making my college life better.” You said as you turned your back to get on the train.

You saw his gold orbs saw the train departure away as he let out the final smile you will ever see from him. You let out your final smile too, even though you both were crying like crazy in the inside, you know you both will eventually meet again in the future.

Fast forward a few years later, you were on your Hospital bed. You felt hopeless. You can’t feel anything for these past few years, but not as hopeless like the way you parted ways like strangers with your good friend, Trey Clover.

You planned all of these things in this new place, but this sickness is taking your time away from you, and doctors are saying that this was appareantly your last day like you were told a few months ago. Knock knock, you heard a knock on the door, “Come in...” You said with no emotion.

The door opened as a tall figure came into the room, you looked at the figure and you bawled your eyes out. The green haired man let out a chuckle, “Suprise..!” He said. All you can do is cry out of joy, was it really him? Did your good friend, Trey Clover really came back to your last moments on thsi world?

“T-Trey?” You said as he walked closer to your Hospital bed, “Yes, (Y/N)?” Trey asked, you can see sadness and happiness in his eyes. “I heard about your situation from my mother. Appareantly, she had kept in contact with your mother and told me that today is your last day.” You smiled when you heard his voice, it was like meeting with his ghost, but he was actually there in the blink of your eyes.

“And i just wanted to spend some time with you before you go.”

“Oh, Trey, this is so sweet of you.” You replied with the most ugliest cry you can let out. Trey chuckled, “Haha, you still cry the same way you did back in college when you were venting on how everything was pressuring you.” He mentioned the time when you were young and carefree, now it has been nearly ten years since college, and nearly seven years since you parted ways with Trey.

None the less, you smiled like the both of you were in one of your dorms and just hanged out like friends do. “Hey, Trey...” You said as you looked at him with tears in your eyes, “Yes, (Y/N)?” He asked, feeling a little scared. Was it time that you will die? “I have something to tell you.” You said as you stroked his green hair, “I’m listening.”

“I love you-” But before you can continue, God had taken away another soul away, “(Y/N)?!” Trey shouted. But you had already left this world. Oh well, it was nice to know a guy like him.

Now, whenever Trey looked at photos of you, or generally people he knew from college, he will remember you. And now it looks like he reunited with you in the afterlife. Both of you doing what friends always do.

Talk like there is no tomorrow.

Yesterday I read a fanfic on ao3. It was so well written. It's about unrequired love between jikook and hanahaki disease. I stayed awake up until 3am to read the whole fic from how good it was, and its elements of angst, fluff, pining were just *chef's kiss* and it left a room for more (it's complete, but still, you can just imagine what could happen next). It's called Forget Me Not, but sadly the account has been orphaned :(

Prompt 98

Geralt comes clean to Jaskier one night that he feels as if their friendship and their traveling partnership is a little onesided, but because he's Geralt, he doesn't articulate this well enough to actually draw you to the correct damn conclusion. Jaskier assumes Geralt is dropping hints that Jaskier isn't doing enough. Geralt hunts and provides for them, and he does the contracts, and he does the cooking (Jaskier would set water on fire if he could) - Thus, Jaskier begins doing more in order to try and prove himself to Geralt. Geralt has finally admitted to Jaskier that he hasn't been doing enough. Jaskier made Geralt famous with one song, Jaskier barters their prices, Jaskier sings to earn them money every night, Jaskier holds his own in the fights he's unfortunately involved in, Jaskier takes care of camp while Geralt is away hunting, Jaskier massages Geralt, and cares for his hair- I mean, it's so much that Jaskier does for them, and Geralt feels he doesn't do enough. But Geralt has finally admitted that he's not doing enough to Jaskier, so now he has the motivation to do better! He just wishes it didn't keep seeming miraculously more and more difficult to keep up with Jaskier-

“You love selfishly,” the witch told Geralt, which was pretty presumptuous seeing as how they’d met all of 5 minutes ago. And those 5 minutes had been spent trying to kill each other. “This selfishness will hurt you and those you love. Until you learn to love selflessly, you will only take your pleasure in the pleasure of others.”

Even as the curse took hold, Geralt didn’t panic. As curses went, it didn’t sound so bad. The bit about “pleasure” made it sound like it was about sex. Like, he wouldn’t be able to feel good unless his partner did, which was a standard Geralt held for himself anyway.

Only, the curse was much more than what he had assumed. Geralt soon discovered that food had lost its taste, that he tossed and turned all night. He wasn’t in pain, but he was never comfortable.

Fuck.

Through trial and error, Geralt learned the rules of his curse. It was pretty simple really. He couldn’t enjoy anything in life alone. Someone had to be nearby and enjoying it with him. Their pleasure was his pleasure. If that person wasn’t pleased with a meal—or in general—Geralt’s food would taste poorly too.

This made things difficult for Geralt. He had a solitary profession. Additionally, the people he did meet were never comfortable around him: all scared of hateful or suspicious.

Geralt found some work arounds though. Roach was a lifesaver: if she was eating, he could eat nearby and taste his meal. As long as she slept well—and nearby—he could sleep.

Winter was better: he explained his situation to his brothers, and he was never left without a companion. They offered to travel with him on the path, but he refused. He could endure the rest of the year as long as he had Roach

Geralt considered breaking the curse; however, he honestly wasn’t sure how. He honestly didn’t believe in love that was completely selfless. Relationships were always about give and take. People always wanted things from one another.

Years passed, Geralt endured, and then he met Jaskier.

Jaskier was… odd. He had taken one glance at a witcher, a rumored butcher, and decided that Geralt was his traveling companion. And then his muse. And then his friend. No matter how Geralt tried to disabuse him of any of these notions.

He did admit that having Jaskier with him made the path easier. He didn’t have to carefully time his meals and sleep around Roach when the bard was around. Jaskier was also surprisingly easy to please. Geralt could give him stale bread to eat and a lumpy mattress to sleep on, and the bard exuded joy.

Even while complaining the entire time.

The oddities continued when Geralt discovered that Jaskier didn’t have to eat a meal to enjoy it. Once, Geralt had been grievously injured, and Jaskier had insisted on spoonfeeding him. Even though the bard didn’t eat a morsel, the bard was so happy that the soup tasted like ambrosia to Geralt.

It was all so strange, and it made Geralt strange too. He caught himself thinking about how to make Jaskier happy. Not because of the curse. Because…because it was Jaskier, and Jaskier was meant to be happy.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!! I love this!!!

Geralt is cursed to have his internal monologue visible on his face.

Of course, Jaskier finds him and questions the bag over his head.

*Bag falls off* Geralt: "shIT-" *quickly puts it back on* Jaskier: "What did that say??? 'I love...'?" Geralt: "ROACH. I love ROACH. AND ONLY ROACH. NOBODY ELSE. THERE'S NOBODY I WANNA THROW OVER A TABLE AT AN INN AND FUCK UNTIL HE CRIES. NOBODY I WANNA MARRY IN THE SPRING. NOBODY." Jaskier: "..........Geralt, darling, are you feeling alright?????"

New Chapter!

Hey guys :D new chapter of Black Wolf went up yesterday! Go check it out :))

Requests?

I was thinking of opening up requests? Would anyone be interested? <<33

My main ship is taekook but would be happy to write others :))

Chapter Updated

Chapter 4 of Black Wolf has been updated!! :D check it out on AO3 or Wattpad <3

Fateful Beginnings

V. “the interview”

parts: previous / next

plot: the interview does not go as you would have hoped.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, reference to sa (which did not end up happening), anger, arguing, blackmail

words: 2k

Flustered, you wandered down the hallway to see if it happened to lead to an exit. No, it couldn't be that easy. The exit was nowhere to be found, it just led to a men's room strangely situated in the corner. You checked in the camera of your phone to see if the tear streaks were really gone, and faked confidence as you walked through the foyer again. As you wandered past the refreshment table a familiar sound startled you. "Welcome in!" You didn't miss the cheekiness in his voice, whipping around with the first real grin you'd had in ages. It almost hurt your face to move those muscles again. "Rai!" He went in for a hug and you did a few minutes of chatting, nearly to the point of forgetting what was in store for you. He showed you which dishes he had brought, including a few from his deli, and helped you to a sample portion of each. He offered you more, but your hunger cues were fucked after the level of stress you'd been under this week. Bidding him regretful adieu, you went out the front steps trying to avoid the paparazzi. It was successful, as Bruce Wayne had walked through the throngs minutes earlier leaving many of them still hitchhiking back from a short car chase.

In what unfortunately closely resembled the alley from before, you swallowed back a rush of anxiety. The alley was deceptively long, leaving you ample time to form semi-coherent thoughts about what had just occurred. Bruce Wayne was the Batman? It didn't make sense. But it did. But it didn't. But it was true. Your mind caught fragments of thoughts as they flew by. He was an asshole. Kind of. Why did he save people? Why didn't he want to talk to the people he saved? How come he had never done an interview? Had no one really recognized him before, or had they all been murdered?

An unfamiliar car was parked behind the building. It looked like something your dad would have gawked at back home, something vintage or retro. It looked like an old Cadillac, with sandy beige paint and a brown leather interior. A note was pasted on the front seat which you read after opening the unlocked driver's side.

Park it at the side of the entrance, the first alley on the right before you enter the grounds. Turn the lights off before you make the turn.

Never having been to Wayne Tower before and having no clue how big the grounds were, you put it into Google Maps. You thanked god as you buckled that this wasn't a stick shift, and sped off through the alleys of Gotham. The last time you had driven a car had been before you transferred here, back in Washington, where you had free, open streets to roam for endless miles. Gritting your teeth with frustration you were still not yet free of this place, you hit the gas and hoped the directions weren't leading you to your demise.

The grounds were... massive. It was deceptive, and you had to circle around a few times before finding an alley. The tower faced the opposite side of the giant lawn, the alley thick with tree overhang. The car managed to slip right into it like a glove, just as you remembered to dim the lights. Hope that didn't fuck anything up. You were confused as you drove down it, wondering where the hell it led to until you noticed a pinprick of light in the distance. Another grin spread across your face as you floored it, zooming close to seventy, when a figure entered your vision in the middle of the street. You slammed on the brakes which were ridiculously responsive, nearly tipping the car over backwards with the velocity. Once the car settled you met the glaring eyes of the prince himself. Let's get this over with.

The paper flew out with the force of air from whipping the door open. Suspicion crept into your bones. "Hey, this was just, sitting there." You shouted. It twirled in the air between you. He just stared and shrugged. Irked, you continued. "If this is a secret entrance to your home, wouldn't you have been more discreet?"

"No one knows my handwriting. The car could have belonged to anyone." Bruce Wayne's voice was rough like sandpaper, far removed from warmth or allure. You bit back a retort about the car looking like it cost a hundred grand as you sulked past him toward an iron door. Either he was more arrogance than man or the average Gotham resident was dense as a rock. Shooting a look back at him you tried to rip the door open. It ripped at your shoulder instead and you cursed, fingers flying to massage the socket. He chuckled to himself and your cheeks burned with embarrassment. He stepped forward with unearned confidence and the door came open with ease. "It's fingerprint sensitive." He sneered. "But I did enjoy watching you try."

Dick, you thought. Just get the interview done. Get your questions answered so you can be rid of this rich asshole. You shut your eyes tightly every few steps to remind yourself that you would be gone in a week; in one single week you would have a diploma in-hand and be on a flight back home. To your room. Your family. Your friends... who hadn't kept in contact much since you'd left. A wince of pain curdled your stomach as you suppressed thoughts of your friendships only existing due to proximity. Was there anywhere you wouldn't be an outcast?

Before stepping in, you hesitated, and his footsteps stopped after a few steps for him to glare at you over his shoulder. "I don't have all night."

"Take off your coat." You demanded. His eyes narrowed. "What for?"

You crossed your arms. "I need to know if you're armed."

He groaned and took off his jacket, leaving him in just his suit. Still, he could have been hiding something... "Your suit jacket too." The anxiety was real; if he could hide the fact he was Batman, he could surely hide bodies.

"I don't have any weapons on me." His tone was ever so slightly softer, less jagged. It only served to make you more suspicious of him.

"I don't believe you." There was silence for a few beats. Then a huff.

"Do I have to do this too or you'll blackmail me for it?" You didn't say anything in response. He turned around and flashed the inside pockets of his suit, then spun and showed you the back. "You happy? I'm not taking it off."

"Fine. But if you kill me I'll have you know people will look for me. And I won't go down easy." You took off your heels and walked through the thick door; it shut automatically as you walked in. Bruce pressed forward.

"Couldn't imagine anything with you being easy." He grumbled.

The end of the hallway opened to a balmy, wet sort of garage. There was a long table in the center with a few computers and other gadgets, with various boxes and tech scattered across the cracked concrete floor. He walked over to the desk and moved papers from the one chair in view, pushing it toward you. "Fifteen minutes starts now."

You scoffed. "What happened to twenty?"

"What happened to leaving the event when I asked you to instead of dawdling?" His jaw was set tight and you ignored him, taking a slow walk to the chair. The only thing he had on you was making his snide comments—you had the real shit, the info you could leak at any second to massive scandal.

He leaned against his desk just a few feet in front of you, palm flat. You cleared your throat and tried to drum up some questions to make it seem you'd come prepared. You flicked the recorder to ON and cleared your throat. "Bruce, tell me—"

"It's Mr. Wayne." His voice loud, biting.

"Tell me about how you spend your free time." You completely ignored him, continuing on. He adjusted, his jaw locked together. He shoved his hand in his pant pocket. He didn't know how to answer it, and it angered him to be referred to so casually by you. He thought about how Alfred would answer that could fit Bruce Wayne. It was hard to pretend he cared about his answers enough to get his brain whirring. More pressing things were on his mind, like how someone in the public now knew his identity.

"I like to read historical fiction, engage in physical pursuits, and," he paused as his mind did. Stalk the criminals of the city, stop the criminals of the city, clean up Gotham's streets one by one...

"What type of 'physical pursuits', Bruce?" You chimed.

The tips of his ears turned red with frustration. "It's Mr. Wayne." He stared at you with narrowed eyes and tense muscles. Where did you get the right to... he walked away from the desk to stand closer to you. Curious fear shot into you as you noticed how densely he was built. You'd nearly fallen prey to the average Gothamite, no way you could fight off the vigilante himself. But... maybe you could kick him in the balls. He spoke through gritted teeth. "What do you want?"

Your eyes blinked with confusion. "What?"

His fists clenched and unclenched along with his jaw. "Your silence. What do you want?"

"I need to ask you more questions."

With a dramatic eye roll he leaned back against the desk. He signified his impatience with rapid tapping of his fingers. "I have a home gym. Cardio, weight training, endurance. Can't really just jog around the street."

"Women know the feeling." You felt his eyes on you but you ignored it. "Why don't you go in public more often? Surely your cardio and fiction don't take up every waking hour."

"Aren't these supposed to be questions, not judgements?"

You simply stared back at him with an empty gaze. Was this the first time he'd ever been challenged outside of the suit? You watched as he ran his hands through his hair and his chest caved from a deep exhale. He answered your next questions with robotic ease. Renewal fund things. Got a degree from Yale Law. Never pursued it due to waning interest. His favorite dish is... soup. Mulligatawny, to be exact. Whatever that was. Often vacations to Rio and Greece.

By the time you'd asked a meager handful of questions he was near imploding. You needed a question you could focus in on. "What's your stance on the masked vigilante, the Batman?"

His eyes shot to yours with a fierce glare and you gestured down to the voice recorder. God, he couldn't believe your audacity. "What is there to say?" He rose to pace slowly between the desk and wall. More specifically, he thought, what is there to say that can't be twisted in your paper? "This 'Batman'... he's a complicated figure. I don't like that he's interrupting with our justice department. Meddling. He's taken the law into his own hands. However..." a sharp breath. "He's not necessarily harming innocent civilians. I try not to think about him."

His presumptive comment elicited a snappy response. "So you think some people are deserving of harm? What about structural inequalities that force people to steal, intimidate,"

He interrupted you with biting tone. "And that gives them the right to steal from everyone else?"

"Okay Mr. Billionaire."

"No, really!" He turned to you with his hands on his hips which pushed his suit jacket behind him. His face was alight with frustrated curiosity as he strolled over. "Do tell me, Miss Journalist," he leaned down and with your faces on the same level you could feel the heat of his breath. His demeanor was darker now. "How that man in the alley was innocent."

Fateful Beginnings

VI. “dinner”

parts: previous / next

plot: after a sour interview attempt, you find yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, brief mention of sa (which did not transpire), anger, arguing, feeling helpless

words: 2.2k

You quickly remembered how furiously he beat up the man in the alley. Maybe the truth was more transparent than you'd realized; you saw the Batman edge to him so clearly now. Batman was in the way his jaw set, his stature as he walked closer to someone. The staccato of his pointed words and how they flowed so securely past his lips. You could see it in every flex of his muscles, the intensity of his gaze. You never wanted to be on the receiving end of his vitriol. For now, all you had was his frustration and annoyance. Better than being prey.

"Forcing your dick into a stranger isn't exactly getting anything meaningful, is it?" You bit back, running over the pattering in your chest. Bitterness stung your tongue as you watched him pull back and pace between the desk again. "I'm talking money. Assets. Opportunities. If people had everything they needed, they wouldn't pillage the streets trying to find a means of self-preservation—"

He cut you off as rage seeped into your voice. "You talk like you know from experience."

"I know I'm far closer to them than an out of touch rich kid." You turned the recorder to OFF. He looked at you with suspicion. "What are you doing?"

"This is pointless." You clenched fingers around the recorder and grabbed your phone from where it sat on the table. Anger was starting to overtake you listening to someone who had everything in life handed to him look down on those who had less lucky circumstances. "I'm not dealing with you. I'm leaving."

Quick, heavy footsteps came up behind you and he grabbed your elbow. You ripped it away from him and kept on down toward the iron door. "I'm leaving." As you walked you remembered you'd left your heels; you wanted to turn around, but kept forward. Heat flushed your cheeks when you reached the door that wouldn't open. Panic. Would he even let you out? Is this when the torturing began?

"Master Wayne?" A British man's voice filled the basement. A clank, the sound of metal, and then a stutter. "Who—”

You spun around to face a grey-haired, well-dressed man peering out from an open-plan elevator. He had a pair of spectacles in hand and a worried expression. Opening your mouth to speak proved futile when Bruce Wayne was always so ready and willing to answer. "She knows, Alfred." His tone was flat and to the point, if a bit terse. Worry melted to curiosity as he nodded at you. Was that a statement or a signal?

You did a small, annoyed wave. "I'm Y/N. Wanted to interview Gotham's elusive billionaire." You covered the words in as much sarcasm as humanly possible to mask your deepening anxiety. Did he know how to fight too?

"Pleasure to meet you, Y/N. How about staying for dinner?" You felt softer with the presence of this man in the room. Was this his father? They didn't look particularly alike... and why wouldn't Bruce Wayne have an accent if this was his parent? Hadn't his parents died while he was young? Maybe he was a caretaker of sorts? A cook? Maybe it was too naive, it was likely so supremely naive as to be moronic, but you felt the mood shift when this 'Alfred' walked in. A positive one. Bruce Wayne started to answer the dinner invite with a resounding hell no, which plastered a smile right on your face. "I'd love to!" You skipped over to retrieve your heels and sidled beside this Alfred in the elevator. Your heels ached and you wanted nothing more than to crash in your own bed. However, pissing off this asshole? And getting free food? You felt it the utmost priority to get under Bruce Wayne’s skin as much as possible. Maybe you could get more information for your paper while you were at it.

Alfred gave a come here motion for him to join you, and after a heavy scoff and eye-roll he slumped his way over. With a press of a button the doors closed and elevator shot up. To your right wafted a gentle scent of fresh musk; whoever he was, he even smelled fancy. To your right the smell of old clothes. Your eyes wandered to the stiffness of Bruce Wayne's suit; it looked like it hadn't ever been worn, and the musty scent lent that credibility. Clustered together in this small space with Alfred too, you got a bit more brave. Tested the waters. Wanted to see if your anxiety could be alleviated. You picked off a piece of lint that was on his shoulder; as soon as you touched him his head whipped toward yours, expression accosted. You suppressed a laugh. "Just some lint, Jesus."

The elevator stopped suddenly, forcing you to grab the bars as you stumbled forward. Him and Alfred walked easily as you stumbled behind them. You looked up to the massive staircase across the way, and noticed this elevator was placed adjacent to the kitchen in a dark hallway. The ceilings were impossibly tall with gothic arches and swirls in excess.

"I'm changing." Bruce Wayne walked unceremoniously out of the room and off somewhere in the gargantuan mansion at the first opportunity. Alfred showed you around the kitchen, handing you a heavy ceramic plate. Knowing them it could even be diamond. The house wasn't particularly well-lit; surprisingly for a wealthy family. Your mind immediately went to rich celebrities and their glistening homes. Gotham was so fucking weird.

Alfred winked at you as he got out two more plates. "Master Wayne can dish up himself, being how grumpy he's acted." You let out a small chuckle when the man himself silently appeared beside you, empty plate in-hand. He was suspiciously quick, and it looked weird outside of the suit. He smelled a bit better now, like a woody oak tree... and detergent. "Sorry, the prince has to dish himself." You crooned, handing him the ladle to the crockpot.

The sound of scraping dishes brought you back to meals with your mom and dad at the living room table. Homesickness enveloped you. How were they doing? They seemed excited to go to graduation; you hadn't seen them in nearly two years.

The scraping stopped. You watched carefully for the first fork to touch a tongue that wasn't yours. You made pleasant conversation until Bruce grew suspicious. He gestured to you. "Didn't you want to eat?"

Goosebumps riddled your thighs and you did your best to will them away from your arms and prying eyes. The house was so dark. You stumbled over some dumb excuse. "I always let the hosts eat first." It went over about as well as you thought it would with him.

"You think Alfred poisoned you?"

Shame did wheelies in your mind. It seemed a bit storybookish; come to the secret lair, have a final dinner before inevitable demise. The arches, the long table... it was all very reminiscent of something underground, something akin to holiness but more sinister. He stared at you when Alfred took a scoop from Bruce's bowl, and swallowed. You took a bite and instantly settled at how delicious it was. "Alfred, is this, uh, mulli—"

"Oh, yes! How did you know?" He was chipper, likely making up for his less kindly dinner partner. You told him how you'd asked what sort of cuisines Bruce was into—to which he shot another glare your way and the old man grinned.

You made sure to draw out the length of the dinner in spite of Bruce Wayne. He picked at his food, not eating, as you and Alfred prattled on about this, that, and oh, this other thing! It wasn't all a ruse, however; you thoroughly enjoyed Alfred as he seemed exceptionally kind and competent. Looking into his weathered face and hearing his posh accent took the burning sting of Bruce's presence away—which was another thing: he always had people refer to him with formalities, so you resigned to calling him Bruce.

"I'd like to leave, Alfred." Bruce spoke through grit teeth and pushed his plate toward the center of the table in protest. If he had been a bit more animated, it might have looked like he was throwing a tantrum. You didn't bother to hide the grin twitching your lips because you knew he'd hate that, too. It was as if nothing mattered more than getting under his skin. The bickering was peaceful, really.

Alfred wasn't having it. As far as he could tell you were being a perfectly pleasant guest, and it befuddled him why Bruce was behaving that way. He’d put a few pieces together down in the batcave, given Bruce’s unceremonious announcement that you knew about Batman, but why would he be so cold? He had always told the boy it would happen eventually, and you didn’t seem to be a particularly malignant presence.

You'd notice a glare being shot from him to Bruce after he made a snide comment or a face to something you had said, which only made you add another cherry to the pile. It wasn't like Bruce was completely in the right; in fact, he had poked at you equally as much. His transgressions were more passive, less perceptible. A judging twitch of the eyebrow, a squint, an eye-roll. It was his house and he knew he wouldn't be kicked out for acting up, so he didn't bother watching himself.

You frustrated him. Your voice was grating, your chipper demeanor nearly making him gag. But. There was something more. He truly could have gotten up at any time, as Alfred was still under his payroll. Alfred had little say in how Bruce behaved at the end of the day, and he knew he could have stormed off to his bedroom without (much) consequence. You felt like an itch he couldn't scratch. You weren't dismissible, no, but that was due to how uniquely you frustrated him. It made him feel like bees swarming in his mind, thoughts scattered, body constantly teetering off the edge. A thorn he couldn't get out of his side... for some reason. The very fact that he could not pin down a sure one sent his frustration past manageability. You knew he was Batman and you were blackmailing him for it, but that was what anyone else would have done in that situation. Why was your personality so infuriating? Like a knife slipping under his fingernails?

ZZZ ZZ. ZZZ ZZ. ZZZ ZZ. Your phone buzzed and Alfred took his cell out of his breast pocket. You opened your phone to an emergency alert. FLASH FLOOD WARNING FOR GOTHAM METRO AREA. SEVERITY: MODERATE THREAT TO LIFE AND PROPERTY. STAY INDOORS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

Bruce's brows knit together again, much as they did at city hall. "What? What's the alert?"

Alfred spoke first. "It seems there's a... flash flood warning for our area. It says to stay indoors until further notice." You hadn't noticed the sound of the torrential rainpour until you really focused in on it. There were light pattering sounds far above with the terrifically high ceilings, though very steady and consistent. If it were in your apartment you wouldn't have been able to sleep in that damn cube. Wait. Sleep. You started typing into your phone the Gotham City website, and there was a red banner posted 12 seconds ago scrolling through bolded words in white. You read them aloud.

"It says on the city website to... expect delays for up to 72 hours?!" You couldn't hide the shock in your voice. Alfred immediately turned to Bruce who got up and slammed himself out of the chair. "Great. Just great." His annoyance ricocheted off the entryway walls, his hands fists at his side. Shit. Shit shit. Your eyes nearly bugged out of your head. "Wait, my paper! It's,"

"It's alright dear. I'll make you a bed in a spare room down the hall from me. I have a laptop too, if your professor still expects you to turn it in during a monsoon." Alfred tried to laugh but you weren't in the mood, your heart pounding against its cage as you sobered at the thought of having to be around Bruce for more than another hour.

"Master Wayne, you'll give a tour to Miss Y/N while I draw up a room."

"Are you kidding me?" You couldn't see him but the frustration in his tone was different now. It felt... inescapable, which made the terror more palpable. You had just blackmailed the most infamous vigilante in the world. And now you were stuck in his house. Fuck. Karma.

Fateful Beginnings // Chapter Index

ONGOING!

read on AO3 💘 read on Wattpad 🦇

Plot: when you find yourself needing a topic for a journalism final, you seek out an interview from Gotham's elusive vigilante: Batman. this proves even more difficult than it already sounds, and tensions rise when you discover an intimate secret—just as Bruce Wayne realizes his own.

Pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

CW: 18+, slow burn, angst (with a happy ending), smut, mental health issues, canon-typical violence, gritty, illness, enemies to lovers, fluff, mutual pining, forced proximity, POV alternating

Word Count: 151k (ongoing)

↓ chapters ↓

I. “the club within the club”

II. “research”

III. “the alley”

IV. “unmasked”

V. “the interview”

VI. “dinner”

VII. “peaches”

VIII. “as the rain settles”

IX. “goodbye, Gotham”

X. “discernment”

XI. “lying through teeth”

XII. “exceptionally qualified, equally eager”

XIII. “already spoken for”

XIV. “losing grip”

XV. “mutually-assured destruction”

XVI. “sweetener”

XVII. “orientation”

XVIII. “indebted”

XIX. “(im)mortality”

XX. “close call”

XXI. “belonging”

XXII. “gone missing”

XXIII. “desperation”

XXIV. “natural curiosity”

XXV. “Mr. Wayne”

XXVI. “grave responsibility”

XXVII. “tender loving care”

XXVIII. “eleventh hour”

XXIX. “uncanny valley”

XXX. “gut feeling”

XXXI. “deflection”

XXXII. “superglue”

XXXIII. “night light”

XXXIV. “the affliction of pity”

XXXV. “bittersuite domesticity”

Fateful Beginnings

XXXIII. “night light”

parts: previous / next

plot: not a week after the publishing of your interview, Bruce’s vulnerability is exploited when someone enacts revenge.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, physical assault (threats/guns (in mouth/pointed at head)), description of injury (blood/mild gore), hurt/comfort, angst, fluff (<3)

words: 8.1k

a/n: hi lovelies !! i’m so excited to hear what you think about this chapter 🤭 we got the angst, we got some FLUFF finally !! AGHHH i love them

Why did he say that?

It took a few turns and back alleys for Bruce to lose the paparazzi, but soon enough he was driving on the road of the fight. The thighs of his pants were damp from rubbing his hands on them to dry; he needed to check the side-effect list of his meds. His body felt alight with tension and activation, and all he could think about on a haunting loop was: from the bottom of my heart. He didn’t say things like that. Why did he say that?

Now that he was further from the trigger, and not yet at the scene, he tried to dehaze the memory of what it felt like to sit across from you. If he could pin himself to that moment, investigate those feelings… he was drawing a blank. He focused in on the apprehension, the hesitation that stopped him from saying goodbye, or even good riddance. It wasn’t often he couldn’t drudge up any possibilities. He shoved his foot on the gas, frustrated.

The sun had fully abandoned the sky, and the moon was shrouded in clouds. The dim street lamps didn’t do much, so he double-clicked the headlights, thankful for the apparent lack of other drivers to render sightless with his ultra-brights. Seemed like no one had been to the complex yet; at the entryway, a small pile of decaying vomit engraved itself below the side railing. Some specks of blood could be seen on the steps—his eyes narrowed. He hadn’t felt a cut on your head. Maybe Miller’s?

His nagging thoughts fell by the wayside as he noted no one around the apartment complex. He slid the car down an alleyway across the street, cutting the lights as he turned off the motor and unbuckled his seatbelt. That familiar tingle came back into him like a breath of life. The feeling of adventure, the feeling of duty, of purpose. It wasn’t the longest he’d kept from this, and he took a forceful inhale as he recalled the period after the flooding. All the blood that had been in the street, the bodies, the animals, the glass scattered everywhere… he’d drifted around in the weeks following, and he always heard someone scream from a cut. Every walk. The sound of the city’s sobs hadn’t left his mind for months.

A car drove past, then backed up. Bruce sat forward in his seat, his jaw locking tight as he soaked in the environment. Black Chevy truck, 832KZY license. Dent in the left flank by the brake light. Dusty. Faded paint. The driver was a petite woman with olive skin and mid-length dark hair. Bangs. She looked down at something to her right with annoyance. After some lurching, she grinned, and the car sped off. He relaxed. Stick shift issues. That year’s model was notoriously difficult.

As he reclined in his seat just so, the weight of speaking in front of the crowd thudded into him. His insides felt hollow, scooped out; his eyes stung like staring straight at the sun on a blazing summer day. He’d have to watch back the footage, even though the thought skinned him alive. It was necessary to study how he came off, find areas to tweak, improve. He slumped further into the seat. He would’ve much rather had a gun to his head. At least then he’d feel less lost. Less drained. Might even jolt some rage-fueled energy into him.

He was disappointed there wasn’t more to sink his teeth into; he longed to investigate. The cut-and-dry never did much for him. He lived to find the detail everyone else overlooked; to forge a bond between two things no one thought could be connected. God, even imagining doing that brought a rush… the pulsing throb of electrum whispered behind the past week’s curtains.

He redirected himself, pulling out a small journal from the glovebox. He clicked the pen.

Electrum. John Doe. Gordon. Investigate.

More thoughts came to him. Every other word he paused, flitting his eyes up to check for changes.

Hady, Grange, March. Research.

Bella Reál. Investigate.

He put it back in the glovebox and readjusted in his seat. Early on he’d tried to carry everything all at once, following the natural direction of his thoughts as if it were logical to rely on intuition alone. It was distracting. Inefficient. One thing at a time.

After a paltry fifteen minute stakeout, Alfred lit up his phone. Bruce hated how worrying he was lately, but what he hated more was he had good reason to. As severe the desire to ignore the man’s calls was, he knew he couldn’t keep him waiting… he grit his teeth. Under the present circumstances. While it wasn’t rare for him to daydream about time machines, he’d never before wanted to jump forward in time. He kept his eyes trained to the building, but there was no movement. “Yeah?”

“Did you see Y/N leave the meeting?”

You’d done precisely what Bruce had instructed, save your addition of turning off the lamp. Even after minutes spent gasping air into your lungs, waiting for an Uber to arrive, pretending that conversation with him had just been a figment of your imagination, you still struggled to catch your breath walking through the foyer.

Half of it was nerves about him going out again so soon, and the other was a sensation you couldn’t pin down, but it had you sweating and shaking. Fear? Anxiety? Sadness? Tension! More than anything, you’d felt tense. Bruce was intimidating, especially so when he held a metaphorical pair of scissors. And when they were aimed at you.

Mar had answered your third phone call as you walked down the city hall steps, berating you for interrupting their ‘jam session’. Faint guitar chords were heard in the background, the acoustics isolated and muffled. It sounded like a house party. She dismissed your concern about staying away, finally conceding and telling you she’d avoid it for a few weeks. “And to think I was practicing all my trivia skills for nothing.”

You should’ve realized by the beanie pulled nearly covering his eyes, but your usual vigilance had been halved as you came down from your interaction with Bruce. Sliding into the seat had you wincing at the pain in your thigh; you berated yourself for not bringing Tylenol with you. It’d been shockingly effective; you’d barely felt your injury on the walk here.

The drive was normal for the first half, so much so that you relaxed against the window and stared blankly at the people milling the main street, speed blurring them like ants. As the streets wound toward your apartment complex, you thought about how you could’ve feigned innocence, inputting the destination as the area of the fight. “Get a ride?” You’d tell him, when he glared at you and questioned your arrival. “I thought you meant here!” It was embarrassing roleplaying conversations with him, so you rid yourself of the thought. You’d feel it all in the morning and think about what to do next when your head was less scrambled.

The driver took a sharp left, cutting the lights as he pulled into an alley. You realized a second too late to reach for the door, ready to drop, roll and run. He’d child-locked it, and by the time you manually unclicked the lock, he pointed a gun at your head. The beanie slipped higher, and you could see clearly it was Miller. No other thoughts formed as the reality of having death pointed at your skull set in.

“Try to leave and I’ll blow your brains out.” He had two black eyes and a smushed nose. His lip was busted open and you swore he was missing a tooth. The rest of him was covered in thick industrial clothing. Bruce had effective punches. He hadn’t been on the guy more than a few seconds. Even Bruce began to slip away as you felt the cold metal jam into your temple. He pressed it harder and harder with every word he spoke. “Who the fuck was that guy?”

The dizzying adrenaline made the blood leave your body and rush into your head; he pressed right on a nerve that coaxed out every last bit of sting and throb from your concussion. You could barely focus on what he was saying. Breathe. Breathe. Your body stilled outside of your heartbeat and wincing eyelids.

“I’m not gonna ask again, bitch. Who the fuck was the guy last night?”

You shook your head. “I don’t know,”

“Bullshit. Call him.”

You stared back at him, unable to move. He stuck the barrel of the gun into your mouth, slacked open with debilitating fear. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe. You slapped around for your phone that had fallen at your side, unable to look down or move your face even an inch.

“Show me your call log.”

You strained your eyes to look down, fumbling with your apps, accidentally opening the likes of Old Navy and Target, tears threatening to slip with each passing second. You held it up to him, hands almost too shaky for the screen to be legible. ‘Alfred’ was listed for an eleven minute call at 11:49pm Wednesday. “It’s my, my stepdad,”

“Call him.” He pressed it and held it out to you, clacking the tip of the gun against your front teeth. You swallowed, thinking death only seconds or minutes in the horizon. He picked up on the third ring. Not long enough for you to plan much. Or at all. The man was deadly serious, his eyes a frenzied mess of bleary red as he jostled the gun against the roof of your mouth.

“What’s going on, Miss?”

The man withdrew the barrel just enough for you to speak unencumbered. You rushed the words to refuse him time to say something that would give him away. “Hey Dad.” You let out a small sigh. “I just wanted to call to see how the cats were doing.” You paused, then hurried more out with a hollow laugh. The man narrowed his eyes, cocking the gun. “Probably lost on the upper floors of the house. Or stealing some soup, you know how they love it.”

You were saying too much. If the roles were reversed, you’d think you were speaking in code. A predetermined plan. A keyword to let people know things were not alright.

Alfred chuckled on the other end. “I think Camelot is nestled on my bed. Everything go well at the meeting? After your call last night, I’ve been worried.” His tone was conversational, but concerned. You wanted to fucking bawl, reach out to him and wrap him in a tight, tight hug, mutter a thousand thanks. It felt like there was an ocean between the both of you. He’d fucking caught on.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You stuttered forward. “And just more boring election stuff. Not much to go off of.” It was fucking incredible you could speak. You were starting to regain some more of your breathing. The clouds were beginning to lift. The environment slowly moving back into focus. Even with him however many miles away, you knew he’d be looking out for you, and do his best to help.

Alfred sighed, a light but impatient one. He rustled something in the background that sounded like metal on metal. “Well, hurry back. I’ll bring over some lasagna later. I have your locale, but… the streets are dangerous at night. I worry. Your screams were terrible.”

Maybe not as subtle as you would have liked, but you knew what he was trying to do, and you trusted him more than yourself in this moment. He muttered something. “The ricotta… Jane, I told you we needed the automated mixer.” He let out another sigh. “Call me when you get back, sweets. I’ve got to put some muscle into this.”

Alfred ended the call. You tried not to have it feel like the beginning of the end. If it took Bruce, or Batman, or the police longer than it took for him to shoot you in the head…

He drew closer to you, hucking spit onto you before he spoke. It slid down the sides of your nose. “Who was the guy?”

It was difficult to speak. “I don’t know,”

“YOU KNOW!” He jammed the gun further into your mouth, and you kept your mouth wide as you felt a small chipping.

The words were swallowed against the thickness of the gun. “I don’t, I just screamed and then he came and, then the, police,” He pressed the gun to your uvula and you gagged. It was humiliating, and your blood boiled when you saw him grin at it.

He spit in your face again, this time just below your eye, and pressed the gun until it scraped the back of your throat. Tears sprung to your eyes and poured down your cheeks in reflex. He ripped the gun out of your mouth, keeping it focused at your sternum. He cursed and slammed a fist against his seat. He began muttering, his eyes ablaze. “No one has ever fought me like that, no one but...” He punched the center console, sending a part of the plastic flying in front of the passenger seat. “Immediately booked, too. Only happens with him.”

Oh. You opened your mouth to speak but he shouted at you instead. “You’re gonna help me, or you’re fucking dead.”

He taunted you by shoving the gun toward you. You considered making a break for it, but figured you wouldn’t get far before all you saw was black. How the fuck did Bruce face this every night? Even if his suit was bulletproof? You stared back at him while he laid out his plan, starting to wonder if Bruce was actually a masochist.

“I know you got that Wayne guy in your pocket.”

It was whiplash having them mentioned so close to each other, and made you paranoid the man was reading your mind. You began to shake your head but he cocked the gun again, grazing the trigger. “You’re gonna leave, and you’re gonna get him on our side.”

“I don’t—”

“If you alert anyone to this shit, I’ll hunt you down and kill you with my bare fucking hands.”

“I only did an interv—”

“That’s more than anyone else fucking gets.” He bared his teeth in a snarl. “You’re gonna get him to give me his best fuckin lawyers. And get me back in school, full fucking ride.”

You didn’t have a response queued, which seemed to escalate him. He lunged, grabbing you by the throat with his left hand. He smelled like cigarettes, booze, and Drops. That familiar citrus scent; the type that made you afraid to put it in your eyes. The type of acidic smell that made you wonder how every Drophead hadn’t yet lost their vision. Some did. His hands were rough and dirty as his fingers closed on your larynx.

“That’s the only money I fucking get; I’ll get life before going back to Pointe.” He sniffed, adjusting his posture. His arm strength was faltering. You wondered if you could disarm him yourself… knock his left arm into his right before he pulled the trigger... “If he gets wind of this little deal, I’m ending you.”

Crown Pointe. A neighborhood absolutely decimated by the flood, and more or less abandoned by the local government. It was entirely written off, as the highest percentage of the houseless and impoverished population lived there. You didn’t know too much about Gotham’s ecosystem, but you did know that they didn’t give a fuck about Pointe. You nodded. “Okay.” It came out in a croak. “I won’t tell.” It was surreal feeling a wash of relaxation pour over you, but you understood it was either being held like this, or looking down the barrel of something that could kill you before you’d even realize what was happening.

He released his grip and you sputtered. “You have until the thirteenth to kill it. I’ll kill you and your friend.” His gun was lowered, but still pointed to you, like he’d forgotten he was holding a powerful, terrifying weapon. His gaze focused above you and his glare set. He spun in his seat and floored it before you even realized what was happening; the alley was long and straight, but thin. As the bricks around you blurred, you thought about what had the highest survival rate—staying in the car, or jumping?

The speed of the car made you stay inside; you even thought about buckling your seatbelt as you noticed the end creep closer and closer; a giant brick wall with a hard ninety-degree turn. Miller kept looking in his rearview mirror, each time nearly slamming the car into the side of the tight alley.

The wall was a football field away. Your hand shot for the seatbelt as Miller realized he needed to brake, squealing tires skidding, slipping on the concrete. Pure instinct, nothing more, made your call; you jammed open the door as far as it could, sparks flying off of it as it slammed against the brick, and tossed yourself out ass-first.

The first part of your body to hit was your left thigh, leaving you screeching on the impact. The second was your back, knocking the wind entirely out of you. You had the good sense to tuck your hands behind your head, and you felt the knuckles skid against the rough, chunky street. Almost in unison, you heard a petrifying, deafening crash of metal crunching. You laid there gasping at the sky, your vision swirling, heart racing, leg throbbing, hands numb.

The dark sky above only made you more dizzy, giving you nothing to concentrate on and cling to. You heard footsteps further back from whence you came, and the sound of a car door wrenching open. You sat up on your elbows, forcing yourself back up. Your body felt battered and bruised, your left leg now bordering on unusable, but you managed to get up to your knees. You panted at the ground until you caught Bruce’s cologne run past. He wasn’t in the suit. No!

You reached out and grabbed his ankle, shouting weakly for him to stop. He shook you off but you yelled louder, lunging forward, scraping your elbows as you barely caught his calf with both hands. You heard more creaking, and suddenly Bruce’s face was inches from yours, dropped to a squat. His cheeks were flushed and his breath was hard and full against your sweaty, spit-sodden cheeks. His brow furrowed, his mouth curled down into an exasperated scowl. “What are you doing?!”

You glanced above him to the left, noticing Miller jump face-first out of the car, bolting down the turn in the alley. Bruce turned to look with you, but felt the tightening of your hands around him when he tried to move forward. Your fingernails dug into his skin, even through his pant leg. “Stop, don’t.”

“He’s gonna get away—”

“STAY!”

This was the first time you’d yelled at him, and it was like scolding a dog. You didn’t have time to feel bad yet, letting your arms limp and lying flat on your stomach. Disgusting, wet, smelly ground. You caught the rest of your breath, staring intently at his feet. You could hear him scowling, groaning and mumbling.

You took a few beats to catch your breath and orient to your surroundings. It took a few minutes to catch yourself, bring your chest back to a normal percussion. Took half as long for your eyes to unblur, but they kept darting across the ground, and the first few bricks along the sides of the alley.

“Let’s go,” Bruce grabbed your wrist and tried to help you up, but you weren’t ready yet. Your head swirled, the pain was just beginning to surpass the adrenaline…

“Let’s go.” He pulled harder, his voice cracking. You yelped, your knee skidding on the upheaval. You slammed back down on all fours, tears springing to your eyes. You couldn’t see him, but you could see his feet pacing. Tight, muffled sounds came from above you. You dry-heaved against the cement, nothing spurring but hot bile that soured you, furthering more pitiful attempts at retching. Your arms shook and fingers scraped the jagged ground as you tried to sit up on your own again.

Every time he saw you in an alleyway, he wanted to jump off a cliff; seeing you unable to stand, gasping, sputtering against the ground in one threatened to kill him. His cheeks got hot, the world got wobbly, and his legs felt like jello. He probably looked like an asshole, but the flashbacks were ripping at him, his feet unable to be stilled. If you were anyone else he might’ve just ran. Phoned Gordon. Maybe if it were anyone else he wouldn’t have panicked, though, and he didn’t want to interrogate that.

You held out your arms for him to help you up. He took a deep breath and knelt down, focusing on the mechanics of the moment. He held the brunt of your weight, and you stumbled like that to his car on the street, your left leg a mess of pain, your head rapidly catching up. You gasped into the back seat as your thigh scraped against the leather. He shut the door gently, but quickly.

He drove you around until you were on the outskirts of town, and pulled over beside a throng of trees, the gravel loud under the tires as he parked. He turned to look at you from the driver’s seat and you flinched, glancing down at where the gun had been. Without fanfare, he got out and sidled in beside you in the backseat. It hurt to turn your head, but you did enough to at least see some of his body in your vision.

“What happened?”

You opened your mouth to answer, but he pummeled more questions your way. “Why’d you get in the car with him?” “Couldn’t you tell it was him?” “What was he doing?” “What did he want?”

You held a feeble hand out to him before moving it to your temple. Gently, you set your head against the leather seat, needing a moment to gather yourself. Your blood was still pumping like you were sprinting fifty miles, everything, everything wildly unstable. By some miracle Bruce obliged and stopped talking.

You didn’t know if it had been ten seconds or ten minutes by the time you opened your eyes again and started to speak, and you kept an arm outstretched to keep his interrogations at bay. “He wants the charges dropped.” You swallowed hard, trying to think of anything else besides the pain in your head and leg—or how bad the chip might be. Your voice was dry and scratchy. “Wanted me to use your connection. For lawyers. Retract our statements.” You took another breather, heard him draw in a breath to speak, and shoved the rest out before he could. “I stopped you going after him.” Another gulp, a wince. You’d never been more desperate for sweet, sweet Tylenol… “Because he also.” It was impossible to speak. You let your head fall back in failure. He needs to know this. “He knows whoever fought him last night was Batman. Felt it. Same fighting. Feeling. Booking.” Your lashes fluttered open with a rush of pain in a circle around your skull.

Bruce didn’t know how to respond; he didn’t want you to have to speak more without medication, so he instead faced the back seat, head spinning. You spoke anyway, confirming a fear he’d had since the day his parents died in that alley, a fear that had been poked, prodded, and split entirely open seeing Alfred in the hospital. “Said if you got wind of it, he’d kill me. And Mar.”

You bolted up, startling him. “Mar!”

He sat up and shook his head at you. “I’ll watch her. I’m taking you back to my place.”

You did not want to go there, but your brain was slow to think of anything, slow to form words, and by the time he shut the driver’s door and started for Wayne Tower, you realized he was right. His house was a fortress of safety. Wasn’t like he could be in two places at once.

As the trees thinned out and gravel turned to road, he told you to lay back as flat as you could. He’d be going through the front entry, which had ramped up security now. He muttered something about reporters lingering on the grounds after the interview, and you struggled to focus on it. Being horizontal in a moving car was nauseating when you weren’t in body-buzzing misery, but it was excruciating now. If you had the strength to sit up again, you would’ve. Fuck the paparazzi.

Bruce’s mind was a mess.

Not even one week since the interview’s release and you’d been held at gunpoint over him.

It was hellish attempting to concentrate on the road. It would be hard to convince you to leave Gotham, but it had to be done. Another conversation with you, and one he would ensure didn’t go awry. He swore he felt his teeth splitting against each other as he mulled over how to bring it up, and when. Not now. Tomorrow. You needed to recuperate, and he needed to find Miller.

Once in his garage, you scooted yourself up by fumes of sheer will so Bruce didn’t have to help you out. Forcing each foot in front of the other as he pushed the door open to the foyer, where Alfred stood, holding his glasses in his hands. Bruce walked ahead of you and gestured for Alfred to step into the kitchen for a minute. You supported yourself against the doorframe, taking out your phone to message Mar.

The screen assaulted you, peppering your vision with black spots and squiggly lines.

The guy from last night got released on bail, and he held me at gunpoint trying to get information out of me. I was able to escape, but I’m worried he’ll come after you. Stay inside, officers will be watching the area to see if he tries to come after you.

Her location showed she was at home; apparently, the ‘jam session’ was being held at her place; you looked up to remind Bruce to leave, but he was already gone, Alfred walking toward you with a lukewarm smile. He handed over a glass of water and the same little white pill, both of which you took with a desperate gulp. “Miss. So glad you’re alright. Bruce informed me about what happened. Do you know the address of your friend?”

You told him, and he texted it to him. A strange, temporary thrill flit through you thinking that he was just a few levels below, suiting up. So fucking weird. So fucking wild. Alfred helped you up the stairs, escorting you to the same room as last Spring. “Our housekeeper keeps things tidy, so you shouldn’t be left wanting. I’ll grab fresh clothing.”

Standing in the room again was one of the most disorienting experiences of your life. Everything was the same, as if you had left it yesterday. Almost as if he hadn’t left, Alfred reappeared in the doorway, holding a pair of black sweatpants and matching tee. Before he left, he asked if you wanted anything to eat, or any company. “These events can be traumatizing.”

You declined it all, wanting desperately to both be alone and be smothered by someone else, but confused enough by it you chose solitude. You thanked him, grabbed the clothes, and exchanged a solemn look. After an encouraging nod, he left, letting you know the same standards were in place; if you wanted anything from the kitchen, or to visit in his study, you were free to.

You slunk out of your dress and threw it into the corner, hastily pulling on the outfit you were desperate to forget was likely Bruce’s. The feat was easily won, though it was tight in some places, loose in others, and entirely too tall—because your nose was too blocked with snot you couldn’t smell anything.

The next two hours passed in a montage. Sitting on the side of the bed in a blurry haze. Every time you looked at your phone was like a knife to the chest recalling your dad’s text in June, which led to the room with the doctor, which led to the wheelchair, which led to the trial, which, which… your brain was numb to pain at this point.

Your limbs moved in slow-motion when they did adjust to laying. Mar had texted you that she was okay, and she’d heeded your warning. She’d asked if you were okay, and you’d said you were safe. She didn’t comment past that, only giving occasional check-ins to let you know she hadn’t been captured. At one point you’d texted Alfred through a mess of tears, asking him if he’d heard any updates from Bruce. He responded immediately, explaining that his suit was active and on Mar’s street. You let your head hit the pillow hard after that, which reminded you of the clack of the gun against your teeth and its pressure against your head.

Your head ached. Jabbed. Punctured. Shouted to be witnessed. You chose not to do anything about it. You took a selfie on your phone to check on your tooth, and noticed a noticeable tick on an incisor. Your cheeks were crunchy with dried spit, and you bolted to the bathroom as fast as your hobbling leg would allow. You scrubbed your face in the sink, taking the soap bar and shredding it against your skin to erase the attack.

In the mirror you noticed the bleeding crusties along your knuckles and the rippled shreds of skin hanging off your elbows. You plucked the shreds off carefully, giving your arms and hands a thorough wash. The skinning was artificial. No gravel lodged anywhere. You felt the wear on your body and slumped back to the room, landing hard against the pillow.

You woke up with a scream.

The gun’s muzzle had penetrated your skin, digging deep into your flesh, making hot, wet blood stream down your face in a thick river. You’d tried to scream, but blood had erupted from your esophagus, mixing with the vomit curdling your stomach. It felt like you sat there like that forever, screaming and gurgling and writhing before he’d pulled the trigger.

Apparently it’d been a dream.

A knock on your door made you jump, another yelp escaping.

“Can I come in?”

Bruce. You shouted a yes, or at least something similar, as you tried to catch your breath. It felt so impossibly real, every sensation filling you still, like your head was still dripping, your mouth was still full…

He opened the door, fiddling with the button on his pants. He was shirtless, his torso and hair dripping wet from what appeared to be him fresh out of the shower. His eyes were wide, searching around the room before landing on you trembling in bed. He noticed Alfred brought you the outfit he’d set out for himself—no wonder he couldn’t find it. The sight of you in it made him anxious.

“What happened?”

You thought you mumbled “Nightmare” but you weren’t sure. Sniffled, soft cries filled the space between the both of you. You were staring down at your hands fiddling with the top sheet, rubbing along the seam.

“Are you okay?”

You nodded, then shook your head, his question propelling barely-quelled sobs out of you.

Bruce didn’t know what to do. At all. He figured all he could do was offer logistical support. “Need more Tylenol?”

The vulnerable peculiarity of the situation spurred a laugh as you sniffed up more tears, your voice muffled from your stuffed nose. “It’s like I’m a toddler.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. He had no idea what a toddler acted like. He waited, awkwardly, for your sniffing to pause, and spoke. “Miller’s been booked.” You looked up to him, interest piqued.

“Found him walking around your friend’s neighborhood. Watched Gordon take him in. He had an unregistered weapon on him too. He’ll be in there a while.” He hoped it would be some consolation, because you looked like you needed it. He forced himself not to think about what else you might need; thinking about you was starting to feel like holding his breath.

You sighed, your shoulders dropping a few inches. He looked away, too much relief filling him seeing it. “Thanks.”

He nodded, then turned to leave. “If you need anything, just shout.”

You nodded in response, and the door had almost shut when you spoke, tentative. The question not only gnawed at you now, it had been one of the first things you’d thought about with a fucking gun to your skull. “How do you do it?”

He did not want to go back in… He propped the door open and sidled halfway. “Do what?”

“Get shot at every night, it’s fucking horrifying.” More heat sprung to your face, and you pressed your palms to your eyes to force them back.

Admittedly, he’d forgotten how affecting those experiences could be. Even two decades later he couldn’t think too specifically back to Crime Alley or he’d succumb to panic. He stepped the rest of the way in, ashamed that he’d been subtly trying to slip away and ignore you.

You peered at him with a tear-streaked face and he averted his eyes, goosebumps prickling his skin. He swallowed back a lump that’d found its way to his throat. “Already happened, so. Not much to lose I guess.”

He wasn’t looking at you, but you couldn’t stop looking at him. Why did he think so low of himself? Why didn’t he think his life was worth protecting? That night he’d talked about feeling like he’d died with his parents, and suddenly his ghostlike demeanor made a lot of sense. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.” You’d caught your breath by this point, the haunting images falling back the longer he hung around. “I know you probably hate to hear it, but I am.”

You weren’t surprised when he deflected it. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

You wiped the pool of tears in the troughs of your cheeks. “It’s not even close.”

That struck a nerve. Few things had been more exasperating to him growing up than having every person’s problems minimized while he was around. “Sorry, Bruce, I mean, it’s nothing compared to what you went through.” “I shouldn’t be talking.” “What do I have to complain about?” Somehow, his words blurted out harsher and gentler than intended. “You’re allowed to be hurt by it.”

His face was contorted into a grimace. You didn’t know what else to do, the vibe entirely shifted, so you just sat, and nodded. When he turned to leave again, anxiety barreled into you like a truck. “Can you turn on the light?”

Tick. You squinted to adjust, the monsters creeping back into the closet.

“If you want anything, don’t hesitate.” He shut the door.

Your dreams had been shitty, but they hadn’t been horrifying.

It was four in the morning when you woke up next, officially well past needing another dose. Forgetting Bruce had essentially offered on-call service, you padded your way out to the stairwell, and jumped with his shadow already at the foot of the stairs. “I told you to shout if you need anything.”

He had a shirt on now, something you were grateful for. “I wanted more meds, thought I might want a walk.”

“How’s your leg?” His voice echoed in the foyer as he walked to the kitchen. He returned in a similar fashion as Alfred, but faster. You’d only made it down a few steps. As he walked to hand you them, you saw the bags under his eyes, creeping in under the moonlight. How every blink looked intentional and forced, designed to keep him standing and conscious. His shoulders were pulled forward, ragged with exhaustion.

You didn’t want to trouble him, scooping the pill out of his hand and grabbing the glass. “Hurts.” You drank it, popped it, and walked slowly back to your sleeping quarters. “Thanks.”

Except… standing in the doorway made you pathetically sad. Gazing at the big, empty room that wasn’t yours in the big, empty tower. Every anxious, miserable thought crowded closer. Your body ached, your spirit was absolutely obliterated. You’d almost died today. I almost DIED today.

More than anything, you wanted to be held. And you didn’t hear his footsteps leaving.

You squeezed your eyes shut until you saw stars, as if it would make it easier. “Can I have a hug?” The request was needy, breathy, feeble. You couldn’t muster a shit to give as the abyss circled you. It was silent.

Bruce froze. He wanted to deny you; after all, what good was a hug if it was hollow? If he was to force you out in the morning, planning ways to convince you to never, ever come back?

You looked over your shoulder, a slow, shakey glance dripping with sorrow. His lashes fluttered as his lips pressed into a thin line. He set the glass on the ground, and his body finished walking up the steps before he nodded. “Sure.” Your eyes focused on the floor as you stepped toward each other, as if looking him in the eye would scare you both off.

When you fell into him it didn’t feel hollow. He felt so full of empathy he could burst, his arms moving instinctually around your back like he’d hugged you a thousand times. His face naturally settled into concern, his chest caving in ever so slightly to welcome yours. You whimpered at the collision of your bodies. In dissent to his earlier apprehension, he pulled you closer, deepening the hug he realized you both so desperately needed.

Falling into his arms was easy. Wrapping your arms around his back was easier. Wailing into his shirt while you clumped fists of it around his back felt as simple as breathing; without beckoning, instinctual, like hot sand lapping up its first wave. The release fell out of you, and you didn’t even register you could be too loud, too much, or too rough. He was as sturdy as the oak tree in his backyard, and just as unyielding—except for now, as his strong hands wrapped around your back and squeezed.

Time paused and the world stopped turning as you were gifted a portal for your pain to fall into. A river to erode the rocks piled in your stomach. You clutched him, your chin tucked into your chest, soaking his shirt until it clung to your cheeks. You bawled until you were coughing, until you felt rugburn on your palm from fisting the cotton so tightly. When you started to shake, he hugged you tighter.

You finally managed to croak out a word, but your mind was undecided between ‘sorry’ and ‘thank you’. “Th-orry.”

You shriek-laughed and cried some more, feeling a gentle rumble from his chest. The humor was quickly lost as you sunk into the sadness again, beginning to hiccup as your cries intensified. Time evaded you as you stood there sniffing, hiccuping, and crying, with your eyes squeezed shut, for what simultaneously felt like five seconds and twenty years.

As your sobs quieted, and your hiccups intensified, you were forced to right yourself, unlatching your hands from around him and wiping your eyes, peeling your skin off his soaked clothes. Your head throbbed. You needed more water, a shower, to sleep, you needed to do anything besides what you were currently doing. He didn’t want this.

You cleared your gummy throat and moved further back to fully wipe your cheeks, tucking your chin under the collar of your shirt—his shirt—to soak up the water. You felt how hot and puffy your face was, the tired sting of your strained eyes. Bruce must not have slept for two days at this rate; what the hell were you doing? I’m just making things worse on him again.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

No conscious thought brought your eyes up to his, only shock at hearing him sound so gentle. His tone was soothing. His face matched it, which sent a jolt through your system remembering, seeing this was BRUCE. You stepped back, embarrassed tears threatening to overwhelm you. “I’m sorry.” You shook your head, realization sinking in staring at his wrinkled, soaked shirt that you’d just bawled—

“I don’t mind.” He gestured toward the kitchen down the steps, turning his body with it like he’d already made up his mind. You didn’t know it, but the embrace had temporarily quelled his inhibitions, replacing them with a profound desire to help. At least for tonight, he wanted to sit with you as long as you’d let him. Hear every bit of the pain that kept you from turning off the light. “Let’s talk.”

Your cheeks heated, intimidated by his new tenderness. “You’ve been awake so long,”

“Is that a no?”

You sighed, your shoulders rising high and dropping low in a huff. “You need to sleep.”

“I’m not tired.”

You wanted to cry again. He’d been so obviously weary. “Yes, you are.”

“I can wait.”

“I can wait. My problems will still be here in the morning.”

He hesitated, but obliged. He asked if you wanted more water before he went up, and you let him. He handed it off to you without fanfare, like this was your nightly routine. “Shout if you want anything.”

You walked up the stairway above his floor, and walked into the barren bedroom. You took a sip of the chilled water, feeling the weightiness of the glass, and turned off the light.

After a few minutes of stirring, you couldn’t ignore going to the bathroom. Padding out of your room turned into sneaking to check on Bruce’s door, which was half open. It hadn’t been that way in Spring. Your heart caught on the thought he’d done it so he wouldn’t miss if you yelled.

You’d been correct in your estimation of his fatigue; that, or he was the fastest sleeper you’d ever known. He was fully conked on his bed, facing the door, his mouth slacked ever so slightly open, the deep rise and fall of his—bare—chest matching his gentle snores. He was on his right side, his left arm half slung over. Your eyes followed down to his shirt abandoned on the ground beside the bed. Even in the low light you could see darker patches from where you’d filled the fibers with your tears.

You forced your feet toward the bathroom, struck with self-consciousness at having spied on him. The marble was cool on the soles of your feet, still not used to walking barefoot on floors with no give. You sat in the small hallway bathroom, the toilet seat frigid against your flushed skin.

You stared absently at the wooden door. The shiny golden handle. The unmoving glint of the static overhead lighting against it. The total silence was unsettling. Both of your apartments in Gotham had ample noise pollution being downtown. Back at home, there was a small littering of the occasional car passing through, a coyote, or Walter licking himself.

This silence was empty. Your mind didn’t waste a second filling it.

You wanted another hug from him. Your heartbeat quickened thinking about it. You moved your focus to the floor, the downward movement bringing Bruce to your nose. You lifted your shirt to bury your nose in it, bringing more depth to the smell. It was ambery and warm. In addition to whatever fragrant detergent he used, he used some sort of masculine body wash.

For a minute you sat there basking in it. Feeling held, wanted, and seen, without shying away. Letting your body relax into its intuitive trust in him. Taking a full, lung-satisfying breath into his comfort. The comfort of being held by him. The comfort of him being alive. The space he’d made for you. Even venturing into the what-if of what he might have said, how he might have looked at you, if you’d poured your grief in front of him.

But it was short-lived. With greater force than your appreciation swept in a current of shame. He didn’t want your tears. He probably thought he had to take them. Had to humor you. Had to make sure you were okay after the lie.

You walked back to your room still in a slurry of painful, self-flagellating emotion. You’d have to clarify in the morning. Tell him it was because of your mom, and the stuff online, and your ex-friends, and the gun shoved in your mouth. The attack. The threats. But you couldn’t very well leave out his attempt, could you? Would it make it seem like you didn’t care about him?

A thought dawned on you before you went to sleep, spurred by the flashback sensation of the gun on your temples. I could’ve just done my paper on the club shooting. Then none of this pain would’ve happened. To either of us. You wanted to curl up and die.

Distracted by the mystery of Batman and the reclusiveness of Bruce Wayne. Forcing his hand. Denting the doors of his life breaking in. Shattering all the glass inside, stealing the valuables. It was pathetic. You were pathetic. A pathetic, annoying, disgusting liar sitting in this room for the second time, of your own doing, of your own mistakes, your own fucked priorities and selfish interests.

But it was a lie that was keeping him alive.

After an hour of tossing and turning, fighting the harassment you flung at yourself with reckless abandon, you forced yourself to get up. You remembered something you learned in therapy when you were younger, something to stop these anxious, ruminating thoughts, to help the room feel less like you were drowning in it. Get an orange. Pay attention to it. Peel it slowly. Focus on the texture in your mouth. The zing. The juiciness in its crunch.

Opening up his fridge, you realized they didn’t have much outside of veggies, protein shakes, and meat. Absolutely not wanting to cook, and being put off by the grainy texture of past protein supplements, you opted for a stray apple in the back of the fridge. It was a bit bruised. You didn’t mind.

When you shut the fridge, the freezer popped slightly open. Instead of just shutting it, you peeked inside—more meat, and a tub of Breyer’s. The apple fell out of your hand and you felt wobbly. More memories flooded your veins already primed to panic. Just one week ago. Hospital. Lingering. On autopilot you shut the freezer, swooped the apple and brought it to the sink to rinse. The water was freezing on your hands. You hoped Bruce wasn’t a light sleeper. You didn’t want to subject him to you again.

The apple was surprisingly crisp, save a few spongy parts. You ate it as you walked up the stairs—one bite per step. You shut your eyes and let your senses guide you, zooming in and slowing down. The tang of the apple. The crunch on the first bite. The coolness of the marble steps. The height and slickness of the railing as it skimmed your palm. Crunch. Step.

You made it back to your room calmer than you left it. The apple was nearly eaten to the core, and you discarded it in the trashcan by the side table. You slipped into bed methodically—left leg, slowly, carefully, then the right. First cover, then comforter, then head to pillow. Eyes closed. Slow, deep, gentle breathing. The only thing you had to do right now was sleep. The only task you had to do was let your body relax. Everything else could wait until morning.

Bruce Wayne could wait until the morning.