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akairawrites · 1 month ago

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“Yes it is.” | Jason Todd x Reader

NSFW MDNI

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NSFW MDNI!!

Jason’s bag hit the floor with a soft thud—you hadn’t heard him come in.

A song played quietly from the speakers in the kitchen, but the sound of you rustling through drawers and cabinets overpowered it, catching his attention.

Slowly, his aching feet carried him across the room and into the doorway. Your smaller frame leaned over the marble countertop, back to him. From his place in the shadows, his eyes traveled the length of your bare legs, lingering on the curve of your behind. He was practically trembling. It felt like forever since his hands had explored every dip and curve of your body.

You finally turned around.

Jason caught your gaze at last.

“Jason! I didn’t hear you come in,” you said, a smile tugging at your lips.

He didn’t answer. He just stood there in the doorway, eyes devouring you. His broad frame leaned lazily against the doorframe, and something about the way he held himself made your throat go dry—even after all this time.

Your phone chimed. Instinctively, your eyes flicked down to the screen in your hand. A coworker had texted, asking if you wanted to grab coffee tomorrow. But Jason’s silence made your attention flicker back to him.

He still hadn’t moved.

His dark shirt clung to his chest with that effortless ruggedness only he could pull off. The light behind you illuminated him just enough to cast a halo over his shoulders, but it was the look in his eyes that made you still.

It wasn’t exhaustion, though he clearly was.

It was hunger.

That quiet, burning hunger you hadn’t seen in far too long—one that sent sparks over your skin and heat pooling low in your belly.

“Everything okay?” you asked softly, placing your phone down on the counter.

Jason finally moved—slow and deliberate, like a predator closing in. In just a few steps, he was in front of you. You thought he might tease you, or crack one of his usual sarcastic remarks. Instead, he reached out and gently cupped your jaw, his calloused fingers sending a shiver down your spine. His thumb brushed your lower lip.

“I missed you,” he murmured, his voice low and hoarse, like gravel and longing.

Your breath caught.

“You were only gone for a few hours,” you said with a small laugh, but your hands found his chest anyway, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, betraying just how deeply you’d missed him too.

“A few hours too long,” he whispered.

Then he kissed you.

It started slow—tender, searching, like he was re-learning the map of your mouth. But that softness didn’t last. The kiss deepened quickly, his hands moving to grip your waist, pulling you against him. You felt the tension unraveling between you with every breath, every press of lips and tongue.

When you finally pulled away for air, you whispered, “You could’ve at least said hi.”

He smirked, his lips red and slightly swollen. “I’m saying it now.”

Then, with a look that made your stomach twist in the best way, he lifted you onto the counter with ease, stepping between your legs. His mouth found yours again, desperate and deliberate, like he couldn’t bear another second of space between you.

He needed to remind you—and himself—that no matter how long he was gone, you were his.

And he needed to hear you say it.

His lips moved in perfect sync with yours, but there was something deeper in it this time. The way his large hands gripped your thighs made your thoughts blur, your mind running wild with anticipation.

One of his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you to the edge of the counter. Instinctively, your legs wrapped around his hips, locking him in. His lips never left yours.

Hungry and impatient, Jason didn’t waste time.

His rough hands fumbled with his belt, fingers moving quickly, breath hot against your cheek as he pressed his forehead to yours.

“Say it,” he growled quietly, voice shaking with need. “Tell me your mine”

And even with your pulse thudding in your ears and your body already melting against his, you whispered back—

“I’m yours, Jason. I’ve always been.”

His eyes darkened the moment the words left your lips.

A low groan vibrated in his throat, and it made your whole body tighten in response. That was all he needed. In one smooth motion, his belt clinked open, the sound of the buckle hitting the counter echoing like a starting bell. His fingers worked fast—desperate, almost shaking—as he tugged at the waistband of his jeans.

You barely had time to breathe before his hands were on you again, sliding up your thighs, thumbs hooking beneath the fabric of your shorts and underwear, dragging them down in one fluid motion. He leaned back just enough to watch them fall to the floor before his gaze snapped back to yours, primal and possessive.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice rough with hunger. “Spread open for me like you knew I’d need you the second I walked through that door.”

You moaned softly, already aching for him. Your legs tightened around his waist, pulling him closer, but he resisted for a moment—just long enough to make you squirm.

“Tell me you missed me,” he whispered, dragging his lips down your jaw, to your neck, his hand slipping between your thighs with practiced ease.

“I missed you,” you gasped, fingers tangling in his hair as his thumb pressed against your clit, slow and purposeful. “So much, Jason—fuck—please…”

That single word lit him up.

His mouth crashed into yours again, this time with no hesitation, no teasing. Just want. His hand guided himself to your entrance, and when he finally pushed into you, thick and perfect, a broken moan escaped your lips. He filled you completely, your walls stretching around him, and for a moment, neither of you moved—just breathing each other in, lost in the overwhelming relief of being connected again.

Each thrust was deep, slow, deliberate his hips pressing against yours in perfect rhythm matching the beat to the sound playing over your moans, the counter beneath you creaking slightly with every roll of his body. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, nails dragging across his back through the fabric of his shirt, needing him closer, deeper.

Jason growled softly, picking up the pace, his restraint unraveling. One of his hands gripped your thigh tightly, the other still working between your bodies, circling your clit with the same intensity as his thrusts.

“It’s mine isn’t it? ” he whispered fiercely, biting down lightly on your shoulder. “Tell me that it’s mine.”

“Yes it is,” you whimpered, eyes fluttering shut as your orgasm built fast and hot. “Yes it is.”

Your walls clenched around him, and he cursed, hips stuttering as your orgasm crashed over you. Your body trembled, back arching into him, and he held you through it, kissing your neck and cheek and anywhere his mouth could reach.

“Say it again,” he breathed.

“It’s yours Jason.” you whispered, voice already thick with want. “All yours.”

And then he let go.

He groaned your name into your skin as he came, hard and deep, his body jerking against yours before he stilled—his forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathless, tangled up, and utterly wrecked.

Silence hung heavy between you, filled only by the sound of your breathing and the soft hum of the song still playing in the background.

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First time posting smut, hope it’s not too bad!

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akairawrites · 1 month ago

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Kiss me thru the phone | e!42 Miles Morales

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It always started the same way.

A buzz on her phone. 1:47 a.m.

Miles

“You up?”

Y/n stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the reply button, already smiling. Her room was dark except for the soft amber glow of her salt lamp and the faint flicker of the city skyline beyond the window. It had become a ritual between them—one he kept, even when everything else in their lives felt like it was constantly unraveling.

She typed back.

Y/n

“Of course. You always call at this hour.”

And sure enough, seconds later, her phone lit up with his name.

“Hey,” his voice rasped, tired but warm. She could hear the distant hum of the city behind him—sirens, a honking horn, maybe even wind rushing past. He was somewhere above the skyline again.

“You sound beat,” she said softly.

“Yeah. Long night,” he murmured. She could picture him now, sitting on the edge of some rooftop with his hoodie covering his head, one hand cradling the phone, the other probably nursing a new bruise.

“You okay?”

“I am now.”

She sighed, settling deeper into her blanket, her body curling like she was trying to make space for him beside her. “You shouldn’t say things like that if you’re not gonna be here to back it up…or at least tell me what you’ve been doing.”

“I wish I could,” he whispered. And she could tell he meant it.

The version of Miles the world knew —The Prowler— was nothing like the boy she got on the other end of the phone each night. Here, he wasn’t guarded. Wasn’t angry. Just vulnerable and soft-spoken.

Just hers.

“I was looking at our old photos earlier,” she admitted. “The one where we snuck into that museum exhibit and you wore sunglasses inside like an idiot.”

He laughed quietly. “I was tryna look cool for you.”

“You looked blind, Morales.”

“Blindly in love,” he teased. Then added, more seriously, “Still am.”

She didn’t answer that—not with words. Just silence. The kind that said me too without needing to be said.

He filled the pause. “When this is all over… I’m gonna come over. For real this time. None of this five-minute phone call, ‘kiss-me-through-the-phone’ bullshit.”

Her chest tightened. “You always say that.”

“And I always mean it.”

“Then prove it,” she whispered.

“I will.” His voice broke for a second. “You’re the only thing that keeps me from falling too far.”

She blinked away tears. “Just… if anything happens—”

“Nothing’s gonna happen. I got too much to lose.”

The line went quiet again, but neither of them hung up. They never did. Sometimes they’d just fall asleep like that—him on some rooftop, jacket zipped halfway down, and her curled under the covers with his voice in her ear.

He used to be just a boy from Brooklyn with almost nothing to lose. Now he was a legend they whispered about in alleyways, a name everyone feared.

But to her? He was just Miles. The kid who drew constellations on her arms with sharpie and got paint in her hair when they snuck into art class after hours.

The boy who never stopped calling. Even when the world was falling apart.

⸻

That night, as the city buzzed and Miles disappeared into shadow once more, Y/n kissed the phone screen and whispered, “Goodnight.”

Far above, on a ledge coated in rain and moonlight, he smiled faintly.

“Goodnight, baby.”

And then he was gone.

But the line stayed open.

Bonus:

Y/n stirred, shifting beneath the blankets but not waking.

Then she felt it—warmth at her back. A presence that hadn’t been there before.

A hand, careful and trembling, brushed her side. Then her hair. Then a breath, warm against the nape of her neck.

She blinked her eyes open, slow and dazed. At first, she thought it was a dream. Maybe a cruel one. Maybe the best kind.

Then she felt him nuzzle gently into her shoulder, burying his face in the crook of her neck like he was trying to inhale the scent of her skin. Like it would calm whatever storm had been ripping through him.

“Miles?” Her voice was rough with sleep, thick with disbelief.

He didn’t speak at first. Just wrapped an arm around her waist from behind, pulling her closer, his body soaked with rain and shaking slightly.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “It’s me.”

Her heart cracked open, spilling all the ache she’d been holding back. She turned slowly in his arms, blinking up at him in the dim light.

He looked exhausted. soaked and bruised.

But there.

“I left the window open,” she murmured.

He nodded, voice thick. “I know. I saw the light on… thought maybe—maybe you were waiting.”

“I was.”

He exhaled shakily, pressing his forehead to hers. “I needed to feel you. Just for a minute. I’ll go if—”

“Don’t,” she said quickly, her fingers clutching the back of his shirt. “You’re staying.”

Miles didn’t argue. He just let himself collapse into her arms, letting her pull the blanket over both of them.

And for a long time, they didn’t speak.

She just curled against him, and he held her like he’d been unraveling without her.

Finally, she whispered, “Didn’t think you’d actually show.”

Miles turned, brushing her lips with his own not through a screen, not wrapped in the static of midnight signals, Just them.

“Well I’m here now,” he said. “No more phone kisses.”

Then he kissed her for real.

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akairawrites · 2 months ago

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Hiiii!! Can you do a Michael Afton delinquent rivals to lovers that takes place in the 80s?? Thanks!! Love your stuff!!

Hi! Thank you sm!

You weren’t looking for a fight.

You were trying to make it through another shift at Freddy Fazbear’s, pocket your crappy paycheck, and maybe blow it all at the arcade downtown. But of course, Michael Afton had to be there—leaning against the claw machine like he owned the place, chewing gum like he invented the attitude problem you’ve been dealing with since sophomore year.

“Didn’t think they let trouble in after dark,” he smirks, boots propped up on the snack counter like a king on a busted throne.

You scoff. “Funny. I was about to say the same about you.”

There’s a pause—a beat. That electric, heavy tension that always hums between the two of you like feedback through a guitar amp. Ever since the great hallway brawl in ‘85 (someone broke a nose—no one snitched), it’s been an unofficial war. Pranks, sabotage, stares that linger way too long.

But you’re not just rivals. You’re foils. He’s a greasy mystery with bruised knuckles and a lopsided grin. And you? You’re fire wrapped in denim and a don’t-back-down attitude.

“You still working the graveyard shift at Freddy’s?” Michael asks, sliding a coin into the machine. He’s not looking at you—he’s pretending to care about the blinking lights and plastic prizes.

“Why, you wanna stalk me while I mop floors?”

He laughs. It’s low. Rough. Too close.

“Nah. Just wondering how someone like you got stuck in a dead-end place like that.”

The jab stings. Because he knows. You both do. Small town. Bad rep. Family messes that neither of you talks about.

You fold your arms. “Don’t act like you’re better, Afton. You live at that dump behind the auto shop.”

He freezes. For a second, you think he’s gonna snap. But instead he leans in—just a little too close—and says, “At least I don’t pretend I’m not dying here.”

You see red. He knows exactly where to hit. The fire in your chest rises—until suddenly he grabs your wrist.

And you freeze.

Not because it hurts. But because it doesn’t. Because his fingers are warm and calloused and… careful?

“You got real fire in you,” he murmurs. “Too bad you keep wasting it on hating me.”

You pull back like you’ve been burned. “Don’t flatter yourself, Afton.”

But his smirk is gone.

And so is your breath.

⸻

That night, as you speed away on your battered motorcycle, hair flying in the wind and heart thundering like a war drum, all you can think about is:

Why the hell did he look at you like that?

The Synthcade is buzzing tonight.

Floor sticky with spilled soda, neon lights flickering like they’re fighting to stay alive—like the whole place is one power surge away from going dark for good. You’re here to win, or maybe just forget. Something about the chaos soothes you.

Your fists are tight. Shoulders still tense from the run-in with Michael.

And of course—

He walks in.

Hair mussed from the wind, leather jacket zipped halfway up, expression unreadable. You feel him before you see him. That shift in the air. Like a storm blew through and decided to stay.

You’re already locked into a fight at the cabinet—Street Fighter II, naturally—and your fingers fly over the buttons. Your opponent swears when you land the KO.

Then a voice behind you says, cool and low:

“Didn’t know you still played that cheap.”

You don’t have to turn around to know who it is.

Michael Afton. King of side comments. Emperor of getting under your skin.

You sigh. “Didn’t know you still breathed.”

He steps beside you. You can feel the heat radiating off him. Like he’s been running maybe he’s angry or maybe it's something else?

“Double or nothing?” he asks.

You don’t hesitate. “Fine.”

You grab the second joystick. Round one starts.

⸻

The match is brutal.

Trash talk. Button mashing. You catch each other’s tells—he always hits the left combo too early; you fake right before unleashing your strongest move.

But somewhere in round three, the vibe changes.

It’s not the game. It’s the way he looks at you.

Like a dare. Like a secret. Like he’s begging you to say something neither of you can take back.

You pretend not to feel it.

Until he says, “You ever think about leaving this town?”

You blink. That’s not how this game works. He’s supposed to throw another jab, not drop a loaded question.

“Where would I go?”

He shrugs. “Anywhere. Away from Fazbear’s. Away from the bullshit. Start over.”

“You saying that for me… or for you?”

He doesn’t answer. Not with words.

Instead, he tilts his head, eyes shadowed by the flickering glow of the game screen. “I screwed up a lot of things,” he mutters. “I’ve been trying to fix something that can’t be fixed. Maybe I thought if I stayed, I could make it right.”

There’s a long pause.

Your voice goes low. “This about your brother?”

His hands go still on the controls.

And that’s how you know.

You’ve hit the part of him no one touches.

“…He didn’t deserve what happened,” he finally says. “None of them did.”

You want to ask what he means.

But you already know too much.

The whispers. The flickering power. The things you’ve seen in that damn pizzeria after hours.

The way some nights, it feels like something’s watching you from inside the mascot heads.

You sit down on the cracked vinyl bench beside the machine. “You’re not the only one stuck with ghosts.”

He glances at you. “No?”

You shake your head. “Nah. Mine just don’t wear fur suits.”

For a second—just a second—Michael laughs. Not the usual sarcastic snort, either. A real laugh. Like you surprised him.

You sit in that warmth, quiet, until it cools again.

Then he says, “You wanna get outta here?”

You hesitate.

You always do. Because the thing between you isn’t stable. It’s gasoline and sparks. And if you go with him, you might not come back the same.

But tonight?

You nod.

⸻

You end up behind the old bowling alley.

The one tagged with graffiti and broken hearts.

He lights a cigarette. You steal it.

It’s quiet except for the hum of distant streetlights and a soft click as he taps a ring on his finger.

You didn’t notice it before. A chunky silver band. Could be sentimental. Could be stolen. With Michael, who knows?

“You know the worst part?” he asks, voice hollow. “Even after everything I’ve seen… I still want to believe there’s something left to save.”

You stare at him.

And say the words before you can stop them:

“I’d save you.”

He looks up.

And for the first time, doesn’t have a comeback.

You don’t kiss.

Not yet.

But your fingers brush against his when you hand the cigarette back.

He doesn’t pull away.

It starts with a scream.

Not from you.

Not from him.

From inside Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza.

You’re supposed to be off-shift. The doors were locked. Power cut. No reason to be here.

But Michael had that look in his eyes again—haunted and hungry, like he needed answers, like he needed you with him. And you were too curious, too stupid, and too in love with the idea of him to say no.

Now you’re both crouched behind the prize counter, flashlights off, holding your breath while something heavy moves in the dark.

“You said this place was abandoned,” you whisper, heart pounding.

Michael doesn’t answer.

But his hand brushes yours in the dark.

And it stays there.

You’re not sure how long you stay silent. A few minutes. Maybe hours. Time warps in places like this.

Eventually the noise fades. Whatever it was is gone—for now.

Michael exhales shakily and sits back against the wall. You follow, shaking.

“I need to tell you something,” he says, voice hoarse.

“No shit.”

“No. Really.”

He looks at you like it hurts. Like you’re the last good thing in a world made of rot.

“My dad used to run this place.”

Your heart stops.

“…You’re lying.”

“I wish I was.”

He lets it spill. Quiet. Shaky. Like a confession whispered through static.

His dad—William. The man who started it all. The man whose name no one says aloud but everyone knows in whispers and funeral rumors.

The missing kids.

The mascots.

The bodies.

Michael looks at you with that raw, broken expression—like he’s been carrying this weight so long he forgot how to stand without it.

“I didn’t know what he was doing… not at first,” he says. “But I found out. Too late. And I… I tried to fix it.”

You think of the rumors. The fire. The abandoned animatronics. The way Michael never flinched when the power cut out or when the mascots twitched on their own.

He wasn’t afraid.

He was familiar.

“…That’s why you stayed,” you whisper. “You’re trying to bury him.”

Michael looks away. “I’m trying to bury me.”

You’re quiet at first.

“You don’t get to do that.”

He looks up.

“You don’t get to self-destruct when people still give a damn,” you say, and your voice shakes because it’s not just about him anymore. “You don’t get to disappear into this mess without letting someone pull you out.”

He stares.

And then—slowly, deliberately—he leans forward.

“Are you trying to save me?” he asks, almost teasing. Almost pleading.

You don’t answer with words.

You kiss him.

It’s rough. Desperate. All teeth and heat and years of tension snapping like a wire pulled too tight.

You don’t pull away until the building groans.

Like something in the walls knows.

You break apart. Breathing hard.

“…We need to burn this place down,” he says, staring into the dark.

And for the first time, you nod.

Not because it’s the right thing.

But because if he’s going down,

you’re going with him.

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akairawrites · 2 months ago

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Nightcrawler blurbs

The rooftop was quiet—save for the low hum of wind brushing against the shingles and the soft crackle of crystal forming beneath Y/n’s fingertips.

She sat cross-legged on a patch of rooftop she’d gently fortified, her hands glowing with a faint lavender hue as small, fragile crystal snowflakes formed midair. They danced around her like fireflies, catching the moonlight and tossing it back in every direction.

BAMF!

A cloud of brimstone curled in beside her, followed by the distinct flutter of a coat and the soft thud of clawed feet.

“You’re late,” Y/n said without looking up, a faint smile pulling at her lips.

Kurt settled beside her with a sheepish grin. “I was detained by Logan. Apparently ‘borrowing’ a whole tray of brownies for our rendezvous was a security breach.”

She turned toward him now, eyebrows raised. “You brought brownies?”

He held up a napkin-wrapped bundle triumphantly. “Only slightly smooshed.”

She laughed—a soft, musical thing that made something in his chest unfurl. He handed her the makeshift dessert and eased into a seat beside her, legs dangling over the edge of the rooftop.

Below, the mansion slept in stillness. Above, the stars sprawled endlessly across the night sky.

For a few minutes, neither spoke. The only sound was Y/n’s breath and the soft tink of crystals forming in the air like snow.

“I used to think I was cursed,” she said suddenly, voice quiet. “When my powers first emerged, they felt more like a punishment than a gift. Everything I touched turned cold and sharp.”

Kurt turned to her, golden eyes kind. “And now?”

She held up a hand, letting one of her floating crystal flakes land gently on her palm. “Now I think… I’m still learning. But maybe it’s not about controlling the sharp edges. Maybe it’s about learning how to use them.”

He nodded slowly, his tail curling near her foot. “Even diamonds start as pressure, Y/n. The most beautiful things come from pain, ja?”

She looked at him, something unspoken flickering in her expression. “That’s easy for you to say. You make everything look light and efortless.”

Kurt chuckled softly. “I spent years in shadows before I found the light. I just choose to chase it now.”

Y/n paused. Then, she whispered, “You’re the first person who ever made me feel like my powers weren’t something to hide.”

Kurt’s voice softened, earnest. “That’s because you shine, Liebling. Not just your crystals—you. I see it every time you speak. Every time you walk into a room like you don’t know you’re changing it.”

Her breath caught. For a second, the air between them was warmer than the night had any right to be.

He reached for her hand.

And she let him take it.

The crystals didn’t flare. They didn’t cut.

They simply shimmered—quiet and steady.

Above them, the stars watched in silence.

The library was supposed to be quiet.

And for the first thirty minutes, it was.

But tonight, it was filled with the sound of books toppling over like a clumsy avalanche.

“Ach du lieber!”

Y/n winced as a stack of encyclopedias crashed to the ground, courtesy of one blue, teleporting acrobat and his overly enthusiastic tail.

Kurt appeared beside her in a puff of brimstone, face sheepish, arms full of yet more books. “I was only trying to reach volume seven,” he whispered. “You can’t expect me to not complete a series.”

Y/n raised an unimpressed brow. “So the solution was to leap off the second floor and risk death by paperback?”

“Death by knowledge,” he said solemnly, offering her a lopsided smile. “What a noble end.”

She rolled her eyes, unable to suppress the grin tugging at the corner of her lips. “You’re lucky I was here to catch that last book with my crystals.”

“And that I’m too charming to be banned from libraries,” he added.

“In your dreams.”

They settled into their usual spot—far in the back where the overhead lights were warm and golden, and no one cared if your powers occasionally sparked. Y/n sat cross-legged on a velvet chair, a few of her glowing crystals orbiting lazily around her head like moons, while Kurt perched upside-down on a nearby bookshelf, reading a worn copy of The Once and Future King.

It was quiet for a while.

Y/n sat at a long oak table surrounded by open textbooks, crystal-tipped pens, and the faint glimmer of a floating note she’d crafted out of hardened rose quartz to keep track of key terms. She had her glasses on—thick, vintage pink frames that she claimed were “purely aesthetic,” even though she never read without them. Her brow furrowed in deep concentration.

Across from her, Kurt was trying very hard to pretend he wasn’t distracted.

He turned a page in his book and immediately forgot what it said, too caught up in watching how she tapped her fingers when she was thinking—how each tap made the crystal bookmark in her notes vibrate softly, as if echoing her focus.

Then something slipped under her textbook.

A folded napkin.

She opened it, revealing a crude doodle of Kurt and Y/n sitting in the library, her surrounded by crystals, him—somehow with a monocle—balancing upside-down and reading. A speech bubble from him read: “She still pretends not to like me. I live in hope.”

Her cheeks flared pink.

She glanced up at him sharply, but he was pretending—poorly—not to look.

“You drew this during our training session earlier?” she asked, voice low but amused.

“I’m a man of many talents,” he said, tail twitching.

She slipped the napkin into her notebook like it was nothing.

But her smile lingered.

As Jean passed by on monitor rounds, she paused at the end of the aisle, watching them from a distance with a small, knowing grin.

She didn’t interrupt.

Some kinds of learning didn’t come from textbooks.

It was well past midnight when Y/n crept into the kitchen, arms wrapped in a soft lavender hoodie, crystal humming faintly at her wrists. The X-Mansion had long since gone quiet—except for the occasional floorboard groan or the soft hum of Danger Room systems resting.

She wasn’t expecting anyone.

But then-

BAMF!

A puff of brimstone and blue filled the room, followed immediately by a yelp.

Kurt hit the floor in a crouch, holding what appeared to be… a whisk and a mixing bowl.

“I was trying to be stealthy,” he said, grinning up at her like a teenager caught sneaking cookies. “Clearly, I failed.”

Y/n blinked, amused. “Are you making pancakes? At midnight?”

“German pancakes,” he said proudly. “And I was going to surprise you with them—because someone has been very stressed lately.” He waggled a clawed finger. “And because I missed you.”

That last bit came out quieter.

Y/n laughed softly, leaning against the counter. “You teleport into the kitchen at 12:03 with a bowl of batter and no plan, and you think I’m the chaotic one?”

“I brought cinnamon,” he replied with mock indignation, “and almond extract. That’s a plan.”

Ten minutes later, the kitchen looked like a minor disaster zone.

Flour dusted the counter (and Kurt’s coat), crystal shards accidentally formed around the stove when Y/n flinched at an oil pop, and one bowl of batter had somehow teleported itself halfway onto the ceiling.

But they were laughing.

Y/n was sitting on the kitchen floor with her legs stretched out, a small crystal dish she’d formed now holding slightly overcooked—but still edible—pancakes. Kurt sat beside her, cross-legged, tearing a piece of pancake with his fingers and offering it to her like some kind of peace treaty.

“You know,” she said, chewing thoughtfully, “if Beast walks in here tomorrow, we’re getting kitchen-banned for life.”

“Pfft. He’ll just lecture us on cleaning protocols. Again.”

She nudged his shoulder with hers. “Thank you, though. For this. I needed the laugh.”

He looked at her then—not teasing, not joking. Just there. Present.

“You shine even brighter when you laugh, Liebling.”

Y/n glanced away quickly, trying to hide her smile behind a forkful of pancake.

“Stop being cute,” she muttered.

He tilted his head with a grin. “Never.”

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akairawrites · 2 months ago

Note

Can u make a childhood friends to lovers Timeskip oikawa fic?🤭 Thanks!!

The gym always smelled like sweat and floor polish—familiar, a little disgusting, but comforting in its own way. That was how it felt to Y/n. Like a second home. Maybe even more of a home than her actual house.

She sat on the wooden bleachers with a half-eaten taiyaki in her hand, watching the Seijoh volleyball team wrap up their evening practice. Her eyes, as usual, were fixed on a certain setter with soft brown hair and a cocky smile that didn’t quite reach his tired eyes.

Oikawa Tooru.

To everyone else, he was the flirty captain with a bright future and fangirls for days. To Y/n, he was the boy who once showed up outside her house at 2 AM after losing a match and cried in her arms without saying a word. He was the boy who stole fries off her lunch tray without asking and sent her voice memos of terrible love songs in the middle of the night. He was her best friend.

He waved at her now, two fingers raised lazily in greeting before turning back to bark orders at Iwaizumi, who flipped him off in return. She smiled.

God, she was in trouble.

⸻

It wasn’t just the late-night calls or the little smiles he saved only for her. It was the way he listened. Really listened. Like she was the only person in the world who mattered. He made her feel seen—known. And Y/n hated that somewhere along the way, that feeling had shifted and became something deeper.

“Y/n-”

Speak of the devil.

Oikawa jogged up to her after practice, towel slung around his neck, cheeks flushed from the heat. He dropped onto the bleacher beside her with a dramatic sigh.

“I swear Iwa’s trying to kill me.”

“You probably deserve it,” she said, handing him the last bite of her taiyaki without thinking. He accepted it, grinning.

“You wound me,” he said, mouth full. “After all I do for you?”

She snorted. “Like what? Steal my food? Humble me with your eternal volleyball rants?”

“Exactly,” he said, nudging her knee with his. “You’d be bored without me.”

Maybe. But lately, being around him made her heart twist in ways she didn’t understand. Like today—he’d high-fived a girl after practice and Y/n had felt something sharp and bitter curl inside her chest. It was stupid. He wasn’t hers.

“Hey,” he said, his voice softer now. “You good?”

She blinked. “Yeah, just tired.”

He didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push. Instead, he leaned back, gazing at the empty gym ceiling like it held answers.

“You ever think about what comes next?” he asked. “Like after high school?”

Y/n hesitated. “All the time. It’s terrifying.”

“Yeah.” His voice dropped to a rare quiet. “I wanna go pro. I have to. I can’t be average. Not with… everything I’ve worked for.”

She looked at him then, really looked. At the shadows under his eyes. The pressure he carried like a second skin.

“You’re not average, Tooru.”

His eyes flicked to hers—wide, surprised. She rarely used his first name. But she meant it.

“Thanks,” he said quietly. “You always believe in me. Even when I don’t.”

She nudged his shoulder. “That’s what best friends are for.”

Right. Best friends.

⸻

The night he left for Argentina, she didn’t go to the airport.

She couldn’t. Because if she saw him—suitcase in hand, that brave smile on his face—she might have said something she’d regret. Might have asked him to stay. Might have told him everything she’d buried under years of bad timing and silent goodbyes.

Instead, she left a note in his locker.

“I’m proud of you. Go become a star, Tooru. I’ll be cheering for you. Always.”

He never replied.

And she never asked why.

Six years was enough time to grow out of a crush.

Or so Y/n told herself.

She lived in a quiet apartment now, tucked away above a bakery that always smelled like vanilla and fresh bread. Her life was calm, neat, uncomplicated—far from the storm of adolescence, far from loud gyms and louder boys with reckless grins and soft brown eyes.

But sometimes, in the stillness, Oikawa Tooru found her anyway.

He showed up in dreams. In the way the light hit the floorboards at dusk. In the ache that bloomed when she heard someone speak Spanish under their breath in line at the market. She hadn’t seen him in years, but his name lingered like a phantom on her tongue.

And then, one ordinary Tuesday, her phone buzzed.

Oikawa Tooru:

“Hey. I’m coming back to Japan for the off-season. Want to meet up?”

Her heart stuttered.

She stared at the message for a long time—like it might vanish if she blinked. She hadn’t heard from him in over a year. Not since he posted a photo of a trophy and captioned it with a pun only she would have laughed at. Not since she’d let herself believe that maybe he was finally out of her system.

Y/n:

“Sure. When?”

⸻

They met at a small café tucked between tall buildings in the heart of Sendai. He’d picked it.

When she arrived, he was already there—sitting near the window, coffee in hand, sunglasses perched in his messy brown hair.

He stood when he saw her, and for a second, time blurred.

He looked the same. And completely different. Older, somehow. Shoulders broader. Face sharper. There was a tiredness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before—but also something gentle. Like peace. Like he wasn’t running anymore.

“Hey,” he said, smile blooming slow and familiar. “You look exactly the same.”

“You don’t,” she said, lips curving. “You look famous.”

He laughed—a real one, head thrown back—and her chest ached.

They talked. About small things first. His team. Her job. The weather in Argentina. The coffee in Japan. But under every word was something heavier. Unspoken.

Until, eventually, it cracked.

“You know,” he said, stirring his drink slowly, “I thought about you. A lot.”

Her breath caught. She looked up, trying to read him.

“I kept meaning to message,” he said, voice softer. “But I didn’t know if I had the right. I disappeared.”

“You didn’t disappear,” she said. “You chased your dream. I always knew you would.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“I missed you,” he said.

It wasn’t loud. Wasn’t dramatic. But it hit her harder than any confession ever could.

“I missed you too,” she whispered.

⸻

They walked together after, like they used to—side by side, steps in sync, the air thick with everything left unsaid.

Rain began to fall—soft, gentle. He offered her his jacket, even though she didn’t need it. She took it anyway.

“Do you ever regret it?” she asked as they turned a corner. “Leaving?”

“No,” he said. “But I regret not asking you to wait for me.”

She stopped walking.

He did too.

“I would’ve,” she said, barely audible.

His eyes searched hers—wide, uncertain, open. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He stepped closer, carefully, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.

“I used to think I couldn’t afford to fall in love,” he said. “Not when I hadn’t proved myself yet. Not when I still felt like a failure inside. But I think—”

She cut him off with a small, trembling laugh. “Tooru…”

And then he said it. Quiet. True.

“I think I’ve been in love with you since the first time you made me laugh after I lost that match to Shiratorizawa.”

Her heart clenched.

“I didn’t want to ruin our friendship,” she whispered.

“Maybe it was always supposed to be more.”

⸻

They didn’t kiss.

Not yet.

But when he walked her home that night and paused at her door, he looked at her like she was the only thing he’d been chasing all this time.

Rain tapped lightly against Y/n’s window.

It had been a week since that night with Oikawa—since he walked her home, lingered at the doorstep with eyes full of regret and maybe-love, and left her with a heart too full to sleep.

They’d seen each other twice since then. Always in public. Always talking around it.

She hated it.

Not him—never him. Just this purgatory they were in, where the past and present crashed into each other but neither of them reached for the future.

Until tonight.

⸻

It was late when he called.

“Can I come over?”

She didn’t hesitate.

⸻

He showed up in a hoodie and sweats, damp hair clinging to his forehead from the rain. A memory flashed—him back in high school, complaining about Iwaizumi’s sets and stealing snacks from her bento.

But this wasn’t the same boy.

This was a man who had fought his way to the top of the world. And now he stood in her doorway looking unsure of everything but her.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi.”

⸻

They sat on her couch for a while, wrapped in the hush of night. A candle flickered on the coffee table between them. The air smelled like rain and chamomile tea.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” Y/n murmured. “About being in love with me.”

He didn’t flinch. Just nodded slowly.

“It wasn’t a new feeling,” he admitted. “I think… I’ve been in love with you in stages. In high school, it was innocent. Quiet. Something I didn’t understand. After I left… it became loud.”

She turned toward him.

“Then why didn’t you ever tell me?”

His jaw tightened, like he’d rehearsed this answer before.

“Because if you had said no, I couldn’t have handled losing you. Not when I was already losing everything else. I needed you to stay… even if it meant staying just friends.”

Her heart cracked. “That’s not fair. You decided for both of us.”

“I know,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

A beat passed.

Then she said, “I loved you, too. I just didn’t know how to say it. I thought if I waited, you’d come back and feel the same.”

He reached out, gently taking her hand. His thumb traced circles on her skin—soft, reverent.

“I’m here now,” he said.

“And are you ready now?” she asked.

He met her eyes.

“Yes.”

There was no dramatic kiss. No swelling music or sudden tears.

Just a slow lean in. A breath held. A pair of lips brushing like a promise.

When their mouths met, it was soft—familiar. Like they had done this before in another lifetime and had just found their way back. He cupped her face like she might disappear. She curled her fingers into his shirt like she’d never let him go.

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akairawrites · 2 months ago

Text

e!42 Miles Morales blurbs

Someone requested this a while ago, enjoy!

Taglist

@ella-fella-bo-bella @ayoitsurfavdesigurl @luvvvjada @harleycao @aiq39 @420sprite @stvrfir3 @lumineliax @rukia-uchiha-98 @skyesayshibitchez @imarimone12 @mysticalhills @deliciousfatblackcat @4arancia @scalesiren @luvelyxp @urmomsbananabread @strawberrycreamblush-blog @dollceesstuff @just-reading-dany @godknows-shetried @that-levi-kenma-kinnie @cascadingbliss @lilupie @Crystals-faith @blodmichii2 @notsaelty @ballerin-minaa @sexyashbish @amoyanani47 @xoxolexiiiiiie @evilcado @b4tm4nn @mimi-sanisanidiot @childishname @twilight-loveer @sbrewer21 @bobfloydluvsblackwomen

The lights were low, glowing neon signs painted the floor in blue and red streaks, and artificial fog drifted just above their sneakers. The voice over the speakers gave the signal, and the game began.

It was just laser tag—Something dumb and chaotic to distract them from the world outside. From everything heavy and sharp.

Here she was.

Wearing a glowing vest that pulsed with every beat of her heart. Breath hitching in her chest like it didn’t know whether to keep going or not. She hadn’t seen Miles since the game started—he’d vanished the second the buzzer hit zero, slipping into the dark like smoke in wind.

That should’ve annoyed her. Should’ve made her roll her eyes and mutter something under her breath.

But all she felt was… watched.

Not in a bad way.

In the kind of way that made her stomach twist and her hands tighten on the handle of her fake weapon. Like something was coming. Like he was coming.

Y/n crept down a dim corridor, red lights painting her skin in bleeding tones. She was too focused on the sound of her footsteps, on the rush in her ears, to notice the shadow behind her.

“Where the hell did you go, Morales…” she muttered, checking her laser gun again.

And then—

A tug.

She gasped, but before she could fight it, she was pulled hard into the dark.

“Miles—what—?”

Her next breath caught in her throat.

His hand was gentle under her chin, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. As if asking a question without needing an answer. Then he leaned in, slow and sure, and kissed her.

Everything else disappeared.

It wasn’t fast, wasn’t urgent—it was the kind of kiss that made her knees gave in without permission, her hand reaching for his hoodie just to stay upright.

The world around them—lasers, noise, flashing lights—melted into nothing. She didn’t mean to fall into him, but she did.

When he finally pulled away, the air rushed back in like a slap.

And he was smirking. Satisfied, like he’d been holding that moment in his pocket, waiting for the right second to spend it.

Before she could speak—before her brain could catch up—he raised his laser gun.

Zap.

Her vest lit up.

A flicker of red bloomed across her chest. She blinked.

Stunned.

“Miles—” she started, but he was already stepping back, already fading into the fog again without a word.

And Y/n stood there her heart stammering and her breath caught halfway between laugh and sigh.

The metal staircase creaked beneath Y/n’s feet as she climbed higher, the cold wind biting at her fingertips even through the sleeves of her sweater. She curled her hands tighter, nervously tugging at the fabric, heart thudding slow and unsure.

She didn’t know what she expected.

For weeks—months—Miles had been distant. Slipping off without warning, not answering calls, and showing up at her fire escape, tired and distracted with weak excuses. “Had to help Uncle Aaron,” or “Got caught up with some stuff.” Stuff he never explained.

And even though she tried to understand, it still hurt. It made her feel small.

So when he texted her earlier—“Come to the roof. 8PM. Wear something warm.”—she didn’t know whether to be hopeful or guarded.

Her fingers trembled as they closed around the old iron handle of the rooftop doors. She took a breath.

Then pushed them open.

The sunset melted across the Brooklyn skyline in soft hues of lavender and gold, the city sighing beneath it. The soft flicker of string lights strung between rusted pipes and vents, and a low beat pulsing from a small JBL speaker in the corner.

The voice from the speaker floated into the night, wrapping around her like the wind never could.

Y/n’s eyes landed on him.

Miles stood near the center of the roof, next to a laid-out blanket weighed down with a large pizza box from Paolo’s—her favorite spot—and a bottle of orange soda with two paper cups.

His twin braids were freshly done, clean parts tight against his scalp. He wore his usual hoodie layered under a puffer jacket, blue jeans cuffed slightly at the bottom, and the same beat-up red and white Nikes he always wore. She used to joke he’d probably be buried in them.

He looked up when she stepped through. And the way his eyes softened—like he hadn’t seen her in years, like he was seeing her right now—made her breath catch.

“Happy anniversary.”

She sank down beside him, fingers brushing the edge of the blanket. “You remembered.”

“I never forgot,” he said. “Just… been caught up in stuff.”

She didn’t ask. Not this time either. But the space between them throbbed with all the things left unsaid.

He cracked open the soda and poured them both a cup. “It’s orange. I know you hate the grape one.

She huffed a laugh, taking a sip. “I really hate the grape one.”

He leaned back, head tilted toward the fogged-up moon. “You know, I used to think time would fix everything. Like, if I just waited long enough, life would slow down. I’d have time for you. For us. But it never does.”

Y/n watched him. He looked older tonight. Not in years, but in weight.

“You don’t have to wait for peace to make space for love,” she said softly.

His eyes met hers. And for once, he didn’t look away.

They sat in silence for a while, sharing slices and stories under the hum of the music. It wasn’t perfect. The wind still cut through their jackets, the pizza was getting cold, and Miles still couldn’t explain all the shadows he kept.

But his hand found hers, fingers lacing between hers slow and careful.

“I know I got stuff I can’t talk about yet,” he said, staring at their joined hands. “But I’m workin’ on it. On me. On this.”

Y/n leaned her head against his shoulder. “I don’t need perfect, Miles. I just need honest. And nights like this.”

He turned and kissed the top of her head, the beat of his heart steady against her ear.

The sky opened up over the city like it was mourning something too. Rain poured down in steady sheets, soaking through clothes and skin and everything in between. People rushed by, umbrellas blooming like dark flowers across the sidewalk. But Y/n didn’t notice any of it.

She only saw him.

Miles.

Slouched forward in his hoodie, head low, hands buried deep in his jacket pockets as he walked like he had nowhere to be—and nowhere he wanted to be either. Like he was dragging his body through the world just to get it over with.

“Miles!” she called out, over the rush of rain and tires slicing through puddles.

He didn’t see her. Or maybe he did—maybe he just didn’t care.

Her stomach dropped.

“Miles!” she called, voice straining to rise above the traffic and thunder.

He kept walking.

“Miles—wait up!” she jogged forward, her shoes already soaked, her breath coming fast. Her fingers caught the edge of his sleeve as he turned the corner. “Hey.”

He stopped. Slowly turned.

“Y/n,” he said flatly, like her name didn’t taste the same on his tongue anymore.

“What the hell is going on with you?” she asked, chest rising and falling, water dripping from her hair to her cheeks. “You don’t answer your phone, you don’t text back, I barely even see you—what are you doing, just pretending I don’t exist?”

He exhaled through his nose, eyes darting away and he shook his head. “Don’t do this.”

“No, you don’t do this,” she snapped, her voice raw. “You disappear for days, you ignore my calls, my messages—you don’t even look at me anymore.”

“I’ve been busy,” he muttered.

“Oh, come on, Miles,” she snapped. “That’s such bullshit and you know it. Busy with what? Avoiding everyone who gives a damn about you? Hiding out like we can’t see how much you’re hurting?”

He flinched. Just barely. But it was enough.

She stepped closer, voice softening. “I know you’re going through something. I know. But pushing people away doesn’t fix it. And it doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

He shook his head. “You don’t get it.”

“Then help me get it!” she said, desperate now. “Talk to me. Let me in. That’s all I’m asking.”

He stared at her for a second, rain dripping from the edge of his hood, jaw tight.

“I can’t,” he said quietly. “I don’t want to drag you into all this.”

“You’re not dragging me, Miles. I’m already here.” Her voice cracked, the weight of it pressing against her ribs like a bruise. “You think I don’t see it? You think I don’t notice how empty your eyes look? How you haven’t drawn anything in weeks? You used to carry your sketchbook everywhere like it was part of you.”

His gaze flickered for the briefest second. That stung. She pressed forward anyway.

“I miss the way you used to laugh. The way you used to smile when you talked about your dad. I miss… you. I miss the old you.”

Her voice broke then, tears rising with the storm. They slid down her cheeks, mixing with the rain until she couldn’t tell the difference.

Miles didn’t move. He didn’t speak for a long time. Then—

“The old me is gone for a reason.”

His voice was rough, like it hurt to say the words. It hit like a punch to the chest.

She stared at him, blinking against the water and her own disbelief. “What reason?”

He looked down. The mask slipped—just enough for her to see the storm behind his eyes. A flicker of grief. The weight he carried like bricks in his bones.

“You know why,” he said hoarsely.

Ever since his dad died it was like the world stopped spinning for Miles. Even before then Miles had been distant but after he surprised Y/n with pizza on the rooftop of his apartment building a few nights ago she finally thought she had her Miles back.

She thought wrong.

She swallowed hard, her throat burning.

“I’m not the same person I was before. I can’t be. That version of me—the one who smiled all the time, who cracked dumb jokes, who stayed up late drawing comics and dreaming about being a hero—he’s gone. And trying to be him again? It hurts too much.”

She reached for him, fingers trembling. “Miles…”

“I’m tired, Y/n,” he said, voice barely above the rain. “Tired of pretending I’m okay. Tired of acting like I’m still that kid you remember. I’m not. I can’t be.”

“You don’t have to be him,” she whispered. “But don’t shut me out. I can handle your grief. I can stay, even when it’s ugly.”

He looked at her then—really looked—and she saw something raw flash behind his eyes. Fear. Anger. Grief that had no name. But he blinked, and it was gone.

“I don’t want to need anyone right now,” he said. “Not even you.”

That hurt worse than anything.

She stepped back, the ache spreading from her chest out to her fingertips.

“Fine then, if thats how you feel...” She wasted no time turning in her heels and only letting the tears and sobs escape her when she was far enough away.

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akairawrites · 3 months ago

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next chap of damian series pls😊

It’s on wattpad :)

@/akairawrites

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akairawrites · 4 months ago

Text

Lite Shower | Dick Grayson x V!Reader

Taglist

@ella-fella-bo-bella @ayoitsurfavdesigurl @luvvvjada @harleycao @aiq39 @420sprite @stvrfir3 @lumineliax @rukia-uchiha-98 @skyesayshibitchez @imarimone12 @mysticalhills @deliciousfatblackcat @4arancia @scalesiren @luvelyxp @urmomsbananabread @strawberrycreamblush-blog @dollceesstuff @just-reading-dany @godknows-shetried @that-levi-kenma-kinnie @cascadingbliss @lilupie @Crystals-faith @blodmichii2 @notsaelty @ballerin-minaa @sexyashbish @amoyanani47 @xoxolexiiiiiie @evilcado @b4tm4nn

The rain in Gotham didn’t fall—it drenched. It swept across the city like a promise it never intended to keep, washing grime from rooftops just to push it deeper into the cracks.

Y/n didn’t mind.

She stood on the ledge of a weather-beaten rooftop in The Narrows, her long coat dripping with rain, the wind curling around her like an old memory. Below, the city churned—screaming tires, flickering neon, sirens wailing like broken violins. Gotham was a living thing, diseased and defiant, never asking for help and always spitting in the face of those who offered it.

She liked that about it.

No one noticed her here. Not the cops. Not the criminals. Not the few good people still trying to hold the city together.

That suited her fine.

She wasn’t one of them, not anymore anyway.

Y/n pressed her palm to the rusted steel of a chimney pipe, letting the chill ground her. It had been seventy years since she’d last felt the cold. It didn’t sting the way it used to—it was just there, like the silence between heartbeats. But tonight… she felt something. Not warmth exactly. Not yet.

Movement caught her eye.

The alley two stories down flared to life—a struggle. A man yelling. A broken bottle raised. Someone about to bleed.

Y/n could smell it already.

She tilted her head, ready to jump down and stop it. Not for morality’s sake. Not because she cared. Just because she was hungry, and the scent of fear was sour tonight. She didn’t feed on killers. Not anymore. But she still remembered the taste.

And then he landed beside her.

She didn’t hear the grappling line, or the wind shift, or even his heartbeat. Just the quiet thud of boots on gravel.

Nightwing.

“You are the light, I've been searchin' for forever.

Feels like, man, I've really never felt the rain”

Y/n stiffened.

He was taller up close than she remembered—shoulders broad beneath sleek armor, the blue of his symbol faintly glowing in the rain. He didn’t speak. He didn’t even glance at her. Just looked down at the alley, calculating.

Ten seconds later, it was over.

The mugger was disarmed, lying flat, gasping for breath. The bottle had never touched skin. The woman fled, sobbing thanks over her shoulder.

Y/n watched it all without blinking.

So did he.

He turned toward her then. Rain clung to his lashes. The curve of his jaw was sharp, framed by dark hair soaked through. His eyes—striking, electric—met hers without hesitation.

Y/n didn’t know what to say. Didn’t remember the last time someone had looked at her without flinching.

“You don’t usually stick around,” he said finally, voice calm but edged with curiosity.

She hesitated. “You’ve seen me before?”

“You’ve been watching Gotham longer than I’ve been alive,” he said, studying her. “You think I wouldn’t notice the eyes on the rooftops?”

She almost smiled.

“You’re observant.”

“I have to be.”

The silence that followed wasn’t tense—it was charged. Like two storms circling the same fault line.

Y/n shifted her weight. “You’re not afraid.”

“Should I be?”

She turned toward him fully now, shadows moving with her. The rain shimmered against her skin, too pale for someone still living. Her irises glinted faintly red in the darkness.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “Most people are.”

Nightwing didn’t flinch. “Most people don’t know the difference between a monster and someone who’s trying not to be one.”

That made her pause.

She looked down at the city again. Gotham had never forgiven her. Never welcomed her. But this man… he wasn’t Gotham. He wasn’t even quite human in the way he moved, the way he saw.

“You have no idea what I’ve done,” she said.

“I know what you didn’t do tonight.”

That landed. Hard.

She swallowed, blinking away the water clinging to her lashes. Or maybe it wasn’t just rain anymore.

“I’m screaming, like a kettle on the stove…”

It was too much. The sudden tenderness. The stillness between them. The way his voice reminded her of a life she could no longer touch.

“I should go,” she murmured.

“You should,” he agreed. “But you haven’t yet.”

Y/n turned to him, heart aching in a place long since shut down. “What do you want from me?”

“I don’t know yet,” he admitted. “But I think you came up here for a reason. And maybe… I did too.”

That scared her more than anything.

Because for the first time in decades, someone saw through the hunger. Through the curse. Through the centuries of guilt wrapped around her like barbed wire.

He saw her.

And that—God, that was worse than being hunted.

She took a step back into shadow. The rain swallowed her form like mist. But just before she disappeared, she said, almost too soft to hear:

“Don’t follow me.”

“I won’t,” he promised. “But I’ll be here. If you come back.”

And then she was gone.

But the rain kept falling.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Y/n wasn’t numb.

She was afraid to feel.

And even more afraid of how good it felt to be seen.

Gotham slept in flickers—always restless, always half-watching. But in the quiet hours before sunrise, something like peace could be found. If you knew where to look.

Y/n stood barefoot in the middle of her apartment, rain still dripping from her coat onto the hardwood. She hadn’t turned the lights on. She didn’t need to. The city lit her windows in gold and red, the glow of it catching on the glass of old picture frames and dust-covered books she hadn’t opened in decades.

She shrugged off her coat slowly, like it was heavier than it used to be.

She could still feel him—his presence on that rooftop, the heat in his eyes. It clung to her skin like steam. She’d meant to vanish quickly, to shake it off like the rain. But she hadn’t. She still felt it, thick in her chest.

She moved through the dark to the kitchen. Opened the fridge. Blood bags—labeled, cold, clinical. Nothing fresh. Nothing personal.

She closed it again, appetite gone.

“all my anger, sadness, regret, disappeared, it's madness

I'm not used to all this watеr love, it's true”

She didn’t have a home. Not really. This apartment was a shell. Everything inside it had been borrowed or forgotten. But something had shifted tonight. That rooftop—his voice—it had cracked something open.

She didn’t know what to do with that.

Y/n sat on the couch and looked at the city beyond her window. She’d watched Gotham for so long—from balconies, bell towers, rooftops. From the outside. Always the outsider. Always observing and never being seen.

But he had seen her.

And worse—he’d stayed.

The next night, she went back.

Not to the same rooftop. That would’ve been too obvious.

But to the same part of the city. Close enough that maybe he’d feel her presence again. Maybe he’d come like he said.

She didn’t admit she was waiting.

But when the sound of boots hit concrete above her, her breath caught anyway.

Nightwing dropped down into the alley, landing with that same easy grace. He wasn’t in a rush tonight. No crisis. Just him.

“You’re out late again,” he said, stepping closer.

“So are you,” she replied, folding her arms, letting a smirk tug at her lips. “We should stop meeting like this.”

“Should we?”

She raised a brow. “Aren’t you supposed to be chasing criminals?”

He shrugged, glancing up at the fire escape. “Crime’s quiet. Or maybe I’m just following my instincts.”

She hated how warm that made her feel.

“You’re a shower of light I’d devour and day of the week

Baby, cleanse me”

They walked together.

Not far. Just along the edge of the street. His gloved hands tucked into his belt. Hers folded in front of her like she didn’t trust them. Like if she got too close, she might reach for something she shouldn’t.

“You don’t ask questions,” she said quietly after a block.

“I have plenty,” he answered. “I just figured you’d answer them when you were ready.”

That silenced her again. Not because she didn’t believe him—but because she did. He wasn’t probing. He wasn’t trying to catch her in a lie. He just was. Present. Grounded. Like the storm inside her didn’t scare him at all.

She stopped walking.

The rain had started again, soft at first. But she stood still, face tilted upward, letting it hit her like a confession.

He paused beside her. “You okay?”

“I used to love the rain,” she murmured. “Back when I still had skin that got cold. Back when I could shiver. It reminded me I was alive.”

He didn’t interrupt.

“But after a while, it just felt like noise. Static. Something that passed through me and left nothing behind.”

She turned to face him, and her voice lowered. “Tonight, it doesn’t feel that way.”

He stepped closer. Just a breath away now.

“What does it feel like?”

Her throat worked. “Like I’m waking up. And I don’t know if I want to.”

“You soothe me, the way you speak…”

Dick reached out slowly, like offering peace to a frightened creature. His fingers brushed her hand—barely there, but enough. The touch made her pulse spike. She hadn’t realized she still had a pulse.

“You don’t have to figure it out tonight,” he said softly.

“But you’ll be here?”

His eyes met hers. “Yeah. I’ll be here.”

And that was enough.

Just enough light to break the dark.

“But you made me want to

Plan out my last days on earth, eating you”

She’d lived a long time behind locked doors and barred windows, inside a fortress built of shame and silence. Letting someone in—really in—meant risk. It meant weakness. It meant her heart would be within reach again.

And yet here he was, In her apartment.

No mask. No armor. Just Dick—soft cotton hoodie, dark jeans, hair still damp from the rain. He stood in the doorway like he belonged there. Like he wanted to be there.

Y/n watched him from across the room, unsure of what to do with her hands. Or her thoughts. Or her heart.

“I didn’t expect you to say yes,” he said gently, scanning the dim interior. “When I asked to come over.”

“I didn’t expect to say yes,” she admitted.

Silence stretched between them—not awkward, but delicate. Like a secret being carefully unfolded.

Dick took a step closer. “This place… it’s quiet.”

“It has to be,” she said. “The city’s too loud otherwise.”

He nodded. “Still. It feels like you.”

That caught her off guard. She blinked, looking away. “And what do I feel like?”

“Like someone who’s been holding her breath for too long.”

That made her laugh. It was soft. Small. Like the sound had forgotten how to exist.

“You make it sound so easy,” she said.

“It’s not,” he replied. “But I think… it doesn’t have to be hard forever.”

She walked past him, slow and quiet, and stood at the window. Gotham flickered below them—ugly and alive, both truth and lie. It was the one constant in her life. A city as broken as she was.

But when she felt Dick’s presence behind her, it didn’t feel so cold anymore.

“You’re not afraid of what I am?” she asked without turning.

“I’m not afraid of who you are,” he said.

She looked at her reflection in the glass—pale skin, old eyes. A girl who stopped being a girl long ago. But when she turned to face him, her voice was steady.

“I’ve taken lives,” she whispered.

“So have I,” he replied.

“I’ve hurt people I loved.”

“I’ve lost people I didn’t protect.”

Her throat tightened. “You don’t understand—this thing inside me… it wants. It doesn’t care about morality or mercy. It’s hunger.”

“I believe you,” he said. “But I also believe you’ve been starving it instead of feeding it cruelty. That matters.”

Y/n looked at him like he was something rare. Sacred. A warmth she couldn’t touch without burning.

But she touched him anyway.

Fingers threading through his. Hands cold against his warmth. And for the first time in what felt like a century, she didn’t pull away.

She leaned in slowly, forehead brushing his. Her voice barely a breath. “You feel like sunlight. Like something I’m not supposed to have.”

Dick’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Then maybe I’m the crazy one.”

“I could hurt you,” she warned.

“You won’t,” he said.

“I could lose control.”

“I’d catch you.”

She kissed him.

It wasn’t hungry or rushed—it was hesitant, reverent, like pressing a prayer into someone’s mouth. His hand curled against her jaw, anchoring her. And for the first time since death took her heartbeat, she felt like maybe—just maybe—she could be more than what she was.

She could be someone with someone.

When they parted, she didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

The silence said everything.

Outside, Gotham raged on—sirens, thunder, the ache of a city always at war with itself. But inside the apartment, it was quiet.

And Y/n, the girl who had lived a thousand years in the dark, finally stepped into the light.

But you made me want to

Plan out my last days on earth, eating you

Ooh-ooh-ooh, the tips of your teeth

Fit perfect in me, you're the shower of light

I devour any day of the week

41 notes · View notes

akairawrites · 4 months ago

Text

When the silence breaks | Damian Wayne x Reader

At Gotham Academy, no one asks too many questions—especially when your past is too heavy to carry out loud. Y/n L/n is no exception. The daughter of a once-feared mob figure, she hides behind sharp eyes and graphite sketches, trying to stay invisible while the weight of her childhood still claws at her spine. When a school project unexpectedly pairs her with Damian Wayne, the two begin to orbit each other in quiet, careful steps.

Previous | Next

The dining room was exactly what Y/n imagined it would be—long table, heavy drapes, a chandelier that looked like it hadn’t been touched since the 1800s. But somehow, it wasn’t stiff or cold. Maybe it was the way the lights were dimmed just enough. Or maybe it was the fact that only one end of the table was set—two places, close together. Intimate.

Alfred stood at the sideboard, placing the last covered dish onto a silver tray. “I hope you don’t mind something simple tonight, Miss L/n. Master Damian insisted you liked grilled vegetables.”

Y/n blinked. “I—what?”

Damian was already pulling out his chair. “You ordered it three times last month when the academy brought in food trucks.”

She sat slowly, watching him as she lowered herself into the seat. “You pay that much attention to what I eat?”

“I pay attention to everything,” he said plainly.

Alfred coughed into his hand. “He means that in the least unsettling way possible, of course.”

Y/n actually laughed. “Good to know.”

Dinner was… quiet, but not awkward. The food was simple, like Alfred had said—roasted vegetables, warm bread, lemon rice, and grilled eggplant topped with just enough seasoning to make it feel like a secret family recipe.

“Okay,” Y/n said after a few bites. “This is better than the dining hall.”

Alfred gave a small bow. “I do my best.”

There was a pause. Y/n looked over at Damian, who was eating methodically, like it was a checklist.

“You always eat here alone?”

“Most of the time.”

“No giant dinners with Bruce and the whole Wayne family?”

His expression didn’t change. “They’re not all around much anymore.”

Y/n nodded, sensing something behind the words but not pushing. Instead, she looked around the room. The walls were lined with oil paintings—nothing too extravagant, but definitely old. Familiar. Warm in that untouchable kind of way.

“Do you ever draw?” she asked.

Damian hesitated, then shook his head. “Not anymore.”

“Why not?”

He didn’t answer right away. Then: “I used to be good at it. But it stopped feeling like mine.”

Y/n met his eyes. “That’s the worst feeling.”

Something passed between them then—quiet understanding. Not pity. Not sympathy. Just recognition.

Alfred returned with tea and something that resembled spiced shortbread.

Y/n took a sip, letting the warmth settle. “This place… it’s quieter than I thought it’d be.”

Damian gave a small nod. “It’s easier to think here.”

She tilted her head, studying him. “Do you ever get lonely?”

He didn’t flinch. “Not often.”

That made her smile. “You really are something else.”

“I’ve been told.”

They sat in silence for a moment longer. Then Ivy leaned back in her chair, her eyes still on him.

“You’re not what I expected.”

“Neither are you,” Damian replied, voice soft. “But I think that’s the point.”

They wandered slowly after dinner, the manor dim and echoing with the creak of aged floorboards beneath their steps. Damian walked beside her, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed for the first time all day. Y/n followed, gaze shifting from portraits to old suits of armor, to bookshelves lined with titles in languages she couldn’t read.

“Okay,” she said, pausing by a tall stained glass window. “This place is either haunted or enchanted. There’s no in-between.”

Damian glanced at her, expression unreadable. “I’d say both.”

She smirked. “Not comforting.”

He led her through a small gallery tucked between wings—a long corridor filled with black-and-white photos, most of them of the Wayne family over the years. Bruce as a boy, young Alfred in uniform, Thomas and Martha Wayne standing in front of an old car.

Y/n slowed, her eyes landing on a photo near the end. It was small. Framed in silver. Damian as a child—maybe five or six—standing stiffly beside Bruce in a training yard. He looked… angry. Tense. Like he didn’t know what to do with the softness in the way Bruce’s hand rested on his shoulder.

“I’ve never seen this one,” she said quietly.

“It’s not for show,” he replied. “Not many people come up here.”

She glanced at him. “So why bring me?”

He didn’t answer at first. Then, simply: “You listen.”

Y/n took that in for a moment. No sarcasm. No bravado. Just quiet honesty.

She looked out a nearby window. The sky was almost completely dark now, the horizon a thin wash of deep blue over the distant glow of Gotham.

Her voice came gentle. “I should go. My mom’ll worry.”

Damian nodded. “The car’s waiting.”

They walked back in silence, the hush of the manor following them like a shadow. At the front steps, the limo idled under soft exterior lights. Alfred stood nearby, offering Y/n a small nod and a paper bag.

“For the road,” he said with a faint smile. “There’s more shortbread in there than anyone could reasonably eat in one night, but I trust you’ll manage.”

She grinned. “Thank you. Seriously.”

Alfred’s eyes flicked to Damian, then back to her, something knowing in his glance. “Anytime, Miss Y/n.”

Damian walked her to the car himself, stopping just short of the open door. For a second, he didn’t say anything. The cold crept in through his sleeves.

“Come back tomorrow.”

Y/n looked up at him. “To finish the project?”

He nodded once. “And maybe something else.”

She tilted her head. “Are you asking me to hang out?”

His lips curved ever so slightly. “Don’t push it.”

Y/n laughed under her breath and stepped into the car, settling into the seat with the paper bag in her lap.

Before the door shut, she looked up at him one last time.

“I’ll come back.”

Then she was gone, the car disappearing into the dark curve of the road.

Damian stood there for a moment, the lights from the manor flickering behind him, watching until the car disappeared.

And then—quietly—he turned and walked back inside.

The heavy front door shut behind her with a quiet click, the moment Y/n stepped inside, the silence of the manor slipped off her shoulders like a coat—and what was left was the stale quiet of this house. She tossed her keys in the bowl near the door, still holding the crinkled paper bag Alfred had packed for her.

The house was dim except for the soft overhead light spilling from the kitchen. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and lemon cleaner—like someone had tried too hard to make it feel like home.

“Y/n?” her mother’s voice called from down the hall. A moment later, she appeared in the doorway. Hair tied up. Slippers. Eyes tired but alert.

“Where have you been?” she asked, her tone sharper than it needed to be.

Y/n stiffened. “Working on a project. School.”

“At this hour?”

“I lost track of time,” she said quickly, already starting past her.

“Was it with that boy?” her mother asked, following her into the hallway.

Y/n turned slowly. “His name is Damian.”

Her mother crossed her arms. “And you were at his house?”

A beat passed.

Her mother stepped closer, lips pressed together. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Y/n didn’t answer—just raised an eyebrow, waiting.

Her mother swallowed. “Your father… he’s been asking to see you.”

Silence fell between them, immediate and heavy.

Y/n stood still for a moment. Then laughed once—quiet, cold. “You’re kidding.”

“He wrote again last week,” her mother continued, voice trembling at the edges. “Said he’s been trying to reach you. Through the lawyer. Through the warden. He wants to talk.”

“No,” Y/n said flatly.

“You don’t have to say anything now—”

“I’m not saying anything ever,” she cut in. Her voice didn’t rise, but it was steel. “He doesn’t get to ask for me.”

“He’s still your father—”

“No,” Y/n said again, louder this time. “He’s a man who tried to break me into something I never asked to be. And you—” she stopped, jaw clenched, forcing her voice to lower. “You watched it happen.”

Her mother’s eyes shone. “I was scared.”

“I was a child.”

The words hit hard, echoing in the quiet foyer.

Her mother wrapped her arms around herself like it was the only thing keeping her upright. “I thought… maybe it would help. Closure. Answers. I thought maybe you’d want to look him in the eye and tell him what he did to you.”

Y/n’s voice cracked, low and sharp. “I already know what he did.”

Another beat. Y/n looked down at her own hands—ink smudged, knuckles tight.

“I went years without him touching my face with anything but the back of his hand,” she whispered. “You want me to sit across a table and give him closure?”

“I want you to take back your power,” her mother said softly.

Y/n’s eyes met hers, and for once—just a second—there was something raw there. Tired. Unforgiving.

“I already did,” she murmured. “I left him behind. You should’ve done the same.”

Then, quieter, as she turned for the stairs:

“I have school tomorrow.”

Her mother didn’t stop her this time.

And when Y/n’s bedroom door closed upstairs, it didn’t slam.

But it felt like it had.

The sky over Gotham was overcast, clouds hanging low and heavy like they hadn’t made up their mind about rain yet. The school grounds buzzed with the usual half-awake chaos—students rushing in, voices rising and falling, the occasional drone of a late bell overhead.

Y/n stepped out of the car Alfred had sent. She hadn’t asked him to—but it was waiting again, same as yesterday. No driver in sight. Just a silent gesture of you’re not doing this alone.

She pulled her coat tighter around her and headed toward the main entrance. Her sketchbook, a little more worn around the corners now, was tucked under one arm. She hadn’t drawn anything since last night.

Not after that conversation.

“Morning,” came a voice from the steps.

Damian leaned against the stone railing near the school’s main doors, as if he’d been there a while. He was wearing the same uniform as everyone else, but it somehow looked sharper on him—less like a dress code and more like armor.

Y/n stopped beside him. “How early did you get here?”

“I don’t sleep much.”

She gave him a look. “Is that supposed to impress me?”

“It’s supposed to be honest.”

She smiled—barely—but it was real. “Thanks for the ride.”

“You’re welcome.”

They stood there for a moment in comfortable silence, students streaming past them like they weren’t even there. Damian watched her closely, like he could see last night etched into her face.

“You didn’t draw,” he said quietly.

Y/n blinked. “How would you know?”

He tapped the edge of her sketchbook. “The corner’s still folded the same way as yesterday.”

Her chest tightened—not at his observation, but at the way he said it. Like it mattered.

“I wasn’t in the mood,” she said, voice quiet.

He nodded once. “You don’t have to be. Just don’t stop.”

The bell rang again—sharper this time. They didn’t move.

After a beat, Y/n said, “Let’s go before we get caught loitering again.”

They walked inside side by side, shoulders brushing once in the crowded hall.

The hallway hummed with lockers slamming shut, the low murmur of early gossip, sneakers squeaking against the tile floors. Ivy walked just a half step behind Damian, sketchbook pressed to her chest. Her eyes were still a little distant—yesterday lingered in her like a shadow that refused to lift.

“Y/n.”

The voice cut through the noise, too familiar.

She turned toward it just as Max stepped out from a cluster of students by the lockers. He had that easy, lopsided smile that always looked like he was either flirting or trying to win an argument before it started.

“I didn’t see you yesterday,” he said, walking up.

Y/n opened her mouth to respond, but before she could his eyes flicked to Damian.

Something shifted. Not obvious—just a flicker behind Max’s expression. That subtle tightening around the jaw, the way his hand flexed slightly at his side. He didn’t look directly at Damian, not at first.

Damian didn’t even blink.

“She was with me,” he said simply. Calm. Completely unbothered.

Max’s gaze snapped to him now, tone edging cooler. “Right. The new guy.”

Damian’s eyes were steady. “You’re very observant.”

Max looked back at Y/n. “So… was it a date, or?”

Y/n raised a brow, unimpressed. “It was a school project.”

“That took all day?”

“It’s a big project,” Damian said flatly, his tone giving nothing. “You might’ve heard of it if you spent more time in class.”

Max let out a breath of a laugh, but it was thin. “Right. Well, I’ll see you later, okay?”

Y/n didn’t answer. She just gave a tight nod and turned to keep walking, Damian naturally falling into step beside her.

Once they were out of earshot, Y/n exhaled. “He’s… persistent.”

“He’s irritating,” Damian corrected.

“You’re not jealous, are you?”

He gave her a sidelong look. “Should I be?”

She smiled, amused despite herself. “You’re impossible.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

They reached the classroom doors a few moments later, the buzz of the hallway dimming behind them. Inside, the other students were already gathering supplies for the assignment.

Damian reached for the handle, then paused.

“You okay?” he asked, quieter now.

Y/n hesitated. Then nodded. “Getting there.”

And with that, he opened the door and held it for her like it wasn’t a big deal.

But somehow, it was.

The classroom was quiet, the usual hum of voices dulled by focused work. Pairs of students sat at their stations with scattered materials between them—paint jars, graphite sticks, tablets, notes. Morning light filtered in through tall windows, casting wide amber streaks across the worn wood floor.

At the back of the room, Y/n sat hunched slightly over her sketchbook, one leg curled under her on the stool. Her pencil moved steadily, looping through strokes and lines—but Damian noticed it first: the way her grip tightened, the way she paused between lines just a second too long.

She was drawing, but not here.

Damian set down the drafting pen he’d been using and watched her. Quietly. Without pressure.

“Y/n,” he said, voice low enough to stay between them. “You’re somewhere else.”

Her hand slowed, hovering over the paper. A pause. Then a quiet, resigned breath.

“I talked to my mom last night,” she said, not looking at him. “She told me my father wants to see me.”

Damian didn’t react right away. He just let the silence hold. Let her decide if she wanted to keep going.

Y/n’s eyes stayed on the page, on the lines she hadn’t finished yet. “She said he’s been writing. Asking. Like he deserves to ask anything of me after everything.”

“What did you say?”

She let out a dry laugh. “No, obviously. But… it still messed me up. He’s still there, you know? In the walls. In the things I can’t stop remembering.”

She finally looked up at him.

“And she just stood by. For years. Now she wants to play the part of someone who tried.”

Damian’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I don’t know if I can forgive that. I don’t even know if I want to.”

He nodded once, steady. “You don’t owe her that. Or him. Forgiveness isn’t some moral checkbox.”

Y/n’s lips parted slightly—surprised not by the agreement, but how calm and firm it sounded from him.

“I used to think there was strength in burying things,” Damian continued, watching her. “In silence. In distance. But it just… sits inside you. Festers.”

Y/n looked down again, pencil moving faintly now, lines softer. Her voice was quieter. “So what do you do with it?”

He thought for a moment. Then said, “You let it teach you how not to become them.”

That hit her harder than she expected. She blinked, the sting behind her eyes sudden but familiar.

A moment passed, the quiet stretching between them again—but this time, it felt… easier.

Damian leaned forward slightly, his voice low but certain. “You’re not her. You’re not him. And if it means anything—I see you, Y/n. Not the version they tried to carve out of you.”

Her breath caught just a little. Then she looked back at him and smiled—soft, tired, real.

“Thanks,” she murmured.

They returned to the project—side by side, the silence now full of something else entirely.

This will be the last chapter of this story that i will be posting on tumblr if you want to read the whole thing it will be on Wattpad the next part is already up.

(My user is the same)

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akairawrites · 4 months ago

Text

When silence breaks | Damian Wayne x Reader

Previous | Next

The halls buzzed with tired energy. Rain had come early—light drizzle misting the stained glass windows, the scent of wet leaves curling through open corridors.

Damian walked the halls like he belonged to the building. Not to the people inside it. His backpack slung over one shoulder, boots silent against the tile.

Eyes followed him. They always did.

But his were searching.

Then—

There.

Y/n.

Standing by her locker, head tilted slightly as she flipped through her notebook. Her hair still damp from the walk in. She looked as composed as ever, but something about her felt different. Quieter. Like something in her had shifted overnight and hadn’t quite settled.

Damian watched her for a second too long.

She noticed and their eyes met.

This time, she didn’t look away.

He didn’t either.

Someone bumped into his shoulder in the hallway, but he barely registered it.

Then, without a word, she turned and walked into her first period class.

Damian stood there for another beat.

Then followed.

The bell rang sharp and sudden. Lockers slammed, voices rose, footsteps scattered in every direction. But just past the main stairwell, where the hallway dipped into shadow and the stained-glass window muted the morning light, it was almost quiet.

Y/n stood near the wall, her back against the cool stone, notebook clutched to her chest. She wasn’t hiding—but she wasn’t trying to be found either.

Then she heard steady and familiar footsteps

She didn’t need to look up to know it was him.

“Most people don’t avoid classrooms this early,” Damian said, stopping beside her. Not blocking her path. Not too close. But close enough to feel.

“Most people aren’t me,” she replied, eyes still forward.

He studied her face, the faint tension in her jaw, the way her fingers pressed just a little too tight into the notebook’s spine.

“You didn’t sleep,” he said quietly.

Y/n’s gaze slid to him, sharp. “You watching me again?”

“No,” he said simply. “I noticed.”

She held his stare. Didn’t blink.

“Noticed,” she repeated, like it tasted strange in her mouth.

Damian shifted slightly, arms folded now. His voice dropped a little lower. “You looked… different today.”

“Different how?”

“Like someone who’s trying not to break.”

That landed harder than either of them expected.

Y/n looked away first, exhaling slow through her nose. “Well, if I break, at least I’ll do it quietly.”

A pause. Not awkward—just dense with everything unspoken.

Damian stepped closer. Barely. “You don’t have to.”

She slowly blinked.

“Don’t have to what?”

“Pretend it doesn’t hurt.”

Her throat tightened.

No one had ever said that to her. Not once. Not her mother. Not her teachers. Not the friends she’d stopped trying to make years ago.

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Because her silence wasn’t distant now. It was heavy.

And Damian didn’t push.

He just stood there with her, in the quiet.

The sounds of the school faded—the bell’s echo distant now, footsteps dying off, voices swallowed by closing doors. The hallway had emptied around them, the light from the stained-glass window painting fractured colors across the floor like some holy spotlight meant only for them.

Neither moved.

“I should probably go,” Y/n said softly, almost to herself.

Damian didn’t answer.

And she didn’t move.

The silence stretched, not cold—just… honest. Something rare between two people who had learned too early to guard everything.

Finally, she slid down the wall, settling cross-legged on the smooth stone floor. Her bag dropped beside her with a soft thud. She pulled out her sketchbook.

Damian followed, wordlessly. Sat beside her, knees drawn up, elbows resting on them, eyes forward.

“I don’t usually let people see these,” she said without looking at him.

“I’m not most people.”

That pulled a small breath from her nose. Not quite a laugh. But something close as she remembered her words from earlier

She flipped past blank pages. Past half-finished scenes. Past the ones she didn’t want anyone to see. Until she stopped—last night’s drawing.

The boy. Watching her. That familiar, unreadable gaze.

Damian caught sight of it before she could turn the page again.

His brow twitched. Just a flicker of recognition.

“That’s me,” he said, quieter than before.

Y/n tensed.

“I wasn’t going to show you that one.”

“You didn’t need to.”

He leaned slightly closer, studying the sketch—not for vanity, but something else. The detail was unmistakable: the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes held more than they gave away.

“You drew me like I’m waiting for something,” he said after a beat.

Y/n looked at the page, then away. “Aren’t you?”

Damian didn’t answer.

But his silence wasn’t dismissive.

It was an admission.

The two of them sat there, still as statues in a room the world had forgotten. Y/n started sketching again—slow lines, soft shading, letting her hands speak where her mouth never could. Damian didn’t move. Just watched. Not intruding. Not analyzing.

Just being there.

For once, neither of them was pretending.

Time stopped trying to hurry them.

Y/n sketched with quiet concentration, her pencil moving in slow arcs and soft shadows. Damian stayed still beside her, his presence not pressing or distracting, just there. He didn’t ask what she was drawing now, didn’t lean over to look.

He simply sat.

The hush between them was warm. Not something either of them was used to. But neither spoke it aloud, afraid the words would make it disappear.

Outside, rain tapped gently against the high windows. The colored light from the stained glass shifted, casting soft blues and golds over Y/n’s sketchbook, over the curve of her wrist, over Damian’s shoulder.

He glanced at her, once.

She looked peaceful. Or as close as he’d ever seen her to it.

And for once, he didn’t feel the need to say something clever, or defensive, or distant.

He just let her be.

Let himself be.

Then suddenly a door creaked open at the far end of the hall.

“Miss L/n. Mister Wayne.”

The voice was sharp and unamused British accent

Y/n froze, pencil pausing mid-line.

Damian didn’t move.

Mr. Howarth—Literature—stood near the stairwell, his gray cardigan hanging off one shoulder, coffee cup in hand, disappointment already blooming in his expression.

“I assume there’s a reason you’re both loitering here while the rest of the school is attending class?” he asked, walking toward them with slow, deliberate steps.

Y/n closed her sketchbook quietly.

Damian stood first, smooth and unapologetic. “We were studying independently.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now?” Mr. Howarth arched an eyebrow. His gaze flicked between them. “Interesting posture for independent study, Wayne.”

Damian didn’t flinch. “The classroom was too loud.”

The teacher turned his eyes to Y/n, expectant.

She didn’t offer anything. Just hugged her sketchbook to her chest and stared forward, chin high.

Mr. Howarth sighed. “Your reputations precede you. Try not to make skipping class part of them.”

He paused—almost like he wanted to say something more—but then just turned and walked off, his footsteps fading back into the hum of the school.

They stood in silence.

Y/n spoke first.

“We should go.”

Damian didn’t argue. But as she started walking, he fell in step beside her.

Not a word passed between them on the way to their next class.

But the space between them?

It wasn’t empty anymore.

Damian followed Y/n in silence as she crossed the courtyard, the drizzle barely clinging to their shoulders beneath the overhangs. She walked with quiet intent—like she wasn’t sure what she wanted, only that she needed to keep moving.

They reached her classroom door at the same time.

Y/n turned to him, arching a brow. “You’re following me now?”

Damian blinked once, then reached for the door handle. “I have this class too.”

She huffed softly. Almost a smile. “Of course you do.”

They stepped inside.

The classroom was warm and bright, high ceilings draped with hanging student work—charcoal sketches, oil-painted portraits, a mosaic made from broken mirror shards in the far corner. Twenty-something students turned to look as the door creaked open. A few poorly hidden smirks and a few whispers and giggles.

Y/n kept walking. Damian didn’t blink.

Their teacher, Ms. Elara Greaves, a tall woman with white streaks in her dark hair and an artist’s permanently ink-stained hands, glanced up from her desk, brow arched.

“How lovely of you both to join us. Please, do find your seats—though you’re a bit behind.”

Y/n slid into the nearest empty stool. Damian took the one beside her without waiting to be told.

Ms. Greaves tapped the chalkboard with a piece of soft white pastel. “Today, we’re beginning our Renaissance crossover project—art meets analysis. You’ll be recreating a famous Renaissance work of your choice… but with a twist.”

She turned, gesturing to a canvas already on display: Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus, reimagined in a dystopian neon cityscape.

“You’ll reinterpret the imagery—through your own lens, through the modern world—but preserve the symbolism. One of you will take on the visual execution,” she nodded to Ivy’s desk, “and the other will compose a historical and symbolic breakdown of the piece, comparing it to the original.”

A few students groaned.

“And before you ask—yes, partners were already assigned based on last week’s seating chart.”

Damian’s fingers tapped once on the desk. Y/n straightened.

Ms. Greaves gave them a look—half amused, half warning. “Which means, Mr. Wayne and Miss L/n, as the last unpaired souls… you’re together.”

Neither of them said anything—Y/n just opened her sketchbook, flipping past the earlier pages with swift, practiced fingers.

Ms. Greaves smiled like she knew exactly what she was doing. “You’ll have until next week. I suggest you use your time wisely.”

The class had broken into low murmurs and the scratch of pencil on paper. Students were already flipping through books of Renaissance art, picking their pieces, tossing ideas back and forth. Y/n and Damian remained at their table, a quiet island in the noise.

She finally looked over at him, eyes narrowed. “Okay, so… what now?”

Damian leaned back, arms folded, his voice calm. “We pick something that means something. Not just the first pretty painting in the book.”

“I’m assuming that means you already have one in mind.”

He tapped his finger twice on the edge of the desk. “Caravaggio. Judith Beheading Holofernes.”

Y/n raised a brow. “Of course you’d pick the one with a decapitation.”

“It’s a study in power,” he replied, matter-of-fact. “Control. Fear. But the fear isn’t in Judith—it’s in the man. Her expression is calm. Almost surgical.”

Y/n tilted her head, thinking. “You want me to redraw that?”

“Reimagine it,” he said, now watching her sketchbook like he could already see it happening. “Put her in Gotham. Let her be someone else. Someone real.”

She didn’t answer right away. Her pencil tapped against the paper. “Judith doesn’t look like she wants to be there,” she murmured.

“That’s the point,” he replied. “She does it anyway.”

They sat there, the energy between them shifting again. Not exactly comfortable—but not cold either.

After a beat, Damian stood, sliding his books into his bag.

“You should come to the manor after school.”

Y/n blinked. “The Wayne manor?”

He nodded. “There’s space to work. Quiet. No interruptions.”

“And your butler doesn’t mind you bringing home random classmates?”

“He likes artists,” Damian said with a shrug, already heading for the door. “He won’t mind.”

She watched him for a second, the absurdity of it sinking in. “So what—you’re just going to bring me to your mansion like it’s a coffee shop?”

Damian turned at the doorway, eyes steady. “Would you rather work in the school library where they still think we skipped class to hook up in the hallway?”

Y/n glared at him. He smirked.

She grabbed her bag. “Fine. But I’m not impressed.”

“Didn’t ask you to be.”

The sky had turned heavy and gray by the time the final bell rang. The sidewalk outside the academy was flooded with students spilling out into the fading light—laughing, griping about assignments, making plans.

Y/n stood at the bottom of the stone steps, arms folded, sketchbook under one arm. She scanned the school lot half-expecting Damian to have ghosted her.

But he was already there. Leaning against the sleek, black limo parked at the curb like it was no big deal.

Of course he was.

He glanced up as she approached, straightening. “You came.”

“I wasn’t going to let you rework Judith without me,” she said, stopping in front of him. “And I’m still half-convinced you live in a haunted castle.”

He opened the limo door. “You’ll see.”

The inside was just as ridiculous as she imagined—leather seats, tinted windows, soft ambient lights humming overhead. She slid in with a skeptical glance, and he followed, shutting the door behind them with a soft click.

The car pulled off smoothly, the city starting to blur past the windows.

They didn’t speak at first.

“So do you have, like… secret passageways in this place?”

Damian didn’t smile, but his voice carried the faintest flicker of amusement. “More than a few.”

Y/n raised a brow. “That wasn’t a no.”

The limo turned onto a long, winding drive framed by old trees, their bare branches like reaching fingers. The manor came into view slowly—massive, gothic, and almost too quiet, perched at the edge of the hills like it was watching the city from a distance.

Y/n stared out the window. “Okay. Haunted castle confirmed.”

Damian said nothing, just stepped out and motioned for her to follow. The giant wooden front doors creaked open before they even reached them.

Alfred stood there, warm but precise as always—pressed vest, sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows, hands folded in front of him like he’d been expecting them all day.

“Miss L/n,” he said with a small nod. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”

Y/n blinked. “Have you?”

“Only flattering things,” Alfred added quickly, stepping aside. “And a bit of worry. Master Damian rarely brings people home. You must be exceptional.”

Y/n looked at Damian, who stared straight ahead like Alfred hadn’t said anything at all.

She stepped into the manor, trying not to gawk—but the grand staircase, the polished wood, the portraits on the walls made it feel like walking into another century.

“This place is insane,” she whispered. “Do you have a dungeon?”

“Two,” Damian said without missing a beat. “But the west one’s out of service.”

They settled in a quiet study tucked deep in the manor—bookshelves to the ceiling, an enormous desk in the center, and a soft pool of yellow light from an old brass lamp. Y/n laid out her sketchbook, pulling out pencils, pastels, a small set of charcoal sticks.

Damian stood behind her for a moment, watching her set up with careful precision. Then he placed a thick, leather-bound volume on the desk beside her—an original Caravaggio collection. Well-worn. Annotated.

“You’ve actually studied this,” she said, flipping through it.

“I don’t like guessing.”

Y/n nodded slowly, flipping to Judith Beheading Holofernes. She stared at the image for a long time.

“She’s not afraid,” she said softly.

“No,” Damian replied. “But she’s not proud, either.”

Y/n set her pencil to paper, beginning to sketch. “I don’t want her to be a hero. I want her to be tired.”

Damian sat across from her, pen in hand, beginning to write. “Then that’s where we start.”

And in the stillness of the manor—quiet but not cold—they worked.

Side by side.

In silence that didn’t demand anything from either of them.

Just presence.

The room had settled into a kind of quiet only old houses could hold—deep and steady, the tick of the antique clock on the mantle barely noticeable beneath the scratch of Y/n’s pencil and the soft rustle of turning pages.

The drawing was taking shape now.

Judith stood in an alley, bathed in the flickering orange of a neon sign above her. The sword in her hand wasn’t clean. Her eyes were sharp—but exhausted. Hair wild. Clothes torn. She didn’t look like a goddess.

She looked like a girl who had been pushed too far.

Across the table, Damian read in silence. Notes lined his page already—clean, thoughtful, dense with meaning. He didn’t speak. Didn’t ask for more. Just kept working in tandem with her, like they’d done this a hundred times before.

Eventually, Y/n set her pencil down.

Her fingers were smudged dark with charcoal.

She leaned back, stretching. “You know, this is probably the most peaceful I’ve felt in days.”

Damian didn’t look up from his notes. “It’s the quiet. Most people don’t realize how loud the world is until they step outside it.”

Y/n nodded. “I try to make things quiet at home. Doesn’t really work.”

He glanced up. Said nothing.

She hesitated, then looked down at her hands. “My mom and I… we don’t really talk. Not about anything that matters. We exist around each other.”

Damian watched her closely, still silent.

“I guess she’s trying now. But it’s hard to forget when someone chose silence for so long.” Her voice dipped softer. “Especially when they could’ve said something. Done something.”

She didn’t mention her father. Didn’t need to. The edge in her tone, the way her posture tensed—it said enough without details.

Damian leaned forward slightly. “You blame her.”

“I used to,” she said. “Now I just… I don’t know what to feel. She made a choice. I lived with it.”

Another beat of silence.

Then Damian said, “She may regret it more than you think.”

Y/n looked up. “Is that what you think about your parents?”

There was a flicker in Damian’s eyes then. The rarest break.

“No,” he said. “Mine weren’t together long enough to regret anything.”

Y/n blinked, surprised—but didn’t push. That was enough honesty for now.

He leaned back again, studying her. “You should stay for dinner.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Is that an invitation or a command?”

“Does it matter?”

She smirked. “A little.”

His lips twitched. Almost a smile. “Then yes. It’s an invitation.”

Y/n looked down at her sketch again, quiet. Her voice was softer now. “I haven’t had dinner somewhere like this in… I don’t know how long.”

“You get used to it,” Damian said. “Eventually.”

She looked back up, something gentler in her eyes.

“Alright. I’ll stay.”

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akairawrites · 4 months ago

Text

When the Silence Breaks | Damian Wayne x Reader

Previous | Next

The room is quiet except for the soft creak of rope-bound wooden floors. The air smells of incense and sweat. A small girl— Y/n L/n, nine years old—kneels in seiza at the center of the dojo. Her hair clings to her damp forehead. Her arms tremble, her knees bruised beneath her training gi.

Across from her stands her father, KENJI L/N, in an immaculate three-piece suit. His tie is loosened, but his posture is perfect. He stares down at her with the unflinching calm of a man who’s broken people for far less than weakness.

“Again,” Kenji says, his voice smooth as glass but sharp underneath.

Y/n’s eyes flick up. “I—I tried.”

“You hesitated,” he snaps. “If this were real, you’d already be dead.”

She flinches. He doesn’t miss it.

“Stand.”

She rises, shaky on her feet. Her fists clench at her sides. She’s small, but she’s trying—desperate to earn something from him.

Kenji reaches into a lacquered box beside him and draws a wooden training knife. He tosses it onto the mat with a heavy clack.

“Pick it up.”

Y/n kneels slowly, retrieves it with both hands like a sacred object. Her knuckles are white.

“Attack me.”

She hesitates—just a blink—but that’s all he needs.

“Now.”

She lunges at him, surprisingly fast for her age. He sidesteps her and grabs her arm, twisting it behind her back. She hits the mat hard with her elbow.

Again.

And again. Her breathing grows louder, more ragged as sweat drips from her chin.

He doesn’t hold back. Not even when she gasps. Not when her knees buckle. Not when she stumbles and coughs—

And then—

A deep gag. Her body clenches violently.

She vomits onto the mat, retching until there’s nothing left. Her body crumples in on itself.

Kenji remains motionless, offering no assistance

His silence is deafening as he watches his daughter in a puddle of her own vomit. Finally, he speaks, his voice cold and accusatory, “You’re weak because you choose to be.”

With that, he turns but just before he walks away, he turns to look at her “Clean this up. Training resumes tomorrow.”

Moonlight streaks across Y/n’s ceiling. She lies awake in bed, eyes wide open, staring at the shadows on the wall.

Down the hall, behind her closed door—voices rise.

“You pushed her too hard!” her mother’s voice—Elise—shakes with fury and fear.

“You weren’t there,” Kenji replies, his tone level, emotionless. “She broke form. She needs discipline.”

“She’s nine, Kenji! She vomited on the mat!”

A pause.

“She’ll thank me when it saves her life.”

“No. She won’t.” Elise’s voice cracks. “Because she’s not going to survive you.”

Silence.

Then, quieter: “She’s our daughter. Not your soldier.”

Y/n turns to face the wall. Her expression is blank, her eyes hot. She pulls the blanket over her head, as if it could shut out the voices—or the truth. But it’s not enough.

“I wanted a son.”

Y/n flinches like she’s been struck. Her breath catches.

“And I made do.”

GOTHAM ACADEMY – MORNING

The campus looms like a Gothic castle swallowed by Y/n. Spires reach into the sky, arched windows reflect the gray clouds above, and the courtyard hums with life—students laughing, rushing to classes, voices echoing against the cobblestone paths.

A black town car idles at the curb. The rear door opens.

Y/n, fifteen now, steps out.

She moves with silent precision, her uniform immaculate—blazer fitted, skirt pressed, tie flawless. Her hair is pulled into a sleek bun. No loose strands. No distractions.

But her eyes?

Cold and guarded.

As the car pulls away behind her, she walks alone through the courtyard. She doesn’t smile or wave. She doesn’t need to.

Inside the school the late morning light filtered through the tall stained-glass windows of Gotham Academy, casting shards of color across the stone floor. The scent of old books, waxed wood, and expensive perfume lingered in the halls like memory. Everything about the school is old money and prestige. But here is where whispers follow Y/n wherever she goes.

“She’s the mob kid, right?”

“Her dad’s in prison.”

“I heard she’s crazy smart. Like scary smart.”

“She never talks to anyone.”

She doesn’t acknowledge any of it.

Instead, she moves with quiet purpose—like someone who’s already calculated the most efficient path from class to class, including exits.

ART ROOM – FIRST PERIOD

Y/n takes the back-left seat. Not hidden, but isolated. She sets down her sketchbook without a sound. The other students chatter. One of them is loud and animated—Max, an aspiring filmmaker always in Y/n’s orbit, never quite her friend.

“You’re gonna love this prompt,” Max says to no one in particular. “‘Self-portrait as emotion.’ Intense, right?”

When the teacher walks in the room finally settles

“Alright class today’s focus? Expression. Let it hurt if it needs to.”

Y/n opens her sketchbook. Her pencil touches the page.

And stops.

Her hand trembles.

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

Then she begins to draw. Slow, controlled. A face forms on the page..she quickly realizes it’s not her.

It’s a younger version. A shadow behind her, tall and cold.

She shades it in without a word.

Y/n walked slowly down the corridor after the bell rung, her shoes making no sound against the polished floor. Students passed in waves around her—laughing, bumping into each other, already swapping answers for second period chemistry. She moved through them like smoke—seen, maybe, but never touched.

She stopped at her locker, spun the dial, opened it. Inside: everything in order. Textbooks lined up by subject. A notebook tucked behind the last one—thick, black and unmarked. The only thing that felt like hers.

As she reached for her literature binder, she heard the voice behind her.

“Y/n L/n, right?”

She didn’t flinch, but her jaw tightened.

Turning slightly, she saw Max standing there. All camera bag and chaotic energy, his lopsided grin already halfway to a question she didn’t want to answer.

“You got moved up to AP art?” he asked, shifting his weight. “That’s kind of awesome. They don’t usually let first-years skip the basics.”

“They made an exception,” she said, voice even and distant

Max chuckled, not taking the hint. “Must’ve been a hell of a portfolio.”

She closed her locker slowly. “It was.”

There was a pause—him waiting for her to ask something, anything but she didn’t Instead, she turned and walked.

LUNCHROOM – NOON

The clatter of trays, the rise and fall of a hundred conversations—Gotham Academy’s lunchroom was never quiet. Everything was polished stone and long wooden tables, too grand for something as mundane as eating.

Y/n moved through the crowd with the same silence she wore everywhere else. No one called her name. No one tried to sit beside her.

She didn’t expect them to.

Her table sat tucked beneath a tall arched window, vines creeping in along the stone outside, filtered light casting soft green shadows across her tray. She sat, opened a book she wasn’t really reading, and pushed her food around like it had wronged her.

Then—

A shift in the air.

She looked up.

Across the room, half-shielded by the central column, someone was watching her.

A boy she didn’t recognize. New. Dark uniform jacket worn like armor, collar still stiff, posture too upright for a place like this.

He wasn’t whispering. Wasn’t laughing. Just watching. Eyes unreadable.

Damian Wayne.

Their eyes met for only a second.

Y/n blinked. Looked back down.

Probably just curious, she told herself. New students always stared. It would pass.

Still—

She flipped a page she hadn’t finished reading.

The bell rang for a final time that day, echoing across the marble halls like a final verdict.

By the time most students had reached the gates, Y/n had already slipped past them. Her steps were careful. Not rushed, just… intentional. She didn’t like crowds. Didn’t like the way they pulled at your thoughts, the way noise tried to settle into your skin.

The black car wasn’t waiting for her today. Her mother had texted something about a charity brunch that “couldn’t be missed.” Y/n didn’t answer.

She didn’t need a ride.

The garden behind the science wing was a forgotten corner of the campus. Most students didn’t even know it was there—just overgrown hedges, a dry fountain, and a crooked bench that looked like it might collapse if you breathed on it wrong.

Wind rustled through the hedges. Old ivy crept up the walls. The broken fountain hadn’t worked in years, but she liked that about it. No one else came here.

She sat cross-legged on the cracked stone bench, notebook open across her lap. The page was half-filled with lines—sharp, precise, too calculated to be personal.

Her pencil hovered midair, unmoving.

That boy’s face kept flickering at the edge of her thoughts. The way he didn’t avert his gaze. The calmness in it. It wasn’t judgment. Not interest, either.

It was something else.

She exhaled slowly and shook it off.

Then—

Footsteps.

Too controlled to belong to any of the usual idiots who smoked behind the gym.

“I figured I’d find you out here,” said a voice behind her.

Y/n turned, just enough to see him.

Damian Wayne. Hands in his pockets. Eyes steady. Posture too perfect for a fifteen-year-old. His tie was loosened just slightly, like he knew the rules but didn’t care enough to follow all of them.

She blinked, once. “I didn’t realize I was being followed.

“You weren’t,” he said. “You’re just predictable.”

Her brow lifted slightly. “That supposed to be charming?”

“No. Just honest.”

He didn’t sit. Didn’t ask to. Just stood in the half-shadow of the crooked tree overhead.

She glanced back at her notebook. “Most people say hi before analyzing me.”

“I’m not most people.”

“That much I’ve gathered.”

He was quiet for a moment, watching her sketch. “Your technique’s military. Taught, not learned.”

Y/n’s pencil paused.

She looked at him again, slower this time.

“You get that from one glance at lunch?”

“No,” he said. “I get that from knowing what to look for.”

His expression didn’t shift, but there was something different in his voice. Something softer.

“Someone who isn’t pretending.”

Y/n stared at him, her pulse just slightly out of rhythm.

He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t need to.

She closed her notebook slowly. “You still haven’t said your name.”

“Damian.”

“Of course it is,” she muttered.

And for the first time all day, the corner of her mouth lifted—just barely.

The campus gates creaked shut behind her.

The streets outside Gotham Academy were lined with skeletal trees and cold stone buildings. Not the parts of the city people took photos of. These sidewalks didn’t care if you were alone.

She walked with her hands in her coat pockets, the late afternoon light slanting gold and gray across the pavement. One earbud in. The other left dangling—not for safety, but habit. She liked having one foot in the silence.

A kid on a bike sped past. Y/n didn’t turn. Just kept walking. Past the coffee shop that changed names every six months. Past the pawn shop that still had her father’s name burned into the window glass, long faded.

She looked away before she could think too hard.

Her family’s house sat at the end of a long block, tucked behind iron gates and trimmed hedges. It was the kind of house that pretended nothing bad had ever happened inside it.

The lights were on.

The house sat behind a tall wrought-iron gate, its bars curled like vines, black paint flaking at the edges from years of salt and rain. Beyond it, a long stone path cut through a perfectly trimmed lawn, the kind that looked untouched by weather or time—maintained, immaculate, performative.

The house itself was old Gotham money. Three stories of dark gray brick and sharp lines, with tall windows framed in black and ivy crawling up the eastern wall like nature trying to take something back. The roof was steep and slate, the kind that made the whole place look like it could fold in on itself at any moment.

White shutters. Heavy doors. A porch no one sat on.

It was beautiful in the way museums are beautiful—silent, imposing, full of things no one talks about.

There were no welcome mats. No bikes left out. No plants in pots or cracks in the concrete.

Everything was in its place.

As if that meant nothing had ever gone wrong there.

As if that could make it true.

The front door clicked shut behind her.

Silence.

Y/n toed off her shoes, set down her bag. Her movements were quiet. Automatic. Like a ghost returning to its haunt.

From down the hall, the sound of a knife on a cutting board echoed faintly.

“Y/n?” her mother called. “There’s food. I made that soup you used to like.”

Used to.

Y/n didn’t answer right away. She stood in the foyer for a long moment, staring at the framed family photo on the side table. She was seven in it. Grinning too hard. Her father’s hand on her shoulder like a claim.

She turned it facedown before making her way to the kitchen.

The lights were low, warm gold humming against the cold marble counters. The soup on the stove hissed quietly, the scent of ginger and garlic thick in the air—too familiar. Too heavy.

Her mother stood at the island, sleeves rolled to her elbows, chopping scallions with mechanical focus. Her hair was pinned up, a little uneven, like she’d done it in a rush. Her eyes flicked up the second Y/n stepped in.

“Hey,” her mother said gently. “How was school?”

“Fine.”

“Did you eat lunch?”

“I always eat lunch.”

Her mother hesitated. “You can tell me if you didn’t.”

Y/n didn’t respond. She pulled a glass from the cabinet, filled it with water.

“You look tired,” her mother tried again. “Was it the art class? Is it too much on top of everything else?”

Y/n’s hand paused.

“I’m not tired,” she said. Not exactly a lie.

Her mother set down the knife. Wiped her hands on a towel. “I just want to help, Y/n.”

The way she said it—it landed too soft, too careful. Like someone trying to tiptoe through a minefield they helped build.

The silence that followed had weight. Her mother crossed her arms, leaned slightly against the counter, as if bracing herself.

“You barely speak to me anymore.”

Y/n didn’t answer.

“I know what I let happen to you. I know what he did. And I know I should’ve—” her voice broke, just barely—“I should’ve stopped him.”

Y/n turned slowly. Her expression didn’t change. Not much. But something behind her eyes shifted—cold, hard, and aching.

“You didn’t try,” she said. “You watched.”

“I was scared, Y/n.”

“I was a child.” The words hit like glass breaking.

Her mother took a breath, shallow. “I kept telling myself it was for your protection. That what he was doing would make you strong. I thought—” she shook her head. “I thought I could keep you safe by staying silent. But I see you now and I know I was wrong.”

Y/n’s jaw clenched.

“I never wanted you to be a weapon. Never. But I let it happen anyway. I let him turn our home into a training ground.”

She looked down at her hands—still shaking slightly from the cutting. “I remember the night you threw up in the dojo. You were nine. I tried to tell him he was pushing you too hard, and he… he made me feel small. Like he always did. I’m so sorry I didn’t fight harder.”

Y/n stared at her for a long time. She remembered that night. The night those words he said echoed in her head. The apology landed, but it didn’t soften anything.

“I didn’t need you to fight harder,” she said quietly. “I just needed you to choose me.”

Her mother’s eyes welled up, but she didn’t let the tears fall. “I’m trying to now.”

Y/n stepped back.

“Now is too late.”

Then she turned. Walked out of the kitchen without another word.

Her mother didn’t argue. Just stood there, hands still damp, soup bubbling behind her.

Y/n grabbed her bag off the floor near the door and headed up the stairs to her room.

The door clicked shut behind her.

She dropped her bag by the desk, peeled off her blazer, undid her tie. Everything folded, hung, aligned. She stood at the window for a long time, staring out into the city.

Somewhere out there, Damian Wayne was probably sitting in some marble mansion, pretending not to care about anything. Just like her.

She wondered if he had to sit through quiet dinners and pretend not to remember every bruise disguised as “training.”

She wondered if he ever wished someone would call it what it was.

Pulling her sketchbook from her bag, she sat on the floor by her bed and flipped to a blank page.

This time, the pencil didn’t hesitate.

She started to draw.

A boy. Watching her. Still and sharp as shadow. But the expression she gave him—there was something behind the eyes.

INT. WAYNE MANOR – DAMIAN’S ROOM – NIGHT

The room was dark, save for the soft blue glow of the screen in front of him. Lines of code flickered by—encrypted feeds, Academy records, external cameras. Nothing he hadn’t broken through before.

But he wasn’t looking for information tonight.

He was watching the garden again. The one behind the school.

Her.

Damian sat back, fingers steepled beneath his chin, eyes sharp even in the dim light. He’d replayed the conversation five times in his head already. The way she didn’t flinch. The way she didn’t ask questions he wasn’t ready to answer.

She’d looked right through him.

And didn’t turn away.

Titus, curled beside the desk, let out a quiet huff in his sleep.

Damian reached over and absentmindedly scratched behind the dog’s ears, but his gaze stayed on the screen. Then he shut the laptop.

He didn’t need surveillance to know she wouldn’t leave his mind tonight.

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akairawrites · 4 months ago

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Goodbye? | Bruce Wayne X Reader mini series

When sharp, unrelenting reporter Y/n L/n is sent to Gotham to shadow billionaire Bruce Wayne for a profile piece, she expects a few days of stiff interviews and polished soundbites. What she doesn’t expect is to be invited into his world—his manor, his orbit, and something far more complicated than charm. Bruce Wayne is no stranger to hiding the truth, but Y/n sees through more than he’s used to. As the two grow closer, tension simmers between their professional boundaries and undeniable chemistry. But when Bruce disappears in the middle of a high-profile gala and a front-page photo threatens to turn everything public, Y/n is left with more questions than answers. He’s hiding something. She’s determined to uncover it. But the deeper she digs, the more tangled their connection becomes.

Previous | Next

The storm had passed.

Morning light spilled through the curtains in soft ribbons, golden and filtered by the gray clouds still drifting lazily above Gotham. The world outside felt damp and new, like the city had exhaled during the night.

Inside the room, it was still.

Y/n blinked slowly into the light, her body warm beneath the blankets, the air cool against her skin. It took her a moment to remember where she was—to realize the weight against her back, the arm draped lightly around her waist.

Bruce.

He was still there.

His breathing was deep and even, lips barely parted, face relaxed in a way she hadn’t seen before. Vulnerable. Human. There was no mask this morning. Just him. Just her.

She didn’t move right away.

Instead, she stayed wrapped in the quiet, letting her heart ache with the realization: this was her last day in Gotham.

Her last morning like this.

And suddenly, she wasn’t sure she wanted it to end.

Bruce stirred behind her, his grip tightening slightly, just enough to pull her closer without even waking fully. The way her body fit into his was effortless now, like they’d been sleeping beside each other for years.

You’re awake,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep.

“Barely,” she whispered.

The air between them was thick with things unsaid.

“Last day,” she said quietly, after a moment.

“I know.”

She rolled over slowly to face him, their foreheads nearly touching, her fingers trailing lightly over the hem of his t-shirt. “Feels like it went by too fast.”

His gaze held hers for a beat too long. “It did.”

He didn’t ask what she was going to do next. Didn’t remind her she had a train or a plane or a deadline. Instead, he reached up and brushed a piece of hair behind her ear with a quiet gentleness that made her chest ache.

“I figured we’d keep it lowkey today,” he said, voice soft. “No meetings. No press. Just… time.”

Her throat tightened. “I’d like that.”

And she meant it more than she meant anything else.

Neither of them moved for a long while.

The world outside could’ve crumbled and they wouldn’t have noticed—tucked beneath soft covers and warm silence, skin brushing skin with the kind of ease that only came when words no longer had to fill the space between two people.

Y/n rested her head against Bruce’s chest, fingers drawing lazy, unspoken thoughts along the fabric of his shirt. She could hear his heartbeat—steady, grounded, human. It didn’t match the legend Gotham had painted of him, didn’t match the stories whispered in boardrooms or headlines.

This version of Bruce Wayne—the quiet one who kept holding her like she might vanish—was only hers.

“You always get up this slow?” she teased softly, voice still thick with sleep.

“Only when there’s a reason to stay,” he said, and she could feel the smile in his chest more than she could see it.

She tilted her head up just enough to look at him. His eyes were still heavy-lidded, but the way he looked at her was wide awake.

“You keep looking at me like that,” she said, “I might not leave.”

His hand slid along her back. “I’m not going to stop you.”

It was the closest either of them had come to admitting the ache under everything—the quiet dread humming beneath every heartbeat. She wasn’t just leaving Gotham. She was leaving this. Whatever it was. Whatever it could’ve been.

She shifted up slightly, her hand resting over his heart. “Do you think… if this wasn’t a story… I’d still be here?”

Bruce looked at her, gaze unreadable but softer than usual. “You’re here now,” he said. “That’s enough for me.”

A silence stretched between them again—but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was full. Full of weight, of feelings, of maybe.

Her fingers brushed against his jaw, his hand slipping into her hair.

Neither of them said it.

But both of them felt it.

And so, they stayed in bed a little longer—breathing in the moment, pretending the day wasn’t waiting for them just outside the door.

The scent of warm spices and fresh bread greeted them before they even entered the kitchen. The manor was quiet, sunlight filtering through tall windows and catching the motes of dust that danced in the air like something sacred.

Y/n padded in barefoot, hair slightly tousled from sleep, still wearing one of Bruce’s old Henleys over her shorts. Bruce trailed behind her in soft gray slacks and a black t-shirt, a rare ease in his posture.

Alfred, already placing the last of the breakfast spread on the long kitchen table, turned with a subtle smile.

“Good morning,” he said, in that perfectly measured tone only Alfred could carry. “I trust you both slept well.”

Y/n smiled—warm, a little sleepy. “Morning, Alfred. And yes. Very.”

She walked up and without much warning, wrapped her arms around him in a hug.

Alfred blinked but didn’t resist. Slowly, his hands came to rest on her back, gently returning the embrace.

“I’m really going to miss you,” she said into his shoulder.

There was something raw in her voice, something that caught even her by surprise.

Alfred pulled back just enough to look at her, his expression touched with something just shy of fatherly affection. “And I’ll miss you, Miss L/n. It’s been… refreshing, having someone around who speaks plainly.”

Y/n laughed softly, “Is that a compliment or a polite British jab?”

He offered a subtle smirk. “Perhaps a bit of both.”

Bruce, leaning against the counter, watched them with quiet eyes.

“Breakfast is ready,” Alfred said, stepping aside and motioning to the table. “I made the scones you liked.”

“You’re the best,” she said, slipping into one of the chairs.

Bruce joined her, a comfortable silence settled as they started to eat—eggs, toast, fruit, and scones so flaky and warm it felt like home.

For a moment, it was easy to pretend that this was normal. That mornings like this came often. That goodbyes didn’t linger in the corners of rooms.

But it was her last day.

And the clock never stopped.

The sun had shifted higher in the sky, casting a soft glow through the tall windows of her guest room. The light kissed the edge of the bed, the armchair, the half-zipped duffel bag on the bench at the foot.

Y/n stood in front of it, one hand resting on the flap, the other holding a folded sweater she hadn’t worn once during her stay. It smelled faintly like lavender and woodsmoke, like the Manor. Like him.

She closed her eyes.

She should’ve been excited. Her apartment in Metropolis was small, yes—but it was hers. Her world, her independence. Her career. Her purpose.

But none of that came to mind as clearly as the sound of Bruce’s voice in the morning. Or the way the Manor creaked at night like it was alive. Or the rare laugh she’d pulled from Alfred.

The ache sat stubborn in her chest.

She sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, the sweater still in her hands, her fingers knotting into the fabric.

It wasn’t the city she was struggling to leave behind.

It was the quiet comfort of belonging somewhere she hadn’t expected to. Of waking up in a place that had always felt unreachable—until it wasn’t.

Of feeling seen. Wanted.

She pressed the heel of her hand to her chest, breathing through it, letting her eyes sting without letting the tears fall. Not now.

Outside her door, she could hear faint footsteps down the hall—Bruce, maybe, or Alfred. Life in the Manor moved with quiet rhythm. But she was no longer part of that rhythm. She was returning to a world where Bruce Wayne was a headline again, not a man she’d danced with in a quiet room, not someone she’d slept beside through a thunderstorm.

Her throat tightened.

She gently placed the sweater into the bag, trying not to think too hard about what it meant to take it with her.

A soft knock came at the door, gentle and familiar.

Y/n turned from her half-zipped bag. “It’s open,” she called, voice only slightly unsteady.

Bruce stepped in, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the room, then settling on her. “You almost ready?”

She nodded, then picked up the garment bag draped carefully over a nearby chair. The dress. The one he’d had made for her.

“I figured I should return this,” she said, holding it out gently. “It’s too nice for me to take.”

Bruce took a few slow steps closer but didn’t reach for the bag. “Keep it.”

She raised a brow. “Bruce—”

“I had it made for you,” he said, quietly but firmly. “It’s yours.”

The air between them thickened. She gave a small smile, the kind that came when you wanted to say a thousand things but chose to say none. Her hands lowered the dress back onto the chair.

“I’m going to miss this,” she said. “The Manor. Alfred. The quiet.”

Her eyes met his. “You.”

They stood in that small space between confession and restraint, neither quite sure how to cross it.

“Call me,” she said, reaching for his hand. “Text. Show up. I don’t care how you do it, just… don’t disappear.”

Bruce’s fingers closed around hers, warm and strong. “I won’t.”

She didn’t want to go. Not yet.

“Promise me,” she whispered.

“I promise.”

He leaned in slowly, one hand coming to rest at the small of her back, the other brushing against her cheek. She tilted her chin up, eyes already searching his, and the kiss that followed wasn’t rushed—it was slow, deep, full of everything they hadn’t said in the days before.

As they separated, she huffed, breathless, “I should probably get going,” she said.

“There’s a car waiting outside,” Bruce murmured. “My driver is bringing it around.”

Their fingers stayed laced together until the very last moment.

Downstairs, she hugged Alfred tightly, her voice thick when she said goodbye. “You’ve been the best part of this place. Don’t ever change.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Alfred said, gently patting her hand.

Bruce walked her to the car, the tension thick and soft between them. As he opened the door, Y/n turned to him one last time.

“I mean it,” she whispered, searching his eyes. “Don’t disappear.”

He didn’t speak. He just leaned down, his lips brushing hers one more time, slower this time.

Then he stepped back, reluctantly, watching her slide into the back seat.

She gave him a look through the window—torn, hopeful, maybe even a little in love.

And then the car pulled away, leaving Bruce standing in the drive, hands in his pockets, heart heavier than he’d let anyone see.

The door clicked shut behind her with a soft finality. Y/n stood still for a moment, blinking into the dim hush of her tiny apartment.

It smelled like old coffee and clean linen. Her laptop still sat open on the kitchen counter where she’d left it. Plants in the windowsill drooped slightly from neglect. The city buzzed faintly below her, as if nothing had changed.

But everything had.

She dropped her keys in the bowl by the door and set her bag down slowly, walking further inside. The walls were the same off-white. The quiet hum of her fridge still broke the silence. But it all felt different now. Smaller.

Her gaze landed on the framed photo near her desk—a snapshot from a newsroom event. Her and her editor, laughing. She reached for it, then stopped. Her fingers itched for her phone instead.

No messages from Bruce. Not yet.

She sat down at her desk and pulled up the document she’d been working on. The article. The story she had come to Gotham to write. But now the words felt distant, like they belonged to someone else.

She stared at the screen.

Her heart wasn’t in Metropolis. Not really.

Wayne Manor – Bruce’s Study, Same Time

The rain had returned—soft now, just a hush against the windows.

Bruce sat in the study, one hand loosely holding a tumbler of scotch he hadn’t touched. The fire had been lit, but he hadn’t moved to warm his hands. He was still in the same shirt he’d worn that morning, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie discarded.

The Manor felt too quiet without her.

He’d told himself it was temporary. That she’d go back, and things would settle again. But instead of clarity, he felt… suspended. Caught somewhere between memory and want.

He glanced at the chair where she used to curl up with her laptop, sometimes barefoot, always talking out loud to herself when she wrote.

His eyes dropped to the journal she’d left behind on the edge of the table by mistake.

He hadn’t opened it.

Not yet.

The rain picked up, soft percussion against the tall glass.

Bruce leaned back in his chair, eyes closing briefly, letting himself remember the feeling of her beside him in bed. Her laugh. Her lips brushing his.

Metropolis – y/n’s Apartment, two days later

The clack of keys filled the small apartment like a heartbeat. Y/n sat cross-legged on her couch, laptop perched on a throw pillow, her fingers flying. The article had taken on a new shape—less investigative, more personal. It still told the story of Bruce Wayne, yes, but now it bled with nuance and intimacy. It read like someone who had seen beyond the billionaire mask.

She would finish the story. That was the job.

But with every line, she tried not to wonder if he’d ever read it.

Or if he missed her, even half as much.

Gotham – The Batcave, Same Night

Beneath the city, the cave roared to life.

Screens blinked across the cavern’s high walls. Surveillance feeds. Thermal readings. Police scanners. Crime didn’t sleep, and tonight, neither would Bruce.

He stood before the Batcomputer, jaw tight, gloved fingers typing commands with practiced precision. The redevelopment site had been vandalized. Gangs were moving again through the Narrows. Something about it felt too coordinated.

Good. He needed the distraction.

He’d been on patrol for hours—twice as long as usual—and yet it still wasn’t enough. Every rooftop he landed on, every alley he disappeared into, only led him deeper into the noise, further from the quiet echo of her laughter in the halls of the Manor.

He’d thought throwing himself into the work would help. But all it did was remind him why she’d gotten under his skin in the first place—because she saw through it. Through him.

She’d looked at Bruce Wayne and never flinched.

He paused, pulling off his cowl for a moment, the edge of exhaustion settling into his bones.

He reached toward the console, hesitated… and opened the secure line to her number.

The cursor blinked.

Typing: “Are you okay?”

Then… deleted.

Instead, he closed the window and returned to the screen showing the Gotham skyline.

He wasn’t ready to tell her that the city felt different now. Emptier. That she’d brought light into a place he’d long accepted would always be dark.

Daily Planet Newsroom – Late Afternoon

The bullpen buzzed with energy—phones ringing, reporters crossing paths, printers humming with the day’s headlines. Y/n sat perched at the edge of Lois’s desk, coffee in hand, animated in that relaxed post-publication daze.

Clark leaned against the nearby filing cabinet, arms folded, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “So, Gotham wasn’t all gloom and dangerous?”

Y/n smirked. “Oh, there definitely were some… moments. But there was more. The city’s… complicated. Beneath all of that it’s really beautiful if you know where to look.”

Lois raised a brow, crossing her legs. “Sounds like someone caught feelings.”

Y/n rolled her eyes, sipping her coffee to hide the flush in her cheeks. “I caught a story. A damn good one.”

“You caught something,” Clark said under his breath.

Y/n shot him a playful glare.

Lois leaned in. “Okay, but seriously—off the record. Bruce Wayne? What’s he really like? That interview read more like a profile from someone who—” she grinned, “—got under his skin.”

“He let me in,” Y/n said, quieter now. “Not completely. But enough. And I think… that scared him more than Gotham’s crime rate.”

Before Lois could fire off another question, a hush spread through the bullpen like a sudden wind. Heads turned toward the elevator, which had just opened.

Y/n didn’t look up at first—until Lois went still beside her.

“Speak of the billionaire devil,” she murmured.

Y/n slowly turned—and froze.

Bruce stood in the center of the floor like he belonged there. Tailored charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, not a hair out of place. Gotham followed him like a shadow. Every movement was deliberate but his eyes were already locked on her.

For a moment, the noise of the newsroom faded entirely.

He moved toward her with calm purpose, unbothered by the stares. The world didn’t exist. Just her.

“You came,” she said, breath catching as she slid off the desk.

“You wrote about me,” Bruce said softly, his voice barely above the din but clear to her like a whisper meant for no one else. “I thought it was only fair I come read it in person.”

Clark and Lois exchanged a silent glance—part surprise, part we told you so.

Y/n didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or reach out and touch him to make sure he was real.

She swallowed hard, suddenly aware of the lump in her throat and the way the distance between them felt far too formal.

“Want to get out of here?” she asked.

He nodded once; she didn’t need to be told twice.

And just like that, she turned back to Lois and Clark, her expression soft but unreadable.

“I’ll call later,” she said simply, grabbing her coat.

Lois’s smirk was all teeth. “You better.”

Clark just nodded once, knowingly.

Then Y/n walked away with Bruce Wayne by her side, his hand brushing hers as they disappeared into the elevator together.

The sky above Metropolis was painted in deep shades of violet and gold, the city lights beginning to flicker on like stars rebelling against the dusk. On the rooftop terrace of a tucked-away café Y/n had always loved—her little secret from the chaos below—she sat across from Bruce, a warm cup of tea between her hands.

It was quiet up here.

Bruce leaned back slightly in his chair, coat draped behind him, eyes on her more than the view. “This place feels… different than I expected. Peaceful.”

“It’s the one part of the city where I don’t feel like I have to rush,” Y/n said, smiling softly. “I come here when I need to think. Or breathe.”

He nodded. “You picked the perfect place, then.”

The pause between them stretched, not awkward—just heavy with everything unspoken.

She looked at him finally, expression shifting, something more vulnerable surfacing. “When you left the fundraiser… and then didn’t say anything before I had to leave… I wasn’t just annoyed, Bruce. I was hurt.”

Bruce’s gaze dropped briefly to the rim of his glass before meeting her eyes again. “I know. I wasn’t trying to push you away. I just—” he exhaled, jaw tightening. “I’ve spent years keeping people at arm’s length. It’s safer. But you… you slipped past all that.”

“I didn’t mean to,” she said gently.

“I know,” he replied, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And maybe that’s why it happened.”

She blinked, absorbing his words. “So why come here now?”

His eyes searched hers, steady and unflinching. “Because I realized the silence wasn’t enough. The cave wasn’t enough. Gotham wasn’t the same without you.”

Y/n’s throat tightened, her heart thudding painfully behind her ribs. “I kept telling myself I was just doing my job. That I went to Gotham for a story.”

“You got one,” Bruce said, voice low.

“Yeah,” she whispered, “but the story wasn’t the thing I didn’t want to leave behind.”

Bruce reached across the small table then, fingers brushing hers. A simple touch, but it said more than either of them had dared to say out loud.

“I don’t know what this is yet,” she said, staring down at their hands.

He nodded slowly. “Then maybe we don’t have to rush to figure it out.”

The end :D

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akairawrites · 4 months ago

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Piece By Piece | Bruce Wayne x reader mini series

Previous | Next

The ride back to the manor had been quiet. Not strained, but layered. Bruce didn’t press, and Y/n didn’t offer. The rain held off, but the sky stayed heavy, as if Gotham knew how to hold its breath too.

By the time they stepped inside the manor, the staff was already moving with quiet purpose—prepping Bruce’s car for the fundraiser, laying out cufflinks, polishing details that no one outside would ever see, but that Bruce would notice immediately if they were off.

Alfred met them in the foyer.

“Welcome back,” he said with a tilt of his head. “Everything is ready upstairs.”

Bruce nodded. Then he turned to Y/n, adjusting his watch.

“I wasn’t sure if you brought something formal,” he said. “So… I had a dress made.”

She blinked. “You what?”

“Just in case,” he said simply, already heading for the stairs. “It’s in the guest room closet. Shoes too. Take your time.”

And with that, he disappeared down the hall.

Y/n stood there a moment longer, stunned.

Not just by the gesture—but by how effortlessly he delivered it. No smugness. No flirtation. Just Bruce Wayne, quietly pulling the world into place around him like it was nothing.

Upstairs, she found it.

A black box on the bed. The dress inside was deep emerald satin, sleek and sharp in its lines, as if tailored for someone with secrets. When she held it up to her body in the mirror, it caught the light like water.

She showered. Took her time. Let the silence of the manor wrap around her as she dried her hair, applied her makeup, and slowly stepped into the gown. It fit. Perfectly. Of course it did.

And yet, as she stood in front of the mirror, fingers brushing her waist, her expression stayed still.

The woman looking back at her wasn’t just Y/n L/n, Daily Planet reporter. She was something else now. Someone stepping into dangerous territory. Not because of Bruce Wayne.

But because of who she was becoming around him.

When she descended the stairs, her heels whispered against the wood, and the manor’s low lighting gave her skin a glow she didn’t recognize. She saw him before he saw her—standing near the piano, adjusting the cuff of his tux jacket.

Eloquent. Effortless.

He turned.

And for a second, he didn’t say a word. His gaze swept over her, slow and deliberate, but without a trace of the smirk people might’ve expected from Gotham’s most notorious billionaire.

“You clean up alright,” she teased softly.

“So do you,” he said, voice low.

She smiled—but only for a moment.

Then her expression shifted. “I need to tell you something.”

Bruce straightened, alert now. “Go ahead.”

Y/n pulled her phone from her clutch and handed it to him—already open to the article.

He read the headline first. Then the photo.

His jaw tensed.

“It’s not mine,” she said quickly. “It was sent to me. Someone at the Planet jumped the gun—saw us yesterday and filled in the blanks.”

Bruce’s eyes stayed on the image a second longer, then met hers. “And the blanks?”

“I’m still figuring that out,” she said. “But the article’s going live tomorrow morning. Which means… this—” She gestured between them. “—is no longer off the record.”

A pause. Then, his voice—measured, calm, but honest:

“Do you want it to be?”

Y/n looked at him.

Then at herself—draped in emerald silk, standing in a mansion she had no business being in, talking to a man who made the lines between truth and story feel thinner than they should be.

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

The flash of cameras began the moment the black Wayne Enterprises town car turned the corner onto the marble entranceway of the Gotham Galleria. Photographers lined the edge of the red carpet, calling names, jostling for angles. It was the kind of event that blurred charity and theatre, with designer gowns and champagne flutes used to distract from the weight of real causes.

Bruce stepped out first.

Sharp black tux. Cufflinks catching the light. He adjusted the lapel with a casual precision that seemed effortless—but Y/n knew better now.

He turned and offered his hand to her.

She took it.

And for just a second, the flashbulbs didn’t matter.

Stepping out in the emerald gown, Y/n felt the hush ripple through the press line, followed by a fresh wave of camera shutters. She didn’t look at them. She looked at Bruce. Who looked only at her.

“You ready?” he asked under his breath.

“No,” she said softly, “but let’s pretend I am.”

They walked the carpet together, pace matched perfectly, like this wasn’t the first time they’d done this. Like they were something. Eyes followed them, whispers curling around their backs. Bruce didn’t acknowledge a single one.

Inside, the Galleria was glowing.

The event hall had been transformed: glass sculptures hung from the high ceiling, candles floated in tall vases across every table, and a jazz trio played just loud enough to fill the space without swallowing conversation. Waiters moved like shadows with silver trays. The city’s elite had gathered in full.

And they were watching.

“Everyone’s staring,” Y/n murmured as Bruce guided her toward the champagne table.

“They always stare,” he replied. “Usually at me. Now I get to share the spotlight.”

She gave him a side glance. “You don’t hate it as much as you pretend to.”

Bruce looked at her, something sly flickering in his expression. “And you’re more comfortable in this room than you thought you’d be.”

She didn’t argue.

Because she wasn’t sure it wasn’t true.

People approached. Names she recognized. Board members. City officials. A few Gotham socialites with practiced charm and curious eyes. Bruce played host with ease, but he never stepped far from her side, as if anchoring her in the deep end of the social ocean.

But even surrounded, Y/n couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t just a public moment. That photo… that article… they had put something in motion.

And now everyone was watching it unfold in real time.

Bruce leaned in close, under the cover of soft music.

“You’re doing fine,” he said.

She looked at him. “You say that like I’m not about to combust.”

“If you combust,” he said, “we’ll make it look intentional.”

Y/n almost laughed.

Almost.

But even behind her smile, the pressure was real.

He was starting to feel dangerously real.

The music had shifted—slower now. Velvet tones from the jazz trio rolled through the space like a secret being whispered across the room. Conversations dimmed under the weight of candlelight and wine. The kind of atmosphere where walls softened, and people forgot themselves—if only for a moment.

Y/n stood near the edge of the dance floor, a half-empty champagne glass in her hand and a lingering ache in her heels. She had talked with donors, smiled for cameras, even made polite conversation with someone from Gotham Gazette who kept trying to fish for a quote she wouldn’t give.

And then Bruce appeared beside her again, as if he’d never left her side.

“Dance with me.”

It wasn’t a question.

She hesitated for only a breath, then set her glass down and let him take her hand.

His palm was warm, steady. His frame effortlessly confident. And when he pulled her gently into the rhythm of the slow jazz tune, the rest of the room faded.

Y/n looked up at him, unsure of where to rest her hands—until he guided them to his shoulders with subtle grace. His hand pressed lightly against her the small of her back.

They swayed into the slow rhythm as if they’d done this a hundred times. His body was solid and warm, steady like the gravity she didn’t know she’d been drifting from.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured.

“I think I forgot how to breathe,” she replied before she could stop herself.

Bruce’s lips twitched at the corners, but he didn’t make a joke of it. Instead, he leaned in closer—just enough that she could feel his breath near her ear.

“Then stop thinking.”

The rest of the world vanished. Her chest pressed lightly against his as they moved, her hand splayed against his shoulder, fingertips brushing silk. It felt too good. Too easy. Her heels barely touched the floor, and the champagne glow of the room blurred at the edges.

For one stolen song, Y/n let herself be somewhere else entirely—on a different timeline, in a different life. One where this wasn’t reckless. Where Bruce Wayne could just be a man with his hand on her back.

But reality crept in.

A flash from the cameras. A polite tap on her shoulder—someone she didn’t recognize, asking about the Foundation’s education initiative. She turned to answer, just for a moment.

When she looked back—

He was gone.

Not in the crowd.

Not at the bar.

Not anywhere.

Y/n blinked, scanning the room. The music was still playing, laughter spilling from corners, glasses clinking—but Bruce had vanished like a shadow at dawn.

She stood alone on the edge of the dance floor, heart still racing, skin still warm where he’d held her.

And her mind spiraled with one quiet thought:

‘Where the hell did he go?’

The car ride back was quiet.

Y/n sat in the back seat, arms crossed loosely over her lap, eyes fixed on the city’s blurred lights bleeding across the windows. She hadn’t said much to the driver—just told him she was ready to go when it became clear Bruce wasn’t coming back.

She waited.

She looked for him for almost an hour, weaving through the Galleria’s maze of clinking glasses and formal chatter. She even checked the balcony, the bar, the corridor near the restrooms. But Bruce Wayne was nowhere. Not a note. Not a word.

Gone.

The manor felt different when she stepped inside. Too still. Too large. As if it somehow knew she was returning alone.

Y/n kicked off her heels by the front door, the silence echoing beneath the arching ceilings. She called out once—softly. Just in case. Nothing.

Upstairs, she peeled herself out of the emerald dress, letting it fall with a whisper across the bed. She slipped into something soft, tied her hair up loosely, and moved through her nightly routine with practiced, absentminded motions.

Still no sign of him.

She checked the hallway. Listened near the study. Even padded barefoot toward the east wing Alfred had mentioned once, but the rooms were dark.

A tightness had settled into her chest by the time she returned to her own.

It wasn’t just that he’d left her at the event. It was that she didn’t know why. That he hadn’t said a word. No explanation. No message. Not even a half-hearted excuse.

She climbed into bed and pulled the blanket up, jaw tight, every thought spiraling around the same question: What was so important that he couldn’t say goodbye?

The shadows in the manor were long tonight, and for the first time since arriving, Y/n felt like she was on the outside of something she couldn’t name. She rolled onto her side, staring at the crack of moonlight spilling across the floor.

Annoyed.

The moment her hand slipped from his shoulder, Bruce felt it.

The weight return.

She turned her head—just for a second—to answer someone’s question. A polite smile. A flicker of professional instinct. And in that narrow breath of space, he stepped away.

Not because he wanted to.

Because he had to.

He slipped through the edges of the crowd like smoke, avoiding cameras, eye contact, anything that might slow him down. His earpiece was already tucked discreetly beneath his collar, and as he cleared the main ballroom, a low voice crackled to life in his ear.

“Sir,” Alfred said calmly. “We’ve picked up movement near the Narrows. Same pattern as the last incident.”

“How recent?”

“Ten minutes ago. It was quiet, but familiar. Masked. Armed. Van headed south, likely connected to the stolen medical equipment last week.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened as he entered the Galleria’s back corridor. Already, his mind was moving—routes, gear, cover stories.

“I’ll take the east tunnel,” he said. “Ping Fox if anything changes.”

He was already gone by the time Y/n turned back to the dance floor.

An Hour Later

The Narrows never slept.

Especially not tonight.

Rain clung to the rooftops in sheets, wind clawing through rusted fire escapes and cracked neon. Bruce crouched above a narrow alleyway, suit black and silent, cape drawn low against the wind. He was watching two men haul crates into an unmarked van, same as the last hit—pharmaceuticals stolen from the triage units Gotham had deployed after the South End fire.

The city’s rot didn’t wait for charity galas to end.

It thrived in the quiet spaces between polite applause.

He moved quickly.

A whisper of motion, the glint of a grapple, the crunch of bones and muffled grunts as one man hit the concrete hard. The other tried to run.

He didn’t get far.

Ten minutes later, Bruce was gone again—leaving the sirens to find the mess he’d cleaned up.

But as he stood in the shadows of the train tunnel, slick with rain and adrenaline draining from his chest, her face came back.

Y/n.

Her body against his, the weight of her hand on his shoulder, the way she looked at him like she almost believed the version of him that belonged in that ballroom.

He wasn’t angry at her.

He was angry at himself—for letting it feel real, even for a moment.

Wayne Manor – 2:07 a.m.

Bruce returned like he always did.

He came through the cave entrance, removing the suit in silence, muscle memory guiding every motion. The manor above him slept. Alfred had left a light on in the hallway. One of Y/n’s heels still sat at the foot of the staircase, as if she’d come home and needed the night to stop spinning.

Bruce hesitated outside her door.

Just for a moment.

There was no sound from within. No light.

He wanted to knock. To explain.

But he didn’t.

He turned away and disappeared into the long corridors of the manor, the weight of guilt dragging heavier behind him than ever.

The sun had just begun to filter through the tall windows when Y/n padded down the hallway, the faint scent of coffee drifting toward her like a peace offering she hadn’t asked for.

She wore one of her oversized sweaters, hair still damp from a quick shower, notebook in hand. Her bare feet tapped lightly against the polished floor as she followed the quiet trail toward the dining room.

And there he was.

Bruce.

Already seated at the end of the long mahogany table, sleeves rolled to the elbows, black shirt slightly wrinkled. He looked a bit more tired than usual. He looks like he’d carried the weight of two nights instead of one.

His eyes met hers before she could speak.

“I owe you an explanation,” he said calmly.

Y/n didn’t sit. Not yet. She hovered by the chair across from him, her fingers tightening around her notebook. “You think?”

“I didn’t mean to leave without saying something.”

“You didn’t say anything at all,” she said, sharper than she intended. “You vanished, Bruce. After that dance, after everything you—” She stopped herself. Swallowed it. “I looked for you. I waited. I didn’t even get a text.”

Bruce sat back slightly, jaw tight.

“There was something that needed my attention. Urgently.”

Y/n blinked. “And you couldn’t tell me that? Give me a heads up? Or was I just supposed to assume it’s part of your charm—brooding exits and dramatic silences?”

“I wasn’t trying to disappear,” he said. “I was trying to keep you out of something dangerous.”

That made her pause.

Not because it excused him—but because it almost made sense.

Almost.

“You keep acting like I’m fragile,” she said. “Like if I get too close, I’ll break. I’ve spent most of my career chasing shadows and stories that fight back. I’m not afraid of the truth, Bruce. But I am afraid of being left in the dark.”

A beat of silence passed between them.

Bruce’s expression didn’t change much, but something in his eyes softened. Regret, maybe. Respect.

“I know,” he said. “I should’ve handled it differently.”

Y/n sat down finally, still watching him, notebook resting unopened on the table.

“I don’t need the details,” she said after a moment. “But I do need you to trust me. Otherwise, this whole ‘shadowing you’ thing is pointless.”

Bruce nodded slowly, eyes still on hers.

“I’ll do better,” he said.

She didn’t say okay.

But she didn’t get up and walk away either.

Instead, she reached for the coffee, poured a cup, and settled into the silence between them. One with edges. One with tension. One that neither of them seemed in a hurry to end.

The silence between them softened but didn’t disappear. After Y/n’s coffee cup was half-empty and Bruce had shifted from apology to stillness, Alfred stepped in with quiet precision, offering breakfast like a silent truce.

They ate together—nothing fancy. Eggs, toast, a few slices of fruit. The kind of meal that said normal, even when everything between them felt anything but.

Y/n didn’t push. Not yet. But her eyes flicked to him now and then—watching the way his mind clearly wasn’t at the table. How his fingers tapped rhythmically against the edge of his coffee cup. Always thinking. Always elsewhere.

After the meal, Bruce stood, sliding his chair back with a soft scrape of wood.

“I thought we’d go back over to the youth shelter construction site next,” he said. “It’s one of the more important projects we’ve got going right now.”

Y/n gave him a look over her coffee cup. “You’re not just saying that to distract me from the fact you disappeared on me last night, are you?”

His lips twitched. “Wouldn’t work if I was.”

She smirked despite herself, setting the cup down. “Alright then. Let’s go.”

Y/n retreated to her room for a moment to change—something more practical for a construction site but still sharp enough to fit her reporter’s armor. A crisp blouse tucked into high-waisted pants, hair pulled back, notepad tucked under one arm.

As she made her way back down the long hall, she took her time—letting her gaze drift along the rich wood paneling, the oil paintings, the walls that whispered of old money and older secrets. Her heels echoed softly as she paused by the grandfather clock in the corridor.

It wasn’t open. Nothing strange. But it lingered in her mind anyway.

Bruce was already waiting near the front doors, sleeves now rolled down, blazer on, jaw set in that effortless way that made it easy to forget he’d once looked at her like she was the only person in a crowded room.

“Ready?” he asked, voice even.

She nodded, but said nothing—tucking that moment away like a note in her pocket.

The morning sun filtered through the tinted windows of the sleek black car as it wound through Gotham’s streets. Bruce sat beside her, hands folded, looking out at the city like it was a puzzle only he could solve.

Y/n finally broke the silence. “So… do you always sneak out of your own fundraisers?”

“I don’t usually bring someone I have to explain myself to,” he said without looking at her.

“Lucky me.”

He smirked faintly. “You’re different.”

Y/n turned to look at him. “Different how?”

Bruce hesitated—then looked at her, really looked at her. “You ask the right questions. Even when they come at the wrong time.”

She held his gaze, heart beating a little faster than she liked to admit.

Then the car pulled to a stop outside the redevelopment site.

And the conversation, like so much else between them, was left hanging in the air.

The Wayne Foundation SUV rolled to a stop just outside the temporary gates of the redevelopment site. The rising structure of the youth shelter loomed against the cloudy sky, steel beams catching hints of sunlight between patches of Gotham haze.

Bruce stepped out first, already shrugging on a black overcoat as the wind tugged at his shirt collar. Y/n followed, pulling her jacket tight, eyes scanning the construction site with curiosity—and something quieter beneath it. Reflection, maybe.

“This is the only thing on the agenda today?” she asked.

Bruce nodded, gaze fixed on the building ahead. “Just a quick check-in.”

They walked together across gravel and uneven ground as the foreman spotted them and approached. “Mr. Wayne, always good to see you,” he greeted with a firm handshake. “We’re ahead of schedule—foundation’s been poured, insulation starts next week.”

“Good,” Bruce said with a nod. “Keep the lines open with the city planner. I want permits squared away before the winter freeze.”

Y/n remained a few steps back, letting Bruce move through the conversation like it was second nature. She jotted a few quick notes in her pocket journal—not just about the site, but about him. So unlike the charming mask he wore in public.

A few more exchanges with the site lead, then Bruce turned to her.

“That’s all I needed to see today,” he said, voice low and calm.

Y/n raised an eyebrow. “That’s it? No hard hat walkthrough? No ceremonial brick-laying?”

He smirked faintly. “Not every visit’s for show.” She followed him back to the SUV, the air between them quieter now—comfortable, but aware.

The rest of the day unfolded in quiet.

With nothing else on the agenda, and Bruce disappearing somewhere into the depths of the Manor with a short, “Call if you need anything,” Y/n retreated to the library. It had become her favorite room over the past few days—warm, sun-drenched, and far too large for one person, yet somehow perfect for getting lost in thoughts she wasn’t quite ready to face.

Her laptop was open on the heavy oak desk, the blinking cursor waiting at the top of a blank page. A draft of the article sat beside it—half-written, half-feeling. She’d been adding to it in pieces, in moments stolen between events, conversations, glances.

Now, with the storm of the last few days settling into a strange calm, she let herself dive in.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard as her mind played a looping reel of moments:

The way Bruce looked at her in the elevator.

His quiet steadiness during their park lunch.

The sound of rain as she crept into his bed.

The way he vanished at the fundraiser, and the way her heart twisted more than she wanted it to.

You’re not here for him, she reminded herself.

But even as she tried to believe it, her stomach knotted.

She was supposed to be writing about Bruce Wayne—the enigma, the billionaire, the philanthropist. But somewhere along the line, the lines had blurred. Her article wasn’t about Gotham’s golden boy anymore.

It was about the man who kept showing up behind the charm.

The one she kept catching glimpses of in rare, unguarded moments.

And now, with only one full day left in Gotham, the thought of leaving didn’t sit well.

Not because of unfinished work.

But because maybe… it wasn’t the city she was falling in love with.

The Manor had grown quiet. Night wrapped around its stone walls like a blanket, shadows stretching long through the halls as the wind whispered against tall windows.

In the library, the soft glow of a single desk lamp flickered beside Y/n, casting a warm halo over the scattered pages of notes and her open laptop. A half-filled mug of tea had long gone cold at her side. Her journal lay open beside it, pen still resting between the pages. Her fingers were still curled loosely near the keyboard, but her eyes had long since closed.

She’d fallen asleep mid-thought, a sentence left unfinished.

Bruce found her like that.

He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching her in the kind of stillness only he knew. The glow from the lamp painted soft light across her face, the rise and fall of her chest slow and steady. She looked so different when she wasn’t guarded—when her mind wasn’t spinning at a hundred miles an hour. In sleep, she seemed… small. Still.

She looked peaceful. Tired, but safe.

Without a word, he stepped inside.

Curiosity tugged at him.

He stepped forward and gently pushed the journal open just enough to read a few lines written in her familiar, tight script. It wasn’t snooping—at least that’s what he told himself.

“Bruce Wayne is a man who never lets anyone see beneath the surface, but I’m starting to think that’s because there’s too much under it. Too much grief. Too much guilt. Too much of everything. He walks through this city like he’s made of smoke and stone. Untouchable. Unshakable. But I’ve seen moments that felt real. Vulnerable. And maybe that’s the story I’m really here to write.”

Bruce stared at the words for a long moment.

He blinked once. Closed the journal slowly. Then looked back at her—now curled slightly into herself, cheek resting on her knuckles.

“Y/n,” he said quietly.

She didn’t wake.

So he stepped closer and leaned down, arms slipping beneath her as gently as possible.

Her body instinctively relaxed into his as he lifted her. She stirred lightly, murmuring something incoherent against his chest, but didn’t fully wake.

As he carried her through the hallway, she whispered, “Bruce…?”

“I’ve got you,” he said, voice quiet.

She shifted slightly, fingers curling into his shirt.

Once he got to her room he laid her down gently, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face before pulling the covers over her. She reached out before he could walk away, fingers lightly touching his wrist.

“Don’t go,” she said, eyes still mostly closed. “Stay with me.”

And somehow, those words undid him more than anything else had.

So he stayed.

He slipped beneath the blankets beside her, stiff at first—unsure of the space he was stepping into—but then she curled into him like she’d done it a hundred times. Her head found his chest, and her breathing softened.

The rain began to fall outside—slow, steady, and soft.

And Bruce lay there in the dark, holding her, heart full of words he hadn’t figured out how to say.

The rain outside deepened into a steady rhythm, a hushed symphony against the manor’s tall windows. Thunder rumbled in the far-off hills, low and slow like a secret being whispered through the clouds. Inside, the world was still.

Bruce lay there beside her, one arm beneath the pillow, the other resting gently across Y/n’s back, his hand barely brushing the fabric of her sleep shirt. Her head was tucked against his chest, her breath warm, steady.

Every time she exhaled, he felt it—soft against his ribs like a reminder that someone was close.

She stirred slightly, not quite waking, shifting just enough to press closer to him. Her arm came across his torso, and her fingers curled gently into the fabric of his shirt, as if afraid he might disappear again.

“I thought you left,” she mumbled against him, voice thick with sleep.

“I didn’t,” he said softly. “Not tonight.”

A quiet beat passed.

“I missed this,” she whispered.

Bruce didn’t answer right away.

He could feel the weight of her words—the truth in them—and how they mirrored something unspoken in his own chest. There was a calm in this room that he didn’t recognize. One that made his defenses lower. One that made him want to stay.

“I did too,” he said finally not loud enough to wake her. But enough that he knew she heard it.

The lightning flashed distantly, a silver streak behind the curtains. He watched it dance across the ceiling, his hand slowly brushing up and down her back in lazy, careful motions. She felt warm. Real. Not another mask in a world full of performance.

He wasn’t sure what this was.

He wasn’t sure what it meant.

But for the first time in a long time, he didn’t want to be anywhere else.

Just here. With her. In the quiet storm of a moment neither of them could name.

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akairawrites · 4 months ago

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After The Rain | Bruce Wayne x Reader mini series

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The manor was hushed at night, its silence almost sacred. The kind of quiet that wrapped around a person and made them feel small, no matter how many lights they turned on.

Y/n sat cross-legged on the window seat in her guest room, a leather-bound notebook balanced on her knee. Her laptop sat closed on the desk behind her—too sterile tonight, too clinical. The page in her lap felt more honest somehow.

She tapped her pen against the margin.

The paper in front of her was already lined with thoughts. Observations. Things she might quote in the piece. Things she wasn’t sure she should.

He speaks with precision, not because he wants to impress, but because he wants to control how little he gives away.

Everyone listens to Bruce Wayne, but no one seems to know what he’s actually thinking.

Except maybe today… at lunch. That felt different.

She paused

Her handwriting slowed.

I think I forgot I was reporting. For a moment, it felt like he wasn’t performing. And I wasn’t watching. We were just…

Her pen hesitated at the end of the sentence. She didn’t finish it.

Instead, she leaned her head back against the window, eyes drifting out toward the grounds. The sky was deep navy now, stars barely visible through the Gotham haze. A few of the windows across the west wing glowed gold. She wondered if one of them was his study. If he was still awake. If he was thinking about today the way she was.

The air outside shifted. She felt it before she heard it—like the sky was holding its breath. Then came the first soft patters against the tall windows.

Rain.

Y/n closed the notebook gently and hugged it to her chest, resting against the cool glass. The lights in the gardens blurred slightly, their reflections wavering on the slick stone below. She couldn’t tell if the tightness in her chest was nerves, or curiosity, or something she didn’t want to name yet.

She hadn’t planned on liking Bruce Wayne.

She definitely hadn’t planned on feeling seen by him.

She should have been digging deeper. Asking harder questions. She was sitting inside a manor full of mysteries, shadowing a man half the city whispered about in boardrooms and alleyways.

And all she could think about was the way his voice softened when no one else was around.

Her phone buzzed again—another email, probably an editor asking how the piece was coming. She didn’t check.

Instead, she climbed into bed and reached over to shut the lamp off.

The storm rolled in with quiet elegance—like it knew better than to announce itself too loudly at Wayne Manor.

Bruce stood by the fireplace, one hand wrapped loosely around a glass of untouched scotch, the other resting on the mantle. His jacket hung on the back of a chair. The tie was long gone. Shirt collar open. His reflection hovered faintly in the window as rain began tapping against the glass.

He didn’t turn when the grandfather clock ticked softly behind him.

Didn’t need to.

He knew what time it was. He knew where Alfred was. He knew she was still awake.

Y/n.

He’d heard her footsteps earlier—light, uncertain, moving slowly down the upstairs hall before retreating back to her room.

He hadn’t expected her to get under his skin. Not this quickly. Not this subtly. She wasn’t chasing headlines the way he thought she would. She wasn’t digging with claws out. She was… watching.

Seeing things most people missed.

And maybe that was what made her dangerous.

He looked toward the window again. Rain streaked the glass in lazy rivulets.

She’s not looking for Batman.

Not yet.

He brought the glass to his lips, paused, and set it back down.

He didn’t drink.

He needed to stay sharp.

Because sooner or later, she was going to start asking the right questions.

And when she did—

he wasn’t sure if he wanted to stop her.

The rain had only gotten worse.

What started as a gentle whisper against the windows had grown into a relentless drumbeat. Thunder cracked in the distance, low and rolling like the sky was shifting in its sleep. Wind pressed against the tall windows of the manor, rattling them in their frames.

Y/n stirred under the covers, eyes fluttering open.

The room was dark but not silent. Shadows moved across the walls like they had minds of their own. The rain was louder here—unfiltered, constant. For a minute she just listened to it, hoping it would lull her back to sleep.

It didn’t.

Instead, her heart was racing for reasons she couldn’t quite name. The storm? The house? The quiet things clawing their way to the surface after the day she’d had?

She sat up.

The blanket slipped from her shoulders as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Her bare feet hit the cold floor and she paused, breathing in. ‘It’s just weather,’ she told herself.

But it didn’t feel like just anything.

Something about the manor—its vastness, its history—made the dark feel heavier.

Without thinking too hard about it, she stepped into the hallway.

She didn’t knock.

She found his room by memory. Two doors down from the study, dark oak with a faint seam of light beneath. She hesitated a second, fingers curled lightly against the frame. No thunder this time, just silence.

Then she opened the door.

Bruce was awake. Sitting against the headboard, reading something with one hand, the other resting across his lap. He didn’t look surprised to see her—just met her gaze like he’d known she might show up.

She stood there in the doorway, unsure how to say what she didn’t quite understand.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said softly.

His eyes didn’t leave hers. “Storm?”

She nodded.

There was a beat.

Then he folded the book closed, set it on the table beside him, and said just one thing:

“Come here.”

No hesitation. No smirk. Just an open space beside him and a voice that sounded like safety.

Y/n moved slowly, crossing the room without a word. She climbed in beside him, careful not to look too closely at him, or herself, or the why of any of this.

The bed was warm. He didn’t touch her. Didn’t press. He just leaned back, close but not crowding, and let the silence settle again

Thunder rolled in the distance. She flinched just slightly—and he noticed. She felt the shift of the mattress as he adjusted, letting his arm rest behind her, not holding her, but anchoring her there.

She exhaled, long and slow.

Minutes passed.

Then she whispered, “You didn’t ask why.”

“I figured if you needed a reason,” he said quietly, “you would’ve stayed in your room.”

Her chest tightened—not with fear this time, but with something closer to comfort. Closer to being seen.

She didn’t say anything after that.

Eventually, she slept.

And beside her, so did he.

The car ride into the city was quieter than the day before.

Not cold. Not awkward. Just… quieter.

Y/n sat beside Bruce in the back of the black car, her notebook resting in her lap, though she hadn’t opened it. She watched the city move past her window—gray clouds still hanging low after the storm, streets shining with leftover rain. Gotham looked washed clean, but the weight in the air said it wouldn’t last.

Bruce scrolled through something on his phone, unreadable as ever. Except—

This morning, when she woke up still curled beneath the sheets in his room, he’d already been sitting on the edge of the bed. Shirt on. Watch fastened. His tie draped across his knee, forgotten.

He didn’t speak at first. Just looked over at her with a calm she couldn’t name.

No teasing. No questions. Only—

“You okay?”

And she’d nodded. A soft, almost imperceptible yes.

Then he stood, offering a hand to help her up like they’d been doing this forever.

Now, in the car, the silence wasn’t a wall—it was a shared space.

Eventually, Bruce slipped his phone into his jacket and turned to her.

“We’re starting at the downtown redevelopment site,” he said, voice even. “After that, a visit to Wayne Medical for the press walk-through. Then you’ll have access to the lab floors while I meet with the Mayor’s task force.”

Y/n nodded, finally clicking her pen open.

“And tonight?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

Bruce looked out the window for a moment before answering.

“Tonight… there’s a fundraiser at the Galleria.” A pause. “You’ll be with me.”

Her pen stilled. “Of course.”

He turned his gaze back to her then. Just for a second. And though he didn’t say it, the look in his eyes echoed something deeper:

We’re not pretending last night didn’t happen.

We’re just not talking about it yet.

Outside, the city kept moving. But in the quiet space between them, something had changed.

And neither of them was quite sure what came next.

The car pulled up to the edge of the construction zone, where the skyline bent around scaffolding, cranes, and half-finished frameworks of what Gotham hoped would become something better. Cleaner streets. Affordable housing. Green space—on paper, at least.

Y/n stepped out just behind Bruce, her boots hitting gravel as the wind kicked up around them. The rain had passed, but the sky was still heavy, like the storm wasn’t quite done.

A cluster of city officials, architects, and Wayne Enterprises reps moved toward them, greetings exchanged with firm handshakes and polite nods. Y/n hung back slightly, watching Bruce slip into his public rhythm. He shifted tone depending on who he spoke to—sharp with the developers, warm with the local nonprofit rep, quietly commanding when a councilman tried to talk over someone else.

She scribbled notes, observed angles. Let her recorder pick up the tone of the room. The last twenty-four hours swirled in the back of her mind, but she pushed it down—kept her expression neutral. Kept her distance.

Bruce’s glance met hers once across the crowd.

Just for a moment.

Then it was gone.

As the group moved on to tour the site, Bruce slowed his pace to match hers.

“You’re quieter today,” he said under his breath.

She looked up at him, lifting a brow. “And here I thought I was just being professional.”

“You are,” he said. “That’s why I noticed.”

She didn’t answer.

The tour ended near the corner of what would eventually become a community space. Renderings were displayed on foam boards, clean and bright against the rawness of concrete and rebar. Someone made a half-hearted joke about ribbon cuttings. Bruce nodded through a few final words, then stepped aside with Y/n as the others dispersed.

He offered her a sip from the water bottle in his hand. She waved it off.

“Good instincts,” he said. “Getting a shot of the councilman’s reaction. That’ll read well in your piece.”

Y/n gave a half-smile, brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek. “Honestly, I think he forgot I wasn’t just PR.”

Bruce smirked. “You’re harder to ignore than you look.”

Before she could respond, her phone buzzed.

Then buzzed again.

The second tone wasn’t random. It was The Planet—an editor’s flag.

She instinctively stepped a few paces away from Bruce, thumb already swiping to unlock. One message, flagged urgent.

“Thought you’d want a heads up before it runs tomorrow.”

A preview popped up beneath it.

Y/n froze.

The image was unmistakable—her and Bruce, at the burger spot, seated across from one another. Laughing. Relaxed. Unscripted. Framed by blurry movement, but somehow more real because of it.

She tapped the link.

A draft article opened.

“Gotham’s Knight of Industry: Has Bruce Wayne Found His Match?”

The photo took up half the page. The copy was speculative, fluffed with phrases like unlikely pairing and mysterious Daily Planet reporter. It wasn’t aggressive—but it wasn’t neutral either.

The narrative was out.

And it was no longer hers to control.

She locked the phone and slipped it into her coat pocket, jaw tight.

Behind her, Bruce had turned slightly, mid-conversation with his legal advisor. But he paused, sensing something. His eyes found hers again.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

Y/n managed a thin smile.

“Yeah. Just work.”

But for the first time since she’d arrived in Gotham, the lines between the assignment and something more weren’t just blurred.

The sleek, modern lobby of Wayne Medical Center buzzed with quiet professionalism. Light filtered in through tall glass windows, soft and sterile. White coats passed by like whispers. Cameras had been banned past the security line—except for the press, and Y/n had the badge to prove she was supposed to be there.

But her focus was fractured.

She walked a step behind Bruce as they made their way through the newly renovated west wing, where the hospital’s charitable outreach program was expanding. The tour guide—a well-rehearsed PR manager in a navy pantsuit—spoke quickly, highlighting everything from research grants to pediatric upgrades. Bruce nodded, asked a few precise questions, and posed for a quick shot with one of the head surgeons.

Y/n took notes, recorded a few quotes.

She did the job.

But her thoughts kept slipping back to the photo.

Has Bruce Wayne Found His Match?

The headline echoed in her mind, obnoxious and premature. And yet… there was something in the way Bruce had looked at her in that moment, caught in a laugh, that made her stomach twist.

Was it real?

Or just a story someone else had already written?

They moved into a quieter hallway near the oncology wing. The crowd thinned.

Bruce slowed down just enough for his voice to reach her.

“You’ve been quiet since the site.”

She didn’t look at him. “Still processing everything.”

“You process fast. Today feels different.”

“Does it?”

Bruce didn’t push. He just glanced at her from the side, reading the tension in her jaw, the slight shift in her voice. He knew the look—someone walking a tightrope between curiosity and confrontation.

They stopped outside a glass-walled lab. The guide spoke again, gesturing inside.

“These are our clinical fellows. Mostly working on targeted therapy trials for rare conditions—Mr. Wayne’s foundation has been instrumental in keeping this department alive.”

Bruce listened, nodding politely, but his eyes drifted back to Y/n more than once.

She noticed.

And this time, she looked back.

It wasn’t playful like it had been at the burger spot. It wasn’t soft, either. It was searching. As if she were trying to reconcile the man in front of her with the version everyone else wanted to believe in.

The version the article painted.

The one her story might turn him into.

When the walkthrough ended, they paused in the lobby again. A Wayne Enterprises car was already waiting at the curb.

Bruce turned to her, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. “We’ve got a few hours before the fundraiser. If you want space—”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, too quickly.

He studied her for a beat.

“You’re allowed not to be.”

“I know,” she replied, softer now. “But I can’t afford that right now.”

Neither of them moved.

Outside, the sky had begun to darken again—clouds rolling back in like the storm hadn’t had its last word.

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