amourlyns

[amourlyns]

❛ HEY VENGEANCE. ❜ ➜ ⁽ masterlist ⁾

﹙ ✧ 𝕮𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍⸻ In which the reader the reader finds herself revisiting her past life while also navigating her current life. ⤷ 𝐖.𝐂 2.7k

⁽ 𝟎𝟏 ⁾ : 𝕾𝗒𝗇𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗌 & 𝕹𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌⸻ Hii!!! I’ve been on a role with fanfics lately :3 this is dedicated to kanna & rei ( @i1yso ),, the ending to this fic isn’t quite finalized but I’m just going off of vibes! Here’s the prologue as well as chapter one.

⁽ 𝟎𝟐 ⁾ : 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒⸻ None

❛    THREE SOULS BOUND BY LOVE, TIME, AND WHAT-IFS.   YOU WERE ONCE MARRIED TO GOJO SATORU. IT BURNED BRIGHT, IT BURNED FAST.   ❜

⠀ ⠀ He was brilliant, chaotic, addictive—but you couldn't hold onto him without losing yourself.  Now you're on the cusp of rebuilding with Nanami Kento, someone solid, someone who listens when the silence stretches too long.  But gojo never quite left—not your life, not your heart. And when your paths cross again, the past life that lived inside all three of you begins to stir.   Maybe this isn't the first time you've loved them both. Maybe this isn't the first time you've had to choose.

⠀ ⠀ There was a time when love felt like motion. Fast trains, rushing wind, heels clicking down pavement to catch up with something wild. There was a time when you believed the right person could make the world bearable—could outrun the ache you carried in your chest like a second heartbeat.

⠀ ⠀ You met Satoru Gojo when you were young. Not just in age, but in soul. The kind of young that still believed chaos could be beautiful if you looked at it in the right light. He was a constellation in motion—charming, reckless, brilliant in ways that made you feel like standing beside him was the closest you'd ever come to touching the sun.

⠀ ⠀ You married him on a Tuesday.

⠀ ⠀ No one thought it would last. And maybe that was the curse—you tried too hard to prove them wrong. But love, when it's fire without structure, burns down the house instead of warming it.

⠀ ⠀ Satoru loved you in the way storms love cities. Loud, luminous, and only after he left could you count the cost. The divorce wasn't ugly. It was worse—it was quiet. The slow unraveling of something sacred. You packed your things one morning and left behind only a note. Not because you were cruel. But because the words had been said a thousand times already, and none of them ever landed.

⠀ ⠀ Then came Nanami. You didn't fall in love with him right away. That would have been too easy. He came into your life like a closing door—firm, inevitable, and heavy with understanding. He saw what Gojo didn't. Or maybe he simply didn't look away. Where Satoru burned, Nanami endured. Where Satoru ran, Nanami stayed.

⠀ ⠀ He didn't ask for the pieces of you that still whispered Gojo's name. He simply learned to hold your silence. Learned to love the parts you were still retrieving. And yet. The thing about past lives is that they never really leave. They haunt the corners of familiar streets.

⠀ ⠀They hum beneath the skin when certain songs play. And when Satoru walks back into a room, the air still shifts like it remembers him. Like it remembers you. Two loves. Two lives. One heart is still trying to choose between what it needs and what it remembers.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

" THE DUALITY OF OUR LOVE. "

the tale of an old lover, in translation of your new life.

❪ a prologue, a simple story of the reader and her life. ❫

⸻

"  A NEW PATH STARTS & AN OLD ONE EMERGES.  "

in which we get a glimpse of the reader and her life with nanami.  as well as a glimpse into her past life with gojo.

❪ chapter one,   reader pov. ❫

────────────────────

⠀ ⠀ Kento, Kento, Kento.

⠀ ⠀A gorgeous sight in the morning light. The new apartment still wears its emptiness like an oversized coat—pretty sheer curtains you bought just two days ago filter the stream of sunlight, throwing soft patterns across your husband's tanned skin.

⠀ ⠀Quiet jazz hums from the speaker, Louis Armstrong's gravel and Ella Fitzgerald's velvet soprano dancing in the air between you. The fruit knife glints as Kento slices pears and oranges with careful precision, each motion deliberate, generous.

⠀ ⠀The place is still unfamiliar, but your movements aren't. The silent choreography you share: the way you pass behind him to reach the coffee, the gentle touch at his elbow so he knows you're there. Years together have taught you each other's rhythms—love turned muscle memory.

⠀ ⠀While he focuses on breakfast, you move quietly at the stove, stirring the broth for his after-work meal. Domestic, tender, like it always has been.

⠀ ⠀Kento lingers beside you, warm breath against your ear. A slow trail of kisses at the base of your neck, down to your collarbone. His large hands find the familiar curve of your hips, tugging you back against the broad plane of his chest.

❛ My pretty girl. ❜

⠀ ⠀A low, rumbling, sweet as honey left out in the sun.

Your heart flutters the way it always has, your mouth curves into an unguarded smile. He practically worships you.

⠀ ⠀Breakfast stretches into soft chatter—bakery deliveries, the stubborn leak in the sink, Tsumiki's internship offer.

At the edge of your thoughts, you catch sight of a half-unpacked box in the hallway—sealed with tape that's been peeled off and pressed down again.

⠀ ⠀You look away before memory can spill out.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

⠀ ⠀With Kento gone—off to knead dough and open the shop—you're left in the hush he leaves behind. You ignore his gentle protests from earlier, the ones that sounded almost like worry:   "You don't have to do everything at once, you know."

⠀ ⠀But you can't help yourself.

⠀ ⠀You begin arranging the living room: lifting a stack of books, shifting a chair by the window where the light always feels kindest.

⠀ ⠀Your hands still when they brush against a small box tucked beneath a blanket: an old film roll, wrapped in tissue paper, labeled in your own handwriting.

⠀ ⠀You set it aside carefully, like something that might bruise if held too tightly. He has it all handled. He's your Kento, after all. But there are some things even he can't organize back into place.

For a moment, you just... stare.

⠀ ⠀At the faded ink. At the date you can't quite bring yourself to read. Funny, how something so small can hold an entire lifetime. A rooftop at sunset. Laughter caught mid-breath. Eyes that dared you to look and keep looking. You thought you'd left this reel of ghosts behind when you packed the last box.

⠀ ⠀But some memories cling like burrs—quiet, stubborn, waiting.

⠀ ⠀The jazz track skips in the other room.

⠀ ⠀You swallow, set the film roll gently on the coffee table, and turn away before the past can pull you under. Outside, morning traffic hums against the windowpane, reminding you the world is still turning—even when your heart remembers where it cracked.

⠀ ⠀You exhale. One small, careful breath—like stepping around a name you promised yourself you wouldn't say.

Kento. Kento. Kento.

Your now, your anchor.

⠀ ⠀And yet— Somewhere in the quiet, the past stirs like smoke, refusing to stay folded away.

⠀ ⠀Your thumb brushes the label again, feeling the ridges of your own hurried scrawl. You don't even need to open the box to see what's inside: the curve of his smile caught in grainy light, your own laughter turned into something almost permanent.

⠀ ⠀You kept it because... Because part of you believed that if you buried it deep enough, it would stay quiet. And part of you hoped it wouldn't.

⠀ ⠀You kept it because it happened.

⠀ ⠀Because love—no matter how brief, no matter how it ended—deserved to be remembered in something more lasting than your own unreliable heart.

⠀ ⠀And because letting go completely?

⠀ ⠀That felt too much like death.

⠀ ⠀The jazz track ends, leaving the apartment too quiet.

Your chest tightens in the hush—then, as if the universe sensed your unraveling, your phone vibrates against the coffee table.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ A message from Shoko:

my girl: you alive?

my girl: picking up wine later. want me to swing by?

my girl: ps tell nanami to stop baking bread like he's at war. the man's a menace.

⠀ ⠀You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding, shoulders easing just a fraction. The film roll stays on the table, small and accusing, but for now—you type back.

future mrs. kento: yeah. come by whenever. i'll hide the rolling pin.

⠀ ⠀And just like that, the past quiets—for now.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ Not gone.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ Never gone.

⠀ ⠀But folded back into the hush of the living room, waiting for the next time your heart goes soft enough to look.

⠀ ⠀The knock at the door is soft, almost lazy—the kind of knock only Ieiri ever bothers with. You wipe your palms on your shorts, heart still drumming a little too loud, and pull the door open.

⠀ ⠀Ieiri steps in first: cigarette tucked behind one ear, hair up in a messy knot, a bottle of red in one hand and a paper bag in the other. Behind her, Suguru appears, black turtleneck and a rain-damp coat draped over his arm, eyes soft with the kind of understanding that makes you feel bare.

⠀ ⠀❛ Brought backup, ❜ Ieiri drawls, stepping out of her shoes. ❛ And wine, because your husband's going to scold us if we show up empty-handed. ❜ Suguru offers a small, familiar smile as you greet him.

⠀ ⠀❛ Thought I'd see how the new place feels, ❜ he says, gaze drifting briefly across the half-unpacked boxes, then back to you. ❛ And we were in the area. ❜ You lead them in, trying not to look at the film roll still on the coffee table—but Suguru notices, his eyes catching for a moment before politely sliding away.

⠀ ⠀Ieiri drops the wine on the kitchen counter, freeing her hands to light a cigarette—only for Suguru to pluck it away and shake his head. ❛ Not inside, ❜ he murmurs, almost fond. She clicks her tongue but doesn't argue, leaning back against the counter instead.

⠀ ⠀❛ Oh—by the way, ❜ she says, like it's nothing. ❛ Satoru's back in town. Just for a week, probably. ❜ The words land in the room like the faint echo of a bell. Suguru's eyes flick to yours, gauging the ripple, but he says nothing.

⠀ ⠀❛ Some gallery event, ❜ Ieiri continues, exhaling an invisible plume of smoke anyway. ❛ You know how he is—turns up, stirs everything, and leaves before anyone can really catch up. ❜ Your mouth feels suddenly dry. You nod, careful, casual.

Just for a week.

⠀ ⠀As if a week is ever just a week with Satoru.

Suguru sets the rain-damp coat over the back of a chair, watching you with that quiet, unspoken question in his eyes—the same question you're trying not to answer.

⠀ ⠀Ieiri breaks the hush before it can settle too deep.

⠀ ⠀❛ So, where's Nanami? Still terrorizing dough? ❜ You laugh, softer than you meant to. ❛ Always. He'll be home around six. ❜ But the echo of that name—Satoru—lingers in the corners of the room, curling around the film roll on the coffee table like smoke.

⠀ ⠀And though no one says it, you all feel the same thing: Some ghosts don't wait to be invited back in. Some just find the door, still half-open.

⠀ ⠀The three of you settle around the small dining table, the rain tapping lazy rhythms against the window.

Ieiri pours generous glasses of wine, elbow bumping yours like punctuation to her teasing.

⠀ ⠀Conversation drifts: the bakery, Ieiri's night shift stories, Suguru mentioning a student paper so terrible it almost made him believe in divine punishment.

⠀ ⠀You laugh, your shoulders loosening by degrees—but even laughter can't dissolve everything. A pause blooms when Ieiri steps away, phone buzzing in her hand.

⠀ ⠀ She slips into the hallway, mumbling something about hospital admin.

⠀ ⠀ Suguru watches her go, then turns his gaze back to you. For a moment, he doesn't speak. He just looks—the kind of looking that feels like the world holding its breath. Eyes dark, soft, and patient, like a question asked without words.

⠀ ⠀Then, quietly:

⠀ ⠀❛ And how about you? ❜ You almost answer automatically—I'm fine, everything's good—but something in his expression stills the words before they spill.

⠀ ⠀❛ Really, ❜ he adds, voice barely above the hush of rain outside.❛ How are you really? ❜ His question lands gently but heavily, like silk weighted with stones. It feels almost unfair: the way Suguru can see the bruises you never show.

⠀ ⠀ The past you keep folded away in boxes and unspoken sentences.

⠀ ⠀Your gaze drifts, just for a heartbeat, to the film roll on the table—then back to his eyes.

⠀ ⠀Your mouth opens, hesitates, searching for a truth that won't sound like betrayal.

⠀ ⠀How am I?

⠀ ⠀I'm good. I'm loved. I'm home.

⠀ ⠀And yet... sometimes the past still knocks, even when you change the locks. But before you can answer, Ieiri's voice floats back in from the hallway: ❛ Don't let her dodge it, Suguru, ❜ she calls, half-teasing, half-serious. ❛ We're not leaving until you answer. ❜ She reappears, phone tucked away, leaning against the doorway with that familiar, unflinching gaze.

⠀ ⠀Suguru's eyes stay on you. Not pushing. Just... waiting.

⠀ ⠀How are you, really? In that pause, the room feels so achingly quiet you could almost hear your own heartbeat. And for the first time in too long—you think about telling the truth.

⠀ ⠀How are you, really?

⠀ ⠀For a breath, the words hover in your chest—caught like a bird in a cage.

⠀ ⠀Your eyes drift again to the film roll on the table.

It feels heavier than it should: thirty-six frames of a past life that never truly developed. You almost reach for it—but stop yourself, fingers curling against your palm instead.

⠀ ⠀❛ I'm... ❜ The syllable tastes uncertain on your tongue.

⠀ ⠀ Outside, a car passes, the tires against wet asphalt. Ieiri leans her hip against the doorway, arms crossed, gaze soft but unflinching—the look of someone who has stitched too many wounds closed to be afraid of scars.

⠀ ⠀❛ I'm happy, ❜ you say finally, voice small, almost defensive. ❛ I am. Nanami is—he's... steady. He's home in a way nothing else has ever been. ❜ Your throat tightens; you force the words through.

⠀ ⠀❛ But... there are days, ❜ you continue, quieter now, like you're confessing to the rain instead of them, ❛ when it feels like I'm living beside myself. Like there's a part of me that never really caught up. ❜ You pause, swallowing.

⠀ ⠀❛ And then something small—a song, a smell, a name—brings it all back. And it scares me how much it still... hurts. ❜ Ieiri doesn't interrupt. She shifts, the floorboard creaking softly under her weight, and you realize you've been holding your breath.

⠀ ⠀❛ I thought moving, starting over, would mean... leaving it behind, ❜ you murmur. ❛ But maybe some ghosts don't stay in boxes. ❜ For a moment, no one speaks. The rain whispers across the window, soft percussion to your confession.

⠀ ⠀Then Suguru, voice low, careful as if he's afraid to break you open further: ❛ It's not weakness to remember, ❜ he says. ❛ And it's not betrayal to keep living. ❜ Ieiri pushes off the doorframe, stepping closer. She sets her half-finished glass on the table, her eyes meeting yours—steady, dark, familiar.

⠀ ⠀ ❛ Memory isn't loyalty, ❜ she tells you, quiet but firm.

⠀ ⠀ ❛ And loving who you were then doesn't mean you love Nanami any less. ❜ She sighs, her mouth softening into something almost like a smile.

⠀ ⠀ ❛ But if it's weighing on you, don't carry it alone. That's how you break things you don't mean to. ❜ You nod, throat too tight for words. A tiny, fragile sound catches in your chest instead—a breath, half-sob, half-laugh.

⠀ ⠀ Suguru reaches across the table, his hand brushing lightly over yours. Not holding. Just... reminding you he's there.

⠀ ⠀ ❛ It's okay, ❜ he says. ❛ Really. It's okay. ❜ The moment passes slowly, like honey sliding down glass. Outside, the rain eases into mist. And though the ache is still there—sharp, familiar, impossibly human—you feel it soften.

⠀ ⠀ Shared. Seen. Still yours, but somehow lighter.

⠀ ⠀ You exhale. For the first time today, it feels like breathing instead of bracing.

⠀ ⠀ Suguru's fingers retreat, resting lightly on the table.

⠀ ⠀ Across from him, Ieiri's gaze meets his—a single glance, brief and unspoken. Old friends who've weathered enough storms to recognize when to push and when to let go.

⠀ ⠀ It's not pity that passes between them. It's something quieter, steadier: We'll keep watch. We'll be here—no matter what stirs the ghosts. Ieiri clears her throat, rolling her empty glass between her palms.

⠀ ⠀ ❛ Anyway, ❜ she says, voice tilting back into something almost playful, ❛ if Nanami keeps baking at this rate, you'll have to open a second shop just to store the bread. ❜ Suguru huffs a small laugh, the corner of his mouth curling.

⠀ ⠀ ❛ Or force him to finally take a vacation, ❜ he adds.

⠀ ⠀ ❛ Malaysia still waiting? ❜ Your chest eases, just a little, at the shift in tone. You nod, lips tugging into something like a real smile. ❛ Always. ❜ Outside, the rain slows to a soft drizzle against the window.

⠀ ⠀ Inside, the room feels warmer somehow—like breath fogging glass, like candlelight held between cupped palms. And for now, that's enough. The past still sits quietly on the table, but so do they—two people who remember you before the fractures, and love you still.

[amourlyns]

⁽ 𝟎𝟏 ⁾ : 𝕾𝗒𝗇𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗌 & 𝕹𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌⸻ The POV of Bruce Wayne and what he was doing before the night of the explosion. As well as a little peek into the readers current state ◝(ᵔᵕᵔ)◜ || As always, interaction & likes are always appreciated!

﹙ ✧ 𝕮𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍⸻ BRUCE WAYNE & JOURNALIST!FEMALE!READER. No usage of Y/N, only “you” or “her”there will be switches in POV. OC’s will occur in the form of the readers connections. 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒⸻ Drug usage, as well as alcoholic consumption follows in this fanfic. Brief mentions of PTSD and slightly graphic mentions of injury. ⤷ 𝐖.𝐂, 2.7 【 WATTPAD 】 【 AO3 】 【 NEXT PART 】

⁽ 𝟒: 𝟒𝟎 ⁾ PM : 「 WAYNE'S PERSPECTIVE OF THE GALA. A FEW HOURS BEFORE YOUR ENCOUNTER 」

❲ ✮ ┊ WAYNE MANOR NEVER FELT WARM. . . Not anymore. It echoed. It held too much of what used to live here. Bruce sat alone at the dining room table. The food Alfred had brought sat untouched. Some kind of roast. Something warm. Didn’t matter.  Across the table lay a folded tuxedo. Stark black. Pressed. The kind of thing his father wore at benefits. The kind of thing his mother paired with pearls and grace. He stared at it like it might bite him.

“You’re going,” Alfred had said, voice gentler than usual. The tuxedo is slid closer towards him. “Even if it’s just for optics.” Optics. Bruce scoffed quietly. It wasn’t about the Renewal project. Not really. It was about keeping the Wayne name in circulation — keeping the illusion of power, even if the foundation rotted years ago. He stood, chair scraping back hard enough to echo.

The tux went on without ceremony. White shirt. Black tie. Tailored suit jacket that hugged the shoulders like a coffin lid. He stared at himself in the hallway mirror, trying to remember the last time he’d worn something like this. It might’ve been his father’s funeral.

His reflection blinked back — pale skin under the collar, unshaved jaw, dark eyes rimmed in quiet fury. He looked like something out of a wake.

Good.

Maybe that’s what this was.
A funeral for the city.
They just hadn’t buried it yet.

Alfred says he looks like his father. 

He does not reply to that.

He stares into the mirror. Taking the time to analyze his polished appearance, Alfred fixes his tie and hands his father's cuff links once more. Now he's watching him closely, too closely. Like he’ll break and shatter because he mentioned his  father.

Bruce’s face must've given his thoughts away, Alfred is quick to place his hand on Bruce’s shoulder. Giving it a squeeze. His eyes darted between Bruce’s hand and his face. There's that sympathy again, or was it regret?

Sometimes the two emotions blur and mix, all into one.

If Bruce could vocalize it, he would. But it comes out all raw, sore and achy. Like he’s forcing the kindness out of him. If only he could — could verbalize this gratitude. His chest  throbbing with guilt  He could feel a grimace emerging on his expression. Alfred seems to get it somehow, he can see the apology in Bruce’s eyes. 

Alfred lets him go for the time being, he insists on driving himself. He obliges. 

The car ride to the Tower is silent.

The engine hums beneath him, but the weight in his chest drowns it out. His fingers twitch against the steering wheel as he idles at a red light — maybe anticipation, maybe anxiety. He takes a breath through his nose, slow and deep, but the staleness of the city creeps in anyway. Rain from earlier still clings to the pavement, glossing the roads with reflections. A city of ghosts staring back at him.

He doesn’t listen to the radio.

He doesn’t need updates to know what Gotham has become.

The Gala is already buzzing by the time he pulls in through the underground valet. Lights bounce off chandeliers like false promises. Velvet ropes, golden trim, a red carpet leading straight into the throat of the beast. All of it means nothing. It's a show. Theatrics. A distraction dressed in black tie. 

He walks through the crowd like he isn’t there.

Time to play pretend.

The gala was already too loud.  The arrival is dreadful. The lights are too bright and there's too many eyes on Bruce. Voices ring out, calling out his name- Gothams Prince, Wayne, Mister Wayne, Bruce Wayne. They chant to him. The media swarms to him like flies, and questions flood like a broken dam.

People nod. Smile. Some even stop to shake his hand, but it’s all muscle memory now. A nod, a faint smile, and he’s gone again. Just Bruce Wayne — heir to nothing real. It’s easier that way. Easier to let them believe he’s as hollow as they are. But there’s something off in the air tonight. Something crawling just beneath the music and perfume.

He feels it in the weight of every footstep, the buzz of conversation that doesn’t quite reach the corners of the ballroom. He watches the crowd closely — judges their eyes, the tension in their shoulders, how quickly they turn their heads when someone laughs too loudly.

They're scared.

Even if they don’t say it out loud.

Even if they dress it up in gold and champagne.

Cameras clicked like distant gunfire. Champagne flutes sparkled in hands that had never done real work. Gotham’s elite moved through the marble ballroom like they owned the air — all gleam and gloss and hollow smiles.

Bruce moved among them like smoke. Present, but not really there.

He didn’t speak unless forced. Didn’t linger unless watched. And every time someone said Wayne, he flinched — just a little — behind the eyes.

They love the idea of me, he thought. But they don’t know a single thing about me.

Not about the broken sewage lines in the Narrows. Not about the trafficked kids coming through the docks. Not about the judge at this very gala who laundered bribe money through a “literacy” charity.

I do.

And that’s why he stayed. To watch. To listen. To remember faces.

No one questioned his silence. Bruce Wayne was expected to be aloof. The reclusive orphan. Gotham's broken prince. They mistook his distance for grief, not surveillance.

Fine by him.

He moved through the room with deliberate steps, cataloging interactions, keeping close to shadows. A server passed with a tray of flutes — he ignored it. Instead, his gaze shifted across the room to the far wall where two politicians shake hands. Both men smiled too wide. Both had names that had come up in drop cases. Both had ties to a defunct charity Bruce suspected was laundering product through city-run shelters.

He didn’t need a warrant to know it. He just needed confirmation.

Some of the same men who decried Gotham’s "drug problem" in the press had their hands deep in its profit. He could feel it. Smell it on them like rot beneath cologne.

Then—he heard her.

❛  Mr. Wayne.  ❜

Bruce turned, slow.

Bella Reál stood beside him, resplendent in midnight blue. Her presence always brought a quiet command with it — never raised, never forced. Just a steady pull, like gravity. She didn’t smile when she said his name. Just nodded, the corners of her eyes sharp with recognition.  Despite 

❛   This might be the first time I’ve seen you out of that mausoleum you live in since the flooding.    ❜  He offered a faint tilt of his head. ❛ Optics. ❜ he said. The word tasted bitter.

Bella gave a soft laugh. ❛ They sent you for optics? Christ. What did Alfred promise you — silence in return?  ❜ 

He  didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he scanned the crowd again, eyes darting toward a man who slipped something into another guest’s coat pocket near the punch table. It was subtle. Quick. But not quick enough.

His jaw ticked. Bella followed his line of sight.

 ❛ Still playing detective?   ❜ 

His eyes returned to her. Measured. Quiet.

 ❛ You think I’m wrong?  ❜  he asked.

She sighed.  ❛ No. I think you’re the only one here who cares enough to be right .   .    ❜

A beat passed.

 ❛ You're still working on Renewal?  ❜

Bruce's voice was low, guarded.

Bella’s gaze flickered.  ❛ Trying. But the higher up you go, the more doors close. It’s like—  ❜

❛ —they want it to fail.   ❜  Bruce finished.

She didn’t answer, but the silence was enough.

The mayor had promised transparency. But the funding was bleeding out. Siphoned into nothing. Reallocated, repurposed, reassigned. On paper, it still existed. In practice? It was a ghost. Another banner to hang in front of the real work.

Bruce’s eyes tracked a cluster of developers near the central chandelier. One of them — Anthony Durand — was on the board of Wayne Enterprises' shipping division. Another, Marlon Fiske, had a sealed court case linked to a missing Drop bust from three years ago.

Bella caught the shift in Bruce’s posture.

❛   What are you seeing?    ❜

❛ Rot,  ❜   he muttered. ❛   Smiling in designer suits.  ❜

He could feel the tension building in his chest. Not just anger. Something older. A sense of inevitability. He used to think he could clean this city. One name at a time. One corrupt deal was exposed. But now? It felt like the soil itself was poisoned.

He excused himself from Bella with a quiet nod.

She watched him go.

Not suspicious. Curious.

He ducked into a quieter corridor off the main ballroom, where the noise dulled and the shadows stretched longer. Pulling his phone from his coat pocket, Bruce activated a secure line to the Batcomputer. Low pulse. No voice. Just taps and encrypted pings. A message to Alfred.

Crosscheck these names…  Especially Roman Sionis.  City permits. Water treatment sites. Wayne Shipping. Any flagged containers. Last six months.

He hit send.

No reply. Not yet. But Alfred would get it.

He lingered near the hall’s edge for a moment, watching the crowd again from a distance. The mayor was taking the stage soon. Another speech. Another lie. People clapped because they were supposed to.

But beneath the floorboards, Bruce could feel it. This city was humming. Not with hope. But with something else. Bruce drifted back into the ballroom, letting the crowd swallow him again.

Someone laughed nearby. Loud. False.

He couldn’t breathe right here. Not because of the space — but because of the weight. Of memory. His father used to bring him to events like this. Just a boy, small and stiff in a blazer two sizes too big, clinging to Martha's hand. Back when Thomas Wayne believed in legacy. In responsibility. In Gotham. Before that belief got him and his wife shot in the street.

Now Bruce stood in his father’s shoes. And all he could feel was the gap between who Thomas was... and who Bruce had become. There was no belief left. Only facts. Only rot. Only action.  His family legacy wasn’t even true.  Tainted, like the rest of the city. 

Across the floor,  Roman Sionis was laughing with a man Bruce didn’t recognize. Sionis’  nose twitched when he lied — a subtle tic. Bruce watched it flare three times in as many minutes. Someone passed him a drink. He took it this time — not to drink, but to blend.

His earpiece clicked once in his jacket pocket.

Alfred.

A secure buzz. Short, pulsed.

Wayne Shipping, Pier 23. Three flagged containers. Charter linked to Sionis. Wayne Foundation cover used on paperwork.

Bruce exhaled slowly through his nose.

Drop was being funneled directly through Wayne assets.

His assets.

It hit like a blow to the gut. He clenched the rim of the glass tighter, jaw locking. Somewhere, someone was making money off his name — using the legacy his parents died for to poison the city they loved.

He was going to burn it all down. The whole pipeline. Every man involved. But not yet. Not here.

He’d moved toward the edge of the room, nearer the marble columns and shadows, eyes sweeping the crowd again. But there it was — that feeling.

A prickle at the back of his neck. An instinct, finely honed. . .He was being watched.

Not by a threat — not exactly. But by someone who saw him. Not the mask. Not the suit. Him. He didn’t move right away. Just let the moment breathe. Let it settle into his bones.

And then his gaze shifted through the sea of black gowns and tailored suits — past real estate giants, mob lawyers, and champagne politicians — until he found you.

You stood half-lit by the chandelier’s glow, untouched by the showmanship around you. Something about you felt still, present, almost dissonant in a room built on falsity. You weren’t part of this world — not really. That much was clear.

And yet… here you were.

Watching him.

Your expression didn’t betray much. But it didn’t need to. He felt the weight of your gaze like a brand. It wasn’t starstruck, or idle, or even curious. It was something closer to recognition. Like you knew something about him. Or wanted to.

Bruce’s shoulders tensed before he could stop himself. His jaw flexed. The world narrowed just slightly. People passed in front of him — another server, a flock of donors — but when the view cleared, your eyes were still locked to his. Unflinching. Familiar in a way that unnerved him.

It lingered, maybe a few seconds too long.

And then you turned away.

Gone, like smoke.

He stared at the empty space you'd left.

The static in his chest buzzed louder now. That gnawing tension, somewhere between dread and curiosity, clawed its way up his spine. Bruce set the glass down on the tray of a passing waiter, forgot it completely.

Who were you?  And why did it feel like you saw him when no one else could?  Something told him this night wasn’t done with him. Not yet.

You're back again, closer this time.  You both stare at the Bat Signal in the night.  Both  figures are at the edge of the crowd, not quite part of it. Moving like you don’t belong, because you don’t . Not really. Too sharp around the edges to be soft like the rest of them. You two aren’t not laughing. You’re watching. You’re both  thinking. Maybe even noticing what he is — the weight of something coming.

He doesn’t let himself linger too long, he doesn’t even speak to you.

Instead, he watches the mayor take the stage.

Words like “legacy” and “renewal” pour out of his mouth like oil. Bruce’s jaw tightens. He knows what it’s supposed to mean. His father meant it, once. But the project doesn’t feel like salvation anymore. It feels like a monument to a lie.

That’s when he hears it.

The low thump.

Not loud. Not obvious. But wrong.

Then the lights flicker.

Bruce’s instincts flare instantly. He shifts slightly — enough to test the ground under his feet. There’s a murmur through the room. Confused laughter. Then— The blast.

It hits like a gut punch, a surge of heat and air that throws the room into a sudden cacophony of screams and shattering glass. People scatter. A chandelier crashes. The floor buckles. The wall to the east vanishes in a plume of smoke.

Bruce is already moving.

He sheds the Wayne mask like a skin. In the chaos, no one sees him vanish into the haze. He moves fast, cutting through the crowd and ducking behind a collapsed column. The tux is torn off in pieces, replaced by Kevlar, plated armor, matte black.

The Bat rises from the ruin.

Smoke coils around him like a second skin. Screams split the air. He can barely see through the dust, but the fire paints everything in hues of crimson and gold — Gotham burning from the inside out. Again.

He pulls survivors from the rubble. Puts pressure on wounds. Kicks down broken steel to clear paths. But there’s no time to save everyone. Not yet. Not when the bomber could still be inside.

He moves toward the blast’s origin.

Toward the edge of the ballroom. And then he sees her again. Collapsed. Bleeding. Eyes unfocused. She’s trying to move, failing. Reaching for something. Her bag?

He doesn’t hesitate.

His boots thud against broken glass as he crouches beside her, checks her pulse, leans in close.

She’s alive. Hurt — but alive.

He steadies her shoulder, feels her blood soak into his glove.

❝ —my bag, ❞ she whispers.

His eyes narrow behind the cowl.

He doesn’t answer. Not yet.

The blast site is hot. There’s something beneath the floor, he knows it. Something is ticking. He has to move her.

She’s heavier than she looks — but only because she’s half-limp, pain-struck. He lifts her anyway, cradles her against the armor at his chest. She clutches weakly at the suit.

He breathes once. Just once. Long enough to feel the warmth of her blood seeping into the crook of his elbow.

Then he moves.

Through flame. Through chaos.

Vengeance, carved from shadow.

There’s a half melted USB tucked away in the purse you were croaking shout moments before, there’s a burned photo inside the bag too—of the reader and someone else. A boy.

[amourlyns]

I don't know if your requests are open so I'm sorry if I don't love your writing anymore and I wanted to know if you could do it for Hyuk Kwon, him confessing his feelings or the girl he likes confessing to him, thank you very much🥰

❛ HEY VENGEANCE. ❜ ➜ ⁽ masterlist ⁾

﹙ ✧ 𝕮𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍⸻ After a late evening ride with the crew, you and Hyuk linger at the track under dim streetlamps, post-race adrenaline slowly cooling.

⁽ 𝟎𝟏 ⁾ : 𝕾𝗒𝗇𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗌 & 𝕹𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌⸻ GENDER NEUTRAL!READER X KWON. ◝(ᵔᵕᵔ)◜ || This took me forever, I’m literally so sorry!!! I ended up losing motivation to write period, but now I’m back..

⁽ 𝟎𝟐 ⁾ : 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒⸻ None

POV : READER CONFESSION . . .

⟡ ⠀ | Hyuk Kwon is all silence and steel when he rides, but off the bike, he’s never quite known what to do with his hands—or his heart. And you, sweet and steady like the softest headwind, have always been just close enough to touch. But never quite his.

So when the crew drifts home after a long training session and the stars start climbing, you ask him to stay back. Your eyes say everything before your lips even part.

❛ Hyuk, do you know you make it hard to breathe? ❜

He stiffens—he’s not used to being seen. Not like this. Not like you see him.

You lean closer. ❛ Because I look at you and want so badly to tell you everything. But I didn’t want to ruin what we had. ❜

His breath catches like a wheel in gravel. His heart is screaming. But what comes out is a whisper.

❛ Then don’t say anything. ❜

❛ Why? ❜

❛ Because I’ll kiss you if you do. ❜

You smile. And say it anyway.

And he kisses you—messy, desperate, perfect. The way he rides: with everything he's got, like it might be his last chance.

POV : HYUK’S CONFESSION . . .

You’re sipping from a water bottle, still flushed from the final lap, hair frizzy from the wind and helmet sweat, sitting on the curb. Hyuk’s standing a few feet away, pretending to fix his gloves. He hasn’t said a word in the last ten minutes.

You glance at him. ❛ You good? ❜

His hands still. ❛ Yeah. ❜

A beat. The night chirps with distant cicadas. His shadow stretches long and lean under the light. He’s chewing on the inside of his cheek.

You nudge him with your foot. ❛ You sure? ❜

❛ …I’m fine, ❜ he says, but his voice cracks like the rim of a worn tire.

You set your bottle down. ❛ Hyuk. ❜

He doesn’t look at you. His voice comes low. ❛ I didn’t want to say anything. ❜

That catches you off guard. ❛ Say what? ❜

He exhales, like everything inside him has been wound tight for too long. ❛ It’s stupid. Forget it. ❜

You stand, brushing off your pants. You walk to him, close enough to see the way his jaw tenses. “Hey. We don’t do the ‘stupid’ thing, remember? ❜

Hyuk finally looks at you—and it’s like the dam breaks. His eyes flick up, then away, like he's terrified of what he’ll see on your face.

❛ I like you, ❜ he says, quietly. Then louder. ❛ I like you. A lot. ❜

It tumbles out of him, sharp and raw:

❛ I don’t know how to say it right. I always mess it up. But I’ve been trying not to. I’ve been trying not to like you because I didn’t wanna ruin anything, but I do, and I’m tired of pretending like I don’t. ❜

He laughs, breathless. ❛ You’re in my head all the time. Like a song I can’t turn off. ❜

You don’t say anything for a moment. He swallows, heart hammering. He starts to step back.

And you grab his sleeve.

❛ I was waiting, ❜ you say. ❛ I was really hoping you’d say something before I had to. ❜

His shoulders drop like relief just soaked through every inch of him. A crooked smile pulls at his lips. ❛ Yeah? ❜

❛ Yeah. ❜

[amourlyns]

hi!! Can you make a dom fan fic where

You guys are on vacation at the beach with the hummingbirds preferably a poc curvy reader please

(Based off of soh soh by omahlay and sensational by chris brown)

⁽ 𝟎𝟏 ⁾ : 𝕾𝗒𝗇𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗌 & 𝕹𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌⸻ On a rare escape from the grind of racing, Dom Kang and the Hummingbird Crew take a trip to the coast—waves, warmth, and summer air thick with the scent of salt and sunscreen. For Dom, it’s supposed to be just another break. But when you arrive—curves kissed by sunlight, laughter spilling like wind chimes, a tiny hummingbird tattoo fluttering on your shoulder—it all changes. 🙋🏾‍♀️: IM SOOOOO LATE SORRY

❛ HEY VENGEANCE. ❜ ➜ ⁽ masterlist ⁾

﹙ ✧ 𝕮𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍⸻ CURVY!FEM!POC!READER X DOM KANG, reader is the Hummingbird’s media / content manager. She’s had this odd friends with benefits thing going on with Dom for a while! She also has a tattoo.

⁽ 𝟎𝟐 ⁾ : 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒⸻ Slightly suggestive

⟡ ⠀ | Team Hummingbird had to be the hardest working group of people you’ve ever met. And that’s really saying something especially with your track record in this line of work.

The team’s been grinding nonstop—competitions, bruises, late-night rides. So you pull some strings and rents a quiet beach house for the crew to unwind. It’s your job as their media manager after all.

The beach house hums with life. Someone’s playing music in the kitchen, the scent of grilled pineapple and Korean fried chicken wafting out onto the porch. The sky’s still peach-blushed from sunset, but the waves are darkening, brushing against the sand like whispers too intimate for daylight.

You're waist-deep in the ocean, laughter pouring from your mouth like sunlight through cracked glass. The water kisses your thighs, the salt curling into your skin. Arms lifted, you twirl—joy made real in motion. The breeze catches the edges of your swim wrap, revealing just enough curve to make the air crackle. On your back, the tiny hummingbird tattoo flutters below your shoulder blade, catching golden light like a secret.

You’re all soft edges and sacred curves, wrapped in bronze and brown sugar. And he? He’s still learning how to deserve you.

Dom’s watching.

From the shoreline, towel slung over his shoulder, sunglasses pushed down his nose, he stares like he’s seeing God in human form. His mouth quirks up, not in that wild, boisterous grin you know so well, but something quieter. Something reverent. June and Vinny tease him up on the deck you, loud and obnoxious, and Dom tells them to shut up without ever taking his eyes off you.

You turn, catching his gaze over your shoulder. You blow him a kiss, lips salt-sweet.

He damn near drops the towel.

The sun climbs lazily over the water, spilling honey-colored light across the open kitchen. You’re at the stove in one of Dom’s shirts—oversized and worn soft with time, sleeves pushed to your elbows, hem brushing just above your thighs. The smell of garlic, lemongrass, and chili oil fills the air, thick and mouthwatering.

You’re making rice bowls—spiced ground turkey, crispy fried shallots, soft scrambled eggs, cucumber ribbons, pickled daikon, and a sesame-chili drizzle you whisked together like magic. It’s muscle memory by now, something your aunt taught you back when you were all elbows and curiosity.

You don’t notice Dom at first—he’s leaning against the doorway, arms folded, just watching. His curls are a mess, sleep still in his eyes. A low whistle escapes him.

❛ Jesus, ❜ he mutters, voice still husky. ❛ You tryin’ to make a man fall in love before breakfast? ❜

You glance back over your shoulder, a spatula in one hand, hip cocked. ❛ You already in love. Sit down. ❜

He grins, all teeth. ❛ You think so? ❜

You arch a brow, scooping rice into a bowl. ❛ Mmhm. You just don’t know it yet. ❜

Dom saunters over, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. He noses into the crook of your neck like he’s breathing you in. ❛ You wear my shirt better than I ever did. ❜

❛ You look better out of it, ❜ you murmur, smirking.

The front door creaks. Voices drift in. The rest of the crew is up—Minu’s dramatic complaining, Shelly’s laughter, Jay’s groggy mumbling.

You wiggle out of Dom’s arms and plate another bowl. ❛ Go set the table. I’m not serving them like this. ❜

❛ You say that like I don’t love the view, ❜ he grumbles but grabs the bowls anyway.

He watches you the whole time. The way your body moves when you cook—confident, effortless. The way you hum under your breath, barefoot on tile, making space feel sacred. Dom’s not a man of many quiet thoughts, but damn, you’ve got him in one.

When the crew finally sits down, mouths watering and eyes wide, June groans through a mouthful of food.

❛ Marry her, Dom. Right now. Put a ring in the rice. ❜

Dom just smiles over his bowl, chopsticks paused mid-air.

❛ She already got my shirt. Next comes the rest of me. ❜

You roll your eyes, cheeks warm, but you don’t argue.

Because he’s right.

He’s already halfway yours.

After your group meal, you guys decided to have a beach day. The beach is alive with chaos and sunshine.

Dom’s blasting music from a too-small speaker, Shelly’s already halfway buried Jay in the sand, and Yuna is aggressively over-preparing for a game of beach volleyball like it’s the Olympics. There’s laughter, splashes, and the occasional yell of “YO, WATERMELON!” as Mia and Minu passes around slices straight from the cooler.

You’re lounging under a striped umbrella, wrap skirt tied high on your waist, wearing a bandeau that hugs all your curves like a lover’s palm. Skin glowing. Hips golden from the sun.

Dom keeps finding reasons to walk past you—handing out towels, grabbing sunscreen, pretending to check on the cooler—but he always ends up just looking. Like you’re the only thing in color in a world gone sepia.

❛ Dom, ❜ you call, playful. ❛ You ever gonna sit still? ❜

He flops down next to you, sunglasses sliding down his nose. ❛ Can’t help it, ❜ he says, glancing at your bare shoulder. ❛ Too much to look at. ❜

You smack his arm, laughing.

A frisbee hits Minu in the back of the head, and everyone dies laughing, except Minu, who declares vengeance and demands a 5v5 beach volleyball match—teams chosen Hunger Games-style, of course.

You're on Dom's team. He smirks. ❛ We are winning. I don’t even care about the score. ❜

❛ You just wanna be close enough to grab my waist, ❜ you tease.

❛ Guilty, ❜ he says, shameless.

The game is hilarious. Jay keeps diving too hard. Minu’s trying his best. Shelly’s competitive as hell. Dom lets you spike the ball once and then spends the rest of the game bragging about it like you won the championship.

And when you fall in the sand laughing, he’s the first to offer you a hand—strong, steady, tugging you up just close enough to feel his breath.

❛ You good? ❜ he murmurs.

❛ Always, ❜ you say, holding his gaze. ❛ With you. ❜

The sun dips lower, painting the waves orange and gold. Everyone’s lying on towels now, worn out and sun-drunk. Dom’s arm is draped behind you. Your head’s resting on his thigh. His hand absentmindedly draws soft lines on your shoulder—circles, patterns, your name maybe.

That little hummingbird tattoo flutters in the last rays of light, and Dom traces it with the gentlest brush of his fingertip.

❛ Still think it’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen, ❜ he says.

You turn your head, cheek pressed to his thigh. ❛ The tattoo? ❜

He shakes his head, then leans down—mouth brushing your forehead.

❛ Nah, ❜ he murmurs, voice low. ❛ You. ❜

And the ocean keeps singing.

Everyone dies down for the night.

The house is too warm.

Sweat beads between your calves, and you can't sleep. You pad through the hallway, feet bare against the wooden floors. The air smells like sea salt, candles, and leftover coconut cake.

You find him on the balcony, shirtless, sitting low in a chair like a king with no crown. Moonlight rests on his collarbones like it belongs there.

❛ You can’t sleep either? ❜ you ask.

He doesn’t answer at first—just looks at you. Your silk shorts cling to your thighs. His eyes darken.

❛ Come here, pretty. ❜ he says instead.

You walk to him slowly, like you know what’s about to happen. Because you do.

[amourlyns]

⁽ 𝟎𝟏 ⁾ : 𝕾𝗒𝗇𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗌 & 𝕹𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌⸻ After years away, the reader returns to Gotham— the reader is walking a tightrope between old ghosts and new questions. ◝(ᵔᵕᵔ)◜ || Revisited & Rewritten. As always, interaction & likes are always appreciated! Hopefully the reader seems like an interesting character and compelling to y’all. Honorable mention to @thewritermj for keeping up with this fic.

❛ HEY VENGEANCE. ❜ ➜ ⁽ masterlist ⁾

﹙ ✧ 𝕮𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍⸻ BRUCE WAYNE & JOURNALIST!FEMALE!READER. No usage of Y/N, only “you” or “her”. OC’s will occur in the form of the readers connections. 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒⸻ Drug usage, as well as alcoholic consumption follows in this fanfic. Brief mentions of PTSD and slightly graphic mentions of injury. ⤷ 𝐖.𝐂, 4.6k. 【 WATTPAD 】 【 AO3 】 【 NEXT PART 】

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ︎ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ︎

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ︎ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ︎

❛  ❛  𝐀𝐌  𝐈   𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋  𝐓𝐎  𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐌𝐄  𝐅𝐎𝐑  𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓  𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓?

𝖶𝖧𝖸 𝖣𝖮 𝖬𝖸 𝖧𝖠𝖭𝖣𝖲 𝖲𝖳𝖨𝖫𝖫 𝖥𝖤𝖤𝖫 𝖫𝖨𝖪𝖤𝖡𝖫𝖮𝖮𝖣?   ❜  ❜

⸻ Kanika Lawton, from "Hot Mess" in Vagabond City ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ︎ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ︎

❲ I.D : 𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ❯ 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑 𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘,  𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐗𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐘 S͟E͟V͟E͟R͟A͟L͟ ͟M͟O͟N͟T͟H͟S͟ ͟A͟G͟O͟ ❳

❲ ✮ ┊ THE COFFEE WAS LUKEWARM. THE MUSIC is too soft for the tension that lingers, you sat across from Reed Malkin—former intelligence liaison, dishonorably retired, now playing chess with government leaks and sipping espresso in a bookstore café that smelled like freshly crushed Arabica coffee beans and freshly made croissants.

He looked older than the last time you saw him. Paler, maybe. Or maybe it was just the soft Star City light. Everything here felt muted.

❛  You keep running, East  ❜  he said, thumbing through your  notes. ❛  But all your red flags point back to Gotham.  ❜  You sipped your drink, arms folded.  ❛  Don’t start.  ❜   There’s a pause.  Knowing hazel hues practically stab through your head. ❛ I’m not starting. I’m asking. ❜

 He held up one of your photos. A grainy still of Victor, half-shadowed, stepping into a black car outside the Iceberg Lounge.  ❛ Why take the shot if you won’t pull the trigger? ❜  You bristled. ❛ It’s not that simple. ❜

Reed leaned back.  ❛ Then make it simple. You’ve tracked cartel sub-routes through Qurac, survived insurgents in Cascadia, helped bust a rogue NSA unit in Metropolis—  ❜   He paused.   You stared out the window. Star City glowed faintly in the rain—clean sidewalks, public gardens, birds that hadn’t been eaten by smoke. It was almost easy to forget Gotham even existed. But not really.

  ❛ He’s in something,  ❜   you muttered.   ❛ Something he won’t say. And I don’t know if it’s him I don’t trust, or who he’s scared of.  ❜   Reed watched you for a long moment. Then set the photo down gently.    ❛ You’re not afraid of him. You’re afraid of the city. Of going back there and finding out you’re right.  ❜  You didn’t answer.

Later, after you left the café, and stood alone in the underground tram station—train lights flashing blue and gold down the tunnels—and stared at the worn leather notebook in your hands. Gotham’s name appeared twelve times on the last page. Underlined. Annotated. Avoided.

You clenched it shut, breath fogging in the cold air.

You don’t go back for people. You go back for proof.

But you knew that was a lie.

You were going back for both.

❲   I.D   :  𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍    ❯   𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐆𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐌 & 𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐒,         CURRENT DAY    ❳ ⁽ 6:45 ⁾ AM The hum of the bus engine blurred into white noise. Your head leaned against the window, fingers tapping lightly against the duffel in your lap. You watched the blur of trees and overpasses flash past, smeared with frost and exhaust fumes.

The roads here were wide. Clean. Even. Too even. Metropolis had structure. Order. Light. You stayed longer than planned—almost six months—embedded in the DA's office, chasing down white-collar traffickers and watching men in tailored suits get off on technicalities.

Even the criminals in Metropolis smiled when they robbed you.

But it never stuck. You were always looking over your shoulder. Always checking the news from Gotham. Always expecting a name you knew to surface under a headline like:

"Crime in Gotham comes to a Crescendo as Sofia Falcone is Released." Then, Victor's name came up three times in two months.  Star City wasn't much better. Cleaner air, maybe. A little more green.

You could breathe out there—but the shadows still chased her across state lines. Even across rooftops. You opened your notebook—weathered, bent at the corners, pages packed with field notes, burner numbers, timelines. One note was circled three times:

"Victor: Why Penguin? "

"What's hiding beneath the new money in Burnside?"

You sighed. Closed it.

The seat across from you was empty.

Always was.

A sharp bump in the road jolted you back to the present.

Up ahead, Gotham's skyline was crawling into view—jagged, smog-choked, defiant. Wayne Tower rose from the fog like a knife.

You didn't need a welcome.

You just needed answers.

⁽ 8:13 ⁾ AM, Incoming from Metropolis. Currently at Greyhound Station. A chilly day on October 5th, 45 degrees on a Saturday.

The rain hasn't started yet.

The bus came to a complete stop, jostling the bus. You blinked awake, neck stiff from sleeping against the window, one boot halfway braced on the duffel bag beneath her seat. A voice crackled from the driver's mic: "Gotham City. Next and final stop. If this is you, Godspeed."

No one laughed. In fact, you might've heard a groan of despair at the fact that they were here. You stood, slung your bag over your shoulder, and stepped off into the chill of Gotham's south-end terminal, where the wind smelled like brake fluid and wet steel. The crowd pressed in around you—too loud, too fast, too Gotham. You used to move like this. Now you just ducked your head and kept going.

The journey from the terminal to the Narrows felt longer than you remembered. The streets were rougher. Tougher. You took the Red Line halfway before transferring to the bus. An old man eyed your duffel the whole ride. Some kids shouted about a vigilante up in Burnley Tower. Another woman muttered prayers in Spanish.

And then—finally—The Narrows.

You stepped off the last bus into cracked concrete, slick with oil and gum, and stood still for a moment outside a bodega that hadn't changed since high school. A rat darted into a gutter. Sirens howled two blocks down. You felt the city's breath—hot and hostile—on the back of your neck.

"Still the same rotting mouth."

Home was still here. Top floor, back stairwell, no working elevator. The lock jammed twice before it clicked. You pushed the door open with your shoulder and let the scent of dust, mildew, and rusted metal wrap around you like a long-forgotten coat. You dropped your bag by the door and flicked on the old desk lamp near the window. The bulb flickered twice before buzzing to life.

Everything was where you left it.

Half-packed shelves. Peeling maps of Gotham's districts on the wall. A cracked photo frame on the dresser—you, Victor, and some girl from the academy you never talk to anymore. You let yourself sit. Just breathe. The city was louder now. Noiser in the bones. And something was off. You felt it in the back of your molars.

The radiator was hissing again.

7:25 PM. 40°F. Rain crashes down in sheets. Your first night back in Gotham. APT 34 in the Narrows still felt colder at night—like the walls were sucking warmth out of your bones just to stay standing.

The rain outside tapped fast and mean against the fire escape, like a drunk trying to remember the rhythm to a song that used to mean something. Or maybe the very heart beat of the city, who even knows. The door groaned shut behind you, it's louder than you remembered. APT 34 still smelled like rust, mold, and the faint memory of someone else's cigarette. Three years gone, and nothing changed—except the floorboards creaked louder when you walked like they were pissed you'd come back.

The overhead light buzzed once and gave out.

You didn't flinch.

The heavy thud of your duffel bag, suitcase, and weary body landing sends a shutter down the old dwindling door frame. Your neighbors would surely cuss you out, or maybe not. Despite the exhaustion that seeped bone deep, there was too much to get done. Too much. You kneel on the familiar, warped floorboards beside your coffee table—a slab of particleboard held together by old stubbornness—and pull out a worn folder from your bag. One you carried across three cities, seven motels, and too many bus terminals

"GOTHAM CITY: Connections & Incidents

Key Case, Vic Aguilar"

The title was handwritten in faded Sharpie. You flipped it open. Pages shuffled. Old clippings. Surveillance notes. Black-and-white photos. She picked up one: Victor in front of the Iceberg Lounge, laughing with some older fella with a nasty Glasgow—esque smile. Odd. Everything about it was shifty, shady. A good kid mixed up in something bigger than himself.

You're coming for Vic.

You reached into her bag, pulled out a dog-eared folder marked ICEBERG // PRIVATE CLIENTS, and a USB drive taped to the back cover. The wind picked up outside. Gotham rain began to tap the window like cold knuckles. Welcome home, it whispered. And you didn't answer.

The coffee machine started beeping. You can't help but sigh in relief at the sound. To stay up, you needed coffee, no doubt. Plain black would do. You rose, grabbing a mug and pouring the lifeblood into your cup. Settling back down on the floor. After a few tentative sips, you stared at the map you'd drawn many weeks ago—hand-sketched, red-lined. Connections. GCPD payoffs. Missing reports. Names circled in ink: Maroni, Kinnear, Sionis, Cobblepot, and now—"The Followers?" Scribbled at the corner of the page from something you’d overheard in Star City. Sounded like a joke then. It didn't now.

Something was fermenting here. You could feel it.

And whatever was coming, Vic was in the middle of it.

From your open window, you could see the silhouette of the Gotham skyline, soft-lit in a haze of streetlamps and smog. The Wayne Tower loomed in the distance like it knew everything and said nothing. Two hours from now, you'd have to dress up and pretend you hadn't seen what you saw in those reports.

Smile. Blend in. Wait. Watch.

Just one night.

Your legs must've fallen asleep at some point, you needed to move. Stretch, get up and breathe. God, the coffee was supposed to help but it must've made you more antsy. Various files are in disarray across the expanse of your floor, groaning in protest at the new introduction of your weight pressing against the edge. If you pressed your temples any further you'd surely leave indents for the rest of the night. There's nothing but the sound of smooth wooden floorboards and the assault of your feet tap, tap, tapping as you keep an erratic rhythm. Pacing up, then down.

A vice was tempting at the moment, the urge to smoke in order to contain that anxiety bubbling in your gut. It would all end up being in vain regardless— you haven't smoked since your days in the military. Instead your new found drug was boardroom crime, political rot, and the quiet violence of wealth. Gotham's version of war, of course. And it was never ending. Evidently, it's why you're here now. Your anonymous tip about the Gala was just another layer to the story.

"Someone's gonna hit Renewal tonight. High-profile. Public. It's already rigged."

Well then, you'd be there to see it. And there was no stopping you when your mind was made up. You needed a shower, and to freshen up.

The dress you selected tonight seemed to stare back in a sort of mockery towards you. Pristine, dramatic, dark, and it reeked of a sort of obnoxiousness. It wanted attention, who even goes to the dry cleaners for things like this? It was still in the plastic covering. Gleaming in all its glory. You stared at it from the edge of your bed, towel-draped and barefoot, your hair damp from the shower's heat. The mirror near the window was cracked at the top, splintered years ago when the landlord dropped it during move-in. You never replaced it. There was no need when you didn't plan on coming back...

Then, your phone buzzed. A silent notification. Unknown number.

[ Wayne Tower. 9:00 PM. Don't be late. ]

You turned it face-down without reading it twice. The dress was slinky but simple—black, of course. Bought secondhand from a Star City consignment boutique with just enough edge to say, I don't belong here, but I cleaned up well enough to pass. You hadn't worn it since a fundraiser in Metropolis. Too many handshakes, too many smiling liars.

You rose.

Across the room, your dog tags hung on a nail, dull and cold. You considered them for a long second. Then—impulsively—looped one around your ankle. A secret reminder beneath the hem of the elegant lie you were about to wear. You pulled the dress slowly, like armor.

It zipped at the side. No corset. No frills. Just structure and shadow. In the bathroom, you swept mascara under your lashes, dabbed concealer over the fading bruise near your brow from the bar fight one week back. Lipstick—a muted red. Then came the final touch—a matte black switchblade tucked into the side strap of your boot, invisible unless you knew where to look.

"Not going in blind," you muttered to yourself.

"Not this time."

By 8:40 you were on the stairs. The Narrows didn't care that you looked like you were heading to a billion-dollar ballroom. Some guy in a hoodie whistled low from a fire escape. You ignored it. The rain had eased, but it left the air thick and sour, the city streaming from its own filth.

You reached the curb just as the black town car pulled up, courtesy of a favor you hadn't wanted to call in. The driver didn't speak. Good. You slid into the back seat, adjusted the hem of your dress, and caught your own reflection in the rearview.

"Smoke in the spotlight," You whispered to yourself.

"Let's see who chokes first."

The car pulled into the Gotham traffic.

And the city watched you come home.

Slipping in was easy. You bribe your way in using credentials from a shell nonprofit tied to the city's redevelopment initiative. You're here with a hidden body cam, a mic, and a switchblade strapped under your boot. Concealing everything came down to charm and your arsenal of people.

From what you were seeing so far, Wayne Tower was a gilded cage. The chandeliers dripped crystal, and the marble floors gleamed like bone. You stood near the check-in desk just long enough for your name to clear. No cameras followed you. No red carpet fanfare. But you felt the weight of lingering eyes anyway. Gotham could always smell blood that didn't belong.

If Rome fell, surely this grandiose tower could too.

Inside, the gala buzzed. Waiters glided between guests with gold-rimmed flutes. Old money hovered in tightly controlled circles, whispering through teeth-whitened smiles. The room reeked of perfume, secrets, and a desperation to be seen. You kept moving, but being here reminded you of how— Well, how odd Gotham is.

An odd city with slick-tongued alley cats who roam and lurk at each corner, merging with the shadow and watching passerby dance and speak in hypnotic tongues.

You liked to call it the Gotham effect, it comes with the city of sin and crime. It's odd, like you stated before. There's the occasional glitz and glamor of wealthy Gothamites, galas laced with cocaine pearls and wine filled bottles. Accompanied by champagne flutes and hors d'oeuvres to indulge in for the night. And within this false sense of normalcy and entitlement, there's the night. You see, everyone in Gotham is acting.

The key to understanding it all in Gotham is the rhythm. Just like this Gala.

The people are the beat, the day is the melody and the night is the rhythm. And within this element of rhythmic chaos, there's always something lurking. Watching the city underneath light polluted skies and charcoal clouds. When the smog seems to clog up your lungs and choke your breathing, there's always something else to worry about.

The Batman, of course. You've heard rumors and whispers of the vigilante, a strange thing. Nonetheless. But, If anything, he highlights what Gotham is at the core. A broken city, deeply scarred and angry. Scratching at its surface to be heard. To be healed. Has Gotham always been seeking justice and light? Or is it seeking something much more carnal and sinister... Vengeance? A certain greed?

Whatever it was, it spoke to Gothamites. Hate the Bat, or love the Bat. He spoke for the city of Gotham, and he would always be there at every corner, watching.Gotham is sick and venal. You hope for the day of a real rain to come and wash off the scum from the streets. For now, it's the Bat who takes care of the illness. Could " the Batman" save Gotham?

Maybe.

It's silly thought anyways, Gotham has been plagued with crime for decades. Some masked vigilante wouldn't be able to stop that regardless. The thought is flimsy and useless. Something made out of hope and optimism, the kind of thing you consume in dreams. Not only that, but Batman is more of a fable, a myth. Besides, there was no use in consuming yourself with thoughts of Gotham and its nightly specter. For now, you're here, for business.

Your dress is cut clean against your frame—black, with a high collar and long sleeves, just modest enough to keep most questions internal. The dog tag was still around your ankle, a small, defiant thing pressed between silk and skin. Your heels tapped quietly against the polished floor as you passed a senator, a bishop, and two tech investors with coke-numbed grins. Someone recognized you—barely—and muttered something about ███... Don't stop. Keep moving.

Then you saw him.

Across the room, standing apart from the crowd like a stain in a painting: Bruce Wayne. He snaps you out of this daze. Gotham's Prince, the man of the hour. You could only wonder what caused this recluse to emerge out of the manor he calls home. Unlike other notable people in Gotham, Bruce Wayne chooses to live a quiet life shrouded in mystery. Here he is, not surrounded.

Not mingling. Just... there. Dressed in black like mourning was part of his DNA, hair slightly damp from the rain, jaw tight beneath soft light. His posture was loose, but his eyes—

They were watching everything.

It seems like, when he does remove himself from the confines of the manor, the tabloids simply go into a frenzy. Like sharks during a feeding. It feels like everyone in Gotham wanted a piece of Bruce Wayne. Craving the flesh of yet another Wayne. Something tells you to draw closer to the oddity, like this would be the only time you'd be able to lay your eyes on Bruce Wayne in the flesh.

So, you might as well take the opportunity to really take him all in. Get information. Take notes. Then leave.

You moved to the bar, nodding at the bartender. "Whiskey. Neat." "House or top shelf?" You raised a brow. "What do you think?" He poured. To your left, two councilmen were arguing quietly about zoning permits. To your right, a couple laughs too loudly about the Wayne Foundation's PR team.

You sipped the whiskey and felt it burn like a fuse down your throat. You scanned the crowd. No sign of any trouble Not yet. You hadn't expected anything to come through the front door, anyway. You reached into your clutch and palmed a small flash drive. Reed's final gift. In case you need leverage, he'd said.

But your thoughts were snagged again—unwillingly—on Wayne.

He hadn't moved. Not really. He was half-hidden behind a column now, head tilted down like he was listening to someone you couldn't see. But every few moments, his eyes flicked up. Just enough to track the exits. Just enough to remind you that, despite the suit and the millions and the rumors, he wasn't soft. Seeing him up close like this gave you everything you needed to know. He's a fighter. You can see it in the way he pretends to keep all his weight evenly distributed but it's obvious to see he's ready to pounce.

His posture, his movement. A fighter. Did he have bruises on his knuckles? What was he hiding?

And for a flicker of a moment—his eyes locked with yours.

Cold. Precise. Terse.

Then he turned away.

Then, the cameras swarm him. Wayne eventually loses the limelight. The audience dies and you decide to pass through the sea of bodies that separate you two. He notices this of course, ever so vigilant. Some part of you expects him to flee and avoid the confrontation all together. Wary hues remain fixated on your figure slipping through the crowd.

Surely he isn't waiting... Right? Apparently he wasn't, not like you knew of course. Bruce Wayne was a hard man to decipher after all, you couldn't tell if something compelled him to stay or if that kept him still. For the first time tonight, you're accompanied by someone else. It's off to say the least, Bruce is certainly a presence to behold, sure. But he wouldn't even spare a glance at you, your gaze eventually follows his line of sight.

Now what was he thinking? Did Wayne believe in the Bat? In Vengeance, and his own crusade. Before you can even ask the question, he's turning away. Maybe he's had enough of your company for tonight.

Now? All eyes are set on beacon in the sky now.

The symbol of the night. Batman is called by the city tonight, needed in the shadows once more. You could only wonder what for. You're not one for news and tabloids but, there has been some discussion about the odd swarm of anarchists causing mayhem in the streets for a certain cause. Something about a question— something... When you look, Bruce Wayne is gone, and your fixation for Sin City's Orphan vanishes.

You decide to linger near the figures of the night. Sleek millionaires dripping in pearls, or lavish women immersed in pure gold. It's easy for you to slip though the crowd, half of the guests are too busy indulging in alcoholic beverages to douse away their guilt, and sin ridden spirits. Perhaps fear is a tool, and the anarchists are using it to cleanse the city of its evils. Or, maybe not.

Who would even know what the end goal is? How could you even cleanse evil with evil? You just can't.

Morality was not stopping them of course. But it did make you question your own being. Who are we to play the judge, jury and executioner? To play the hand of a higher being? It's maddening how privilege and wealth meant everything now, but nothing in death.

This wasn't a direct complaint of course, it couldn't be.

You were comfortable now— Even if you forgot where you came from Gotham would always remind you. There would always be a hungry mouth on the street, deprived of simple nourishment, the bare necessities needed for life. Sometimes, it felt like no amount of funding could aid the disparities Gotham faces. Thoughts overwhelm you throughout the night, lingering like a heavy weight.

Then, a voice rang out on the mic near the stage. The Mayor. Talking about legacy. Rebirth. The Wayne Renewal Project. People clapped. Flutes clinked. The room swelled. And somewhere beneath the floor— something clicked.

The lights flickered.

You straightened.

Then came the sound. A low, distant thump.

Not loud. But wrong.

You felt it in your bones before you heard the screams.

And just before the explosion shattered the east side of the ballroom—you swore you saw Bruce Wayne vanish into smoke.

Just gone.

The sound of screaming, pandemonium, and the explosion send your head spinning and your ears ringing. Smoke plumes out from the east side of the tower, bodies move in a woke frenzy. A mass of chaos. You're reminded of the city once more. The floor buckled. A tremor ripped through the ballroom.

You refused to be another statistic in Gotham's database, another body under the city's soil. There would be no death by fire for you.

The glass of the eastern dome shattered inward — not from pressure, but from something detonating at the base of the tower. People scattered. Screaming. A chandelier crashed down just behind you, missing you by inches. What you needed to do was fight. Stand up for fuck sake. And run— you'd do that. You could. All you needed to do was hold your breath, despite the smoke clouding your lungs and burning your eyes. Dots slowly cloud your vision-your lungs yearn for fresh oxygen.

Fight, fight, fight.

You hit the floor hard. Instinct. Training. Cover first, breath second. Smoke filled your lungs, bitter and chemical. You could barely see through it, but you moved—low, sharp. There was blood in your mouth, and something in your right side pulled the wrong way when you exhaled. Not broken. Sprained, maybe. Shrapnel had torn your dress at the thigh; warm blood was running into your heel.

But you are alive.

Your lids flutter once, then twice, then thrice. Voices echo out in disorder and distortion in the roar of the flames. But a shape moves through the dust. Not a shadow. A silhouette. Cloaked, tall, exact. Vengeance. People panic around him. He moves through them like a knife through smoke — fast, but clean. You watched as he hauled a security guard out from under a support beam. Lifted him like he weighed nothing.

Vengeance is shrouded in darkness, licked but umber flames and heated siennas that burn like molten lava. Booted up and armored to the teeth. The Bat looks like a wrath created by fire, sent to fetch the souls of the damned. The reflection of crimson bounces from his greased skin and aquamarine hues. You would not wait for Vengeance to be your savior. You couldn't. And you certainly wouldn't wait for paramedics either.

You coughed, staggered to your feet. Your hand found your purse, but the flash drive inside was gone. Either dropped, burned, or stolen in the chaos. Your vision blurred; there was blood near her temple. You couldn't tell if it was yours. Someone grabbed your arm — a paramedic — shouting something you couldn't hear. The pain in your ribs flared too sharp. Your knees buckled. You fell against a velvet bench, trying to breathe through the dust.

"You've done this before," you told yourself. "Qurac. Kandahar. Finch."

But it wasn't the same. This wasn't a war zone. This was your city.

The world bent sideways.

Heat pressed against your skin. Screams rang out like sirens underwater. Your fingers twitched in blood, glass, something wet and warm leaking from your scalp. Your body refused to move — not all at once, anyway. Your ribs groaned with every breath.

You tried to sit up.

Tried.

But then something heavy cracked above you — a groan of fractured steel — and you braced for it, instinct screaming in your chest— Roll away, move! Do something! Something emerges once more, a shadow. A figure. Cut from midnight and armor. You couldn't make out the details — just the glint of lenses, the press of a gloved hand against your shoulder. His voice wasn't words, just a low murmur near your ear.

Steady. Measured. Real.

You coughed.

❛ —my bag, ❜ you rasped, blood slicking the corner of your mouth. ❛Where is—? ❜

He didn't answer.

His grip shifted — strong enough to feel, not to hurt — and the next thing you knew, you were being lifted, weightless and burning. Your side screamed. Your vision doubled. Your hand curled against his chestplate. It was warm from body heat. Solid. Real. You didn't even know if you were awake.

[amourlyns]

Heyyyy, new theme!!!! Million Dollar Man is definitely going through a rewrite // heavy editing so expect that soon 🫩. I MISSED MY MOOTS!!!!

[amourlyns]

i’ve been so dead but i literally have nooo motivation to write.. maybe a new theme is needed 😭

[amourlyns]

hey, just letting u know that visually impaired people cant read your posts when you write in small text :( screen readers also struggle to read it

thank you so much for telling me this!!! i never thought about this before… 😭😭 for now on i’ll use regular text. thanks for letting me know!!

[amourlyns]

VENVEN!! imysm i started binge reading all your wb fics esp the kaneshiro one suifjfjf i love her sm

omg rlly this is so sweet LMAOAOOAOA IM SO HONORED STOP IM SMILING AT MY PHONE 💐💐💐💐🤍🤍🤍 HI ITS BEEN AWHILW

[amourlyns]

"I’ve written wooin hcs before over here . But if you want a separate page for him I’ll make another one :)"

Helloo! Yes, yes! I had read it and I particularly loved it! 🌷 That's why I would like a separate page if it's not inconvenient for you. If you can answer, I would appreciate it! :)

❛ wooin boyfriend hcs. ❜ ➜ ⁽ masterlist ⁾

𐙚 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕: +gn!reader. a set of miscellaneous headcanons.

✧ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: none

𐙚 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔: none.

⟡ ⠀ | When you first start dating Wooin there’s definitely a shared past / history between you guys. I like to think it went on for a time span of years before he finally committed to you. Like nothing about this man screams “Hey I’m going to commit to you now” LMAOO.

But he’s definitely the kind of man who talks to other people and flirts… Yet hates the idea of you doing that very same thing. Probably because of pride or ego but who really knows? I can see him being very possessive even when nothing is officially said about your relationship with him.

✦ The first thing that comes into mind with Wooin is having a very public relationship with a lot of pda. I think it’s mostly shown on social media and he’s very adamant on having you film his street races.

✦ Lots and lots of shopping dates, you guys splurge together !!

✦ Speaking of clothing? You guys definitely match with one another!

✦ I’m convinced he can’t cook so you guys go on lots of restaurant dates and eat out. On the bright side that means you guys travel around a ton.

✦ He already has a lot of of body mods / piercings etc. So naturally I see him with someone who has body mods as well. You guys would get matching tattoos or piercings together.

✦ I think you guys would have a collection together, whether it’s shoes or hats.. there’s this ONE clothing item you guys collect together.

✦ I really believe a man like him could convince you to do ANYTHINGGGG, I mean anything.. like cliff diving, climbing up fences.. just acting bad as fuck 😭. I think he’s a horrible influence, but you might be the one who can mellow him out.

✦ This man looks like he indulges in substancessss… a lil weed iykim..

✦ I feel like he’s so obnoxious with you. Like you can ask him to take a few pictures of you for social media and he’s so quick to ask for camera credits. He’ll photobomb by pulling you into a kiss or something. There’s lots of pictures of you guys together on your spam account, his hand on your thigh… him spending money on you etc.

[amourlyns]

im sorry but i absolutely ADORE ur megan thee stallion theme it is the cutest nd prettiest thing ive ever seen😭

DONT MAKE ME BLUSH BYE!!! I’m sending you kisses

[amourlyns]

HIIII.. missed tumblr & my moots. how is everyone ?

[amourlyns]

❛ red striped rhapsody. ❜ ➜ ⁽ masterlist ⁾

𐙚 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕: +fem!nonsorcerer reader. in which the reader has recurring visions of gojo satoru. and after three years of not seeing one another, they meet once more. but, unfortunate circumstances.

✧ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: suggestive content, proceed with caution. mentions of drinking, blood & gore, kissing & sensual touching, metaphors of sex. season two & jjk0 spoilers. past satosugu if you really squint! satoru coping in shitty ways!!!

𐙚 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔: songs to listen to by the acts: 001. star girl interlude by lana del ray & the weeknd. i feel it coming by the weeknd & daft punk. fragile by tatsuro yamashita. is it a crime by sade. 002. i put a spell on you by nina simone. run by hozier + 505 by the arctic monkeys + fun fact, this was going to be a nanami fic but gojo felt more fitting 💁🏾‍♀️. anyways this took forever to finish but i kept adding more elements, let me know what you think about this fic !!! i had an amazing time writing it, im proud of this one. 🫦🫦 lmk how the characterization is too!

⟡ ⠀ | 𝐇𝐞 𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐡𝐲, 𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐩—𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐟𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫. The mind. The brain. The meat. Oh, God. The rawness of this love will devour you whole.

He comes to you in hazy apparitions conjoined by the sun and moon. It’s sticky and sweet. His very touch taints. And the fingers on your warm subtle flesh seem to sink bone deep. The two of you merge into one being.

Then, he vanishes.

You’re awake now, damp in a cold sweat. Linen sheets are stained with perspiration. Your hair is mussed and your sheets remain frazzled after your unpleasant awakening. You’re alone, and you always will be.

Alone, in a bed that’s too spacious for your liking. Alone in a city you don’t belong in. Alone, in a flat you could barely call home. The bleak, undecorated landscape of your bedroom seems to mock you in this light. The faint humming of your fridge finds its way to your hollow walls, the tick of the clock seeps into your pores.

Must it always be this way? Should you continue on with the little fissures and pathways that lead him to you? Sometimes, he just felt all consuming. Like a catalyst meant to crave.

Your chest heaves and your world seems to crash all at once. It’s the same man. Every. Damn. Time. Your mind and body betrays you. Images of the stranger you called yours seemed to appear every night. Memories and unresolved feelings you desperately try to bury.

You could recall it now.

It was the year 2016 in some bar in Tokyo. The club is illuminated by multicolored, neon lights. A spectacle to behold under kaleidoscope flashes. You’re immersed with the electric current of the crowd. Buzzed with the alcohol that flows in your veins. Lead on by straight adrenaline from the party and the man you claimed as yours tonight.

Your two bodies seemed to drift towards each other.

Something magnetic is leading you towards the man that shined like a beacon within the crowd. He practically demands to be seen, his presence is everything but timid. He wants to be seen, desired and admired. Adore me, see me, crave me. Paying him mind was your first mistake.

Underneath the sanctuary of his shades. He’s a man graced with azure hues only the heavens could dream of matching, carved with aquamarine. You catch them under the vivid lighting. His skin resembles opal. For a moment, he feels untouchable. Maybe it’s his presence, how he carries himself⸻ but his energy is so immense. It’s overwhelming. Suffocating.

You move towards him anyways.

He lures you in with ease. You were pliable, obedient. Encaptured by this stranger of the night. Willing to listen to his beck and call.

You slide into the nearest seat, tensions are high and sweat slicks down the back of your dress. Your breathing becomes uneven (…) were you holding your breath before? It must’ve been the alcohol. The adrenaline maybe? The atmosphere even. You would use any excuse to deny the feeling this man evoked within you, to give into his charms.

His lips seem to glisten under the glint of neon lights, they’re covered in remnants of his drink of choice. (You would order the same), matching his body language. Leaning towards, sprawling out your limbs in a similar lackadaisical manner.

He’s the first one to speak. When he does, it comes out like a coo. It’s enthralling. The way he seems to pull you in with a simple touch. Two fingers grasping your wrist, the other hand is occupied with the glass between his slender fingers. His name evades you for the most part, but you know he called you his pretty star girl.

❛ IS IT JUST YOU HERE? OR DO YOU GAVE SOME FRIENDS I SHOULD BE WORRIED ABOUT? HM, STAR GIRL. ❜

You feel alive, electrified by his very touch on your skin. And if he was quite honest you were doing the same to him as well. But how could you say no to man like this? To decline such a man. A frosted brow raises in question, awaiting your answer. You’re too absorbed in the moment to answer verbally. So you nod instead⸻ finishing his drink for him.

It’s sweet, oddly enough. Must be a mock tail.

He laughs at that.

It’s a simple gesture, one you shouldn’t find yourself smiling to. (But you do), despite your weak attempts of dismissing the smile on your face. He catches onto it, of course he does. He’s quick to make a slick comment, rasping against the shell of your ear. The man speaks in engrossing, waxing vices. Soft murmurs and purrs that make your spine shiver in delight. The kind of words that makes goosebumps occur. The kind that makes a fire erupt in your stomach.

He drags you away due to your request, to Satoru, you’re a feast to be ravaged in front of everyone in this club. Repercussions be damned. He wastes no time when it comes to you, bodies are pressed into one another. Kisses linger and breath mingles.

Slender fingers hook around your waist, gripping the warm flesh of your hip.

❛ STAY STILL, YOU CAN’T ESCAPE NOW. I’VE GOT YOU. DO Y’KNOW HOW LONG I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR YOU TO COME OVER STAR GIRL? ❜

He mutters against your collarbone, prodding away at the strap of your dress. It eventually falls, giving him access to your chest Your movement stills and he hums in delight. You apologize for your shyness. He laughs. You can feel his chest rising against yours and his shoulders shaking with fit of laughter. Underneath his breath, he calls you a good girl.

❛ WHAT, YOU SCARED? I DON’T BITE ❜

Which is a lie. He does bite, you can feel his canines finding sanctuary in your neck. Through the navy shades of his tinted sunglasses and behind full frosted lashes. There was a mischievous glint in his gaze.

He’s testing you of course. You’re more annoyed at the fact that you don’t have an issue with it. In fact, you’re leaning into his touch. Feeding into his greed, letting his tongue lap and swipe over your skin. What were you even doing here with this man? He was a stranger. You should know better. If anything, you were going to blame the alcohol in your system for all your indecent thoughts and lewd actions that’ll haunt you tonight.

All these thoughts are making you anxious. Your flight or fight is kicking in. The alarm bells are ringing in the back of your mind, your body is slowly tensing up. He can obviously feel it, because he’s slowly coming to a stop. How observant of him. Some part of you feels guilty, he’s already worked up and well, shit. You don’t owe the man anything but he’s so fucking handsome like this. Wait, what was his name again?

You’re soooo fucked. You didn’t even get his name, if you get murdered by some sexy ass man that was on you. What a way to die though. By now, his advances come to a full stop. He’s looking at you now, questioning this whole ordeal. Is he doing something wrong? Did he fuck up?

❛ YOU’RE NOT REALLY SCARED, ARE YOU? AM I MOVING TOO FAST FOR YOU? LET ME KNOW. I NEED YOU TO SPEAK FOR ME, STAR GIRL. ❜

When he detaches from your neck, you whine. How pathetic. You whine and he grins with the most obnoxious shit eating grin you have ever seen. If you ever saw him again after tonight you might actually faint.

❛ ME? SCARED? NO. I’M JUST (…) FINALLY THINKING CLEARLY. I THINK⸻ I THINK WE SHOULD SLOW DOWN. GIVE ME A SECOND, WILL YOU? ❜

He mulls over your words, caressing your thigh in thought. Your hands find a place against his chest, fiddling with the collar of his shirt. You had no reason to be nervous, but you were fidgeting and he wasn’t answering you. Which made matters worse. Until (…) He does of course, nodding in understanding. Reluctantly removing his grip from your waist.

After a few moments of silence and wayward glances, he pulls out his phone. Just in case you do run off, he can still catch you. He’s smart, isn’t he? You take it, sliding your number in his notes. A soft smile plays on your expression, what other faces could you make with him?

‘ Call me, we’ll finish this later. Xoxo, Stargirl. ‘

Then, you’re gone. Duh, Obviously Satoru. He half the mind to leave you alone, but the other half is itching to follow you. He really could, you wouldn’t notice anyways. It was just one of his many talents. He could tell you to just come home Mona Lisa. How there wouldn’t be Rome without Caesar. Load you to death with allusions and such.

The first thing Satoru notices is the smell of your perfume on the collar shirt. Then, it’s the taste of you on his lips. After that, it’s the feeling of your fingertips on his chest. You’re still with him in spirit. You left pieces of you in your wake. He only craves more.

Firstly, Satoru knows this path is only going to end in heartbreak because Suguru Gēto is on the mind. Secondly, he missed the feeling you gave him. Not you. He missed being touched by someone, he missed cherishing something. He missed⸻ filling the space up. Sex could do that. Lust could. Occupying himself with countless assignments from the higher ups could.

What was Satoru now?

Ultimately, he’s tired. He’s been tired of years now. Exhausted even, he felt it in his joints. His bones. But he was the strongest; the strongest there is. The strongest can’t succumb to such pressure. He was supposed to be untouchable. He is untouchable. So why did he let you touch him tonight? Why did he let you through infinity? Hah. Another question for another day.

Distract yourself, Satoru. Never let the mask slip. Let it become you.

When Satoru sinks into the bed, sleep escapes him. Like every other night. Then, he thinks of you. Didn’t you ask him to text him? To ‘finish this later’ (…) The thought of Suguru makes him want to keel over and vomit. He couldn’t, not tonight. Besides, he’ll call you in the morning.

He did, Satoru did. It was stupid, dumb even. But he did. You answered, called him. Even held a conversation with Satoru. What a one eighty from last night, right? Somehow, he listens. Satoru was never one for listening, it’s too out of character for him. He wants to be seen, to be heard. He’s the greatest, he’s the strongest. The honored one. So why would he silence himself? Still. He listens. This goes on for months.

A period of time that’s too long for Satoru. The only reason you haven’t left yet is because he hasn’t shown you the real him, he’s kept you at arms length this whole time.

He keeps seeing Suguru in you. And maybe thats why he can’t let go. Or maybe he wants to see Suguru in you. To say you have any similarities would be a stain on his name. A sin. He can’t taint you too.

You know when Satoru is lonely. It feels like it, at least. You call. He answers. You talk. He listens. You eventually come over. Never asking for his name. But he can see it in your eyes, feel it at his fingertips when he touches you. It’s ‘Gojo’ you want to callout at night. Not just baby or sweetheart. You don’t want your lips on his collarbone, you want them on his lips. Satoru knows it. He feels it. But he can’t cross that line. He refuses it. If he refuses it, he’ll deny you of it. Deprive you.

But you eat at the palm of his hand. Taking everything so obediently. It should be criminal really. Why aren’t you biting at the hand that feeds you? Plead for more, ask for more. Beg for it. Like you are now. You don’t. You never do. You’re satisfied with the trail of kisses on your thighs that send an electric current down your spine. You’re fine with the way he pries them open, splitting you apart like a pomegranate. Fragile. Meant to paint his fingers with certain wetness.

You let Satoru delve in, you let him indulge too much. The nightly escapades go on for eight months. That is until you bite his hand. And he pulls away. You call for his name, not honey, not sweetheart, but his real name. In his lust, he says it. Gojo. You knew a line was crossed. You knew it. He knew it.

After sleeping with him, wait no. Gojo. Because he’s not just any random figure. Not just he. But Gojo. You’ve realized two things. One, you’ve never kissed. Two, you’ve never said his name. You also know that he doesn’t fully see you when you’re together. He’s somewhere else, not with you. He thinks you can’t see it. But you can, you always could. Ignore it, that’s what you told yourself. You could ignore the way he always wears blindfolds to cover his eyes, the way his lips twitched to utter another name. You could ignore it. Up until now.

For once. Satoru hears his name coming out from your lips, not the voice he’s seared into his mind. It’s not Suguru. It’s you. Suddenly, your fingers on his skin feel scalding. Too close to the flame. He moves away, letting you go. Why did he tell you that? Why did he feel the need?

❛ WHO DO YOU SEE WHEN YOU’RE WITH ME? (…) WHO AM I GOJO⸻ ? ❜

It’s almost humorous, the way you’re asking him who he sees. But at the end of the day, do you know who you are? All you do is give to Gojo, yet it’s never enough for you. Or him. So who are you really trying to fix here? You know there’s too many broken pieces for you to handle. To conjoin. Instead of setting them in place, you’ve sliced your finger on a glass edge.

❛ SUGURU. ❜

Why couldn’t you be mad at him? A nasty, bitter, feeling settles in your stomach but it’s not towards him. It’s towards the name he utters. How deluded you were. Jealous over someone you’d never know, someone you couldn’t compete with. To you, Gojo is an angel, a cosmic entity with a halo choked tight around him like a vice. His vice? Well it would be this so called Suguru.

Unfortunately, if he loved you. He did it in a way you couldn’t understand. If he truly desired you, you couldn’t tell. You call out to him. Really call out. ‘ Gojo, Suguru, Gojo, Suguru. ‘ Letting the names sit heavy on your tongue. It’s almost as heavy as the tears that roll down your cheeks.

Satoru Gojo is the living, breathing, vessel of impatience. He is ravenous. The encapsulation of gluttony and greed. Satoru bites and licks away at everything like a rotten dog. He moves in blurs and takes no time to enjoy things in the moment. When he loves, it’s snatched and taken away from him. Satoru knows what it’s like to bleed. So he’d rather move forward instead of licking old wounds.

Satoru does remember this one thing though.

You thanked him for his love, for his heart. For the fact that you haven’t had a single lonely night for months. Even if this love was misguided. An empty valentine. Apparently, you ran from love for a long time. So long, it became an empty game.

Would you hide your heart again?

That’s the last time you see Gojo. The last time you felt his touch. The last time you⸻ Well, damn. You missed it, missed him. Was it a crime? To miss that sort of relationship? To want him? The thought of Gojo sends a feeling of yearning in your chest. It constructs a deep hole in your heart, rippling through your chest like the deepest ocean. You would give him more than you actually gave him, surely he’d want you back then.

Shoko calls him an idiot. He deserves it.

It’s been a year since or two since Satoru has thought of you. A year since you’ve said his name. A year or two since (…) A lot has changed for Satoru. A lot, actually. Nanami called him, Nanami Kento. He was missed of course, finally back after the life of a salaryman chewed him up and spat him right out. After they both lost someone they cared about, they’re reunited again. Funny.

There was another change in his life too. Sukuna’s fingers. Which is why he’s here today, side by side the his little protégé Megumi! Wasn’t he the cutest?

Yaga carefully instructed the pair. Of course, Megumi was more focused on what the principal had to say. Satoru was set on tuning out everything that the man said. He didn’t have time to listen to all that, besides Megumi could handle it.

So, the first order of business was sending Megumi out to do his dirty work while he shops for something to quell his hunger for sweets. Truthfully, Satoru already completed his most recent mission hours ago. He just wanted to indulge in some dango before he met up with Megumi. When he hears the electronic chime of his phone ♪ ringgg ∿ bringggg ∿ ringing ♪ ♪ He picks up, answering with the brightest tone he could evoke. Megumi, on the other hand is obviously not in the mood for games. He never is.

❛ THERE’S A PROBLEM. ❜

He’s there in a heartbeat.

When Satoru arrives, there’s a disgruntled Megumi beside a kid with rosé colored hair. He’s bright—eyed. Ultimately youthful, a good heart. He senses it. He recalls Megumi explaining how the kid ate Sukuna’s damn finger. Why? ‘Because he’s brainless!’ that’s what young sorcerer said anyways. Satoru could hardly believe it. ‘Hah!’ He laughs, like really laughs. Isn’t this something? ‘The higher ups will behead him.’

Occult club friends almost get eaten up by curses. Sukuna arrives, they hash it out, blah, blah, blah. None of that is important. What is important however, is when he shows up the next day and the kid, Itadori is there. He’s athletic, strong—willed. All this praise from a certain teacher. Satoru asks Megumi to lead him towards her in order to grasp and explain the important matters at hand.

Then, there’s you.

It’s a slap across the face, it really is. He is royally fucked. You haven’t noticed him yet, he would know. The six eyes would tell him. In fact, he wishes you had some sort of cursed energy so he could preface what he was walking into. Your door is ajar. You’re still so welcoming, so open like the years before. Dressed in a black blazer and blue button up. Your pencil skirt shifts as you pace around your classroom, your heels make a soft click, click, sound.

Across from you, there’s Megumi. Then, there’s Itadori and his fellow occult members at your side. Satoru needed to get a grip. This was life or death, yet he was too consumed with the thought of getting ripped to shreds in the eye of your storm.

He moves, only an inch. But it’s like you knew he was approaching, coming into your space. It was the same magnetic field that pulled you into the wondrous depths of Gojo in that bar you first met him in. He finally steps in, the electricity buzzes like static. Eyes meet, breathing stops. You had to be insane, you had to be. The man who haunted your dreams, here. In the flesh? You wanted to see the heaven in his eyes like the first night you met.

Oh, you’re absolutely insane. Mental. Act cool, act casual. Act normal, just please don’t let him affect you.

❛ ♪ MEGG—UUU—MMI! YOU STARTED WITHOUT ME ∿ ? HOW COULD YOU, SAVE SOME ACTION FOR ME. WILL YA? ❜

Megumi was unimpressed with Gojo’s dramatic speech. Stating that he was late and unreliable. On the other hand, the others with entranced with this mystery man in your class room. You shift, rocking on your heels in short intervals. This was uncomfortable. Suffocating, even. Why was he here? What else did you not know about Gojo? Was he ignoring your presence as a whole? Shit, he’s looking at you.

❛ HEYYY. IT’S BEEN AWHILE, HASN’T IT? HOW HAVE YOU BEEN STAR GIRL? HM? IT’S FUNNY. YOU’VE ON MY MIND LATELY. ❜

Speechless, that’s what you are. Gojo simply slinks back into your life and it’s like he casted a spell on you. Megumi sneers at the thought of his sleazy mentor having his way with you. Quite frankly, from what he could tell. You were too sweet, passionate and honest for a man like Gojo. Too grounded to be caught in the webbing of his life, unbeknownst to him. You were always caught in his web.

After a beat of silence, Sasaki, Itadori, and Iguchi are desperately searching for answers by glancing at you and Gojo. You dismiss your beloved students with a weak wave. Megumi comes to your rescue by telling his elder off. ‘Stop harassing every poor individual you lay your eyes on Gojo—Sensei.’ He actually listens to the boy, settling into a chair. He’s waiting, watching your every move. He wants a reaction. And he’ll get it.

You clear your throat, opting for a tone and octave softer than your usual speech.

❛ I CAN SEE THAT NOW. IT’S BEEN AWHILE. AND YOU’RE STILL CALLING ME THAT? ❜

Is this what you were doing now? Dancing around the past you two shared years ago? Letting him seep and trickle back into your life like nothing happened? Gojo hard to read, you can’t tell if he’s entertained with the whole situation. Or, if he’s dreading it.

A new day comes.

And Gojo is in your home. Strictly because you need protection. (And he talked his way into being the person who watches over you and the fingers instead of anyone else.)

Satoru was selfish, he knows that. He can have his way, and he will. Because he’s strongest, the rules can bend to his grip regardless of what anyone says. But with you? He doesn’t even need to try. Satoru doesn’t build a home when it comes to you. Instead he tunnels through your chest and makes one. You let him.

Your home was cozy, quaint. It showed bits and pieces of your personality. Who you are as a person. Satoru almost feels guilty for a moment. He never really did see you for you. You were more of a convince. A body he was lucky to have. That's pretty fucked up, right? Lingering thoughts would bounce around his head as he continued to scope the perimeter of your home. From his peripheral vision, he can see the door pry open.

❛ OUUUH, BACK FROM WORK ARE YOU? HOW WAS IT? ❜

You were way too exhausted to deal with Satoru during this time of day. Also, how the fuck did he remember where you live? How did he get in? They're all questions you want to voice of course but you end up flopping on the couch instead. Lids would fall close in response. The sounds of Satoru's footsteps drawing near sends an (un) pleasant shiver down your spine.

[amourlyns]

HELLOOO! ALL GOOD?? I was impressed with your writing. It's just perfect <3 I'd like to request some Wooin dating headcanons! PLS

FIRST OFF, thank you so much for enjoying my writing!! It’s always nice to meet another windbreaker fan !! 💞💞. I’ve written wooin hcs before over here . But if you want a separate page for him I’ll make another one :)

[amourlyns]

AHAHWOWBWVAGAHAHAHHAHAHAWKWNSBWHSJWK

I LOVE IT🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 YOU'RE SUCH A GOOD WRITER!!! KEEP IT UP! AND ALSO LIKE THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR MAKING MY SILLY LITTLE IDEA INTO A LITTLE ONE SHOT!!! I APPRECIATE IT SO MUCH!!!!🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷

YOU ARE THE SWEETEST EVER!!!! IM SOOOOO GLAD U ENJOYED IT ): 💞💞. Feel free to request something in the future bae!!

[amourlyns]

everytime i look at your theme it alters a part of my brain because 🛐🛐🛐

LITERALLY ME WITH YOURS RN!!!:!:!!2. I have to say these 2 themes of ours might be my fav… like this is REALLY an era

[amourlyns]

❛ HEY VENGEANCE. ❜ ➜ ⁽ masterlist ⁾

𐙚 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕: in which batman visits crime alley, and the reader indulges the bat with sweet notes and baked goods.

✧ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: none

𐙚 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔: inspired by this post. thought it was the cutest thing ever and i wanted to write it out, something short n sweet !! dedicated to @armin-ocean-eyes

⟡ ⠀ | 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐢𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞’𝐬 𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐲. Of course, The Bat doesn’t want to jinx his nightly patrol but (…) it’s been nice.

In all honestly, it finally felt like a break. A time to hunker down and take time to focus on his parents. A stroll through Crime Alley would do. Bruce never forgets about his parents, nor does he forget that night. He comes back to remind himself of what happened. How he couldn’t stop it. How he failed to protect them. It’s a constant reminder, a punishment.

Tension never leaves Bruce’s body. He’s always so high strung, constantly prepared for fight or flight. Shoulders are tense, brows are furries and teeth are gritted. This was his very being now.

Late nights, cold and oh, so lonely. The heavy bass of boots sloshing through rain water across the concrete street. Vengeance has filled the role of Gotham’s protector for long enough to know everything about the city he tirelessly protects. He knows this city better than anyone else.

But he still can’t stomach the alleyway.

Today, Bruce doesn’t bring flowers, but he brings himself. And hopefully, that’s enough for them.

From above the street, unbeknownst to the Bat. He has an angel, a watcher if you will. The city has swallowed him whole and spat him right back at out tonight. Senses are diminished, hazy from the beatings of tonight. Usually, he’s more attentive than this.

Funnily enough, you just moved into the city of Gotham three weeks ago. It’s a dreary, dull city. But at least it’s away from home. Right? Sure, the apartment you were currently living in definitely seemed haunted and it literally oversaw the alleyway the Waynes died in. Why did no one tell you they got mugged? (…) But what could you do? It’s shitty but the only thing you could afford in this damned economy.

And dude, it was definitely haunted.

You actually thought you were hallucinating the first time you laid your eyes on it. The fucking Bat, Vengeance. Gotham Cities actuals protector? It was odd and horrifying. You expected to see him raging through the alley in his moody glory. Big, defiant, and spooky!

But he actually seemed defeated? In a way? His strides were slow. Then, he knelt down onto the pavement and stayed there. It’s weird, this habitual routine of the Bat coming by and kneeling happened constantly. Well, to be fair he did patrol your building after that. Scouring the rooftops for any signs of peril within the area.

When he was done, he would come back to your building and linger on the fire escape. Sometimes you could hear his heavy footsteps on the rooftops or the iron steps.

Now, no one ever said you were the brightest in the bunch. You moved to Gotham for goodness sake. Anyways, you decided to actually make contact with the Bat. Which in theory, sounds like a good idea because who wouldn’t want a hero in their pocket? Well, a vigilante. But you digress (…) If coming near the alley brings him down, maybe he needs a lift?

The general idea was, leave a note or a gift for Vengeance and leave him be. So, that’s how it begun.

It was the third time Bruce visited the crime alley. This time, he had the intention to make his trip revolve only around his parents.

But then he saw you.

Granted, you were definitely not expecting to see anyone or someone like the Batman at this time of night. So you scrambled off of your balcony and dropped some sort of post-it note on the way out. There were three things on Bruce’s mind. How many times have you seen him and did you know his habits or who he was? Paranoia gnaws away at his guts and creates a nasty hole in his stomach.

He was a master of overthinking.

The Bat was quick to snatch up the post-it note you dropped, taking the time to read and analyze your penmanship. Was it lined with some sort of poison? Was it a tracking device? He waits for a moment. Grunting at the words etched into the paper.

〞I don't know what you're going through but I know you'll get through it. Xoxo. 〞

Huh.

Alfred would tease him for this.

An admirer? He was stumped.

It’s been about a week since you’ve seen Vengeance, your gifts of food and ever abundant notes never stopped though. You were starting to think he changed his route ever since that night he caught you on the railing.

First off, he was terrifying up close (the man was ten feet away) and second off, how was he able to catch you. Some part of you expected the man to interrogate you or something.

He didn’t, thank goodness. But you kind of missed seeing the cryptic Bat.

On the other hand, Bruce decided to do some research on you. A through background check would never hurt and who knows if you wanted to kill him? It could all be a facade. Each baked good and beverage you left out for the Bat was analyzed and tested. It could’ve been poisoned, laced, or worst, set to detonate. He was taking precautions. But Alfred insisted it was a good gesture.

Whatever it was, you never stopped. Bruce changed his route of course, there was no reason to let his guard down. But, he did appreciate the notes. To an extent. He just couldn’t help but think of the uncertainty.

The latest one he was holding onto was nothing short of thoughtful.

〞I hope you're having a good day :) (Btw, I haven’t seen you around!〞

So for the most part you were attentive. So he could commend you for that.

Despite all of the alarms in his brain telling him to stick to the new route, he returns to the old route for your sake. The very least he could do was thank you for the messages and treats. At least, that’s what Alfred said. For once, he didn’t feel like being stubborn and listened. The first thing he saw was your silhouette against the glass of your sliding door. Then, your emergence.

Bruce is frozen in place. But you’re waving frantically and running down the steps to greet him. Should he turn away? Just leave and never show up again? What if ⸻

❛ OHMYGOSH, OH MY GOSH. YOU’RE REAL! YOU’RE HERE! I WAS STARTING TO THINK I WAS BEING DELUSIONAL AND SEEING THINGS. WHOA, YOU’RE TALLER IN PERSON. AND LIKE SCARY. SORRY, SORRY I DIDN’T MEAN THAT. WOW. ❜

You’re realizing how that sounded; Bruce notices how you cower in fear. Despite his own anxiety driving him up a wall. The least he could do was say thank you, or show his appreciation. It takes him a few moments to say anything. He can hardly hold eye contact, but it eventually comes out.

❛ I (…) I APPRECIATE IT. ❜

Well. You definitely didn’t expect him to sound like that. His response was so soft you couldn’t even tell if he was directing that towards you. It was so quiet he might as well been talking to himself⸻ and before you could even ask him another question, he’s gone by the time you look up.

Introvert much?