kurogxrix

[kurogxrix]

oh my GOD can i please be tagged in p2??

i’ve never needed a sequel so bad in my life, this was amazing

Rules were Meant to be Broken

✧ Pairing : Daryl Dixon x Reader

✧ Era : No Apocalypse AU

✧ Pronouns : she/her

✧ Genre : Fluff / a tiny bit of angst

✧ Word Count : 4.3k

AN ~ Hiii I haven't done a one of these in a hot minute so I'm excited! This was requested a little while ago through anon, and you can click here to read the details of what this oneshot entails. I've never written a young Daryl before so it was fun to try something new. And don't hate me, but I sort of left this at a cliffhanger, so let me know if you guys would want a part 2!

Hope you enjoy! xoxox

You sighed tiredly, forcing yourself to stay awake to try and finish the assignment that was laying on your desk before you. The words on the paper were mocking in a way. Knowing that you had put it off until the last minute and were now paying every possible price of staying up later to get it done as it was due first thing in the morning. Graduation couldn’t come fast enough it seemed like.

School always felt like a crushing weight on your shoulders all throughout your life. A constant pressure and expectation to always excel in everything you did despite how tiring it all was at times. Still, you pushed yourself constantly, feeling an unbearable need to please everyone around you and to prove to yourself that you could always do better. But every once and a while, it was nice to have some kind of distraction.

Though suddenly you were broken out of your thoughts when you heard the sound of a small tapping coming from the outside of your bedroom window. At first you brushed it off, assuming it was your foggy mind playing tricks on you, but then you heard it again. And again. Until finally you peeled yourself away from your chair to open the curtains and find the source of the noise. Only to see Daryl Dixon crouching on his knees in front of you. Your boyfriend.

It was a complicated relationship to say the least, not because there was anything wrong with what the two of you had. But because…your dad didn’t exactly approve. 

Even though you were almost a legal adult, the thought of you going out with the rough, redneck, high school dropout didn’t sit too well with Rick Grimes. He didn’t believe the boy was good enough for you, though not in an overprotective way. But in the way where he truly believed he would never be able to provide for you, never be able to give you what you truly deserved. That, and he was also a terrible influence on you. Ever since you had met, you had skipped school, stayed out way past curfew, and had also tried smoking a cigarette. That there was the final straw.

After your dad had picked up on all the trouble you had been getting into, he had no choice but to forbid you from seeing the Dixon boy ever again. Though clearly…that new rule wasn’t working out too well. It just made you more sneaky if anything.

You smiled brightly upon seeing the unexpected visitor, quickly unlocking and opening up the window just enough so you could stick your head out. “What’re you doing here?” you whispered.

He didn’t answer you. Instead he leaned in and cupped your face, pressing his lips to yours in a soft yet heated kiss, clearly missing you from just the few days you two had been apart. Ever since he had quit going to school it wasn’t often that you had the chance to see each other as much as you used to; but Daryl always found the time. Eventually he found the strength to pull away, still letting it linger for as long as possible before he looked at you with a small smile.

You blinked a few times, still feeling a bit flustered as you stared up at him dreamily, “Hi…”

“Hi,” he repeated with a small chuckle, “Come on.”

Your head tilted a little, “What?”

“Come on,” he nodded back toward where his rusty beat-up truck was parked in the street. “Come sneak out with me.”

“Oh, no I can’t. Not tonight.” He gave you a look that screamed he didn’t believe you. “No, really I have this big assignment due tomorrow and I’m not even halfway done with it. Plus, the last time I snuck out with you we almost got caught again.”

Daryl shrugged, “That’s what makes it fun.”

You rolled your eyes though you couldn’t help but laugh a little, “Daryl…”

“Come on,” he tried to gently coax again, “Quit bein a nerd for a while and just spend the night with me.”

Your eyes narrowed a little when he called you that, knowing it was slightly true with how much time you put into your school work. But you couldn’t stay annoyed with him for long. He knew all the ways to butter you up.

“I’ll get you a slushie from the gas station. One of them coca-cola ones you like so much.” 

A slow smile was brought to your face at the mention of the sweet drink you always favored, and it did sound good right about now. That distraction you were oh so conveniently thinking of earlier seemed to fall right into your lap. Even though you knew you had to be responsible, you couldn’t help but want to spend every waking moment with him. After all, you were young and in love. His bribe eventually caused you to crack as you quickly slipped on a pair of shoes, before hoisting yourself up to climb through the window, making sure to leave it open just a little for when you came back home.

Hand in hand, the two of you ran through the grass and toward his vehicle so you could make a fast and dramatic getaway, laughing all the while he started it up and raced down the street. 

It was nights like these you loved the most, almost as if you were running away from your day to day life to just get out and be at peace with him wherever he decided to take you. Despite what others might think by looking at the two of you, he treated you with the utmost respect and care, feeling like his presence alone was a safe haven. Even though you knew of the things he had been through, his family life and the many tragedies that came along right with it, he was so gentle with you. Like he wanted to hand you the world on a platter, give you everything that he never had. How could you not be head over heels?

It was hard at first getting him to trust you, getting him used to affection and your words of affirmation as he was clearly not used to anything of the sort. But you were always patient with him through it all, watching him let his walls down one by one as time went by. Listening to him when he wanted to talk about his asshole of a brother, to comforting him after yet another fight with his dad. He didn’t talk much during those times. But you were still there if he wanted to. And after realizing that you truly weren’t going anywhere, he became the biggest softie in the world.

“So,” his voice broke you out of your thoughts, “I figured we could stock up on some snacks and head down to the river? There’s this new spot I wanna show ya.”

You nodded in agreement with a small smile, always favoring that specific place considering it was so far out of town. It was so quiet and peaceful out there compared to how it was in the city, a stark contrast of what you were always used to with life moving so fast. But out there, you felt you could just be.

After stopping by the gas station as promised, Daryl began the drive a bit further toward the countryside, having the route memorized by now with how much time he spent out there in the woods. His hand instinctively reached for yours over the center console, giving it a gentle squeeze before raising it up to his mouth to leave a gentle kiss along your knuckles. He felt relief and comfort in your presence, leaning his cheek against your fingers while his thumb traced over your skin soothingly. The quiet rock music playing from his busted radio was the only filler noise needed.

Once you two had finally made it to the designated destination, you came to realize why he had brought you here in the first place. The spot he had conveniently picked had a perfect view of the many stars and constellations, the calming sound of the water only adding to the tranquility you desired. And your usual routine was always the same, the both of you would just bitch about life. Life and whatever wicked curveballs it threw at you, sharing a cigarette that Daryl always provided, and if he was lucky, you’d make out. He’d consider himself to be even luckier if you allowed his hands to wander.

“How long before yer dad finds out yer gone?” he asked with a light chuckle, taking a chip from the bag to pop into his mouth.

You let out a small breath at even the possibility of him catching you, “Let’s just hope he doesn’t at all.”

Daryl scoffed, “Come on, you know he watches out for ya like a hawk. Ain’t much gets past him.”

“You don’t have to talk him up, he’s not here you know.” you joked.

He chuckled again and his gaze lingered on you for a few beats, seeming to assess the situation like he had done many times before. You knew that look all too well, the insecurity behind his eyes that wouldn’t seem to vanish no matter how much you wanted it too. That was another thing he did; he got in his head far too much.

“He still don’t like me, huh?”

You shook your head, scooting closer to him, “No, don’t say that. He just…doesn’t know you.”

“He does,” he gently argued, “He deals with assholes like me on a daily basis, m’ sure I can figure out why he don’t want me around his daughter.”

“Well…then why do you always want to see me?” you asked knowingly as you leaned in closer to his face.

He smirked, “Cause…” he trailed off, feeling a bit embarrassed still to admit the deep affections he felt for you. Almost like he didn’t want to say it out loud as if it would jinx his sudden luck.

“Come on…say it.”

You watched him roll his eyes, “Cause m’ in love with ya, alright? There.”

A bright smile wormed its way onto your face, leaning in closer to kiss his cheek over and over while your hand held his face in place as you showered him with gentleness. He scoffed at your antics but made no effort to push you away, silently relishing in your touch that he could never seem to get enough of. He had never been shown such a thing in all his life, always being lectured about tough love and taking things like a man, to not wear his emotions on his sleeve. And he had to remind himself time and time again that with you, things were different.

Eventually he turned his head to capture your lips on a proper kiss, raising his own hand to the back of your neck to pull you even closer to him. Feeling the warmth radiating off of you. You allowed him to deepen the kiss for a moment, his mouth slotting perfectly with your own before you slowly broke it off to speak again.

“Don’t worry about any of that, okay? I’m here because I want to be…so don’t go thinking otherwise.”

Daryl looked at you for a lingering moment before nodding his head, the familiar small smirk returning to his face, “Maybe we should elope someday to really stick it to the man.”

You raised your free hand to cover his mouth as you let out a small laugh, “Quit talking like that.”

He chuckled against your palm when it suddenly enveloped his mouth, taking the opportunity to stick his tongue out and lick your skin which caused you to immediately pull away with a gasp. “Ew! Daryl!” 

His amusement only grew further upon hearing your protest, leaning in close again to begin to playfully kiss and nip at the skin on your neck. He figured that was a good enough distraction to steer the conversation away from your father even though he was the one to bring it up. He didn’t want to think about it too long, not when he had a limited amount of time with you.

You giggled infectiously, “Hey, wait a second. I wanted to talk to you about something else.”

Daryl pulled back almost instantly, looking a bit worried when you said you wanted to talk. To him that could never lead to anything good. But you quickly shook your head, “It’s nothing bad, don’t worry,” you reassured, “Just…promise not to roll your eyes.”

Now he was very confused, but nonetheless he nodded, “Alright, yeah. I promise.”

“Okay,” you sighed as you prepared yourself to bring up the topic. You had been meaning to discuss it for a while with the event seemingly just around the corner now. But with him making the comment about eloping then brought the idea of proposals. And there was a certain proposal you had been anticipating to hear.

“So…prom’s coming up.” you hinted hesitantly.

That was all he needed to hear before he was rolling his eyes, unable to stop himself it seemed like. You gently smacked his arm, “Hey, you promised.”

“M’ sorry, I just…” he scoffed, “I don’t see the point in goin is all. That stupid shit is too damn overhyped.”

“Maybe it is, but it’s my senior year and I haven’t gone to a single dance.” you tried, “All of my friends are going with dates and I don’t want to be the only one left out.”

He sighed heavily and ran a hand over his face, clearly not too keen on going to any kind of preppy school activities. Especially since he knew if he did attend, he would never hear the end of it from his friends. “I doubt they’d even let me step foot in that place after I dropped out. The situation wasn’t exactly pretty.”

You gave him a look, “It’s not going to be at the school, they rented a nice place. And besides I don’t think they’ll hold a grudge if we just pop in for a couple hours.”

“Hours??”

“Okay, okay, just one hour I promise.” you raised your hands in surrender, “We can drink the spiked punch, take some stupid pictures in the photo booth, dance for one song, and then we can leave.”

Daryl narrowed his eyes a little as he scanned your expression, going back and forth in his head for what felt like a lifetime. What he really wanted was to spend time with you, but not in a crowded room with blasting music filled with a bunch of people he didn’t care for. In fact he couldn’t think of anything worse. But just that one pleading look in your eyes was enough for his defenses to crack.

You smiled sweetly, holding your hands up as if you were praying, “Please…?”

A low grumble of reluctance was pulled from him, no longer able to stand your pouty lip, “Fine…I’ll take ya.”

He watched your face instantly light up at his acceptance, squealing in excitement as you wrapped your arms around him in a tight hug. And despite not loving the idea, he couldn’t help but smile at how eager you became, knowing he was doing it all just to make you happy. And if that meant dancing with you at prom like some sappy romantic comedy, he would do it in a heartbeat just to see you smile like that again.

“But I ain’t gonna wear no tux.”

You laughed a little, pulling away just enough to look at him, “I figured you’d say that, and you don’t have to. Just dress nice…ish.”

He hummed, “Yeah, guess I ain’t gettin away with showin up in a shirt and jeans, hm?”

“No, definitely not.” you said with a shake of your head, brushing some of his hair away from his face, “But I don’t know…I kinda like the idea of seeing you a little dressed up.”

“A button down shirt and pants is bout as good as yer gonna get, baby.”

Your smile widened, loving when he called you that, “Deal.”

A smirk crossed his face when he spotted the blush rising to your cheeks, a noise of satisfaction escaping him as he shifted you onto his lap, his hands holding onto your hips. “You got anything else you wanna tell me?”

You leaned forward just as he did, your noses brushing together as both of your intentions were clear, “I love you...”

He smiled, “I love you too.” he spoke before leaning in to close the remaining distance between you, kissing you with a deep sense of passion. Apparently, tonight he was lucky.

The two of you hadn’t realized how much time had passed as you stayed out by that river for hours you were sure, no longer caring about the responsibilities waiting for you back home. No longer caring about the classes you had to attend the next morning or the paper you had yet to finish. Perhaps your dad was right in a way, maybe he was a bad influence on you. But he made you feel free.

It was just nearing four in the morning by the time the truck had pulled back up to your house, the clock on the dashboard of the vehicle only making you realize just how long you were lost in a bliss of happiness. Time really did fly after all. Especially when someone as hot as him was doting on you endlessly, it was enough to make your head fuzzy. And now with him not wanting you to leave just made it all the more harder to get out of the vehicle.

You pulled back for air despite his quiet protests, “Okay, I have to go.” you said for what felt like the millionth time.

“No, no, just a few more minutes.” he pleaded softly as he pulled you back down to his lips, plunging his tongue into your mouth to silence you.

You whimpered a little when he kissed you again, feeling his hands slide back under your shirt to try and unhook your bra. You then laughed at his obvious antics, gently biting down on his bottom lip to get him to suddenly halt his movements, hearing him groan softly at the slight sting and your tongue soothing the pain a moment later.

“I really have to go.” you muttered against his lips, leaving one last parting kiss, “It’s so late.”

“Nah, really it’s early if ya think about it.” he said before leaning up to try and steal another from you. But you quickly dodged it with a small laugh, stumbling a bit to get off his lap and out the passenger’s side before he kept you here all night.

“Aye,” he called quietly just before you could shut the door, “I’ll call ya.”

You nodded eagerly with a smile before closing it with a soft click, turning around swiftly to rush back toward your window. Praying to get at least a few hours of sleep despite the adrenaline running through your veins. Though you attempted to be quiet upon entering back through the small space, you tripped and slid a few times, almost like you forgot how much of a struggle it was to get back inside. Clearly there was some sort of small decline that you always forgot about. With a breath of relief you shut the window delicately once you had landed on the familiar shag carpet of your room, feeling just a little too proud that you had managed to get away with staying out nearly all night. 

Though when you turned around, that high you once felt seemed to plummet faster than you ever expected.

An exaggerated gasp of shock left you when you saw your dad sitting on the edge of your bed, clearly anticipating your arrival for who knows how long. And his scowl was one that could shake the earth.

Your hand came up to rest over your now racing heart, trying to catch your breath from the sudden fright he had given you. “God…you scared me.” you whispered.

“I scared you?” he clapped back without missing a beat, the anger in his tone was crackling.

You had messed up big time, you knew you did. Which was why you couldn’t think of any other plausible response other than a quiet, “I’m sorry…”

He then stood up abruptly, “Where the hell were you?”

You sputtered like a damn fish, opening and closing your mouth to try and think of some kind of believable excuse, “I…I was-”

“Don’t even think about lying to me now,” he said harshly, yet still mindful of his volume in the quietness of the house, “Tell me where you’ve been. Right now.”

A defeated sigh left you, not being able to look him in the eye any longer, “I was…out at the river.”

“Alone?”

“No…no, not alone.” you answered vaguely, still keeping your eyes glued to your shoes. It was obvious he already knew, he just for some reason wanted you to admit it.

Rick folded his arms over his chest and his hands still shook with how furious he grew. Even after everything you had done in the past, this was a new all time low that he couldn’t bring himself to understand. Disappointment didn’t even begin to describe it.

“You were with that punk, weren’t you?” he pressed, really putting his interrogation skills to use.

It was then your gaze panned up to him, his words condescending and cruel to your ears, “That punk has a name, you know.”

“I don’t think you want to take that tone with me right now.” he warned lowly.

“No,” you said stubbornly, “No, this is all such bullshit.”

His eyes widened at your foul language, “Excuse me?” he asked, raising his tone slightly as the fire inside him burned hotter.

“I know I messed up, okay? I know.” you said a bit louder as well, your throat tightening with emotion, “I know I could’ve gotten hurt, or worse, or whatever the hell you always say. But the rest of this whole thing- it’s not fair! I should be allowed to love whoever I want to love. And you just took one look at him and decided to hate him before you ever even tried to know who he really is.”

“I don’t need to know him.” Rick snapped harshly, “I couldn’t give less of a damn what his favorite slipknot song is to know that he’s nothing but trouble. And as I remember, I told you I didn’t want you seeing him anymore, and you deliberately went behind my back and broke all the rules I set in place! All the rules that keep you safe.”

You sucked in a soft breath at his harsh tone, your head beginning to pound with exhaustion and frustration, but the bottom line was you knew he was right. To an extent anyway. You had screwed up in an unimaginable way but at the same time it was you who made the decision to go behind your father’s back. It wasn’t like Daryl held a gun to your head to force you out of the house, you willingly went because you wanted to. Because you would rather be with him in some way than no way at all.

Your hand came up to run through your hair as you attempted to gather your thoughts, “I get it, what I did was wrong and I told you I was sorry. And I’ll say it as many times as you need to hear it, but…don’t blame him for something I chose to do.”

Rick’s jaw clenched, “Who’s idea was it to sneak outta here?” You faltered, not knowing exactly how to answer. “Who’s idea was it for you to skip your classes? Or smoke a cigarette, or-”

“Jesus Christ, did he start global warming too?” you asked sarcastically.

“(Y/N).” he warned again.

You scoffed, “I’m sorry, but my God dad, you act like he’s the antichrist or something. But he’s not,” you whispered almost desperately, “If you would just try-”

He raised a hand to stop you from speaking, “No, that’s not how this works. I’m the parent, I’m the one who gets to call the shots, and right now I’m telling you to get comfortable in this room because you won’t be leaving it for a while. You will go to school and come straight home for the rest of the semester. No more friends, no more phone, nothing.”

Your eyes widened, “What? Dad-”

“No,” he interrupted you again, “You’re done, you’re out of chances. I’m not dealing with this anymore, and if I ever catch you with that boy again you best pray I don’t have my shotgun. Now, go to bed.” he commanded before turning on his heel to leave the room, slamming the door slightly behind him.

You flinched slightly at the sound that ricocheted off the walls, your hands coming up to cover your face as you finally allowed yourself to cry. Wondering how such a great night had turned so sour in a matter of minutes. Your dad’s voice replayed in your head over and over again like a busted record, the weight of them settling in now that he was gone, leaving the room oddly silent. Granted he was overexaggerating about the gun thing, everything else was set in stone and you were made well aware of it.

But one thing you weren’t aware of, were the tears stinging Rick’s eyes as he stalked through the house and back upstairs to rest his own head. Feeling guilty for the way he hurt you, though at the end of the day he knew it was all for your own good. After all, how much could that “punk” really care about you anyway?

~ Thanks for reading!

[kurogxrix]

saw a post last time of someone defending themselves after being accused of AI. The excuse held barely any coherent english and ‘their’ writing was in perfect english😭

when you read something and it’s so obviously written by ai

[kurogxrix]

Is it possible for you to make a platonic!damian Wayne x reader where reader is like magic but only tells him because they’re best friends or reader accidentally gets caught in the crossfire of Robin and a villain and he has to do everything in his power to not only protect them but also to protect his secret identity

It doesn’t matter as long as you like it :D

heyyy i know you probably requested this like a year and a half ago but i actually wrote this and forgot to post it im so sorry😭!!

if you ever see this pls lmk if you still want it! sorry

[kurogxrix]

i loved this sm omg

Touching You

daryl x reader

warnings: smut but this has some plot guys, fingering, neighbor hears them

⸻

You got to pick the house.

Daryl insisted.

Even though he grumbled the entire time about how it was all too clean, too fancy, too quiet. Even though he muttered under his breath about “people starin’” and “ain’t right, livin’ like this.” Even then, when Deanna gave the two of you the go ahead to move into one of the spare houses, Daryl barely waited half a second before nodding and saying, “She picks.”

You’d walked the street with his hand in yours, taking it all in. The houses were big. Peaceful. Front porches with swings. Green lawns. You were half scared it was a dream. But Daryl never let go of your hand, and when you finally pointed at one with a brick walkway and a little flowerbed out front, he just nodded.

“’S nice,” he said, squinting up at it. “If you like it, we’ll take it.”

That was it. Your first house.

He carried you over the threshold as a joke and nearly fell into the wall doing it, but you couldn’t stop laughing, couldn’t stop kissing his face. The two of you had never had a space that was just yours. Never had a door you could lock, or a bed that didn’t creak, or a living room with a damn TV. It didn’t matter that it was all a little too quiet, or that Alexandria still felt surreal. What mattered was Daryl. His toothbrush next to yours. His boots by the front door. The way he kept doing laps around the house that first night, muttering, “Too big. What the hell we need all these rooms for?” before coming back to wrap himself around you on the couch like a damn vine.

“Don’t need all that shit,” he’d said, nuzzling into your shoulder. “Jus’ need you.”

That night, after a long, quiet dinner and a hot shower (which somehow turned into two), you curled up together in your new bed.

TV on. Just static and noise, something old and recorded. A cartoon, maybe. Daryl didn’t seem to care. He was laid out shirtless in just his sweatpants, hair still a little damp, eyes fixed on the screen like it was the first time he’d seen a TV in a decade. Which it probably was.

You were next to him, curled into his side, wearing nothing but a pair of soft panties and one of your oversized shirts, nothing underneath. You hadn’t expected to feel so relaxed. But something about this new space, the warm blankets, the sound of Daryl breathing next to you… it made everything feel safe. Real.

You felt his hand first.

Heavy on your thigh. Warm and familiar. At first, you didn’t think anything of it. He did that sometimes when you were anxious or having a hard night, he’d just rest his hand there, rub gentle circles into your skin. Comfort. Love. Steady.

But then his fingers moved.

Slower. Higher. Not rubbing anymore, more like exploring. His pinky brushed the hem of your panties, then dipped just underneath. He hadn’t said a word.

“Daryl…?” you whispered, glancing over.

He didn’t look at you. Just kept watching the TV like nothing was happening.

His voice came low. Raspy. “Keep watchin’. You look good like that…”

Your thighs clenched a little. Your breath hitched as his fingers dipped deeper, slipping beneath the waistband. The heat of him against your skin made your stomach flutter.

“Daryl…” you tried again, but his hand pushed lower and you gasped, hips shifting.

“Don’t gotta be quiet,” he murmured. “Ain’t no one gonna hear us now. House’s ours.”

His thumb found your clit, slow and sure, and you jolted, your hand gripping the blanket beneath you.

“Fuck—” you whimpered.

He finally looked over at you, eyes dark, half lidded, hungry. “You really think I could lay next to you like that? Wearin’ that an’ not touch you?”

You tried to glare at him, but it fell apart the second his fingers started rubbing slow, teasing circles over your clit. Your legs parted instinctively, giving him more room.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Lemme in, baby…”

You bit your lip, breath catching, and he grinned.

His fingers rubbed tighter circles over your clit, and your back arched so hard your shirt slipped up, exposing more of your stomach. Daryl’s eyes flicked down, drinking you in bare legs tangled in the sheets, thighs twitching, hips shifting forward like you were chasing his touch.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice rough and thick with heat. “Fuckin’ soaked already.”

Your hand flew to his wrist, but it wasn’t to stop him, it was just instinct, grounding yourself, because his fingers were making your brain melt.

He grinned. That little crooked smirk he barely ever let out. “C’mon, girl. Let me hear you.”

You whined, head tilting back into the pillow.

“You said—” you gasped. “Said to keep watchin’…”

Daryl chuckled low in his throat. “Changed my mind.”

He dipped two fingers lower and slipped them inside you, slow and deep. The moan that left your throat was soft and sharp, like the first crack of thunder in a storm. You turned your face into his shoulder, trying to muffle it, but he caught your chin in his free hand and made you look at him.

“Don’t hide from me. Wanna see you.”

Your lips parted on a shaky breath as he curled his fingers just right, hitting that spot inside you that made your hips jerk. Your thighs shook, and he groaned at the way you clenched around him.

“Fuck… ya feel that?” he whispered, eyes heavy. “Tight as hell…”

His other hand slid up your shirt, rough fingertips grazing your stomach, then higher, until he was cupping your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple.

You gasped again. “Daryl…”

He leaned in close, his forehead touching yours. “I got you. Just feel good, baby…”

Your body was a mess of heat and trembling, rocking into his hand like it was the only thing keeping you alive. The sound of the TV barely existed anymore, just faint voices and background noise to the real show happening right there in bed.

He pressed a kiss to your cheek. “Y’don’t gotta be quiet. Ain’t no one here but me.”

You finally gave in.

A moan tore from your lips, high and desperate, and Daryl groaned like it wrecked him.

“Yeah… that’s it baby. Let me hear ya fall apart.”

Your hand scrambled to hold onto something. His arm, the pillow, anything—but the only thing solid was him. His fingers inside you, his voice in your ear, his mouth now on your neck, sucking soft and slow.

You came so hard you nearly cried.

Your body went taut, hips jerking forward as you moaned his name over and over, clinging to his back while he kept pumping you through it, slow and deep. He whispered praises the whole time, so pretty, that’s my girl, so fuckin’ good for me, ride it out baby…

When you finally collapsed into his chest, shaking and gasping, he kissed the top of your head and tucked you close.

The TV kept playing like nothing happened.

The next morning, the kitchen smelled like toast and shitty instant coffee. You’d thrown on sweats and padded downstairs, sleepy and sore in the best way. Daryl was behind you, sleep rumpled with his shirt still half off, hair all over the place.

You froze in the doorway.

Tara was at the table, raising her mug. “Mornin’ lovebirds.”

You blinked. “Uh… morning.”

She gave you a look. And then deadpanned:

“Maybe next time close the window yeah…?Sound travels.”

Daryl froze behind you. You felt his hand tighten slightly on your waist.

You choked out a laugh.

Tara just shrugged. “I mean, I’m not mad. Just impressed.”

Daryl groaned into your shoulder. “Ain’t leavin’ the damn house ever again.”

⸻

a/n i was inspired to write this while watching twd i watched three full episodes while writing this anyways i luv daryl he’s so cute

[kurogxrix]

Loops and looms

Character: Arranged! Bruce Wayne x Fem!Reader

Submission by @mourakitana "Please, I want Bruce's reaction if he was forced to marry MC and in one of the missions he discovered that she was a superhero like him (please explain how he would find out and what his reaction would be) + please also add if she was jealous of Catwoman+tysm💕💕💕💕💕"

Disclaimers: No proofread, we die. Same universe as "Silly Billy scenario." I just wanted to post this so I could keep focusing on more submissions.

A/n: apologies for the delay and the... very sloppy ending. BTW reader is not white, don't let my Pinterest picks fool you, WE LOVE WOC IN THIS ACC

Word count: 2,003

Masterlist

Being married to Bruce Wayne was nice. Though you were bothered that people assumed that 1: you were a gold-digger, your own family had worked their asses off to reach where they were now and 2: you were just another brainless, spoiled little girl. You were a successful physicist in the middle of getting your PhD in quantum physics!! But anyways.

For the first months, it was a silent but comfortable time; you were just trying to get used to each other. Still, we know you weren't the best at hiding just how attracted you were to your sweet, buffed, kind husband, his soft, patient blue eyes, and the fact that he found his new form of entertainment, teasing you. He would wrap his arm around your waist during the night, his hand sprawled on your stomach as he nuzzled against the back of your neck, his stubble would definitely leave a rash behind by morning.

— "Did you even shave well today?"

— "I'm pretty sure I did..."

He'd mumble against your neck, pulling you closer.

A 'Mornin', honey,' and a kiss on the cheek. His warm hand on the small of your back and a smile on his lips as you talked about the string theory, how you talked about everything, every little molecule being connected, as if the universe was a big, colourful loom.

It made your heart flutter; it made you forget about the fact that you missed your hometown and the thrill of vigilantism, and it somehow soothed the ache for adrenaline, the itch you felt on your body when you left your powers unused for far too long — but it didn't quiet down that little, quiet voice in the back of your head.

Well, you knew. You were not offline ��� The hot, trendy romance between Bruce Wayne and Selina Kyle? The most stylish, trend-setting couple in all of Gotham circles? You weren't stupid to think you wouldn't be compared to Selina Kyle, she was freaking selina Kyle for crying out loud— you looked up at her too!! And, of course, you knew that there would be some die-hard fans of the couple in the comments of your social media ever since the engagement was made public, even if everyone knew or suspected it was an arranged marriage. But the comment saying that the only reason Bruce agreed to marry you was because you looked like Selina...

You absolutely didn't! At all! Your hair, your eyes, your body, it was all different!! You were a bit less defined, with darker eyebags... not as skinny... your skin was covered in scars, either from fights or as a result of your teenage acne... less... pretty? No, of course not! You were just as good! Just not ... better. It was a pointless comparison— you were you and Selina was Selina. Did you even want to look like her? Absolutely yes no.

Bruce noticed that there was something wrong with you, and he tried to do his best to cheer you up. Spending more time listening to your ramblings about your PhD, trying to get home sooner so you could talk more, sending you small gifts like chocolates to the university; everything but actually talk about it. Because you didn't want to talk about it, Because talking about it made it real.

"Anything in your mind, honey?" He asked one time as you two watched a movie on your big matrimonial bed, his arm wrapped around your shoulder while his fingers played with your locks damp from a recent shower. He wanted to talk about it.

—"I'm fine, Bruce, just thinking about the project..."

You smile softly, leaning against him. Once again, you didn't.

One of those nights you decided to just explore the city, maybe the adrenaline of running on top of buildings would clear your thoughts; and it certainly did, in some part. The feeling of the cold Gotham breeze on your skin was calming, it gave you a sense of home and familiarity, even more than Bruce's warm embraces did — your feet moving quickly against the concrete rooftops, your fingers digging into the hard material like it was sand as you climbed, it was fantastic.

But you were s bit out of practice after a few months out of business, so you sat down on the rooftop of a particularly tall building, trying to catch your breath, that until you heard a faint sound nearby and your stomach turning — it was quiet, like a gasp, probably a couple getting frisky in the middle of the nights with a weird exhibitionist fantasy, or maybe it was something else, you didn't loose anything by investigating, right?

A particular part about your powers was that you could spot people from a mile away, remember how you said the universe was one big, colourful loom? People were like drawings, it didn't matter how much they changed clothes or appearance, they were made of the same material, the same bright thread that you always thought was their soul.

And you could recognise Bruce's with one look, even under his Kevlar suit.

Why were you even mad? All of his affection felt like a cruel performance, a façade for the sham that was your marriage— platonic, fictional. But how he touched and kissed Catwoman was everything but. It was real. His hands had a purpose; he never touched you like that, so desperate and with an unspoken hunger. His lips had a purpose, desire emanating from their heated encounter. There was clarity in his actions that stung, a painful reminder that what he shared with her was everything you craved but could never have.

You counted one Mississippi, then Two Mississippi, then Three, four, five more until you couldn't look for a second longer.

You got back to the Manor with a speed you didn't know you had, and the comforting cold breeze of the night became painful, burning your lungs with every breath you took. You couldn't even cry or listen to the sound of anything other than your heart beating painfully faster and louder than you'd ever felt — you didn't even hear Alfred's voice calling you out and asking if you were okay. And you didn't even hear when Bruce got into bed with you like he did every night.

You just knew you didn't want him to touch you anymore.

And Bruce was worried, to say the least — he was used to the quiet of the manor, even with his new wife, but this was different. It wasn't the warm, comfortable silence he was used to; there was too much of it. You didn't ramble about your research, you came home late, or pulled away from his touch. It was like you couldn't stand the thought of him touching you, and it felt so, so painful.

The usual kiss on the cheek he gave you every morning made you tense, not in a good way, more like it repulsed you, that was if he even got to greet you in the morning. "Mrs. Wayne has left early" Became his usual morning routine, and it didn't get any better — He would barely even see you, and when he did, you either were just too lost in thought or you'd find a way to sneak away.

To make matters worse, something was causing too many strange phenomena around the city; some abandoned warehouses had walls that looked torn — not damaged over time or missing some bricks, but as if they were a big piece of fabric that had been crudely cut with a blade, threads, literal threads floating around the affected area. And they had collapsed more than once.

He had looked it up; there had been similar events a few years back in your hometown, an urban legend of a figure that could dissolve anything into thin air and impart justice for years in the night, creating and pulling the imaginary strands of everything.

"Maybe you should ask your wife," Selina suggested as they both sat on the edge of a building. "Strings, string theory. Ain'tthat her major?" She asked, "That's if she even decides to talk to me." He groaned, causing Selina to chuckle, "What did you do this time?"

The thing is that he didn't know what he did or didn't do, and she notices it

— " You should talk to her."

— "You think I haven't tried to?"

He is frustrated. Everyone has told him to fix it, but what can he fix if he doesn't know what's broken? Even the soft rain pouring over Gotham seemed to be avoiding him as well, like it was too repulsed to touch him just like you were. Hold on-

The rain fell normally over the rest of the city, but not on the space he sat on; droplets fell like thin strands of clear water. He raised a hand, touching one of the strands, and it burst and dissolved in the air with a sparkling sound; it reminded him of small diamonds or what fairytales describe as stardust.

Bruce stood up slowly, looking upwards to the tall building in front of him, when a faint 'Go home' left his lips — His hook stuck in the top edge of the building and inertia jerked him upward — and there you were, his beautiful bride on the other edge of the rooftop, in all your ethereal glory. Your hair in the wind, dancing just as the raindrops did once they touched your skin, stretching and splitting into cosmic strands that sparkled as brightly as the diamond in your wedding ring.

You looked… so melancholic, your tender face tired with grief, arms outstretched at your sides and hands constantly writhing from the cold, but it didn't seem to be important to you. Why were you doing this? How long have you been able to do that?

He has a rule: No metas allowed. but you are his wife, and you are so magnetic - even when defying the unspoken rules of the universe - His name left your lips like a soft prayer, just as he finally walked up to you, and when you turned to look up, he knew you knew.

— "Why are you doing this?"

His voice is soft; that's Bruce talking, and he hopes you finally do as well.

— "I just... why? When?"

— "When were you planning on telling me you still see Selina?"

You mutter, barely above a whisper, and he reacts by closing his eyes shut, taking a deep breath. So that's why you've been distant.

— "Don't change the subject."

You want to laugh, but you're just way too worn out for it. He doesn’t even seem to have the words to justify himself. "Do you even realise how reckless your actions were? Someone could’ve been in those warehouses," he starts, his voice heavy with concern. You can feel the weight of his words pressing down on you, but you cut him off, your voice barely above a whisper: "Are you really going to leave me?"

Leave you? No, not a chance. He wouldn't leave you for anything in the world. He cares about you, and he knows how important this marriage is for you. Your hands ball into fists, the strands of rain water moving quicker and more violently. "Because I lied? Because you love another woman?" You choked out.

Bruce grabs your wrist, pulling you closer to bring you back to reality. "How long have you been doing this?" He inquires again. "Years? It hurts when I don't." You reply softly.

"Are you going to leave me?" You ask again. "No... that's not what this is about. It's about how much danger you could've put people in." He laces his fingers with yours. "Why did you do it?" He questions again. "Were you too upset?"

You nod softly, pulling away to wipe a tear from your cheek. "Can we go home now?" you mutter. Yes, you can. You can talk later. It'll be alright. He just needs you to calm down and stop tearing the universe apart.

"Yes... Yes, we can, honey."

You had a lot of time to talk.

©sourcherrybites 2025

[kurogxrix]

so good! i cant wait for part 2

The ropes that bind me

Pairing: Fisherman!Bucky x Mermaid!Reader

Summary: Being a creature of the sea, you are bound to a life beyond the surface, always in sight of the human realm, yet forever out of grasp. But after centuries of this finned existence it’s a fisherman coming to the docks day after day that compels you to bridge the gap between your worlds, despite the warnings about humanity being ingrained into your kind your whole life. Will you meet the same tragic end as several of your sisters before?

Word Count: 13.4k

Warnings: mentions of murder; capture; death; a terrible father; slow burn

Author’s note: This is part one. I planned on writing this as a one-shot but I felt like it got a little too extensive, so I decided to split it up. I'm working on the second part but I can’t promise y'all anything about when I will publish it.

[Divider from @silkholland ]

Masterlist

It’s a risk. You know that.

Your kind rarely ventures out of your sacred sanctuary.

But there’s a curiosity you’ve kept guarded for so long, one that manifested, trembling in your soul for such a long time. And the time has come for it to reach the surface, urging you to do something.

It’s a reckless decision that would send your sisters into a chorus of disbelief, their voices sharp and laced with warning, if they only knew about your whereabouts.

If they only knew what pulled you to the green horizons, uncharted by your finned existence.

“Only a foolish heart dares to venture where the water’s touch has never extended.”

That’s what you’ve been told centuries ago. That’s what you’ve been told almost every day since the first. Because living on land meant living like a human. It meant dying like a human too, shortening the span of your life to the ones of the townsfolk.

And yet, here you stand, arms outstretched to feel the wind on your skin, the soil beneath your trembling feet like the softest moss kissed by the light of the sun. You haven’t used your legs in a while. After years and years of floating through jeweled depths, where silence cradles and the currents hum lullabies, your legs feel unfamiliar, unfurling from limps long forgotten, awakening with an overwhelming buzz of sensation.

The very earth breathes beneath your bare toes and the thrill that thrums to life in your belly elicits a laugh that slips free.

You had managed to steal a pair of trousers and a shirt from a man near the shore and you relish in the way the fabric brushes against your bare skin underneath.

At first, the feeling of standing on land is surreal, a strange rapture coursing through your body as you feel the ground’s warmth seep into you. And you do your best to recall the forgotten melody of walking, the sweet cadence of motion.

It’s like the earth has a heartbeat and you feel it in your toes, in the balls of your feet. The texture of the grass feels tantalizing, each blade teasing and tickling your senses as a slight breeze tangles with your long hair, making it sway and play with the wind.

The air is suffused with the sweet scent of flowers you don’t know the names of and you hear notes of music spilling from open windows of the cottages you get closer to with each timid step.

And as the uneven cobblestone of the streets meets your feet, you gasp at the new feeling. It’s hard and cold at your delicate skin and you let it sink in.

Your heart races with every, still slightly unsteady step as you get used to the headiness of gravity.

This moment feels so fragile, yet monumental and you don’t do much to try and suppress the wild exhilaration that keeps you going, reclaiming a new kind of freedom you only observed from your watery haven for so long.

The first time you made use of your legs, you were only able to half-crawl, half-rob to a canopy of trees where you hid behind, watching them in their community.

Humans.

One of your sisters, Zephyra, insisted you come with her and watch them.

Thus, you observed, hidden between thick trunks of trees and branches hanging above and beside you - surrounded by the forest at the edge of the village. You drank in the melodies of laughter, the tender exchanges, the innocence of life that beats through the streets of the town like a heart so deeply treasured.

You watched with wide eyes how children chased one another through fields, their giggles, and squeals carried over to you by a breeze you’ll only feel on land.

People walked hand in hand, words soft and sweet like the gentle cooing of doves not far off, picking at crumbs on the ground, and you never had been so in awe with anything before as in that moment, never felt a longing so implanted in your veins it actually made something squeeze in your chest. A stab tore through you.

It was their emotions that fascinated you most - the way a mother knelt to catch her child’s tears or the fervent embrace of two people in the shadows of the cottages. In every glance, every smile, you saw the depths of passion and sorrow, joy and despair, that you so longed to fathom.

The humans live under a sun that dips into the horizon, casting shadows you only ever watched hidden away from all of this.

You craved it. You wanted it.

But after Zephyra and you returned home, the stories you were told scared you off enough to never set foot on this land again. Humans could never understand, could never accept your essence. They would hunt you the second they lay eyes on you, kill you with a spear so quick there’s nothing you could do.

You’ve been told that’s what happened to your sisters Aella and Lirienne as they disappeared decades ago.

But oh, how you always yearned to touch their reality, to be a part of their existence, if only just for a fleeting instant. It was an intoxicating allure that called to the very core of your being.

So, you continued watching those men.

The men that steal the fish out of your waters. You would peek out of the surface and watch the boats bobbing, fishermen casting their nets and sharing conversations.

You always take great care to remain hidden, only your head peeking out of the water, cloaked with delicate seaweed and bubbles that would shimmer in the light of the sinking or rising sun, shadowed by the willows hanging over you from the land.

At dusk, when the fishermen would return, you'd delight in the warm glow of lanterns illuminating the harbor, casting a golden light over the water, as if honoring the creatures that live there.

But even in the countless years that followed, you kept your distance from the town. The allure of a home just out of reach kept resounding in your heart, but remained unacknowledged. It was a promise carved deep into your resolve, a tribute to your fallen sisters.

Even your beloved sister Zephyra disappeared one day, never returning to the waters again.

So, you stayed away, left with a solitude that cradled your pain. You lingered on the edges of the world, where your sisters’ memory lay, resting heavily upon the water’s surface.

Until him.

At first, he was a fleeting silhouette, unnoticed by your eyes. Just a boy with an impish grin and eyes that sparkled like the dappled sunlight that filters through the leaves of the trees whose shadows help you stay unseen by curious eyes. He was just a flicker of movement by the shore, a mere shadow dipping nets into the shallows.

But as the seasons turned and years rolled by, he transformed in a way that lured you in. And as he grew, so did your awareness of him. Brown strands - long, wild, and tempestuous in the summer breeze, then neatly cropped in the chill of winter - framed a face that was a canvas of boyish charm, deepening into the rugged handsomeness of manhood. Each summer blossomed him into a stranger you couldn’t help but behold, yet feared to know.

He now wears marks of the earth, the land you craved to wander. Sun on his skin, wind in the creases of his brow, roots by his eyes.

He seems to know the waters well - the waters you call your home - and it fills you with an emotion, a warmth, you can’t place. His eyes always hold a depth and you even found out their color after a reckless pursuit drove you to getting a little closer one day - a color so bright you only ever get to see it when looking up at the sky when the seas are at their calmest.

He always moves with an elegance that belied his trade, as if the sea itself had taught him the rhythm of the tides.

You watched him as one watches a season unfold, slowly, each detail revealing itself over time. His shoulders are broad and he bears a certain strength - a strength that speaks of patience, of waiting, of knowing what to do after so many years of doing it.

Each glance you steal at him, each morning you wait for him to show up like a living poem crafted from sunlight and shadow, you feel a rising anticipation for something you haven’t been sure what to make of.

His laughter often reaches you and it enthralls the very essence of your being, lifting you from the deepness where you had long chosen to dwell.

It made you question whether this man was the kind to put a spear through your chest at your first encounter.

He’s a quiet being. And yet a single look at him sets your skin aflame and everything within you bubbling in ways you never felt before.

It’s in the way he would linger by the water at dawn, his gaze distant, as though he, too, could sense a world just beyond his reach. And it was then, when he was alone and unguarded, that you could almost feel the beats of your different hearts aligning, as if he sensed you there, as if he might turn his head just once and meet your hidden gaze.

He never did. And so, you watched in silence, a lonely witness to his life. Until watching no longer felt enough, until the towns call and the pull of his shadow became a song that demanded to be answered.

Because in those stolen moments, you felt the tumult of a long-suppressed yearning. A yearning that whispered sweetly of possibility, beckoning you to reclaim what had been left behind.

A longing that both terrified and thrilled you, as it slowly chipped away at the fortress you had built around your heart. Every fiber of your being wished to reach out to him, yet the ghosts of your fallen sisters remained a haunting reminder, ever ready to dissolve the hope that rose anew.

“Hey, you.”

You had memorized the voice of this man, cataloged its nuances like a precious artifact, each inflection etched into the tapestry of your consciousness.

You’ve come to know it like you know the sound of the soft patter of raindrops landing on your watery home, each variation a note in a song you never asked to learn yet can’t unhear.

Sometimes it’s soft as a breeze rippling across the water, a gentle murmur that barely touches the air nor reaches your ears.

Other times it’s light, like the hush of wind through a grove of the willows that shadow you, gentle and easy, coaxing warmth from the marrow of your bones.

And then there were moments when it sharpened, an imperceptible blade glinting in the sunlight. It didn’t happen often. Rarely.

But you remembered the time when that little girl with the same chestnut hair moved perilously close to the water’s brink, stumbling and almost falling into the cold.

You held your breath as he acted, pulling her away swiftly with a reflex that was impressive to you. His voice had shifted then, tone arching with urgency and fear as he scolded the girl with authority and a warning in his tone.

You felt the force of his words ripple through the water, almost enough to draw you forward, enough to make you long to touch the shore.

But then she gazed up at him and he stopped, hanging his head and letting out a long breath before crouching down to her height meeting her eyes with his own burning cerulean. His voice had lowered to a gentle mumble, too soft for you to make out the words. But you could see the way his shoulders had slumped, saw the soft brush of his fingers as they tucked a stray brown curl behind her ear, coaxing reassurances and apologies from deep within.

You came to know his voice in all its colors - the rough, the tender, the ache of his untouched presence as it stretched across the sea, reaching without knowing, searching without seeking.

And now, that voice; the same you’ve traced in the chambers of your heart - this time, for the first time, it’s meant for you.

You don’t know what to do, so you simply stop, every part of you coming to an abrupt, swaying halt. It’s so sudden, your balance on limps that aren’t yet truly yours, teeters and your new-forged feet betray you with a faint, unsteady wobble. You falter, nearly tipping forward but somehow catching yourself before the moment could betray your clumsiness.

A low, hushed laugh floats across the space between you, perhaps carrying a hint of an apology. A chuckle you only ever were granted to hear with an ocean separating you. There’s a kindness in it that verges closer to your heart than you’ve ever let anything reach. You feel it curl around you, lingering like the air just before rainfall, filling every part of you with a building awareness.

Slowly, you turn, each movement deliberate as it dawns on you that this is the first time you’ll see him up close. And it’s earlier than you had expected.

His gaze is trained on you with a calm you can’t quite reconcile with the way it leaves you breathless. For the first time, you look into his face and watch him look at you in return. You really see him as you had only dared to from afar before, and the sight is somehow more vivid than anything the light and shadows of memory had ever sketched.

It takes everything in you to keep you from losing your footing, to hold yourself back from tumbling headlong into that gaze. Those eyes are even softer up close, quieter somehow as if they hold within them the deep, untroubled patience of still water.

They look at you in a way that sets your spirit ablaze, a look that feels like an invitation, an opening - a silent gesture drawing you into something vast and uncharted, like the dark waters that stretch out from the shore, the waters you now see from his point of view.

“Apologies if I startled you.” His voice is soft, a gentle curve of his lips and an apology in his tone. His smile feels like it is made for you, as if shaped by the kindness he carries.

His gaze settles on you, taking in details with an openness that lets you hold steady, your heart fluttering wildly.

His eyes drift, skimming over the loose folds of fabric draped awkwardly over your frame, too loose to be your own. You’re not even sure you put the clothes on correctly. There are so many holes and ends, it’s confusing, despite the fact that you watch them wear those kinds of things every day.

Still, it’s a strange weight that tugs at your shoulders and you feel each thread press against you. The fabric hangs from you in off places, sagging and bunching, like a poorly assembled cloak.

You watch him closely, like so many times before. Noticing the exact shirt he is wearing, the glint of something - a chain - around his neck that always catches the sunlight on the docks, the tousled strands of dark hair falling onto his forehead. Not as long as some years but not as short as others. Somewhere in between.

And the kindness on is face that doesn’t shift at the sight of your appearance. There’s nothing but warmth in the smile he gives you. Perhaps a hint of curiosity glints in his eyes and a little bit of sympathy, but his expression is devoid of the sour notes of judgment.

He doesn’t laugh, doesn’t narrow his gaze into some cold scrutiny. Instead, his eyes linger softly, understanding, the kind of look that might calm your beloved waters in the midst of a storm.

“I have never seen you here before,” he quietly ponders and you’re not even sure if he even directed that your way. Though, human interactions are obviously not your forte, so you can’t be sure.

You don’t know what to say to that, yet it seems like his attention isn’t exactly fixed on a possible answer you might give him. He glances downward and something in his gaze pulls tight. You look down at yourself, only seeing your feet splayed against the damp, chilled stone, the skin bare and exposed against the rough and dirty ground.

His brow creases, a subtle furrow pulling at the lines of his face, shadows gathering where light once rested. His smile is replaced by a slight frown - a soft, thoughtful sorrow - and in that shift, you see a compassion as real as anything you’ve ever known.

“Where are your shoes?” he asks, voice gentle but confused and also blending in with something else. Is that concern, perhaps? You’re still trying to get a hold of human emotions. “You really should wear some! Or else, you will get sick.”

The words catch you off-guard, pulling you from whatever veil of composure you’d managed to hold. You meet his eyes then, startled again at the intensity you never were on the receiving end of before. He looks at you as if he’s seeing right through you, past this fragile disguise of human form.

You realize then, with the thickening air between you, that he indeed waits for you to say something.

You open your mouth, letting the air hold his question a little longer as you only manage to take a breath in. Your skin heats up and you feel exposed without the lap of water on your skin. A strange pulse quickens inside you.

What could you say?

You’re not wearing shoes because you’ve never needed them, because your feet have only known the touch of smooth stones and seaweed and cool, endless water in the form of fins.

But these words falter before they ever reach the air, answering the question that still lingers there, drowning somewhere in your throat.

You manage only a small, soft sound, a hesitant beginning of something - yet it withers almost as soon as it forms.

But he’s still watching you, still waiting. The kindness in his face shifts into something almost protective, as though he senses the way you shrink back, the unease that rises in you.

The air stills around you as he begins to lower himself to the ground, hands moving with intent and you watch him in shock as he fumbles with the laces of his own boots.

One by one, he slips out of them, his bare feet settling against the cold, unyielding stone with a casualness that leaves you bewildered.

You stand there, caught somewhere between astonishment and a strange, blooming curiosity. What is he doing? The question hangs on the tip of your tongue but it never quite forms.

Instead, you only stare, your eyes wide, your heart tripping over itself as you watch him in his crouched position before you. His head tilts upward, a faint smile gracing his lips at the sight of your confused and startled expression.

His hands are steady as he reaches toward you, his fingertips pausing just a breath away from your skin, so close it sends a shiver over you and he hasn’t even touched you yet. His eyes flicker to yours, asking without words, his gaze careful, as if giving you a chance to retreat if you wish.

But you don’t. You can’t. All you’re able to do is watch, motionless, as he gently lifts one of your feet, his touch feather-light and yet enough to send a shiver of heat through your body. Carefully he slips your foot into the empty space of his boot.

The leather envelopes your foot and it feels foreign and strange, but there’s an odd comfort. The warmth of his skin still lingers. He glances up at you every few seconds, his gaze still questioning, but also assuring, all blended in the same shade of blue.

You still don’t say a word. You’re simply frozen, gaping at this man in wonder and disbelief as he kneels before you. He slips the other boot onto your remaining foot, his touch leaving you, only hovering now, like the softest ripple across the surface of the sea.

And when he finally stands, he moves up slowly, looking at your now covered feet, wrapped in the warmth he left behind. Satisfaction enters his features, easing some of the lines on his forehead and he nods subtly.

For a moment, he simply looks at you, and you are captivated by the light that swims in his eyes, a light you never captured in a glance from this far away.

You watched this man for years from your hidden places, observing without ever being seen. But never would you have anticipated this kind of reaction. This kind act doesn’t seem to come from the same folk of people who murdered your sisters.

Humans have always been strange. Their motives elusive and tangled, but now, as you stare down at his boots on your own feet, something deeper drops in your stomach, like a stone thrown into the waters that marked your home for so long.

But never in the centuries living there, you had known this sensation.

You look down at your feet and it’s weird not to see the familiarity of your skin you come to expect. Feet so used to water, now wrapped in the leather of his world.

A faint shake of your head accompanies the slight crease of your brows, a wordless attempt to deny this generous strangeness. But before you can actually say anything, he speaks up.

“You should have them. Keep them,” he insists, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards his smile that seems to reach you, almost warming the air between you both.

You lift your eyes to him, gaze wide and unsure, searching his face as though it might hold the answer to a question you’re just now learning to ask.

He nods with his smile in place, reassuring eyes focused on you. He doesn’t seem to mind your lack of answers, doesn’t question the quiet you keep.

But your eyes drop to the cold stone beneath him, where his own bare feet now rest. Guilt picks at your chest and you tug your bottom lip between your teeth.

However, he catches your look and waves it away with a soft shake of his head, his voice low and soothing. “Don’t worry about me, yeah?” He gestures to the boots on your feet with a tilt of his dimpled chin. “I’ve got another pair of those back at home. You need them more than I do.”

That’s far from the truth but again you don’t manage to say it out loud.

You’ve waited for this moment - a moment with him - in the lonely spaces of longing for years that drifted by like currents, each one pulling you back to him. Watched him from the shadows of the willows, hoping for this closeness, wondering what it would feel like to stand before him in this strange new world of breath and heartbeat.

You had thought a thousand times what you might say, how you might reveal yourself, how you’d keep your hidden nature to yourself. But now, standing in front of him, with his kindness covering you like the borrowed warmth of his feet, you find that words slip from your grasp, elusive as the mist on morning water.

This outcome is something you’ve never envisioned.

He’s so unlike anything you’ve ever known or even seen in the years of observing. You thought you’ve come to understand this whole other world of living by simply watching, but it seems like you were wrong.

And now, with him so near, you feel an ache within you. It’s an urgency, to hold onto this moment, to gather it like water cupped in your hands without letting it seep through your fingers, slipping away and only leaving few drops of memories.

The thought of him turning, of watching him fade back into his life while you slip back into the waiting depths, unsettles you in a way that feels almost as if it could be human.

Before he can drift from this shared quiet, you open your mouth, desperate to get an answer to a question you’ve been craving to know for so long. Words rise up in a fragile rush, each one carrying the weight of years without knowing.

“What’s your name?”

The question comes out soft, hesitant, unused to forming sound above the water’s edge, especially not in the presence of a human.

Your voice is so unfamiliar in the open air, it feels like something fragile and newly-formed, like your human legs, still feeling slightly foreign and unstable.

The words feel small, tentative, yet they seem to reach him with a firm presence, judging the wide grin that splits his face. You’re blinded for a moment, despite the sun having set already.

There’s a flash in the brightness of his eyes, like a spark in the deep blue dusk.

“James,” he drawls, and his voice drapes over the name like a soft weave of warmth, rolling off with ease and a hint of satisfaction at your question that sends a shiver trailing up your spine.

It’s strange to put a name to the face of your dreams. He feels almost different now. He feels closer. And every soft whistle of wind even far off in the distance seems to echo his name back to you. Every lap of the water against the shore seems to repeat it for you. As if you could ever forget.

“But,” he adds, his grin deepening, voice dropping to a softer, more intimate note, “you can call me Bucky.”

The words lap at your skin like the water has so long. You only heard it now, but it feels so familiar already, despite it sounding like something so foreign. Bucky. You repeat it in your mind. You will repeat it until the day you die.

It sits strange but soothing in your mind, something he handed to you, something he gave for you to keep. He stands before you now, not as the man you’d glimpsed from afar, but as James - Bucky - a person with a story, with a name that now belongs to your memory just as surely as he belongs to this moment.

And though you have only just spoken to him and his actions did surprise you, somehow, in a way you can’t explain, it feels as though you’ve known him all along.

****

Your sisters hadn’t noticed your absence that day.

But they did notice the way you lingered with your head out of the water, watching these fishermen until the sky darkened day after day. You only retreated to the depths, once Bucky’s back disappeared down the cobblestone streets.

Because since you got the chance to meet and talk to Bucky, you neglected subtlety.

You just wanted to see him again.

“Be careful,” Thalassa had murmured, her voice a whispering tide as she glided to the surface next to you, also watching the human figures along the docks. Her emerald tail brushed against your turquoise one for a moment, as if conveying the importance of her words.

But you didn’t offer a response. And after a short while she retreated into the depths with a reluctant flick of her tail, leaving you alone to the swell of emotions you only thought humans to have for a long time.

Your heart was alight with a strange duality, torn between the allure of the surface world and the dark abyss of your home. The lapping of the soft waves against your skin tenderly reminds you of the boundary you danced along.

Your sisters could not know of Bucky. Could not know of his attachment to your heart, because revealing him would be to unleash the tempest that lay between the realms of man and mermaid.

So you ignored their probing gazes, the burn of their suspicions. Rather, you watched another day come to an end, dusk velveting the horizon, painting it with strokes of amber and indigo as he vanished between the silhouettes of aged buildings.

It had been weeks since your encounter. Weeks that mean nothing to your endless life, mere moments devoured by the deep vastness of time. But perhaps it feels longer for Bucky and his human life.

He’s been a little different at one point. He looks around more, takes pauses to watch the people walk down the streets with shadows across his brows.

With every sun that dips below the horizon, every glow of light flickering on across the docks, you watch him in interest as he lingers.

His gaze sweeps more, taking in everything around him - the bustling streets that lay deserted at night, the infinite expanse of water that holds you. It’s as if he’s looking for something - or perhaps someone.

Each glance holds a flicker of hope, but it gets dimmed as day after day passes.

The disappointment weighing on his shoulders almost persuaded you to reach out from the abyss, to slip through the veil that separates your world. The sight pulls at you as strong as any current, urging you to bridge the distance between you.

There were moments you almost did - almost let yourself glide toward him and let your fingertips brush the fabric of the surface where his distant gaze lingered.

But each time, just as your heart crested with resolve, you’d stop, some inner instinct tugging you back down. With tendrils of kelp tangling around your tail, a benevolent force pulling you under, as if the ocean itself were binding you, holding you fast in the memory of your lost sisters.

It kept you from making a possible mistake.

Perhaps the same one your sisters did before you.

You crave his attention once more, the way his eyes met yours, the way they traveled over your human form. So gentle. So intrigued.

Yet, each time, you quelled the urge.

What if the world above bears little resemblance to the dreams you harbored beneath the waves?

What if Bucky is the only man - the only human soul tender enough, strange enough to pull the boots from his own feet and place them on yours, bare and unaccustomed to the earth’s cold bite?

A fisherman like many others, working in an air full of salt and sun, roughened by the chores it entails, yet soft in a way that lured you in, creeping into the imaginations of a world that’s cruel to your kind.

But he looked at you with a gentleness, so unbidden and unassuming, so freely given.

He gave you his boots and didn’t expect anything in return.

The boots, sturdy and worn, carrying the scent of the shoreline and the faintest trace of him, as if they still carry his warmth.

You hid them. Hopefully well enough away from your sisters to find.

They’re tucked deep in the hollow of a great rock crevice beneath the ocean floor, enveloped with kelp, nestled between beds of soft sand.

They lay there in waiting, concealed from the curious eyes of your kin, camouflaged among the seaweed and driftwood that crowds the small cavern.

When you visit them you let your fingers brush across the leather, feeling the texture of the old fabric, the rough weave that had known the weight of his footsteps.

There has to be a reason why he alone has caught your attention. Why his face moves like a movie in your mind. Why his voice sounds in your ears even when you’re diving deep through the water.

You had watched the men at the docks for centuries. Watched their faces hardened by work, their voices loud and grating, their laughter rough as stones grinding together.

They are everything that Bucky isn’t.

He became your project, your indulgence, the one spark that lit through your endless existence in an undiscovered world.

And with each passing week, the waters of your mind seem to grow murkier, filled with the haze of a foolish infatuation. You found yourself growing bolder, your curiosity morphing into a reckless ache that defied the cautious distance you were never meant to cross.

So, right now, you drift closer to his boat, close enough to feel the whisper of his oars cutting through the water, to catch the careful pull of his hands as he gathers his nets.

The urge to help him sneaks up on you, a strange, insistent pull that makes no sense. But you stay near, watching, waiting, wishing somehow to ease his work as if you might soften the weight of his nets or guide the fish into his reach.

There was a time when the very sight of a fisherman stirred only bitterness in your chest. You remember the way you used to despise them, the men who intruded upon your world, robbing it of life with no thought to the dynamic of the sea.

The fish are companions. Creatures who share your water, belonging to the ocean as much as you do.

These men would come, nets spread wide, taking what was not theirs to take, disturbing the balance you and your sisters held so dear.

You remember watching with a cold, simmering anger, feeling the injustice sharp like the end of the spears that slice through the surface of the calm waters to hit their mark.

They would descend upon your waters - eyes cold, features grim, hands rough, determination in their rowdy voices - as if they owned the very nature of life that swam right beside you.

How you loathed the way they dredged your domains, the waters bared of their bounty, the fish that once had danced freely in the ebb and blow of the tide. Their insatiable greed felt like murder in your heart.

In those times, you and your sisters lurked near their boats, hiding beneath the water’s shadow. With a thrill of mischief, you made the waters churn and swell, coaxing the fish to retreat, your shared laughter a sweet counterpoint to the gruff curses hurled by the men.

You hummed the call that kept the fish away, a high and reverberating sound that sent the scales darting to safer depths.

It left the men bewildered and you sent them home with empty nets and a frail temper.

It was a game of sorts. A contest that played out in silence. A protest raised by the scorn that lived in your heart.

But Thalassa, the eldest and sharpest, had lectured you and your sisters. She watched you from the shadow of the rocks and willows, her eyes stern and unsympathetic as she spoke of caution, of balance, of the risks of tempting human wrath.

“Leave them be. They are dangerous,” she would warn, “we cannot disturb their world without consequence.”

You listened with half an ear, always eager to return to the surface and defy them once more.

Yet now, you find yourself drifting even closer to Bucky’s boat with none of that bitterness. He works in a way that seems careful and respectful, his voice low as he murmurs into the open air. Sometimes to himself, sometimes to a companion, sometimes to the sea.

He never shouts or lashes out at the water, doesn’t hold the same harshness as most of the others. There is something in him you want to protect, to ease, to give him some small reprieve from the toil of his days.

So, something calls you to help him, to slip through the currents unseen, guiding fish toward his nets. Perhaps he might even feel the abundance, sensing something unusual in the generosity in his catch, as though, he, too, were being seen, were being cared for.

You know his boat well by now. Know the way it cuts through the waves. You had watched it from afar, drifting close enough to feel the subtle pull of its wake, but never daring to let it come too close.

But you crave details. The sun-cracked lines that spider across the surface. The exact color that marks the wood.

Deliberately, you reach a hand up, fingertips weaving through the water until they brush against the boat. It is rough to the touch. Rougher than most of the things in the smooth underwater life.

Your eyes focus on the flecks of rust around the nails, and thin cords of rope frayed at the ends where his hands must have held them countless times.

You move around the net that innocently floats in the water beside you. It brushes against your scales. A teasing brush, as if it’s alive, curious just as you are.

But you’re too caught up with the way he’s so close to you, right above you, that you don’t give the net much of your acknowledgment.

Foolish. That’s what your sisters would call it.

It twists, rough weave pressing against your waist, looping around you and you notice it too late before it tightens. It’s almost aggressive in the way it scrapes at your scales, clinging, pulling tighter still until you realize, you’re bound.

Every knot - perhaps handmade by Bucky himself - presses into you, pinching at the soft places that had never known the feel of something so abrasive, so coarse.

Panic rose sharply in your chest. An emotion you hadn’t felt in this expanse. An emotion you hadn’t felt at all. A silent scream holds you back as you struggle, feeling the ropes bite into your skin, its fibers digging like tiny claws.

Each movement makes it worse, the net swallowing you with each panicked twist and turn, until your fins lay trapped, folded painfully against your body, your long hair caught between strands.

You tug, hiss, pull, in a desperate attempt to escape. But it only digs deeper with each effort.

Your tail is twisted agonizingly, arms bound by your sides. You understand now, what Thalassa had meant. What she had warned you about. The stories of your sisters who strayed too close to the human world and found themselves ensnared.

The stories that ended in a tragedy you might experience yourself. Caught in the same cage that claimed so many lives from the sea, that captured breath and flesh without mercy.

Every inch of the net presses into you, relentlessly, a weave too tight for escape with a brutality that forces every inhale to catch, every exhale to strain. You feel your own heartbeat thundering beneath your skin. A sensation that’s so new and overwhelming, you lose all sense of direction for a second.

You’re trapped as surely as the fish you once pitied.

You hiss, fangs bared in desperation, mixed with a sliver of fury that coils as tight in your gut as the ropes around your body.

A shadow falls long across the water, over your form, and you still. Your breath quivers but another hiss sounds from your body as the water shivers around you and the net begins to rise. The net you’re caught in.

You are lifted, inch by inch from the depths that are your sanctuary but feel so far away in this moment. So unreachable. You miss it already.

Water slips away from you, flowing past your limbs, leaving you heavier in the net’s trap. You wonder, in those painful, breathless moments, if this is what the others had felt. If this is what Zephyra had to endure alone all those years ago.

Did she too feel her body pressed into the harsh fibers of this human snare, her breath coming shallow as her world receded, giving way to theirs? Your mind whispers a silent prayer in loss and sorrow, a prayer that sounds like her name. You know she won’t be able to answer.

The net holds you mercilessly, a tangle that knows nothing of you, knows nothing of the life it’s entrapping. It just takes it.

Fragments of thought flash through your head - images of your sisters who’d be filled with grief if you too wouldn’t come home again; the sea caves that hold Bucky’s boots with the secret of your infatuation with the man; the drifting kelp you passed countless times; the soft beds of sand where you once lay undisturbed.

You’re bound like any other fish of the sea, the dignity of your form crumpled into the harsh weave of the net as it lifts you even higher, into a world you begin to realize you were never meant to enter.

You wonder if this is to be the end.

If Bucky will draw you up from the water and look upon you with the same indifferent gaze he might give a dying fish, a thing captured and condemned. Or if his face will fill with hatred and disgust, driving his spear through your delicate body faster than you can react.

It would be almost poetic, wouldn’t it?

To die by his hands, those hands that gifted you warmth, that smiled upon you with kindness, that once held you in a gaze so soft it stole your resolve.

The man you’d spent countless hours watching, the one who captivated you beyond reason, the one who drew you closer despite every warning. James. Bucky. His name echoes through you as the net drags you upward. A bittersweet irony that cuts deeper than the thin ropes around you.

You break the surface, the water’s last drops slipping from your arms as the harsh bite of air claims you. Its chill presses close, where the net presses closer. The cold seeps fast, faster than you thought air could reach, sinking sharp teeth into you.

The thundering of your pulse rushes through your veins and spreads through your entire body until it sounds in your ears. It’s both, desperate and fierce. Your bound and bruised body awakens to the fire that flickers with each throb, and you tug and twist with a new fury, igniting against the woven lines that dig and press, refusing to relent.

The sun cuts down in a blinding blaze, harsh and painful in your eyes, and it strikes you like a glare from another world. You squint, hissing through your teeth, fangs exposed; scales, skin, and face pressed to the net’s unforgiving roughness. It takes several heartbeats - long, dragging seconds - before the light dims enough to reveal the world above, the world you’ve glimpsed but never known.

And then your eyes adjust, widening as you take in the shape before you, hovering over you, leaned over the edge of his boat.

Your hissing stills. Fangs pull back. The fight in your body slows.

Bucky’s hands are steady and sure on the net, gripping it and holding you with a kind of strength that is impressive for humankind. But they are frozen. Neither pulling nor loosening his grip, holding you just so - poised between worlds. Caught where the water clings but air consumes, where your tail flickers on the edge of transformation, not quite yet splitting into separate, human limbs.

You are held, suspended, both in body and gaze and in the stillness even the ocean seems to hold onto.

Bucky’s face is wide open, slacked, features drawn in a way that lets you see it all - shock, utter disbelief, something deep and vulnerable you cannot name.

His mouth is parted as he stares, silent and struck, and there is a tremble in his grip now as if he himself has become the one who is captured. Spellbound.

There is no cruelty in his face, none of the hardened indifference you’d feared to find in a fisherman’s eyes.

But your breaths are still shallow, each one strained as you cling to the scratchy lines of the net, fingers wrapping tightly around its strands, your chest heaving in dragging motions.

You’re caught in the pull of his gaze, the vehemence in his blue eyes, wide and wild, locked onto yours with an intensity that burrows deeper than you’d have thought a human’s eye could reach.

You feel exposed, more naked than the sea has ever left you, as though he sees through the scales, the sharpness in your gaze and fangs, right down to the pulse of fear that flutters beneath your skin. He stares and, impossibly, you stare back.

But then, after what feels like an endless, drowning silence, something shifts. His gaze softens, something curling at the brink of his stare as he takes you in with something beyond shock.

His shoulders ease, the rigidity in his body smoothing as his breathing starts again. His grip remains firm on the ropes that hold you. But there is no malice in his touch, only a steady hand, a gaze that pulls you in even if you strain to resist it.

The fear within you thrashes wildly like you’re just a wounded creature sensing its end. You feel yourself trembling, breath coming faster, more desperate, betraying the dread that swims in your eyes the longer you are held half above, half in the water.

Bucky notices, his brows drawing together, a crease deepening between them, concern coloring his expression in a way you do not understand.

His gaze slips away from you for a moment, surveying the open water. He glances around, looking at the stretch of horizon where boats might appear, where more of his kind could descend upon you if he called out, if he raised his voice to summon help.

Your chest tightens, breath catching in a strangled gasp as terror flares anew, your eyes widening. Would he actually call for help? Would he actually hand you over like every other day’s catch and watch your execution?

Another hiss builds up, but it leaves your lips faint and broken, the sound weak with fear. Not of warning but of helplessness.

It echoes soft and strained over the water, barely more than a whisper against the waves. As if your voice is held captive just like your body.

He hears it, the small note of despair hidden in your voice, and his head jerks back. His gaze finds you once more.

There is something in his eyes that speaks of an apology. A remorse that settles deeper as the water below. His hold on the net loosens, his grip easing so that more of the water can reach you again, its familiar caress lapping at your form. As if trying to pull you back toward the safety you called your home for so long. As if desperate to help you escape this cage.

He recognizes you. You see it in his eyes. You basically watch the gears turning, the way realization washes over his features. But there is so much more. Wonder. Inquiry. Awe. Astonishment. One that seems to draw him closer, as if he is not simply looking at a creature of the sea but at something miraculous, something precious.

One of his hands slips free from the net, and you feel its absence like a weight lifted, the net sagging slightly around you, allowing you to feel more of the water.

He turns his shoulder, his movements slow, careful not to startle you further. He searches behind him, brushing over the clutter of his boat. But his gaze remains softly tethered to yours.

Then, a glint catches your eye, a flash of steel in his hand. A knife. Sudden tension bolts through your limbs. Instinctively, your body tries to recoil but is still unable to do so.

Alarm shoots through his eyes at the subtle tremor rippling down your form.

“Easy,” he soothes, “it’s alright.” He says it with a whisper, a softness you only ever watched his lips form from afar but the sound never reached your ears before. Your body stills with the ease that sinks into your bones.

His mouth lifts into a faint, reassuring smile, quieting the last stirrings of panic.

With slow hands he presses the blade to the lines of rope, wielding it with a care that feels sacred. His brow furrows in concentration as he cuts through the knotted fibers, slicing where they press too tightly against you, but never letting the blade get too near to your skin.

He doesn’t even hesitate. Doesn’t pause a second to consider the effort it probably took to craft this net, nor the care in each knot that now falls loose under his hand.

Every movement of his hands are deliberate. His gaze flickers from the net to your face, to your trapped form, careful not to linger anywhere that might unsettle you, cautious not to graze the skin and scales stretched vulnerable against the bindings.

You watch him as you did when he slipped those heavy boots onto your bare feet those many weeks ago. That same startled disbelief makes itself some space within you, spreading like the cold dawn light always filtering through the water’s surface, that usually shimmers on your scales.

Your eyes linger on him, trying to understand, to piece together this contradiction in the form of a fisherman. A human, as gentle as he is foreign.

Again and again, you were told of their harshness, of the relentless cruelty they carry, their disregard for the life coursing through the sea.

So how is this man real? How is he here with his soft eyes, hands working with such care, brows drawn into a crease of concern? Instead of malice, there is a kindness in the lines around his eyes, deeply ingrained in his irises and it startles you all the same, like it has the first time.

This man - James - Bucky - is no villain of your sister’s stories.

He is not the faceless terror of the human shore.

He is something else entirely. An exception, perhaps. The one who is gentle where others might be harsh, who frees instead of binds.

Somehow, that exception is enough for you.

Enough to loosen the warnings of your sisters they etched into your memory, the caution they expect you to keep, the dread they drape over the very mention of men and nets and sharp steel.

Because you’re not looking at a murderer. You’re looking at your savior.

And he is working for your freedom, movements leisurely and measured, until the last binding of rope has fallen away, each woven knot surrendering beneath his blade.

You feel the grip of it loosen, and with it, a strange new lightness fills the parts of you that had been pinned down, captured.

There are bruises now, dark and tender, littering your skin, and small cuts where the net bit into you. But the pain is an afterthought, dissolving as you stretch, the water rushing around your fins in a cool balm, as if trying to soothe you.

Bucky’s gaze does not lift from you. His eyes drift over the marks, those dark welts and stinging cuts, and something painful shivers across his face.

His hands tighten on the final piece of rope as he pulls it away from you like it might continue hurting you with just a brush at your skin.

His lips press into a hard line, his jaw working in tension. His brows furrow deeper as he studies those lines against your skin, a look that holds none of the satisfaction of a hunter admiring his catch.

No, it’s an expression of someone caught in the grip of remorse, a guilt so heavy it seems to tug at his shoulders.

You realize then, that he’s holding the rope like something unholy, an object of disdain. His knuckles whiten around the last severe piece, and his eyes narrow on it.

The disgust is there, but not for you - not for the creature freed from his net. The disgust is for the remnants of the trap. For the scars it left on your skin. For the way it squeezed your fins to a painful angle. For the role he unwillingly played in it.

He seems to soften though as he watches you glide into the water gracefully, breathing deeply, reverently, as though the sea itself is an extension of your soul. As if it’s greeting you, happily taking you back into its arms.

He pulls the remaining lines of rope from the water with a certain hesitation, as if you’re having a moment he doesn’t want to interrupt. The torn and useless remnants of his net slip from his hand into his small boat. He won’t be able to redo the net with those ropes but his eyes hold no regret.

You could have disappeared already. Could have slipped down beneath the surface, beyond the reach of his eyes, back to the quiet depth that cradles your secrets.

Safety is waiting only a single dive away, already touching your tail, yet something is holding you here. You linger, your head just above the waves, suspended in that fragile space where your world touches his.

And in the stillness that forms between you, you see him truly looking. Not with the distance of a man glimpsing a mystery but with a reverence that seems to slow his every breath.

His gaze is not hurried. He takes his time, as if each second reveals another layer, another detail. As if he is memorizing the curve of your cheek, the foreign power in your eyes, the salt-laced droplets sliding down your skin.

Wonder fills his features, curiosity softens the angles of his jaw. He’s admiring you.

Admiring the way the sunlight catches on your scales, painting his face with the shimmer of your being. Shades glimmering turquoise, veined with trails of silver that follow along your translucent threaded fins, blurring into rivulets of cerulean and jade.

His lips are parted, but you watch the faint whisper of a word forming, the trace of something fragile and bare. Perhaps he doesn’t even realize he’s spoken, the words drifting to you like a half-breathed sigh.

“It’s you.”

It’s a murmur, more to himself than to you, the sound barely louder than the lapping of the waves against his boat.

It sounds like an answer. An answer to some unspoken question he must have asked himself, again and again, as he scanned the shoreline, the streets of his town, in the dawning light.

His voice clings to those words, as though he has been searching, always searching, for a glimpse of you amidst the townsfolk.

Though he’s been looking in the wrong places all along.

****

You’re no longer the only one observing.

Seeking a glimpse into a life so different and out of reach, yet always in line of sight.

The day after he rescued you, he returned to the docks early, hours before he would normally start.

The docks were silent, wrapped in the pale blue serenity of dawn.

You watched him intrigued, covered by the tall willow trees leaning over the water. The long branches heavy with dew, draped down to veil you in their green gloom.

You could see him clearly. More than ever. Perhaps because, deep down, you knew he came here for you. Came here because he wanted to catch a glimpse of the creature he caught like a fish the day before.

His gaze drifted over the water’s surface, searching. He was close enough for you to make out the lines easing from his brow. You weren’t quite sure what they meant but it had been one of the same looks he gave you yesterday.

The glint of the early light caught in his eyes as he looked across the innocent waves, perhaps feeling that you were close by.

You held yourself still, heart pounding and soul pondering whether to show yourself. Nervous, you pressed yourself further against the knotted roots of the trees, feeling the solid earth interlaced with the touch of water.

You studied him as you always have. Safe, shrouded, and yet, feeling so near like you never had before, as though a single soft lap of the water could give you away. This was a spot you hid in all the time with Bucky standing on the docks. Same distance as always. But he never felt so close.

Still, you held back, watching the line of his shoulders, how he stayed and watched, silent and waiting.

And just before you could catch a glimpse of disappointment in his eyes, another fisherman strolled over to him, voice loud and angry, a brash disturbance in the quiet morning.

You saw the older man shake the remnants of Bucky’s net in his hand, the shredded ropes still damp and torn. His words rose in harsh waves, berating, biting, blaming.

They rose with your anger. You felt it heat your skin, curling your fingers, snipping your tail.

The waves around you stirred, a flash of dark blue swelling as the currents twisted at your will, the sea restless beneath the fishermen’s feet.

The desire to rise and cast the old man back with the tides pulsed through your veins in a dangerous urge. But you felt Thalassa's resignation at your actions in the back of your mind and reined it in. So, you forced the currents back to calm, just enough that they would think it was only the morning breeze pushing at the water’s surface

Nobody seemed to have noticed. Well, nobody but one person. Because he didn’t take his eyes off the sea.

Bucky did not turn way, did not shrink into himself, standing rooted on the wooden planks. He seemed to ignore the older man’s harsh words, not bothering to defend himself.

A light ran over his eyes, a relief flickering like the soft glow of sunrise breaking over the water.

His lips curved ever so slightly, a subtle tug at the corners, as though the fisherman’s anger mattered as little as the waves lapping beneath them.

He came earlier the following days as well.

He would step up to the edge of the planks, where his gaze would drift over the soft ripples of your world.

There was patience in his silence every time, like he understood. Like he seemed to get that you weren’t going to show yourself. Still, he came every day. Came, stood, and watched.

It stunned you.

Softened eyes filled with wonder at what lay beneath the unseen. Beneath the innocent stir of the currents. It was as though he had uncovered a hidden treasure, and rather than clutch it, he merely held the idea of it, savoring the knowledge of something beautiful and rare close by, unrevealed by the rest of the world.

It became a ritual of sorts, something he seemed to relish. His own little secret with the sea and with something - someone - he knew lived just out of sight, as if he’d finally found the invisible pulse of the waters he’d crossed all his life without ever realizing.

He always seemed so relaxed in those morning hours. Just him and his secret. Simply watching in contentment, as if not wanting to disturb the calm that held you in its depths.

He traced the waves with a soft smile, admired the way the early morning rays glistened on the water.

As if only now realizing the beauty that lay just outside his door his entire life.

He is currently out on the water again.

You’re always aware when he is. Always know when he sails along your home. He basically becomes a part of it in those moments.

But it’s not his ship that cuts through the waves.

Its form is harsher, its hull thicker, forged more for might than the gentle trawl of his simple craft. It's built like a wall against the waves, not gliding with them like Bucky’s boat normally does.

No, this ship slices through the blue with a purpose that doesn’t belong here.

And he is not alone on deck. There’s that same man that had yelled at him the day after he tore his net to save you.

That’s the reason you followed it out in the open sea - a tinge of protectiveness over the man who saved you. Even years before he laid an eye on you.

Voices ring out above, warped and muted by the water surrounding you, yet they pulse in jagged waves that pierce the quiet.

You narrow your eyes, feeling tension build.

There is an argument happening, rough and sharp, and you wouldn’t bother with it, if his voice wasn’t a part of it.

There is a strain in it. Frustration. Defensiveness, that tugs at something inside your chest.

It pulls you upwards slightly, despite the instinct to sink back into safety.

You linger close enough to feel the force of the anger that tears through the air, even as the water dulls the hardness.

His voice is smaller, caged in by a louder tone, cut down even as he tries to speak. There is something drained in it, something almost defeated and it coils in your chest like a knot, winding tighter with each second you remain just below the surface.

The boat rocks more roughly, as though the weight of their frustration puckers down into the sea itself.

The reckless part of you, the one that caused you to get tangled with the human world before already, again makes a decision for you.

Carefully you move higher, the blur of the voices clearing out the closer you get. The closer you are to exposing yourself to the same air that breathes their argument. Your head is out of the water before you can think, hands holding you steady on the rough wood of this intimidating vessel.

The first voice is one you have heard plenty of times. Older, rough-edged and hard, like waves crashing over jagged rock. It’s the same raised voice Bucky had stood on the receiving end before.

“You’re telling me you cut through a net because you couldn’t be bothered to reel it out right? It would have lasted another season, James!” You flinch at a thud that makes the ship groan. Perhaps a first meeting wood. “Just carelessness - plain carelessness.”

Your fins flutter as the swell of your anger moves in the water with you. Your gaze shifts to the dark outline of the larger vessel above you, hiding your exposed head, not to be seen by the people moving along.

There is no trace of Bucky’s care in this ship, only an imposing sort of power that presses on the water below in all the wrong ways.

You hear Bucky’s strained breath. See his hand grip tightly to the worn wood of the rail.

“It was tangled. I wasn’t going to bring it back all ripped and knotted, without fixing it myself. I know how to mend it.”

He sounds done with this conversation. A tiredness in his voice that never makes it to his eyes when he comes relishing in your tranquil presence in the mornings.

There is a scoff. “You know how to mend it?” A bitter laugh sounds in the air. But it holds no joy. It’s dark. “Well, son, do you also know how to catch fish with it? Half the time you’re out here, you’re thinking about something else. What do you think your mother would say, watching you waste time and gear like this?”

The coldness of the words washes down into the depths, an accusation that somehow bears down on you, too. The water around you shivers and it's then that you realize that’s your doing. You don’t do much to stop it.

Bucky doesn’t reply right away. But you can feel the weight of his silence.

And you’re surprised for a second at the lack of fear inside you. Fear, because he still could be telling this man, who seems to be his father, about you. About how you - a creature of the sea - were the reason he came home with a torn net. Lines of rope all frayed and in pieces.

He could. He could tell him. But, somehow, deep down, deeper than the ocean floor, you knew he wouldn’t.

You basically feel Bucky shift on deck. Feel his gaze roam over the vastness of your home. As if it could give him comfort. As if it composed him enough to speak.

“The net’s on me. I'll have it replaced,” he then says, voice low, flat. “But don’t act like I haven’t pulled in my share of catches.”

A dark, disappointed groan drones in your ears. “You keep saying you’re here, that you’re focused, but I don’t see it, James. I don’t know what it is you’re chasing after, but it certainly is not in these waters. So, you better figure it out, son, before you waste any more of my time.”

He seems to step closer to Bucky. The thumping of footsteps reverberates around you, sending shivers through your skin, making you instinctively recoil. Your head stays above water but you’re tense. Ready to sink back down at any second.

A shadow nears the edge. Closer, closer, until a figure looms right above the railing. You catch a glint of a big hand gripping the side, knuckles sharp and bloodless.

He seems to lean in, dark hair entering your vision and you dive beneath the surface. But not before hearing the commanding tone of his voice again.

“Now, give me that. You should not have it any longer.”

You’re poised, back in the water, but your heart thrums wildly against the pulse of the sea. The timbre of his authority makes your skin prickle, sounding in your ears as sharp as you’d heard it moments before although it is muffled again.

You keep diving a little deeper. The cold water is bracing you, rushing around you as you sink. You’re low enough to feel safe. To feel the familiar comfort. But you don’t.

You’re restless, nerves tingling.

You can still hear him up there. Bucky. But his voice is tinged with a weariness that’s almost painful to hold inside yourself. The words themselves are lost in the currents, swept away before they can reach you, but you feel them all the same.

It’s worn, like driftwood tossed by a thousand waves. Softened by the relentlessness of it.

You hear his surrender. The long battle that he seems to fight against himself, its breath barely hanging on. Each word carries a heaviness that seems to drift through the sea as though seeking a place to settle but always getting pulled with the stream.

Your heart clenches painfully at the guilt inside. He cut that net, sacrificed it for your freedom, and now here he is, caught in a tangle of it all, left without a defense. And he lets it weave around himself, lets it bind him like his ropes had bound you. But now, he doesn’t reach for a knife. He simply lets it squeeze. Lets it suffocate him.

Before you can get lost in your mind, there is a soft sound coming from above. A plink. It’s delicate, as a raindrop over calm water.

You glance upward, startled at first, your heart doing a jump in synchrony with the rush that disturbs the surface.

Something glimmers, silvered, tumbling in slow motion, catching fragments of light as it drifts through the blue toward you.

It spins and glints, looking like such a fragile thing as it nears you.

Entranced, you reach out, letting it settle into your palm, where it rests cold against your skin, weighty and exquisite all at once.

It’s a chain. Slender, woven like river reeds into an elegant braid, its polished links softened by wear. At its center, a small pendant hangs, swaying gently in the currents that surround you both, learning the cadence of the sea for perhaps the first time.

The pendant is engraved with fine lines, winding into elegant patterns that glint faintly, illuminated by the underwater light.

You don’t known what it means but you run your fingers over it, tracing the grooves and smooth imprints. It’s beautiful and you find yourself admiring the little details. The weight is a comfort in its smallness, like something that belongs close to the heart.

A realization halts your thumb that’s been swiping over it.

Your pulse stirs anew.

You have seen this before - watched it sway against a familiar chest, catching flecks of sunlight as it moved in time with each breath. You’ve watched it rise and fall with every step, tucked close, held as something treasured. Sometimes atop his shirt, sometimes beneath it, where it touched the skin over his heart.

It is Bucky’s.

You have noticed it often enough to recognize it. Saw the flash of it when he leaned forward, the light of it dancing against his skin.

But you never saw the details before. The intricate pattern that makes it so unique.

A surge tugs at your memories. The way his hand would reach up, seemingly on its own, fingers softly grasping it, brushing over its surface like you just had. As if it holds something for him. Something valuable. Something of a price no coin in the world could ever reach. And it grants him access to it by a simple touch.

And now, it rests in your palm with a weight of importance so irreplaceable, doomed to drown and sink into a pit of darkness where it would lay unattainable but never forgotten.

You can’t let that happen.

There’s no way to find out what happened for it to fall where sky meets water but you won’t let it get dragged to its watery grave.

And something tells you it wasn’t Bucky’s decision to let go of it in such a way.

****

Bucky seems different this morning.

He was even earlier today. Sitting there already when you came up from the deep, shadows clinging to his frame, pooling in the curve of his shoulders. They are slumped in a way that makes him almost look unfamiliar, as though he’s been folded inward.

He would have caught you the moment your head met the first air of the day but with his eyes tipped downward you were able to retreat to the shadows of the willows without him noticing.

He drags a hand over his face, a sigh in his chest.

When he finally looks out across the water, there is a longing heavily dripping from his gaze like the water droplets from your lashes. His sadness seeps into the air, causing your breath to hitch.

Fingers tighten around the pendant that basically fell into your hand yesterday. It digs into the soft skin of your palm, pressingly reminding you who it belongs to.

There was no good time to give it back to him the day before but now there is.

But there is no way he won’t see you placing it on the wooden planks near enough for him to find.

Your heart hammers.

You wish for the pendant to give you that something it seems to grant Bucky so many times. Perhaps a bit of courage.

A deep breath fills your lungs. It wobbles on the way out but it’ll have to do.

Slowly, you submerge, sliding back beneath the water where silence engulfs you once again. Maybe that’s all you need to calm down.

You glide forward with the grace that comes naturally. Fish flit past, a scatter of silver that parts seamlessly around you. The water yields to you, always knowing your intentions before you do. Algae sway with your passing, green tendrils blending softly as you slip through.

You near the dock, near Bucky, and draw in another centering breath before pushing yourself to rise. The pendant is still tightly gripped in your palm, fingers almost aching.

The water responds, curving away for you to swim through. You emerge, inch by inch, already seeing his blurred form, a soft tether pulling you upward.

And when you break through, lifting your head into the open air, your eyes meet his.

Bucky’s breath catches, and he stills completely, eyes widening with that flicker of disbelief you remember from the first time. His face is struck by surprise. But it melts. Softening. Faster than the first time.

The shock in his gaze is fleeting now, submitting to something else, something that lingers, far lighter and deeper.

His mouth is open, caught mid-breath, and then his lips curve. A faint exhalation slips past his lips - half gasp, half laugh - an unguarded sound that leaves him like he’s been holding it, too fragile to release but too powerful to contain.

He holds himself still. Each muscle in his body restrained, as though he’s afraid the slightest shift might scare you away, making you sink down to the bottom of the ocean where he could not follow. He doesn’t even blink. As though he’s afraid that you might be a figment of his imagination and vanish the second his eyes open again.

But there’s a tremor in his hands. And the sudden rise and fall of his chest with the curling fists betray his desire to draw near.

His gaze trails over your features, each line of your face, lingering as if he tries to convince himself that you are real, despite him having seen you already.

The way he looks at you feels almost too much - so full of amazement that you feel your heart stutter, feel heat rise in your cheeks as his unabashed gaze rests so intensely on you.

You drop your gaze from him, rather keep it on the wooden planks as you slowly lift your hand out of the water. The one with his lost treasure in it.

Quietly, with a shyness you haven’t expected, you move closer. Carefully. Purposeful.

His eyes follow. Darting from your face to your hand, back and forth. His gaze softens with every passing second as you approach.

You stop beside the outside of his thigh, and with a breath that almost stuck in your throat, you unclench your fist while lowering it to the dock, setting it down as if even the wood beneath should bear its weight with care.

Taking your hand away, you reveal the chain and pendant that gleam like a secret laid bare between you both.

You draw back slightly, giving him space to process what lay before his eyes.

Bucky remains motionless. Suspended between reality and a cruel fantasy that plays tricks on him. His gaze is glued to the pendant as if it’s something sacred.

The bewilderment painted across his face that slackens his features and lets his mouth hang open is almost comical. A childlike miracle that softens his features to something so unexpectedly vulnerable. Your chest feels light and you can’t help the smile that softly tugs at your lips.

One of his hands reaches toward it as if on its own accord, callous fingers brushing over it with a slow tenderness, as though he is rediscovering a lost part of himself.

He lifts it in his palm, the chain glinting faintly in the dim morning light, and he stares at it like he’s seeing it for the first time.

The breath he releases is shaky, a sound caught somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, breaking from him with the relief of something heavy lifted.

He closes his hand around it, pressing it close to him as if it’s something to be treasured, as if he’s able to draw warmth from its metal. His eyes squeeze shut for a moment and his fingers tremble around the newfound relict.

You avert your eyes. This feels like a moment you shouldn’t take part in. It feels like you’re intruding into something private with him so unguarded.

So you prepare to return to your hidden shadows, to leave him with his thoughts, to let the moment be his alone.

“Wait!”

The word is barely more than a croak, a rasp of something unsaid that was out before he could gather his strength.

You turn your head up to him again, meeting his gaze as his hand scrubs over his face, eyes wide and shining with something he can barely hold back.

He tries again, voice steadier but no less quiet. “I- I don’t know how I could ever repay you.”

His gratitude floats between you both, the sincerity making your breath catch. His eyes search your face with something akin to incredulity. As if he’s still not sure if you’re really floating in the water before him. As if you still could be something his mind just made up. Even though the evidence of your presence is clutched tightly in his hand.

You don’t understand how he sees this as a debt. He was the one to gift you back your freedom. Your life. So why would he believe the debt could ever belong to him and not to you?

You watch him searching for language, his mouth shaping words that never quite leave his lips, his hand pressing the pendant to his chest.

He breathes deeply, almost as if bracing himself. And when he speaks again, his voice is low and quiet.

“Thank you,” he whispers, softer than before, his voice thick with gratitude that runs deeper than you will ever understand.

Something warm rises from some deep place within you and you feel it light up your face like the morning sun upon the water you’re floating in. Your mouth curves into a soft smile.

In response, his eyes brighten, a glimmer finding its way back into the blue depths as if he, too, is warmed by some inner sunrise.

His lips twitch upwards, hesitant yet honest, corners of his mouth tugging until it spreads into something whole, something radiant.

He holds you in his gaze as if he’s made a room there for you already. Something for you to stay. Something to keep you.

His eyes hold the kind of devotion that moments ago he had reserved for the pendant alone. But now it’s turned to you as if you’ve become the rare treasure placed back into his open palm.

He looks at you as if you’re the one who saved him today.

And before you can even so think about slinking back under, he speaks up again.

“May I-” He studies you for a heartbeat longer, contemplative. “Do you have a name?”

It’s intimate. A question only meant for you. Only uttered for your ears and not for the listening sea around you. The note is stronger, clearer, as though a surge of determination forced him to ask, not letting him leave until he gets an answer.

You can’t stop your smile from widening. Heat creeps up along your neck to the tips of your ears and the impulse arises to dive away, hiding from this emotion, resisting it. But you can’t let his question hover above you like that. Not when he answered you after it was you asking for his name those weeks ago.

A flicker of something crosses his eyes. Something you might interpret as an endearment. He seems to cherish this moment, eyes so fully fixed on the way your cheeks redden under his attention.

“Y/n.”

He beams. Face lighting up with a smile so pure it renders the sun climbing behind him rather useless.

He repeats your name - breathes it, really. He couldn’t help himself. Each syllable drips off his tongue like he’s tasting it, savoring it as if the sound itself holds some secret sweetness he never knew he craved.

Your tail flicks, cutting a gentle line through the water, a motion so out of your control like the sudden thrill in your chest.

He seems to engrave each note, each cadence of your name into the deepest folds of his mind.

As if he might hold onto it forever.

As if he can’t bear to let it fade.

“I am in love with the impossibility of us.”

- Lauren Eden

[kurogxrix]

You’re Not Me

A/n: I don’t think this is necessarily personality accurate for Bruce, but I had the idea in my head for awhile.

Bruce could see Alfred out of the corner of his eye. He had been standing there staring for 5 minutes, not saying a single word. Bruce had a feeling it was about Y/n, especially since Alfred was giving him a stern look.

“Are you going to say something?” Bruce finally spoke up.

“She’s been cooking all day.” Alfred said.

“And?” He questioned.

Alfred sighed, walking closer to be right behind him now. “She’s been stress cooking sir. Not normal cooking.”

Bruce already knew what he was talking about. He hasn’t seen her since last night, and she had been avoiding him too.

“Something I need to become aware about master Bruce? Something happen last night perhaps?” Alfred said it like he already knew the answer. Which maybe he did, but he didn’t know the full story.

“Last night didn’t go as planned… and well we didn’t really discuss much more of it.” He was being vague, and Alfred hated that. “She just needs space…”

Suddenly Bruce felt a hard smack on the back of his head. “Hey!” He protested.

Alfred just looked at him disapprovingly. “Space, is the last thing she needs, and I advise you go upstairs and talk this out before she continues to run through everything in the kitchen.”

Bruce sighed, he knew Alfred was right. This couldn’t wait.. Standing up, he loosened his tie and undid a couple of buttons. “I’ll go talk to her.”

Alfred nodded, taking his blazer from him as he proceeded to walk upstairs. Turning back around to face him, Bruce smiled knowingly. “Do you always have to smack me when something happens with her and I?”

Alfred grinned proudly. “I only smack you for her.”

Bruce nodded, proceeding to go upstairs. When he got to the main hallway he could already hear noises coming from the kitchen.

Stopping at the arch doorway, he leaned against it as he watched her.

Her back was to him, and she was very loudly chopping carrots. Looking around the rest of the kitchen, he noticed a few other dishes were on the counter, probably from her. When Alfred said she was cooking all day, he meant literally…

“Hey.” He finally made himself known.

Suddenly she stopped chopping and stood there for a moment. Turning her head slightly to the side to take notice of him, she quickly went back to chopping.

Bruce frowned, he had a guess as to why she might be upset from last night, but normally if she was mad at him, she would just tell him why, not avoid him completely…

The only time she was avoidant is if she thought he was upset with her, although he couldn’t really think of a reason why she would think that.

The mission last night didn’t go as planned, in fact it went off the rails pretty quickly. Robin was put in a bad situation and the assailant they were dealing with had him pinned.

There was a moment, even for a split second that both of them thought they wouldn’t have a way to get him out. A short moment in time that both of them looked at each other, wondering if ether had a plan, if ether was going to make a move. Then just for a moment Bruce saw it, he saw it in her eyes… she wanted to do it.

She was willing to break his one rule, the one rule he kept by for so long. She was willing to do it… and he knew she would.

Before anything could happen, an opportunity opened up for Robin. He quickly got out, and Bruce took over the situation and put everything to an end.

The car ride home was silent, both him and Robin sensed the tension coming from her. He tried to crack a few jokes here and there and even asked for help with his homework. He never needed help with his homework…

Once arriving to the Batcave and getting everything patched up. Y/n had given a kiss to Robins forehead, and headed straight upstairs.

Both of them looked at each other, it didn’t seem ether of them had a clue what was going on with her. Even though Robin remarked it was probably Bruce’s fault.

Now here they were in the kitchen alone, she was chopping and he was watching….

Bruce walked over to her side, taking a quick glance at all the food on the table. “You cooked.”

“Yes.” She responded, still chopping.

“You cooked a lot.” He kept going.

“I did.” She stated.

“Why?”

Suddenly she stopped chopping and set down the knife with a light smack, but not letting it go from her grip.

“Is there something wrong with me being in the kitchen?” She turned to face him.

“No, but all day-“ Bruce stopped himself when she just scoffed at him and turned back around to continue chopping.

“I haven’t been here all day. I cooked breakfast, then I went to the garden, then I made lunch, and a snack, and now I’m making dinner.” She proceeded to move the chopped onions to one of the pots on the stove, stirring it together.

“What time did you start this morning?” Bruce asked.

“I don’t know, maybe around 9AM.” She guessed.

“And what time is it now?” He continued.

“8PM.”

“Midnight…” Bruce corrected.

She suddenly stopped stirring to look at him. “What?”

“It’s midnight Y/n, you’ve been in here for hours. Alfred got worried.” He looked at her closely. Her eyes were dark underneath, and it looked like she hadn’t even changed out of her night wear. “Is this about last night?”

Y/n eyes widened, she quickly turned back around to hide her face. “Why would you bring up last night?”

“It’s obviously bothering you…” He stated.

“And it’s not bothering you?” She questioned.

Bruce was confused even more now. “Should it?”

Y/n sighed, she stopped stirring, leaning up against the counter she crossed her arms. “You didn’t say anything about last night.”

“Neither did you.” He quickly replied.

She raised an eyebrow at him, knowing this wasn’t gonna be easy to bring up again. “Do you want me to say it?”

He looked at her questioningly, he wasn’t trying to make this hard for her, but right now he needed her to be blunt with him since nothing was clicking for him.

When he didn’t respond, she shifted back and forth in place. “I was gonna do it Bruce- I would’ve done it.”

“Done it?”

“Broke your one rule… THE rule.” She turned back around, taking her index finger she slowly started moving the spoon she was stirring with previously.

Bruce finally understood now, it was clear she thought he was upset with her. Especially if he hadn’t discussed what happened about Robin yesterday. She must have thought he was disappointed in her…

“Y/n-“

“I wanted to…ya know.” She muttered. “I wanted to do it. If it meant he would be alive, if he got to live, I would’ve picked our son over him. I wouldn’t have even hesitated…”

Bruce didn’t say anything. She sounded defeated, as if he was going against her the whole time, and she was tired of it.

“I’m not you… I can’t be you, I can’t find it in myself to be as good as you to not cross that line… in that moment, when I saw that there might not have been a way out, I was going to do it, I was going to kill him…I wanted to kill him..” Y/n didn’t look at him, she couldn’t, it was too hard to imagine the face he was probably making.

Y/n stopped messing with the spoon. She turned back around, but she didn’t dare look up at him, she just kept her gaze to the floor. She glanced down at the wedding ring on her finger, messing with it nervously. “You probably didn’t think you were gonna be married to someone who would disappoint you when it came down to it.” She quietly whispered.

Suddenly Bruce grabbed her left hand, swiftly pulling it towards him right next to his face to be held up.

The quick motion almost made her lose her balance, but he used his other hand to steady her by her waist. When she looked up at him, his expression was hard, he looked angry, but not furious… more like a sad angry.

“Do you actually think I married you because you were like me?” Bruce gritted his teeth, seeming to get more frustrated.

“But-“ Y/n stammered for a moment, but he continued.

“That I married you because you follow what I do? That you would obey me? I wasn’t trying to marry myself- I wasn’t- damn it Y/n…” He struggled for a moment. Taking a deep breathe, he closed his eyes for few seconds.

When he opened them, he took the hand that was holding hers and brought it to rest against his cheek. Instinctively, Y/n started to rub her thumb against his cheekbone. He hummed at the gesture.

“I know you would’ve done whatever it took to protect him.” Bruce said.

She shook her head, just about to pull her hand away, but he gripped it firmly to keep it in place.

“Whatever. It. Took.” He said each word slowly and stern.

He leaned down to rest his forehead against hers. “Just like I make the choice you can’t, you make the choice I can’t… I married you for so many reasons, but not one of those reasons was because I thought you would be exactly like me, that you would ever disappoint me…”

Bruce wiped a few stray tears that had fallen down her face, leaning down he brought his lips to hers, feeling some of those tears hit his mouth.

He felt himself relax when she started to kiss him back, bringing his hand that was holding hers down to her waist. He lifted her up gently so she was now sitting on the counter top, her legs instantly wrapped around his waist to pull him closer.

Still while kissing her he reached over to turn off the stove. Quickly bringing that hand back to her face, he stroked her cheek in a circular motion. His other hand was gripped on her thigh moving up and down. When he stopped it in place and gripped it he heard a moan escape her. He smirked, moving his kiss down to her neck now.

“You know for as many rooms as this mansion has, why is it always in the kitchen?”

Suddenly both of you jumped, pulling away quickly as you both turned to see Alfred standing in the archway with a disapproving look.

Y/n looked anywhere but at Alfred, while Bruce just smiled proudly. “Sorry.” He said. Although his tone didn’t sound sorry.

Pulling back from her, Bruce held his hand out to help her off the counter. Then proceeding to interlock her fingers with his, he started to pull her behind him away from the kitchen.

“Where are you going?” Y/n quickly asked.

“Alfred is right, we have plenty of rooms in this mansion, so let’s go find one..” He glanced behind her smiling.

Laughing on the way out, Alfred shook his head, but couldn’t help the small grin on his face when he went to finish dinner…

Tags

@christianbalefanatic

[kurogxrix]

Wildflower

Daryl x girly!Reader (set during the first episode of season 4!)

Warnings: None!

⸻

“You’re Daryl Dixon, right?” the newbie with glasses asked, practically breathless as he approached the group outside the prison gates. “It’d be an honor to shake your hand, man! You’re a legend.”

Daryl blinked, stunned and uncomfortable, slowly reaching out to shake the guy’s hand while glancing sideways like someone would save him. Carol stifled a laugh beside him.

That’s when you popped up, bright as the damn sun, hair tied back with a pink ribbon you’d managed to salvage from an abandoned house. You bounced over, boots clacking against the gravel, and dramatically clasped your hands together in mock awe.

“Oh. my. GOD!” you gasped, eyes wide as you stared at Daryl. “I’d be honored to shake your hand Mr. Dixon,” you said, extending your hand with an exaggerated grin, batting your lashes.

Carol outright burst into laughter, and Daryl stared at you with his usual narrowed eyes and tight lipped grimace. “Ya done?” he muttered.

You gasped again, letting your jaw drop and clutching your invisible pearls. “No??… Okay…” you giggled, slipping your hand into his anyway and giving it a firm shake before skipping off. “What a gentleman,” you added over your shoulder, just to annoy him.

An hour later, the two of you were heading into the woods on a run—just you and Daryl. You walked a little behind him, talking his ear off like usual. “So I was thinking,” you began, “if we find canned peaches again, I’m totally hoarding them. Like, no shame. That’s my treat. You can have the beans… Bleh.”

Daryl grunted.

“Grunt twice if you agree.”

He grunted again, and you giggled like a child.

Not long after, Daryl halted in his tracks and crouched low, spotting fresh deer tracks. He raised a hand for you to stop. “Stay here,” he muttered. “I’ll get it.”

“Wait—what? Hey! I can help!” you said, puffing your cheeks as you stepped closer.

“Yeah? Gonna charm the deer to death?” he mumbled, already stalking forward. “Go collect water or somethin’.”

You huffed. “Fine. Rude,” you grumbled, trudging off toward a nearby stream with your empty bottle. “Didn’t wanna slice up Bambi anyway…”

You were crouched by the water’s edge, mumbling about how frogs were better company, when you heard his boots behind you. You didn’t turn around, still filling your bottle. “Let me guess… you brought me the antlers or something.”

“Close,” Daryl drawled, sounding suspiciously amused.

You turned, and your jaw dropped.

In his dirt-smeared fingers was a small, delicate bunch of wildflowers. Purples, soft yellows, one stubborn little pink bloom right in the center. It was the apocalypse, sure—but they were the prettiest thing you’d seen in weeks.

“Daryl…” you breathed, rising slowly.

He shrugged one shoulder, avoiding your eyes. “They were just there. Figured you’d like ‘em.”

You launched forward, throwing your arms around his neck like he’d just given you a diamond necklace. “DARYLLLL!” you squealed, showering his face in kisses. “You do love me!”

He rolled his eyes, muttering, “Woman get off me…” but his arms slid around your waist all the same.

You kissed the side of his face three more times before pulling back with the biggest smile.

“Yeah, yeah…”

Later, everyone sat around the campfire, the deer roasting over the flames while laughter hummed through the night. You sat snug against Daryl’s side, one of the flowers tucked into your hair. You’d made a show of putting it there earlier, just to be annoying. “Matches my vibe,” you had said, blowing him a kiss.

Now, with your head resting on his shoulder and your body curled up beside his, your voice was quiet, breath slowing. His arm was around you, rough hand dragging soft patterns over your thigh as your eyes began to flutter shut.

Glenn leaned over, whispering, “Shhh. Don’t move.”

The others fell silent.

Click.

He snapped a photo with the old camera he’d brought back from a run. Then, gently, he placed the printed photo in your lap as you snored softly against Daryl’s arm.

“She’s gonna love that.” Maggie whispered.

Daryl looked down at you—his pink girl, fast asleep with a flower in her hair and a smile still lingering on her lips. He didn’t say a word. Just tugged the blanket higher over your shoulder and leaned back, letting you stay tucked into him for the rest of the night.

⸻

a/n: this one is for all my girly daryl lovers out there :3 my requests are also open!

[kurogxrix]

again and again and again and again

[kurogxrix]

Anywhere you go, I'll follow

Pairing: Din Djarin x f!reader

Summary: Din saves you after your home is destroyed, giving you both a chance to finally come clean about your feelings.

Warnings: language, descriptions of death/violence, longing/pining, hurt/comfort, angst, smut (18+ MDNI), fingering, unprotected piv sex, dirty talk, reader wants his baby real bad

WC: 5.9K

---

He knew something was wrong before he even landed.

Naxore was never what one considers a paradise, but the dusty planet never looked as ashen as it did from this distance.

It was small, but it managed to house about one thousand citizens. From his experience, they're good people. They mind their own business and require very little from the galaxy. Most of what they eat and use gets produced right on the planet itself. It's small, ugly, and hardly a blip on the radar. This never stopped the people who live there from loving it with their whole hearts.

When he first arrived all those years ago, ship in desperate need of repair and Din in desperate need of hiding, the citizens welcomed him. They fed him and cleansed his wounds without a second thought. They put their lives and their little planet in danger to keep him safe. And when he left, the doctor who tended to him and gave him a bed said, Keep Naxore a secret.

And he did. But whenever Din had the chance, he would stop by and pay them a visit. He brought goods and wares from other planets, trinkets and toys for the children, and anything else he could think of they might find useful.

He always stayed with the doctor, whose wife passed on before Din had ever arrived, but still had a daughter.

You.

He told himself he was being kind, that the reason for his visits were virtuous, but deep down he knew it was you that kept him coming back. After every visit, he became more and more infatuated. Less and less time would pass before his next trip, just so he could get a glimpse of you, and when he was away, his thoughts were consumed with your laugh, your smile, the way your eyes sparkled when he unveiled to you whatever little gift he brought. He thought of you constantly. He longed for the conversations you would have, all alone, late at night around the fire. He grew hooked on your every word, eager to learn as much about you as possible. You would tell him stories of your mother, of the children at the school where you taught, how worried you were for your father as he aged.

You never once spoke of a partner, and he never asked. It would be considered too forward. Besides, what sort of life could he offer you if he tried to make you his? A bounty hunter, living a life of danger with no real home?

No, you were safer with your father.

Still, he enjoyed his visits. It temporarily satiated his thirst to be near you, to listen to you speak, to watch the way your nimble fingers worked to mend clothes or knead bread.

Din didn't have many pleasures in life, but that was certainly one of them.

So as he began his descent and saw your little planet was barren, his heart sunk. He discovered once he stepped off the Razor Crest that what little trees and foliage you had are burnt to a crisp. Everything is grey, death looms everywhere. Corpses, nearly skeletons now, litter the streets. Buildings collapsed, rubble crunch under his boots, and the entire town is silent, yet he still follows the familiar path to your father's house. He knows what he's going to find, but he can't stop himself.

Sure enough, when your house comes into view, his suspicions are confirmed. The entire building is leveled to the ground. He stumbles a moment, fighting the pain swelling in his chest. Not much is recognizable, but there is a chair that used to be in the sitting room. The same chair you used to sit in while he regaled you with his stories.

He falls to his knees then, and dips his head, fighting the urge to cry. He isn't even sure why he bothers. No one is alive and he still has his helmet on, yet he still blinks back tears.

You were so young and beautiful. You had your whole life ahead of you. You were kind and thoughtful and patient with the children in your class and with your father.

His gloved hand digs angrily into the dirt, fingers curling like he could find some answer for his pain. If he just visited more — if he took you with him, like he always wanted — maybe you would still be alive.

He feels sick. Enraged. His heart splits in his chest and his body folds over, slowly, as if the weight of his agony was trying to bury him.

Just then, there's a noise. It sounds as though someone's walking over the rubble, albeit much softer than he just did. His breath stalls and he scans the area, freezing with his hand on his blaster when he spots the source.

He can hardly believe his eyes. Yet, there you stand. Dirty, ashen, hair a mess and clothes torn. But still, you're there.

He blinks and a tear slips past his defenses. He's convinced at first he must be hallucinating, but then you move again, looking at him like you must be thinking the same. Like he's a mirage.

When you get closer, his hand falls from his waist and he slowly brings himself to his feet. He refuses to tear his eyes away, afraid if he does, you'll disappear.

Finally, you slowly raise your hands to cup your mouth. Your eyes crinkle and streaks of wet trail down your filthy cheeks and you call out his name with a broken sob.

"Din."

He closes the distance in a heartbeat. His arms wrap around you and he feels your body heave, bawling and shaking in his arms. He murmurs your name, tells you you're okay, and promises to take care of you.

You nod and continue to cry. Your fingers grab at him, searching for comfort. They slide over his steel armor, feeble fingers clawing at unwavering metal, and he never before felt so angry. Angry at whoever did this to your planet. Angry at himself, for not doing more. Angry at the promise he kept to remain hidden behind a helmet.

He doesn't ask. He leads you to his ship, slowly. Your shoes aren't as good as his and your body seems weak and malnourished. But when it starts to grow dark and you stumble next to him, he scoops you up in his arms. A squeal of surprise slips past your lips but your arms wrap round his neck, anyway.

"You need rest," he says by way of explaination. "I can carry you the rest of the way. I have food and a warm bed. You'll be strong once again, and you will be safe."

You simply nod and lean your head against his shoulder. He feels your warm breath on his neck through his cowl and he has to resist the urge to strip himself of his armor and press his body to yours the second he gets you safely on the Crest.

He feeds you and gives you fresh clothes. He shows you to the fresher, where you can wash up, and promises to wait just outside the door in case you fall or need help. You don't, but he never once leaves his post. When you emerge, your eyes look sunken and puffy. You're exhausted and he knows there was no use in asking you for details that night. He ushers you to his bunk and you crawl inside, collapsing into his cot with a deep sigh of relief.

"I'm going to get us out of here," he says. You just nod with your eyes closed. "Call out if you need me," he adds before flicking off the light. He gives you one more glance before he ascends to the cockpit. You look comfortable. You look at peace. And you look fucking incredible in his clothes.

He stifles a growl and heads up the ladder.

His priority is to get you to safety. Everything else can wait.

---

"If you never take it off, how can you eat?"

Din's eyes flickered up to you through his visor. It's been two days. You nearly slept for one of them. You look healthier and more like yourself now. The sight made him happy, more relaxed.

"I eat alone," he explains. You're sitting across from him at the small metal table that folds out from the wall. You are halfway through your meal, which is nothing fancy, just some freeze dried rations, but based on the noises you made since the first bite touched your lips, you'd think you're eating fresh tiingilar.

Your eyes drop to the plate in front of him, untouched.

"Oh," you say, recalling from his prior visits when he would retire to his room to eat. You always thought it was due to exhaustion or perhaps he didn't want to hear you prattle on about nonsense like you had a tendency of doing whenever he lingered in your father's sitting room. It was always so hard to read him when his face and body was covered in armor.

"What if I turned my back?" you offer. His head tilts and his fingers thrum against the tabletop.

"I can wait," he assures you, then asks, "Will you tell me what happened?"

Your face falls and you look down sadly at your plate. You push around the food and drag in a shaky breath.

"We were attacked," you say. "It happened at night. They ransacked the town while everyone slept. I remember—"

You choke on your words and he stiffens.

"I remember going to the window when I first heard the shouting. I... they were dragging people from their homes. They took the women and killed the men."

Din stops breathing. His jaw tenses behind his helmet. You sniffle, then continue.

"My father built a small bunker underneath our home when I was a child," you say, wiping a tear from your eye. "He hid me down there and I begged him to join me, but he wouldn't — I begged him, Din."

Tears trickle down your face now. He reaches out a gloved hand to stop you, rests it on top of yours.

He knows it's a long shot, but still he asks, "Do you know who these people were?"

You shake your head somberly, eyes drifting now to his hand. You think it over for a moment before lifting your other hand to place on top of his. Your thumb idly rubs the tough fabric.

"I never found another living soul," you whisper. Din's gaze is still locked on your hands. "I searched for days. I suppose it's fortunate my father was a paranoid man."

"Your father was a careful man," he corrects. You smile but it doesn't reach your eyes. He feels horrible because it's clear your heart is torn in two and filled with guilt, yet he sits across from you, brimming with joy and relief that you managed to survive.

"What will happen now?" you ask, "what will I do?"

He swallows and you must hear it because you tilt your head slightly.

"I can take you anywhere you want to go," he eventually says.

You laugh, but it sounds flat. You keep his hand sandwiched between yours when you say, "I have nowhere to go. I've never even left my planet before. I have no one. Well... except for you."

Your cheeks burn. You give his hand a little squeeze before letting it go and even through his gloves, he instantly misses the heat from your touch.

"Navarro is nice," he says, "I have people there that I trust. People who can help you get back on your feet."

"Oh," you breathe. Then you blink and drop your gaze to your lap, food long forgotten. "Yes, okay. That... okay."

He studies you through his visor. He can tell the idea makes you nervous. You're shifting awkwardly in your seat and anxiously chewing your bottom lip.

Then, he says something foolish. Something reckless and selfish.

"Or, you could stay with me. On the Crest. It's not much of a life, but—"

"Really?" you ask, cutting him off. You peer at him hopefully through your lashes and warmth spreads in his chest at being the object you chose to grace with that look.

"Of course. You're welcome here for as long as you wish. I just ask you listen to me," he tells you sternly. He wants to make sure you understand the seriousness of what he's trying to say, but you're practically bouncing in your seat from excitement. "It can get dangerous, at times. If I tell you to stay on the ship, you need to stay on the ship, no matter how bored you might be, or—"

"I will, I promise," you say before jumping up and rounding the table. He barely has a chance to blink before you throw your arms around him for a hug. It's clunky and awkward with his armor, but you don't seem to mind. You're grinning from ear to ear, the happiest he's seen you look in days. He inhales deeply, breathing in your scent through the filter in his helmet. It makes him dizzy. With his soap and clothes, you smell so good that it leaves him breathless.

"Thank you," you say softly. You pull back slightly to gaze up at him and for one second, he thinks you can actually see him. Your eyes lock on his and you hold it, and it all feels so real that it has his breath catching in his throat. Without thinking, one of his hands lifts to cradle your face. You immediately lean into his touch but your gaze never falters. Nobody has ever looked at him the way you did. It cuts him to the core in a way he never imagined.

The air between you grows too heavy and he can't resist quickly scanning your body. Through his visor, he picks up your heat signature is slightly elevated in your face and chest. And he tries to fight the urge, he really does, but he can't help scanning lower. He clocks the temperature between your legs and his cock stirs when his suspicions are confirmed.

"You said you've never left your planet."

His voice breaks the tension. You blink and nod with a smile before stepping back, creating some breathing room between you.

"You shouldn't hide down here, then. You're missing the entire galaxy. Let me show you the cockpit."

Your eyes flicker nervously to the ladder before slowly nodding.

"O-okay," you reply shakily.

Din frowns and reaches for your hand. "There's nothing to be afraid of. I think you'll like it."

Your shoulders square up. Your chin lifts confidently and he smiles when you say, "I trust you."

He climbs the ladder first, then reaches down to help you up. When you clamber to your feet and look around, your eyes grow wide and your lips part with wonder.

"Oh, my..." you breathe, gaze raking over all the lights and controls before settling on the huge windows. He can see the reflection of the stars in your eyes and he can't tear himself away. As he suspected, all traces of your earlier apprehension vanished. You're hypnotized by the way the bright stars stretch and swirl through hyperspace, completely enraptured.

"This view. It's... beautiful," you whisper, unblinking.

With his attention still fixed on you, he replies, "Yes, it is."

Your eyes dart to him and you try to bite back a shy smile when you realize he wasn't looking at the stars.

"I've never flown before," you tell him, "it's so incredible. I can't believe you can do this all on your own."

"Really? Never?" he asks, and you shake your head. "Then we should celebrate," he adds. Your eyes light up when he spins around to a small cabinet bolted to the wall and pulls out a half filled bottle of liquor. As he pours the dark red liquid into two glasses, he realizes he hasn't stopped smiling since you stepped foot in the cockpit.

"What is this?" you ask when you take the cup he offers you. You sniff it and your nose scrunches up.

"It's Mandalorian wine," he says, "try it, it's good."

You take a tentative sip then look up at him with surprise. "It's sweet."

"I don't have it often, it's hard to come by," he admits. Then his free hand unlatches his helmet and your eyes snap to the place his fingers hook under the edge. He swears he notices excitement flicker across your face for a brief moment before you turn around.

"I won't look," you promise.

He opens his mouth to tell you it was fine, that he was only lifting it a few short inches to take a drink, but he doesn't. He sips from his glass and allows himself to take you in fully without your heated gaze pinning him to the wall. He can just make out your reflection in the windows and you faithfully have your eyes squeezed shut, just in case you catch an accidental glimpse. He sips again and his eyes darken. He can feel his body responding to how obedient you are and it's growing uncomfortable.

He slips his helmet back down and when you hear the telltale hiss of the latch, your eyes open.

"Can I turn around now?"

A muscle flickers in his jaw. Fuck, you're such a good girl.

"Yes," he says, voice rough.

You pick up on his tone. Your face warms as you slowly turn around to face him and its imperceptible, but your thighs squeeze together in his fucking pants. It's a good thing you can't see him because underneath the helmet, he is fighting every urge to pull you into his arms. He's sure it's written all over his face. Maker, he wonders what it would be like to be touched by you, to be held by you, to be kissed by you. It's been so long.

You're nervous again, he notes, but not due to fear this time. Your gaze shifts around the cabin and you swallow thickly before pointing towards the controls.

"W-what do all these do?"

He follows your finger. You're pointing to the control wheel and dials right in front of his chair.

He sets down his mostly empty glass and sits. He begins to half heartedly tell you what certain switches and knobs do, and you nod along, sipping from your glass and leaning into the side of his chair.

You lean forward, across his lap, and squint at one particularly important looking lever.

"What about this?"

His eyes slide closed and he breathes deep. You're so close to him he can feel the warmth from your skin through the slivers of exposed fabric that lies underneath his armor.

"It— it's one of the controls that sends us into hyperspace," he mumbles. You hum curiously and take another sip, draining your glass. Your body still stretches over his lap as you study the control panel and he hopes you don't notice the twitching in his pants.

"One of?" you echo. Then your beautiful eyes find his visor. He swallows harshly, leather creaking over his knuckles.

"Yes," he rasps, "there's — well, there's levels I need to check first and a course needs to —"

He stops speaking when you straighten up and sidestep so that you're wedged between him and the control panel. He watches in a haze when your small hands wrap around the control column, right where his hands normally go to steer the ship.

His gloved fingers dig into the arms of his chair.

His legs straddle yours where you stand. If you sat, you'd be right in his lap. His hands twitch and his heart stutters in his chest. You're so fucking close, he could simply wrap one arm around you—

The ship hits an unexpected rough pocket and it jolts. It's small, nothing he would even wake up for, but you're not used to flying. Your knees give out and you fall back, right into his chest.

His arms circle your waist and you let out a squeak of surprise. Then your hands cover his. Instead of pulling them off your body, you tug them tighter and squirm a little in his lap, as if you're trying to get your bearings and stand, but it's taking just a little too long.

Din murmurs your name and you still.

"Cyar'ika, I'm a patient man. But you're testing me, and I think you enjoy it."

He can't see your face, only your back and shoulders, which tense at his words. There's a long pause as if you're trying to decide your next move and he holds his breath, hoping he didn't read things wrong.

Then, your shoulders drop.

Your fingers loosen around his hands but still remain in place, holding them to your stomach. When you tilt your face to the side and look at him over your shoulder, you give him a sly grin.

"Am I that transparent?"

He doesn't respond right away, but his cock does. It swells underneath you and a soft noise that has him forgetting how to breathe slips past your lips.

"Din—"

He shakes your hands off his so he can pull frantically at his gloves, one at a time. They drop to the floor, then his hands are back on you again. Your eyes flutter shut and you tip your chin up when you feel him — really feel him — for the first time as he explores the skin under your borrowed tunic. It has been so long since he's felt the warmth of another that it makes him weak. Under his helmet, his jaw drops open in wonder. You're breathing heavy, he can feel it, and it's making his vision blur.

He cups your left breast and you whimper before leaning into his hold. Stars, you're so soft and warm and perfect that he never wants to stop touching you.

Your body sags against his chest when he rolls your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Your back presses against his beskar and your head falls backward onto his shoulder with a loud thud. You wince and try to hide it, but he sees it.

"Sit up," he orders. He releases your breast and you whine but you do as you're told and lean forward so he can remove the metal that covers his upper body.

He eases you down so your back rests on his chest once again. Now, the only metal you have to contend with is his helmet and the plates on his thighs. When the back of your head comes to rest on his shoulder, you instantly twist so you can bury your face into the crook of his neck. You inhale deeply, like you're committing his scent to memory, before fumbling for his hand and guiding it down, past your waistline. His fingers dip underneath your pants and he bites back a groan. The fabric is oversized and loose, making it easy for him to find exactly what he's looking for.

"D-Din," you stammer when the pads of his fingers slide through your slit. Your head rolls and your lips part when you lift your hips off his lap, chasing his gentle touch.

You must hear how fast he's breathing. Even though the modulator muffles it, it's so loud it's impossible you don't notice.

"Maker, you're soft. So soft and wet," he murmurs. You preen a little in his lap, hips rolling so his two thick fingers slip through your cunt, spreading your folds and slick with each pass.

When he sinks both fingers past your entrance, your hand flies back, slapping loudly against the side of his helmet.

"Oh!" you cry out, fingers clutching uselessly at the metal. Your back arches off his chest with a wet gasp when he pushes in all the way to the knuckle, then he's shushing you. His distorted voice is trying to quiet you down but, as it turns out, you both want each other so badly that it's an impossible task, even for a Mandalorian.

"Do you know how long I've thought about this?" he asks, watching the way your eyes pinch shut and your jaw trembles each time his fingers drag in and out of you. Your backside writhes in his lap and he has to use his other hand to keep you still, wrapping it around your waist from behind and pressing his palm flat against your stomach.

"No," you shudder. You're coming apart so easily for him, heat blooming in your chest and cheeks the faster his hand moves down your pants — his pants. He's so hard, his stomach hurts.

"Years," he grits. "Each time I left, I dreamt of taking you with me. Dreamt of your perfect mouth, your beautiful eyes, your smile, your laugh—" He curses under his breath when you clench tightly around his fingers. He can't wait to feel you wrapped around his cock, squeezing him so tight and milking him for every last drop of his release.

"You came b-back for m-me," you stammer breathlessly. "Y-you — oh, f-fuck, Din—"

A thin sheen of sweat covers your forehead. You're grinding down on his hand, back bowed and nails digging ruthlessly into his covered arm. You look so sweet, coming apart on his hand, moaning his name, that he wants nothing more than to kiss you, to taste you.

But, he can't.

So, he settles for driving you wild, for curling his fingers deep inside you, grunting in your ear, rubbing his palm against your clit until your lungs are empty and your entire body is pulled tight.

"Pl-please," you beg, "oh, please. Pleaseplea— I'm g-gonna come," you whine. You gasp hotly against his helmet, holding him so close with a hand still clutching at the back of his head that his visor fogs up.

"Come for me," he tells you shakily, even through the modulator. "Come for me and then I'll fuck this sweet little pussy, just the way I've always wanted."

That tips you over the edge. You moan his name so loudly that it echoes in the small room. You thrash your head around on his shoulder, body convulsing in his lap as he pulls every ounce of pleasure he can, and then your teeth find a small patch of exposed skin just above the collar of his shirt, below his ear. He swears when your teeth pinch him and his grip on you tightens, holding you steady until your orgasm slows and you relax in his arms.

He doesn't give you much time to recover. He can't. He's so pent up, it's making him dizzy. Sliding you off his lap, Din reaches down and pulls on his pants, lifting his hips and tugging the fabric down just enough to free his cock. You're still in a daze, slumped against his shoulder, chest heaving. When he tugs you back in place, leaning against his chest and sitting in his lap, he loosens your slacks, letting them pool to the floor.

In his crazed, lust-filled stupor, he manages to realize something through the fog. The position you're in — with your back pressed against his front — maybe...

His hand fumbles around until he finds the button he's looking for and he smacks it, probably louder than is necessary. You jump in his arms when the cabin goes black, the only lights filling the space are from some switches on the console, too dim to create a reflection. But, if you turn your head—

"Keep your eyes closed."

You open your mouth to ask the question, then clamp it shut and quickly obey. He regards you for a moment, just a moment. He trusts you. You wouldn't look.

A hand comes up to unclasp his helmet and it falls to the floor with a loud thud. You jump again but keep your eyes closed.

He says your name, voice clear to your ears for the very first time. You shudder in his arms and your brows pull together, like a blanket of warmth just passed over you. He smiles to himself, then his hand drops to grip his leaking cock. He presses the thick tip between your thighs and you twitch before spreading your legs as far as you can manage.

He can't wait any longer — his hips flex and you moan in unison as he slides inside your warm, perfect cunt. The way you clench around him, the noises you murmur in his ear — it all adds to the heat building at the base of his spine since you stepped foot in the cockpit.

"M-Maker—" he groans, "you feel so good."

Then you start to roll your hips, tight pussy gripping and fluttering around his length as you try to fuck yourself in his lap. Your legs drape over his thighs, feet dangling near his ankles, unable to graze the hard metal floor for support, yet you still try to work faster, just so desperate for him.

His hands grip your hips, helping you move. Your eyes are still squeezed shut but your mouth is open, gasping for air every time he pushes back inside to grind against a spot that makes you whine through your teeth.

"I've wanted you so badly, it hurts," you confess shamelessly. Something about not being able to see him makes you feel bold. "I would follow you anywhere, Din Djarin."

He groans and nips at your earlobe. You feel his chest rumble against your back and you smile. Your hand falls to where you're connected and your fingers spread, gasping when you touch him. He's thick and hard and soaked with your arousal.

"I always knew you must have had a nice cock," you whisper, still feeling emboldened with your eyes closed. "No one carries themselves the way you do without having the goods to back it up."

You cry out when his hips snap roughly against your ass, and your entire body is practically bouncing in his lap. If it weren't for his ironclad grip around your middle, you're sure you'd have fallen out of the chair.

"Keep — talking," he grunts. His wet tongue slides slowly up your neck before his lips pucker and he begins to suck a mark that will take days to disappear.

"I— I —" you stammer. He's fucking you so fast now, it's hard to think, let alone form a sentence. "I used to — to think about you — oh, f-fuck, right there—"

"Think about me?" he repeats, ignoring everything else.

"Yes," you hiss, then your hand reaches back to slide through his hair — it's thick and a little curly and you commit the feeling to memory before it's taken from you.

"I would think about you — wh-when I... when I would touch myself."

Your stomach muscles begin to bear down and your thighs go rigid. You're so fucking close, you can taste it.

"Yeah? You thought about me when you made yourself come? Thought about my cock in this tight pussy, just like this?"

His deep voice in your ear makes you shudder.

You nod with your mouth hanging wide open.

"Oh fuck," you whimper when the tip of his cock finds a sensitive spot deep inside. You writhe and roll your hips, eager to find the angle again, but Din knows. He knows what you need and he wants to be the one to give it to you, so his hands still your movements and he rocks upward. You're both breathless and sweaty, but it doesn't matter because he's there — he's right fucking there, right at the spot where you need him the most.

Your mouth creates a combination of noises and melted words. There's no sense to be made when he's fucking you like this. You push back, deepening the angle. You both moan so loudly, it echos, but you barely register it.

His fingers fall to your clit and he starts to swirl messy circles over the throbbing bud. Three, maybe four passes. That's all it takes.

You throw your head back violently, his name ripping from your throat as you cunt clenches around him, pulsing and squeezing. Your stomach flutters, the released tension rippling across your muscles.

He doesn't stop. His fingers move frantically and he fucks you through it until your body sags and you whimper when swatting weakly at his hand.

"That's it, that's my g-girl," he groans, abandoning your clit. He wraps his arm around you instead, keeping you upright so he can thrust into you as hard as he can. You moan and bite at his neck, his ear, his cheek... any part of him that's normally hidden by his helmet. You feel the stubble under your lips and you lick his skin, reveling in the sharp prickle across your tongue.

"Come inside me," you whisper. He makes a choked sound and shakes his head.

"Can't."

"Please?"

His movements grow erratic. He's losing rhythm.

"No, it's — too risky."

"Would that be so bad? Don't y— don't you wonder what it would — be like?"

You're babbling. You sound insane. You don't care.

"Please stop," he begs, then his teeth sink into your shoulder and he pulls out of you roughly, just in time to shoot hot cum all over your inner thighs. He's groaning your name into your skin and he's panting so heavily, you fear he may pass out.

"I'm not —"

Din swallows and then he drags in a deep breath. With your eyes still closed, you start blindly peppering kisses across his cheek.

"I know," you mumble, "I'm sorry."

Suddenly, his fingers pinch your chin and he tilts your head so his lips press firmly against your own. Your heart stops when you first feel what it's like to kiss him — never in your wildest fantasies did you think you would know what his lips felt like. The trust he must have for you makes you weak and you melt, getting lost in the taste of him when his tongue slides into your mouth.

"I wasn't going to give you my child without kissing you first," he murmurs when he pulls back, but he doesn't go far. His forehead rests against yours and he sighs when your hand lifts to get lost in his messy hair.

"Really?" you whisper in disbelief, but you're smiling like a fool.

"Is that something you really want? With me?" he asks. You don't need to see his face, you can hear the doubt — the shock — that you would pick him out of anyone in the galaxy.

You nod and peck a kiss to his lips. "I'm tired of waiting," you tell him. "We almost lost our chance... I don't want to waste another second with you."

He laughs and you grin when his soft exhale fans across your face.

"I will gladly devote my life to you, if you'll have me," he says.

And yes, it feels fast. But what's the point in waiting when everything you want is right in front of you? You very easily could have died, but you were given a second chance.

And you refuse to squander it.

[kurogxrix]

[kurogxrix]

The Perfect Girl

Bucky barnes x reader

IN WHICH You’re the strange girl Sam is friends with, and Bucky has no other choice but to tolerate you.

Warnings: short drabble, one sided enemies to lovers typa vibes, reader has dyed hair.

WC: 1.2k

Bucky never quite understood why Sam had ever taken a liking to you. He couldn’t comprehend it. You, the strangest girl he’d ever met in his entire 106 years of living. You, the girl that didn’t and certainly would never fit in with the rest of the avengers if they were still there, the people Bucky considered family. You, the weirdest chick that managed to get on his nerves more than Sam did, and that said a lot.  Bucky was practically sure that you were from another world.

You’d just spawned into his life one day, because of Sam, and now you were stuck there like a leech and you refused to leave the poor super-soldier alone. Bucky had grown to be the quiet, more reserved and grumpy man who enjoyed his personal space, and you were the damned limpet he couldn’t quite detach from himself, loud and cocky. You reminded him of that other dude with the red suit and the always-bloody swords. Just the thought of you two together in a room made him shudder, he couldn’t even bear to imagine the chaos. 

Nevertheless, Bucky stuck with Sam now, even if he never verbally baptized the Falcon as his best friend, and Sam’s heart was always too big for his own good. If hanging out with Sam often meant he had to see you, then so be it, as long as you stayed a considerable distance from him. But that was never really the case. 

Now as Bucky stood in Sam’s and Sarah’s familial house back in Louisiana, surrounded by the boys he’d even go as far as saying that he considered his nephews, Bucky had never felt more at peace. The sound of the soft waves crashing upon the shore and the boat side that he and Sam had spent all afternoon fixing lulled him. 

Bucky sat on the sofa beside Sam, quietly sipping a glass of whiskey while listening in to the playfully sibling’s banter going on before him. AJ and Cass’ childish laughter rang around the room as they listened in as well, filling Bucky’s heart with a feeling he was just starting to accept. Everything was perfect, the light was low, soft jazz playing in the background as he sipped his cup. Nothing could disturb his night, well nothing except- 

“I’m heeeeere!” the abruptness of your voice sank in, followed by the hast twist of the front door knob as you walked in like you owned the place. ‘What a pleasant surprise’ Bucky thought, rolling his eyes as he watched the twins run up to you in a hurry. Deep down, Bucky knew that he had no right to feel this way, this was not his home as much as it wasn’t yours, and if it bothered him so much the best he could do was leave. 

But how could he? How could he leave when he’d never felt more comfortable before. 

Bucky's piercing blue eyes observed as you reached both arms down to hug the boys at the same time, Sarah approaching you to help you get rid of that huge bag you wore on your shoulder, threatening to slip off and crush one of the boys in return. That radiating smile just wouldn’t wash off of your face, and it seemed like it had already infected Sam. But yet again, when wasn’t he smiling? 

“Awww, you’re staring! I’m so flattered.” The sound of your teasing shook Bucky right off whatever trance he’d gotten caught in, and when his eyes met yours again, he hated the teasing glint that swam in your iris. Dyed strands of hair framed your face as it swayed gently with the door that remained open behind you, reminding Sarah to kick it closed.

Bucky rolled his eyes, paying you no mind as he lowered his eyes right back down to his drink. He ignored Sam’s calling and the deafening sound of your laughter as you both teased him, trying to gauge a reaction out of him. 

Albeit it was hard to ignore you when you were dressed like this. Not that it was anything revealing or promiscuous, hell no, the mere thought of you in that way repulsed Bucky to no end. He prefered classy girls, maybe a piece of his old self he hadn’t let go of yet, and you were everything but that. You were just so strange, dressed like a teenager stuck in an adult body with the personality of a quirky cartoon character. God, he couldn’t fucking stand you. The thought of you gave him a migraine, and he had to physically rub his temples as your voice played out in echo in his head. 

“You ignorin’ me?” the sound of your voice, oh so close his ear nearly made Bucky jump up on his seat. He’d never give you that satisfaction though, and his face remained the typical stoic it did whenever he’d see you. The former Winter Soldier could almost feel Sam’s mischievous gaze on him as he turned to face you, coming face to face with the bushy head of dyed hair he claimed to hate so much. 

No, Bucky couldn’t stand you and your strangeness, so why did he feel his heart pick up the pace at the sight of that teasing smile upon your lips? The corners of your mouth tilting up like it always did, besides the lip piercing he’d never seen before. When did you get it? Why had he never noticed? The eyeliner you wore was slightly smudged, had the weather done that? or had another pair of hands disturbed the peace-

“You’re so weird, do you always stare like that?” Your words seem to bring Sam to an endless laughter, encouraging the twins to join in the fun against ‘uncle Bucky’. Sarah took it as her queue to leave the room, pacing to the kitchen to check on the roast with a playful roll of her eyes. The house was so lively, and even if your bickering and loud personality always ended up with the neighbors pulling up on you, she’d take it over the loneliness of a half-empty house anyday. 

“Yeah, says the one” bucky resorted dryly, carefully glaring at his companion with a killer side-eye. Bucky heard you gasp “And so he speaks!!”. 

“Awww, don’t get shy on me Bucky, i won’t eat you” You leaned on one arm as you perched yourself to get closer to his face, Bucky could feel himself recoiling at the broken sense of his personal space. Though as you sat there before him, teasing him while adorned in those awfully out-of-age clothes and that makeup he said wasn’t his style, Bucky felt something he hadn’t felt in years. Proper years, not like what he felt for his buddy Sam, not what he felt for the twins every time they’d ask if they could swing from his serum-enhanced arms, but something far deeper than that. 

And maybe Bucky was just embarrassed to admit that it scared him more than anything else. He was a former assassin, for fuck’s sake, he shouldn’t be afraid of his own feelings. Nevertheless, Bucky remained silent as he watched you set off in the kitchen to help Sarah, leaving him and the rest of the boys to sit in the silence you’d left behind. 

And no, you wouldn’t eat him, but deep down he wished you would. 

-

A/n: re-reading my old fics and i miss the way i used to write

:(

[kurogxrix]

Hurts Me

Bucky Barnes x ex-avenger!reader

IN WHICH Bucky wakes up after a night at the bar with Sam, lonely with a distant dream of you, the girl he’s been in love with for years, in his bed. But was it all a dream?

WC: 2.9k

Warnings: ANGST, alcohol, mentions of drugging (nothing happens), suggestive.

A/N: wrote this in a rush trying to juggle between work and my writer’s block so don’t mind the fucked up timeline.

You’ve always played hard to get. At least that’s what Bucky’s always seemed to believe. A part of him wanted to acknowledge that maybe you actually didn’t want him, but he’d save that thought for the very least. He could almost remember the first time he’d try to court you, to his own words at least. 

He had already retired from the whole Winter Soldier thing, busy crossing out names from his list like his therapist had suggested him to. Recovery was hard, especially when you live with the belief that you don’t deserve forgiveness and that the pain stems from your own wrongdoings. He couldn’t forget what he’d done under the control of hydra, he couldn’t even allow himself a proper night of sleep before the nightmares took over his mind. 

In the path towards normalcy, Bucky could remember Sam’s meddling in his personal life. Trying to set him up with that cute waitress in town because it seemed like she’d already fallen for his charm. Besides that, it didn’t work out, and Bucky didn’t quite understand why Sam felt like a romantic relationship was required for Bucky to feel a sense of normalcy. He’d never rushed it, never felt the need to get married and father a couple children like the other men his age (both physically and chronologically, but being late could never scare the Winter Soldier). 

He didn’t think much of it, never sought it, never craved it. That was all until he saw you…at least again. You with that pretty smile he’d seen before, those same lips he’d wished he’d tasted before. God, seeing you then, had altered the entirety of his beliefs. 

Bucky remembered you clearly. The countless missions together. The late nights in the Avengers tower, with the friends you considered family all around laughing like you didn’t know any better. The slight touches, longing looks and hidden smiles. God, he can still remember falling in love with you like it was yesterday. You were all so happy, even though he was drowning in the type of guilt that you’re never quite sure you can swim back out of. You were always there, you’d promise you’d be. You guys had always been complicated, but you wouldn’t exchange it for anything in the world. 

Then The fight happened. You’d lost so much in the endgame against Thanos, and in the process you’d both lost each other too. You didn’t see him since, and truthfully, you’d never really tried to. Bucky could still remember the last time he’d seen you, at Tony’s funeral dressed in all black. It didn’t defer from the usual, but that smile on your face wasn’t there, and you’d cowered and hid until you vanished with no trace. No goodbye, nothing. 

Bucky didn’t realize how much your absences hurt until he’d caught himself checking his phone late at night when the midnight terrors wouldn’t let him sleep, trying to see if you’d at least responded to the abundant amount of calls he’d sent. You weren’t there anymore, he’d looked everywhere for you, and you didn’t even bother telling him. You didn’t want him to know and you probably didn’t even care. And it hurt Bucky to know because he cared, and falling in love with you hadn’t been an option, but he would have never called it a curse.  

Sitting on the floor of his apartment, back against his sofa, Bucky’s eyes lay strained on the window by the kitchen sink. Despite the bright city lights, he could see the bright lights shining clearly all the way up in the sky, and in the deepest crevices in the heart many doubted he had, Bucky could only wish you both were staring at the same stars tonight. 

-

“I don't really think it’s a good idea, I haven't danced since the 30’s.” Bucky grumbled, nursing a hefty glass of whiskey in his right hand. The other laid flat against the smooth surface of the bar, neon lights and loud music blasting from all corners of the club. Sam stood beside him, trying to tend a hand to his stubborn ex-soldier friend that was too busy sulking and nursing his typical alcohol of choice. 

“C'mon man, it’s nearly been a whole ass year! You’ve gotta move on some day." Sam complained, rolling his eyes as the super soldier dismissed him with a wave of his hand. Bucky took another sip of his drink, blue eyes scouting the array of bottles behind the bartender. She was a pretty woman, brown hair framing her face with that cute heart shaped hair-clip by the side of her ear. Any man would have wanted to take her home with the outfit that she was wearing, but Bucky felt a tinge of disappointment when he realized that he wasn’t part of these men. 

It’d kill him to be hung up on you forever, especially after you’d left with no excuses and no apologies. Though forever was in a hell of a long time, for now, Bucky was more than happy to keep on drinking until he’d have to pull Sam off the dance floor. Talking about his companion, it wasn’t hard for Bucky to spot him dancing amidst the mass of sweaty bodies. Bucky rolled his eyes playfully at his friend, whom he had a hand across the hip of some pretty blonde woman he’d probably never stop hearing the end of by tomorrow morning. 

A weird, unsolicited feeling struck Bucky’s chest at the sight of the blondie so careless and free in the arms of the guy he considered his best friend. He wished he could have that, something so passionate that could make him feel the way he prayed for every night before the nightmares took over. He could’ve, really, he could have any woman in this club with just a simple flick of his wrist, and yet Bucky knew that he’d never feel fulfilled with anyone else but you. 

You’d ruined him, and honestly Bucky didn’t know if he wanted it any other way. 

He couldn’t quite remember when the night had gotten blurry, but not from the alcohol, no, that didn’t do any good on his system besides the warm feeling of alcohol trickling down his throat. No, he couldn’t quite put his hand on what made the other people in the room disappear but him and this stranger, luring him onto the dance floor like a siren on a missions 

Suddenly, the idea of dancing didn’t  sound so bad, and maybe, just maybe, he’d be able to retrace those steps he’d put to work back in the 30’s. The night was young, the sky was a starry mess, and as the night advanced and his hands got bolder, the apartment keys in his back pocket called for him like a sin. 

-

Waking up the next morning, Bucky couldn’t quite remember how the night had ended besides the blurry face that held his arm during the whole walk out. The quick text he’d sent Sam was also blurry, but a quick check to his phone could change that. 

There was this weird feeling clinging to him since the second his eyes had pried open, and a strange weight to his chest that felt unfamiliar. Like blurry puzzle pieces of the previous night that he couldn’t quite put his hands on, scrambled and lost. It wasn’t like he had been drunk, alcohol could do little to him because of his accelerated system, and he definitely couldn’t have been drugged either, it’d take a hefty dose to intoxicate the heavily scarred ex-soldier. 

Bucky knew one thing admises all, and it was that his mind had been completely overtaken by pictures and memories of you. Memories he couldn’t remember making when you’d still been part of his life, seemingly so real of you both hitting it off at the bar last night. And maybe it was his troubled mind playing nasty tricks on you, but the image of you sitting on a bar stool, clad in that little tight black dress that fit you oh so right wasn’t exactly unsolicited. 

Bucky could still feel the remnants of his clammy hands, like he’d actually lived the thoughts. But no, it couldn’t be right. There was no way his mind would ever blur any night he’d spent with you, it was likely that he was just hallucinating. And yet, that wound you'd gotten during the fight against Thanos had scarred, and was sitting there perfectly on your neck like a trophy, one that screamed ‘I survived, and I'm still here in front of you’. Your eyes were just as lively as the last time he’d seen you in the tower, like the memories he’d always replay in his mind late at night. 

That was it, Bucky was just so hung up on you that his imagination had made up a scenario of you in his head to keep him company during this lonely night. Different images of you were running wild in his head before he even had the chance to properly open his eyes, skipping scenes like a badly cut movie. 

At some point the bar had disappeared and suddenly he was in a car. It wasn’t his, and with the way you had been drinking at the bar, he doubted it was yours either. Maybe he’d also imagined the way you’d sat so far away from him in the spacious range rover, the guilt practically radiating off of you. He could still picture reaching out for you, trying to mend the bridges that had collapsed along the way, pushing the two of you further away by the second. He’d probably hallucinated the rapid beating of his heart when he’d finally gotten you in his arms, after years of pushing and pulling, catching that stray tear rolling down your eye with his thumb as you begged him for forgiveness. Like he’d always prayed for. 

He regrets imagining you telling him why you’d left without as much as a goodbye, telling him how much you’d missed him, craving him like something you just couldn’t allow yourself to have. Bucky wanted this moment to be real so bad, and yet as he wakes to find a strange weight in his arms, he dreads the worst. 

No, Bucky wasn’t that type of guy. Wasn't the type of touch to bring home a woman when he’s grieving another, imagining her face while he’s sweet talking another, trying to picture her as someone that she was not. 

No, he wasn’t like that. So why could he feel the warm breathing of someone else above his naked torso. Naked. God, he was naked. 

‘No!’ his mind yelled at him as he sat up straight, disturbing the figure sleeping comfortably on his chest and making the covers slip off him and the mystery woman in the process. A sliver of skin caught his eyes, and Bucky forced himself to turn his gaze towards the ceiling like some prude. 

His breathing stopped for a second, trying to stabilize himself to focus on anything but the woman still laying half on him. Regret already coursing down the deepest crevices of his body, shaking him for the vice he’d sworn he’d left back for the younger Bucky. He didn’t do casual anymore, and certainly not from random women he’d picked up at the club with little recollection. 

But amidst everything else, Bucky felt most guilty for picturing you in his blurry memories rather than the random in his bed. He’d always vouch that he was a gentleman, and nothing about his current situation yelled gentleman to him. He’d been raised better, and if his mother was still here to see him today, lord forbid what she’d do to him. 

“Bucky?” a soft spoken, half-still asleep voice spoke his name, cutting him off his self deprecation episode. Bucky paused, his body tensing further at the sound of the voice.  

That voice…

Her voice…

Still, Bucky refused to glance down at the woman leaning on his muscled chest, afraid that his mind was playing tricks on him. He couldn’t afford the  disappointment, and he doubted it would do any of them any good anyway. Yet, he couldn’t ignore the way the slightly calloused palm of a hand placed itself upon his chest, trying to anchor themselves up to meet his strayed gaze. 

“Don’t tell me you’re already regretting last night..?” that voice again, he couldn’t quite bear the weight of it. But when had his conscience ever given him a rest, and when had anything ever been fair to him. Certainly not you, you hadn’t. But why was he praying to meet your gaze when he'd finally tilt his head down to meet this strange woman’s gaze, why did he feel like this every time he thought of you. 

Deep in his thoughts, Bucky dismissed the feeling of a palm stretching across his jaw, cupping the side of his face like he meant a whole lot to her. Finally, he allowed himself to be handled as the woman pulled his face down, tilting his face with the smoothest movement of her wrist like she’d always meant to. And he didn’t mean to, but the noise that left Bucky’s throat at the sight of the figure before him was embarrassing. 

She was beautiful, the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid his eyes on. Naked in all of her glory, her skin felt like heaven against his own. Hair tousled and tangled from the sleep (or lack of) beside the necklace she’d forgotten to remove before falling asleep. It was reflecting the sunlight peeking through his blinds directly into his face, but Bucky couldn’t stop staring at the way it looked beside that scar on her neck. 

You’d never looked so beautiful then in his bed, besides him where you belonged. 

That smile was plastered on your face, the same one you’d always give him before everything went to shit, and for a second, everything felt normal. Bucky’s never felt more in place than with you in his arms, the nakedness of the situation was just a bonus. 

Naked, he was naked in bed with you. not some random woman, and suddenly it clicked that the pictures he’d ‘made-up’ in his head were real. The feeling of your hands on his biceps as you tried to stabilize yourself in the cab was real, the apology you’d spoken to him was real and suddenly in his trance, his mind had sparked a couple of new memories, ones where there was less talking and a whole lot more touching. 

Bucky had little time enjoying the more lewd images of you before you snapped him out of his trance, this time instead to leave his arms and dive right back under the warm covers. The cold feeling you left behind as you left his arms was unsolicited, and in that instant, Bucky knew that he’d kill to have you in his arms forever. You didn’t seem to mind, the covers would do the job just as well if Bucky was too busy reminiscing last night to keep you warm. 

It brought a smile to his face, seeing you so comfortable under his covers, in his bed, a few centimeters shy of his arms where he could have you in an instant. And before he even had the chance to ask about anything, you got ahead and did the job for him. Reaching out to pull him right where you wanted him. 

In the safety of his arms, you allowed yourself the comfort to dig your head further in Bucky’s plush pillow. His hand filled in the void in the curve of your waist, and covered your skin in shivers as he dipped further down your back. With his head tightly tucked above yours, you knew his mind still troubled him. He was still Bucky after all, but you wouldn’t change it for anything. And the hurt you’d left behind along with Bucky was to be addressed, and you’d spend the rest of your life repenting. 

“Don’t worry about it, you can ask me anything you want after we wake up again. Then you can tell for yourself if I'm real or not.” you mumbled like you could read his mind, but it wasn’t hard to tell what he was thinking when you could feel Bucky’s gaze on you, trying to decipher if you were really there or if he’d reached a new level of lucid dreaming where he could feel you.  

You didn’t bother to wait for an answer before succumbing to the slumber, and he didn’t bother saying anything as he watched you. He’d gladly wait until you awaken again for answers, but for now he couldn’t fall asleep again. Not when he was holding the love of his life, months after she’d wordlessly disappeared, just there naked in his bed. And lord, forbid he could sleep when all he could replay were those images of last night in his head. 

He doubted you guys would get any sleep in that night. 

-

IM BAAAACK :)) (for now)

[kurogxrix]

keeping for later!

ৎ୭. . . VIRAGO ─── Damian Wayne

Part 1 & 2

⊹ ٬ Headcanon. Between laughter, jealousy, and secrets, a mother and a lover compete for the heart of someone who has already chosen their path. Harley clings to the past. Damian waits for the future. And in between, a story of growth, goodbyes, and unbreakable love. Because in the end, no matter where they go, there will always be a home to return to.

⊹ ٬ Word Count. 9,4k

⊹ ٬ Content. MDNI. Fluff, Platonic Cuddling, Dark themes, violence, trauma, invasion of privacy, Angst, disturbing content, corruption, paranoia, vulgar or strong language, mental health, toxic relationships (not Damian and Reader), destruction,

「Strong, brave or warrior woman

who demonstrates exemplary or heroic qualities」

Damian Wayne was not meant to attend classes like an ordinary kid. No. He was the grandson of the Head of the Demon, the legitimate heir to a bloody and millennia-old tradition. But he was also the son of the Bat, and as long as Bruce Fucking Wayne ruled his family, he would fulfill the tedious duty of attending Gotham's most elitist private school.

He thought it would be easy. Study and that's it. Simple. But soon he realized that being a “normal” student at Gotham High was like being a wolf trying to pass as a sheep.

His intelligence—his most valuable weapon—was seen as an eccentricity, almost an indelible stain in an environment of boys who believed their gilded surnames and even more gilded wallets were all that mattered. He couldn’t make friends. The kids looked at him as if he were a robot from a nightmare with his cutting remarks and sharp vocabulary. The girls only saw his last name, not him.

Until you showed up.

Damian hated group projects. He hated even more when everyone pounced on him like hungry crows as soon as the teacher uttered the words: “Choose a partner.” It was always the same. “Can we work together, Wayne?” “I’m sure you’ll do great, right?” “My dad says your dad is very important.”

That day, he saw you dozing in the back row, your head tilted on the desk while a trickle of drool threatened to escape the corner of your lips. Despicable. Although... at least honest.

“Do you want to do the project with me?” he asked, because his father’s basic education forced him to phrase it as a question.

“You’re going to do the project with me!” was what you heard, although nothing could be further from the truth.

The next thing happened so quickly that Damian had to blink to make sure it wasn’t a hallucination born from his frustration. You jumped as if you’d received an electric shock and hugged him so tightly that for a moment he feared you might break a rib.

“Yes, yes, yes! It’s going to be an explosive and fascinating project! Can you imagine? We could make a volcano that really erupts or a robot that shoots confetti or...!”

Damian froze as your high-pitched voice spewed nonsensical ideas with the same excitement as a dog seeing its favorite toy. Your eyes sparkled with a mix of madness and innocence he had never seen before.

“You're annoying,” he murmured.

“And you're such a ray of sunshine!” you cheerfully replied, still not letting go of him.

It was at that precise moment that Damian understood this project was going to be a nightmare. But there was something about you that intrigued him... maybe because you were the first person who really looked at him and not at his last name.

But of course, he would never admit that out loud.

Alfred tried to hide his surprise when you showed up at Wayne Manor to study. Of course, he concealed it well behind his usual neat British demeanor, but Damian noticed. Who wouldn’t?

First, you said you had walked there. Who the hell walks to Wayne Manor from Gotham City? That already raised suspicions. But the real shock came when Damian greeted you at the door.

Wild hair, cut in a style that screamed rebellion and creativity, with streaks of red and blue that made it look like you had just run through a furious rainbow. Contemporary, colorful clothing that anyone would say you had fought with a clown and won. Brightly colored knee-high boots that clicked on the marble entrance.

Even Duke, who had bulletproof patience, peeked through the door to take a look. The guy expected another mini Dracula like Damian, not a clown doll freshly escaped from a carnival.

“Wow, this mansion looks like Dracula's house,” you exclaimed, looking at the walls with wide, bright eyes as he led you through the hallways to the study room.

Damian glanced at you sideways, ready to unleash a sarcastic comment... but when he realized it, he was already laughing. Yes, laughing. Something he hadn’t even been sure he could do without his lungs refusing to cooperate until that day.

As strange as it sounded, he was having fun.

You were explosive, loud, witty, but good at what you did. It was like working alongside a lightning bolt in colorful sneakers. And when you focused, you were genuinely smart. Odd, yes, but clever. Something that didn’t happen often among the superficial crowd of Gotham High.

As the afternoon wore on, you loosened up and told him a bit about your life. How you lived with your mother, a woman with the same chaotic euphoria as you, but obsessed with your father: a gangster whose name you didn’t mention, but described with a mix of disdain and confused affection.

“My mom loves me, but since she always does what dad says, I have to learn to take care of myself.” You said this while finishing painting a perfectly detailed bomb on the project, as if talking about family traumas was as casual as discussing the weather.

Damian watched you in silence. That phrase hung in the air like a haunting ghost he understood all too well.

“Sometimes I’m scared... that she’ll choose him over me.”

He understood. Of course he did. Because sometimes he was also afraid his mother would choose anything before him. Power, legacy... the League.

But of course, he wasn’t going to get sentimental in front of you. Especially with the hidden audience behind the door. Alfred, your pets, Jason, Dick, Cass, Tim, Steph, Babs, Duke, even Bruce, all spying with the same discretion as an elephant in a tea room.

“Everything okay, Wayne?” you asked, tilting your head with a smile so wide it seemed out of place in a castle like that.

“Sure,” he replied, not giving it much thought.

And so they continued working. He discovering that maybe not all people who came into his life were destined to be a problem.

Of course, being you, that was just a matter of time.

Damian had never had a real friend. Not one who wanted nothing from him other than his company. So, when the project ended and you kept showing up to pounce on him with a loud, overflowing hug of energy, he didn’t know what to do.

Dick thought it was charming. “Friends do fun things together,” he told him with that broad smile that seemed straight out of a damn cereal commercial. “They go out for ice cream, watch movies, or just... are there.”

Damian didn’t quite understand the last part. But he understood enough to know that your eyes lit up every time you mentioned the word “baseball.” So one day, without even knowing why, he took you to the practice field.

“Really?” you exclaimed, with such pure excitement that it almost felt like an insult.

“It’s no big deal,” he shrugged. But even he knew it sounded too clumsy to be believable.

What happened next was a wonderful chaos. You swung the bat with the same passion a warrior would wield a sword. Every hit you made was accompanied by a shout of joy or some laughter that escaped you as if you couldn’t contain it.

Damian threw the ball to you over and over again, not completely understanding why it was so much fun. But the fact that you were happy seemed to make him happy too. And although he would never admit it out loud, it became almost a weekly ritual.

Sometimes, after practice, he’d drag you to an ice cream shop. Your way of devouring absurd flavors like “Smurf Ice Cream” or “Sour Caramel” was fascinating. Ridiculous, but fascinating.

“You have ice cream on your nose,” he said, arms crossed as he tried not to laugh.

“Well, you have ice in your heart!” you cheerfully replied, licking the ice cream as if that were the most logical answer in the world.

Other times, he’d take you to watch movies, because Dick insisted that “Friends watch movies together, Dami.” Of course, he didn’t expect you to prefer the bloodiest and most absurd horror films possible.

“Look, look, here comes the monster with fifty knives in its head,” you commented between laughs, enjoying the terrible performances more than the plot itself.

It was absurd. Everything they did together was absurd. But it made him happy. It made him feel... free. Like for the first time, he didn’t have to be the heir, the warrior, or the perfect son. Just Damian.

But, like everything in his life, happiness lasted as long as a blink.

He arrived at school one day, with the usual hope of seeing you dozing in the back row, drool falling from your mouth and the smile ready to yell something ridiculous that made him feel like everything was okay.

But you weren’t there.

The teachers told him you had dropped out. That you didn’t have the funds to continue at that luxurious and superficial school that had never been made for someone like you.

Damian tried to find you. He turned to contacts he shouldn’t have used for something so... personal. But your name sounded like a ghost. No trace. No signal.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. Finally, he accepted that maybe you were never going to show up again.

So he did the only thing he knew how to do well. Try to forget you.

But it didn’t matter how many times he repeated that he didn’t care, that you were nothing, there was always an echo of your laughter resonating in his mind. There was always that absurd memory of you excitedly shouting about hitting a ball with a bat, as if it were the most incredible thing in the world.

And worst of all was that, in a way, it really was.

Years passed in the blink of an eye, dragging him into the whirlwind of Gotham, the League, the Teen Titans, and everything that meant being Robin. Fights with assassins, gods, and impossible creatures became his routine. He had grown, changed, learned to live with the weight of the mantle he wore.

He had made friends. Jon Kent, always so ridiculously optimistic that he sometimes seemed like a sun with legs. Flatline, with her dark humor and that dangerous smile that challenged him daily. And of course, the Titans, a chaotic group of teenagers dealing with their problems while saving the world.

But nothing, absolutely nothing, prepared him to see you again.

It was his first day of high school. Gotham’s private school was just as ridiculous as always, full of rich brats who cared more about the latest brand of clothing than anything that really mattered. But he was there for a reason: to blend his life as Robin with the facade of a normal teenager.

And then, there you were.

You had grown. Your hair, although still carrying that rebellious essence, now fell in tousled, styled locks, with touches of red and blue that shone under the fluorescent lights. The clothes you wore were... eye-catching, but not childish. It was as if you had found your own style playing between androgynous and extravagant. Everything about you seemed to challenge the world.

But the worst, or the best, was that you were still you. That wide, sparkling smile that seemed ready to explode into laughter at any moment. Your eyes sparkled with the same intensity as always, as if you hadn’t lost a shred of that wild euphoria that had so bewildered him.

And then you turned and saw him.

“Damian!” you shouted with that exaggerated voice that seemed like a show in itself. You didn’t care that the whole hallway turned to look at you. You didn’t care about anything. Because all you did was launch yourself at him, wrapping your arms around him as if no years had passed.

“What the hell...?” Damian exclaimed, not knowing whether to step back or return the hug. In the end, his body decided for him, and his arms awkwardly tightened around you.

“What are you doing here?!” you said, with a tone that mixed genuine surprise and pure joy. It was as if you had never left. As if you had never been a ghost he had desperately tried to forget.

“I study here,” he replied with that seriousness that sometimes made people mistake him for a grumpy doll. But you just laughed, as always.

“Wow! I never thought Dracula would have to deal with algebra like a mere mortal.”

“I’m not a vampire,” he grunted, frowning even though a part of him wanted to smile. It was absurd how you returned to his life as if nothing had happened.

“Sure, sure. But you’re still just as grumpy.” You finally let him go, although you remained close enough that he couldn’t escape.

And that was it. In a matter of seconds, you were already talking to him about your things as if years hadn’t passed. As if you hadn’t left him with an inexplicable void when you disappeared.

You had changed, yes. Taller, with more attitude, as if challenging the entire world had become your new favorite pastime. But you were still you. Chaotic, unpredictable, and... radiant.

“So, are we skipping class and doing something fun?” you asked with a mischievous smile, as if that were the most logical thing in the world.

“No,” he replied automatically. Because of course, he was Damian Wayne. The responsible one, the serious one, the one who never strayed from the right path.

“Bah, always so boring. But I missed you, Dami. I’m glad you’re here.” And your voice sounded softer, almost sweet, as you took a small step back and smiled at him with that eternal spark in your eyes.

Damian didn’t know what to say. Because somehow, those words had ignited something within him that he thought he had buried along with the memory of that girl who dragged him to play baseball and laugh at bad movies.

“I’m glad you’re here too,” he finally admitted, in a whisper so low he almost thought he had imagined it.

But the smile you gave him was enough to know you had heard him.

Your friendship with Damian had picked up right where it had left off. Among laughter, challenges, and outings that didn’t always end well but were always fun. Dinners at Wayne Manor became a regular occurrence, with Bruce trying to be the awkward dad and all the Batkids secretly laughing at how different you were from any friend Damian had ever had before.

Because let’s be honest, you didn’t care one bit if Damian was rich, serious, or mortally sarcastic. To you, he was simply Dami. A grumpy, prickly kid who, despite his tough facade, always ended up giving in to your crazy ideas.

Of course, he never told you about his other life. Not about Robin, not about his mother, not about the thousand and one dark secrets he carried. But it wasn’t like he needed to. Because sometimes, people spoke.

The rumors at school were like whispers that slid through the hallways like snakes. Robin was always watching from the same place, an abandoned building in downtown Gotham. Like a proud crow surveying the city.

And your gang—yes, because you had made new friends too—challenged you to something no one else had dared: throwing paint at Robin from the rooftop. A prank. A game. What could go wrong?

The answer: Everything.

That night was your first big teenage stupidity. You climbed the building with a can of green paint in hand, trembling with nerves but refusing to back down. And there he was, just as they said he would be, the dark cape fluttering in the wind as his eyes scanned the city as if every shadow was a potential enemy.

You didn’t think too much about it. Because if you had, you would have realized it was a terrible idea. You simply raised the can and threw the paint at him with all your strength.

The green splattered on his right shoulder, spattering in irregular patterns on his cape and part of his mask. At first, Robin stood still. As if his brain refused to process what had just happened. But then, he slowly turned his head towards you, those green eyes glaring at you as if you had committed the worst sin in the universe.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he roared in a voice so low and furious that a chill ran down your spine.

“Oh, shit!” you exclaimed, with a nervous smile. Because of course, everything was funny until the paint touched the bird.

Without waiting for a response, you took off running. And he was right behind you.

You knew he was fast. Everyone said so. But you never thought he would be this fast. His shadow moved like a damn ghost behind you, his footsteps echoing on the rooftops as you jumped from building to building like a deranged goat.

“Wait!” he shouted with a tone that mixed anger and disbelief. As if he couldn’t believe someone could be foolish enough to throw paint at him and then try to escape.

“Not a chance!” you yelled back, almost laughing as your lungs burned from effort. Because yes, you were terrified. But you were also excited. Because at the end of the day, you were you. The chaotic girl who never knew when to stop.

But running 20 kilometers wasn’t exactly something your body could handle. And when your legs began to weaken and your breathing turned into an irregular gasp, he seized the opportunity.

He leaped from a higher building and landed right in front of you, his eyes shining with a wild fury that almost seemed inhuman.

“Game over,” he declared, his voice so low and threatening that it almost made you laugh at how dramatically he sounded.

“Are you going to kill me, crazy bird? Because if you do, I’ll be the happiest dead girl in Gotham,” you replied, trying to sound brave but aware that you probably looked like a delirious idiot.

“No. But I’m going to teach you a lesson,” he said, and before you could react, he had picked you up as if you weighed nothing and tossed you over his shoulder.

“Hey! Put me down! You’re lucky I don’t have anything explosive right now, because I’d blow your butt up!” you shouted as you kicked the air and tried to break free.

“That’s what worries me,” he murmured, with that irritated tone that characterized him so well.

The next thing you knew, he took you to an alley where, surprisingly, he didn’t throw you against the wall or lecture you like a boring adult. Instead, he set you down on the ground and crossed his arms, looking at you with a mix of exasperation and... curiosity?

You noticed something strange, even under the thick layer of green paint.

That hair, that posture, those calculated movements. Everything fit together in an unsettling way.

“...Damian!?” Your eyes widened, surprise barely contained in your voice.

From that moment on, everything changed. You discovered your friend was Robin, and you never missed an opportunity to tease him about it. But between the jokes and the knowing smiles, you swore him something with all the sincerity you could muster.

“I’ll never say a word. I’ll keep it forever.”

And so it was. The pact sealed with the innocence of youth remained intact. Until one ordinary afternoon, returning from the baseball field with the sun setting on your backs, you decided to confide in him your own truth.

“There’s something I need to tell you...” you murmured, looking down, kicking an imaginary stone as you walked.

Damian frowned, alert as always.

“What’s wrong?”

“My mom... well, the one who raised me... is Harley Quinn.” You blurted it out, as if the words weighed more with each second they remained trapped in your chest.

He blinked, surprised, before opening his mouth.

“The crazy Harley?”

“Don’t call my mom crazy!” you retorted firmly, even though your voice wavered a little. “She was going through a rough patch with my dad, that’s all...”—You diverted your gaze before adding—“Besides, she’s not my biological mom, so I don’t have any physical or mental issues... other than some weird habits, I guess. So don’t worry.”

Damian watched you in silence, his calculating gaze trying to unravel the truth behind your words. But in his eyes, there was also something more. Something akin to acceptance.

Because deep down, they both knew they shared secrets too big for their age. And that bound them in a way no one else could.

And so, the more secrets they shared, the closer they became. Confessions in hushed voices under starry skies or during endless walks united them in a way neither of them expected. Until one day, something changed.

Damian asked you out. Not to train, not to spend time teasing each other, but to dinner. Formal. In an upscale restaurant, with white tablecloths and lit candles. You showed up in a dress that, although eye-catching as always, exuded a unique elegance. He had also made an effort; the usual rigidity in his posture softened by a barely concealed nervousness.

That night was different. For the first time, they allowed themselves to truly see each other, beyond the jokes or the friendship they had built. They spoke with an honesty that only arises when two souls decide to fully open up. And at some point in the conversation, they both surprised themselves thinking the same thing: “How didn’t I realize before how attractive he is?”

At the end of the evening, everything was perfectly planned, courtesy of Dick’s unmistakable intervention, who seemed to enjoy organizing that special moment far too much.

Damian mentally prepared himself to take the big step as they walked back toward your neighborhood. But to his surprise—and perhaps annoyance—it was you who spoke first.

“Will you be my boyfriend?” you blurted out, without preambles, without introductions.

Damian blinked, visibly taken aback. His lips parted as if searching for an appropriate response, but in the end, he could only sigh and smile resignedly.

“I was supposed to say that,” he murmured in a tone that tried to sound annoyed, although amusement sparkled in his eyes.

From that day on, everything changed. You spent both mornings and nights together, sharing something much deeper than the simple camaraderie that had united you in the beginning. There was something authentic, warm, and solid in your relationship that neither of you was willing to let go.

But if anything defined Damian, it was his protectiveness. Perhaps it was his vigilant nature or his endless list of responsibilities, but he was always aware of everything that happened around you. He worried about whether you were eating well, about your complicated relationship with Harley, about the people you hung out with, and especially about keeping you away from any gang that might cross your path.

That’s how you came to an agreement: he would teach you to defend yourself. The training sessions became an essential part of your routine, as habitual as baseball games or nighttime walks. Damian taught you to fight with the seriousness that characterized him, correcting every movement with patience— or the closest he could get to patience. Sometimes, he even took you on missions from afar, showing you how to act in critical situations without exposing yourself too much.

Your relationship with Harley gradually deteriorated. At least for her.

For you, everything remained the same. Or so you thought.

The morning egg sandwich tradition, for example. That sacred tradition between mother and daughter. Once again, you walked together through the streets of Gotham, which miraculously, under the sunlight, seemed a little less frightening.

Harley, with her usual energy, approached the food cart and ordered two egg sandwiches without a second thought.

But this time, you stopped her.

“Today I prefer a vegan sandwich, thanks.”

You said it without looking up from your phone, distracted by some nonsense on the screen.

Harley froze. Her white-painted face contorted into an expression of absolute horror, as if you had said you wanted to leave Gotham to join a Tibetan monastery.

“A... what?”

“A vegan sandwich,” you repeated, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

Harley’s eyes widened like saucers. She looked at the vendor as if expecting him to say it was a joke. But no, the betrayal was real.

From there, the changes became increasingly evident.

Friday taco nights with the girls, once sacred, disappeared.

“It’s taco Friday, kiddo!” Harley reminded you with enthusiasm.

“I can’t, I have plans,” you replied dismissively.

Your plans? Watching movies at “a friend’s” house. A mysterious friend. One who Harley didn’t know... or maybe she did.

Before, you always matched in your outfits, wearing matching leather jackets or some shared reference in your attire. But now you bought your own clothes. You dressed how you wanted, without worrying about what she thought.

Harley tried to seek support from her friends.

“Is she going through something? Is she in a weird phase?”

“She’s growing up, Harls,” Ivy and Selina told her with a smile that said “this is normal.”

But for her, it wasn’t.

Desperate, she turned to Batman.

“You have, what? Five kids? Six? Help me, bat!”

Batman merely looked at her in silence, with his typical “I have no time for this” face.

“I’m not exactly a parenting role model.”

Harley huffed. Yes, that was crystal clear.

But then she started noticing things.

You came home with bruises. You were evasive with her questions. You didn’t tell her anything.

At first, she thought maybe you were just being reserved. Teenager, independent. But then, seeing you arrive hurt once again, with a furrowed brow and an evasive look...

She thought of the worst, that maybe you were still hanging out with gangs of aspiring teenage killers or drug lords, that the Joker had found you and decided to take you as a bomb kid, or worse... that you had a secret boyfriend who was abusive to you... just like she had experienced.

She had had enough.

She wasn’t going to sit by while you drifted further and further away.

So she took matters into her own hands.

It was a quiet night... until it stopped being so.

Four in the morning. As usual, you were ready to say goodbye with a kiss at the window, as you always did. Something sweet, discreet... the norm.

But at the exact moment your lips barely brushed against Damian’s...

Chaos.

Three giant hyenas burst out from under your bed with growls that shook the walls. And as if that weren’t enough, Harley Quinn, in full ninja form, dropped from the ceiling with a baseball bat in hand.

“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?!” she roared with the fury of a mother who had just discovered the ultimate betrayal.

Survival instinct took control.

You slammed the window shut, leaving Damian trapped in the railing as your mother and her hyenas tried to get to him.

“Mom, calm down!” you interposed between her and the window, raising your hands in a sign of peace.

Harley looked at you with a furrowed brow, her eyes blazing with fury.

“Calm down?! I just saw my little girl making out with that demon bird!”

“It’s not what it looks like...”

But it was what it looked like.

And worst of all was that Harley already hated Damian to begin with.

Because, among all the Robins, he was the one she could stand the least.

He was arrogant. He was bossy. He was Batman’s son.

And now... he was kissing her daughter.

Maybe this was karma for all the crimes Harley had committed in her life.

Or maybe... it was destiny giving her a direct punch in the face.

Literally, because at that moment she raised the bat with the intention of using it.

In the end, Harley had to swallow her words. And the rest is history.

It wasn’t easy. It couldn’t be.

Because, after all, they both knew something was wrong. That things had changed.

And that nothing would ever be the same again.

For the first time in a long time, they sat down to talk. For real. No shouting, no all-out battles with hyenas involved. Just mother and daughter, trying to find their way back to each other.

Harley sighed, running a hand through her messy blonde hair.

“I wasn’t prepared for this,” she admitted softly.

And for the first time, you saw her vulnerable. Not the criminal, not the crazy psychologist, not the woman who could knock someone’s face off without a second thought. Just a scared mother.

“I wasn’t prepared for a baby, and now I’m supposed to be ready for you to grow up and become independent?” she let out a bitter laugh. “Hell, I can barely take care of myself!”

Her words hurt. Because you knew they were true.

But that didn’t change reality.

So you did what you knew best: you told her the truth.

All of it. From dating Damian to your nighttime escapades as a heroine.

She listened in silence, her lips pressed together and her arms crossed. She looked sulky, annoyed... but not surprised.

And in the end, she accepted reality. Not because she wanted to, but because she had no other choice.

Then she wrapped you in a hug.

A strong, crushing, desperate hug.

A hug that said everything words couldn’t.

That she loved you. That she would never stop loving you.

That she needed you, just as much as you needed her.

And at that moment, you knew.

That even though everything changed... even if you fought, argued, drove each other crazy... there would always be a common point.

You would always be Harley and her.

Whether it was stealing marshmallows at midnight or simply sharing a night under the stars.

Harley sighed against your hair, with a tired smile.

“Puberty sucks.”

For the first time in a long time, you laughed together.

“Yes, Mom...” you smiled. “It totally sucks.”

And then, everything changed again.

Now, you dated Damian normally while also spending time with your mother. A balance between two worlds that, for anyone else, would be impossible. But for you... well, let’s just say you were used to chaos.

Of course, life is never simple.

There were moments when everything went well. And then, out of nowhere, BOOM, explosive surprises at the worst possible time.

Like when Bruce Wayne, in an extreme gesture of formality—and perhaps hoping to prevent his son from becoming even more antisocial—invited you and Harley to dinner after you and Damian had been together for a year.

It almost felt like you were sealing a marriage.

You, in your naivety, thought it was just a quiet dinner. Something casual, relaxed, without pressure. You wore normal clothes, as you would any other day.

But Harley had other ideas.

“Casual?!” she exclaimed, horrified, as she pulled dresses from her wardrobe as if she were choosing outfits for the Oscars. “This isn’t just any dinner; this is a declaration of social war.”

“It’s just Bruce Wayne, Mom...”

“IT’S BRUCE FUCKING WAYNE. Do you know how many times he’s tried to throw me in Arkham? At least fifty! And now, I’m going to sit at his table, with class and elegance, and I’ll show him his son chose well!”

Spoiler: Harley's “elegance” consisted of a bright red sequined dress, shiny heels, and a faux fur coat... accompanied by her baseball bat, which she insisted on bringing “for safety.”

Bruce didn’t flinch. He was probably used to it by now.

But Damian did.

He spent the entire dinner with tense shoulders and a pure look of resignation as Harley threw him comments like:

“So, Birdie, what intentions do you have with my daughter?”

“Not enough to justify this interrogation.”

“Look at you being all clever! Hey, how about we have a game night? Something like... I don’t know... Russian Roulette.”

“Mom…”

Damian slowly sipped his water, wondering if it was really worth continuing this relationship.

But the worst came afterward.

When it was you who invited Damian over.

You thought you would be alone.

Beginner’s mistake.

Because the moment you settled with him on the couch, the door burst open, and Harley appeared, triumphant, with a giant bag of Chinese food.

“Surprise!” she sang, throwing herself onto the couch next to you two. “I brought food and a movie.”

Damian looked at you. You looked at Damian.

“Mom... what are you doing here?”

“Oh, don’t worry, I just wanted to spend time with you,” she replied, casually opening a box of noodles. “And with your boyfriend.”

Immediately, she turned on the TV and put on a movie... while staring intently at Damian.

Without blinking... For two hours.

At some point, Damian whispered in your ear:

“Your mom is analyzing my soul as if I were Katana.”

“Don’t worry, that’s her way of showing affection.”

“That doesn’t reassure me.”

And so the night passed, with Harley noisily chewing her Chinese food, Damian resisting the urge to pull out a sword purely for survival instinct, and you... well, you simply accepted your fate.

Soon it became clear as an irrefutable fact: Harley was jealous of Damian to the core.

No matter how much she said she had accepted you were growing up, that you weren’t a little girl anymore, that you had the right to your independence, the truth was...

She didn’t fully accept it.

And the worst part was that she didn’t even try to hide it.

Every time you were with Damian, she appeared.

It was as if she had a sixth sense for detecting when you were about to enjoy a romantic moment.

“Surprise!” she shouted one day, popping out from a trash can.

You almost fainted.

Damian, on the other hand, just sighed.

“How did you get in there?”

“Don’t underestimate a mother!”

Another day, you were walking hand in hand in the park, enjoying the silence, when suddenly...

“HELLO, LOVE BIRDS!”

Harley appeared from the treetop, dressed in a squirrel costume.

“Why are you dressed like that?!” you asked, horrified.

“Camouflage, sweetheart.”

Damian closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and whispered:

“Sometimes I wonder if it’s really worth it...”

But Damian was smarter than she was.

And that hurt him.

Because every time Harley tried to get between you, he found a way to turn the situation to his advantage.

When Harley decided to infiltrate an upscale restaurant disguised as a waitress to spy on your date, Damian simply said:

“Oh, thank you,” taking the menu she offered him. “Please bring me your most expensive dish.”

“Damian! It’s my mom!”

“Exactly, and if she wants to be a waitress, she should do it well.”

When Harley insisted on interrogating Damian about his future plans, he replied in a completely serious tone:

“I plan to marry your daughter and call you ‘mother-in-law’ until the end of time.”

“YOU WON’T!”

“Just to annoy you, I will.”

And so the years passed.

Despite Harley’s jealousy, you and Damian stayed together.

You overcame fights, challenges, family crises, villain attacks, and oh yes, the near end of the world.

And when adulthood arrived, when there were no more excuses, when life pushed you to make a decision, you made it.

You moved in with Damian.

It was a difficult goodbye.

Not because you wouldn’t see her again, but because it was the end of an era.

You stood at the front door, your bags ready, with Damian waiting for you in the car, and Harley...

Looking at you with an expression you had never seen before.

For the first time, she wasn’t joking. She wasn’t jealous, or annoyed, or dramatic.

Just... sad.

“So...,” she murmured, crossing her arms. “So this is how it goes, huh?”

“This is how it goes.”

“You become an adult, make your own decisions, leave with your boyfriend... and leave me alone like a crazy old woman.”

“Mom...”

“No, no, it’s fine,” she said, raising a hand. “I’m strong. I can handle it. Just tell me one thing, sweetheart...”

She paused, her blue eyes shining with something between nostalgia and pride.

“Are you happy?”

It took you a moment to answer.

Because there were so many things to say.

So many memories, so many moments, so many laughs, so many absurd fights, so many times you wanted to escape but always came back.

And yet, you could only say what mattered.

“Yes, Mom. I’m happy.”

Harley took a deep breath.

And, without warning, hugged you.

A long, strong hug, one of those that leave a mark.

“Then...,” she whispered against your hair. “It’s okay.”

No matter how much it hurt, no matter how much she wished she could stop time, no matter how unprepared she would ever be to let you go...

She let you go.

But you knew one thing for sure.

No matter where you were, or with whom, or how grown-up you became.

There would always be a part of you that would be that little girl stealing marshmallows with her mom in the kitchen.

And always, no matter the distance, no matter the future, no matter the time...

You would come home.

[kurogxrix]

this is adorable🥹🥹

i definitely NEED a part 2 because i feel like reader is kind of lonely taking care of everyone else’s sorrows but hers:( sooo cute, i loved this!

FALLING

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of death and grief

Word count: 2.5k

[Set during TFATWS]

Growing up in small-town Louisiana, you didn't have many options to leave. Sam joined the military. Sarah got married and stayed. You chased your dreams after graduating from college and moved to DC. You regularly returned to visit, but after the blip when Sarah’s husband died, you knew she needed you.

Which is how you found yourself moving back to your small town to support your best friend as she raised her sons. The plan was to find your own place and only stay with Sarah and the boys temporarily, but as time passed, she insisted you stay. You were basically family, after all.

Despite living in the same city as Sam, during the years in DC, the two of you didn’t see each other that often. Especially after he met Steve Rogers. Every once in a while, one of you would send a text, or decide to meet for drinks to exchange stories and catch up.

You were like another sister to Sam, a trusted person to process through the highs and lows of being an Avenger. Sam was the brother you never had. More deeply than anyone, you knew why Sam chose to follow Steve into the fire (despite his belief that the former Winter Soldier was a liability) and you trusted that he was doing what he believed was right. In your last few months of overlap in DC, Sam often shared his frustrations about Bucky, the super soldier ex-assassin who got under Sam’s skin more than anyone else.

After moving home, you saw Sam even less. Knowing the toll it took on Sarah to not have family close was one of the reasons you chose to come back. You and Sarah both knew that Sam couldn’t come back - he had a responsibility.

But Sam’s sporadic visits were Sarah’s lifeline. He was the father figure in the lives of A.J. and Cass. In Sarah’s eyes, whether she realized it or not, he was the glue that held their family together. Sarah was unbelievably proud of him… and unfathomably afraid to lose him.

On the day that Karli Morgenthau called Sarah, you saw clearly the terror in Sarah’s eyes. Sam had always been Sarah’s constant through her grief - the loss of their parents and her husband - and she had just gotten Sam back after the blip.

You were always the one there to pick up the pieces.

You were both relieved when Sam came home a few days later to help fix up the boat. You were relieved for a few days of respite.

Until James Buchanan Barnes showed up. A man you had heard many stories about from Sam, but never actually met. You didn’t have the highest opinion of the former brainwashed assassin because of Sam, but that changed quickly beginning on that day at the dock.

You emerged from the boat, huffing about yet something else that was not working the way it should. You nearly fell overboard when you spotted a man with a metal arm talking to Sam. At the sound of your commotion, both men turned around. Sam raised a brow, while the Winter Soldier's unreadable expression shifted into a smirk.

“I’m Bucky,” He grinned. You tried to step off the boat onto the dock, before losing your balance again in the space in-between. An arm suddenly wrapped around your waist, pulling you fully onto the dock. A metal arm. Breathless and beet red, you managed a sheepish smile, “Y/N.”

“I actually think we should start calling you clumsy. Woman, do you have any sense of balance?” Sam chastised teasingly before turning to answer his ringing phone. You snorted and flushed more as you realized Bucky’s arm was still tightly gripping your waist. You looked up at him curiously, suddenly noticing how tall he was in person and how blue his eyes were.

“I’m Y/N,” You breathed, forgetting words as you looked into his eyes. The corner of Bucky’s mouth curled back into a smirk as he looked down at you,

“Pretty sure you already said that, doll.” He lightly squeezed your waist before finally letting go. You chuckled, trying to cover up your embarrassment and deflect the attention from your blunder.

“I’ve heard so much about you from Sam,” You held out your hand in an effort to shake his, “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Funny, he never mentioned you.” His right hand reached out to yours, shaking it as you laughed,

“Well, there isn’t much to tell.” His eyes looked deeply into yours, searching. Sam had warned you about Bucky’s staring problem. But no one had mentioned how it felt to be on the receiving end—like he wasn’t just looking at you, but through you. It was like he could see your soul. His blue eyes were piercing, holding you in place. Warmth lingered where his hand gripped yours. Your heart slammed against your ribs as realization hit—you were still holding onto him. Slowly, almost reluctantly, you pulled away, clearing your throat as you flicked your gaze toward Sam, who was still on the phone. The eye contact with Bucky felt too intimate. And your body was still burning from his touch. He took a deep breath and your eyes snapped to his immediately before a smirk made its way back to his lips,

“Somehow I doubt that.”

The trance you were in shattered when Sam reappeared after his call ended, leaving you alone to think as he and Bucky decided to tackle the water pump.

Questions swirled in your mind. But mainly: What was the Winter Soldier doing in Louisiana helping Sam with the boat? And why did he make you feel like that?

—

After you and Sarah had realized Sam had invited Bucky to stay the night, you found yourself standing over the stove, stirring a pot of grits. You looked out the back window as Sarah, A.J., and Cass played in the yard, smiling softly at your sweet nephews (not by blood, but you were certainly their aunt).

You heard the slam of a car door before the screen door swung open with a loud creak.

“Damn, I gotta get some grease on those hinges,” Sam exclaimed, wiping his shoes on the mat and stepping into the kitchen. Bucky hesitantly followed. You rolled your eyes and Sam before smiling as Bucky’s eyes met yours.

“Y’all are right on time for dinner,” You turned off the stove and pushed the window sill above the sink open, “Dinner!”

Sam was already getting plates out of the cabinet,

“Smells amazing. Please tell me you made what I think you did.”

The screen door swung open again with a creak and footsteps padded on the floor.

“Boys, go wash up for supper,” Sarah commanded.

“Race ya!” A.J. called before the two young boys ran down the hall toward their shared bathroom.

Sarah walked into the kitchen before rolling up her sleeves to wash her hands in the sink. Sam bumped her hip with his before grinning at her and sticking his hands under the water. She laughed and dried off her hands, making her way to finish setting the table. You poured the grits into a bowl and stuck a serving spoon in them, before glancing back at Bucky, who was still awkwardly standing in the doorway.

“Better wash up, Bucky,” You teased. The edge of his lips curled up and he made his way into the kitchen, waiting for Sam to finish.

“You’re in for a treat, man, Y/N’s shrimp and grits are the best,” Sam turned from the sink, allowing Bucky to begin washing his hands, “She usually only makes them for special occasions." Sam grinned—and flicked water straight at your face.

“Sam!” You shrieked, startled, losing your grip on the bowl of grits. Before the bowl could spill and coat the kitchen floor, in one fast motion, Bucky grabbed the bowl with one arm, and the other steadied you. You breathed a sigh of relief at not ruining dinner before glaring at Sam who was laughing hysterically with A.J. and Cass. Even Sarah had a smile on her face. Bucky, of course, wore his seemingly signature smirk,

“Couldn’t let your special occasion grits go to waste.” Your face flushed as he grinned, letting go of your arm and handing the bowl of grits to Sarah, who put them on the table.

“Alright, enough of that. Let’s eat before it gets cold,” Sarah laughed, giving you a curious look. Your brain short-circuited for a second as you realized that Bucky had saved you from falling again, before you quickly grabbed the plate of shrimp, setting it on the table next to the salad.

Everyone had already taken their seats, and you slid into the open chair, across from Bucky. The normal dinner table conversation and laughter ensued, with the added quiet presence of Bucky. Every time you looked over at him, you would find him staring back at you.

—

Later that evening, after the dishes had been put away, Sam and Sarah went to put the boys in bed. A.J. insisted on his normal bedtime story from Sarah and an extra one from Sam.

You made your way outside to sit on the dock, only to find it was already occupied. You tried not to be irritated at the interruption of your nightly ritual as you walked down the creaking wood planks. You knew the super soldier could hear you coming. You had spent enough time both hearing about Steve and the few times he had joined you and Sam in the bar in the DC days to remember how sensitive super soldier hearing was.

Unlike at dinner, Bucky didn't even look at you as you plopped down next to him. The silence was thick with tension. You were starting to regret even coming down the dock and interrupting him. The sounds of the bayou surrounded you. The whipper willow, crickets, the sound of the water moving in the wind. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. It was almost like Bucky wasn't even next to you - he was so quiet.

Before you could stop yourself, you blurted, "You took my spot." Your eyes flew open at the sound of your own voice betraying you. Bucky stiffened beside you.

"Didn't realize I was stealing your spot," He murmured, "I just needed a little quiet." You felt guilty for your outburst, turning towards him as you understood that he was seeking the same solace as you,

"I get it. Not much quiet around here."

"Especially with Sam around," He muttered. You couldn't help but snort, quickly covering your mouth as you continued to laugh. The corner of his mouth pulled up as he looked at you.

Bucky’s small smirk faded as he stared out at the water, the moonlight illuminating his face. His fingers absent-mindedly drummed against the wood planks. You followed his gaze, letting the quiet settle again.

For a moment, you debated whether to leave him to his thoughts, but instead, you stretched out your legs and leaned back on your hands. “So,” you said, voice soft, “are you actually here to help with the boat, or just supervising?”

Bucky huffed a laugh, shaking his head, “I think Sam just wanted another pair of hands to suffer with him.”

You smirked, “Misery loves company.”

“Exactly,” He glanced at you, eyes catching the soft moonlight. “You always come out here at night?”

You nodded. “Yeah. It’s the only time everything’s… still.” You exhaled slowly, staring out at the water, “The quiet used to feel lonely. But now I think I need it.”

Bucky’s fingers stilled against the wood. “Yeah,” he murmured, “I know the feeling.”

You turned to look at him, sensing something beneath his words. His expression was unreadable, but the slight furrow of his brow told you there was more on his mind.

“Do you ever feel like…” You hesitated, but when his eyes met yours, something about the way he was watching—listening—made you continue. “Like no matter how much time passes, there’s a version of yourself that you don’t know how to let go of?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He shifted slightly, one knee bending up as he rested his forearm against it. “Every day,” he finally said. His voice was quiet, rough around the edges.

You swallowed, a lump forming in your throat. “I thought getting out of here, making something of myself, would fix everything. Like if I just kept moving forward, I wouldn’t have to think about the past. But… it follows you.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened slightly, but his voice was steady. “It does.” A pause. Then, softer, “But it doesn’t get to define you.”

You blinked, absorbing that. Of all people, he was the one saying that?

Bucky huffed a quiet laugh at your expression. “What?”

You shook your head, smiling faintly. “Nothing. Just… from everything Sam has told me about you, I just wasn't expecting that.”

Bucky scoffed. “Yeah, well, Sam’s an ass.”

You laughed, and something in his expression shifted—like he wasn’t used to making people laugh, but he liked it.

Silence stretched between you again, but this time it felt easier. Comfortable.

Bucky leaned back on his elbows, mirroring your position. “So, tell me,” he said, tilting his head toward you. “What does Sam say about me?”

You smirked. “Oh, you know. That you have a ‘staring problem.’”

Bucky sighed. “Unbelievable.”

“And that you’re grumpy.”

“I’m not grumpy.”

“You’re kind of grumpy.”

Bucky turned his head to look at you, raising a brow. You tried to hold back a grin, but the corner of your mouth twitched.

His stare lingered, unreadable at first, but then—something else flickered in his expression. Something softer.

You suddenly felt too warm, despite the cool night air. Looking away, you cleared your throat. “I mean, you are out here brooding on a dock late at night. Seems like grumpy behavior to me.”

Bucky chuckled, shaking his head. “You got me there.”

The conversation drifted between teasing and comfortable silence for a long while. At some point, you pulled your knees up to your chest, arms wrapped loosely around them.

Then, after a beat of quiet, Bucky spoke again. “I had a friend who used to say something like that.”

You glanced over. “Like what?”

“About the past.” He exhaled, gaze distant. “He told me I should stop looking at myself like I’m still the same guy I used to be.”

You hesitated, sensing the weight behind his words. “Sounds like a good friend.”

Bucky nodded, but his lips pressed into a thin line. “Yeah,” he murmured. “He was.”

Your chest ached at the way he said was.

You shifted slightly, brushing your shoulder against his just enough to let him know you heard him. You didn’t say anything, though. The silence was enough.

Bucky didn’t pull away.

------

Author's note: Okay please let me know what you think! I'm definitely feeling rusty after literal YEARS away from writing. But I have been a mad woman on my laptop for the last 24 hours and this is what came out of it. Part two, anyone? Would appreciate any feedback :)

[kurogxrix]

The emptiness you left. ☁️🌸

[kurogxrix]

reblogging so i never lose this ever again

Tell Me

Batfam x Assassin! Daughter! Reader

Tw: neglect, poor mental health, blood, death, guns, reader is stabbed and shot, argument, reader gets slapped once, everyone gets called out on their shit, reader’s on the dark side, assassination, etc…

Synopsis: Ever since coming to the Manor you never felt truly at home, nobody gave you the time of day no matter how hard you tried to be good and perfect. It takes a toll and in the end you find a dangerous outlet for all these negative emotions. You’ve reached your boiling point and now not even your estranged family could pull you from this darkness but what would they do? Could they really lock you away like the other villains after they were the ones to allow you to stray from the path of Justice?

Children were often the reflection of their parents, what they saw growing up is what molded them, what influenced their parents in turn influenced them. From a young age you knew you were not special, you were a weapon, raised by the Al Ghul’s and treated like a souless object for destruction. You weren’t used to kindness or happiness so it didn’t surprise you that your new family failed to treat you like an actual family member. You were the youngest Wayne now, but to everyone you were just another kid Bruce took in out of pity. Damian recognized you as soon as you’d been abandoned on the steps of the Manor but he did not treat you warmly. You were an obstacle, a challenge his mother had sent to destroy his peaceful life but all you wanted was to be loved.

The mansion was nothing more than a pretty bird cage, Bruce welcomed you with open arms but hardly gave you the time of day. Most of the other family members followed in his example, they were kind to you but rarely interacted with you and often times did their best to avoid you. At the very least you thought Damian would support you but seeing his emerald eyes shrink into a deathly cold glare was enough to make you give up on making a connection. All your life those cruel green eyes always mocked and ridiculed your existence, once it was your mother and now it was your brother. Within the span of a year you felt like a ghost in what was supposed to be your home. Your older siblings avoided you, and your “father” often ignored your presence despite your best efforts.

The only one who was kind to you was Alfred, the family butler, he always remembered your favorites and always lent you an ear to listen to you vent your sorrows. Sadly the attention and affection of one wonderful old man was not enough to ease the pain in your shattered heart. You tried to be good, you tried to follow all the rules and be a model daughter and student but what was the point? There was nothing nice in Gotham, it was cruel to the poor and the rich, so maybe you should use that pent up frustration to make a difference in this miserable city? After all you were trained by Ra’s Al-Ghul, you were never very good at pretending to be someone you’re not but maybe holding back wasn’t the answer. Maybe you were sent to Gotham to do what your dear brother failed to do! There was no point letting all those years of torturous training go to waste, not when there was a whole city of targets to take out and destroy. You could make Gotham a better place with your own two hands!

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bruce was troubled, more and more news articles were popping up about the sudden deaths of crooked politicians or cops throughout the past few months. Gangsters and common crooks were also being targeted by some unknown entity and it was driving the Bat Family wild. These weren’t just random targets, with each individual killed their dirty secrets were revealed to the entire world. Opinions became mixed about their deaths but in the end a mass murderer was on loose and Batman had to bring them to justice.

“Staying up late again Master Bruce?”, Alfred hummed, setting a plate of food down.

Alfred looked up and read over the screen, a sad frown pulled at his lips and a heavy sigh soon followed.

“It’s a shame really, even the worst of people deserve a second chance.”, Alfred sighed.

Bruce could only hum in response, “The whole family is out tonight, everyone is in pairs to ensure their safety. Tonight will be the night we capture this murderer, I just know it.”, Bruce growled pulling his cowl over his head.

Without saying another word Bruce stormed into the Batmobile and sped off into the night for patrol. Alfred could only sigh and stared back at the extra plate of food, he always made you dinner even though you’d left the manor months ago. Deep down he wishes he could’ve done more, he wishes he could’ve scolded the family into treating you better but it was far to late for that. Nobody was aware you were even gone, just the poor old man that kept you company and accepted you for who you were.

The night is still young, crime is always at its peak at these ungodly hours. Its no surprise thst everyone is out on patrol tonight but Damian is livid, something about these murders seems so familar that it’s driving him insane. He wants to do something, he wants to lock away the madman that’s been doing this but nobody knows what they look like! All they have to go on is a scratchy voice recording that’s been altered and a blurry image of the culprit.

“Yo look alive Boy Blunder, looks like we found him.”, Red Hood chuckled.

Damian quickly reacted replacing his green mask over his eyes as he rushed to the rooftop ledge, Red Hood pointed to the strange individual silently stalking into the heavily guarded building. Robin couldn’t help but scoff, he researched every possible target that this fiend would possibly try to attack tonight. He wouldn’t allow anymore deaths, tonight was the night that this assassin faces justice.

“Let’s go, there’s plenty of targets that this idiot can hit.”, Robin growled, launching his grappling hook and swinging down to the building below.

Red Hood chuckled and followed behind his little brother, soon enough the two vigilantes were inside searching for their elusive prey. A drug deal was going on between two lead dealers in Gotham, the two vigilantes were itching to arrest both but they had to wait for their target.

“Our best bet is to protect the two leaders, without a doubt they’re the targets.”, Robin whispered, watching closely for anyone acting out of ranks.

The tension in the room was thick, everyone was ready to fire rounds off at the drop of a hat but not even the heroes could see it coming. They were focused on the wrong targets and in a chilling instance a bullet was silently fired and pierced through the skull of one of the dealer’s right hand men. Before the body could hit the floor everyone drew guns and began firing away without a care in the world. Amidst the chaos Red Hood managed to hear a distorted giggle, his eyes focused in on the raptures of the warehouse and that’s when he finally found their target.

“You’re not getting away this time.”, Red Hood growled, launching his grappling hook just above the assassin and swinging towards them.

It was far to late before they realized they’d been found, Red Hood tackled them from the raptures and both crashed down onto the table below. The sudden breaking of the table silenced everyone and the gunfire stopped but that didn’t mean anyone was safe. The two vigilantes were disoriented from the impact and the thugs took it as the perfect chance to kill them both. Robin swooped in to save his brother setting off several smoke bombs to hide their escape. Red Hood clung to the assassin with a vice like grip, grappling his way up to a nearby rooftop as the shooting continued.

“Alright you fucking idiot! Now you’re gonna be going to prison for the rest of your-��

A huge explosion roared behind the small group, the building had erupted into a huge fire with all those men still inside. Again a distorted giggle sounded from the stranger behind them, “Watch and learn ladies!”, the voice cheered, racing off the rooftop and falling down to the ground below.

Robin and Red Hood both shouted in frustration, now they’d have to deal with two threats at the same time. The assassin rushed to a nearby water tower near the flaming building and destroyed the supports with small explosives they had on hand. The toppling tower crushed part of the warehouse but doused the fires out with all the water inside. Many of the men were flushed out with the water, many still alive but casualties were present. Several more lives had been lost in the gunfire and so many more were injured.

“Oh Bat’s gonna love this damage control.”, Red Hood sighed.

He wasn’t even aware that Robin had already left his side to track down the runaway assassin, they giggled in amusement to chaos before them blissfully unaware of the nearby danger. Robin began attacking them, slicing their arm with the tip of his blade before they realized he was there. They tumble to the ground, clutching their bleeding arm in pain before Robin jumps down to cuff them. A distorted groan sounds from the mask but Robin could care less, the sounds of police sirens are growing closer and now the assassin is beginning to panic. Red Hood soon joins his brother and the mocking tone he has is almost enough to trigger the young assassin.

“You’re going away for a long time freak.”, he hums.

The police sirens grow closer before an agitated sigh spills from the masked assassin, Robin and Red Hood watch in horror as the assassin slams their face repeatedly into the concrete ground below. After the third hit Robin grabs the hood and pulls the assasin up noticing their mask now gone. Jason and Damian are both shocked to see who’s under the hood and realize that they can’t let the police take away this assassin. The three vigilantes disappear into the night, rushing back to the Bat Cave to inform the family of what they’ve found.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your thigh hurts, your arm hurts, your back hurts, your face hurts, everything is burning and going numb from the pain all while your siblings silently glare at you in shock. You don’t say a word blissfully lost in the thoughts of your own head while you play with the cuffs around your wrists. Surprisingly enough your siblings had cuffed your hands behind your back and seated you in a chair until Batman could get back to deal with the issue at hand.

“I can’t believe the person behind the murders was you!”, Dick finally speaks up, frustrated to know that the youngest Wayne had been killing people.

You scoff at him and turn your head to look away from him. He gets more upset when you do so, “(Y/n) do you understand what you’ve done? We don’t kill people!”, Dick continues, his words falling onto deaf ears.

“Don’t be a hypocrite, Damian was killing earlier than I was and none of you ever scolded him for it.”, you snapped back.

Your brother’s face scrunches up in disgust, he knows he has no room to speak but he has changed. You ignore their voices as your eyes catch sight of the lights in the cave, the roaring engine of the Batmobile echoed in the distance. Great now things were really gonna get interesting, you huffed in frustration and get comfortable knowing you’ll be getting an ear full for your actions.

“Can you make this quick, I’ve gotta get home and walk my dog.”, you huff, opening your eyes to see Batman glaring down at you in disgust.

“Explain yourself.”, he simply growls.

You roll your eyes and cross one leg over the other, “I’m simply putting my skills to good use.”

The answer is simple and straightforward, nothing is untrue about the words you’ve spoken but it does draw mixed reactions from the family members.

“We don’t kill. You’re a murderer (y/n), your hands are stained with blood and you’re dragging down the family name with each kill.”, Bruce removes his cowl to get a better look at you.

You sigh and look down at your lap, “Tell me when was I ever officially renamed a Wayne?”, you ask glaring up into Bruce’s masked eyes, “Who gives a rat’s ass? I was raised by the League of Assassins, you should be grateful I have my own independence and don’t follow in my grandfather’s footsteps. Bedsides I’m making the Al-Ghul family proud.”

Bruce grows red with frustration at that comment, he doesn’t mean to but his hand moves on its own to slap you across the face. The boys all gasp and push Bruce back, Barbara and Steph rush to your side to help you, blood begins pouring from your broken nose again but you hiss at them to not touch you.

“You are a member of this family, you live under my roof which means you follow my rules. I should have you locked up in Arkham for what you’ve done!”, Bruce begins yelling at you but you are a woman with nothing to lose now.

“I am an Al-Ghul! I don’t even live here anymore! None of you ever cared about me, nobody ever helped me when I needed it! I was a ghost here until I decided to leave and make a name for myself, I’m an assassin get used to it!”, you roared back, your outburst shocked everyone.

They were so used to the quiet shy girl from before that your newfound voice sent chills down their spines. Bruce’s heart sank to the floor hearing your sad words, it made him think. Suddenly he realized that he knew nothing about you and he could barely remember the last time he’d seen you in the manor.

“I-I…that’s not true. If I’d known you were so lonely I would’ve done something…I-“

“Just save it. You people never gave a crap about me, I’ve been on my own for the past seven months and I bet none of you even noticed. What’s my favorite color? When’s my birthday? Who went to my school concert? None of you know right? Don’t suddenly act like you care!”, you chuckled darkly watching everyone’s faces suddenly pale at the realization of your words.

“B-But I thought you just locked yourself in your room? Alfred always made an extra plate of food…was he never taking it to you?”, Tim asked, guilt suddenly eating away at him when he tried to recall the last time he’d see you.

“I always thought you’d left early to school…I would’ve taken you but you were always gone.”, Jason added, he looks miserable but you don’t offer him any sympathy.

“I checked myself out of school months ago, I don’t even go to Gotham Academy anymore.”, you chuckled, enjoying the growing shock melting over everyone’s faces.

Everyone was too stunned to speak, even more so when you suddenly stood up from the chair with your wrists freed from the cuffs. Dick and Steph both quickly noticed you popping your dislocated thumbs back into place. Everyone was cautious of your movements but none could speak a word as the gravity of the situation slowly sunk in. You limped to the nearby exam table and grabbed tweezers to pull out the stray bullet that had lodged itself into your leg during the shoot out. While you bled over the exam table everyone watched just how unbothered you were by an injury that should’ve been painful.

“D-Did you get shot in the warehouse?”, Damian asked, inching closer to you with the intent to help you.

“I sure did. The slash I got from your sword hurts alot worse though, I can take care of it when I get home.”, you hummed, cleaning the bleeding wound.

Bruce joined Damian by your side and suddenly looked apologetic, “(Y/n) this is your home…I-I’m sorry if we failed to communicate that. Just stay here, Alfred can clean your wounds and we’ll talk things through. I’m sure there’s some way for you to atone for what you’ve don-“

An obnoxious ringtone blared from your pocket and you growled, muttering under your breath as you took the call. Nobody was sure what was going on but your body language became rigid and your face was stuck in a permanent scowl. Damian’s body mimicked yours once his ears caught on to a familiar voice sounding on the other end of the phone.

“Have you been talking to Mother?”, Damian questions you but you ignore him to continue the call.

You nod your head and let out a heavy sigh, “I’ll take on the task tomorrow, if that’s to long for you find someone else.”, you end the call and begin grabbing your things.

Bruce immediately gets in front of you trying to stop you from leaving, he’s delusional thinking he can repair the bond between you. You only offer him a dead glare and a frown, “Get out of my way.”

Bruce insists that you stay as do several of your “siblings” but to you these are just strangers. You don’t care for their opinions or words of wisdom, you needed them months ago not now. Your resolve was absolute and no one would stop you.

“(Y/n) if you walk out of this mansion than you will be a criminal. I won’t help you and neither will anybody in this room, if we meet on the field you will be arrested and taken to Arkham Asylum.”, Bruce warns hoping to scare you straight.

A light giggle falls from your lips eventually erupting into a hearty laugh, “Oh please do, I’ll just kill all your problems in one go. Mother’s been wanting to kill Joker for a while now. I bet the paparazzi would love to see me defaming the Wayne name like you said. Once everyone finds out who I am I’m sure they’ll put together who all of you are.”, your voice is cold and sinister as you continue to mock him, “Batman arrests his own daughter. Bruce Wayne is Batman. Family of vigilantes unmasked. Wayne family murderer. It’ll be a grand spectacle to read all of those articles.”

Bruce is appalled suddenly realizing that his hands are tied in this situation. Barbara speaks up, trying to descalate the situation, “(Y/n) please give us a chance. If we don’t arrest you than a Justice League member will. You won’t win against metahumans.”

“Do you think I’m stupid? I’ve been down here alone while you were all on patrol hundreds of times, all I could do was read to keep myself entertained and guess what I found all the contingency plans for each league, Titan, and family member. I downloaded those files before I left and if you keep threatening me I’ll be sure to sell that info to the highest bidder.”

Everyone suddenly seems more panicked than before, that information could destroy the world if it landed in the wrong hands. Barbara stayed quiet and pulled away knowing that there was no changing you mind. Damian tried to speak up, trying to speak some words of wisdom to you.

“(Y/n), sister please, I know growing up in the league made us abnormal. We thought we were weapons but I learned that I’m not. You can too. Just give us a chance to show you.”

You can barely smile anymore, listening to him lie through his teeth just to keep others safe from you made the cracks between you even bigger.

“I gave you a year. A whole year! I chose the path I could follow based on what I know, you failed. All of you failed! Go to hell, if any of you get in my way I will utilize all the information I have on you, the league, and the Titans.”, you warned.

This time nobody stopped you, you grabbed your things and walked away without once looking back. You were an assassin, this is what you were born to do. They had their chance to make things right and help you heal from your trauma but it was to late. There were unquantifiable corpses burdening your weak soul but even that wasn’t going to stop you, you had a mission tomorrow which meant you had less then 24 hours to heal and recover from tonight.

~~~~~~~~~~

The manor seemed lifeless after you left, suddenly everyone found themselves reflecting on how they mistreated you and grew disgusted with themselves. Alfred returned from his vacation only to find everyone wallowing in their own self pity. He knew of your suffering, he knew that you left as he was the only one you said goodbye to, and he was the one to withdraw you from school. Alfred did everything he could to support you until finally you pushed him away to take on your lonely path in life.

“You only have yourselves to blame, at the very least be courteous enough to bury her in the family cemetery when she’s killed.”, Alfred scoffed, returning to the kitchen to cook away his rage.

This only makes the family more miserable, the idea of you passing and them not knowing until its to late begins to haunt them. They’re scared and although they’re all together they’ve never felt more torn apart. Bruce sighs and stares at the empty windowsill where Damian usually sits during family meeting in the living room, he knows that Damian is taking this the hardest.

Damian slept in your room that night with Titus, looking for anything to hold onto of his sister. He never treated you well, he hardly knew you as you were both separated at young ages for training but even still the feint bond was the only hope he could hold onto. Being an assassin was a dangerous job and a lonely one at that, you would never know peace and it’s because he failed you. He was you brother, he was the one person that should have welcomed you and helped you earn your place in the family. He found your journal, a book you’d often write in and vent to, he read each entry and actually began to cry as each entry became sadder than the last. They’d missed your school orchestra concert, they’d missed your entire season of volleyball, and even forgot your birthday. It was through this journal that Damian even learned when your birthday was, it hurt so much. You deserved better, they all should’ve done better…you were alone and trapped in a pretty cage. You were like a hawk in a tiny cage, dangerous and searching for a way to escape and be free.

“Whatcha got there D?”, Dick asked noticing Damian with the book in his hand.

“(Y/n)’s journal.”

Everyone suddenly fell silent, they all wanted a chance to read through it and learn a bit more about you but Damian wasn’t done with it. He needed to know what he could do to fix this, he had to know what that phrase meant.

‘Tell me…’

‘Tell me what to do to make you see me’

‘Tell me why I’m not like them…why aren’t I special like them’

‘Tell me what did I do to be hated?’

‘Tell me why I’m alone….tell me why I’m angry!’

“Tell me why my version of justice feels so good? Why did assassinating that man feel right?’

‘Tell me was my mother right all along, if I have the power to change the world like this should I take it?’

‘Tell me what would you do if I suddenly became a part of the problem? Tell me what I have to lose if I follow the path of the demon!’

“Tell me what I have to do to bring you home (y/n).”