❝i Am Half-agony, Half-hope. . . I Have Loved None But You.❞
❝i am half-agony, half-hope. . . i have loved none but you.❞
summary: how the marauders loved you in their time. featuring harry potter the time-traveller and sixth-wheel.
pairing/s: poly!marauders + lily x reader.
tags: reader is referred to as she/her and a mother throughout the whole fic[!], reader is a violent gremlin who craves blood but the marauders love you for that, implied child abuse[!], mentions of blood and violence[!], disgustingly sappy poetic fluff, no angst, happy ending, not proofread we die like finnick odair, edited: very minor detail.
note: there is little plot, it’s just the marauders and their adoration for you. thank you all so much for your kind responses to my first marauders fic :(( ilysm! i hope you enjoy this one as well! because there are parts when i was writing that i ended up kicking my feet in the air and smiling to myself.
“MY NAME IS HARRY POTTER. I come from twenty-years in the future, you’re my mum — one of my ‘em, actually. It’s complicated. And you’re married to James Potter, Remus Lupin, and Sirius Black.”
You blink.
“Get the fuck out of my room!”
Harry James Potter has dodged many things in his life. Killing curses, jinxes, girls, Draco Malfoy, and Dudley’s sloppy punches, but he’s never had to dodge his sixteen-year-old mother’s fuzzy slipper before. (Godric, that sounds weird, even in his head.) He doesn’t know precisely how he arrived here. In the Slytherin common room, to be exact, in your dorm. Harry remembers duelling with Death Eaters, Hermione calling his name, and a flash of light hitting him square in the chest, then he remembers waking up in the cold tiles of the snake dungeon. He nearly throws himself off the window when he meets your eyes, bleary from interrupted sleep — it’s not often he gets to meet [read: one of] his dead parents, after all, three had been brutally murdered by Voldemort, and one killed by his own loony cousin. He misses Sirius, though. A lot. And right about now, he could do with some of Hermione’s nagging and brilliant plan-making.
At present — or past, Harry guesses — he watches you scramble out from your duvet, hand clumsily reaching for your wand as you snarl at him. He wonders if his mother knows that he’s encountered other creatures far more threatening than her. Oh shit, he realizes with all the forces of an angry Hermione Granger, isn’t this the last thing he’s supposed to do? But, well, Harry has given, and given, so much of himself all for the greater good — just this once, he’d like to see his parents alive and well. Even if they were currently trying to blast him into the walls.
“If you’d just let me explain, mum—!” Harry pleads, nearly dropping his glasses after dodging one of your stinging hexes. Godric, you’re crazy. “Please!”
“Stop calling me that!” You screech, eyes set ablaze. Harry finds that you’re quite dynamic with your attacks. A hairbrush, followed by a stinging jinx, then a thick History of Magic textbook — which rudely hits him in the face, but he doesn’t dare complain because you’re his mother, and he’s respectful like that — and after you’ve exhausted your breath, running him into a corner, and your nostrils flare with the stubbornness of a lion, you point the tip of your wand at him. “If this is another one of the Prewett’s shitty pranks, I want you to leave! You are in the girls’ dormitory beyond midnight, and so help me, if you aren’t walking out that door in the next five seconds, I will kill you and string you up by your bottoms for everyone in school to see! Maybe all your stupid rumours of me being a Death-Eater might come true after all!”
“You’re a Death-Eater?” Harry asks dumbly.
You growl furiously, and Harry figures that was not the right thing to say. “I wonder what McGonagall would say if I delivered your head to her on a silver platter.”
“Professor,” Harry corrects with a toothy grin. “Professor McGonagall.”
You slam his head against the wall.
Definitely the wrong thing to say.
Harry groans, little Dobby heads floating around his vision. Why was this so much harder than actually facing Voldemort? Quick, he needed to think of something, otherwise he’d end up eviscerated to ashes on your cold, stone floors. Harry is pretty sure you’d use his remains as decoration to send off a message to your enemies.
“You hate your father,” Harry slurs through the pain, remembering Remus’s stories of how you were the gentlest magical being he’s ever had the privilege to love — now that Harry thinks about it, Remus was being extremely biased, nothing about you is gentle at all. “He’s forcing you to marry someone old enough to be your grandfather. You love to read Muggle literature but had to stop when your father burnt your whole collection of books. Your favorite novel is Persuasion by Jane Austen. It’s the one book you carry with you everywhere, you could never get tired of it.”
Your grip on his shoulders falters, but the fury in your eyes crackles. “This isn’t funny.”
“It’s not meant to be funny, mum,” Harry croaks, voice cracking pathetically — strange how this is the most he’s ever uttered the word, mum; it’s a peculiar string of letters, foreign on his tongue. “You have tremors in your left leg from when your father cast the Cruciatus curse on you. One of your dearest friends is a Hogwarts house-elf named Pipley. You cheated on your Transfiguration essay once, and—”
“That’s enough!” You bark, eyes narrowed in dangerous slits. “I don’t know where you heard those from, you creepy, little stalker, but if you want to keep breathing, then I suggest you shut up.”
Harry scoffs — you don’t understand. Everything he’s learned about you is from Sirius and Remus. They talk about you with whispered devotion, your name like a prayer on their lips, their eyes glazed with wistfulness as though they could see you reaching out for them — but you were dead in Harry’s time. Yet, you might as well have been alive with their tales of you.
(“She’s a different kind of beautiful,” Sirius had said, a year after breaking out from Azkaban, sitting by the fire in Grimmauld Place, taking a swig of decade-old firewhiskey, “The kind of beautiful you don’t want to take your eyes off from because you’re afraid she’ll disappear from your eyes. But you won’t forget her, oh no, you’ll memorize the freckles and moles on her skin, the scars from her years, the light in her eyes, and the way she holds her head up high. You should have seen her, James, she. . . she was — is glorious.”)
“I told you,” says Harry firmly — although he loves his mother very much, she’s beginning to wear him out, “My name is Harry James Potter, I come from twenty-years in the future. You are one of my parents.” A lightbulb flashes in his head. He squirms in your hold, reaching for his robe pocket until he finds the thing he’s looking for. Harry dangles the ring in front of you, grinning in success when your eyes flash in recognition. “It’s—”
“A family heirloom,” You say breathlessly. The alexandrite winks under the light, a familiar gold band with the Latin inscription of your House words. “Where did you steal this from?”
Harry rolls his eyes. “You left it for me in my Gringotts vault. It’s my heirloom now. You have to believe me, there’s no way you can deny this.”
You take a step backwards, nibbling on your lower lip, as you stagger to your bed — Harry nearly stumbling to catch you in case you fell; adjusting to the living proof of time travel was quite difficult, he, of all people, should know. He exhales, dragging a hand down his face. “Magic, amirite?”
You throw a pillow at him, which he catches gracefully thanks to his Seeker reflexes, as you plop down in the comforts of your quilts. “Sleep. The other girls won’t be back until the end of the holiday. We can deal with whatever this is in the morning. It’s way too early for me to process the idea of a future Potter spawn following me around.”
Harry smiles. “Yes, mum.”
ONE THING THAT his fathers failed to tell him about you, and that Harry had to learn himself, was that you took ages to get ready. You sat on the chair in front of your vanity mirror, the birch wood legs whittled with snakes, and it was as though you had a Sticking Charm on the cushion. Harry didn’t know there could be so many creams, oils, and serums, and powders one put on their face. He blanches when you turn to offer him a cream for his under eyes. (“Suit yourself.” You shrug, turning to brush your cheek with dusts of pink. “Just saying, those dark circles aren’t doing you any favors.”)
“What am I like in the future?” You ask, a kind lilt to your voice, much like a warm hug, much like home.
Harry stiffens, shoving his hands in pockets of the robes that were twice his size — you had given him the garments of Lucius Malfoy to change in, which you apparently had stolen from his room. It’s come full circle, really, the Sorting Hat had once told him he would be great in Slytherin, and now here he was, looking fabulous in green — because he was about to hurl at the feel of the velvet on his skin, knowing slimy Lucius Malfoy had worn it. (“No son—” You pause with a tight purse in your lips, as if you still can’t accept the fact. Harry doesn’t blame you. “—no son of mine will be parading around in red of all colors, future or not.” And Harry finds that he really doesn’t care, so long as you call him your son.)
“Loved,” replies Harry gruffly, avoiding your eyes in the reflection of your mirror — they were piercing. One look and Harry wanted to spill all of his deepest, darkest secrets. He remembers the photographs in his album, the one he’s stared at so many times as a child. It’s a moving photograph of the five of you, fresh out of Hogwarts, each wearing a smile that stretched from ear-to-ear. Before Sirius and Remus, it was the only semblance of proof that Harry had — that you had once been alive. Remus is holding you by the waist in the picture, twirling you around as autumn leaves fell. You were — are — loved, and Harry thinks there’s no better description than that.
(“I bloody hated her cat,” says Remus with a roguish quirk to his lips, regalling Harry with more talks of his parents. “Sirius, too. We just never got along with the little creature. But your mother loved it, and we would have done anything to make her happy. She deserved it, you see. She deserved more than what I had to offer her, but still she chose me anyway. And I am a selfish man, Harry, I crave glimpses of her and the whispers of her voice. She has made me a mad man whose only reprieve is her touch.”)
You hum knowingly. “Stupid question, I guess. Since you aren’t allowed to reveal anything more about the future.” You sigh, gracefully threading your arms in the sleeves of your shirt, a green tie in the center of your collar. “Except, of course, when you gave me a heart attack in the middle of the night by telling me the last thing I want to become — no offense, I just don’t see how a relationship with those rowdy bunch would work. They get on my nerves far too much for me to ever feel anything other than disgust.”
Harry doesn’t need a mirror to see that his expression has contorted in confusion; brows knitted and upper lip crinkled. By their memories of you, you all were madly in love in Hogwarts. Damn. This just made his trip to the past a lot harder. No maze seems to be ever just a maze.
Luckily, you don’t notice him brewing a grand master plan to bring his parents together. Instead, you say, “But you don’t seem to be phased by any of this. If I had been thrown twenty years into the past, I would have puked my guts out twice at some point.”
“Thanks for the image,” says Harry with a scowl. Truthfully, it had either been a present with a noseless Dark Lord to face, trauma to unpack but really never have the chance to, or a past where all of his parents were alive, and a chance to talk with them for however long he has. He knows where he’ll be staying, thank you very much.
“Anytime,” You reply with an impish smile.
Your heels pad across the floor as you walk over to him, mouth clicking as you pat the top of his head, full of wild, untameable Potter hair. “You need a trim soon,” You mutter, frowning, as you brush the thick strands away from his eyes, then you gasp — and Harry knows exactly what’s coming next. “Oh, you’ve got Evans’s eyes. That’s freaky.”
“I know.” Harry grins.
“Here’s the plan,” You say as you lead him out of your room, making sure no one saw him walking out of your door and getting the wrong impression — because that would be so wrong on many levels, but also, explaining to someone else that the person beside you was a time-traveller was just complicated in general. The Slytherin dungeon is unfamiliarly familiar, eerily quiet, as the two of you made your way out. “Just say you’re Potter’s distant relative, twice or thrice removed, and you’ve always been here. If you lie to their faces enough, they’ll believe it eventually.”
“Will that work?” Harry doesn’t really mind — he needs a connection to James, his father, if he’s going to work out a connection between you and the others, because at the moment, it doesn’t seem like you’re too fond of them. There’s a tick on your jaw every time you mumble the word, Potter. Nevertheless, Harry decides he’s going to spend the duration of the holiday break trying to set you up with them — on the list of most insane things he’s ever done, living out the Parent Trap was high up the tally.
You shrug. “They’ve fallen for less.”
(“She’s got this adorable habit when she lies,” Sirius tells Harry, whipping up a stack of pancakes for their breakfast — Remus browsing through the morning paper. It’s the closest he’s ever been to a normal family. “It’s not obvious to her, of course, but I know her more than I know my own name. So we play along with it.” For a moment, he stops drizzling the maple syrup on the well-cooked batter, gazing at Remus fondly. “D’you remember that, Moony? She led us straight to one of her pranks, and we ended up covered in slug slime. She was so obvious — with her adorable fucking giggles. I need help with Charms, she said, and we knew right away it was a set-up. But it didn’t matter. I’d happily let her lead me to my ruin.”)
The Great Hall is the same as Harry remembers. Now that most have returned home for the holidays, those who stay back mingle with students from other Houses, sharing meals under the bewitched ceiling, their low murmurs and hushed Christmas greetings bouncing off the walls. Harry scours the four tables to find a hint of blazing red hair, or the scent of impending trouble. Fortunately, he doesn’t have to search very far. As fate would have it, James Potter finds you — and where he is, Sirius Black is sure to follow.
You’re barely seated when James comes bounding over to your table — more precisely, he struts, and Harry is horrified to ever be proven wrong by Snape, of all people. He ignores the roll of your eyes as he drags a leg over the bench, sitting to face you as Sirius occupies the space to your left before Harry can even sit down. He can’t even fathom how weird it is to see his parents as rambunctious teenagers. Lovesick, rambunctious teenagers.
“Morning, dove.” James preens under your glare, stealing a grape from your bowl with a boyish smirk. His hair looks as though he’s ran his hand through it many times. “You look ravishing today.”
“As always,” Sirius pipes in. “But that eyeshadow really isn’t complementing your skin tone, my darling.”
You smile at him, right before your lips twist into a cutthroat sneer. “Piss off, Black.”
James stifles a laugh as he shovels a mass of potatoes on your plate, then pumpkin pasties, and slides a steaming cup of Dragon Well tea in front of you.
“What the hell are you doing, Potter?” You reach over to smack his arm when he sprinkles apple slices and bacon on your breakfast.
“What does it look like?” James smiles lopsidedly. “You need to eat more, honey.”
(In the future, Sirius will tell Harry, “It started off as a joke, a way to get on her nerves — but then, it just became this thing about taking care of her, making sure she got enough sleep before her tests, wondering if she had breakfast or dinner, staying with her in the library, walking her to the Slytherin common room, and sending her stupid notes just to make her laugh. You don’t get it, Harry. I’d give my every breath to ensure her life. We all would.” Harry doesn’t see Sirius any more during that evening, but he hears a bottle crashing against a wall, cracking into a million pieces, and the masked sound of Sirius sobbing, and Harry decides to leave him alone for the night.)
Then, you tear your eyes away from James — he huffs, pushing your plate to you, mildly annoyed that you’ve deprived him of your eyes; they were his favorite part of you, you see, so expressive and full of life; James thinks you put the stars to shame — and thankfully, you remember that Harry still exists. You lightly smack Sirius’s leg until he gives Harry some room to sit. “Potter, meet other Potter. It’s the holidays, shouldn’t it be the perfect time to let go of House prejudices and spend time with family?”
James looks at Harry up and down. “You must be from dad’s side of the family with all that hair.”
Harry lets out a breath of relief. That was easy — way too easy. When he takes the vacant space in between you and Sirius, you dump all the available food on his plate, just as James had done for you.
“Eat,” You say with a tone of finality. “You look like the wind could snap you in half.”
“Yes, m—” Harry stops himself before he could finish his sentence, avoiding Sirius’s curious gaze.
“Wow.” Sirius pokes Harry in the shoulder and in the cheek. “You really look like a mini-James, you’ve even got his terrible eyesight.”
“Oi!”
Your fork clatters against the silverware as you turn to Sirius with a shrill. “Not that I do enjoy your company — because, trust me, I do not want you here at all and would very much prefer if you got out of my sight — but why are you here? The Gryffindor table is over there. Unless your housemates finally got sick of you, Potter, which I can definitely see happening.”
James chuckles, tossing another grape in his mouth without taking his eyes off you. “It’s as you said, isn’t it? It’s the time for putting aside House prejudices. And I think it’s a lovely day to enjoy a meal with my favorite snake.”
“Drop dead,” You retort, digging into your chicken with a little more force than necessary.
“Oh, dove.” James shakes his head, a teasing grin pulling at his lips. “It’s cute that you think death will keep me from you.”
(Harry’s been told before, probably by Sirius, that this line had been wedged into his wedding vows for you. “A dramatic one, James was,” Sirius chuckles to himself one morning, Harry and Hermione listening intently, “He always said he’d rather die than ever hurt her. There was this time in seventh year, they had a fight — it was ugly — and she had ignored him for a week. James cried in Remus’s arms begging him to cut his heart out, saying that he didn’t deserve to keep on breathing, not after making you cry.”)
“That is so creepy,” You say in disgust, scrunching your nose. Sirius chortles at your side. “I still wonder why Evans agreed to go out with you.”
“It’s all part of the charm, dove.” James winks. “It’s all part of the charm.”
Harry wants to barf, actually.
After breakfast, James then decides to introduce Harry to Lily, Remus, and Peter. (He’s gonna need the patience of a saint to not Avada Kedavra that rat on the spot.) Harry had spent the whole morning watching Sirius peel oranges and give them to you with a smitten look in his eyes — naturally, you gave whatever Sirius offered you to Harry, and each time Padfoot would visibly wilt. If he were in his Animagus form, Harry thinks he would be whining by now, tongue out and all. James and Sirius follow after you like lost puppies when you extricate yourself from the table.
“Where are you going?” James calls, hot on your heels as you leave the Great Hall.
“Away from you, Potter!”
And James actually sighs when you turn the corner and disappear from their peripheral vision. Seconds later, he turns to Harry with a blinding smile, “She’s definitely charmed.”
Harry chortles.
“Well, come on then!” James guffaws as he wraps an arm around Harry’s neck — this is so, so strange. They begin walking in the opposite direction of where you went. “I still can’t believe we’ve got another Potter here and in Slytherin. I think I would have remembered Minnie calling your name during the Sorting Ceremony. What year are you in?”
He’s supposed to start his sixth-year in a few weeks. “Fifth.” Technically.
“We should ask Lily,” says Sirius, hands in his pockets and ebony ringlets tickling his nape. “She’s got the best memory out of all of us.”
It’s odd, Harry thinks, meeting the person who’s got his eyes — or the other way around, as people have told him. It’s like someone carved out the emeralds of Lily Evans’s eyes and bestowed it upon Harry for safekeeping. She sits beside Remus Lupin, head resting on his shoulder, hands clasped together, as they enjoy the shade. Nex to them, oblivious to their intimate conversation, is Peter Pettigrew — with his rosy, cherub cheeks and innocent blue eyes; not at all the image of a pathological, cowardly liar. Their heads snap in attention as James boisterously cries for their name.
“Marauders — and Lily-pad — meet ickle Potter.” James lightheartedly whacks Harry on the back, to which Harry feels his lungs spill out from his mouth, he’s sure there’s an imprint of his father’s hand on his back now.
“There’s two Potters in Hogwarts?” Sea-green eyes look at him in scrutiny as Lily knits her brows. “How even is the castle still standing?”
James cackles like it’s the best joke he’s ever heard in his entire life, slapping his knee for dramatic effect. Oh, well, at least they’re buying Harry’s half-baked lie. At this point, it’s not even baked, it’s just wet, soggy, and poorly done. “Good one, Lily-pad!”
Sirius ruffles Remus’s shaggy blonde hair, canines bared in a wide grin. “This one here’s Moony, uptight prefect in the morning and absolute beast in the evening.”
Harry blanches. Surely he was talking about his furry problem, right? Right?
Remus doesn’t even flinch, just peels off Sirius’s hand from him and extends his hand out to Harry. “Please do not mind him. Remus Lupin, nice to meet you. Although, I can’t believe this is the first time we’ve met. We would have definitely remembered if we had another Potter in our midst.”
“It’s true, we Potters are just hard to forget,” says James, smiling cheekily.
Harry pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “Mum didn’t take the Potter name. I’m part Dursley. Muggle.”
Lily hums, toying at the ends of her bright hair. “Dursley, huh? What a familiar name.”
“It’s a common one,” Harry assures her — not at all the names of the people who would take him in after they died. And make his life miserable.
“I suppose you’re right,” says Lily, unconvinced.
“And this is Peter.” James introduces the boy eagerly, pride in his voice — as though this isn’t the person who literally allies himself with Voldemort. As if Peter won’t betray his friends all because of fear.
“N–Nice to meet you,” Peter stammers with a nervous fidget, “Any family of James is a friend of ours.”
Harry’s eye twitches.
IT IS ALMOST COMICAL — the way their eyes land on your figure, bursting through the courtyard from the corridors, winter cloak swishing with every step, tendrils of hair swaying in the crisp wind, and head held up high, thick books under your arms. You pause in front of the Marauders, face blank, then you turn to Peter, greeting him with a: “Hello, only Gryffindor I can tolerate.”
Peter’s cheeks burn a saccharine hue of pink. Oh, no, no, no — absolutely not — Harry will not stand for a little crush Peter Pettigrew has on his mother. He needs James to act now. “Hi,” Peter replies shyly.
Lily quirks her lips. “Hello, princess, see your score for the Astronomy test yet?”
You scowl. “Zip it, Evans.”
The sound of Lily’s laughter fills the atmosphere — it’s the sort of melody that makes flowers bloom in deserts. “Had a bit of difficulty with the star charts?”
Sirius pinches your cheek — Harry thinks you’re going to murder him on the spot. “Difficulty? I think this one just slept through the whole thing.”
James snickers. “Must have been one hell of a nap, princess. You were drooling on my jumper.”
“I most certainly do not drool!” You gasp, appalled, eyes wide as you step away from Sirius.
Sirius rolls his eyes. “What? Is drooling too barbaric for the pretty, little pure-blooded princess now? Newsflash, pet, you’re just as human as we are.”
“Oh, you horrible, loathsome, infuriating—” You whip around to beat his chest with the course book in your grasp — it’s the kind of book Hermione would consider for light reading.
“Irresistibly attractive—?” Sirius supplies for you, grin widening with as he captures your wrist with his hands.
“In your dreams!” You shrill.
You exhale slowly, eyes closing, chest rising when you take a sharp inhale. You open your eyes and stare straight at Harry — for a moment he fears that you’ll bite his head off. “Harry, dear, will you accompany me to the library? I think I’ve found something important regarding your situation.”
Harry nods. “Is it time already?”
“Yes,” You say firmly. “And time is of the essence. Come on.”
“Wait!” Lily calls out to you as you turn to head back to the castle, Harry in tow — he tries to avoid the way James is glaring at your linked arms. “Hogsmeade next week?”
Your jaw falls to the ground — this must have been unrehearsed, if the others’ reactions were anything to go by; Remus had dropped his book in shock, Sirius looked like he couldn’t decide between applauding Lily’s bravery or shaking her, and James was somehow frozen in time. “Excuse me?”
“You’re excused, princess,” says Lily, dimples poking out of her cheek as she takes another step towards you. “You, me, Hogsmeade. A date. I’m sure you’ve gone on one of those before.”
Harry elbows your stomach as you stare at Lily in shock. It takes a few moments to break you out of your stupor. “A–And what makes you think I’ll just go with you?”
Lily shrugs. “I’m fit. Aren’t I, Remus?”
“The fittest,” says Remus without missing a beat.
You laugh incredulously. “Do you just expect me to go along with this? You’re mad, Evans.”
Harry glares at you. You need to go along with this.
“Are you scared, princess?” Lily’s face is inches away from yours, noses almost touching — Harry doesn’t know if he should keep watching this painful way of flirting — as she grins at you, happiness barely contained within her eyes.
To your credit, you don’t back down. (Harry has to say this for the masses: he saw your gaze flitter down to Lily’s lips for a split second.) “Stop calling me that, Evans.”
“One date, then.”
You growl in exasperation, eyes flickering to the boys behind her back — pretending not to hear their conversation. “I suppose I’ll have to deal with them as well?”
Lily beams and Harry swears sunflowers could grow in her direction. “We’re a package deal.”
“Unfortunately,” You utter — but Harry notices it, the lack of venom in your voice. You straighten your posture, nose lifted haughtily, “I choose where we’re going.”
“Done.” The sun peeks out from the cloud just as Lily smiles at you.
“And I want to—”
“Done,” Remus interjects raspily, peering up at you from underneath his lashes. “Anything you want, it’s yours.”
You fight a growing smile, but continue, “If we’re going out in public, you’re going to have to wear—”
“Done,” says James giddily, he looks as though he could kiss you in front of everyone without a care in the world.
“You can’t just agree to anything I say!” You flap your arms in frustration.
“Yes, dear,” Sirius teases.
“Do you know how much you piss me off, Black?” You squawk. “Because you are this close to—”
“You are so fucking beautiful,” Sirius confesses, every pretense shed raw from his skin, sincerity pouring from his words.
“I—” You falter, heat rushing to your cheeks. “You’ve gone mad.”
“It’s your fault, dove,” says James, eyes twinkling like crescent moons as he smiles. “You best take accountability for this.”
“You’re incorrigible — all of you,” You say as you avoid their gazes.
(But they were yours. Past, present, and future. They loved you so much that their soul was no longer their own — it was yours; yours to keep, yours to break, and yours to love. It would be unjust to ask them why they loved you. Do we ask why the sun rises each day without rest? Do we ask a daisy to stop blooming, or a tree to stop growing after it has endured storms and floods? After all, we do not ask why humans follow the light in a tunnel shrouded in darkness.)
“Come on, Harry, let’s go.” You reach for his hand, he notices immediately that the tips of your ears are pink, and your palms are warm with sweat. He barely sees Peter wave goodbye before you tug him in the direction of the castle entrance.
“Wait up!” Remus catches up to you two in quick strides, offering to carry your books for you — not that you agree, stubborn Slytherin that you are. “I’ll walk you to the library.”
“There’s no need for that, Lupin, thank you.” You dodge his eyes, lips tightly pressed together, nails slightly digging into Harry’s arm.
“Remus,” He says with a twinkle. “Call me Remus.”
“Alright.” You pause. “Remus.”
(In that moment, Remus wonders if you remember decking Lucius Malfoy in the face to defend him in your fourth year. He didn’t think he deserved to even breathe in the same air as you — the pure-blooded princess, dressed in clothing worth more than his life, adorned in jewelry he could only dream to afford, raised to believe she was better than everyone else. Then, you beat up Evan Rosier the next month in the courtyard, eyes ablaze, extravagant silk marred with grass stains and mud, and knuckles split open. You spit blood on the ground, looking at Lily then back at Rosier. “Red,” You say, kicking him one last time in the stomach, unafraid of McGonagall’s wrath growing louder and louder. “Just like everyone else. Like those Muggleborns you fear. We’ve all got dirty blood, Rosier. Suck it up.”
“I’ll tell your father about this!” Rosier bellows through bloody teeth.
“Tell him!” You grab his neck and slam your forehead against his. “Tell him that I decide my own future now!”
Remus doesn’t even have to think about it.
He falls in love.)
FUNNILY ENOUGH, IT’S LILY who gives you her heart first, before anyone else does. It’s the last month of her first year at Hogwarts — it still hasn’t quite sunk in yet that she was a witch. Her, not Petunia, but her — Lily Evans, the witch. Apparently, some people can’t believe it either. A girl from Ravenclaw calls her this foul word, she’s heard it a few times now but it always hurts the same. James and Sirius get into a fight for her honor, now faced with detention later this evening. But she can’t help but wonder, what if they were right? What if she really didn’t belong in this world? It was too good to be true, anyway. Perhaps she’ll just run a flower boutique with Petunia.
“Oi.”
The sound of your voice startles her, and she nearly topples over in the Great Lake. Lily catches sight of your Slytherin colors and resigns herself to another round of name-calling. “What do you want?”
“They’re wrong, you know,” You tell her, ignoring Lily’s question. You look down on her with your nose raised arrogantly — she wishes she could be like you. Born to be magic. “You’ve got a terrifying brain locked up in your head there, Evans. And they know it, too. They’re scared.”
Lily scoffs. “I’m just a Mudblood to them. There’s nothing to be intimidated by.”
You sneer. “Don’t say that word. You’re more than that. More than them. They’ve got long ways to go to prove they have a place in this world. But you — you’ve defied the odds and you were destined to become magic. You don’t have to prove anything. You have the right to be in the wizarding world and no one can take that away from you.”
Then, you pivot on your heels, not bothering to hear her reply. “You’re my rival now, Evans. Do keep up. We’ve got an Astronomy test tomorrow. I look forward to seeing how you do then.”
Lily just gapes. She’s certain there’s butterflies in her stomach. Her heart thumps wildly against her ribcage. Lily raises her hands to feel her blushing cheeks. There’s a light unfamiliar sensation in her stomach — like the urge to kick her legs and scream into a pillow, or more precisely, chase after you and hold your hand.
She stiffens.
Oh.
part two
More Posts from Sirxaibs and Others
Sunday HSR X Reader
꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ Get used to it ꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱
masterlist
part 2
a small drabble with him as a passenger of the astral express…… and march being a fangirl
˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ The Astral Express gym wasn’t exactly high tech, but it had everything you needed: open space, training mats, and just enough echo to make your footsteps sound cooler than they actually were. Sunday stood on the mat already, stretching his arms slowly. He was always composed. polished words, a little distant but never unfriendly. A recent addition to the Express, still settling in. You figured sparring would be a good way to break the ice. Or, at the very least, make him sweat a little.
“You ever sparred before?” you asked, rolling your shoulders as you stepped onto the mat across from him.
“Once or twice,” Sunday replied, giving you a look that was polite. “I assume you’ve done this more than that.”
You shrugged. “Yeah, a bit. We do it sometimes, just to stay sharp. Helps keep my mind quiet too.”
That made him pause for a moment. “I can understand that.” There was a brief stretch of silence as you both settled into your stances. You smiled.
“Alright. Light spar. First to three taps?”
“Fair enough.”
Then you moved. Sunday was careful. Precise. He didn’t rush or overstep, but you could tell he was reading you watching how you shifted your weight, how fast you reacted. You responded in kind, your movements smooth and quick, not showy like usual. This wasn’t about flair. It was about rhythm, connection, learning someone without needing words. The first tap came when you managed to slip behind him and brush his shoulder. He looked surprised. The second came quickly after his palm barely grazing your side as he dodged your next strike.
It was fun. Quietly fun.
Somewhere in the middle of the third round, things shifted. You both moved at the same time your foot angled to pivot, his shifting forward for a counter. It wasn’t anything dramatic, no wild kick or spin, just a split second misstep.
You felt your foot catch his. His arm moved quickly, instinctively reaching to steady you. Too late. Your balance tipped forward, his backward, and gravity did the rest.
The two of you landed with a dull thud on the mat. For a second, neither of you said anything. You opened your eyes to find yourself sprawled over him, chest pressing lightly against his, palms braced on either side of his shoulders. His arm was still around your waist where he’d tried to catch you.
Your faces were close. Close enough to count the tiny flecks of gold in his eyes. Close enough that his breath, warm and even, brushed against your cheek.
“Oh.” The sound escaped before you could help it. Not exactly graceful.
Sunday’s eyes didn’t move away from yours. His expression wasn’t annoyed, or embarrassed. If anything, he looked… thoughtful. Still. Like he wasn’t sure what to make of the moment either. You felt the weight of the silence more than the fall.
“I, uh” You shifted slightly, meaning to push yourself up, but your hand slipped against the mat, and you instinctively leaned closer to steady yourself. Now your nose almost touched his.
His hand, still on your back, tensed faintly just a twitch. But he didn’t move it. You laughed under your breath, a little breathless. “This probably looks worse than it is.”
“Maybe,” Sunday said, voice low, not quite smiling but not pulling away either. “But I’m not complaining.”
That made your heart skip a beat. You looked at him again, There was something softer in his face now. you realized you weren’t in a rush to get up. Not yet.
“…You okay?” you asked, quieter this time.
He nodded once. “You?”
You nodded too, eyes not leaving his. “Yeah.”
Another beat passed. You could feel the steady rhythm of his breathing under your hands. Not hurried. Just… calm. You slowly pushed yourself up and off of him, offering your hand once you were upright. He took it without hesitation. His fingers were warm.
Back on his feet, Sunday brushed some dust off his sleeve, but his eyes lingered on you longer than before. There was nothing more to say right then. So he just smiled and walked away.
“God I need a cold shower after that”
˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
Turns out it wasn’t a cold shower but nevertheless, a shower. The steam from your shower still clung to your skin as you stepped into the parlor car, toweling your damp hair with one hand, dressed in your usual cozy nightwear. You’d taken your time lingering under the hot water, trying to shake off the strange feeling that had settled in your chest after the spar with Sunday.
It was the way he looked at you. Still. Quiet. And how you hadn’t wanted to move. You exhaled, trying to shove the memory aside. Maybe it was just adrenaline. Heat of the moment stuff. Totally normal when you faceplant into someone’s lap. Right?
As you rounded the corner into the parlor car, voices floated up from the seating area. You paused half curious, half wary.
“…I’m telling you,” came March’s unmistakable whisper. “They were on top of each other. Like, full on dramatic slow motion fall. And neither of them moved for a good ten seconds. It was so weirdly quiet. I thought they were gonna kiss.”
Your stomach dropped. Your face lit up like a reactor core.
“March.” That was Dan Heng. His tone had that deadpan flatness that meant you’re being ridiculous again.
“No, I’m serious!” March hissed. “It was intense. They were looking at each other like… like in one of those cheesy holo dramas. And she totally forgot I was there. I had to back out slowly like I was interrupting something.”
“Maybe you were,” Caelus muttered under his breath.
“EXACTLY,” March said. “I mean, I always thought something might happen, but not this soon. And with Sunday? He’s like… all elegant and mysterious”
“I heard that.”
Three heads whipped around at once. You stood in the doorway, arms crossed, still towel drying your hair, blinking at them like you’d just caught them stealing cookies.
March squeaked and jumped three inches off the couch. “You! When did you get there?!”
“Long enough,” you said flatly, stepping fully into the car. “Long enough to hear my public execution.”
March scrambled to explain herself, hands flailing. “No no no! It wasn’t an execution, it was it was a friendly dramatic retelling! Like bedtime gossip!”
You stared at her. Dan Heng looked like he was rethinking every decision that led him to this moment. Caelus was trying very hard not to laugh.
You pointed at March. “Next time, announce the playbill if you’re gonna perform my personal life in three acts.”
“I didn’t mean it in a bad way!” March said, now clutching a cushion to her face. “Honestly, I thought it was kind of cute!”
“March.”
“Okay! Okay! I’ll stop talking!”
You plopped down into the seat beside her, stealing the cushion from her arms to bury your face in it.
“I hate everything,” came your muffled voice.
Dan Heng finally looked up from his book. “So… did anything actually happen?”
You didn’t answer. When you pulled the pillow away, your face was still pink. You shrugged. You slumped into the seat and closed your eyes.
˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
You walked along the glowing path of the new planet’s market district, your boots clicking softly against the polished stone. Lanterns floated above the crowd, casting a warm shimmer over everything, and strange alien wind chimes tinkled softly in the breeze. It was one of the calmer stops for the Astral Express no explosions, no urgent missions. Just exploration, some research, and a little breathing room.
You sipped your drink a fizzy, spiced thing with a color that probably wasn’t natural and hummed to yourself as you trailed behind March and Caelus. They were arguing about the best souvenir to bring back for Pom–Pom.
You lingered by a street vendor selling constellation shaped pastries when a man tall, smug, and clearly very into himself sidled up beside you.
“You look like you could use some company,” he said, his tone low and confident, like he thought he was the main character in a romance drama.
You blinked, startled. “I’m uh, I’m good, thanks.”
But he didn’t get the hint. He smiled wider, stepping just a little closer. “You sure? Someone like you shouldn’t spend a night like this alone. I know a place nearby quiet, private. Just you and me, maybe some music”
“Wow,” you interrupted, trying to laugh it off. “That’s… forward.”
“Life’s short,” he replied smoothly. “Why waste time pretending?”
You took a step back, now officially uncomfortable. “Really, I’m not interested”
“She’s not.”
The voice came from behind you, calm and steady. Sunday. You turned your head just as he stepped into view, his hands in his coat pockets, expression unreadable but voice just sharp enough to cut tension.
“She’s my girlfriend,” he added casually. “She’s not into that sort of thing.”
Your eyes widened. Girlfriend? Oh.
The guy blinked, his confidence faltering. “Oh I didn’t realize…”
“Now you do,” Sunday said, still polite, still calm. “You can move along.”
The man muttered something under his breath and walked off, melting into the crowd like smoke.
You exhaled slowly. “Okay. That was…”
“Uncomfortable,” Sunday finished for you, tilting his head slightly. “He wasn’t taking the hint.”
“No kidding,” you muttered. Then, with a faint smile, “Thanks for the save.”
He looked at you, eyes softening just a little. “You looked like you needed one.”
You nodded. “I did. But also ‘girlfriend?’ Really?”
“Seemed effective,” he replied without missing a beat. “Was I wrong to assume you wouldn’t want to go home with a stranger tonight?”
You laughed, shaking your head. “No, definitely not wrong. Just… caught me off guard.”
He gave a small shrug. “You can correct the record if you want.”
You looked at him, thoughtful now. The lantern light played against the sharp lines of his face, but his gaze was gentle, open.
“Nah,” you said, voice light. “Let them think I’ve got someone.”
Sunday gave the smallest smile. And then, almost too quiet to hear. “Maybe someday they’ll be right.”
You turned to him but he was already walking ahead, hands still in his pockets, calm as ever. You blinked. Then grinned.
˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
March wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. Not really. She had just been browsing one of the cute trinket stalls on the edge of the plaza admiring some heart shaped glass charms when she heard your voice from the next row over. You sounded… awkward. Uncomfortable.
Curious, March peeked around the corner, just in time to see some local guy lean in too close to you. His tone was oily, confident in that blech kind of way that made her want to throw a glowing pebble at his head. You were clearly trying to shake him off.
“She’s my girlfriend.”
March’s soul left her body.
Sunday’s voice was smooth and even, not threatening, but with that finality that made the creepy guy instantly freeze. He stepped up beside you with this casual calm, hands in his coat pockets, expression unreadable but there was no doubt in his tone.
“She’s not into that sort of thing,” he added coolly. “You can move along.”
The guy mumbled something and slinked away. March’s brain started loding the spinny ball of death.
Girlfriend? GIRLFRIEND?!
She didn’t even mean to gasp aloud, but it happened. Thankfully, no one heard. She ducked back behind the trinket stall, crouching like she was dodging a security drone. Her heart thumped against her ribs. When she peeked again, you were talking to Sunday, flustered and blushing. He stood there like it was nothing, like he hadn’t just set the local rumor mill on fire with one casual sentence.
March didn’t wait another second. She took off sprinting.
“I’M SORRY BUT THIS IS AN EMERGENCY.”
Caelus and Dan Heng both jumped in their seats as March burst into the tea shop, nearly knocking over a decorative lantern in her haste.
Dan Heng put down his cup with a sigh. “Let me guess.”
“No no guessing. Just listen.” March bent over the table, panting dramatically. “Sunday just called her his girlfriend. To a random guy. Who was hitting on her.”
Caelus blinked. “Wait. What?”
“You heard me! He said it without hesitation., ‘She’s my girlfriend.’ Boom. IT WAS SO KNIGHT IN SHINNING ARMOUR.”
Dan Heng raised an eyebrow. “And she didn’t correct him?”
“Not at all! She blushed! She just stood there blushing!”
Caelus slowly grinned. “Huh. I thought we were still in the pining phase.”
“That’s what I thought too!” March wailed, dropping into a seat across from them. “I thought I had time to mentally prepare for the will they won’t they!”
Dan Heng leaned back. “Maybe they skipped to the good part.”
March glared. “This is a story, Dan Heng. There’s a structure.”
Caelus sipped his tea again, amused. “BUT LIKE he did that just to protect her. Im sure we would do the same thing”
“Shhhhh are either of you wanting to marry her and want to look longingly at her.”
Dan Heng muttered, “I don’t think that that matters when you’re watching out for someone”
March just pointed toward the plaza. “Mark my words. Those losers are happening .”
˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
March 7 lay curled beneath her mountain of pastel blankets, one leg sticking out, mouth slightly open, a bubble of drool forming with every breath. She looked… innocent. Unaware. Vulnerable.
Perfect. You stood at the edge of her bed, Caelus beside you, both cloaked in shadows and silence. “She sleeps like someone who hasn’t committed crimes,” you whispered.
“She sleeping like she didn’t fully diss Dan Heng and I for just existing,” Caelus murmured, smirking. “She called me a coward yesterday for not pushing you two together faster.”
You narrowed your eyes at the blissfully unaware March, a mischievous grin tugging at your lips. “Your time of reckoning is over.”
And then, like a flash of divine vengeance, the pillow came down. WHUMP. March jolted awake with a squeak, arms flailing, hair a tangled mess. “WHAT WHO”
“JUSTICE,” you declared, striking again, this time dual wielding pillows like a vengeful sleep deprived warlord. “FOR PEACEFUL EXISTENCE.”
“TRAITOR!” March screamed as another pillow hit her in the face, this one clearly Caelus’s, who was now leaning against her dresser and howling with laughter. “You were supposed to be neutral!”
“I was never neutral,” Caelus grinned, tossing another pillow into your hands like a loyal arms dealer. “I just picked the winning side.”
“You picked VIOLENCE!”
“You picked CRAZY
Pillows flew. March kicked off her covers and dove behind the mountain of backup pillows she had an arsenal you knew too well. She emerged like a pink haired general, dual wielding plushies shaped like various alien mascots.
“I DID NOTHING TO YOU CAELUS!” she shouted, flinging one at Caelus’s head. “I THOUGHT YOU SHIPPED THIS LIKE ME! AND THIS IS HOW YOU REPAY ME?!”
“I WAS trying to make it happen, March!” you cackled, blocking her throw with your arm. “but you’re crazy lady.”
“Because SOMEBODY has to!”
The room became a flurry of feathers and yells, the floor littered with fabric casualties. March screamed something about “romantic sabotage” while Caelus used a star shaped cushion as a shield and tried not to collapse from laughter. Eventually, panting and half buried beneath a pile of glittery pillows, March flopped onto her back.
“This isn’t over,” she wheezed. “You might’ve won the battle…”
You sat on the floor, leaning against her bedframe, heart light and cheeks aching from laughing too hard. March peeked at you with a sleepy, dramatic glare.
“Just admit you like him,” she muttered.
You grinned. “No comment.”
Caelus snorted. “So that’s a yes.”
˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
The corridor was quiet, save for the distant, muffled thumps echoing from March’s room. Sunday padded down the hall in soft slippers, wrapped in a navy blue pajama set that still looked oddly regal despite the sleepy looseness of it. The collar was slightly askew, and his curls had lost their typical styling, falling gently across his forehead. He wasn’t sure what had drawn him toward the commotion curiosity, perhaps. Or maybe instinct.
The door to March’s room was open just enough. And there you were. Mid laugh, caught in the middle of a pillow war that had clearly escalated. Caelus was ducked behind a wardrobe like it was a bunker, March stood on her bed like a self declared queen of feathers, and you glorious in your pyjamas were twirling a pillow like a blade of justice.
Feathers floated through the air like snowflakes. Sunday didn’t move. He leaned against the doorframe, half in shadow, just out of your view. And he watched. And he smiled. He’d grown up in rooms where laughter felt rehearsed. Where joy was reserved for ceremonies, and everything had meaning, even the silence. He had known peace, yes but the kind that was still, stagnant. Like a pond reflecting stars instead of the sky itself.
Robin had always tried to shield him. Kept him wrapped in the comfort of his ideals, gave him a dream so beautiful he forgot what real light looked like. Messy, loud, brilliant life. The way your hair stuck to your cheek with sweat, the way your eyes gleamed as you dodged March’s wild throw, the unfiltered, unashamed joy in your voice as you shouted something absurd about “pillow fueled vengeance.”
He’d never seen experienced this feeling. Sunday’s heart thudded quietly in his chest, a rhythm that didn’t belong to the Family or any script he’d ever memorized. He liked that you weren’t afraid to be ridiculous. That you laughed freely. That you made others laugh.
He liked that you didn’t seem to carry your burdens in front of him not because they didn’t exist, but because you chose, for a moment, not to let them define you. he liked that when you were with your friends like this, you looked entirely untouchable. Unreachable. He wanted to reach anyway. But he stayed still. Let the moment stay yours. A feather floated past his cheek. Sunday blinked once, then quietly turned, retreating back down the hall before anyone noticed. He didn’t need to be in that moment to be part of it.
˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
Feathers still drifted in your hair. Your arms ached from swinging pillows like weapons of mass destruction. March had declared herself “the rightful queen of shipwide shipping” before collapsing in a pile of her own making, and Caelus was last seen crawling down the hallway muttering something about betrayal and glitter.
You didn’t make it to your room. Your legs had carried you halfway down the train, and then… gave up. The Parlor Car welcomed you with soft lights and the hush of starlight outside the window. It was quiet here. Peaceful. And most importantly there was a couch.
You barely noticed the figure already sitting there. You just dropped into the opposite end of the long velvet seat with a graceless thump, curling onto your side and sighing like the soul had been knocked out of you. Your hair stuck to your forehead. Your shirt was rumpled. You didn’t even bother taking off your socks.
Sleep claimed you within seconds. Sunday, seated near the center of the couch with a book resting gently across his lap, blinked slowly. He hadn’t even heard you come in. His eyes drifted from the page, tracing over your sleeping form. The way your chest rose and fell. The faint smudge of pillow war aftermath still clinging to your cheek. One of your shoes had fallen off somewhere on the way in your foot dangled off the edge of the couch, sock half hanging.
You looked peaceful. He closed the book without a sound. He stood, quietly padded over to the small linen cabinet near the entrance of the car, and pulled out a soft, navy blue blanket. One of Himeko’s spares, likely. He unfolded it carefully, draped it over you from shoulders to toes, and adjusted it so it wouldn’t slip off during the night.
Then he knelt beside the couch, brushing a stray feather from your hair with a light, careful touch. in a voice only the walls heard, he murmured,
“Sleep well. May your dreams never be burdens.”
He lingered for a moment, hand resting just beside your shoulder. Then he moved to the nearby armchair, sat down, and tilted his head toward the stars just outside the wide train windows. His book remained unopened in his lap, forgotten. He didn’t need it. Tonight, the soft rhythm of your breathing was enough.
Bruce Wayne | Batman X Reader
ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ Gotham Socialite ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ
masterlist
I want to make some batman themed oneshots where it explores a relationship between you and him.
EDITED- changed a bit of dialogue and description because I want the reader to be super cool and amazing
High society, meet the reporter reader. Reporter reader, meet Bruce Wayne
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ Gotham’s elite are as gaudy as the chandeliers hanging above them. expensive, bright, and utterly useless. The grand ballroom of the Gotham City Opera House is filled with them, men and women draped in designer gowns and tailored suits, sipping champagne as if their wealth isn’t built on the backs of the people suffering outside these marble walls.
You move through the crowd like a ghost, unseen despite being one of the few people here actually worth listening to. They invited you because of your work because your name is attached to articles Gotham’s wealthy pretend not to read but secretly obsess over. You don’t write puff pieces about Gotham’s heroes; you write about its monsters. You dig into their minds, their motivations. Why does Edward Nygma need to prove he’s the smartest man in the room? Why does the Joker turn his suffering into a performance? What makes a villain tick? That’s what you care about.
Not this.
Not the empty smiles. Not the soulless small talk. Not the way these people clutch their designer purses like they contain anything of real value.
You exhale sharply through your nose, taking another sip of your drink just to give yourself something to do. It tastes expensive but meaningless, like everything else here.
As you turn to leave, you accidentally bump into someone a woman in a tight, sequined dress that probably costs more than you’ve made in the last six months.
“Oh, my God,” she snaps, stepping back as if you just assaulted her. “Are you serious?”
Your brows lift. “Oh, relax. You’ll live.”
Her expression twists in outrage, but before she can respond, a man approaches tall, broad shouldered, with a perfectly practiced smile. And just like that, she flips a switch.
“Oh my God, Bruce!” she gasps, laughing like she wasn’t just seconds away from throwing a fit. She rests a hand on his arm the same arm she previously flung up in disgust when you bumped into her. “I didn’t think you’d actually show up tonight! You never come to these things anymore.” You watch with mild disgust as she transforms in real time. It’s like watching an AI desperately try to mimic human emotion.
“Yeah,” you mutter, just loud enough to be heard. “hmmm I might see myself out”
Bruce Wayne glances at you then, his interest piqued. You don’t fawn over him. Don’t preen or attempt to charm your way into his good graces. No, you just look at him like you’re wholly unimpressed. Its not that he wasn’t appealing. Of course you found him attractive. Though finding him attractive felt a little like betraying the people you grew up around. Just because you escaped the extremely poor doesn’t mean you want to abide by it.
“You know,” you say, tilting your head, “for a guy whose while company is built on working with the community , you don’t seem to have much of a grip on reality.”
The woman beside him gasps in horror, clutching Bruce’s arm even tighter, but you’re not done.
“This whole act,” you gesture vaguely at him, “isn’t cute. I mean no disrespect though, go party and go crazy.” Your eyes lock onto his with something sharper than hatred indifference. “I don’t know how you stomach it. It’s honestly an insult to humans.” Silence settles over you like a fog. The woman looks scandalized, staring at you as if you just spit in her drink.
Bruce, on the other hand, just looks intrigued. His usual mask of carefree billionaire playboy falters just for a second. His blue eyes search yours, something thoughtful flickering behind them. Then, just as quickly as it had cracked, the mask slides back into place. He lets out a chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck in feigned sheepishness. “Well,” he says, flashing that same easygoing smile he always wears in public, “can’t please everyone, I guess.”
The woman beside him giggles like an idiot, but you just roll your eyes. Bruce Wayne is a good actor, you’ll give him that and judging by the look in his eye, he looks a little off put.
You don’t give Bruce another glance as you turn on your heel, moving toward the exit with the same single minded determination as a prisoner inching toward an open cell door. You’ve had enough of this place enough of the fake smiles, the rehearsed laughter, the suffocating air of money and ego pressing in on you from all sides.
Bruce watches you go.
He should just let you leave. He should turn his attention back to whatever mindless conversation he was meant to be entertaining tonight. But he doesn’t. Instead, his gaze follows you, his interest snaring on something he hadn’t expected.
You very evidently don’t belong here. Not in the way these people do, with their polished exteriors and empty souls. He mentally jokes that press training might be on a to do list for your manager.
No, you move like someone who doesn’t care to belong. Which from his relationship woth selina, Its definitely evident that women from the narrows dont care. You weave through the room with an awkwardness that’s both endearing and painfully obvious dodging trays of champagne like they’re landmines, sidestepping small talk with barely concealed irritation. Your distaste is written all over you, from the way your fingers tighten around your glass to the way your shoulders hunch slightly, as if trying to make yourself smaller, less noticeable.
But that’s the thing. You are noticeable. More than anyone here. Bruce takes in the way you tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, the way you mutter something under your breath when a socialite nearly clips you with a careless turn. He watches as you catch your footing after bumping into a server, your apology quick and sincere so different from the sneering entitlement of the rest of the room.
A quiet chuckle leaves his mouth as he watches you finally get to a corner. Bruce’s lips press together, something flickering in his chest that he doesn’t have time to name.
He should let you go. Instead, he steps forward, slipping through the crowd with the kind of practiced ease that only someone used to wearing masks can manage. You don’t notice him until he’s beside you, his voice cutting through the noise of the room like a knife.
“You’re not very good at this,” he says, amusement lacing his words.
You glance up at him, eyes narrowing slightly. “At what?”
Bruce gestures vaguely to the room. “Blending in.”
A scoff leaves your lips as you finally reach the exit, one hand already pushing against the heavy door. “Yeah, well,” you say, sparing him one last glance, “I’m used to this kind of thing.” And then you’re gone.
Bruce watches the door swing shut behind you, his reflection staring back at him in the glass. For the first time all night, he finds himself smiling.
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ Bruce barely makes it through the front doors of Wayne Manor before he’s pulling at his bow tie, loosening the suffocating knot that had been pressing against his throat all evening. The moment the silk slides free, he exhales, rolling his shoulders as if shedding the weight of the night along with it.
The grand doors swing shut behind him, the quiet of the manor swallowing the distant hum of Gotham’s high society. The transition is immediate, like stepping out of a suffocatingly bright stage and into the cool embrace of shadow. The mask the one made of careless grins and charmingly vague conversation falls away as effortlessly as the jacket he shrugs off, tossing it onto the nearest chair without care.
From the hall, Alfred watches the display with an arched brow, ever the picture of poised amusement. “Welcome home, Master Wayne. I see the evening was as eventful as anticipated.”
Bruce sighs, running a hand down his face. “That might be an understatement.”
Alfred steps forward, hands clasped neatly behind his back. “I assume you spent the night ok though master wayne?”
“Something like that.” Bruce rolls his neck, loosening the last remnants of his socialite persona. “A lot of people talking without actually saying anything. You’d think I’d be used to it by now.”
“The inevitable I hear,” Alfred muses, “you always seem equally miserable every time you return.”
Bruce lets out a humorless chuckle, unbuttoning the top of his dress shirt. “That’s because it never gets any less exhausting.”
Alfred gives him a knowing look before stepping toward the chair where Bruce had carelessly discarded his jacket. He picks it up with practiced ease, shaking his head. “One of these days, you might consider hanging these properly.”
“I consider it every time,” Bruce remarks, already making his way toward the hidden entrance to the Batcave. “Just never quite get around to it.”
Alfred merely sighs, following him with a well worn patience. “Shall I prepare something for you to eat? Or will you be brooding on an empty stomach this evening?”
“Not brooding,” Bruce corrects as he reaches the hidden panel in the wall. The mechanism clicks, revealing the passage leading down into the cave. “Just… following a curiosity.”
Alfred hums, ever perceptive. “Would this curiosity have anything to do with the young woman who managed to offend half the room tonight?”
Bruce pauses mid step, glancing back at him. “You heard about that?”
Alfred gives him a pointed look. “Master Wayne, the moment someone dares to tell off a socialite at an event like that, it becomes the only thing worth discussing. I’d be surprised if her picture isn’t already pinned on some poor soul’s dartboard.”
Bruce huffs out a short laugh before shaking his head. “I’ll be in the cave.”
Alfred merely nods, already knowing there will be no convincing him otherwise.
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ The Batcave hums softly with the sounds of running water and flickering monitors, a stark contrast to the suffocating luxury of the ballroom he had left behind. Here, Bruce is no longer Gotham’s golden boy. No longer the playboy billionaire.
Here, he is himself.
He settles into the chair before the Batcomputer, fingers swiftly typing as he pulls up a search. He hadn’t planned on looking you up. At least, that’s what he tells himself. But there was something about you something about the way you moved through that room, awkward yet unyielding. You didn’t belong there, and you didn’t care to. The way you had looked at him, unimpressed and disinterested, had been a rarity in a world where everyone was either too enamored by his wealth or too busy trying to figure out what game he was playing.
His fingers move with purpose, bringing up your name, your records. The first thing he finds is that, unlike many of the people who had surrounded you that night, your life had been anything but privileged.
You were born and raised in the Narrows Gotham’s forgotten underbelly. A place where opportunities were scarce, and survival was a skill honed from childhood. Your record is clean remarkably so, for someone who grew up in the part of Gotham where crime wasn’t a choice but a necessity. No arrests, no notable scandals. You had gone to school, worked through college, and carved out a place for yourself in a city that did everything it could to swallow people whole.
But what catches his attention the most are your writings. Articles. Interviews. Pieces dissecting the minds of Gotham’s most notorious criminals. Not in the sensationalized way tabloids did, but with an analytical depth that spoke of genuine understanding. You weren’t interested in painting them as mere villains or glorifying their crimes you wanted to understand them.
Your work focused not on the spectacle of their actions, but on the why. The motivations. The cracks in Gotham’s system that had allowed them to exist in the first place. You had interviewed ex gang members, street level criminals, and even those who had managed to escape Gotham’s cycle of violence. You wrote about the lives that high society ignored the people who lived in the shadows cast by the city’s towering skyscrapers.
You gave them voices.
Bruce leans back in his chair, studying the screen. You had lived a normal life at least, as normal as someone from the Narrows could. You had no connections to the criminal underworld beyond your work. No secret vendettas, no affiliations.
And yet, your writing showed a perspective that very few people in Gotham ever took the time to understand. You weren’t just observing Gotham’s worst. You were showing that they had stories worth telling.
Bruce’s eyes flicker over the last article on the screen, the words settling in his mind.
“Society has already decided who deserves redemption and who doesn’t. But if you never listen to someone’s story, how do you know they weren’t doomed from the start?”
His fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment before he finally leans forward again, exiting the search.
Curiosity, he tells himself. That’s all this is and yet, as the screen fades back to black, he can’t shake the feeling that you might be someone worth paying attention to.
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ If you wanted your stories to be heard, you had to be seen. That’s what your publicist told you. That’s what you repeated to yourself as you stepped through the towering entrance of yet another Gotham high society event, where old money mingled with new power, and influence dripped from every word spoken between sips of champagne.
You didn’t belong here. You never did. But belonging wasn’t the point.
This was the price of being heard. If you wanted your work to matter if you wanted people to actually read what you wrote, to listen to the stories Gotham’s forgotten had to tell you had to stand in rooms like this. Not because you cared about these people or their whispered scandals, but because they had the power to shape the city’s narrative, whether they deserved that power or not.
And so, despite the suffocating air of wealth and self importance, you showed up.
The ballroom was an exhibition of excess. A long, lavish table stretched the length of the room, set with gold rimmed plates, crystal glasses, and floral centerpieces so elaborate they could have easily funded an entire year’s worth of rent for a struggling Gotham family. Conversations bubbled up around you hollow laughter, polite murmurs, the occasional hushed gossip passed between sculpted lips.
You found your seat. And nearly laughed. Right beside Bruce Wayne. Of course.
You weren’t sure if this was some kind of twisted joke or if the hosts had simply thrown darts at a seating chart, but there it was your name card placed neatly next to Gotham’s most beloved. Maybe they thought you were more important than you actually were. Maybe they thought Bruce had the patience of a saint. Though you have a feeling after your last stunt, they were trying to see if another PR disaster would come from this. Maybe more publicity for them. Any publicity is good publicity you guess.
Either way, it was too late to change it now. Sighing, you pulled out your chair and sat down, reveling in the last few moments of solitude before the night officially began.
And then, the atmosphere shifted. Even before you turned your head, you knew. Gothams golden boy had arrived.
The energy in the room changed, as if the very air had been pulled toward him. Conversations faltered just slightly, eyes flickered in his direction, and there was a quiet ripple of interest that passed through the gathering like an unspoken current. It was always like this.
The city’s most eligible bachelor. The name that sent tabloids into a frenzy and made socialites tilt their heads just so, hoping to catch his attention. He was power wrapped in effortless charm, an untouchable figure who played the role of the careless heir so well that even the most cynical couldn’t help but watch him.
You risked a glance. Of course, he looked perfect. Dressed in a dark, tailored suit that cost more than your entire apartment’s worth of furniture, he moved through the crowd with the kind of casual grace that made it seem like he belonged everywhere. A relaxed smile curved his lips, and the people surrounding him whether they were whispering behind their glasses or outright gushing were captivated.
It was almost infuriating, how easy it was for him. Why can’t beautiful people feel more im reach?
When then he reached his seat and saw you. For the briefest moment, the mask slipped. Not much just a flicker of something sharp in his eyes before it smoothed over, replaced with something unreadable.
He barely acknowledged the lingering hands on his arm, the voices vying for just another second of his time. His attention had already shifted. To you. You on the other hand are practically clutching your pearls to remain calm. Your publicist told you to absolutely DO NOT fuck up again.
Bruce had been willing to chalk that first encounter up to chance. A passing curiosity. Now he was beginning to think fate had a sense of humor.
“Fancy seeing you here,” he murmured as he sank into his chair, his voice carrying the warmth of amusement.
You exhaled through your nose, already bracing yourself. “Yeah, well. maybe i won the lottery to be seated next to Gotham’s golden boy.”
His lips twitched. “I doubt im anything that special”
You gave him a dry look. “Didn’t take you for a masochist, Wayne.”
He chuckled, low and quiet. “Only selectively.”
You sighed, picking up your menu just to give yourself something to do. “I do want to apologize for last time, I swear im more civilized. I guess that I kinda got thrown off a bit?” Bruce leaned in slightly, his voice dipping just enough that only you could hear.
“Acting all fancy? Where’s the fun in that?”
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ If you had to endure one more second of this sanctimonious drivel, you were going to jam your fork into the back of your hand just to feel something.
The dinner had been dragging on for what felt like an eternity, and the conversation at the table was as unbearable as expected. The hosts, a couple who clearly thought themselves Gotham’s greatest benefactors, were speaking at length about their so called “generosity” and the many ways they had given back to the community. It was all so painfully rehearsed.
“We simply couldn’t sit idly by while Gotham suffered,” the woman declared, holding her glass delicately between her fingers. “Which is why we’ve dedicated ourselves to philanthropy.”
Her husband gave a solemn nod. “Yes. Our foundation has put millions into rehabilitating Gotham’s most… unfortunate areas.”
Unfortunate areas. You took a slow sip of your wine, pressing your lips together to stop yourself from blurting something you’d regret. They were talking about the Narrows. Where you had grown up. Where people still fought to survive every single day, no thanks to the people in this very room.
They spoke as if their generosity was some grand solution to the city’s suffering. As if they had single handedly saved Gotham. You exhaled through your nose, already feeling your patience fraying. It was then that you felt someone shift beside you.
“Did you hear that?”
The words were spoken so casually, so smoothly, that at first, you weren’t sure you had heard them at all. You turned your head slightly, finding Bruce Wayne sitting beside you, his face the perfect picture of polite interest. His voice was quiet, just low enough that only you could hear him.
“Hear what?” you muttered, confused.
He took a sip of his drink, his expression unreadable. “The sound of Gotham being saved.”
You blinked. “what?”
Bruce gestured subtly toward the hosts. “Between the Restoration Project and last week’s fundraiser, I think we can safely say Gotham’s problems have been solved.”
For a moment, you just stared at him. Then, before you could stop yourself, you let out a sharp, amused breath. “Oh, absolutely,” you whispered back. “Crime? Poverty? Completely eradicated. I bet even the Joker is rethinking his entire life’s work.”
Bruce tilted his head, considering it. “Maybe he’ll go into finance. Become a hedge fund manager.”
You snorted. “I’d pay to see that.”
Bruce hummed, pretending to ponder it. “Or accounting. Something low risk. Maybe he’d be great at tax fraud.”
You bit your lip, forcing yourself not to laugh.
“Honestly?” you whispered, leaning slightly closer. “A few more dinner parties and we might even get Two Face to start a nonprofit.”
Bruce’s mouth twitched. “And I hear Penguin’s investing in an animal conservation project.”
You covered your mouth with your hand, shaking your head. How had this happened?You had been so close to losing your mind just minutes ago, and now here you were, whispering snide remarks with Bruce Wayne of all people. The absurdity of it hit you all at once.
You scoffed, shaking your head. “This is ridiculous.”
Bruce arched a brow. “What is?”
You glanced at him, lips twitching. “Didn’t think you were so much of a hater.”
Bruce leaned slightly closer, his voice amused. “Isnt that your job? you haven’t stopped being one.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide your smirk. “I think it’s a little more nuanced than that. Guess I’m a glutton for punishment.”
He chuckled, his blue eyes sharp with something unreadable. “Funny. Me too.”
Bruce wasn’t sure when it happened. When the night had gone from something exhausting to something… bearable. Enjoyable, even.
He had sat down at this table expecting the usual the same empty conversations, the same mindless flattery, the same performance he had perfected over the years.
You, who had spent the first half of the evening looking like you wanted to crawl out of your skin. You, who had made no attempt to charm him, who had barely acknowledged his presence at all until he had decided to push you just a little. when you had responded, it had been effortless. Natural.
He wasn’t sure how long it had been since he had felt that. Since he had been able to talk to someone like this without posturing, without pretending. It reminded him of something. Something old. Something familiar. A woman in a black catsuit, teasing him from the edge of a rooftop. Bruce’s fingers curled slightly against his knee.
Selina had been one of the first people to remind him what it felt like to be real. To be alive and now, somehow, you were doing the exact same thing and you didn’t even realize it.
Bruce glanced at you from the corner of his eye. You were still trying to suppress a smile, still glancing around the table like you couldn’t believe you were actually enjoying yourself. He found himself studying you really studying you. You didn’t belong here, that much was obvious. The way you sat stiffly in your chair, the way your fingers tapped lightly against your wine glass when you were irritated, the way you watched the room rather than participated in it.
You were observing. Just like him. Just like he had been doing since he was a boy, since he had first learned how to read a room, how to pick apart every detail, every lie. for all your sharp observations, you had completely missed the fact that you had captivated him.
Bruce Wayne was staring at you like you were a puzzle he needed to solve.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
Your voice cut through the air softly, and Bruce blinked, pulled from his thoughts. You had caught him looking. For a brief moment, he considered deflecting, playing it off with a practiced joke. But he didn’t want to.
So instead, he simply shrugged. “I was just thinking,” he said, voice low, “that this might be the first time I’ve actually enjoyed one of these things.”
You frowned, clearly skeptical. “Bullshit. You go to these all the time.”
Bruce smirked. “Doesn’t mean I like them.”
You narrowed your eyes at him, still not quite believing him. “And I’m supposed to believe this dinner is different?”
His smirk deepened. “Well, you’re here, aren’t you?”
You blinked, and Bruce almost laughed at the way you processed his words, as if you weren’t quite sure what to do with them. But then, slowly, you shook your head, exhaling a quiet laugh.
“You’re so full of shit, Wayne.”
Bruce grinned. “Took you long enough to figure that out.”
For the first time that night, he didn’t feel like the billionaire playboy. Didn’t feel like Batman. He just felt like Bruce. Which wouldn’t that feel weird? He always believed that Batman was the real him. Right now feeling like a teenage boy meeting a girl.
&&&&
The second the speeches ended, you were on your feet. Not rudely just quickly. The second round of self congratulation had begun, and if you had to listen to one more person pat themselves on the back for “saving” Gotham, you were going to lose your mind.
You made your way toward one of the grand patios, slipping past gilded columns and chandeliers that cost more than your entire apartment complex. The doors were open, the cool night air seeping in just enough to make you crave the quiet outside. The moment you stepped onto the patio, you exhaled.
It was massive of course it was. Probably bigger than some of the city blocks you had grown up on. A perfect marble terrace with pristine railings, overlooking the twinkling skyline of Gotham. You leaned against the stone railing, closing your eyes for a moment. Peace. Finally. But, of course, peace never lasted long in Gotham.
“You know, for someone who doesn’t like high society events, you sure end up at a lot of them.”
You opened your eyes, lips already twitching into a smirk before you even turned around. Bruce Wayne stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets, looking at you with that same insufferably amused expression. A short, incredulous laugh escaped you. “stalking me now rich boy?”
Bruce stepped further onto the patio, shaking his head. “Just wanted the air, cant blame me”
You rolled your eyes, turning back to the skyline. “Mhm. Right. Sure. Just a coincidence you keep popping up wherever I am.”
Bruce leaned against the railing beside you, his voice casual. “Well, if it makes you feel better, I’ll be sure to keep a three foot distance from now on.”
You smirked. “Six, just to be safe.”
“Ten, and I might start getting offended.”
You shook your head, biting back a grin. There was something so easy about talking to him. Too easy. The thought was unsettling. “I have to admit,” Bruce mused, tilting his head slightly. “I didn’t expect you to show up tonight.”
You sighed, toying with the rim of your glass. “Believe me, if I could have avoided it, I would have.”
“you can say that again”
You exhaled through your nose, staring out over the city. “Yeah, well. If I want my stories to actually matter, I have to be seen.”
Bruce was silent for a moment, watching you. Then, his voice softened. “Is that why you do it?”
You turned to him, brow furrowing. “Do what?”
“Write the stories you do.” His blue eyes searched yours, something unreadable flickering behind them. “Why villains? Why not the heroes? You’d probably get a lot more recognition if you did.”
You huffed a small laugh, shaking your head. “Because the heroes don’t need me.”
Bruce’s gaze didn’t waver. “And the villains do?”
Your fingers tightened slightly around your glass. “The people who get thrown into Arkham, who are labeled as ‘monsters’ and ‘freaks’ and just written off most of them have stories no one ever hears.” You exhaled. “I want people to understand them. Or at least see them. Even if they don’t deserve sympathy, they at least deserve to be known.”
Bruce didn’t say anything right away. He just stared at you. Not in an uncomfortable way, not in the way men at these events usually did. No, Bruce was really looking at you. And for some reason, it made you shift under his gaze.
“…What?” you muttered.
Bruce just smiled slightly, shaking his head. “Nothing. I just didn’t expect that answer.”
You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, well. Sorry to disappoint. I know the usual arm candy around here doesn’t have thoughts.”
Bruce snorted. “You really think that’s all I see you as?”
You arched a brow. “What else would I be?”
His expression turned thoughtful. “I dont really know”
You scoffed, shaking your head. “Well, if you’re looking for something interesting, you should probably set your sights somewhere else. I have no interest in being one of the people you “help” from the sidelines”
Bruce’s lips quirked. “help from the sidelines?”
You gestured vaguely. “I want to respect the people in there. the ones who have influence. Though when you’re on the other side of the spectrum its a little rough. The rich like to be seen and not heard.” You turned to him, meeting his gaze directly. “I have no intention of being a footnote in the pretend of gotham.”
Bruce watched you for a long moment, his smirk slowly fading into something softer. Then, finally, he spoke. “I have no intention of making you just a fling or to discard your work.”
The words were said so smoothly, so matter of factly, that they took a second to register. You blinked. Your mind blanked. Your entire brain shut down for a solid five seconds. Because what…what did he mean by that? You weren’t sure what part of the sentence flustered you more.
The fact that he wasn’t denying wanting you, or the fact that he had just so casually implied that you are going to be something more than a just a thought. Your lips parted slightly, but no words came out.
Bruce just smirked, watching you flounder. Then, slowly, he leaned in just a fraction.
“Speechless?” he murmured, voice low.
You snapped out of it, your pride kicking back in. “Please.” You scoffed, turning away. “You wish.”
Bruce chuckled, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
And as much as you hated to admit it… You kind of loved that he had caught you off guard.
The soft breeze ruffled your hair as you leaned back against the stone railing, trying to gather your thoughts. You couldn’t remember the last time someone had left you this disoriented. Bruce’s smirk only deepened as he studied your reaction, clearly enjoying the fact that he had thrown you off balance. You could feel the heat creeping up your neck, and no amount of cool air could wipe the warmth from your face.
“So…” he began, his voice far too smooth for your liking. “I take it that wasn’t exactly the response you were expecting?”
You forced yourself to look at him, swallowing back the knot in your throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really?” His gaze darkened just a little, and for a moment, there was no teasing, just something more genuine. “I think you do.”
The way he said it made your stomach flutter uncomfortably. You couldn’t decide if you wanted to laugh or slap him so you did neither. Instead, you stepped back from the railing, trying to put some distance between you and the overwhelming presence that was Bruce Wayne.
“fucking rich people,” you muttered, crossing your arms over your chest as if to shield yourself from him.
Bruce didn’t move, his eyes still locked on yours, his lips slightly curled. “Is that a no?”
Your heart skipped a beat. You blinked at him, dumbfounded. “A no?” you echoed, unsure if you had heard him right.
Bruce gave you that damnable, knowing look again. “You know, you don’t have to act all tough. You’re not fooling anyone.”
“I’m not acting tough,” you shot back, despite your nerves. “I just I don’t even know what you’re asking me.”
Bruce tilted his head slightly. “I’m asking you if you’d like to go out with me.”
Your jaw dropped. “Wait. What?”
He chuckled, clearly amused by your reaction. “Yes. That.”
You stared at him, utterly baffled, before glancing at the ground as if it might have the answers to everything you had just heard. You couldn’t tell if you were about to burst out laughing, slap him, or just walk away and pretend none of this happened.
“…You’re serious?” you managed to croak out after what felt like an eternity.
Bruce simply gave you a shrug, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Dead serious.”
For a long, torturous moment, all you could do was blink at him, trying to make sense of the situation. Bruce Wayne Gotham’s richest, most infamous playboy was asking you, the rebellious daughter of the shadows, on a date and you couldn’t even think of a single coherent response.
Finally, you let out a frustrated breath and turned your head away. “You’re insane.”
Bruce’s smirk softened into a more genuine smile. “I try.”
You shook your head, not knowing whether to feel mortified or weirdly elated. “I don’t even know what to say.”
“Well, you could say yes,” Bruce offered casually, his voice now a little more sincere.
You looked back at him, your heart still racing from the unexpected turn of events. “…I’m going to need a lot more time to process this.”
Bruce raised his hands in mock surrender. “Fair enough. I’ll give you time. But just so you know… I’m not going anywhere.”
The tension between you two was still there, thick in the air. But for some reason, it didn’t feel uncomfortable anymore. More like the beginning of something unexpected. Something that might change everything. And just like that, you were thrown back into the whirlwind that was Bruce Wayne.
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ It was a quiet night as you walked home, the cool breeze against your face, your mind lost in thought. It had been a long day at work reporting, editing, and finalizing a piece about Gotham’s growing underbelly, a story that seemed to sink deeper with every layer you uncovered. You were used to it. You thrived on it. The truth was your domain, and you’d learned how to swim in the darkness long ago. It was something that made you feel connected to your roots, to the people you came from.
The streets of Gotham felt familiar, in a way. No matter how much money flowed into this city or how many pretty buildings sprang up in the skyline, you couldn’t forget the parts of it you grew up in. The darker corners, the alleys, the people who had nothing but each other to survive. They were your people, the ones you understood more than you ever could the high society types you’d been forced to mingle with.
You rounded the corner onto a familiar street, just a few more blocks before you were home. Then, without warning, the atmosphere shifted. The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end, and you slowed your pace. Gotham had a way of making you hyper aware, and tonight was no exception.
You felt it before you saw them. The footfalls behind you, too quiet, too steady. Your pulse quickened.
Before you could even react, two men emerged from the shadows, blocking your path. The dark shapes loomed over you, the threat in their eyes clear. One was holding a sharp looking knife, the other a crowbar. The older, taller man grinned, a twisted, unsettling look that made your stomach churn.
“Give us your bag, sweetheart,” he sneered, a rough, gravelly voice edging the threat. “We don’t want any trouble, but we will make it happen if you don’t cooperate.”
You didn’t flinch. You didn’t back down.
“Sorry, I don’t have time for this,” you muttered, trying to side step the bigger man, but he was quick, grabbing your arm with a vice like grip.
“Not so fast,” he growled. “You’re not going anywhere until we get what we want.”
You spun around quickly, your elbow connecting with his ribs in a sharp strike. He grunted, but it didn’t stop him from tightening his grip. The other man stepped forward, the crowbar raised as if to swing.
That was when you knew you were in trouble. But only for a second. You kicked back, slamming your foot into the first man’s knee, hearing the sickening crack as he stumbled backward. He swore, holding his leg in pain. You used the opening to break free, turning to face both men. The one with the crowbar swung at you wildly, but you ducked under his reach and used his momentum against him, redirecting his strike into the side of the nearby wall. Your movements were quick, practiced clean, precise. You didn’t need to fight dirty. You didn’t need to be anything other than efficient. All you needed was enough of an excuse to escape. Within seconds, the two men were on the ground, groaning in pain, incapacitated by your calculated strikes.
Breathing hard, you exhaled slowly, dusting yourself off. That was easy. But when you looked up to check for any more threats, the air around you grew heavy.
Batman was standing at the edge of the alley, his towering form almost blending with the shadows. His cape fluttered slightly in the wind, the symbol of the bat glaring on his chest, and those piercing eyes those damn eyes locked onto yours.
You froze. For a moment, it felt like time slowed down. It was him. Batman. The dark vigilante, the city’s protector, who had always hovered over Gotham’s criminal world like a myth, now staring at you with an unreadable expression.
His eyes narrowed. Recognition flashed across his face, though his expression remained carefully controlled.
You stared at him, blinking rapidly, confusion clouding your mind. You knew him. But how? But you hadn’t had you really? You were too caught up in your own world to truly pay attention to the rumors and gossip. He was, after all, just the Batman to you. That was all you cared about. But in that moment, you realized with an unsettling clarity: He knew who you were.
You laughed awkwardly, feeling a rush of heat to your face. “Oh great, just what I needed tonight,” you muttered under your breath. You quickly brushed a hand through your hair, trying to act like this wasn’t the most bizarre encounter you’d had in a while. “Listen, don’t worry about me. I appreciate what you do for the community though.”
Batman didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. His posture remained rigid, intimidating, but his eyes… his eyes seemed to soften for a split second. There was something in them something that spoke volumes. You couldn’t place it, but it felt like something more than just the bat.
“No,” he said, his voice low, gravelly. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.” His words were firm, but there was a thread of concern beneath it. “Gotham isn’t safe.”
“Yeah, well, Gotham doesn’t care about safe,” you shot back, your frustration bubbling to the surface. “It’s just me out here. If I want to get home, I’ll get home.” You didn’t want to admit it, but there was something about the way he said that it made you feel smaller. But you didn’t let it show. You lifted your chin, defiant. “I can take care of myself. Just like I did with them.”
You gestured to the two men still groaning on the ground, the earlier tension dissipating into the night air. But Batman didn’t reply. His eyes swept over you in a way that sent a chill down your spine. His body language shifted just slightly, enough for you to notice, but before you could say anything more, he was moving.
“Get inside,” he said abruptly, his voice unwavering. “I’m not letting you walk home like this.”
There it was again. The command in his voice. You narrowed your eyes, a little defiant but feeling a strange pull toward the urgency in his tone. “It’s very courteous of you but please. I told you, I’ve got it. I’m fine.”
Batman didn’t even blink, his tone now sharpened. “Get inside, now.”
His words left no room for argument. You were tempted to push back tempted to keep up your independence. But there was something about the way he said it, the way his gaze hardened, that made you swallow your pride. With a small, frustrated sigh, you turned and started walking towards the street, heading home. You could feel his presence lingering behind you, watching, making sure you weren’t followed.
For a split second, you almost wanted to ask him more. But you stopped yourself. You didn’t need him. Not really. He was just Batman, after all. You shook your head. No need to think about it. Sometimes you want to find and interview him for why he punches first and asks later. Though the bias for your work might be interfering with those thoughts.
But somehow, you couldn’t ignore the tight knot in your chest. The tension in the air between you and him felt like more than just a confrontation. It felt like something else. And that something else… well, it lingered.
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ Bruce Wayne stood in the Batcave, his back pressed against the cool stone wall, his fingers lightly grazing the edge of the Batcomputer. His cape hung loosely behind him, still damp from the rain soaked night. The adrenaline of his patrol had long since faded, but an odd unease lingered in the pit of his stomach, something he couldn’t quite shake.
He’d spent countless hours in this cave, fighting Gotham’s worst and dealing with the city’s many challenges. His mission had always been clear: protect the innocent, bring justice, and make Gotham a better place. But tonight, something was different. Something about the encounter with you had stayed with him in a way he hadn’t expected. He couldn’t stop thinking about how you had handled yourself, standing tall despite the danger.
He had seen countless people fight back, but there was something unique about the way you did it. You weren’t just trying to survive you were alive in the moment, every move deliberate, confident, and unapologetic. You weren’t waiting for someone to come save you; you were saving yourself. It was rare in Gotham, a city where people often needed help just to make it through the day.
And yet, there was a sadness to it all.
Bruce knew that the city had a way of wearing people down, turning them into something else something bitter or broken. People like you, who had grown up in the shadows, had learned to fend for themselves because Gotham didn’t make it easy. He couldn’t help but wish that you hadn’t had to be so strong. You shouldn’t have had to fight alone.
His thoughts wandered back to the moment he’d seen you in the slums. Despite your strength, despite the control you’d taken of the situation, Bruce felt a pang of sympathy. The city had failed you, just as it had failed so many others. Gotham had a way of demanding too much from its people, and it had never been kind to those who were already struggling.
It was clear you weren’t someone who needed saving. You had made your own way, fought for your own space in a world that hadn’t always welcomed you. Bruce couldn’t help but admire that. It was something he understood well carving out a place for yourself in a city that tried to break you. But it still frustrated him that Gotham had forced you into a corner like that.
He pushed away from the computer, rubbing his eyes as he tried to clear his thoughts. He had a duty to the city, a duty that didn’t leave room for distractions or feelings. Yet, something about the way you carried yourself, how you didn’t let Gotham’s grime get the best of you, lingered in his mind. You were a reminder of the resilience he’d always admired in this city, but also a stark reminder of how much still needed to be done.
Bruce had always seen Gotham as a city to fix, a place in desperate need of change. He’d dedicated himself to that cause, but seeing you, standing strong in the face of everything this city threw at you, made him think what if there were more people like you?
But you shouldn’t have to be like that. You shouldn’t have to fight for your survival in a city that was supposed to be your home. And yet, you had.
Bruce exhaled deeply, leaning back against the stone wall again. It was moments like these that reminded him of how complex Gotham truly was. People like you weren’t just victims or criminals. They were the heart of the city, the ones who kept going even when the world seemed determined to make them quit.
He didn’t have the answers, but seeing you hold your own, standing up to those men like it was just another day, reminded him why he kept doing this. Gotham wasn’t just about fighting crime it was about protecting the people who refused to be broken. People like you.
Bruce let out a slow breath, turning back toward the Batcomputer, but his thoughts were still on you. He wasn’t sure where this would lead, or if it would lead anywhere at all. But for the first time in a long while, he found himself hoping that, somehow, Gotham would be a little less lonely for you.
For all of them.
Alfred: So, how did the gala go, Master Wayne?
Bruce: I think it went well. There was a very pretty woman. She didn’t say no when I asked her out
Alfred: Fascinating. Like watching a car crash in slow motion and calling it a graceful landing.
Bruce: …I’m sensing sarcasm.
Alfred: No, no. I’m very impressed. You managed to express interest without brooding in a corner or vanishing mid conversation. Progress.
Bruce: I hate it when you bully me.
Alfred: And yet, I persist.
BLACK BUTLER IDEA!!!
I still will probably write this but I want to know if there is a demand at all for black butler content. Please like and reply if you’re up for a new fic!!!! here is a sample of what I was thinking
݁ᛪ༙The clock ticked steadily in the dim sitting room. Moonlight spilled through the large windows, catching the sharp gleam of Y/n’s eyes as she stood by the fireplace, arms crossed tightly over her chest.
Sebastian entered soundlessly, like a shadow come to life. He bowed with his usual mockery of politeness.
“You wished to speak with me, Lady Y/n?”
Y/n said nothing at first, letting the silence stretch and coil between them.
She studied him the impeccable suit, the flawless manners, the thin smile that never reached his eyes. Everything about him felt wrong.
Finally, she spoke, voice low and edged with steel.
“I know what you are,” she said. “Maybe not the name for it, but I know you are not human.”
Sebastian’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it grew.
“How very observant,” he mused, clasping his hands neatly behind his back. “And what, may I ask, do you intend to do with this knowledge?”
Y/n stepped closer, her boots whispering against the rug. She tilted her head slightly, the fire casting half her face in shadow.
“Nothing,” she said. “Because Ciel trusts you. For now.”
Her eyes hardened.
“But know this, Sebastian Michaelis: if you harm him if you let him slip further into whatever darkness is trying to swallow him I will tear you apart myself. Piece by piece.”
Sebastian chuckled, the sound low and amused, like a cat toying with a mouse.
“You are quite ferocious for someone so…fragile.”
Y/n didn’t flinch. She stepped even closer, close enough to smell the unnatural, cold clean scent of him.
“You think I’m fragile?” she whispered. “Try me. You’ll find out exactly how far a sister will go for her brother.”
For the first time, something flickered in Sebastian’s gaze interest, perhaps. Amusement tinged with a thread of caution.
“Noted,” he said smoothly, bowing his head slightly. “I shall continue to serve the Young Master with the utmost…care.”
Y/n stared him down a moment longer before turning away, her heart pounding.
“See that you do,” she said coldly. “Because if you don’t hell won’t be the only place you’ll answer to.”
As she left the room, Sebastian stood still, a gloved hand resting lightly on his chest where, for a brief, strange moment, he thought he might have felt something almost human: respect.
݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙ The hem of your dress swirled around your ankles as you hurried through the entrance hall, the air thick with the scent of polished wood and new paint.
The rebuilt Phantomhive Manor loomed above you, so pristine it almost mocked the memory of ashes and ruin still seared into your heart.
You clutched the sides of your gown an elegant deep navy silk dress with delicate lace sleeves, a gift from Aunt Angelina. But you hardly noticed its weight now.
All you could hear was the hammering of your heart.
Ciel.
Your little brother your baby was alive.
You had been staying with Aunt Angelina ever since the fire, trapped in a haze of grief and guilt, believing there was nothing left. When the letter arrived, hastily penned with shaking hands by your aunt herself, you thought it a cruel dream. But now standing here the heavy doors of the manor open, the world spinning in your ears he was truly here.
A butler you didn’t recognize bowed you inside. His voice was smooth.
“Welcome home, Lady Y/n. The Young Master is awaiting you in the drawing room.”
You barely heard him. Your body moved of its own accord, feet flying across the marble, ignoring decorum, ignoring appearances. You needed to see him.The door to the drawing room creaked as you pushed it open.
And there he was. Ciel stood by the window, framed in silver light. He was wearing a black velvet suit, a rich blue eye staring outward only one eye. The other hidden behind a black eyepatch.
His posture was perfect, his chin tilted up in practiced nobility.
But he was still so small.
Still just a boy.
Your throat closed. A sob broke free before you could contain it. He turned at the sound and his eye widened, just barely.
“Y/n,” he said, voice smooth and measured, as if tasting the word for the first time in years.
Your vision blurred with tears.
Before you knew it, your knees buckled beneath you. You fell. Not out of weakness out of relief. You crashed to the carpeted floor, arms flinging around him, dragging his tiny, stiff body against yours. You pressed your forehead to his stomach, clutching him as if he might vanish again if you let go.
“My Ciel,” you gasped out, voice cracking. “My sweet boy, my precious ”
For a long, breathless moment, he said nothing. You felt the way he tensed, the way he hesitated awkward, uncertain, like a child who no longer knew how to receive love. Then slowly one small, gloved hand touched your head. Not like he used to not with the easy affection of the boy you remembered.
It was a stiff, careful gesture.
“…You’re wrinkling your dress,” he muttered, trying for irritation but failing miserably. His voice shook ever so slightly.
You let out a watery laugh, pulling back just enough to look up at him. He was trying so hard to be composed. To be grown. But you could see it the glimmer of your little brother beneath the armor. The scared, exhausted boy who had come home. You reached up, cupping his cheek gently with your gloved hand.
“You’re home,” you whispered, tears slipping down your cheeks. “You’re home, and I will never, ever leave you again.”
His eye softened so quick, you might have missed it if you hadn’t known him so well.
“You’re being dramatic,” he said, brushing a hand down his jacket, pretending indifference.
You smiled through your tears, standing finally and straightening your dress. You took a deep, trembling breath, smoothing his hair back with motherly care.
“You’ll have to get used to it,” you said, voice steadying. “Because I plan to be dramatic for the rest of your life, Ciel Phantomhive.”
The corners of his mouth twitched just slightly. A ghost of a smile. And you felt it you knew that somewhere deep inside, he was still your brother. you would love him with every fiber of your soul, no matter how cold he tried to be.
You linked your arm through his before he could protest, guiding him further into the room like you used to when he was a shy toddler hiding behind your skirts.
“Now,” you said brightly, “you’re going to sit with me and tell me everything.”
He sighed, a sound of long suffering patience far too old for his little body.
“…I suppose I don’t have much of a choice, do I?” he said.
You smiled, squeezing his arm gently.
“Not when it comes to me, dear heart. Never.”
You hadn’t felt this complete in so long.
But then a presence. You felt it like a prickle at the back of your neck, a gentle tug in the air, a ripple where everything should have been still. Your eyes drifted, pulled by instinct toward the doorway.
There he stood. The butler. Tall, impossibly composed, crimson eyes gleaming like molten garnets in the low light. His hands were folded neatly behind his back, posture perfect, expression unreadable.
The sight of him sent a strange chill along your spine not fear exactly, but something close to wrongness.
And something else, too something painfully familiar. For just a moment, your heart squeezed. He looks like Father.
Not exactly your father’s features had been warmer, his smiles real. there was something in the way this man carried himself, the precise way he tilted his head, the quiet strength wrapped in civility.
You tore your gaze away and turned to Ciel, lowering your voice.
“Who is that?” you asked, smoothing your skirts with trembling hands to hide your nerves.
Ciel followed your gaze casually, as if he hadn’t noticed the butler lingering nearby until now.
“Sebastian Michaelis,” Ciel said. His tone was clipped but neutral. “My butler. He’s been serving me since… I returned.”
You nodded slowly, lips pressing together.
You wanted to ask more but Ciel’s body language warned you off.
The stiff shoulders, the slight narrowing of his eye. He trusted this man. you had just gotten your brother back. You would not push. Not yet. You turned back toward the butler, offering a polite, practiced smile that didn’t reach your eyes.
“Thank you,” you said softly, inclining your head just slightly, as a lady should. “For taking care of my brother.”
Sebastian’s crimson gaze flickered briefly curiosity, perhaps but his bow was perfect.
“It is my duty and my pleasure, Lady Y/n,” he said smoothly.
ok so this fic has inspired me to want to write delving into this dynamic 😼
'' DEPOLLUTE ME , GENTLE ANGEL ,,
|| pairings: hawks x reader / keigo takami x reader
|| warning: a little suggestive, but it stops, other than that its comfort <3 listen to the song "We'll Never Have Sex" and you'll understand. reverse comfort
|| word count: 0.8k
Hawks. Number two hero in all of Japan. Fastest hero in all the country, youngest too, only age 22 and he was number two. Everyone seemed to want a piece of him, woman, man, anyone. It made sense, of course, he was attractive. He acted carefree, always with a boyish grin on his face and everything he did seemed so effortless. Perhaps that was apart of the problem.
No matter what he did, everyone made their assumptions. Made their ideas, believing him to be a playboy or some sex-driven man. He hated it. Keigo was told to just let it happen, it was good publicity. Especially with how much his fans ate it up, he complied. He let it happen.
That all changed when he met you. Who's hands were never quick, never yearning in a way to get his clothes off. Your hands were soft, gentle. Always caring, never forcing. Keigo didn't understand it, why weren't you trying anything? Why weren't you trying to make him apart of a fantasy?
Your soft lips against his as you sat in his laps, but it wasn't quick. Not 'hot and bothered' as some may speculate, no, it was slow and careful. His hands placed on the small of your back as the two of you kissed. It was a comfort, it was wonderful. Something Keigo always yearns after he finishes a hard day of a hero, to come home where you'd swing by. Watch a movie, make some food, just be together. Sweet kisses exchanged, tonight was no different. The only small change was that those small kisses turned to a small make-out.
You, who'd move your hands just a bit down, down Keigo's chest. He didn't want it to stop, but at the same time it felt like too much. Something he wasn't ready for, not yet at least. The vermillion feathers ruffled behind him as he forced himself to let this happen. You, on the other hand? You stopped and pulled away, cupping his face in your hands as you pressed a gentle kiss on Keigo's scarred cheek.
"Why'd you stop?" Your boyfriends question was barely above a whisper as he held you close. He didn't understand, was he not kissing you well enough? Not being good enough for you?
"Because you wanted to stop," You ran a hand through his messy blonde hair. One that's been kissed by the winds that he flew through during the day. Before he could try to fight back you continued. "I could tell your hesitation, love."
"Dove, we can keep going-"
"When you're ready."
Keigo stared at you with his golden eyes, staring up at you as you mindlessly brushed through his hair with your fingers. Untangling any mess that had happened from the day, taking out any small pieces of dirt or debris from the day. He didn't understand. No, he wasn't a virgin, why were you acting like he was? He held you tighter as he pushed his face into the plush of your neck.
Taking a deep inhale of your scent as he relaxed under your touch.
"Thank you."
You knew how the media treated him, as some sort of sex symbol. Always putting him on a pedestal as the number two hero, fastest hero in all of Japan. It killed you everytime you'd see an article of some made up scandal Keigo was supposedly apart of. You'd compare that article to your boyfriend. The man who'd come home, dragging his feet against the wooden floor. Eyebags under his eyes once he wiped the make up he used to conceal it. He was exhausted, overworked. Yet all the media saw was some one-dimensional man.
With a small hum, you shook your head and pushed a small kiss to your winged boyfriends forehead. Lingering there for a few moments before pulling away. A small smile on your face as you kept your gaze on him.
"You don't need to thank me, Keigs."
"But I should, you-"
You pushed your finger against his lips, a small smirk danced on your lips as you huffed.
"I don't wanna do anything you're not comfortable with. We don't have to do anything soon," With a small sigh, not of disappointment, you pressed your forehead against his. Fluttering your eyes closed as you kept speaking softly. "I kiss you just to kiss you, Keigo. If you don't wanna go too far, we don't have to. I'll be as patient as you need."
Your words hit a chord somewhere in Keigo. He always felt so pressured to do.. Well, anything. Hero work, the Commission, friends, enemies. He had so many things he had to do. But with you? He could go his pace for once. Not Hawks'. Not the man he presented to be, not the fastest hero in Japan. Just Keigo. He could go as slow as he needed, and you'd be there to support him.
"I love you," He whispered softly, his voice trembling just the smallest bit as he kept his emotions in check. Trying not to cry.
"I love you too, my darling."
"I love you," He repeated again. And again. And again. He kept whispering it as he kissed your neck softly, not a tease, not to lead up to something else. But because he could, because he wanted to.
"My gentle angel."
|| GUYS. GUYS. IM CHDBSIUBSIBVIDBLDVSAA i love keigo oml. i love how complex he is, he means sm to me OOOMMMLLLLLL :(( TO BE CLEAR!! im not anti-sex or smth, i js find it interesting to see the difference between hawks and keigo. i can make a whole essay on this
⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ Matching Pyjamas (Hello Kitty Edition)
⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆Characters: Gojo Satoru, Nanami Kento, Geto Suguru and Shoko Ieiri
Synopsis: you give your lovely partner matching pyjamas, They unfortunately are whores for you
my other works -> fun little fics
!!!WARNINGS!!!
This is explicit content so viewer discretion is advised. It’s not my job to babysit. If you’re not comfortable or know you shouldn’t be reading adult content then think again before reading.
Gojo Satoru
ᓚ₍⑅^..^₎♡You originally were out buying some pyjamas for yourself. (gojos card just might be the one you were using for the purchase) Hello Kitty pajama pants laid there in front of you, thinking they were adorable and cozy. But then you saw a pair in Gojo’s size and thought, Why not?
ᓚ₍⑅^..^₎♡When you hand him the pants, he gasps like you just proposed. “Matching pajamas?! Are we that couple now?!” He pretends to wipe away a fake tear. “I never thought this day would come.” He’s already stripping out of his current clothes before you can say anything.
ᓚ₍⑅^..^₎♡He absolutely loves them and will not stop posing in front of the mirror. “I make Hello Kitty look good,” he brags, striking ridiculous model poses. He keeps calling himself “Hello Kityoru” and refuses to wear anything else for the rest of the night.
ᓚ₍⑅^..^₎♡You two end up on the couch, wrapped up in blankets, binge-watching a random show. Gojo insists on taking a million selfies, dramatically captioning them like “Couples who slay together, stay together.” You have to confiscate his phone at one point because he keeps sending them to Nanami.
ᓚ₍⑅^..^₎♡It starts off sweet, Gojo pulling you into his chest, arms snug around your waist as he buries his face in your hair. But then? His hands start wandering, his breath gets lower, and before you know it, his lips are ghosting over your neck. “Mmm, you smell nice,” he murmurs, his fingers slipping beneath your hoodie, tracing slow circles on your stomach. “Too nice for me to behave.”
ᓚ₍⑅^..^₎♡Gojo loves to move against you just to mess with you. He shifts just right, pressing his hips against your backside when he’s spooning you, or rolling his body against yours when he’s on top. And he’s smug about it. “Oops,” he whispers against your ear when you gasp, acting so innocent. “My bad.”
ᓚ₍⑅^..^₎♡He absolutely uses the cozy night as an excuse to get his hands on you. Laying on the couch together? His hands are under your pajama top, tracing the curves of your waist. Oh you’re getting up to grab snacks? He very casually tugs at your pants, threatening to slip them lower, just to hear you yelp.
ᓚ₍⑅^..^₎♡At first, it’s slow and sweet, Gojo pressing lazy, open mouthed kisses along your jaw, your throat, his hands warm and steady on your waist. But the second you react, tilting your head, sighing against his lips. he grins. “Oh? You like this?” And just like that, his grip tightens, his kisses turn hungry, and suddenly, the pajama pants aren’t feeling so necessary anymore.
ᓚ₍⑅^..^₎♡At some point, he’s got you under him, hands braced on either side of your head, still wearing those ridiculous Hello Kitty pajamas, but his eyes? Dark. Mischievous. “You’re so cute,” he hums, dipping down to steal another kiss. “I should keep you in these all the time.” His fingers hook under your waistband, tugging just a little. “Actually… maybe not all the time.”
ᓚ₍⑅^..^₎♡Gojo thinks it’s hilarious to keep them on while he has his fun. He’ll push them just low enough to get what he wants but leave them bunched around your thighs, smirking down at you. “Matching pajamas and matching moans?” He laughs breathlessly. “We’re really on the same wavelength, huh?”
ᓚ₍⑅^..^₎♡ Hello Kitty Pajama Pants: Ruined? By the end of the night, one of you is definitely missing your pajama pants (probably you), and Gojo is grinning like the troublemaker he is. “Oops. Guess we’ll have to get new ones.” But when you glare at him, he just laughs and pulls you back into his arms. “Fine, fine~ I’ll make it up to you… eventually.”
————
The moment you hand Gojo the matching Hello Kitty pajama pants, his reaction is so dramatic,
“Matching pajamas?!” he gasps, clutching them to his chest like you just handed him a sacred relic. “Are we officially that cute couple?” He grins, already stripping out of his current clothes before you can stop him.
You roll your eyes, laughing as he wiggles into the soft pink pants, the little Hello Kitty faces decorating the fabric in a way that’s both adorable and completely ridiculous on a six-foot-three sorcerer.
“How do I look?” He strikes a pose, flexing his arms like he’s about to model for a Hello Kitty Calvin Klein ad. His toned stomach is on full display as his shirt lifts just enough to tease the perfect lines of his abs. He tilts his head, catching the way your eyes linger.
Oh. He definitely noticed.
“You checking me out?” His smirk is nothing short of dangerous as he steps closer, fingers grazing the hem of your own pajama pants. “Because, babe, you don’t have to stare. If you wanna touch—”
You shove him. “Put a shirt on before you catch a cold, dumbass.”
Gojo dramatically flops onto the couch, draping himself across your lap instead. “But you like me shirtless,” he teases, resting his chin against your thigh. “And besides, aren’t these nights supposed to be all cozy and intimate? I think this is a great start.”
You huff, fingers absentmindedly threading through his soft, white hair. “Intimate doesn’t mean we have to skip the movie part.”
“Doesn’t it?” His hands sneak under your pajama top, palms warm against your skin as he traces light, lazy circles up your ribs. The touch is barely there, but it sends a delicious shiver down your spine. “Because I really like the idea of an intimate night with you…” His voice dips lower, breath warm against your skin.
“Gojo—”
He tuts, lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. “That’s not what you usually call me when we’re alone, sweetheart.”
Your heart jumps as he suddenly shifts, pressing you back against the couch cushions, his weight settling between your legs. His smirk deepens as his fingers toy with the waistband of your pajama pants, pulling just enough to make you squirm.
“You put me in these adorable pants,” he muses, pressing a slow, lingering kiss just below your jaw. “You should’ve known I’d find a way to make the night even better.”
And judging by the heat in his eyes? That’s exactly what he plans to do.
At first, it’s innocent his arm draped around your shoulders as you settle against him, legs tangled under a shared blanket. The soft glow of the TV flickers across his features, his usual sharp grin replaced with something softer, almost content.
But then his fingers start moving.
A slow, absentminded drag along your thigh, just under the blanket. A featherlight stroke against your ribs, just under your hoodie. He’s watching the movie… or at least pretending to but you can feel the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips every time you shift in response.
His thumb brushes circles over your hipbone, teasing, deliberate. The warmth of his palm lingers over your stomach before sliding lower, dipping just beneath the waistband of your pajama pants. Not enough to be indecent, just enough to make you ache.
Your breath hitches, and that’s when Gojo finally moves.
He turns his head, pressing a slow, lazy kiss to the side of your neck, his lips warm against your skin. He lingers there, exhaling softly, letting the heat of his breath send shivers down your spine then he grins.
His fingers tighten on your waist, his body shifting ever so slightly against yours, letting you feel him. His mouth moves up, lips brushing just behind your ear, and then teeth. A playful nip that sends heat pooling low in your stomach.
The movie continues to play, completely ignored, as Gojo hums against your skin, his voice a low, teasing whisper.
He’s not watching the movie.
“Babe,” he sighs, pulling you against his chest like he has to be touching you at all times. “We look so cute right now. I feel like we should commemorate this moment.”
You roll your eyes, shifting in his lap. “With what? A picture?”
Gojo hums, his hands way too low on your waist. “Oh, I was thinking of something more… fun.”
Before you can even process what he means, he’s already pressing his lips to your neck soft at first, just the ghost of a kiss, but then he lingers, his breath warm against your skin. His fingers tighten on your hips, subtly rocking you against him, and your breath catches.
“Satoru,” you warn, but it’s not much of a warning when it comes out that breathless.
He grins against your skin. Yeah, he noticed.
“What?” he murmurs, feigning innocence as he trails kisses up to your jaw, his voice dropping into something low, teasing, dangerous. “I’m just appreciating my girlfriend. In her cute little pajama pants. Cuddling with me like a good girl.”
Your fingers curl into the fabric of his hoodie, trying not to react, but Gojo is Gojo. he always gets his way. His hands slide beneath your hoodie, fingers spreading against your bare skin, warm, firm. He pulls you closer, until you’re flush against him, your hips slotted perfectly together, and the feeling of him beneath you makes heat spark down your spine.
“You knew this would happen,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “You put me in these cute little pajama pants and expected me to behave?” His teeth graze your earlobe, making you shiver. “That’s cute, babe. Really cute.”
You open your mouth to tell him off, but then he moves, rolling his hips up into you slow, deliberate. Your breath stutters, and his smirk deepens.
“There we go,” he murmurs, tipping your chin up with one finger so you’re forced to meet his gaze. His eyes are dark now, filled with something dangerous, and suddenly, the matching pajamas seem like the last thing on his mind.
“You’re-” You try to say something, but he kisses you before you can get the words out, slow at first, letting you think you have some control, but then his hands tighten, pulling you hard against him, and suddenly, you’re letting out a soft, breathy moan into his mouth.
Gojo groans at that, gripping your waist tighter. “Fuck, baby,” he breathes against your lips, his usual teasing gone. “You sound so sweet.”
His lips move back to your neck, kissing, sucking, biting, and you know he’s leaving marks, but you can’t bring yourself to care when he’s gripping your hips like that, guiding you over him in slow, lazy motions.
“We were supposed to be cuddling,” you manage to say, your voice much weaker than you want it to be.
Gojo chuckles against your throat, fingers dipping under the waistband of your pajama pants. “We are cuddling,” he murmurs, sliding them lower. “Just, you know… closer now”
And just like that, your cute, cozy night? Completely ruined. But with the way Gojo’s hands are gripping your thighs, his lips dragging down your collarbone, his voice thick with want you really, really don’t mind.
He refuses to take them off. “I think these are my new signature look,” he declares, walking around the house like he’s on a runway. You catch him wearing them under his Jujutsu uniform the next day, claiming, “They’re my lucky pants now.”
Nanami Kento
≽^• ˕ • ྀི When you first show Nanami the matching Hello Kitty pajama pants, he just stares at them. Then at you. “You can’t be serious.” But you are very serious.
≽^• ˕ • ྀི≼ It takes some gentle persuasion (which may or may not involve you pulling the ultimate guilt trip and telling him that it would make you so happy). He sighs and eventually mutters, “…Fine.” Victory.
≽^• ˕ • ྀི≼Once he actually puts them on, you cannot stop laughing. The sight of the Nanami Kento standing in the middle of your bedroom, wearing pastel pink Hello Kitty pajama pants, is something you’ll cherish forever. He looks down at himself, sighs again, and mutters, “This is ridiculous.”
≽^• ˕ • ྀི≼He won’t admit it, but the fabric is actually really soft, and he appreciates that. He also loves how happy it makes you, even if he pretends to be suffering. “If you ever tell Gojo about this, I’ll never forgive you,” he warns, but there’s the tiniest hint of a smile.
≽^• ˕ • ྀི≼You both end up on the couch, curled up under a blanket, drinking tea and reading books. It’s peaceful, quiet, and everything Nanami loves about being with you. At one point, you rest your head on his shoulder, and he leans into you without a second thought.
≽^• ˕ • ྀི≼You catch him in the kitchen later, making tea with his sleeves rolled up, looking effortlessly handsome despite the cartoon cats on his pants. You giggle, and he raises an eyebrow. “What now?”
≽^• ˕ • ྀི≼When you tell him he looks adorable, he just sighs in that exasperated but affectionate way. Then, without looking at you, he mumbles, “As long as it makes you happy, I don’t mind.”
≽^• ˕ • ྀི≼Nanami genuinely wants to have a normal, cozy night with you. He really does. But then you curl up next to him, looking so soft in those matching Hello Kitty pajama pants, and suddenly, his thoughts aren’t so pure anymore. He exhales sharply, rubbing his temple like he’s fighting for his life. “You look adorable,” he murmurs, voice a little rougher than he intends. You don’t miss the way his fingers flex against his thigh like he’s restraining himself.
≽^• ˕ • ྀི≼At first, he’s just holding you an arm around your waist, a steady, grounding touch. But the longer you’re in his lap, the more his fingers drift tracing patterns against your hip, smoothing up your back, gripping your thigh just a little tighter than necessary. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it until he hears you suck in a breath. “Apologies,” he says, clearing his throat and forcing himself to loosen his grip. “I didn’t mean to—” You shift in his lap, pressing against something very solid. Nanami tenses. His hands immediately snap back to your waist like he’s trying to regain control of himself, but his jaw clenches as he exhales sharply through his nose. “Please,” he murmurs, voice strained, “don’t move like that.”
≽^• ˕ • ྀི≼He thought they were cute funny, even but now all he can think about is how easy they’d be to pull off. The soft fabric bunching around your thighs as you shift against him, the way they ride low on your hips he’s trying to be respectful, truly, but the urge to just… take is becoming unbearable. “You’re making this very difficult for me,” he finally admits, his voice deep and controlled but his grip on your waist betraying him.
≽^• ˕ • ྀི≼Even when he’s rock hard beneath you, even when his breath is uneven and his fingers are digging into your skin, he still has the audacity to be gentle about it. “If you keep teasing me like this,” he murmurs against your ear, voice thick with restraint, “I might lose my composure.” And then, because he’s Nanami Kento, he still asks, “Would that be alright?”
≽^• ˕ • ྀི≼ The moment you give him permission, the second you whisper something sweet, needy, desperate Nanami snaps. His hands slide under your pajama pants, gripping your thighs as he flips you beneath him. His lips are everywhere your neck, your collarbone, your stomach. “These are cute,” he murmurs, tugging at the waistband, his breath hot against your skin. “But they need to come off.” with the way his fingers are already hooking under the fabric, his eyes dark and hungry, you know he’s not asking anymore.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
You had picked out the matching Hello Kitty pajama pants as a joke, thinking it would be funny to see Nanami, a man who lived in crisp suits and an air of professionalism, lounging around in something so domestic and cute.
At first, it was funny. You had laughed, taking a picture of him sitting stiffly on the couch, frowning down at the little cartoon cat printed on his leg. But then you had curled up next to him, resting your head on his chest, letting his warmth seep into you.
Now Nanami is struggling.
His arm is wrapped securely around you, his fingers resting on your waist not moving, because he refuses to let them. But you’re soft, warm, pressing against him in all the right ways, and he’s gripping onto the last frayed threads of his self control.
“You look adorable,” he says, his voice perfectly even though he’s very aware of the way it’s lower than usual.
You hum against his chest, shifting slightly. His fingers twitch.
“I still can’t believe you agreed to wear this,” you say, running your hand down his stomach, innocently but your palm presses against his lower abdomen, just barely brushing beneath the hem of his hoodie. Nanami exhales slowly, controlled, like he’s trying to regulate himself.
“It’s not the worst thing you’ve made me wear,” he admits. A pause. “Though it may be the most distracting.”
You tilt your head up, catching the tight set of his jaw, the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. Your eyes flick down to his hand still resting on your waist flexing like he’s restraining himself.
Oh.
You press your palm against his stomach again, just a little lower this time and Nanami stiffens.
His grip on your waist tightens, and his breath comes out sharp.
“Apologies,” he says quickly, his hand immediately relaxing, like he’s forcing himself to pull back. “I didn’t mean to—”
You shift against him again, and this time, you feel it, something solid beneath you, something that wasn’t there when you first cuddled up next to him.
Nanami’s body locks up. His fingers snap back to your waist, holding you still as he lets out a long, slow exhale through his nose.
“Please,” he murmurs, voice strained, “don’t move like that.”
You blink up at him, feigning innocence. “Like what?”
His eyes darken. His fingers flex again, digging just slightly into your waist.
“You’re making this very difficult for me,” he finally admits, his voice deep, measured, controlled.
You bite your lip, shifting again, just to test him. The sharp inhale he takes, the slight clench of his jaw he’s trying so hard to be polite, to keep his hands steady, to maintain some level of restraint.
But you don’t want him to be restrained.
You reach up, trailing your fingers along his jaw, and his eyes flick to yours heated, dangerous.
“Satoru would’ve already pinned me down by now,” you muse, teasing. “Guess you’re not as desperate as I thought.”
Nanami moves before you can even process it.
One second, you’re settled against him, and the next, he’s flipping you onto your back, his body covering yours, his hands braced on either side of your head.
His voice is low, dark, frustrated as he leans down, his lips brushing against your ear.
“I am not Satoru,” he murmurs.
And then, before you can even react, his hips press down, rolling against you with slow, deliberate pressure.
You gasp, fingers curling into his hoodie, and Nanami lets out a shaky breath like he’s the one unraveling.
“You,” he murmurs, lips moving along your jaw, your throat, “are testing my patience.”
His hands slide under your hoodie, warm against your bare skin, fingers spreading across your ribs. His grip tightens, pulling you closer, and you shudder when his mouth ghosts over the sensitive spot below your ear.
“Would it be alright,” he murmurs, “if I lost my composure?”
His fingers hook under the waistband of your pajama pants, tugging just enough to send a clear message.
And with the way his eyes darken, his breath ragged against your skin you know that, the second you say yes, there will be no more patience. No more restraint.
Just Nanami, desperate, needy, and completely undone for you
And that’s how Nanami Kento, the most serious man alive, ends up standing in your bedroom wearing pink Hello Kitty pajama pants with his dress shirt still tucked in.
Geto Suguru
₍^. .^₎⟆Geto Pretends to Be Innocent, He acts like the matching Hello Kitty pyjama pants are just a cute, domestic moment. He lets you cuddle up to him on the couch, an arm draped lazily around your shoulders, stroking small circles into your skin. But does he have ulterior motives? yes. absolutely. The moment you shift in his lap a little too much, his grip tightens, and his voice drops into something low and commanding. “You’re squirming, sweetheart. You wouldn’t be trying to get my attention, would you?”
₍^. .^₎⟆Geto doesn’t ask he just pulls you into his lap when he wants you there. His large hands settle firmly on your hips, keeping you exactly where he wants you. And when you shift just slightly against him, he lets out a slow, amused hum. “Careful,” he murmurs, fingers flexing. “Unless you want me to handle you.”
₍^. .^₎⟆ One resting on your thigh, the other tracing slow, absentminded circles along your stomach, teasing just below the hem of your hoodie. He’s casual about it, like he’s not fully aware of the way your breath hitches every time his fingers dip just a little lower.
₍^. .^₎⟆He makes you think you’re in control, letting you straddle his lap, letting you run your hands through his hair, until he suddenly grips your wrist, stopping your movements, his dark eyes locked on you. “You look so confident sitting up there,” he muses, his voice smooth, dangerous. “Should I remind you who’s really in charge?”
₍^. .^₎⟆ Geto loves patience. He loves making you lose yours. He moves slow his hands tracing over your body, his lips brushing against your neck, whispering soft, teasing words that leave you squirming. “Look at you,” he murmurs, kissing along your throat. “So desperate, and I’ve barely even touched you.”
₍^. .^₎⟆He has no problem keeping the pants on while he teases you, pulling the waistband just low enough to let his fingers slip beneath. “You were so excited about these matching pajamas,” he muses, his smirk sharp. “You wouldn’t want me to ruin them too quickly, would you?”
₍^. .^₎⟆His voice alone is enough to break you. low, smooth, dark with amusement as he murmurs every filthy thing he’s about to do to you. “You’re going to be good for me, aren’t you?” His hand tightens on your throat, not squeezing, just holding. enough to make you shiver. “Or do I need to teach you how to behave?”
₍^. .^₎⟆The Morning After, Geto wakes up first, watching you sleep with a knowing smirk before deliberately pulling on his Hello Kitty pajama pants again. When you stir awake, he stretches, looking completely satisfied. “Didn’t you say you wanted a cute, cozy night?” he teases, brushing his fingers along your bare thigh. “Because I think we got a little… off track.”
——-
You had expected some pushback, maybe a little teasing, maybe even a dramatic sigh of suffering, but what you hadn’t expected was for Suguru to slide into the Hello Kitty pajama pants so effortlessly. No complaints, no hesitation. Just a smooth, almost nonchalant acceptance that left you momentarily stunned.
So here you are now, snapping a picture of him looking utterly unbothered.
“You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”
Geto leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching as you practically vibrate with excitement over the fact that he’s actually wearing the matching Hello Kitty pajama pants. The soft pink fabric contrasts against his dark hair and broad frame, hanging low on his hips in a way that should be illegal.
You nod, grinning. “Very much.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, stepping toward you, his movements smooth and deliberate. “You’re staring, sweetheart.” His voice is deep, rich, laced with amusement.
You cross your arms, trying so hard to act casual. “Because it’s funny.”
One dark brow lifts. “Is it?” He tilts his head, as he approaches you.
You don’t even realize you’re backing up until your legs hit the edge of the couch. Before you can react, he’s right there, caging you in without touching you. He leans down, voice dropping into that smooth, dangerous murmur that always unravels you.
“You sure it’s funny?” His fingers skim along the waistband of your pajama pants, slow and teasing. “Because you’re looking at me like you want something.”
Your breath catches, and his smirk deepens.
“You can tell me, love,” he murmurs, lips brushing against your ear. “I don’t mind giving you what you want.”
His hands slide lower, settling on your hips, pulling you flush against him. The heat of his body, the lazy way his fingers trace your skin—it’s too much and not enough at the same time.
“Suguru—”
He hums, dipping his head to press slow, lingering kisses down your throat. “Mmm. I love when you say my name like that.”
Your hands grip his arms for balance, your heart hammering in your chest. The cute, innocent pajama night. maybe not so much.
The night was supposed to be cute. Just you and Geto, curled up on the couch in your matching watching a movie, maybe sharing a few lazy kisses before bed.
It was supposed to be domestic, just a night of cuddling, a bad movie playing in the background, and maybe some sleepy kisses before bed.
But now?
Now you were in his lap, your legs straddling his thighs, your back arching as his large hands gripped your waist, and the look in his dark eyes was anything but sweet.
“You were so excited about these pajamas,” he murmurs, voice low and smooth, his fingers dragging leisurely beneath your hoodie, skating along the warm skin of your stomach. “Did you plan for this to happen?”
You try to respond, really, you do but the way his hands spread over your hips, controlling the way you move against him, has your thoughts scattering. His touch is firm, teasing, and when his thumbs press just right into your skin, your breath catches.
Geto notices. He always notices.
“You’ve been squirming all night,” he muses, tilting his head, that infuriatingly lazy smirk playing at his lips. “Shifting in my lap like you’re trying to get my attention.”
His lips brush your ear, his voice sinking into something dangerous.
“So tell me, sweetheart what exactly do you want?”
Your fingers tighten in the fabric of his hoodie, but before you can answer, he moves, rolling his hips up just right into you. A gasp escapes before you can stop it, your body tensing, and that that makes Geto chuckle, low and dark.
“Ah,” he hums, his grip tightening. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
You bite your lip, heat coiling low in your stomach. “You’re such a-”
He tsks, catching your chin between his fingers, tilting your head up so you have no choice but to look at him. His dark eyes gleam with amusement, but there’s something wicked beneath it something that sends a sharp pulse of need straight through you.
“Watch your mouth,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over your lips, pressing just enough to part them. “Or I’ll have to remind you how to behave.”
Your heart pounds, but Geto only smirks, his fingers trailing lower, his palm resting lightly over your throat. He doesn’t squeeze doesn’t need to. The unspoken command is clear: be still. Let me handle you.
And god, he does.
His lips are on your neck before you can even process it, kissing, biting, marking, each drag of his mouth slow and possessive. His hands grip your hips, forcing you to grind down against him, and the friction between you has heat pooling between your legs way too quickly.
“You’re already shaking,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice laced with amusement. “I’ve barely even started.”
You make a sound between a whimper and a protest, but Geto only chuckles, his hands trailing down to the waistband of your pajama pants, fingers slipping beneath the fabric.
“You wanted to keep these on, right?” he teases, tugging them just low enough to make you gasp. “Or should I take my time ruining you?”
You shudder, clutching at his hoodie, but Geto doesn’t move. He just watches you, patient, expectant, his grip steady on your waist.
“Go on,” he murmurs, dark eyes gleaming. “Be a good girl and ask me for it.”
And with the way he’s looking at you, his smirk sharp, his grip firm, his breath warm against your throat you already know you’ll break for him.
You always do.
"I can fix him" this "I can make him worse" that Pathetic. I can love him so much that it changes the course of the entire narrative.
Shoko Ieiri
૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡When you pull out the matching Hello Kitty pajama pants, Shoko gives you the most unimpressed look imaginable. She takes a slow drag from her cigarette, exhales, and deadpans, “You’re serious?”
૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡You expect her to fight you on it, maybe tease you a little, but she just shrugs. “Eh. As long as they’re comfy.” And just like that, she puts them on like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡It’s unfair how good she looks, even in pink Hello Kitty pajama pants, an oversized hoodie, and messy hair. She’s lounging on the couch, one leg draped over the armrest, looking like a model. “How do you do that?” you ask, genuinely baffled.She smirks, tilting her head just enough to make your stomach flip. “Wouldn’t you like to know, pretty girl?”
૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡Shoko has a teasing streak a mile long, and she loves seeing how far she can push you. She’ll straddle your lap, fingers tracing lazy circles on your skin, her breath warm against your ear all while still wearing those ridiculously cute pajama pants.
૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡She acts like she’s just being playful, just having fun, but you know better. The way her nails drag down your back, the way she tilts her head and gives you that look yeah, she’s fully aware of what she’s doing.“What?” she asks, feigning innocence as her fingers dip just under your waistband. “You wanted a cozy night in, didn’t you?”
૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡ She’ll nuzzle into your neck, her voice soft, lazy, dangerous. “You wanna beg, don’t you?” she murmurs, lips ghosting over your pulse point. “Bet you’d sound so pretty.” And when you do whimper? She grins.
૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡Shoko has no shame when it comes to getting a reaction out of you. She’ll let out the softest, most sinful little sighs against your skin, just to watch you lose your composure.“You’re so easy to tease,” she murmurs, lips grazing your throat before she bites down, just enough to make you gasp.
૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡stretching every moment just to make you squirm. Loves the way you get impatient when she moves too slow.“You’re already needy?” she teases, nipping at your earlobe. “I haven’t even started yet.”
૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡She’ll keep them on as long as possible, just to torture you, but the second you snap and try to take control? That’s when she really starts having fun.She smirks up at you, amused, as you pin her down. “Finally lost your patience, huh?” she hums, lifting her hips just enough to help you slide them off. “Took you long enough.”
૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡The pajama pants are nowhere to be found, and Shoko looks way too satisfied with herself. She stretches out, giving you a slow once-over before smirking. “So,” she muses, voice still husky from the night before, “wanna get matching panties next?”
—-
You should have known Shoko was going to be a terror for the night the second she slipped into the matching Hello Kitty pajama pants. She did not say anything about them, did not tease you right away. She just pulled them on, stretched like a cat, and flopped onto your couch like she owned the place.
The real problem was not even the pants. It was the look she had been giving you all night. That lazy, knowing little smirk, the slow drag of her gaze as she watched you from across the room, the way she stretched her arms over her head just to make you look. She knew exactly what she was doing, and the worst part was that she was enjoying every second of it.
At first, she kept it innocent. She curled up next to you, tucked herself against your side, and pretended to care about the movie playing in the background. It was comfortable, familiar, warm. But then her fingers started moving.
Then she shifted.
At first, it seemed like she was just adjusting her position, getting comfortable. But then she threw a leg over yours, settling fully into your lap, arms looping lazily around your neck, and suddenly, focusing on the movie was not an option anymore.
You swallowed hard, hands coming up to grip her hips. “Shoko.”
She tilted her head, looking way too amused. “Hmm?”
“You’re doing this on purpose.”
Her smirk widened. “Doing what on purpose?”
Oh, she was evil.
You opened your mouth to call her out on it, but before you could, she rolled her hips. Slow, deliberate. Your breath caught, and your fingers dug into her waist before you could stop yourself. That only made her chuckle, low and satisfied.
“Look at you,” she murmured, brushing a strand of hair from your face like she was not actively ruining you. “You’re already squirming.”
Your breath came out shakier than you wanted. “You’re—”
Before you could finish, she leaned in, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your throat. Her lips were warm, her breath soft, and when her teeth scraped lightly against your skin, your fingers flexed against her hips.
Shoko grinned against your neck.
“Poor thing,” she coos, tilting her head. “You look so flustered. Should I slow down?”
You open your mouth probably to tell her no. you want more but before you can even form a thought, she moves, rolling her hips against yours with slow, deliberate pressure. Your breath stutters, hands instinctively flying to her thighs, and that makes her chuckle.
“Oh? Finally touching me?” Her voice is dripping with amusement as she leans in, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your neck. “I thought you were trying to behave.”
Her hands slip beneath your hoodie, nails dragging up your stomach, featherlight and teasing. “You’re always so cute when you try to pretend you have self control.”
You squeeze her thighs in warning, and she only laughs, pressing her lips to your ear.
“Yeah?” she hums, shifting against you again, this time with purpose. “Then show me, sweetheart.”
Her hands slid under your hoodie, fingers trailing up your stomach, slow and teasing, tracing along your ribs like she was in no rush at all. And that was the worst part. She was not. She was taking her time, dragging out every touch, every little movement, just to watch you react.
“Shoko,” you exhaled, tilting your head back as she kissed a slow path down to your collarbone.
“Mm?” she hummed, like she was not the reason your pulse was racing.
You tightened your grip on her hips, trying to regain even a little bit of control, but she just laughed, low and knowing, before rolling her hips against yours again.
This time, you whimpered.
And god, that did something to her.
“Fuck,” she muttered, her voice dipping into something rough, something dangerous. She pulled back just enough to look at you, her eyes dark, lips parted. “You sound so pretty when you do that.”
Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you bit your lip, but Shoko just grinned, dragging her fingers down to the waistband of your pajama pants, toying with the fabric.
“You gonna be good for me?” she murmured, hooking her fingers just under the hem and tugging, just a little.
Your breath stuttered. “Yes.”
She hummed, pressing her lips just below your ear, her voice a little too pleased.
“Then let’s get these off, sweetheart.”
Okay so... theres this thing called being a super graphic ultra modern girl and me & my girl well. we've gone pro
Veritas Ratio HSR X Reader
“Stubborn, Stubborn, Stubborn.”
masterlist
You’re apart of the crew and an aspiring scientist. Though focusing in the forensics field to help out on missions.
📜🪶𓍢ִ໋🀦✎ᝰ. You hunched over a cluttered desk inside Herta’s Space Station, scribbling notes that looked more like deciphered codes than legible science. The quiet hum of machinery served as a backdrop to your forced concentration, punctuated every so often by the sharp scratch of a pen.
Dr. Veritas Ratio sat a few feet away, posture rigid, eyes sharp beneath a veil of bangs, hand flying across the pages of his own leather bound book like a man possessed.
This wasn’t what you imagined when you signed up to “shadow the renowned Dr. Ratio for advanced forensic learning.” You wanted to expand your skills, help the crew better on field missions because for some god forsaken reason, every time you stepped foot on a new planet, you were the one knee deep in clues, bodies, and mysteries no one asked for. It only made sense to sharpen your mind where it counted. days in and Dr. Ratio had barely acknowledged you unless he was critiquing your logic like a middle school science project.
Still, you tried again.
“So,” you started, voice casual, “when you said the neural pathways respond to stimulation, were you implying synaptic frequency increases even without cognitive awareness, or?”
“I was referring,” he interrupted at lightning speed, “to the involuntary oscillation of signal transmissions under external influence, something any second year biologist could tell you. Your phrasing was inaccurate, misleading, and honestly bordering on theoretical idiocy.”
You blinked, stunned into silence not because you were offended, but because his words were fired off like bullets from a gatling gun. You couldn’t even keep up enough to be offended. Still, you smiled, brows raised. “Right… of course. That’s what I meant. Totally.”
He didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge the sarcasm. Just kept writing. You sighed, staring at your notes and trying to find the motivation to continue copying something down about tissue decomposition in altered gravity conditions. But your thoughts were elsewhere specifically: “The brain is a muscle, my ass,” you thought bitterly. “This man is a stick in the mud.”
You tried once more, adjusting your chair just enough to glance at him. “Hey, uh… Ratio?” He didn’t stop writing. “I just wanted to let you know it’s my last day here. The Express is taking off tonight.”
He paused. Pen hovered in midair. For the first time in hours, he turned to look at you. “Then I suppose this is farewell,” he said evenly. “Any mind still desperate to learn more is worth a modicum of effort.” You blinked. That actually sounded… almost like a compliment? “But you remain, unfortunately, idiotic.”
There it was.
You couldn’t help the dry laugh that escaped. “Thanks, I’ll take that as the most affectionate thing you’ve said all week.”
“There is no affection in scientific discourse,” he replied, already back to his book.
You exhaled hard through your nose. There’s no pleasing this man. Still, you gathered your things, slung your bag over your shoulder, and gave him a nod. “Appreciate the time. Really. Maybe next time, I’ll come back knowing enough to offend you less.”
Ratio didn’t look up. “Unlikely, but your optimism is statistically entertaining.”
You paused at the door and gave one last look over your shoulder. No goodbye. Just the steady scratch of pen on paper. Annoying. Insufferable. Condescending. You had plenty of normal conversations with Ruan Mei, Screwllum, even Herta who could be a little unhinged but at least talked like a human being. you couldn’t say you didn’t learn something. Even if you wanted to shove him into a simulation chamber and press “random.”
Sighing, you stepped out of the lab, muttering to yourself, “The man needs a personality transplant. Or at least a nap.” Time to go back to the Astral Express. Hopefully, without being called an idiot in five different academic dialects.
📜🪶𓍢ִ໋🀦✎ᝰ. Dr. Veritas Ratio stood alone in the silence of Herta’s Space Station lab, the ambient hum of machinery now a mere background to his thoughts. The room still carried the faint trace of your presence a slightly skewed chair, a half empty data pad left untouched, a worn notebook you used with mismatched doodles and scientific scribbles alike. He stared at the door for longer than he intended after you had left.
“Hmph.” His voice echoed softly in the quiet room, as if irritated by his own lingering stillness.
With a sharp breath, he returned to his seat, flipping open the leather bound journal he had been writing in not his own research logs, but something far more… unwieldy.
A chronicle. An account. An observation. You. You, the girl who barged into his space several days ago claiming she was eager to “learn more about forensics” so she could stop playing amateur detective across the galaxy like some kind of self declared interstellar sleuth. The girl who stood there in front of him bright eyed, annoyingly persistent, armed with nothing but a notepad and a smile that dared him to reject her.
He should have said no. Really. He meant to.
Entry One:
She is insufferably stubborn.
From the moment she entered, she challenged my authority not with words, but with that relentless, aggravating optimism. It’s like trying to teach science to a golden retriever that insists on wagging its tail every time it gets a basic equation right.
She surrounds herself with the imbecile crew of the Astral Express each of them so charmingly flawed that one would need earplugs just to survive a conversation. She listens. She stares at equations like a brain dead dog. if puzzles are worth solving, and when she gets them wrong…
Ratio’s pen slowed for a second.
Entry Three:
I threw a book at her.
She botched a rudimentary breakdown of spatial decay honestly, I still don’t understand how someone confuses atomic diffusion rates with heat based deconstruction and I threw a book at her.
He tapped the end of the pen to the page.
She didn’t cry. Didn’t storm out. She laughed. Actually laughed. Rubbed the back of her head and said, “Should’ve known you’d have better aim than that,” before flipping back to her notes and reworking the entire equation.
Stubborn. Stubborn. Stubborn.
He underlined the word twice.
Entry Five:
She got something right today.
Not just right. Brilliant, actually. She identified a miscalculation in a gravitational bleed pattern I hadn’t even caught yet. I told her it was “adequate.” She beamed like I’d handed her a Nobel Prize.
Ratio exhaled slowly at the memory. There had been more moments like that. More times than he cared to admit where he’d look at her work and see genuine understanding growing like a slow, tenacious weed through cracked pavement.
She was undisciplined. A jumbled mess of deduction and instinct. But she was learning.
He flipped to the last few pages in the book, where neat bullet points were written in his precise hand. Not for himself. For her.
• You need to stop jumping to conclusions without sufficient data.
• Emotion clouds deduction. Maintain detachment until evidence is confirmed.
• Your spatial awareness is strong. Consider pursuing work in trajectory and motion based forensics.
• Your memory recall, while clumsy, is oddly adaptive. You seem to remember patterns more than facts use that.
• Stop doodling in the margins.
And then, written softer, smaller, like it embarrassed him:
• You are better than you think. Just… be better still.
He hadn’t meant to go into so much detail. It was just supposed to be notes. Brief, simple. A few guiding remarks she could use once she returned to playing Sherlock on alien planets. But the longer he spent around her, the more the book filled. He would’ve given it to her. That was the plan. Hand it off as a cold farewell and return to his own work, alone, uninterrupted.
But when she said she was leaving, a strange ache settled in his chest. He had closed the book instead. He told her she was idiotic. That was easier than saying anything else. He wasn’t built for sentiment.
But now, in the sterile quiet of the lab, he opened the book again and stared at the last empty page. His pen hovered for a moment before he wrote:
You were the most tolerable nuisance I’ve encountered.
He closed the book. Folded his arms. And sat there, in silence. Holding the only piece of you he could.
📜🪶𓍢ִ໋🀦✎ᝰ. The Astral Express had settled into its familiar rhythm a quiet lull between the catastrophe that just occurred. You sat in your room, sprawled on your back atop your bed, legs dangling off the side as a small packet of data chips and half doodled notes littered the floor beneath you. The lighting was dim, and soft music played in the background something March had been trying to get everyone into. Bubblegum pop something or other. You didn’t mind it.
Then, your terminal lit up with an incoming call.
Caller ID: Dr. Veritas Ratio
You blinked. Seriously? The last time you’d heard from Ratio was months ago, back when you’d finished your “training” with him at Herta’s Space Station. He hadn’t called. He hadn’t sent a single follow up. Hell, you figured he forgot you existed. Which was fine. He’d called you idiotic more times than you could count. You got the message.
So why the sudden contact? You leaned over, smacked the “Answer” button with your palm, and sat back again, letting the hologram flicker to life. The familiar sight of Ratio appeared sharply dressed, arms crossed, and already mid glare.
“Have all of you completely lost your minds?” he barked.
“Wow, no hello? You’ve really softened over the months,” you drawled, stretching your arms above your head and letting out a long yawn.
Ratio ignored the comment. “You brought it on board. A Stellaron. A living, breathing, ticking time bomb and you you let them install it into the crew roster like it’s a decorative lamp!”
“Not me,” you replied casually. “That was Himeko and Welt’s call. I was too busy teaching March how to tell the difference between a footprint and a crater.”
He leaned closer into the hologram, voice sharp as shattered glass. “And you didn’t stop them?”
You tilted your head, gaze flat. “Ratio, I’ve learned many things in my life. One of which is: you do not argue with Himeko unless you want to be questioning your own sexuality.”
“This is reckless. Irresponsible. Foolhardy. Welt Yang used to be logical.”
“He still is,” you said, picking at a thread in your blanket. “Realistically, this was the safest option.”
“Oh?” Ratio lifted a brow, sarcasm soaking every syllable. “Yes, why not keep the volatile Stellaron host onboard the most advanced dimensional train known to man? Surely the best place for a cosmic disaster seed is inside the space equivalent of a floating museum.”
“See? You do have a heart,” you said, smiling slightly. “You’re worried about us.”
“I’m worried about the structural integrity of your ship, and the illogical stupidity of a crew that includes people like well, like you.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere.”
Ratio scowled. “You’re not taking this seriously.”
You rolled onto your side, cheek pressed to your pillow, gaze on the projection of his furious form pacing like a scientist on the edge of an aneurysm. “No, I am. I just also live on a train that is fully capable of going against the Antimatter Legion, hunted by robots, and now has an amnesiac walking stellar bomb with a winning smile and a personality March immediately adopted like a stray puppy. You’ll excuse me if I conserve my panic energy.”
Ratio paused, folding his arms. “You’ve grown bolder.”
“You called me idiotic for a week straight. I had to evolve or die.”
He was quiet for a moment. Then, softly so softly you barely caught it he muttered
You blinked, eyebrows lifting. “What was that?”
“Nothing.” He cleared his throat. “Still. You would be wise to proceed with caution. The Stellaron may not act today or tomorrow, but entropy is inevitable. One misstep, and it could unravel every layer of existence you so casually nap on.”
You smiled lazily. “I missed your bedtime stories.”
“You are insufferable.”
“You called me.”
Ratio paused. For a flicker of a second, his expression shifted barely visible, like a crack in marble. Thoughtful. Frustrated. Maybe even… hesitant. “you have a brain. And I don’t like seeing it wasted.” He gestured vaguely in your direction. “You’re tolerable when you’re being cautious.”
“And you’re tolerable when you’re not actively trying to kill me with a migraine.”
The hologram began to glitch slightly signal fading as the Express entered another sector.
Ratio’s voice cut through one last time before the line ended: “Just don’t get comfortable. You may not always have time to brace for the explosion.”
Then the screen blinked to black. You sat there, the weight of his words hanging in the room like smoke.
“…Still didn’t say goodbye,” you murmured, grabbing your tea and taking a slow sip. You weren’t worried.
📜🪶𓍢ִ໋🀦✎ᝰ. Herta’s Space Station was bustling with its usual polite chaos researchers skittering around with datapads too big for their hands, drones zipping above heads, experiments sparking in sealed chambers. The scent of metal and burnt circuitry lingered faintly in the air. A strangely nostalgic aroma, really.
You had come here for one reason and one reason only: to visit Screwllum. The robotic genius had promised to show you a new forensic simulation model, one that could track theoretical blood spatter in zero gravity. You were deeply interested, and by “deeply interested,” you meant giddy like a child with a crime scene coloring book.
You weren’t expecting to see him. Not as you rounded the corner of the central archive, passing Herta’s projection arguing with itself, and almost bumped headfirst into a tall figure already ranting at a researcher over some miscalculation involving quantum probability flow.
“Dr. Ratio,” you breathed, blinking once.
He turned toward you slowly. You immediately put your hands over your mouth, gasped dramatically, and staggered back a step. If he gets to ghost you, why cant you have fun yourself?
“Veritas? Is it really you?” you cried, voice shaking like a widow in a play. “The universe said you were lost to the abyss of academia, never to be seen again! I we I waited so long!”
Ratio stared at you, expression unreadable but very much unimpressed. “You’re being absurd.”
“Absurdly in love,” you swooned, grabbing his arm with faux desperation. “I swore I’d wait, no matter how long the stars turned. You you arrogant bastard you came back.”
“Stop being ridiculous,” he replied flatly. “Ill have you know that if you even tried i would’ve answered. You were simply too busy pretending to be a detective on every rock you stumbled across.”
“not one letter. Not one call. Do you have any idea how I’ve suffered? Ive missed my stuck up asshole of a husband”
He raised an eyebrow. “You were messaging Screwllum memes less than twelve hours ago.”
You blinked. “Screwllum loves my memes. Don’t derail me trying to make you look like a bad husband.”
“I should’ve let you fail the entropy unit,” he muttered, brushing your hands off like you were a particularly annoying layer of dust.
You laughed, arms crossing over your chest. “Still as insufferable as ever, Ratio. You really know how to make a girl feel welcome.”
Ratio returned to his datapad. “If by ‘welcome’ you mean ‘tolerated,’ then yes. I remain consistent.”
There was a beat of silence. The usual static hum of the station pulsed around you. You tilted your head slightly, observing him not just as a former mentor or your favorite verbal sparring partner, but as someone you honestly missed.
You stepped a little closer, voice dropping. “Hey… could we catch up a bit?”
He paused. His fingers hovered over the datapad. Just for a second. Then, slowly, he looked at you out of the corner of his eye.
“why”
You smiled. “Ok big guy is asking the questions, I suppose I just want to see how you’re doing.”
Ratio’s lips twitched, the faintest ghost of a smirk. “I suppose… some minds are worth the occasional recalibration.”
“Is that your way of saying ‘yes’?”
“It’s my way of saying you’re still stubborn and prone to foolishness but slightly less irritating than most of the imbeciles I suffer daily.”
You beamed. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
Ratio glanced away, resuming his work. “Don’t get sentimental.”
But you saw the way his posture shifted less tense, a fraction more open.
📜🪶𓍢ִ໋🀦✎ᝰ. Ratio’s quarters were exactly what you expected and somehow even more Ratio than you thought possible.
Minimalist, sterile, everything arranged with sharp symmetry almost clinical, like the man had tried to recreate a science lab in the shape of a bedroom. The lighting was dim, a soft overhead hue that neither strained the eyes nor dared to be comforting. Shelves upon shelves of books lined the walls, but not a single one looked even slightly out of place. His desk had no dust, no loose wires, no snacks just data pads, models, papers arranged in brutal harmony. despite all the perfect order, there was something kind of… homey about it. Or maybe you were just losing your mind. Probably the latter.
“I’ll return shortly,” he said earlier, stepping out with a brief mention of fetching something from Screwllum or threatening Herta’s projection into silence you weren’t sure which. His voice was already vanishing down the hall as you nodded absently, too curious about seeing this inner sanctum of his to stop him.
Which is how you ended up alone in the room and your eyes landed on the book. You hadn’t seen it since your time as his reluctant partner slash student slash mental punching bag. Leather bound, its corners slightly worn, it sat there on the desk like it had been placed just for you to find it. An artifact of a past so recent it still itched under your skin. You told yourself to leave it alone. You didn’t. Fingers brushed the cover. You opened it.
The first few pages were filled with sharp, scathing commentary written in Ratio’s precise, aggressively legible handwriting. Your early days of working together where you barely kept up and made mistakes that, according to him, “required divine intervention to unsee.” You scoffed, flipping forward.
There were notes, not just about your blunders, but about what you’d done right. Diagrams you’d drawn that he’d annotated, not with insults, but improvement suggestions. Questions you’d asked that he’d praised though usually in the most begrudging tone imaginable.
You flipped further. Dates from after your training had ended appeared.
She let that walking disaster <Stelle> on board. Of course she did. Her loyalty to the crew is stronger than her self preservation. Idiotic.
…Though, if she’s the one monitoring it, perhaps there’s hope it won’t implode immediately.
Your brows lifted. Another entry, this time sloppier, less rigid:
Saw her solve a multi layer deduction test from Ruan Mei’s simulation. Beat the projection time by five minutes. Either she’s improving rapidly… or cheating. I doubt the latter. Annoying. Impressive.
And then:
You were the most tolerable nuisance I’ve encountered.
You stared at that line for a long time, blinking. Your heart gave the smallest traitorous flutter. Ratio? Writing that down? In his own personal notes? Voluntarily?
“Veritas Veritas Veritas,” you whispered, amused, letting the book rest gently on the desk again, “you’re so down bad and you don’t even know it.”
You glanced around the room with new eyes now. Not just a workspace. There were signs of you scattered in the margins things you’d said that he’d scribbled down verbatim, questions you’d asked, observations you’d made. There, in this sterile haven of knowledge, you existed. When the door slid open again with that same low mechanical hiss, you didn’t turn immediately. You kept your hands at your sides, innocent, as Ratio entered holding a datapad and a cup of something that definitely wasn’t coffee.
He raised an eyebrow.
“You moved things,” he said bluntly.
You turned, grinning. “I breathed in here. Hope that’s not too much.”
Ratio’s eyes zeroed in on the open book like a hawk spotting a wounded animal. The datapad in his hand made a dull thud as he dropped it to the desk beside you.
“You read it,” he said, voice low, clipped. It wasn’t a question. It was a fact delivered like an accusation.
You opened your mouth, but he was already moving, closing the book in one motion that was more violent than necessary. His eyes flicked to you, sharp with something between irritation and disbelief. “That book was for me. My documentation. My evaluations. Not for you to comb through like some sentimental schoolgirl with a crush.”
You just raised your hands a little in mock surrender. “Okay, first of all ow. Second, maybe don’t leave emotionally repressed love letters in plain sight if you don’t want them read.”
His scowl deepened. “You are not the center of my notes. You were a case study in irritating persistence.”
You smiled. “A tolerable nuisance, if I remember correctly.”
“I regret ever writing that.”
“You do not.”
Ratio looked like he was about to snap again, but your tone shifted before he could. A little more sincere this time. Less teasing.
“Look, before you combust into quantum dust or something, I’ve been doing the same thing. Kind of.”
That made him blink. His arms crossed tightly, jaw clenched.
You shrugged. “Whenever there was news. Whenever Screwllum or Herta mentioned something cool you did. Whenever you published something with Ruan Mei. I’d log it in a little virtual journal. Notes, quotes, observations. Even drew a diagram of your frustrated face once. It was very detailed.”
“You tracked my activity?” His voice was dry with disbelief.
“Kept tabs,” you corrected. “I mean, you did teach me how to observe patterns and record data. I thought it’d be fun to apply it to you.”
Ratio stared at you. Hard.
You grinned again, stepping closer now, just into his space, enough to make him instinctively stiffen. “So, if you like me so much, Veritas…” you tilted your head, voice dipping into a teasing lilt, “it doesn’t have to stay theoretical.”
The room went dead silent. Ratio’s eye twitched.
“I do not like you.”
You leaned back with a smug hum, hands slipping behind your back. “Sure. That’s why you wrote, ‘perhaps there’s hope it won’t implode immediately.’ About me and the crew.”
“That was in reference to the logistical risk of hosting a walking bomb, not an emotional attac—”
“You said impressive, Ratio.”
“I said annoying right before.”
You shrugged. “And still impressive.”
Ratio turned away from you, muttering curses under his breath in a tone too quiet to catch. But he didn’t tell you to leave. Didn’t shove you out or erase his notes or block access to his quarters. Instead, he sat, flipped open a new file on his datapad, and typed exactly three words
Emotional interference: persistent.
You laughed as you settled in across from him.
“Glad I’m still in your data set.”
Present Mic / Hizashi Yamada x Reader
⋆˚✿˖° Feedback Loop ⋆˚✿˖°
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ This man has zero chill, and I have zero chill for him. He’s a freak. He has to be. The studded leather jacket proves it.
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ You all see loud and annoying I see a rockstar who would definitely date a younger woman. peak rockstar behavior. Except instead of the wild, bad boy type, he’s got the personality of a total dad rock guy. classic vinyl collection, bad puns, probably owns at least three band tees from the ’80s.
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ Anyway, this is teacher him, but you? You’re the new TA, and unfortunately, you’re already down bad and you’ve BEEN down bad…. The way I wrote this is a little taboo… how your high school crush on Present Mic never really faded, and now, as a new UA TA, you’re right back where you started… only this time, he’s looking at you differently.
Anyways I wrote this very light hearted!!
Warnings: idk you simp for older man and he sorta flirts back. you’re 22 in this story but yuh
૮₍´｡ᵔ ꈊ ᵔ｡`₎ა You could hear the distant hum of the city below as you and Hawks crouched on a rooftop, surveying the warehouse across the street. It was a classic sting operation, intel suggested a group of low-level villains were stockpiling illegal support gear, and you two were here to put a stop to it before things escalated.
Hawks adjusted his goggles, barely looking phased. “Man, these guys never learn, huh?”
You smirked. “You sound almost bored.”
“‘Cause I am,” he admitted, stretching his arms lazily. “I could’ve wrapped this up ages ago, but apparently ‘reckless property damage’ is frowned upon.” He threw up air quotes, grinning.
You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, yeah, heaven forbid you actually follow protocol.”
Hawks snickered but then glanced at you, tilting his head. “So, what’s next for you, anyway?”
You blinked. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, c’mon, you’ve got the skills, the power, and a shiny little hero license,” he said, casually flicking a feather toward the warehouse to listen in. “You ever thought about… I dunno, long-term plans?”
You frowned. “I am a pro hero. This is the long-term plan.”
Hawks hummed. “Yeah, for now. But what about later? You gonna keep doing this forever?”
You huffed. “What else would I do?”
“I dunno.” He shrugged. “Some heroes eventually go into support roles, some do solo work, some…” He gave you a pointed look. “End up teaching.”
You scoffed. “Yeah, no thanks.”
Hawks snorted. “Wow. Said that real fast.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You don’t exactly strike me as ‘teacher material’ either.”
“Hell no,” Hawks said without hesitation. “I’m not about that ‘shaping young minds’ crap.” He waved a hand. “I don’t got time to babysit kids who think they’re hotshots just ‘cause they passed an entrance exam.”
You exhaled through your nose. “You do know they need heroes to train the next generation, right?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Hawks said lazily. “Good thing there’s people out there willing to do it. But me? Nah. I care about results. Not teaching a bunch of kids how to throw a punch.”
Something about that didn’t sit right with you. You fell silent, watching the warehouse as Hawks kept talking.
“I get why some people do it,” he continued. “Sure, it’s important, but I’d rather be out here handling real threats, not lecturing some kid about ‘proper combat form.’”
You pursed your lips, staring at the city skyline. You’d never really thought about teaching before. You’d always assumed you’d stick to hero work, fighting, saving people, that’s what you trained for. But…
Wouldn’t it be better if newer heroes were properly prepared before getting thrown into all this? Before they had to stand on rooftops like this, watching crime unfold and making impossible choices?
You suddenly remembered your own time at U.A., the mentors who guided you, the lessons that stuck with you, the moments that shaped you.
Hawks might not care about the next generation. But maybe… you did. You inhaled deeply. “Someone has to do it.”
Hawks glanced at you. “Huh?”
“Teach,” you clarified. “Someone has to make sure they don’t just become a bunch of reckless brats.”
Hawks smirked. “That sounded real pointed.”
You ignored him, mind already racing. Maybe this was something worth considering. Maybe making a difference didn’t just mean being in the field. it meant helping others get there, too.
Before you could say more, Hawks suddenly grinned. “Welp. We can debate hero philosophy later. Right now-” He flexed his wings. “I believe it’s ass kicking time.”
You exhaled, pushing the thoughts aside. Teaching could wait. For now, you had a mission to finish.
—-
The idea had been nagging at you ever since that mission with Hawks. You hadn’t been able to shake it, how different would things have been if someone hadn’t taken the time to teach you? If the pros before you had just decided they didn’t care about shaping the next generation?
It was a dangerous job. Heroes had to make impossible choices every day.And if you could help even one student avoid the mistakes you had made… wasn’t that worth it?
So, when the opportunity to assist at U.A. came up, you took it. Standing at the school gates, you felt incredibly unprepared.
The school looked the same as when you were a student. The towering gates, the familiar pathways, the slight hum of excitement in the air.
But now, instead of wearing a uniform, you were standing here as a pro hero. A teachers assistant to the very people who had once trained you.
Before you could start spiraling, a very familiar voice rang out. “Nooooo waaay!”
You barely had time to react before a blur of yellow moved into your peripheral vision.
“Yo, Y/n!!” Present Mic grinned, stepping right in front of you. “Look at you, all grown up and back at U.A.!”
Your brain stalled for a moment. Because oh. Oh no. You had mentally prepared yourself to see your old teachers again, sure.
But Hizashi Yamada? The very same Present Mic who had been the coolest teacher when you were a student? The one whose energy was infectious, who had somehow made learning fun, whose voice had been a constant in your life back then?
Yeah. You were not ready. You forced yourself to smile. “Hey, Mic.”
He grinned even wider. “Man, this is wild! Feels like just yesterday you were wandering the halls! Now you’re back and all pro hero-y!” He clapped a hand on your shoulder. “I knew you were gonna be big someday!”
You swallowed. Say something normal. Say something normal.
“Uh well, you were one of my favorite teachers, it was bound to happen if you were there for me” you blurted. The moment the words left your mouth, you immediately regretted them.
Hizashi’s eyebrows shot up, and then he smirked. “Ohoho? Is that so?” He leaned in slightly, eyes glinting. “Favorite, huh?”
Your face burned.
“N-not like that!” you stammered, waving your hands. “I just.. I mean… your class was fun, and..” He laughed, clearly enjoying your suffering. “Man, this just keeps getting better.”
You groaned, covering your face.
Hizashi grinned, rocking back on his heels. “Well, it’s good to have you back. These kids are gonna love you.”
You exhaled, trying to compose yourself. “Yeah, well… let’s hope I survive them first.”
“Pshh. You survived me, didn’t ya?” He winked. “This’ll be a piece of cake.”
Your heart stuttered. Oh. Oh, this was going to be dangerous for your heart.
—
The halls of U.A. felt different now. As a student, they had been full of excitement, nerves, and the overwhelming presence of those who had come before you. But now, walking through the main building as a pro hero and teacher, the weight on your shoulders felt entirely new.
You adjusted the hem of your hero costume, feeling the crispness of how new it was. Even though you had experience in the field, nothing quite prepared you for standing in front of a room full of students expecting to learn from you.
“You got this,” you muttered to yourself, taking a steadying breath before stepping into the teacher’s lounge.
Aizawa was the first to look up, his usual tired expression unreadable. “You’re early,” he noted, setting down his coffee.
“I figured I’d try to make a good impression,” you replied, attempting a casual smile.
Present Mic leaned against the counter, grinning. “First day jitters? Don’t worry, we all had ‘em. Well, except for Eraser here. He just scowled his way through it.”
Aizawa sighed. “I still do.”
You chuckled, some of the tension easing from your shoulders. Before you could respond, the door swung open, and Midnight strolled in. “Oh, our new young hero teacher has arrived! Ready to inspire the next generation?”
“I hope so,” you admitted, rubbing the back of your neck.
Midnight winked. “Confidence is key. And if all else fails, just channel your inner Aizawa, give them the stare.”
“I’m right here,” Aizawa deadpanned.
The conversation continued as a few other teachers trickled in, welcoming you and offering small pieces of advice. It was reassuring, knowing that despite the prestigious reputation of U.A., the staff was still just a group of people doing their best.
Then, the bell rang. Your first class was waiting You turned to see Shouta Aizawa standing up and heading to the door, coffee in one hand, capture weapon draped loosely around his neck. He looked as exhausted as you remembered from your time as a student, but there was a small, approving nod in his greeting. “. Ready for your first day?”
You gave him a firm nod. “Yes, sir.”
He raised a brow at the formality but didn’t comment. “Good. You’ll be shadowing me for the first week. Learn the flow, get used to the kids. Don’t let them walk all over you.”
You swallowed. “They’ll try?”
“Of course,” he deadpanned. “They’re future pro heroes. Testing limits is in their nature.”
Before you could respond, the bell rang. Aizawa gestured toward the door. “Come on. Let’s introduce you.”
Walking into Class 1-A’s homeroom was surreal. The chatter died down the moment Aizawa stepped inside, eyes instantly on you. These weren’t just random students; these were the next big names in hero society, brimming with potential. Some of them were already whispering, clearly recognizing you from your own hero work.
Aizawa’s gaze swept over them, and the class immediately straightened up. “This is Lumine. She’s a pro and will be assisting in your training from now on. Treat her with respect.”
You took a step forward, clearing your throat. “It’s nice to meet you all. I was in your place not too long ago, so if you have questions or need advice, I’m here to help.”
A student raised a hand, an excitable redhead in the front row. “Can we see your Quirk in action?”
You smirked. “Maybe another time perhaps your next training session.”
A few students groaned in disappointment, but a blue haired student beside him adjusted his glasses, nodding approvingly. “A professional approach. I look forward to learning from you.”
As the students got to work, you exhaled, easing into your new role. First day nerves or not, you were ready for this. After all, you weren’t just here to assist you were here to help shape the future of hero society.
As Aizawa turned to the board, the atmosphere in the classroom shifted. It started small whispers, giggles, but you could feel it. The moment your eyes met with some of the students, they looked away too quickly, stifling laughter like they were plotting something.
Then, predictably, a hand shot up.
“Yes?” you asked, already bracing yourself.
Denki Kaminari grinned, leaning back in his chair. “So, uh… what’s your type?”
A few eyes shot up to stare at him. Particularly a certain purple adjacent kid started glaring. You blinked, thrown off for only a second before regaining composure. “My type?”
“Yeah, you know,” he wiggled his eyebrows. “Like… in a romantic sense.”
“Denki.” Iida’s voice cut through the air, scandalized. “That is highly inappropriate to ask a teacher’s assistant!”
“But it’s important info!” Denki argued, slouching in his seat. “Like, what if we need to set her up with someone?…. like myself” he muttered the last part but the rest of the class gathered what it was.
You raised an eyebrow. “I’m here to teach, not to date.”
Denki clicked his tongue. “Damn, there goes my plan.”
“Your what?” you asked.
Jirou groaned, smacking her forehead. “He’s been muttering about ‘securing the ring’ since you walked in.”
You blinked. “Wait. Excuse me?”
The class lost it.
Even Aizawa, who had been diligently ignoring the nonsense, finally turned, rubbing his temples like he had a migraine forming. “Kaminari. If you spent as much effort on your studies as you do on flirting, you might actually be a decent student.”
Denki pouted “Sensei, that’s harsh.”
You crossed your arms, fighting back a laugh. “I think what Kaminari meant to ask was if I have any advice for balancing hero work with personal life.”
The blond perked up. “Ohh, yeah! That’s totally what I meant!”
Aizawa sighed. “Right. That’s enough for today. Open your books before I start handing out laps.”
The class groaned but obeyed, even as you heard whispered bets being placed on whether Denki would propose by the end of the semester.
Class had barely settled before you heard the unmistakable sound of a palm smacking the back of Kaminari’s head.
“Ow!” Denki yelped, rubbing the spot where he’d been hit.
“Quit being an idiot,” Bakugo grumbled from his seat, arms crossed, eyes narrowed like he was personally offended by Kaminari’s entire existence. “You sound pathetic.”
“Excuse you, Bakugo, but I was just making conversation,” Kaminari shot back, still grinning despite the clear lack of support. “You don’t understand romance.”
Bakugo’s glare sharpened. “I understand that you should shut the hell up”
“Damn, man,” Kirishima cut in with a chuckle, elbowing Bakugo. “Give him a break. It’s not every day a there’s someone new teaching. Let him dream.”
Bakugo scoffed. “It’s embarrassing.”
Before Kaminari could retaliate, Mina gasped dramatically, slamming her hands on her desk. “Wait, wait, wait! Kaminari’s getting all the attention here, but I think we’re missing the real question!” She turned to you with a mischievous glint in her eye. “Who was your teacher crush when you went here?”
The class erupted.
“Ohhh, good one, Ashido!” Sero laughed, leaning forward on his desk. “C’mon, spill! Was it Aizawa-sensei?”
At that you whipped to turn to aizawa but you can see he’s already regressed into his sleeping bag.
“Present Mic?” Kirishima guessed. “He’s got that cool vibe, y’know?”
“I swear if anyone says Midnight, I’m walking out,” Jirou deadpanned, already rubbing her temples
.
You held up a hand, trying to contain your laughter. “Okay, okay, first of all, just because i’m barely older than you all doesn’t mean I’m just going to gossip.”
A wave of boos filled the room.
“Second of all,” you continued, ignoring them, “That wasn’t even anything I thought about when I was your age”
Mina sighed dramatically. “Ugh, so responsible.”
“I’m literally here as a teacher’s assistant,” you reminded her, crossing your arms. “What did you expect?”
“Secret romances,” Kaminari answered instantly.
“You guys watch way too much TV,” you muttered.
Meanwhile, in the corner of the room, Todoroki, who had been silent this whole time, slowly turned to Momo. “Is this… normal?”
Momo sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Unfortunately, yes.”
At the front of the class on the ground, Aizawa audibly exhaled, already regretting everything. “I should’ve taken the day off.”
The teasing finally died down after a few more minutes, mostly because Aizawa threatened extra homework, but you could still hear the occasional whisper of “I know it was Aizawa” and “Kaminari’s totally going to propose by the end of the week.”
You barely made it into the teachers’ lounge before dropping into the nearest chair with an exhausted sigh. The first half of the day had been absolute chaos. You knew Class 1-A had a reputation, but no amount of mental preparation could’ve readied you for Kaminari planning your imaginary wedding, Mina interrogating you about teacher crushes, and Bakugo nearly committing homicide out of secondhand embarrassment.
Aizawa sat down across from you, looking unsurprised. “You survived.”
You exhaled, rubbing your temples. “I think so.”
Before he could respond, the door slammed open. “YOOO! How’s our newest teacher assistant holding up?!”
Your stomach flipped. Present Mic strolled in, grinning ear to ear, and before you could even process the way your heartbeat definitely skipped, he was dropping into the seat beside you, all energy and enthusiasm.
“I heard 1-A gave you a hell of a welcome,” he laughed, elbowing you lightly. “Gotta say, I love the enthusiasm, but you good?”
Your brain was short circuiting. He smells good. Why does he smell so good?
You snapped out of it immediately. “Y-Yeah! Totally fine! Just y’know, Students being students, and uh, some… unexpected questions.”
Aizawa gave you a slow, knowing side eye but said nothing, sipping his coffee. Hizashi leaned in slightly, his expression full of curiosity. “Ohhh? What kind of questions?”
The door opened again, giving you a much needed second to gather yourself as Midnight, Cementoss, and Snipe walked in. Midnight smirked the second she spotted you. “Oho? Is this about the interrogation 1-A put you through?”
You groaned. “Why does everyone already know about this?”
Cementoss chuckled. “Word travels fast when it involves that class.”
Snipe took a seat, tipping his hat back. “So? What’d they grill ya on?”
You hesitated, but of course Midnight leaned forward, eyes glinting. “Don’t be shy now. Spill.”
You exhaled in defeat. “Okay, fine, Kaminari apparently thinks we’re getting married, Mina demanded to know if I ever had a teacher crush, and the rest were just hyping them up.”
Silence. Then, Midnight lit up. “Oh, now this I gotta hear.”
“No, you really don’t,” you muttered.
But it was too late. Present Mic gasped dramatically beside you. “WAIT.” He pointed at you with exaggerated excitement. “You had a teacher crush?!”
Your face felt hot. “Nope! That’s classified information,” you said way too quickly, reaching for your drink like it could physically save you from this conversation.
Hizashi let out an offended noise, leaning closer. “It’s me, isn’t it?!”
Your brain short circuited. Your entire body froze. Aizawa, who had been silently watching this train wreck unfold, took a slow sip of his coffee. “It’s not you.”
“You don’t know that!” Hizashi shot back, grinning, and oh no, he was looking right at you.
You could feel the heat creeping up your neck, but you refused to crack. “I- I am not answering that.”
Midnight smirked, clearly catching something. “Hmm… interesting.”
You glared. “Drop it.”
“Never,” she teased.
Meanwhile, Hizashi was still grinning, completely oblivious to your inner turmoil. “Aw, c’mon! I won’t tell anyone!”
You buried your face in your hands. “I literally don’t trust you.”
The teasing continued as the rest of the staff ate, and even though your entire body was still burning from that interaction, you had to admit… it wasn’t a bad way to spend your break.
—
You walked beside Aizawa, still recovering from the absolute disaster that had been lunchtime. Your face felt like it was permanently warm, and you were convinced you’d never be able to look Present Mic in the eyes again.
“So,” he started, voice dry as ever, “you want to be a teacher?”
You nodded, still staring ahead, trying to will away your embarrassment. “Yeah. I mean, today was hectic, but it felt… right, y’know?”
Aizawa hummed. “Uh-huh.”
Something about his tone made you glance at him warily. “…What?”
“Oh, nothing.” He took a slow sip from his coffee, expression unreadable. “Just thinking about how subtle you were about it in the lounge.”
You frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He side eyed you, and even though his face barely changed, you could feel the judgment.
Your stomach dropped. “I—what—” You groaned, covering your face. “Please stop.”
“Just saying,” he continued, deadpan, “if this was a test on subtlety, you’d be repeating the year.”
You groaned louder. “Oh my god.”
He sipped his coffee again, shrugging. “But, y’know. Mic’s an idiot, so you’re probably fine.”
“That is not reassuring.”
He didn’t respond, just kept walking like he hadn’t just ruined your entire life. You, on the other hand, were spiraling. How obvious had you been? Was everyone going to figure it out? Was Hizashi already onto you?
Before you could fall further into despair, Aizawa glanced at you again. “But if you’re really serious about teaching, you should stick with it. You did fine today.”
You blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity. “Oh. Thanks.”
“Sure.” He paused, then added, “Just maybe work on your poker face.”
You groaned one last time, and Aizawa smirked ever so slightly as you both headed back to class.
—
It was the next day and stared at Aizawa like he had just told you to fight a Nomu with your bare hands.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“You’re assisting Yamada for the day,” Aizawa repeated, his tone flat as always. “He’s leading practical drills, and it’s good experience for you.”
Your stomach twisted. This is fine. This is totally fine. It was not fine. Because Present Mic. Hizashi Yamada was the one teacher you definitely didn’t trust yourself to be normal around.
It had been so much easier when you were a student, admiring from afar. But now? You had to work alongside him, one on one, for the entire day, and if yesterday’s conversation in the teachers’ lounge was anything to go by, you were one slip-up away from giving yourself away entirely.
Still, you swallowed your nerves and forced yourself to nod. “Got it.”
Aizawa gave you a slow, knowing look, because of course he did but didn’t comment. “Good. He’s in Gym Gamma. Try to keep up.”
You huffed. “I can keep up.”
Aizawa smirked slightly like he knew something you didn’t. That was never a good sign.
—
By the time you reached Gym Gamma, you could hear his voice from outside the doors.
“Alright, listeners! Today’s all about reflex training! You gotta be fast, ya gotta be alert, and ya gotta be ready to move at a moment’s notice!”
You took a deep breath and stepped inside.
The moment you did, Hizashi turned to face you, his signature grin in full force. “Ayooo! There’s my assistant for the day!”
You swore you felt your heart stutter for a second.
“Hope you’re ready!” he continued, jogging up to you. “’Cause today’s lesson is all about speed and adaptability!”
You forced yourself to nod, pretending you weren’t two seconds from combusting. “Right. Sounds good.”
He clapped a hand on your shoulder, and oh no he’s touching me—
“You ever seen my sound-based reflex drills in action before?” he asked, completely oblivious to the absolute crisis happening in your brain.
“uuuh not up close.”
He gasped, offended. “WHAT?!” He grabbed his chest like you’d personally wounded him. “Then today’s your lucky day, sidekick, ‘cause you’re not just assisting, you’re participating!”
You tilted your head. “oh? set the stage then”
The students murmured at that, sensing the challenge. Hizashi raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Ohooo, confidence! I like it!”
You just smirked. “Let’s get started.”
—
The second he fired off his first attack “HEY!!” your body reacted on instinct. In reality this was probably the worst person to fight against you for the demonstration against mic. Because with his quirk it basically didn’t work on you
Before the shockwave could hit, you shifted into light, letting the sound waves pass through you harmlessly before reforming on the other side.
The class gasped.
Even Hizashi blinked in surprise. “Well damn!!”
You shrugged, barely fazed. “Sound doesn’t hit photons the same way.”
Hizashi’s grin grew. “Ohhh, this just got interesting.”
What followed was an all out battle of speed.
Every time he tried to catch you off guard, you moved like light itself, phasing through attacks, blinking across the battlefield, even absorbing energy and redirecting it when necessary.
At one point, he fired off a rapid burst of sound—
“YEAHHHHH!!”
—and you split into pure photons, streaking through the air before reforming behind him.
The students went wild.
Kaminari practically screamed. “YO, THIS IS INSANE!”
Mina was jumping up and down. “OUR TEACHER ASSISTANT IS A BADASS!”
Meanwhile, Hizashi looked positively thrilled.
“You’re fast,” he admitted, pushing his shades up. “I like that.”
You smirked. “Told you I could handle myself.”
His grin widened. “Alright, alright, I see you.”
—
Training continued as you and Mic took turns guiding the students through drills. By the end of the session, they were still buzzing with excitement, practically vibrating with leftover energy. You, on the other hand? Barely broke a sweat.
Even after all that work, they were still hyped.
Mina came sprinting toward you, a crowd of students following close behind. “You are officially my favorite person now.”
“SO—ABOUT THAT MARRIAGE PROPOSAL—”
Before he could finish, Bakugo decked him straight into the ground. You barely had time to react before you were kneeling beside the poor guy, eyes wide in alarm.
Meanwhile, Shoto stood nearby, still deep in thought. “Can you move at the speed of light, or is it just partial?”
Midoriya, frantically flipping through his notebook, barely spared the scene a glance. “And if your body converts into photons, do you still feel force? Can you absorb soundwaves instead of dodging them?”
“Sensei, can you teach me how to be that fast?” Mina asked, practically bouncing.
“Yeah!” Kirishima grinned. “You gotta have some training tips, right?”
You chuckled. “It’s all about reflexes and learning how to read your opponent. I’d be happy to show you some drills.”
The class collectively cheered.
Even Bakugo gave a considering nod, though he still scowled. “Tch. I guess that was decent.”
Hizashi, standing beside you, elbowed you lightly. “Look at that, you’re already building a fan club.”
You felt your face heat up. Not now, heart. Not now
You sighed with a smile on your face, rubbing your temples before looking over at Hizashi, who was grinning like a proud parent.
“Man,” he said, shaking his head. “Didn’t expect you to steal the whole show!”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at your lips.
Hizashi strolled over, hands on his hips, still beaming. “I gotta say, did not expect you to be this OP.”
You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Guess I like surprises.”
He chuckled. “Well, consider me pleasantly surprised.”
Then, he winked. Damn it. You were this close to completely losing your composure.
—
The students were still hyped as they cleaned up, practically buzzing with leftover energy. Kaminari was full on re enacting the moment you dodged a sound blast, complete with dramatic slow-motion effects, while Mina hyped him up like a ringside announcer.
Meanwhile, you and Hizashi strolled toward the exit, letting them finish up.
“I gotta say,” he grinned, hands behind his head, “I knew you had skills, but damn! You didn’t even break a sweat!”
You smirked, keeping it cool. “Well our quirks kinda cancel each other put, I don’t know if i’m all that good”
He laughed, and damn it. why did it sound so nice up close?
“A bit of an advantage? You made dodging my attacks look like a warm up.”
You shrugged, playing it off. “Maybe I’m just really fast.”
He shot you a teasing look. “Ohhh, I see how it is, you’re humble about it, too.”
You chuckled, shaking your head, but something about this moment felt… surreal.
Because walking next to Hizashi like this, like equals, just chatting after sparring was something high school you never would’ve imagined.
You used to have a massive crush on him. And not just a little one. No, it was bad. He was your teacher, but also the funniest teacher in the school. You always looked forward to passing him in the halls, laughed at his corny jokes, and maybe, maybe daydreamed a little too much about him calling your name in attendance.
And now?
Now you were working with him. Now he was grinning at you like you were someone worth his attention.
You were so distracted by that realization that you nearly walked straight into a wall.
“Oi.” Hizashi nudged you before you could embarrass yourself further. “You still with me?”
You cleared your throat, trying to refocus. “Yeah! Yeah, just, thinking.”
He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oho? What about?”
How I used to have a hopelessly embarrassing crush on you, and now you’re standing next to me, smiling, and my brain is actively trying not to short circuit.
“…Lunch,” you blurted instead. “Thinking about lunch.”
Hizashi blinked. Then laughed, shaking his head. “Man, if that’s what’s on your mind after training, I must not’ve pushed ya hard enough!”
You grabbed onto the distraction like a lifeline. “Oh, please. I could do that all day.”
He shot you a grin. “Good. ‘Cause we’re definitely doing that again.”
Your brain short-circuited.
Oh.
But, no. You weren’t gonna let him have all the fun.
Summoning whatever ounce of courage you had left, you smirked. “Oh yeah? You sure you can keep up?”
The second the words left your mouth, you realized your mistake. Hizashi’s grin widened. Way too much.
“Ohhh,” he said dramatically, cupping his ear. “What was that?”
You instantly regretted everything.
“I—I said—” You hesitated. Why did he look so amused?
“You asking if I can keep up?” He leaned in slightly, eyes glinting. “Ohooo, you’re getting bold!”
Your face burned. “Never mind.”
“Nah nah, too late now!” He laughed, giving you a playful nudge. “I love this side of you!”
You turned away, internally screaming. Hizashi, completely unaware of your impending emotional crisis, just grinned. “Hope you’re ready for round two, Y/n!”
You exhaled sharply, forcing yourself to recover. “Looking forward to it,” you said, managing to sound almost confident.
Hizashi?
He just smiled that was the moment you knew, you were so screwed.
.
——-
It started off as a normal conversation in the common room. The class was unwinding, chatting about training, when Mina, of course, had to bring it up.
“Okay, but seriously,” she said, sitting cross-legged on the couch, “did anyone else notice the energy between Present Mic and our assistant today?”
Sero smirked. “Oh yeah. Flirt Central.”
“Flirt Central?!” Kaminari sputtered, nearly dropping his drink. “Nuh-uh. No way. I refuse to accept this!”
Mina blinked. “Uh… what?”
Kaminari crossed his arms, looking like a very pouty child. “They’re our teacher. They shouldn’t be flirting with some old dude!”
“Old dude?” Midoriya raised an eyebrow. “Hizashi-sensei is 30.”
“Yeah, and our TA is 22! That’s a huge gap!” Kaminari argued.
Yaoyorozu tilted her head. “eight years is maybe stretch for—”
“I don’t care! It’s not fair!” Kaminari whined, flopping over onto the couch.
Mineta, who had been unusually silent up until now, suddenly slammed his hands onto the coffee table.
“You’re all missing the point!” he cried dramatically. “This is a mentorship t-to-slow-burn romance unfolding right before our eyes! WOMEN WHEN THEYRE VULNERABLE MAKES THEIR BOOBS so-”
The room collectively groaned.
“Mineta, shut up,” jirou snapped from the corner.
Mineta ignored her, eyes sparkling with excitement. “We should be celebrating this! They have the perfect dynamic! The confidence! The power balance! The forbidden allure of—”
Jirou smacked him over the head. “You’re disgusting.”
“OW! You just don’t appreciate a good romance—”
“I appreciate not hearing you be a creep,” Jirou shot back.
Meanwhile, Kaminari was still sulking. “I don’t care what any of you say. Our assistant deserves someone their age. Like…like me!”
The room went silent.
Mina squinted. “Denki. You’re 16.”
Kaminari groaned, flopping dramatically onto the couch. “That’s not the point!”
“Yes, it is,” Sero said bluntly.
“But, like, imagine!” Kaminari sat up. “What if we had a thing going instead? They’d be so much happier with me!”
“Dude, you barely passed last week’s quiz focus on today first,” Sero deadpanned.
Kaminari gasped. “That has nothing to do with my marriage!”
Meanwhile, Midoriya, who had been furiously scribbling notes the whole time, looked up.
“You guys are focusing too much on how… conventionally pretty she is” he said nervously . “What we should be discussing is how their quirks could compliment each other in battle.”
Iida nodded. “Now that is a productive conversation.”
“Boooooring,” Mina said. “I wanna talk about how they’d be the coolest staff couple ever!”
Kirishima grinned. “Yeah! Imagine the interviews!”
Ochaco gasped. “Oh my gosh, the fan edits would be insane.”
“I know!” Mina grabbed her shoulders. “Someone has to start a ship name.”
Kaminari screamed into a pillow.
As the chaos unfolded, Bakugo groaned, standing up abruptly. “I swear if you extras don’t shut up about this, I’m blowing up the common room.”
“Aw, c’mon, man!” Kirishima laughed. “You gotta admit, they have good chemistry!”
Bakugo scowled.
—
Meanwhile, completely unaware of the discourse happening in the dorms, you were in the teacher’s lounge, where Hizashi was currently trying to convince you to join him for karaoke after work.
And if your face was a little too warm every time he winked at you…
Well.
Nobody needed to know.
You: i'll see a man with long hair and remember i'm not above temptations of the flesh
VIDEO GAMES
SUPER MARIO
Luigi
Falling In Love
“He asked for no Pickles”
SALLY FACE
Sal Fisher
Stupid, Beautiful Boy
Why Would You?
AHHHHHHHHHHH
popular reader
Larry Johnson
Bikini Kill
BALDURS GATE 3
Astarion
Like Real People Do
Reader is Horn
GENSHIN IMPACT
Kaeya
Drabble
HONKAI STAR RAIL
Caelus
Another Me in Another World
Sunday
Get used to it
Snow Day
Boothill
I’m just baking cookies
Veritas Ratio
Stubborn Stubborn Stubborn
Life Is Strange
Nathan Prescott
The Rich Asshole
⋆˚✿˖° ❝𝗜𝘁 𝗙𝗲𝗲𝗹𝘀 𝗖𝗿𝗼𝘄𝗱𝗲𝗱❞ ⋆˚✿˖°
────୨ৎ────
ᯓᡣ𐭩 Geto Suguru x Reader
ᯓᡣ𐭩 Gojo Satoru x Reader
────୨ৎ────
oh there is another guy that’s a love interest? well let’s just let it cook for a bit first
────୨ৎ────
₍^. .^₎⟆ Synopsis: In a world of curses and power struggles take center stage, you’ve always kept to the simple aspects of life. Focussing on your studies, your friendships and life in the dorms. Though everything changes when Geto challenges Gojo that he can’t win your heart and what happens when Geto realizes that Gojo needs to lose.
⋆˚✿˖° 1. Unintended Study Breaks
⋆˚✿˖° 2. I’ve Played these Games Before
⋆˚✿˖° 3. Men who listen to Mitski
⋆˚✿˖° 4. How it feels to be a girl and do no wrong
⋆˚✿˖° 5. “What kind of woman are you attracted to”
⋆˚✿˖° 6. You are a Cougar!!!
⋆˚✿˖°
⋆˚✿˖°
for my other works-> MAIN MASTERLIST
a weee but revised. not by a ton because full time job means no time 😻
Bruce Wayne | Batman X Reader
ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ Gotham Socialite ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ
masterlist
I want to make some batman themed oneshots where it explores a relationship between you and him.
EDITED- changed a bit of dialogue and description because I want the reader to be super cool and amazing
High society, meet the reporter reader. Reporter reader, meet Bruce Wayne
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ Gotham’s elite are as gaudy as the chandeliers hanging above them. expensive, bright, and utterly useless. The grand ballroom of the Gotham City Opera House is filled with them, men and women draped in designer gowns and tailored suits, sipping champagne as if their wealth isn’t built on the backs of the people suffering outside these marble walls.
You move through the crowd like a ghost, unseen despite being one of the few people here actually worth listening to. They invited you because of your work because your name is attached to articles Gotham’s wealthy pretend not to read but secretly obsess over. You don’t write puff pieces about Gotham’s heroes; you write about its monsters. You dig into their minds, their motivations. Why does Edward Nygma need to prove he’s the smartest man in the room? Why does the Joker turn his suffering into a performance? What makes a villain tick? That’s what you care about.
Not this.
Not the empty smiles. Not the soulless small talk. Not the way these people clutch their designer purses like they contain anything of real value.
You exhale sharply through your nose, taking another sip of your drink just to give yourself something to do. It tastes expensive but meaningless, like everything else here.
As you turn to leave, you accidentally bump into someone a woman in a tight, sequined dress that probably costs more than you’ve made in the last six months.
“Oh, my God,” she snaps, stepping back as if you just assaulted her. “Are you serious?”
Your brows lift. “Oh, relax. You’ll live.”
Her expression twists in outrage, but before she can respond, a man approaches tall, broad shouldered, with a perfectly practiced smile. And just like that, she flips a switch.
“Oh my God, Bruce!” she gasps, laughing like she wasn’t just seconds away from throwing a fit. She rests a hand on his arm the same arm she previously flung up in disgust when you bumped into her. “I didn’t think you’d actually show up tonight! You never come to these things anymore.” You watch with mild disgust as she transforms in real time. It’s like watching an AI desperately try to mimic human emotion.
“Yeah,” you mutter, just loud enough to be heard. “hmmm I might see myself out”
Bruce Wayne glances at you then, his interest piqued. You don’t fawn over him. Don’t preen or attempt to charm your way into his good graces. No, you just look at him like you’re wholly unimpressed. Its not that he wasn’t appealing. Of course you found him attractive. Though finding him attractive felt a little like betraying the people you grew up around. Just because you escaped the extremely poor doesn’t mean you want to abide by it.
“You know,” you say, tilting your head, “for a guy whose while company is built on working with the community , you don’t seem to have much of a grip on reality.”
The woman beside him gasps in horror, clutching Bruce’s arm even tighter, but you’re not done.
“This whole act,” you gesture vaguely at him, “isn’t cute. I mean no disrespect though, go party and go crazy.” Your eyes lock onto his with something sharper than hatred indifference. “I don’t know how you stomach it. It’s honestly an insult to humans.” Silence settles over you like a fog. The woman looks scandalized, staring at you as if you just spit in her drink.
Bruce, on the other hand, just looks intrigued. His usual mask of carefree billionaire playboy falters just for a second. His blue eyes search yours, something thoughtful flickering behind them. Then, just as quickly as it had cracked, the mask slides back into place. He lets out a chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck in feigned sheepishness. “Well,” he says, flashing that same easygoing smile he always wears in public, “can’t please everyone, I guess.”
The woman beside him giggles like an idiot, but you just roll your eyes. Bruce Wayne is a good actor, you’ll give him that and judging by the look in his eye, he looks a little off put.
You don’t give Bruce another glance as you turn on your heel, moving toward the exit with the same single minded determination as a prisoner inching toward an open cell door. You’ve had enough of this place enough of the fake smiles, the rehearsed laughter, the suffocating air of money and ego pressing in on you from all sides.
Bruce watches you go.
He should just let you leave. He should turn his attention back to whatever mindless conversation he was meant to be entertaining tonight. But he doesn’t. Instead, his gaze follows you, his interest snaring on something he hadn’t expected.
You very evidently don’t belong here. Not in the way these people do, with their polished exteriors and empty souls. He mentally jokes that press training might be on a to do list for your manager.
No, you move like someone who doesn’t care to belong. Which from his relationship woth selina, Its definitely evident that women from the narrows dont care. You weave through the room with an awkwardness that’s both endearing and painfully obvious dodging trays of champagne like they’re landmines, sidestepping small talk with barely concealed irritation. Your distaste is written all over you, from the way your fingers tighten around your glass to the way your shoulders hunch slightly, as if trying to make yourself smaller, less noticeable.
But that’s the thing. You are noticeable. More than anyone here. Bruce takes in the way you tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, the way you mutter something under your breath when a socialite nearly clips you with a careless turn. He watches as you catch your footing after bumping into a server, your apology quick and sincere so different from the sneering entitlement of the rest of the room.
A quiet chuckle leaves his mouth as he watches you finally get to a corner. Bruce’s lips press together, something flickering in his chest that he doesn’t have time to name.
He should let you go. Instead, he steps forward, slipping through the crowd with the kind of practiced ease that only someone used to wearing masks can manage. You don’t notice him until he’s beside you, his voice cutting through the noise of the room like a knife.
“You’re not very good at this,” he says, amusement lacing his words.
You glance up at him, eyes narrowing slightly. “At what?”
Bruce gestures vaguely to the room. “Blending in.”
A scoff leaves your lips as you finally reach the exit, one hand already pushing against the heavy door. “Yeah, well,” you say, sparing him one last glance, “I’m used to this kind of thing.” And then you’re gone.
Bruce watches the door swing shut behind you, his reflection staring back at him in the glass. For the first time all night, he finds himself smiling.
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ Bruce barely makes it through the front doors of Wayne Manor before he’s pulling at his bow tie, loosening the suffocating knot that had been pressing against his throat all evening. The moment the silk slides free, he exhales, rolling his shoulders as if shedding the weight of the night along with it.
The grand doors swing shut behind him, the quiet of the manor swallowing the distant hum of Gotham’s high society. The transition is immediate, like stepping out of a suffocatingly bright stage and into the cool embrace of shadow. The mask the one made of careless grins and charmingly vague conversation falls away as effortlessly as the jacket he shrugs off, tossing it onto the nearest chair without care.
From the hall, Alfred watches the display with an arched brow, ever the picture of poised amusement. “Welcome home, Master Wayne. I see the evening was as eventful as anticipated.”
Bruce sighs, running a hand down his face. “That might be an understatement.”
Alfred steps forward, hands clasped neatly behind his back. “I assume you spent the night ok though master wayne?”
“Something like that.” Bruce rolls his neck, loosening the last remnants of his socialite persona. “A lot of people talking without actually saying anything. You’d think I’d be used to it by now.”
“The inevitable I hear,” Alfred muses, “you always seem equally miserable every time you return.”
Bruce lets out a humorless chuckle, unbuttoning the top of his dress shirt. “That’s because it never gets any less exhausting.”
Alfred gives him a knowing look before stepping toward the chair where Bruce had carelessly discarded his jacket. He picks it up with practiced ease, shaking his head. “One of these days, you might consider hanging these properly.”
“I consider it every time,” Bruce remarks, already making his way toward the hidden entrance to the Batcave. “Just never quite get around to it.”
Alfred merely sighs, following him with a well worn patience. “Shall I prepare something for you to eat? Or will you be brooding on an empty stomach this evening?”
“Not brooding,” Bruce corrects as he reaches the hidden panel in the wall. The mechanism clicks, revealing the passage leading down into the cave. “Just… following a curiosity.”
Alfred hums, ever perceptive. “Would this curiosity have anything to do with the young woman who managed to offend half the room tonight?”
Bruce pauses mid step, glancing back at him. “You heard about that?”
Alfred gives him a pointed look. “Master Wayne, the moment someone dares to tell off a socialite at an event like that, it becomes the only thing worth discussing. I’d be surprised if her picture isn’t already pinned on some poor soul’s dartboard.”
Bruce huffs out a short laugh before shaking his head. “I’ll be in the cave.”
Alfred merely nods, already knowing there will be no convincing him otherwise.
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ The Batcave hums softly with the sounds of running water and flickering monitors, a stark contrast to the suffocating luxury of the ballroom he had left behind. Here, Bruce is no longer Gotham’s golden boy. No longer the playboy billionaire.
Here, he is himself.
He settles into the chair before the Batcomputer, fingers swiftly typing as he pulls up a search. He hadn’t planned on looking you up. At least, that’s what he tells himself. But there was something about you something about the way you moved through that room, awkward yet unyielding. You didn’t belong there, and you didn’t care to. The way you had looked at him, unimpressed and disinterested, had been a rarity in a world where everyone was either too enamored by his wealth or too busy trying to figure out what game he was playing.
His fingers move with purpose, bringing up your name, your records. The first thing he finds is that, unlike many of the people who had surrounded you that night, your life had been anything but privileged.
You were born and raised in the Narrows Gotham’s forgotten underbelly. A place where opportunities were scarce, and survival was a skill honed from childhood. Your record is clean remarkably so, for someone who grew up in the part of Gotham where crime wasn’t a choice but a necessity. No arrests, no notable scandals. You had gone to school, worked through college, and carved out a place for yourself in a city that did everything it could to swallow people whole.
But what catches his attention the most are your writings. Articles. Interviews. Pieces dissecting the minds of Gotham’s most notorious criminals. Not in the sensationalized way tabloids did, but with an analytical depth that spoke of genuine understanding. You weren’t interested in painting them as mere villains or glorifying their crimes you wanted to understand them.
Your work focused not on the spectacle of their actions, but on the why. The motivations. The cracks in Gotham’s system that had allowed them to exist in the first place. You had interviewed ex gang members, street level criminals, and even those who had managed to escape Gotham’s cycle of violence. You wrote about the lives that high society ignored the people who lived in the shadows cast by the city’s towering skyscrapers.
You gave them voices.
Bruce leans back in his chair, studying the screen. You had lived a normal life at least, as normal as someone from the Narrows could. You had no connections to the criminal underworld beyond your work. No secret vendettas, no affiliations.
And yet, your writing showed a perspective that very few people in Gotham ever took the time to understand. You weren’t just observing Gotham’s worst. You were showing that they had stories worth telling.
Bruce’s eyes flicker over the last article on the screen, the words settling in his mind.
“Society has already decided who deserves redemption and who doesn’t. But if you never listen to someone’s story, how do you know they weren’t doomed from the start?”
His fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment before he finally leans forward again, exiting the search.
Curiosity, he tells himself. That’s all this is and yet, as the screen fades back to black, he can’t shake the feeling that you might be someone worth paying attention to.
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ If you wanted your stories to be heard, you had to be seen. That’s what your publicist told you. That’s what you repeated to yourself as you stepped through the towering entrance of yet another Gotham high society event, where old money mingled with new power, and influence dripped from every word spoken between sips of champagne.
You didn’t belong here. You never did. But belonging wasn’t the point.
This was the price of being heard. If you wanted your work to matter if you wanted people to actually read what you wrote, to listen to the stories Gotham’s forgotten had to tell you had to stand in rooms like this. Not because you cared about these people or their whispered scandals, but because they had the power to shape the city’s narrative, whether they deserved that power or not.
And so, despite the suffocating air of wealth and self importance, you showed up.
The ballroom was an exhibition of excess. A long, lavish table stretched the length of the room, set with gold rimmed plates, crystal glasses, and floral centerpieces so elaborate they could have easily funded an entire year’s worth of rent for a struggling Gotham family. Conversations bubbled up around you hollow laughter, polite murmurs, the occasional hushed gossip passed between sculpted lips.
You found your seat. And nearly laughed. Right beside Bruce Wayne. Of course.
You weren’t sure if this was some kind of twisted joke or if the hosts had simply thrown darts at a seating chart, but there it was your name card placed neatly next to Gotham’s most beloved. Maybe they thought you were more important than you actually were. Maybe they thought Bruce had the patience of a saint. Though you have a feeling after your last stunt, they were trying to see if another PR disaster would come from this. Maybe more publicity for them. Any publicity is good publicity you guess.
Either way, it was too late to change it now. Sighing, you pulled out your chair and sat down, reveling in the last few moments of solitude before the night officially began.
And then, the atmosphere shifted. Even before you turned your head, you knew. Gothams golden boy had arrived.
The energy in the room changed, as if the very air had been pulled toward him. Conversations faltered just slightly, eyes flickered in his direction, and there was a quiet ripple of interest that passed through the gathering like an unspoken current. It was always like this.
The city’s most eligible bachelor. The name that sent tabloids into a frenzy and made socialites tilt their heads just so, hoping to catch his attention. He was power wrapped in effortless charm, an untouchable figure who played the role of the careless heir so well that even the most cynical couldn’t help but watch him.
You risked a glance. Of course, he looked perfect. Dressed in a dark, tailored suit that cost more than your entire apartment’s worth of furniture, he moved through the crowd with the kind of casual grace that made it seem like he belonged everywhere. A relaxed smile curved his lips, and the people surrounding him whether they were whispering behind their glasses or outright gushing were captivated.
It was almost infuriating, how easy it was for him. Why can’t beautiful people feel more im reach?
When then he reached his seat and saw you. For the briefest moment, the mask slipped. Not much just a flicker of something sharp in his eyes before it smoothed over, replaced with something unreadable.
He barely acknowledged the lingering hands on his arm, the voices vying for just another second of his time. His attention had already shifted. To you. You on the other hand are practically clutching your pearls to remain calm. Your publicist told you to absolutely DO NOT fuck up again.
Bruce had been willing to chalk that first encounter up to chance. A passing curiosity. Now he was beginning to think fate had a sense of humor.
“Fancy seeing you here,” he murmured as he sank into his chair, his voice carrying the warmth of amusement.
You exhaled through your nose, already bracing yourself. “Yeah, well. maybe i won the lottery to be seated next to Gotham’s golden boy.”
His lips twitched. “I doubt im anything that special”
You gave him a dry look. “Didn’t take you for a masochist, Wayne.”
He chuckled, low and quiet. “Only selectively.”
You sighed, picking up your menu just to give yourself something to do. “I do want to apologize for last time, I swear im more civilized. I guess that I kinda got thrown off a bit?” Bruce leaned in slightly, his voice dipping just enough that only you could hear.
“Acting all fancy? Where’s the fun in that?”
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ If you had to endure one more second of this sanctimonious drivel, you were going to jam your fork into the back of your hand just to feel something.
The dinner had been dragging on for what felt like an eternity, and the conversation at the table was as unbearable as expected. The hosts, a couple who clearly thought themselves Gotham’s greatest benefactors, were speaking at length about their so called “generosity” and the many ways they had given back to the community. It was all so painfully rehearsed.
“We simply couldn’t sit idly by while Gotham suffered,” the woman declared, holding her glass delicately between her fingers. “Which is why we’ve dedicated ourselves to philanthropy.”
Her husband gave a solemn nod. “Yes. Our foundation has put millions into rehabilitating Gotham’s most… unfortunate areas.”
Unfortunate areas. You took a slow sip of your wine, pressing your lips together to stop yourself from blurting something you’d regret. They were talking about the Narrows. Where you had grown up. Where people still fought to survive every single day, no thanks to the people in this very room.
They spoke as if their generosity was some grand solution to the city’s suffering. As if they had single handedly saved Gotham. You exhaled through your nose, already feeling your patience fraying. It was then that you felt someone shift beside you.
“Did you hear that?”
The words were spoken so casually, so smoothly, that at first, you weren’t sure you had heard them at all. You turned your head slightly, finding Bruce Wayne sitting beside you, his face the perfect picture of polite interest. His voice was quiet, just low enough that only you could hear him.
“Hear what?” you muttered, confused.
He took a sip of his drink, his expression unreadable. “The sound of Gotham being saved.”
You blinked. “what?”
Bruce gestured subtly toward the hosts. “Between the Restoration Project and last week’s fundraiser, I think we can safely say Gotham’s problems have been solved.”
For a moment, you just stared at him. Then, before you could stop yourself, you let out a sharp, amused breath. “Oh, absolutely,” you whispered back. “Crime? Poverty? Completely eradicated. I bet even the Joker is rethinking his entire life’s work.”
Bruce tilted his head, considering it. “Maybe he’ll go into finance. Become a hedge fund manager.”
You snorted. “I’d pay to see that.”
Bruce hummed, pretending to ponder it. “Or accounting. Something low risk. Maybe he’d be great at tax fraud.”
You bit your lip, forcing yourself not to laugh.
“Honestly?” you whispered, leaning slightly closer. “A few more dinner parties and we might even get Two Face to start a nonprofit.”
Bruce’s mouth twitched. “And I hear Penguin’s investing in an animal conservation project.”
You covered your mouth with your hand, shaking your head. How had this happened?You had been so close to losing your mind just minutes ago, and now here you were, whispering snide remarks with Bruce Wayne of all people. The absurdity of it hit you all at once.
You scoffed, shaking your head. “This is ridiculous.”
Bruce arched a brow. “What is?”
You glanced at him, lips twitching. “Didn’t think you were so much of a hater.”
Bruce leaned slightly closer, his voice amused. “Isnt that your job? you haven’t stopped being one.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide your smirk. “I think it’s a little more nuanced than that. Guess I’m a glutton for punishment.”
He chuckled, his blue eyes sharp with something unreadable. “Funny. Me too.”
Bruce wasn’t sure when it happened. When the night had gone from something exhausting to something… bearable. Enjoyable, even.
He had sat down at this table expecting the usual the same empty conversations, the same mindless flattery, the same performance he had perfected over the years.
You, who had spent the first half of the evening looking like you wanted to crawl out of your skin. You, who had made no attempt to charm him, who had barely acknowledged his presence at all until he had decided to push you just a little. when you had responded, it had been effortless. Natural.
He wasn’t sure how long it had been since he had felt that. Since he had been able to talk to someone like this without posturing, without pretending. It reminded him of something. Something old. Something familiar. A woman in a black catsuit, teasing him from the edge of a rooftop. Bruce’s fingers curled slightly against his knee.
Selina had been one of the first people to remind him what it felt like to be real. To be alive and now, somehow, you were doing the exact same thing and you didn’t even realize it.
Bruce glanced at you from the corner of his eye. You were still trying to suppress a smile, still glancing around the table like you couldn’t believe you were actually enjoying yourself. He found himself studying you really studying you. You didn’t belong here, that much was obvious. The way you sat stiffly in your chair, the way your fingers tapped lightly against your wine glass when you were irritated, the way you watched the room rather than participated in it.
You were observing. Just like him. Just like he had been doing since he was a boy, since he had first learned how to read a room, how to pick apart every detail, every lie. for all your sharp observations, you had completely missed the fact that you had captivated him.
Bruce Wayne was staring at you like you were a puzzle he needed to solve.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
Your voice cut through the air softly, and Bruce blinked, pulled from his thoughts. You had caught him looking. For a brief moment, he considered deflecting, playing it off with a practiced joke. But he didn’t want to.
So instead, he simply shrugged. “I was just thinking,” he said, voice low, “that this might be the first time I’ve actually enjoyed one of these things.”
You frowned, clearly skeptical. “Bullshit. You go to these all the time.”
Bruce smirked. “Doesn’t mean I like them.”
You narrowed your eyes at him, still not quite believing him. “And I’m supposed to believe this dinner is different?”
His smirk deepened. “Well, you’re here, aren’t you?”
You blinked, and Bruce almost laughed at the way you processed his words, as if you weren’t quite sure what to do with them. But then, slowly, you shook your head, exhaling a quiet laugh.
“You’re so full of shit, Wayne.”
Bruce grinned. “Took you long enough to figure that out.”
For the first time that night, he didn’t feel like the billionaire playboy. Didn’t feel like Batman. He just felt like Bruce. Which wouldn’t that feel weird? He always believed that Batman was the real him. Right now feeling like a teenage boy meeting a girl.
&&&&
The second the speeches ended, you were on your feet. Not rudely just quickly. The second round of self congratulation had begun, and if you had to listen to one more person pat themselves on the back for “saving” Gotham, you were going to lose your mind.
You made your way toward one of the grand patios, slipping past gilded columns and chandeliers that cost more than your entire apartment complex. The doors were open, the cool night air seeping in just enough to make you crave the quiet outside. The moment you stepped onto the patio, you exhaled.
It was massive of course it was. Probably bigger than some of the city blocks you had grown up on. A perfect marble terrace with pristine railings, overlooking the twinkling skyline of Gotham. You leaned against the stone railing, closing your eyes for a moment. Peace. Finally. But, of course, peace never lasted long in Gotham.
“You know, for someone who doesn’t like high society events, you sure end up at a lot of them.”
You opened your eyes, lips already twitching into a smirk before you even turned around. Bruce Wayne stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets, looking at you with that same insufferably amused expression. A short, incredulous laugh escaped you. “stalking me now rich boy?”
Bruce stepped further onto the patio, shaking his head. “Just wanted the air, cant blame me”
You rolled your eyes, turning back to the skyline. “Mhm. Right. Sure. Just a coincidence you keep popping up wherever I am.”
Bruce leaned against the railing beside you, his voice casual. “Well, if it makes you feel better, I’ll be sure to keep a three foot distance from now on.”
You smirked. “Six, just to be safe.”
“Ten, and I might start getting offended.”
You shook your head, biting back a grin. There was something so easy about talking to him. Too easy. The thought was unsettling. “I have to admit,” Bruce mused, tilting his head slightly. “I didn’t expect you to show up tonight.”
You sighed, toying with the rim of your glass. “Believe me, if I could have avoided it, I would have.”
“you can say that again”
You exhaled through your nose, staring out over the city. “Yeah, well. If I want my stories to actually matter, I have to be seen.”
Bruce was silent for a moment, watching you. Then, his voice softened. “Is that why you do it?”
You turned to him, brow furrowing. “Do what?”
“Write the stories you do.” His blue eyes searched yours, something unreadable flickering behind them. “Why villains? Why not the heroes? You’d probably get a lot more recognition if you did.”
You huffed a small laugh, shaking your head. “Because the heroes don’t need me.”
Bruce’s gaze didn’t waver. “And the villains do?”
Your fingers tightened slightly around your glass. “The people who get thrown into Arkham, who are labeled as ‘monsters’ and ‘freaks’ and just written off most of them have stories no one ever hears.” You exhaled. “I want people to understand them. Or at least see them. Even if they don’t deserve sympathy, they at least deserve to be known.”
Bruce didn’t say anything right away. He just stared at you. Not in an uncomfortable way, not in the way men at these events usually did. No, Bruce was really looking at you. And for some reason, it made you shift under his gaze.
“…What?” you muttered.
Bruce just smiled slightly, shaking his head. “Nothing. I just didn’t expect that answer.”
You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, well. Sorry to disappoint. I know the usual arm candy around here doesn’t have thoughts.”
Bruce snorted. “You really think that’s all I see you as?”
You arched a brow. “What else would I be?”
His expression turned thoughtful. “I dont really know”
You scoffed, shaking your head. “Well, if you’re looking for something interesting, you should probably set your sights somewhere else. I have no interest in being one of the people you “help” from the sidelines”
Bruce’s lips quirked. “help from the sidelines?”
You gestured vaguely. “I want to respect the people in there. the ones who have influence. Though when you’re on the other side of the spectrum its a little rough. The rich like to be seen and not heard.” You turned to him, meeting his gaze directly. “I have no intention of being a footnote in the pretend of gotham.”
Bruce watched you for a long moment, his smirk slowly fading into something softer. Then, finally, he spoke. “I have no intention of making you just a fling or to discard your work.”
The words were said so smoothly, so matter of factly, that they took a second to register. You blinked. Your mind blanked. Your entire brain shut down for a solid five seconds. Because what…what did he mean by that? You weren’t sure what part of the sentence flustered you more.
The fact that he wasn’t denying wanting you, or the fact that he had just so casually implied that you are going to be something more than a just a thought. Your lips parted slightly, but no words came out.
Bruce just smirked, watching you flounder. Then, slowly, he leaned in just a fraction.
“Speechless?” he murmured, voice low.
You snapped out of it, your pride kicking back in. “Please.” You scoffed, turning away. “You wish.”
Bruce chuckled, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
And as much as you hated to admit it… You kind of loved that he had caught you off guard.
The soft breeze ruffled your hair as you leaned back against the stone railing, trying to gather your thoughts. You couldn’t remember the last time someone had left you this disoriented. Bruce’s smirk only deepened as he studied your reaction, clearly enjoying the fact that he had thrown you off balance. You could feel the heat creeping up your neck, and no amount of cool air could wipe the warmth from your face.
“So…” he began, his voice far too smooth for your liking. “I take it that wasn’t exactly the response you were expecting?”
You forced yourself to look at him, swallowing back the knot in your throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really?” His gaze darkened just a little, and for a moment, there was no teasing, just something more genuine. “I think you do.”
The way he said it made your stomach flutter uncomfortably. You couldn’t decide if you wanted to laugh or slap him so you did neither. Instead, you stepped back from the railing, trying to put some distance between you and the overwhelming presence that was Bruce Wayne.
“fucking rich people,” you muttered, crossing your arms over your chest as if to shield yourself from him.
Bruce didn’t move, his eyes still locked on yours, his lips slightly curled. “Is that a no?”
Your heart skipped a beat. You blinked at him, dumbfounded. “A no?” you echoed, unsure if you had heard him right.
Bruce gave you that damnable, knowing look again. “You know, you don’t have to act all tough. You’re not fooling anyone.”
“I’m not acting tough,” you shot back, despite your nerves. “I just I don’t even know what you’re asking me.”
Bruce tilted his head slightly. “I’m asking you if you’d like to go out with me.”
Your jaw dropped. “Wait. What?”
He chuckled, clearly amused by your reaction. “Yes. That.”
You stared at him, utterly baffled, before glancing at the ground as if it might have the answers to everything you had just heard. You couldn’t tell if you were about to burst out laughing, slap him, or just walk away and pretend none of this happened.
“…You’re serious?” you managed to croak out after what felt like an eternity.
Bruce simply gave you a shrug, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Dead serious.”
For a long, torturous moment, all you could do was blink at him, trying to make sense of the situation. Bruce Wayne Gotham’s richest, most infamous playboy was asking you, the rebellious daughter of the shadows, on a date and you couldn’t even think of a single coherent response.
Finally, you let out a frustrated breath and turned your head away. “You’re insane.”
Bruce’s smirk softened into a more genuine smile. “I try.”
You shook your head, not knowing whether to feel mortified or weirdly elated. “I don’t even know what to say.”
“Well, you could say yes,” Bruce offered casually, his voice now a little more sincere.
You looked back at him, your heart still racing from the unexpected turn of events. “…I’m going to need a lot more time to process this.”
Bruce raised his hands in mock surrender. “Fair enough. I’ll give you time. But just so you know… I’m not going anywhere.”
The tension between you two was still there, thick in the air. But for some reason, it didn’t feel uncomfortable anymore. More like the beginning of something unexpected. Something that might change everything. And just like that, you were thrown back into the whirlwind that was Bruce Wayne.
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ It was a quiet night as you walked home, the cool breeze against your face, your mind lost in thought. It had been a long day at work reporting, editing, and finalizing a piece about Gotham’s growing underbelly, a story that seemed to sink deeper with every layer you uncovered. You were used to it. You thrived on it. The truth was your domain, and you’d learned how to swim in the darkness long ago. It was something that made you feel connected to your roots, to the people you came from.
The streets of Gotham felt familiar, in a way. No matter how much money flowed into this city or how many pretty buildings sprang up in the skyline, you couldn’t forget the parts of it you grew up in. The darker corners, the alleys, the people who had nothing but each other to survive. They were your people, the ones you understood more than you ever could the high society types you’d been forced to mingle with.
You rounded the corner onto a familiar street, just a few more blocks before you were home. Then, without warning, the atmosphere shifted. The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end, and you slowed your pace. Gotham had a way of making you hyper aware, and tonight was no exception.
You felt it before you saw them. The footfalls behind you, too quiet, too steady. Your pulse quickened.
Before you could even react, two men emerged from the shadows, blocking your path. The dark shapes loomed over you, the threat in their eyes clear. One was holding a sharp looking knife, the other a crowbar. The older, taller man grinned, a twisted, unsettling look that made your stomach churn.
“Give us your bag, sweetheart,” he sneered, a rough, gravelly voice edging the threat. “We don’t want any trouble, but we will make it happen if you don’t cooperate.”
You didn’t flinch. You didn’t back down.
“Sorry, I don’t have time for this,” you muttered, trying to side step the bigger man, but he was quick, grabbing your arm with a vice like grip.
“Not so fast,” he growled. “You’re not going anywhere until we get what we want.”
You spun around quickly, your elbow connecting with his ribs in a sharp strike. He grunted, but it didn’t stop him from tightening his grip. The other man stepped forward, the crowbar raised as if to swing.
That was when you knew you were in trouble. But only for a second. You kicked back, slamming your foot into the first man’s knee, hearing the sickening crack as he stumbled backward. He swore, holding his leg in pain. You used the opening to break free, turning to face both men. The one with the crowbar swung at you wildly, but you ducked under his reach and used his momentum against him, redirecting his strike into the side of the nearby wall. Your movements were quick, practiced clean, precise. You didn’t need to fight dirty. You didn’t need to be anything other than efficient. All you needed was enough of an excuse to escape. Within seconds, the two men were on the ground, groaning in pain, incapacitated by your calculated strikes.
Breathing hard, you exhaled slowly, dusting yourself off. That was easy. But when you looked up to check for any more threats, the air around you grew heavy.
Batman was standing at the edge of the alley, his towering form almost blending with the shadows. His cape fluttered slightly in the wind, the symbol of the bat glaring on his chest, and those piercing eyes those damn eyes locked onto yours.
You froze. For a moment, it felt like time slowed down. It was him. Batman. The dark vigilante, the city’s protector, who had always hovered over Gotham’s criminal world like a myth, now staring at you with an unreadable expression.
His eyes narrowed. Recognition flashed across his face, though his expression remained carefully controlled.
You stared at him, blinking rapidly, confusion clouding your mind. You knew him. But how? But you hadn’t had you really? You were too caught up in your own world to truly pay attention to the rumors and gossip. He was, after all, just the Batman to you. That was all you cared about. But in that moment, you realized with an unsettling clarity: He knew who you were.
You laughed awkwardly, feeling a rush of heat to your face. “Oh great, just what I needed tonight,” you muttered under your breath. You quickly brushed a hand through your hair, trying to act like this wasn’t the most bizarre encounter you’d had in a while. “Listen, don’t worry about me. I appreciate what you do for the community though.”
Batman didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. His posture remained rigid, intimidating, but his eyes… his eyes seemed to soften for a split second. There was something in them something that spoke volumes. You couldn’t place it, but it felt like something more than just the bat.
“No,” he said, his voice low, gravelly. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.” His words were firm, but there was a thread of concern beneath it. “Gotham isn’t safe.”
“Yeah, well, Gotham doesn’t care about safe,” you shot back, your frustration bubbling to the surface. “It’s just me out here. If I want to get home, I’ll get home.” You didn’t want to admit it, but there was something about the way he said that it made you feel smaller. But you didn’t let it show. You lifted your chin, defiant. “I can take care of myself. Just like I did with them.”
You gestured to the two men still groaning on the ground, the earlier tension dissipating into the night air. But Batman didn’t reply. His eyes swept over you in a way that sent a chill down your spine. His body language shifted just slightly, enough for you to notice, but before you could say anything more, he was moving.
“Get inside,” he said abruptly, his voice unwavering. “I’m not letting you walk home like this.”
There it was again. The command in his voice. You narrowed your eyes, a little defiant but feeling a strange pull toward the urgency in his tone. “It’s very courteous of you but please. I told you, I’ve got it. I’m fine.”
Batman didn’t even blink, his tone now sharpened. “Get inside, now.”
His words left no room for argument. You were tempted to push back tempted to keep up your independence. But there was something about the way he said it, the way his gaze hardened, that made you swallow your pride. With a small, frustrated sigh, you turned and started walking towards the street, heading home. You could feel his presence lingering behind you, watching, making sure you weren’t followed.
For a split second, you almost wanted to ask him more. But you stopped yourself. You didn’t need him. Not really. He was just Batman, after all. You shook your head. No need to think about it. Sometimes you want to find and interview him for why he punches first and asks later. Though the bias for your work might be interfering with those thoughts.
But somehow, you couldn’t ignore the tight knot in your chest. The tension in the air between you and him felt like more than just a confrontation. It felt like something else. And that something else… well, it lingered.
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ Bruce Wayne stood in the Batcave, his back pressed against the cool stone wall, his fingers lightly grazing the edge of the Batcomputer. His cape hung loosely behind him, still damp from the rain soaked night. The adrenaline of his patrol had long since faded, but an odd unease lingered in the pit of his stomach, something he couldn’t quite shake.
He’d spent countless hours in this cave, fighting Gotham’s worst and dealing with the city’s many challenges. His mission had always been clear: protect the innocent, bring justice, and make Gotham a better place. But tonight, something was different. Something about the encounter with you had stayed with him in a way he hadn’t expected. He couldn’t stop thinking about how you had handled yourself, standing tall despite the danger.
He had seen countless people fight back, but there was something unique about the way you did it. You weren’t just trying to survive you were alive in the moment, every move deliberate, confident, and unapologetic. You weren’t waiting for someone to come save you; you were saving yourself. It was rare in Gotham, a city where people often needed help just to make it through the day.
And yet, there was a sadness to it all.
Bruce knew that the city had a way of wearing people down, turning them into something else something bitter or broken. People like you, who had grown up in the shadows, had learned to fend for themselves because Gotham didn’t make it easy. He couldn’t help but wish that you hadn’t had to be so strong. You shouldn’t have had to fight alone.
His thoughts wandered back to the moment he’d seen you in the slums. Despite your strength, despite the control you’d taken of the situation, Bruce felt a pang of sympathy. The city had failed you, just as it had failed so many others. Gotham had a way of demanding too much from its people, and it had never been kind to those who were already struggling.
It was clear you weren’t someone who needed saving. You had made your own way, fought for your own space in a world that hadn’t always welcomed you. Bruce couldn’t help but admire that. It was something he understood well carving out a place for yourself in a city that tried to break you. But it still frustrated him that Gotham had forced you into a corner like that.
He pushed away from the computer, rubbing his eyes as he tried to clear his thoughts. He had a duty to the city, a duty that didn’t leave room for distractions or feelings. Yet, something about the way you carried yourself, how you didn’t let Gotham’s grime get the best of you, lingered in his mind. You were a reminder of the resilience he’d always admired in this city, but also a stark reminder of how much still needed to be done.
Bruce had always seen Gotham as a city to fix, a place in desperate need of change. He’d dedicated himself to that cause, but seeing you, standing strong in the face of everything this city threw at you, made him think what if there were more people like you?
But you shouldn’t have to be like that. You shouldn’t have to fight for your survival in a city that was supposed to be your home. And yet, you had.
Bruce exhaled deeply, leaning back against the stone wall again. It was moments like these that reminded him of how complex Gotham truly was. People like you weren’t just victims or criminals. They were the heart of the city, the ones who kept going even when the world seemed determined to make them quit.
He didn’t have the answers, but seeing you hold your own, standing up to those men like it was just another day, reminded him why he kept doing this. Gotham wasn’t just about fighting crime it was about protecting the people who refused to be broken. People like you.
Bruce let out a slow breath, turning back toward the Batcomputer, but his thoughts were still on you. He wasn’t sure where this would lead, or if it would lead anywhere at all. But for the first time in a long while, he found himself hoping that, somehow, Gotham would be a little less lonely for you.
For all of them.
Alfred: So, how did the gala go, Master Wayne?
Bruce: I think it went well. There was a very pretty woman. She didn’t say no when I asked her out
Alfred: Fascinating. Like watching a car crash in slow motion and calling it a graceful landing.
Bruce: …I’m sensing sarcasm.
Alfred: No, no. I’m very impressed. You managed to express interest without brooding in a corner or vanishing mid conversation. Progress.
Bruce: I hate it when you bully me.
Alfred: And yet, I persist.
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