Welcome! My name is Jaz but I use the pen name j.e.s. You may call me either one. (I have a pseud in AO3: jesafterdark.) I usually write fem OC/reader x canon character content, but I will also write for my favorite ships! 💜 All my fanfic stories are on AO3. Here is my Carrd for anyone who wants to connect outside of Tumblr!
Because some of my stories contain smut, toxic and/or dark content, I will be asking that minors do not interact just to be safe! (You are always welcome to check my AO3 in my Carrd to check the ratings/tags of my fics to see what’s safe for you 💜) Stay safe and take care of yourself!
All my works will either be on here under this blog or on AO3, nowhere else. If you happen to see any of my works outside of these, please let me know. Thank you!
Requests Status: Closed
Request Rules - please read before requesting!
Characters I write for:
▸ Kakashi (Naruto)
▸ Gojo (JJK)
▸ Nanami (JJK)
▸ Vash (Trigun Stampede)
▸ Knives (Trigun Stampede)
Pairings I write for:
▸ GojoHime (Satoru Gojo/Utahime Iori)
▸ Kacchako (Katsuki Bakugou/Ochako Uraraka)
* = one-shot ♡ = toxic ☾ = dark content
▸ Kakashi
╰⇢ Polaroid
╰⇢ Portrait (sequel to Polaroid in Kakashi's POV)
╰⇢ Just A Hunch*
╰⇢ The Threads of Fate
╰⇢ Rose-Colored Boy ☾ ♡
╰⇢ Wicked Games ♡
╰⇢ Who We Want to Be ♡
╰⇢ Fade Into You (Tumblr exclusive/Fanfic request)
▸ Gojo
╰⇢ Problem With You*
╰⇢ I Don't Belong to You ♡
▸ Vash
╰⇢ Vulnerable*
▸ Kacchako
╰⇢ Angel of My Dreams
Fanart!
I have been blessed with two amazing fanarts for Polaroid!
▸Sukea fanart and Kakashi fanart by @yrisvielart
╰⇢Please check them out and follow/like/reblog!
Sun and moon divider by @saradika
MDNI banner, support banner, and how to request fic banner by @cafekitsune
E se vier encher meu saco vai levar rajadao em português pra deixar de ser um gringa safada pervertida que se imagina com criança, vagabunda, já dizia Inês Brasil não se mete com criança não
hey so im in the invincible fandom. and a predator decided to kinda put themselves on full blast. tagging wtv fandom tags i can think of to put it on full blast, please reblog
update from @voltnboltn : she uses ai. i was advised by this lovely user to check the pedos pfp and yeah, thats fucking ai.
And its so ironic that is always the same fucking excuse “is just fictional” guys, i dont know u all, but i, even with all my mental issues (the shit is getting serious btw) i never imagined myself with a kid 🫢
AAAAAAND we all know how fucking disgusting this shit is when everyone whos agree with this are ANON IN .THE. INBOX. ANON.
E como boa brasileira, vou finalizar em belo português, vai se foder pedófila do caralho e todos vocês FUDIDOS que gostam de pornografia infantil, real ou fictícia se fodam todos 😍💕
hey so im in the invincible fandom. and a predator decided to kinda put themselves on full blast. tagging wtv fandom tags i can think of to put it on full blast, please reblog
update from @voltnboltn : she uses ai. i was advised by this lovely user to check the pedos pfp and yeah, thats fucking ai.
when FIRELORD ZUKO takes a liking to AVATAR AANG'S mysterious new BRIDE.
TORN BETWEEN TWO ROADS ! — aang x reader x zuko
PLOT. republic city is finally at peace, and for once, katara allows herself to hope—maybe now, after everything, she and aang can finally become something real. but when aang returns after eight months, he isn’t alone. he comes back with you at his side, introducing you as his wife. suspicious yet helpless, his friends do their best to welcome you, even as nothing about this sudden marriage makes sense. but while everyone else keeps their distance, one person doesn’t. and perhaps Zuko gets a little too comfortable with the avatar’s new wife.
CHARACTERS. AANG and ZUKO.
CHAPTER WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps. reader is 21, established relationship, mean sokka (no hate for him please, i am just a bitch hahah), little arguing (lowkey fight), alcohol consumption, swearing, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.
(please check the story masterlist for the story warnings.)
WC. 5.8k
masterlist : story masterlist
chapter one
a/n: i did not expect the response i got for the first chapter. i am genuinely glad that you all enjoyed it, for which i would also suggest you to please read the a/n at the end!
p.s: do not ask me the layout of katara's house. just know that it's big and like the one we see in the movie, except i have made up everything inside for convenience.
Morning came quickly, and with it, Fire Lord Zuko.
Sokka, Katara, and Toph had come to greet him at the harbor, and while they did think to call Aang, knowing him to be an early riser, they just guessed he would be occupied with his wife.
Zuko walked alongside them, his presence drawing the occasional glance, though far less than it might have elsewhere. Here, in the Republic City, titles blended more easily into the crowd, and even a Fire Lord could pass through without bringing everything to a halt.
His attention remained forward, though it shifted slightly at the way the others had been speaking since he arrived; their awkwardness was blatant.
And when he had asked where Aang was, it was Sokka who finally said it outright, unable to hold it in any longer.
"He's married."
Zuko slowed half a step, eyes widening at the revelation. He was expecting an 'Oh, he slept in!' or 'He's busy with Avatar stuff, y'know?', but this was the most unlikely answer to the question he had asked.
"What?" he repeated, the surprise clear.
"Yup. He came back yesterday with a suspicious-looking lady, and then he introduced her as his wife!"
Sokka spoke animatedly, which really didn't help his case while explaining something that was already hard to believe.
"Oh. Good for him."
Zuko's reaction landed poorly. Sokka turned toward him immediately, incredulity written plainly across his face.
"Good? How is that your takeaway from this?"
Zuko frowned slightly, not in a defensive manner, but genuinely confused by the response.
"He's married," he said, as though that alone should explain it. "What's not to be happy about?"
Sokka stared at him for a second longer before his face shifted. Without saying anything, he tilted his head just enough, his gaze flicking briefly toward Katara.
Zuko understood, sparing a small glance at the Waterbender. He did not comment on it so as to not acknowledge the implication aloud.
So he spoke again, not entirely changing the topic but not dwelling on the previous conversation.
"What is she like?" he asked.
Toph gave a small shrug, her posture loose, though her answer came like she had it ready. "Couldn't tell you much. She barely spoke."
"She was all gloomy." Sokka added.
"That's not true Sokka, she was just tired." Katara said, and the fact that she spoke at all drew their attention immediately.
"She's..." Katara paused for a second, then continued, "she's beautiful."
Everyone visibly faltered in their steps, making Katara let out an exasperated sigh.
"Can you guys please stop? I'm fine, alright?" she said, a quiet firmness entering her voice as she looked at them.
"Can you stop looking at me like that? It's like you're walking around eggshells whenever you talk about Aang."
No one responded. Frankly, they didn't know what to say.
"There's nothing wrong," she continued, voice softer now. "He's happy. And nothing makes me happier than that."
Zuko drew a quiet breath, feeling the air grow awkward by the second, so he spoke—
"Where is his wife from—"
He couldn't finish.
Sokka's attention snapped elsewhere mid-step, his hand lifting abruptly as he pointed across the street, his voice cutting through Zuko's question.
"Look! There's Aang...woah."
All of them (except Toph) followed his line of sight, and there, moving through the street were you and Aang.
You walked beside him, your arm encircled around one of his. Aang greeted those around him with the same open warmth he always had, children waving as he passed, some giving a gentle bow.
But it was not Aang that had held their attention.
It was you.
The difference from the day before was unmistakable.
Where you had once appeared in plain robes, you now stood adorned in the finest of fabrics, silks that caught the light in all their glory, draped carefully over your form.
Delicate jewelry framed you, resting at your neck, your ears, your wrists, your hands, even woven into your hair, each placed with grace as though they were a part of you.
It was a stark contrast. Not only to what you had worn the day before, but to him.
Aang, in his simple robes, untouched by ornaments except for his prayer beads and the Air Nomads symbol he wore proudly, stood beside you without any attempt to match you in your regal ensemble.
It felt...unexpected.
The distance between all of you closed naturally, meeting the group halfway.
You had inclined your head slightly, offering a small bow in greeting, as Aang excitedly greeted his friends.
He left your side momentarily, moving to give Zuko a hug after not having seen him for over a year now.
Once Aang returned to your side, you finally spoke, and it felt as though they were hearing your voice for the first time.
"It is an honor to be in the presence of the Fire Lord," you said, your tone refined. "I have heard of your tales and your journey from my husband. It is a pleasure to finally meet you."
Your gaze rested on Zuko trying not to linger on the scar across his face. Simultaneously, Zuko took in every inch of you with a quick skim.
There was a confidence in the way you held yourself, in the way you walked, even in the way you spoke. The structure of your speech, the practiced tone, the accustomed comfort of status.
It was unmistakable, and Zuko took note of it easily.
You carried the weight of upbringing, much like himself. You carried royalty.
He inclined his head slightly in return, his response just as respectful.
"The honor is mine," he said.
Your attention shifted then, moving to the others.
"It is good to see you all again," you continued, offering a small smile that did not overreach.
"I apologize if my company yesterday was lacking. I had been traveling for days without pause, and though I would have preferred to settle into our home sooner, I understood that Aang wished to make up for lost time."
At that, you glanced back at Aang, and he met your look with a sheepish grin, one hand lifting to the back of his head in a gesture far too familiar to everyone there.
"Sorry," he said lightly. "I was just really excited."
His hand dropped soon after, settling over yours where it rested against his arm. You only shook your head faintly, your smile remaining.
"There is no need to apologize." Then your gaze shifted again.
"You are Katara, correct?" you spoke, turning to the Water Tribe girl.
The moment you spoke her name, you felt Aang flinch against you, your eyes snapping to your connected hands before returning to Katara.
"...Yes?" Katara answered with a question hidden beneath it.
"The food you prepared yesterday was lovely," you said. "I am grateful for the effort you put into hosting us on such short notice."
Katara blinked once, caught off guard by the sincerity of it.
"Oh...that..." she said, her words settling unevenly before she steadied them. "It was my pleasure."
You nodded slightly in acknowledgment before continuing.
"I understand from Aang that we are to gather at your home again this evening."
"Yes," Katara replied, more certain with her voice now. "I'll have everything ready by eight."
"I see," you said. "Aang and I shall arrive earlier to assist you."
Katara's response came quickly, almost like a reflex. "Oh, there's no need for that—"
"I insist," you said gently, and although you had just met, the finality in your words left little room for refusal.
"We will be there at six. Won't we, Aang?"
There was the smallest pause before Aang glanced at you, then back at the others, his smile returning easily.
"Yeah, Katara, we want to help."
"We'll be there too," Sokka added quickly, his words coming out faster than intended. He wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt, but something about your presence at Katara's home unsettled him.
"I will join as well," Zuko said, his voice steady, his gaze returning to you with quiet interest.
Toph let out a small huff. "I'd offer, but—"
"You're coming anyway," Sokka cut in immediately.
A quiet laugh passed between them, light enough to ease the moment.
Aang shifted, his attention returning to you as he remembered his agenda for the day.
"I promised to show her around," he stated, the grin stretching across his face in excitement.
"I'll see you guys at noon!" he said, before guiding you forward once more, his hand engulfing yours as he pulled you along with him.
By the time the sun had reached its peak, the earlier bustle smoothed beneath the midday heat. As promised, Aang had left to meet his friends. He had left you at home not long before, trusting you to settle in at your own pace.
He found Appa waiting, ever patient, as he climbed onto his back, Momo already darting up to join him, settling on his shoulder. The flight was short, and it did not take long before the city gave way to an open stretch of land just beyond the outskirts of the city, leading uphill to a stumped cliff.
His friends were already there, waiting for him. Aang was excited to spend some time with them. He had sensed your presence make them feel awkward around him, so he thought this might come as a good opportunity to ease their friends into his new marital life.
Sokka stood close to the edge, his posture restless even as he was still, while Katara remained close by, her attention shifting at the sound of Appa's descent. Toph sat relaxed, floating a few rocks in the palm of her hand, and beside them stood Zuko, his presence quieter than the group.
Appa landed and the wind settled around them as Aang stepped down, and Momo wasted no time in leaping off after him to greet the others.
His gaze moved across them, a small smile forming. It felt nice to have the group back together. And he hoped for you to gently be included in the future.
His friends on the other hand, had a different plan They trusted him. That much had never been in question. But even their trust was wavering as curiosity came knocking down those carefully built walls.
The scheme had been made before he arrived. It was simple. Get information out of Aang. Simple.
And perhaps if they had asked straightforwardly, Aang wouldn't have denied them.
But Sokka just had to ruin it all by starting off the conversation with—
"You know, Aang, you really shouldn't let your wife walk around dressed like that. Isn't she supposed to wear your monk robes now? What even was that?"
He let out a short laugh, the sound landing unevenly against the quiet of the hill.
Aang's expression shifted, his easy grin dropping so dramatically, they were sure the entire city felt the pressure in the air drop.
Beside Sokka, Toph let out a sharp exhale, her hand coming up to her face in immediate exasperation.
Katara did not hesitate, a quick motion of her hand sending a splash of water directly into Sokka's face with enough force to deliver a slap.
"Hey—!" Sokka sputtered, wiping at his face as he turned toward her, ready to argue, but Aang's voice came sooner than his.
"What are you trying to say, Sokka?"
Aang looked as though he would lash out, but he didn't. His voice wasn't loud, and it didn't need to be to feel the growing anger beneath it.
The tension followed, unsettling them all. For a brief moment no one spoke, because this had been uncalled for. None of them wanted their 'reunion' to start on a bad note, much less end on it.
So Zuko gives an attempt to salvage it in the easiest way he could think of. Throw Sokka under the bus.
"That was very rude, Sokka," he said. His gaze moved briefly toward Sokka before returning forward. "Why should Aang have a say in what his wife chooses to wear?"
There was a pause before he continued, his voice lowering to soften the weight of what he was going to say.
"Besides..." he added, the word carrying a hesitation he did not fully understand, "I think she looked rather...beautiful."
The last word came slower than the rest, and though his expression remained composed, something in him had bloomed.
Katara had been correct in describing you.
Zuko's dilemma went unnoticed by everyone else, slipping beneath the surface without acknowledgment.
"Yeah, whatever," Sokka says, brushing off Zuko's scolding with an edge in his voice.
"I'm just saying, Aang, if people see the your wife walking around dressed like that, they're going to start talking. You're the Avatar for Spirit's sake! No one's even heard of her before, and suddenly she shows up with you looking like that? People are going to assume things."
He didn't stop there.
"They might think she just married you to—"
"I beg of you to stop talking!" Toph cut in loudly, her tone sharp not only from annoyance but also concern
She could feel it, the subtle rise of rage encircling the area where Aang was sitting. Sokka threw his hands up slightly, frustration quick to follow.
"Hey, I don't mean it in a bad way! I want what's best for him."
The words did not land the way he had intended them to.
Somewhere in Aang's mind, he knew that Sokka would be a challenge. He knew Sokka would not be accepting to your presence, always having been the sensible one in the team. But the horrible implications he made about you were too much.
Yes, he had expected for Sokka to be unwelcoming, but he didn't think he would stoop so low to imply something so vile.
Aang moved before he realized, words spewing from his mouth as he still fought to hold back his anger.
"My wife," he said, the words coming out sharp, an unfamiliar tone that did not belong in their usual conversations, "left her home for me."
He rose to his feet as he spoke, the motion slow as his presence shifted with it.
"She chose to come with me to a city she doesn't know, to be around people she's never met, and the only things she has from her home are what she brought with her."
Sokka unconsciously took a step back, and even though Aang was further away the distance was evidently closing.
"If she wants to wear them, she will," Aang continued, "And if she wants more, then I will give them to her."
He took another step forward.
"That's her choice," he said. "Hers. Not mine. And definitely not yours, Sokka."
The space between them closed completely, and Sokka watched the boy he once towered over meet him eye to eye, where he could see that he had definitely struck a huge nerve.
Toph was on her feet, stepping close, her hand lifting slightly just in case.
"Whoa, easy, Twinkle Toes," she said, her tone lighter than the tension warranted. "Sokka's just being Sokka. Don't let it get to you."
"Yes, Aang, he's talking nonsense," Katara added quickly as she shot her brother a sharp look.
Zuko remained where he was, silent.
"It didn't sound like nonsense to me," Aang said, and in a single motion that came as quick as lightning, his hand caught the front of Sokka's collar, gripping it firmly to pull him slightly off balance.
"Do we have a problem, Sokka?"
The man in question gritted his teeth, his brain telling him to end the fight and apologize, but instead he chose to bite back just as fiercely.
"Yeah," Sokka shot back, the restraint he had been holding slipping away. "I do have a fucking problem."
Aang’s face twisted more, but he let the older man continue, understanding this wasn’t something as shallow as about what you wore.
"You disappear without a word for months, and then you come back married?" His voice rose and the frustration in it no longer contained.
"We're your friends, Aang! We're supposed to be your closest friends. Don't you think that's something you should've mentioned?"
Aang's jaw tightened, his grip still firm. He heard what Sokka was saying, and as much as he understood the weight behind it, Sokka's previous words, the way you had been spoken about, refused to settle.
Neither of them moved. But then Katara stepped in, her hand pushing against Aang's arm.
"Aang, let him go."
Toph was already there beside her, offering her silent support.
He let go.
Sokka stumbled back half a step, adjusting his shirt with a quick, irritated motion, watching as Aang spoke.
"It just... happened," Aang said, his voice quieter now, though the edge remained beneath it. "I don't always have the time to send out a letter for every little thing."
"Every little thing?" Sokka repeated, disbelief cutting through the words. "You got married. How is that something little?"
"Stop it, Sokka," Katara said, but he didn't stop.
"No," Sokka said, shaking his head, the frustration still too close to the surface to be dismissed.
"I will be honest, Aang. I do not like your wife."
The words landed harder than anything else he had said before.
"I know you're hiding something," he continued, his voice lower now. "And you can't even be honest about it with your own friends."
Something in Aang snapped.
"Maybe," he said, "you should realize for once that you don't need to know everything!"
Sokka held his gaze for only a second longer before he let out a frustrated breath, the anger in him growing.
"Forget it." he muttered, turning away abruptly.
He didn't look back.
"Fuck this. I'm done."
He started walking down the slope without waiting for a response, his steps quick as he stopped for no one.
Katara hesitated only briefly, glancing back at Aang momentarily, before following Sokka, her hand catching Toph's arm and pulling her along with her despite the protests that came from it.
"Hey! I can walk on my own—"
And within moments, they were gone, leaving Aang and the Fire Lord behind.
The wind moved across the hill, filling the silence as it brushed through the grass.
Appa approached first, lowering his head to nudge against Aang in an attempt to cheer him up. Momo followed him, settling near him with a soft chirp before climbing closer, pressing himself to his side.
Aang did not move them away. He let himself settle onto the grass instead, the tension still present in his posture. His gaze remained fixed somewhere else, thoughts going haywire, wondering how quickly it all went downhill.
Beside him, Zuko lowered himself to sit as well. He did not press, did not interrupt, allowing Aang to process the situation at his own pace.
Time passed in silence for a while, then, eventually, Zuko spoke.
"I do not mean to pry," he began, his tone slightly tentative. "but is your wife of royal birth?"
The question was not meant to be intrusive, but it felt as though it was, so Aang did not answer immediately.
For a moment, there was only the wind again, moving through the space between them.
Then—
"Noble," he said.
Zuko nodded his head slightly, accepting the answer for what it was, though his thoughts did not stop there.
"From where?" he asked after a moment.
Aang's gaze did not shift.
"A smaller nation close to the Earth Kingdom."
The explanation ended there and Zuko didn't ask anything more.
He understood restraint well enough to recognize it in others, and whatever was unsaid, he let it remain that way. Aang wouldn't go to such lengths if it wasn't important.
"I hope that you can find it in yourself to forgive Sokka." Zuko said after a moment.
Aang's expression did not change, though is posture softened at the though of his oldest friend.
"Only if he apologizes," he replied.
"Well...yes. Of course." Zuko assured.
Evening settled in fully by the time they gathered again, the sky dimming into a softer hue that filtered through the open windows of Katara's home.
Everyone had arrived at six, just as promised.
All except Sokka.
You stood beside Aang and Zuko in the kitchen, your hands occupied with small tasks Katara had asked each of you to do, easily settling into the mood for preparation. Aang moved beside you, while Zuko did his best to assist.
In the living section of the room, Toph had claimed the couch entirely, stretched out without any concern.
The conversations moved easy enough. You weren't much involved in the talking part, and you hadn't notice the underlying conflict between the group.
By the time you glanced up again, the light outside had shifted further, and the absence of a certain someone was all too blaring.
"Will Sokka be joining us at eight after all?" you asked, your tone unassuming, though the question itself stilled the room.
The discussions through the room came to a halt, taking you off guard by the sudden silence.
Aang answered before anyone else could.
"Do not worry about Sokka," he said too quickly, and though the edge in his voice was subtle, it was enough to make you take note that something was wrong.
You turned slightly toward him, your hand lifting instinctively to rest against his arm.
"Is everything alright?"
"Mhm." He gave an unsure hum.
"What he means is, Sokka is—"
Katara began, but she did not finish.
The door opened.
"I'm here."
Sokka stepped in without ceremony, the spare key tossed carelessly onto the counter with a small clatter that cut through the air.
"Sorry I'm late," he added, already moving across the room, dropping himself onto the couch beside Toph, who barely shifted at his presence.
"I'm glad you could you make it, Sokka." You greeted politely, but got no response.
"Would you like to help us out?" You prodded yet again, only to be met with a—
"In a minute. I just got here."
His words shut you up as you frowned at his behavior. He was very unlike the Sokka Aang had once described to you.
"If you're just going to be lazy, then come back at eight." Aang's voice came sharp this time.
He swiftly turned his back to the living area as he moved toward the stove, focusing instead on the task in front of him.
The room stilled again.
You glanced between them, and after a brief pause, you simply stepped after Aang, returning to your place beside him, your hands resuming their quiet work, peeling through the peas with careful attention.
Katara watched for only a second longer before she exhaled softly.
"I'll be back," she said, and her gaze lingered on Aang for a moment before she turned away, stepping out of the kitchen and into the living area.
Zuko noticed the way the space between you and Aang had closed again, your voices lowering for something private, so he followed Katara's lead, stepping away to give you both some distance without making it obvious.
In the living area, Sokka leaned back against the couch, his earlier frustration still present beneath the surface.
Katara did not sit. She stood in front of him, her arms folding as her voice dropped.
"You need to apologize to him."
"I will," Sokka said, almost immediately, his voice riddled with guilt. "Of course I will."
There was a pause.
Then he added, "But you can't tell me you don't agree with me."
"I don't."
Zuko's voice cut in before Katara could respond.
"I think she is rather lovely."
Sokka let out a short, incredulous breath, turning toward him with a look that bordered on disbelief.
"Okay, stop with the compliments," he snapped. "It's weird coming from you."
Toph pushed herself up slightly on her elbows, a grin pulling at her expression.
"Oh, this is interesting," she said, her tone carrying that familiar edge of amusement. "Has Zuko taken an interest in the missus?"
"Nonsense," Zuko replied immediately. "I am stating what is obvious. They suit each other."
His gaze shifted then, drawn back toward the kitchen as the others followed.
Through the open space, they could see the two of you clearly. Aang standing close you, speaking in hushed whispers and big smiles.
Perhaps he says something funny, because you reached for him, your hand lifting to land a playful slap on his shoulder, only for him to catch it before it landed.
His fingers closed around yours as he brought your hand upward planting a kiss to the inside of your wrist.
Katara looked away first, and her gaze shifted sharply, her focus fixing elsewhere as she tries not to dwell on what she just saw.
"Come on, Zuko," she said. "We still have dinner to finish."
She did not wait for a response, already turning back toward the kitchen. Zuko followed shortly after, stepping away and leaving Toph and Sokka alone.
It was nightfall by the time dinner ended. The table had been cleared, dishes left soaking, and a bottle of wine had been opened for those who wanted it, though tonight it was only Toph and Zuko who indulged.
Sokka had declined, his reason simple. He wanted to keep a clear head for what he had to do.
He had to apologize.
So he stood outside on the balcony with Aang, the doors shut behind them, their voices muffled by the glass, leaving the rest of the house quieter.
You did not remain in the living area.
The unfamiliarity of his friends still remained, so when Aang stepped away, you excused yourself with the pretense of needing water. The kitchen welcomed you back as you sat upon the open counter, a glass in your hand.
Zuko noticed.
He had been seated in the living area, his attention divided between the balcony and you. Your absence had settled firmly in his awareness.
Katara and Toph remained focused on the figures outside, so he rose without announcement. The soft sound of his steps did not reach you until he was already there, a glass of wine held loosely in his hand.
"Do you not drink?"
His voice broke through your thoughts as you looked up, pulled back into the present.
"Oh...I used to, my father would allow me a couple sips during dinner." you said, smiling fondly at the memory, but instantly a scowl tainted your face, as though you had remembered something foul.
"I abstain now that I have married Aang." You ended, smile returning.
"Did he ask you to do that?"
"No," you answered. "I chose to. Out of respect for my husband's culture."
You weren't sure of the Fire Lord's motives in approaching you, but you decided to make the best of the situation.
"May I ask what happened between him and Sokka?" you questioned, your eyes meeting his in confidence. Zuko was sure you were examining for even the slightest nuance.
Zuko did not answer immediately, knowing it wasn't his place.
"I think it would be better if it came from Aang," he replied at last.
Your expression did not change.
"What difference does it make, Fire Lord Zuko, if you were the one to tell me?"
"The difference lies in trust," he said. "You may not take my words lightly if they come from me, and I would prefer that there be no unnecessary conflict between us."
"And you suspect there will be," you said, not as a question.
Zuko exhaled faintly.
"I believe there would be," he admitted. "Because unlike Aang, I would not soften what was said."
A small sound left you then, something close to a laugh but not entirely one.
"I may not have known Aang for as long you have, but even I know that Aang is not one to gain a temper against his friends so easily. At least, not anymore."
"You would be surprised at his younger self." He humors.
You chuckle, but your fingers tightened slightly around the glass.
"Then maybe you can tell me this," you continued, your voice lowering.
"Was the reason of their fight, me?"
Zuko hesitated.
"...You could say that."
"Was I insulted in my husband's presence?"
His silence was answer enough.
"Pray tell," you said, the calm in your voice almost poisonous. "what exactly was said?"
"Many things," he replied. "Things I would hope you take with a grain of salt, since it came from Sokka."
"Funny."
You did not remain where you were.
The glass was set aside, forgotten, as you stepped down from the counter, closing the distance until you stood before him, your gaze lifting to meet his.
"Aang spoke to me about you. I didn't even know he was friends with you until yesterday."
"That's surprising, considering everyone knows of the Avatar's feat of ending the 100 year war, including my involvement."
"I didn't think to connect the dots."
"Hmm."
"He told me about how you met. A very endearing story. The lengths one goes to for their honor."
Zuko couldn't tell if that was meant to mock him, but that phase of his life still remained something he was ashamed of, so the frown on his face was inevitable.
"Do not be upset. I didn't mean it as an insult. I'm only mentioning it because it's something I can agree with."
You clarify, setting the cup of water down onto the counter before continuing.
"Which is why I figure you will understand that," you paused, your voice steady as you finished your sentence. "My honor is not something I treat lightly. It is very dear to me."
You stepped even closer, the space between you narrowing until it left little room for anything else.
Zuko did not speak.
There was something in the way you held yourself despite the quiet fracture beginning to show, that felt familiar. It did not come from recognition of you, but from something he had once carried himself, something he had fought to reclaim.
Honor.
It wasn't just a word, it was once his purpose and now his treasure.
"I understand." he said.
Your composure faltered then. Your jaw tightened, you did not look away, and Zuko noticed there was a sheen to your eyes now.
"Do you really?" you asked.
"I do," Zuko answered. "But I also do not want you to turn against Sokka because of it. He is still Aang's closest friend."
"Perhaps he will not be for long."
Your response had come without any hesitation, and it stumped him.
You drew in a quiet breath, the tension pulling inward once more as you turned away. You grabbed the glass of water you set down, draining it in one motion before you started rinsing it with more force than necessary.
Behind you, Zuko remained still.
Until now, he had believed Sokka's concerns were rooted in something else. Namely, in the history between Aang and Katara. But standing there, watching the way your single statement had carried a genuine threat behind it, he began to see it differently.
Maybe, Sokka was not disappointed by the unwritten story of Aang and Katara.
Perhaps he feared what your presence would do to the group, because he saw something in you the others failed to see.
Zuko returned to the living area and he noticed you leaving the kitchen in the same moment, your movement quick, and he assumed you had gone in search of some quiet corner of the house.
By the time he seated himself again, the balcony doors had opened.
Aang and Sokka stepped back inside together, the earlier tension between them no longer sharp, though it was not entirely gone. After all, Aang may forgive, but he was not one to forget easily.
Zuko's scanned their dejected faces, so to lighten the mood he jokes—
"Were you both crying?" he asked.
"No, we were not!" Aang and Sokka answered at once, their voices overlapping in perfect unison, and for a brief moment, something familiar surfaced between them.
Laughter followed, and it felt like they were all kids again.
Aang's attention shifted soon after, his gaze moving across the room before settling into a small frown.
"Where is she?" he asked.
Zuko leaned back slightly. "She stepped out. I believe she went to find the restroom."
Aang's expression tightened just a fraction. "I don't think she knows where it is."
"She's a big girl," Toph said from the couch. "She'll figure it out."
"I can go check," Katara offered, already stepping forward.
Aang stopped her before she could take another step. His hand caught her arm gently, halting her movement. Her breath hitched, the reaction subtle as her resistance dissolved beneath Aang's touch.
"I'll go," he said instead. He did not wait for a response before turning, already moving out of the room in search of you.
In his haste, he did not notice what had slipped loose. It was Katara who saw it first, her gaze dropping toward the floor just after he had disappeared from view.
"His emblem—" She pointed.
The small piece lay near where he had stood, the Air Nomad symbol detached. Zuko reached for it before anyone else could, his fingers closing around it with care.
"I'll bring it to him," he said, stepping away from the others, the emblem held loosely in his hand, as he moved through the unfamiliar layout of the house, turning once, then again.
And then he found you both.
He stopped before either of you noticed him.
You both stood close, your hands pressed against Aang's chest, your fingers curled slightly into the fabric. Aang's hands rested at back as his arms engulfed you.
Zuko stepped back instinctively, retreating into the shadow of the wall, turning his gaze away even he remained where he was, his presence hidden.
He did not watch.
He listened.
A soft sound broke through the quiet as you pulled away, your voice following after.
"Why won't you just tell me?" you asked, the words catching at the edges. "What did Sokka say?"
Aang did not answer, and the silence went on with the occasional break of your sniffles, enough to confirm what had not been said.
"Zuko said he insulted me. Did you just forgive him for it?" you pressed, your voice breaking slightly.
"...Not exactly—"
"It's a yes or no question," you cut in, sharper now, though the hurt beneath it did not lessen. "Tell me, what did he say, Aang?"
"Please stop crying," Aang whispered as you pulled you into a hug yet again. "I'll tell you everything once we're home."
You sobbed against his chest, your breath uneven, before you braced yourself for your next words.
"Did...did you tell Sokka about...what happened...—"
"I would never!" He exclaimed softly, pulling away slightly so he could meet your eyes. "I would never disrespect you like that, I promise you."
"But Sokka did, didn't he? And I consider you forgiving him is just as disrespectful."
"I forgave him because he was sincere with his apology. Sokka is not someone who acts on his feelings like that."
"How is that meant to justify anything."
"It means, whatever was said about you was his anger directed at me."
There was a pause after his statement, shifting your eyes from his as you closed them shut.
Your grip on him tightened, inhaling softly to you ease your emotions.
"It seems my presence has caused a lot of harm. And it's only been a day."
"It is not your fault. My friends felt deceived because I didn't tell them about you. I chose to stay silent."
You knew Aang meant well, but you were taking his words at face value.
"...I feel as though I have trapped you. I should have never agreed—"
"You are the best thing that has happened to me. I know it may not have seemed like it in the beginning, but I do not regret asking you to marry me. I never will."
His tone softened further as his hands lifted, cupping your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears that had already fallen.
"I am sorry that you've been having a hard time around my friends."
Even though he didn't need to, his apology was reassuring, and you shook your head with a smile.
"It's alright. It shows how much they care for you."
At your words he smiles, thumbs brushing your cheeks.
"Let me take you home. I'll explain everything."
You nod, head tilting back as he leaned closer for a kiss. The kiss was not brief. It was deep and vulnerable, the shine of tears still tracing your cheeks.
Then there was nothing more.
Zuko did not stay. He stepped away as quietly as he had arrived, your conversation left behind him.
When he returned to the others, Katara noticed his failed excursion immediately, eyes dropping to the emblem still in his hand.
"You couldn't find him?" she asked.
Zuko glanced down at the emblem, then back at her.
"No." he said calmly. "I'm sure he will return for it."
chapter three coming soon...
a/n: fair warning, this story will have darker themes in the future. my vision for this story is very straightforward and to the point, so yes, the characters may seem ooc at times. but i gotta do it for the plot. just promise me, no one will hate on the actual characters, okay?
when FIRELORD ZUKO takes a liking to AVATAR AANG'S mysterious new BRIDE.
TORN BETWEEN TWO ROADS ! — aang x reader x zuko
PLOT. republic city is finally at peace, and for once, katara allows herself to hope—maybe now, after everything, she and aang can finally become something real. but when aang returns after eight months, he isn’t alone. he comes back with you at his side, introducing you as his wife. suspicious yet helpless, his friends do their best to welcome you, even as nothing about this sudden marriage makes sense. but while everyone else keeps their distance, one person doesn’t. and perhaps Zuko gets a little too comfortable with the avatar’s new wife.
CHARACTERS. AANG and ZUKO.
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps. reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang but follows the characters, not canon compliant to legend of korra, not proofread.
(please check the story masterlist for the story warnings.)
WC. 4.6k
masterlist : story masterlist
a/n: this idea is still rough, but it's there. i am so excited to write this.
The world had not returned to what it once was after the war; it had moved forward, reshaping itself. And nowhere was that more evident than in Republic City.
It stood at the meeting point of nations that had once defined themselves by their differences. It was not a quiet city. Movement never ceased; there was always a hustle and bustle ensuing amidst it.
At the center of it all was the Avatar, whether he intended to be or not.
Aang had not envisioned this city when the war ended, nor had he set out to create something so vast, but his presence had shaped it regardless. Balance had not become easier to maintain; it had only grown more complicated, stretching across a world that was learning to exist without war yet had not learned how to exist without division.
He traveled more than he stayed, moving between disputes, negotiations, and responsibilities, but mostly, his own curiosity. The boy who once avoided duty had grown into someone who could not escape it, and the world, in turn, had come to rely on that.
It had been eight months since he had last returned.
Eight months had passed since the harbor had seen the familiar shape of Appa descending from the sky. The city carried on, but those who knew him felt his absence.
Katara found herself searching the skies every loose minute. She told herself it was a habit, that she preferred the open air to the confines of the city, but even she did not believe it entirely. She longed to see Aang, worried his adventures had gone askew.
She understood the reason for his absence. The world demanded his presence in ways that could not be ignored, and she wouldn't ask him to turn away from that. Understanding, however, did little to ease the sense of distance that had settled over time.
For her, those expectations had taken on a shape she could no longer dismiss.
What they had shared in the past had never been defined, left suspended between their small moments or shared kisses, something that hadn't resurfaced since the end of the war.
They had been younger then, shaped by the urgency of war and the closeness it forced upon them, but time had not erased what remained. It made it a lot heavier to hold, at least for her.
The time spent building and growing the now Republic City had kept them close yet far apart because of duty. But once it had been over and settled into this new world, Aang took to finding more of his heritage, travelling wherever Appa could reach.
Now, another anniversary of the Republic City had arrived, bringing her friends along with it.
Sokka, her brother, arrived a few days ago from the Southern Water Tribe. And Toph arrived just yesterday from the Earth Kingdom with a few of her pupils in tow.
And although the responsibilities of a Fire Lord were inexplicably heavy, Katara was sure Zuko would draw upon a visit as well.
But the person she hoped to see the most had yet to show his face. She had hoped that his return would bring clarity, that distance would have resolved the unlabeled tension.
That this time, he would stay long enough for something to begin.
No one ever receives an advance notice of his arrival. The Avatar came and went as needed, his presence guided more by circumstance than by schedule. Even so, there was always a shift in the air when he returned.
It was no different this time.
The anniversary celebrations had filled Republic City with life, the streets crowded with people, music threading through the air, and voices rising in easy celebration beneath the afternoon sun.
The city center was alive, and it was difficult to notice anything beyond what was directly in front of you.
Until something passed overhead, casting a swift, giant shadow onto the people. It moved across the ground and over the buildings, drawing attention upward.
Heads tilted back, the crowd already bubbling with excitement. And then someone said it.
"Look! It's the Avatar—!"
High above, Appa descended through the open sky. The wind shifted with him, carrying the force of his arrival down into the streets below as the crowd instinctively moved back, clearing space without needing to be told.
On his head sat Aang. He was so easy to recognize, even from a distance.
Katara saw him first, as always. Her breath caught, her gaze fixed upward as the shape of him became clearer with every passing second.
Sokka followed her line of sight, squinting for half a moment before breaking into a grin.
"I told you," he said, nudging her lightly. "I told you he'd show up today."
Toph tilted her head toward the ground, arms still crossed, though her attention sharpened immediately.
"Took him long enough."
Appa lowered, the air swirling around him as he descended into the open space ahead. The ground seemed to brace for it, and when he landed, the impact sent a gust of wind outward that forced the nearest onlookers to step back further.
The crowd erupted. Cheers broke through all at once, voices rising over one another.
"The Avatar!"
"He's back!"
Aang stepped down with ease, his movements light despite the height he had descended from. The moment his feet touched the ground was light and controlled, like he was the air itself.
He reached up briefly, unfastening the straps of the packs secured behind him before lowering them— setting four large bags (something he had not originally set out with) carefully onto the ground.
Above them, Momo settled with a contented chirp, curling into place as though the journey had not bothered him in the slightest.
Aang straightened as he looked out at the crowd, taking in the faces, the noise, the energy of the city that had continued in his absence. But he was hoping to catch a sight of his family above all.
His eyes skimmed across the crowds and he found them easily, smiling at the familiar faces. It was the same smile they remembered, remaining unchanged despite the months that had passed.
Sokka took a step forward immediately, already raising a hand.
"Aang—!"
But Aang did not move toward them.
Instead, he turned back to Appa once more. Before they could even take a step forward, he lifted himself lightly from the ground with a small current of air, rising just enough to reach the edge of Appa's saddle.
Then he held out his hand.
They were confused. Momo had claimed the travel bags without concern, already drifting toward sleep despite the noise that still lingered around them.
Aang didn't really have anyone else who had accompanied him when he left. The thought settled between them without needing to be spoken, drawing their attention back toward the saddle they had assumed was empty.
Before any of them could voice it, they saw a hand appear first, fingers settling into Aang's before the rest of you followed, rising into view as you pulled yourself upright from where you had been seated along the saddle.
Your hand remained in his as Aang's grip tightened enough to steady you, and in the same movement, he drew you closer, closing the space that existed between you.
Your arms circled his shoulders as the two of you remained there, suspended in the air. Then, gently, he brought you down.
The air shifted around you as your feet met the ground beside him. His hold lingered to ensure your balance before easing. When you separated, it was only by a small measure that left the connection between you intact.
The crowd, once loud with excitement, had begun to thin as attention returned to the celebration, though a handful remained, watching with quiet curiosity, their earlier cheers settling into murmurs that carried more questions than answers.
No one reached for a conclusion just yet.
Katara, Sokka, and Toph moved forward almost at once, their attention pulled in two directions at once, drawn to Aang yet returning, again and again, to you.
You had already turned slightly, your hand lifting to rest against Appa's head, and your touch was seemingly familiar enough that the great sky bison leaned into it without resistance.
By the time they reached him, the distance had closed enough that the moment could no longer be delayed.
Katara moved first.
She closed the space quickly, and whatever restraint she had held dissolved the moment she reached him. She wrapped her arms around him without hesitation, the force of it enough to make him shift back a step before he steadied.
"Aang," she breathed, relief threading through her voice despite her effort to keep it composed.
"It's so good to see you."
Sokka followed without pause, stepping in with a grin, his arm wrapping around them both and pulling them in.
"Yeah, pal, good to see you," he said.
Toph approached last, her head angled slightly as she reached out and pulled him into an embrace once the siblings had stepped back.
"Well, I can't see you," she said, her voice carrying its usual bluntness as she smirked, "but it's good to have you back, Twinkle Toes."
Aang laughed quietly, slipping easily into the space between them as though the months apart had been mere minutes.
"It's been one hell of an adventure," he said, his smile widening, his energy returning despite the changes that had settled into him.
"But it's really good to see you guys."
He looked between them, taking in their presence fully now, before something shifted in his expression.
"Where is Zuko?" He noticed the absence quickly, as Katara stepped in.
"He'll be here tomorrow." She ensured. Aang nodded once in understanding before smiling back at them.
"I'm really glad you're all here," he added, turning slightly.
"Because there's someone I want you to meet."
He called your name.
You turned at once, your attention shifting back to him, your hand lowering from Appa as you stepped forward when he beckoned you closer. When you reached him, he guided you gently to stand in front of him, your back pressing close to his chest.
His hands settled at your shoulders, as though presenting you to his friends (which he technically was).
The space around them seemed to narrow again, attention pulling inward and onto you.
And then, without hesitation, he spoke.
"Guys, this is my wife."
The space was quieter than the open streets of the city, removed from the curious eyes that had followed them from the city center. It was Katara's home, a short tower much like Aang's, warm and simple.
There was a low wooden table set at the center of the room and cushions arranged around it. The scent of food lingered in the air, a spread of dishes laid out with attention. They sat together on the floor, as they had many times before, yet it no longer felt as comforting with the addition of a new presence.
Aang settled easily, his posture relaxed as though the weight of his responsibilities had been set aside for the moment. You remained close beside him, your arm linked through his, your shoulder leaning lightly into his side.
The food was passed between them, and Sokka had already begun eating with little restraint, serving himself generously from the meat-filled dishes Katara had whipped up. Aang remained with the vegetarian plates set aside for him, thanking Katara quietly for the effort before beginning to eat.
You followed his lead, keeping to the same dishes, avoiding the drinks that Sokka and Toph had taken for themselves, your silence unbroken, your attention lowered more often than not.
The moment they had settled, the questions were poured over Aang all at once. Sokka and Toph tried to remain respectful to your presence while asking for your story, meanwhile Katara hadn't questioned the two of you at all, but evidently curious herself.
Aang had kept it brief, offering information sparingly about your history. He had said that the two of you had met while he was traveling, that things had moved quickly and you fell in love, that it had simply felt right.
And being the Avatar meant having to oversee Republic City, he couldn't stay where he had met you, so the decision to get married had been made quickly, making you two return together, to build something here instead.
It was obvious they had many questions, but they sure as hell would not question their friend right in front of you.
Congratulations had followed, quiet and measured, and then the moment had passed, left to settle beneath everything that came after.
It was Sokka who filled the silence again, though this time not with questions, but with usual new ideas that spawn in his tinkering brain.
"So I've been working on this new design," he began, already gesturing with his hands despite the food still in them, his voice picking up pace as his excitement took over.
"It's basically a reinforced mechanism—stronger joints, better rotation, and if I get it right, it could handle way more pressure than anything we've built before."
Aang leaned forward slightly, interest immediate.
"Wait, so for like quicker transportation?"
"Exactly!" Sokka said, pointing at him with a quick nod. "I'm thinking something that could carry more weight, maybe even support multiple functions depending on how it's built."
Toph snorted softly. "So... you're just upgrading what already exists?"
"That's not—it is to improve efficiency." Sokka replied quickly.
"Sounds the same to me."
"It's not the same," Sokka insisted, already leaning further into it.
"Efficiency is important. You can't just throw things together and hope it works."
"You literally do that all the time."
"That's different," he said, without missing a beat. "That's instinct."
Aang laughed, slipping into place as though nothing had changed between them, his attention fully caught now.
"No, wait, that actually sounds really interesting," he said, his tone brightening. "If it can handle more pressure, you could use it not only for transportation, but construction too!"
"Exactly," Sokka said, pleased, already building on the idea. "See, this is why you get it."
Toph tilted her head slightly. "Yeah, because he's the only one listening."
The conversation carried on like that, Sokka speaking the most, his words running ahead of themselves as Aang kept up easily, asking questions, offering ideas, while Toph cut in whenever she pleased, her remarks sharp and comical each time.
You remained quiet beside Aang, your hand still resting around his arm, your gaze lowered more often than not, contributing nothing to the conversation yet not removed from it either.
Katara was quieter still, her attempts to keep up with the conversation falling short no matter how carefully she held her smile in place.
She spoke when needed, but for the most part, she said nothing at all, her attention shifting, her gaze returning to you more often than she would have liked before pulling away again.
Time passed quickly as it does when you're enjoying yourself, until the light outside began to soften, the sun lowering, shifting the room into a quieter shade.
Eventually, Aang took note of the time and your tired figure, his attention drifting from the conversation as he set his cup down.
"I think we should head home," he said, his tone gentle, though final.
"It's been a long journey, and I want to get her settled in."
No one protested, agreeing quietly with a few nods as the evening drew to a close without resistance.
You both rose slowly and Aang moved toward the open balcony, the evening air slipping in as he stepped outside, a soft note leaving his whistle.
It did not take long for Appa to respond.
He floated close to the railing as Aang secured the travel bags onto the saddle before turning back to you, offering his hand as he helped you up first. Only once you were settled did he follow, stepping lightly onto Appa's head as he glanced back one last time.
"See you guys soon."
And then Appa rose, the wind lifting around him as you both left the balcony behind.
Once you had both left, a quiet settled over the three of them. The room, which had only moments ago carried conversation and liveliness, now held something far more glum.
Katara no longer held onto her smile. It faded slowly, the effort behind it slipping away until her lips formed a frown. She remained seated for a moment longer, her hands resting in her lap. The situation pressed in around her, suffocating her.
Sokka noticed it immediately. He had been watching her since Aang stood to leave.
"Katara..." he started, softer now, the edge gone from his voice.
She blinked, as though being snapped out of a dream. When she looked up, the smile she gave him was small and practiced, held together with effort.
"I'm just going to get some air," she said, not waiting for him to respond.
She stood up, her hands smoothing briefly over her clothes, an unnecessary gesture meant to steady herself, and then she turned toward the door.
Sokka pushed himself up immediately.
"Katara, wait—"
She didn't.
She stepped out before he could reach her, the door sliding shut behind her with a soft finality. And whatever she had been holding in place gave way, unseen.
Sokka stopped short, the words he had meant to say left unfinished, his hand lowering slowly back to his side. He remained standing for a moment, staring at the door, as if expecting it to open again.
He exhaled sharply, the tension in him settling into something heavier as he dragged a hand through his hair before dropping back down onto the cushion, leaning back on his hands.
For a long time, he had not been entirely thrilled when he first noticed what had been forming between Aang and Katara. It had been uncomfortable at first, something he had watched with suspicion, protective instinct getting the better of him.
But time had softened that resistance and he came to to accept it once he noticed how much his sister really adorded Aang. And Aang, was his best friend. Of all the people, he could trust him with Katara.
He had come to see it as inevitable, something that was bound to happen, and had secretly been expecting to take place already.
This—
This had not been part of that expectation.
"...Okay, what just happened?" he said after a moment, his voice sharp.
Toph did not answer immediately. Her head tilted slightly, getting more comfortable on the floor as she stretched out her limbs.
"That was bad," she said finally.
Sokka let out a short breath, sitting up straighter.
"Bad? Toph, that was really bad." He ran a hand through his hair again, frustration settling in now that the moment had passed.
"He just—what, disappears for ten months, comes back, and suddenly he's married?" His voice lifted slightly, disbelief breaking through.
"Since when does Aang do something like that without telling anyone?"
Toph leaned back slightly, her arms crossing, her expression unchanged.
"Since apparently eight months ago."
"That's not funny."
"I'm not joking."
Sokka pushed himself to his feet again, pacing once across room before turning back toward her.
"She was waiting for him," he said, quieter now, though the weight behind it remained.
"You know that, right? She didn't say it, but she—she was waiting."
Toph didn't interrupt.
"She thought..." he started, then stopped, exhaling through his nose as the frustration tightened again.
"I thought—We all thought—!"
He didn't finish that either. The pieces didn't fit together cleanly anymore.
"He didn't even say anything! I am sure one letter wouldn't have hurt! I mean, what the hell was that story? I don't buy it for a second." Sokka continued, his voice lower now, though the edge hadn't left.
Toph shifted slightly, her tone still calm, though less dismissive now.
"Yeah. He was lying." She says casually, as if it hadn't been the confirmation Sokka was looking for this entire time.
"What?! What do you mean?"
"What you said, Snoozles. Their story. Aang was lying. He probably didn't say much because he knew I would catch his lies."
"Wait...does that mean Aang is in trouble?"
"Don't think so. From what I sensed, she didn't seem like much of a threat, and Twinkle toes did seem to care for her, there was no lie there." She explained her observations.
"Then I don't get it, Toph. What did Aang lie about?" Sokka questions, keeping his motive straightforward.
"None of what he said was a lie, but it wasn't the entire story. All I'm saying is, he said just enough of the truth to not make me suspect anything."
Sokka was livid.
"Why do you look so relaxed?! Aren't you mad at him? This doesn't seem like the Aang we know!"
"Chill out. I'm sure he's okay. Although...he's not one to think things through. Not when it comes to helping people anyway."
Sokka perks up at Toph's insinuation. "You think he's helping her?"
"My best guess."
"Well, that's no excuse," Sokka shot back immediately.
"He knows better than that. He should know better than that. We are always here to help, he knows that!"
"Maybe he just didn't need our help for this. From what I felt, he seemed happier, at least since I last met him.
Sokka's shoulders remained tense, his jaw tightening as his gaze stayed fixed on the door, though there was nothing left there to see. The space Katara had occupied was empty, her absence settling heavily into the room as Sokka grew worried for her.
"...I should go after her," he said, already half-turning.
"Give her a minute," Toph replied, her tone steady. "She won't want an audience right now."
Sokka stopped, even though the tension in him remained coiled tight, he did not argue. Instead, he hesitated in his step for half a second before lowering himself back onto the cushion.
"...He really messed this up," he muttered, the frustration slipping through despite the effort to contain it.
Toph tilted her head slightly at that, her expression unchanged.
"Did he?"
Sokka looked up at her, frowning. "What do you mean did he? You saw her."
"Yeah, I did," she said calmly. "I'm not saying she's fine. I'm asking how exactly this is all on him."
Sokka let out a short, disbelieving breath, the sound sharp against the quiet. "Toph—"
"No, think about it," she cut in, forcing him to listen whether he wanted to or not.
"It was obvious Katara liked him. I'm not arguing that. But we also thought it was obvious Aang liked her too."
Sokka opened his mouth to respond, but the words stalled, choosing to let her finish.
"And maybe he did," she continued. "Maybe he still does. But technically, they were never official on any grounds. "
"That doesn't mean—" he started, but she did not let him finish.
"It means nothing was decided," she said. "If somehow Aang's feelings changed, we can't blame him for it. "
Sokka's expression tightened, then softened enough to show that he understood Toph's argument.
"That doesn't make this okay," he said after a moment.
"I didn't say it did," Toph replied. "I'm saying we can't act like he broke some rule or something."
Sokka leaned back slightly, dragging a hand over his face as he let that sit, the frustration in him shifting.
"It's just—ughh! Married? Aang won't do something like that on a whim!"
"But he did it already."
"I know. Did you see Katara's face? Even Aang must have noticed it, it was that obvious, fuck!"
"He didn't do it to hurt her."
Sokka didn't respond immediately.
"No," he admitted after a pause. "Of course not."
Aang was not careless, and he was not cruel. He did not make choices like that without reason, which meant there had to be one.
If Toph was vouching for the authenticity of Aang's marriage to you, then—
"...He really meant it," Sokka said, the realization settling in slower this time, heavier.
Toph nodded once. "Yeah."
Sokka exhaled, some of the tension leaving him, though it did not ease what remained.
After a pause, Sokka spoke again.
"What you said earlier... about him not telling the whole truth." His gaze flicked toward her. "Do you think we should tell Katara?"
Toph didn't answer right away. She leaned back slightly, considering the situation. Katara was a fierce woman, and although Toph was sure she won't do anything drastic, even she couldn't trust to stop things from going downhill.
"Not yet," she said after a moment. "She's already dealing with enough. Telling her that now isn't going to help."
Sokka frowned, though he didn't argue.
"So we just... don't say anything?"
"For now," Toph replied. "We wait. Maybe once Zuko gets here. We'll have a good old Team Avatar huddle! Uhh...without the Avatar, of course."
The answer did not satisfy him completely, but it settled enough for him to let it go, at least for the moment.
Toph shifted slightly, adjusting her posture before speaking again.
"When is Zuko getting here anyway?"
Sokka glanced at her, the shift in topic catching him slightly off guard before he answered.
"He should arrive by tomorrow afternoon."
Night settled over the city without resistance, the last of the noise fading. By the time you got settled in your new home, the world outside had quieted, leaving only the soft hush of the empty streets.
Inside your home, you lay beside Aang, the distance between you nonexistent, skin against skin beneath the covers, the warmth of him melting into your flesh. Your head rested against his chest, eyes fluttering to a close to the steady rhythm beneath your cheek.
Each breath of his matched your own without effort, his arm lay beneath you, holding you in place, while his other hand moved slowly through your hair.
Your fingers shifted lightly against him before your voice broke through the stillness.
“It seems your friends do not like me.”
Aang’s hand stilled for a brief moment before continuing its slow movement, his touch no different than it was before.
“They just met you,” he said. “It was unexpected.”
“That is one way to describe it.”
“They’ll come around,” he said after a moment. “It just takes time.”
There was no bitterness in your voice, only an acknowledgment that did not seek to challenge him. You shifted slightly, lifting your head to look at him.
“That water tribe girl,” you said.
His hand slowed, and you felt the shift immediately. You held his gaze for a second longer before letting it fall, settling back against him, your cheek returning to its place over his chest, though now, the rhythm behind his chest had upped its tempo.
“That was her,” you continued, lifting your head again, your eyes finding his. “Was it not?”
He did not answer immediately. To be honest, he did not need to. You had understood plenty.
“Yes.”
The word settled between you, and you smiled.
“I see.”
You heaved a sigh, feeling your own heartbeat speed up.
“I am sorry,” you said after a moment.
Aang's reaction was immediate as he frowned faintly
“There’s no need for that.”
"I feel as though there is." His hand stilled again, resting lightly against your back now, no longer moving.
“I made my feelings very clear to you, you didn’t do anything wrong,” he said.
“Perhaps not,” you answered. “But that does not mean no one was hurt.”
The honesty in your voice did not leave room for dismissal. Something in his expression shifted then, softening.
“She’ll be alright,” he said after a moment, though the words carried less certainty than he might have intended.
You did not respond to that directly.
“Your friends are important to you.”
“Yes.”
There was no hesitation.
You nodded faintly, your breath evening out again against him.
“Then I hope they will come to accept me.”
“They will,” Aang replied, more certain this time, his hand resuming its slow movement through your hair, steady, grounding. “It just might take some time.”
The tension eased slightly, but Aang didn't need to see your face to know what you were feeling at the moment.
Then, almost as an afterthought, his tone shifted.
“And you haven’t even met my closest friend yet.”
You tilted your head slightly, just enough to look up at him again.
“Oh?”
Aang smiled faintly.
“Zuko,” he said. “The Fire Lord. He’ll be visiting soon.”
He leaned forward to press a kiss to your forehead, urging you to sleep, before settling his head back onto the pillow.
Your family sets you up with potential husbands….. rich, influential JJK men… for a business marriage. You try to scare them off by acting weird but it backfires… and now you have 4 men obsessed with you.
Pairings: Yandere JJK men x Reader
Ft. Gojo, Sukuna, Toji, Nanami
TW : MDNI, some 18+ jokes, fanfic
part 1 - Part 2 - part 3
In Which You Learn That Rich Men Are Like Glitter (Impossible To Get Rid Of Once They’re On You)
“You’re fucked.”
Shoko’s voice… through your phone speaker had that particular tone of someone delivering bad news while also finding it hilarious, like a doctor telling you that you have a weird rash but also it’s shaped like a dinosaur.
“I’m aware,” you said, lying on your floor…. your cat was sitting on your chest. “That’s why I’m calling you at…” you checked your phone “…. fuck, is it really 3 AM?”
“What the fuck is wrong with these men?" You stared at your ceiling, which had a water stain that looked like either Jesus or a mushroom. You’d been meaning to get that fixed since you moved in. That was two years ago.
Silence.
Then Shoko started cackling like she’d just witnessed someone slip on a banana peel in real life. “Maybe they’re into weird girls?”
“It’s not FUNNY… ”
“It’s SO funny,” she wheezed.
You groaned. Your cat adjusted herself, digging her claws into your chest.
“Okay but here’s the thing,” Shoko said, and you could hear her typing, which meant she was already stalking, which meant this was about to get worse. “I did some digging”
“And?…”
“And babe.” More typing. “These guys don’t DO second dates.”
“What do you mean”
“I mean… Sukuna’s last 3 arrangements all withdrew. One of em moved to Sweden” More clicking “Gojo fucks his first dates and then ghosts them. Dick and dip”
“SHOKO!!”
“Oh and Toji’s dates end up becoming his sugar mommies.”
You sat up, dislodging your cat, who gave you a look of pure betrayal before walking off to knock something off your counter.
“So what you’re saying is…..”
“What I’m saying is you somehow did the impossible.” She sounds gleeful. “How does that feel?”
“Like I need to fake my own death and join the Swedish meatball girl”
You spend the next hour on the phone, going through theories. Maybe you weren’t weird enough. Maybe you were too weird. Maybe they’re all in a cult and you’re the sacrifice. Maybe this is an elaborate prank show and Ashton Kutcher is going to jump out of your closet.
“Or,” Shoko offers, “maybe you’re just hot and they’re willing to overlook the crazy.”
“I spilled water on Toji’s DICK.”
“Some guys are into that….”
You hung up and stared at your phone. At the four messages still sitting there. Haunting you.
Outside your window, a pigeon was trying to fuck another pigeon on your fire escape, which felt oddly appropriate for this situation.
You can do this.
You are GOING to do this.
(You can not, in fact, do this, and what happens next will haunt you for the rest of your natural life.)
Sukuna Ryomen - After the first date
Sukuna sat in his office, looking out at Tokyo’s skyline, and tried to remember the last time someone had annoyed him this much without ending up in a hospital.
The audacity. The fucking AUDACITY of sitting across from him and dropping designer labels like they were supposed to impress him.
A shameless gold digger. The kind of woman he'd normally have escorted out before the appetizers arrived.
Except.
Except something was off.
He couldn't place it at first. He'd seen gold diggers before. Hell, he'd dated a few. They had a certain ease to them, a comfort in luxury that came from either experience or genuine desire.
You had neither. You looked like someone playing dress up.
"Get me everything on her," he tells Uraume the next morning.
The report landed on his desk five days later. Sukuna opens it expecting a lifestyle propped up by daddy's money.
What he finds instead makes him laugh out loud.
Forty seven pages of utterly ordinary information. No luxury purchases. No country club memberships or spa packages or any of the shit gold diggers usually had.
Groceries from 7 Eleven.
Bank account balance: Depressing
Sukuna leaned back in his chair, staring at your photo attached to the report. You were smiling in it…. holding a cup of what was definitely not champagne while standing in what appeared to be your kitchen.
You looked... soft.
He picks up his phone… a small smile on his face.
Name your terms. I'm interested.
Send (why tf did he phrase it like a challenge?)
Date 2 Sukuna Ryomen
Location : Shopping district
Threat level : High (probable yakuza connections, definitely judging you)
Sukuna picks you up in a black car. The driver opens the door for you without making eye contact, which feels ominous. Sukuna is already inside, taking up most of the backseat.
“Hi!!” you beam at him "I'm so excited for today. I've been thinking about it all week.”
“Have you” He looks amused. That's... new.
Your soul leaves your body for a second, then reluctantly returns when you realize he’s still watching.
“Of course.” you laugh “I love shopping”
Twenty minutes later, you're standing in a store that doesn't have prices on anything. Which means you don’t know what to buy because you have no idea what anything costs.
A sales associate instantly recognises Sukuna "Mr Ryomen. A pleasure. How can we assist you today?"
"The lady wants to shop." His eyes slide to you. "Give her whatever she wants."
This is a trap. This is DEFINITELY a trap.
You approach the nearest display… a rack of coats and pull one off with zero delicacy.
"Ooh, this is cute!!!!" You hold it up, checking the label. Your eyes don't recognise the brand name at all. It's something German, maybe? Or Italian? Fuck. "Is this..." You squint. "Valentino?"
The sales associate's eye twitches. "That's Brunello Cucinelli, ma'am."
"Right, right. Bruno something." You wave your hand dismissively. "Same thing."
Behind you, Sukuna makes a sound. It might be a cough. It might be a suppressed laugh.
"This one….”
"That's a child's backpack."
You stare at the tiny pink monstrosity in your hands. It does, in fact, have a cartoon character on it.
"I knew that," you say weakly. ( Error 404 : Brain not found )
The corner of his mouth twitches. Is that a smile? Is he making fun of you? You can't tell and it's driving you insane.
"Perhaps," he says, stepping closer, "I should help you."
What follows is the most humiliating hour of your life.
Sukuna guides you through the store like a disappointed tour guide at a museum for idiots. He corrects your pronunciation of Louis Vuitton…. twice.
"You don't shop here often," he observes, handing you a dress"Try this."
"I… what?"
"Try it on." He gestures toward the fitting rooms. "I want to see how it looks."
You stumble toward the changing room… (THERE’S A CHANDELIER IN THE CHANGING ROOM) … clutching the dress. The fabric is soft… softer than anything you've ever owned… and when you put it on, you barely recognize yourself in the mirror.
You look... expensive. Like someone who actually belongs in a place like this.
"Well?" Sukuna's voice comes from outside the curtain. "Are you hiding?"
"No." Yes. "I'm just... adjusting."
"Come out."
You step out, feeling exposed in a way that has nothing to do with the amount of skin showing.
His eyes move slowly… face, shoulders, waist, back up. The way he looks at you makes every inch of skin feel suddenly, stupidly alive.
"Better," he says finally. "We'll take it."
"We'll… what? No, it's too much, I couldn't…. "
"I thought you wanted expensive things." He raises an eyebrow
Shit. Shit
"I do" you say, too bright. "This is great. Let's buy all of it.”
You gesture wildly at the nearest rack. Sukuna follows your hand to a display of men's accessories.
"You want me to buy you cufflinks?"
Your stomach drops into your fucking shoes “I… no. Those. Over there. The... things."
"The hats?"
"Yes!!! Hats. I love hats!"
You don't wear hats. You've never worn hats. The last time you tried to wear a hat, Shoko laughed so hard she choked on her drink.
But Sukuna is still watching you with that expression… amused, knowing, waiting (smug asshole)… and you can't back down now.
"Pick one," he says. "Whichever you want."
He pays for it, along with the dress you didn't ask for, and several other items you don't remember selecting.
After your date, you know three things.
One: couture is terrifying.
Two: rich people are stupid.
Three: Sukuna knows
Nanami Kento - After the first date
Nanami Kento was having a problem.
The problem was not work related, though his colleagues would probably disagree given that he’d missed two meetings and had to redo a contract because he’d been too distracted to catch a critical error.
The problem was not health related, though his doctor would probably be concerned about his blood pressure given how many cold showers he’d taken this week.
The problem was that he could not stop thinking about you. About your mouth on that wine glass. About the sound you had made and how he had to grip his fork so hard he’d nearly bent it.
About what you would look like on your knees….
He was in the middle of a client call when his mind wandered to what you would sound like if he…
“Nanami san? Are you still there?”
“Yes. Apologies. Please continue.”
This was unacceptable. He’d built his entire career on discipline and self control. He didn’t get distracted. He didn’t let his personal life interfere with his work. And he certainly didn’t spend five days straight having increasingly inappropriate thoughts about a woman he’d met once.
But here he was. Day five. Still thinking about you.
He tried to rationalize it. Tried to tell himself this was just physical attraction. That he needed to see you again to confirm there was no actual compatibility. That a second date would cure him of whatever this was.
(This was a lie. He knew it was a lie.)
On day seven, he broke.
I would like to continue our discussion. Are you free Thursday evening at 7:00 PM?
He hit send. What the fuck was happening to him?
Date 2 Nanami Kento
LOCATION: French Restaurant, Different This Time
THREAT LEVEL: Low (too polite to murder you, probably)
You arrive five minutes early.
Nanami is already there. Of course. The man probably arrived at the restaurant's founding and has been waiting ever since. His suit is different from last time…. but somehow just as pristine. Just as distracting.
Stop noticing his suits, you tell yourself. You're supposed to be making him uncomfortable, not yourself
"Mr. Nanami." You slide into your seat with what you hope is a seductive smile.
"Please." He stands as you sit…. gentleman, goddamn him…. before settling back down. "Nanami is fine."
"Nanami." You lean forward… smelling his cologne. It’s a nice cologne. Stop smelling him "I have to admit… I was surprised you wanted to meet again. You don't seem like the type to call women for second dates."
"I'm not."
"So what's different about me?"
There's an intensity to his gaze that wasn't there before… or maybe it was, and you just didn't notice. "I haven't determined that yet."
Okay. That's either flattering or terrifying.
You push forward with your strategy and order the messiest thing on the menu… pasta with red sauce, specifically chosen because there's no elegant way to eat it. You twirl your fork, let sauce drip onto your chin.
"Sorry," you say, dabbing at your mouth with a napkin. "I'm such a messy eater. But it's so good. Don't you think food just tastes better when you're not worried about being neat?"
"I... wouldn't know."
"You should try it sometime." You tilt your head. "Don't you ever just want to... let go?"
His eyes turn dark and hungry in an instant, sending your belly into free fall.
Oh
"I assure you," he says, voice low, "I am perfectly capable of letting go. When the situation calls for it."
Your heart rate spikes. “I need the bathroom….. ”
You practically RUN.
When you come back, he’s still there, perfectly composed, looking at you like you’re dessert and he’s planning how to eat you.
“Shall we order dessert?” he asks
“I’m good…..”
“Pity. I was hoping to watch you enjoy something sweet.”
Abort. Abort mission. This is not going according to plan.
Toji Fushiguro - After the first date
Toji wasn’t a stalker. He wouldd like to make that clear.
He followed you out on instinct, hands in pockets, expression bored, telling himself he was just making sure you got into a car and didn’t kill yourself crossing traffic.
You were different from the other rich bitches his family throws at him.
He had seen women play dumb before. Usually it's an act… a way to seem unthreatening, to make men feel smarter, to manipulate without being obvious.
This one couldn’t even walk straight… in heels you clearly couldn't handle, and….
You tripped.
Right there on the sidewalk. Over literally nothing. Your bag went flying, contents scattering across concrete.
"Fuck my life," you muttered, loud enough for him to hear from ten feet away. "Fuck it right in its stupid face."
Toji snorted.
He followed you all the way to your apartment building, watched you struggle with your keys for a full two minutes before getting the door open, and then stood on the street below your window like the world's most pathetic stalker.
Your light turned on. Then off. Then on again. You’d probably forgotten something in the dark.
Cute.
The word popped into his head uninvited. He immediately wanted to punch himself for thinking it.
Toji was fucking gone.
Hey, he typed on day seven. You're weird. I'm in.
His family's going to lose their shit when they find out he actually wants a second date for once.
Date 2 - Toji Fushiguro
LOCATION: Some random address in Shibuya
THREAT LEVEL: Unknown (not much details, which is concerning)
The address turns out to be an arcade.
An arcade???
You stand outside, staring at the neon lights and the sounds of digital explosions leaking through the doors, and wonder if you've been pranked.
"You came."
You spin. Toji is leaning against the wall beside the entrance, looking like he wandered in from a motorcycle gang's photo shoot. Leather jacket. Jeans. That scar on his lip curving with his smirk.
You follow him inside, immediately assaulted by flashing lights and the cacophony of a hundred games happening simultaneously.
"What are we doing here?" you ask, dodging a kid running past with a stuffed prize twice his size.
"Having fun." He looks back at you with an expression that's almost... soft? "You do know how to have fun, right?"
You tried your bimbo act. “I…. yes, of course I know how to have fun, I'm very fun, I'm the funnest…”
"That's not a word."
“Oh”
You lose spectacularly at every game you try.
"You're terrible at this," he says, leaning against the machine while you die for the fifteenth time.
You huff, pushing away from the machine. "Whatever…. the game is broken…”
Toji laughs, full and genuine, and something in your chest does a weird flutter thing.
No. Absolutely not. Focus.
"Let me try something," he says, and steps up to a basketball shooting game. He feeds in coins, picks up a ball, and proceeds to sink fifteen shots in a row without missing once.
Tickets pour out of the machine like a waterfall.
He hands you the tickets. "Pick a prize."
"What?"
"You've been looking at that giant cat thing since we walked in. Go get it."
He noticed that?
"I don't need you to win me prizes," you say, trying to recover your strategy "I can win my own prizes…..”
He's already walking toward the prize counter, your tickets in hand. You trail after him, protests dying on your lips.
The giant cat is even fluffier up close. The employee hands it to Toji, who hands it to you
"There," he says. "Now you have something to show for today."
You clutch the ridiculous stuffed animal to your chest and feel something dangerous building in your ribcage.
Don't, you tell yourself. Don't you fkn dare.
But when he drives you home on his motorcycle (motorcycle???)… you clutching the cat with one arm and his waist with the other….you can't help thinking that this was the most fun you've had in months.
Gojo Satoru - After the first date
Gojo knows you're lying before you even sit down.
It's the eyes. The too bright smile. The way your voice goes slightly higher when you're saying something you don't mean.
He's spent his entire adult life surrounded by liars. Business partners who smile while plotting. Models who swear they're "not like other girls" while being exactly like every other girl. Family members who claim to love him while treating him like a prize show pony.
He's learned to spot deception… instantly, instinctively, with a vague sense of disgust.
You're not as good at it as you think.
The church talk? He almost laughed. Your lockscreen might’ve had a church on it, but your nails had remnants of black polish, and there was a tiny tattoo peeking out from your collarbone that you had tried to cover with concealer.
The purity workshop thing? Just to avoid temptation.
Oh, sweetheart.
You wanted him to be tempted…. he thought…. That was the whole point, right? You had dressed like a nun specifically to make him think about undressing you.
Reverse psychology. Classic move. Bold as hell, though…. he'll give you that.
Most women try to impress him. They wear tight dresses and push up bras, laugh at his jokes, agree with everything he says.
You showed up looking like you were about to lead a prayer circle and told him he needed Jesus.
Gojo is delighted.
He pulls out his laptop, cracks his knuckles, and gets to work.
Social media: Private Instagram…. which yes, he has access to…. with party photos going back to college. Twitter that was mostly complaints about your job and retweets of cat videos.
Dating history: College boyfriend for two years, ended badly. Three short term relationships after that, all ending with you ghosting them when you got bored.
Employment: Work in management, hates your boss, online shops during meetings.
“Miss Virgin Mary,” he grins, scrolling through a photo of you doing a keg stand in 2019. “You absolute fraud”
Round two, sweetheart? My place, Friday. Don't worry, I'll be on my best behavior. He hits send
He can practically hear you screaming when you read it.
Perfect.
Date 2 - Gojo Satoru
LOCATION: His Place (concerning)
THREAT LEVEL: Maximum (the man is a predator)
Strategy: Bring actual chaperone.
You arrive with Shoko in tow. She's agreed to play the part of your "church friend" aka chaperone… for the evening, which basically means she's going to sit in the corner, drink his expensive alcohol, and watch you make a fool of yourself.
"You brought a chaperone," Gojo says when he opens the door. He doesn't look surprised. He looks delighted.
"I told you I would." You fold your hands primly. "This is my friend Shoko. She's from my congregation."
Shoko waves. "Praise Jesus."
Gojo's eyes sparkle. "Please, come in."
His apartment is obscene. Floor to ceiling windows with a city view.
Furniture that costs more than your entire existence. A kitchen that's clearly never been used for actual cooking.
You sit on the couch… knees pressed together, hands in your lap, the picture of modesty.
“So," Gojo says, settling across from you. "How's God?"
"Huh? Oh… He's... good. Great, actually. Very blessed."
"Mmm." He leans forward. "And what does God think about us? Did he give you any revelations this week?"
"Actually, yes." You clasp your hands together. "I've been praying a lot, and I really feel like the Lord is telling me to take things slow. Very slow. Probably years of courtship before any... physical contact."
"Years?" he asks
"At least."
"How many years?"
"Um." You hadn't thought this far ahead. "Seven?"
Shoko chokes on her wine.
Gojo's smile doesn't waver. "Seven years. Of no physical contact."
"Exactly."
"No kissing?"
"No." You smile brightly
"No hand holding?" he pouts
"Probably not."
"What about eye contact?" Those blue eyes fix on yours
"I…. what?"
"Eye contact can be very intimate." He's leaning closer now, voice dropping. "Some people find it even more intimate than touching."
You swallow. "I suppose... brief eye contact would be acceptable."
"How brief?"
"A...a few seconds?" you stutter
"Three seconds?" he asks
"Sure?"
"Like this?" And then he just... looks at you.
Three seconds stretch into five. Five into ten. His eyes are impossibly blue, impossibly bright, impossibly knowing. You feel stripped bare. Exposed. Like he can see right through your modest dress and your fake cross necklace and your bullshit act straight to the core of you.
Your face burns.
"Stop that," you manage.
"Stop what?" His smile is innocent. His eyes are anything but….. "I thought eye contact was acceptable."
"Not like that."
He laughs, low and warm, and you feel it in places you definitely shouldn't.
The rest of the evening is a torture. He finds ways to make everything sound suggestive. Offers you water and comments on how good you are at swallowing.
By the time you leave, Shoko is crying with suppressed laughter and you're seriously considering actual prayer for the first time in your life.
"This was fun," Gojo says at the door. "We should do it again."
"I don't think…. "
He cuts you off "Without the chaperone next time."
"There won't be a next time."
"Mmm." His hand reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The touch is feather light. Devastating. "We'll see."
Fuck Fuck Fuck
AFTERMATH - The great ghosting
You decide to disappear.
No texts. No calls. No responses. Complete radio silence. Maybe if you ignore the problem hard enough, it'll go away on its own.
(This has never worked for any problem in the history of problems, but hope springs eternal.)
Day 1: Peace.
Day 2: Your mother called 47 times.
Day 3: Your father sent an email in all caps.
Day 4: Silence.
Day 5: Maybe they gave up….
DAY 6:
A cheese platter arrived at your office.
Expensive cheese in a wooden box with a card: “Since you can clearly tell the difference. - Sukuna”
Your coworkers descend on it like vultures. You barely get a piece.
When you get home: you can't open your front door. Because there's a bouquet blocking it.
Not a bouquet. A monument. Red roses…. hundreds of them…. piled so high you can't see over the top. It takes thirty minutes to drag the whole thing inside.
Card: “Red suits you better. - Gojo”
Three missed calls from Nanami.
Shoko sends you a screenshot of Toji lingering outside your building. “Should I be concerned?" She texts
Day 7
"There's four guys at reception," your coworker, Mei says, poking her head into your office. "They're asking for you.”
Your blood leaves your body “Four?”
"They're kind of... arguing? With each other? Security is considering calling the police."
You walk to reception like you're walking to your own execution. And there they are.
Gojo, arms crossed, glaring at Sukuna. "What the fuck are you doing here?"
Sukuna, looking murderous. "I could ask you the same thing. How do you know [name]?"
Toji, leaning against the wall. "Keep her name out of your mouth."
Nanami, trying to be the voice of reason. "Perhaps we should discuss this calmly….”
"Fuck calm," Sukuna snaps.
Mei appears at your elbow. "Are those guys here for you?"
"Please kill me."
"Do you owe them money?"
"I wish." you whisper
You take a breath. Then another. Then you walk into the chaos.
"Excuse me," you say.
They don't hear you. "Excuse me."
Still nothing.
"HEY!!!” you shout
Four heads turn. Four pairs of eyes land on you. Four expressions shift from hostile to... something else entirely.
Nanami opens his mouth, probably to say something reasonable, but you cut him off.
"Do you all…. know each other?" you ask weakly.
Silence.
“Unfortunately." Toji mutters
Gojo just grins. "Small world, isn't it, sweetheart?"
Your coworkers are watching this like it's the season finale of Love Island.
You are so fucked.
A/n : Your Reblogs and comments are appreciated 🫶💕
A serial killer who kills anyone who looks like you. Two detectives who are obsessed with protecting you. Who should you trust?
Pairing : Detective Gojo x Reader x Detective Suguru
Warnings : Yandere, MDNI, manipulation, serial killer, death (of side characters), mature themes, fanfic, obsessive behaviour,
You meet Satoru Gojo and Suguru Geto on the worst day of your career.
They've pulled another body from the river…. third one this month. Same marks carved into wrists like bracelets. Staged positioning, almost theatrical. A white rose pressed into the victim's hands, petals still fresh despite the brackish water.
The Rose Killer, the press calls him. Like he's some fucking romantic anti hero instead of a monster who leaves women posed like porcelain dolls.
You're the forensic psychologist assigned to profile him, which is why you're standing in the rain at 6 AM, staring at a bloated corpse while trying to keep your coffee down. The victim's eyes are still open. Clouded over, but somehow accusing.
"Dr. [name]?" A voice behind you. Deep, almost lazy in its cadence.
You turn. The detective is tall?…. irritatingly so, with white hair plastered to his forehead by the downpour. He's smiling, easy and warm, like he stumbled upon a garden party instead of a crime scene.
Everything about him feels wrong for this moment.
"Detective Gojo," he introduces himself, extending a hand you don't take. Your latex gloves are covered in river silt. He notices, drops the hand without offense. "Lead on this case. Heard you're the best profiler in the state. Your profile ready?”
"Working on it." Your voice comes out flatter than intended.
His smile doesn't waver. "Work faster. He's accelerating."
He's not wrong.
First victim was three months ago. Second was six weeks later. Third… This one, you glance back at the body, at the rose already wilting in her grip, two weeks. A waitress who walked home from the late shift and never arrived.
The cooling off period is shrinking. He's losing control, or gaining confidence. Neither option bodes well.
"There's another detective on the case," Gojo continues, rain dripping from his jaw. "My partner. Suguru Geto. You'll meet him at the briefing."
—
Suguru Geto is everything Gojo isn't.
Where Gojo runs hot and bright, casual touches and disarming smiles, Geto is winter. Long dark hair tied back like a samurai. Sharp, angular features that belong on a Renaissance painting of Lucifer before the fall. He often watches you during the briefing with eyes that don't blink often enough.
They become your shadow over the next month. Every crime scene, every briefing, every late night in the precinct going over evidence. They’re brilliant… see patterns you miss, makes connections that shouldn’t exist.
They’re also intense in a way that makes you nervous.
“So what do you think” Suguru asks one night, both of you hunched over case files.
You click to the next slide. Crime scene photos bloom across the screen. "I think He wants an audience, but more than that, he wants us specifically. The evidence he leaves behind is intentional. Just enough to keep us interested, never enough to catch him."
"Or he watches too many crime shows," Gojo says lightly from the back of the room.
But his eyes are serious. Even through those ridiculous sunglasses, you can feel the weight of them.
***
"You think he knows us," Gojo says one night.
It's 4 AM. The precinct is a ghost town. Geto left an hour ago… something about following up a lead.
Now it's just the two of you, surrounded by crime scene photos and empty takeout containers.
"He's studying law enforcement," you correct, flipping through autopsy reports. "Procedures, response times, investigative patterns. Yes."
"That's not what I asked." Gojo pulls out a photograph. The third victim. "Look at her."
You've looked at her a hundred times. The marks, the staged positioning, the….
Oh, no.
Same height. Same build. Same dark hair, same bone structure. She could be your sister. She could be you.
"Could be coincidence," you say nervously.
"You don't believe in coincidence." Gojo's closer now…. when did he move? "Neither do I. I think he's fixated on you specifically. I think he's been working up to you this whole time."
"No.. I…"
"I'm putting you in protective custody." His hand covers yours on the table, warm and steady."Starting now. Me, personally. I'm not trusting anyone else with this."
"Gojo…”
"Call me Satoru.” His thumb strokes your knuckles, back and forth, hypnotic. “You’re a target. Let me keep you safe."
There’s something in his voice that makes you shiver. Something almost possessive.
You pull your hand away. “I’ll be careful. I promise.”
—
The flowers start arriving two days later.
White roses. On your desk at work. On your doorstep. In your fucking car….arranged in a perfect circle with a note tucked beneath:
Soon.
Just that. One word. His handwriting is elegant, almost feminine.
“I’m putting you in protective custody,” Gojo says when you show him. His face is hard, controlled, but you can see fury underneath. “Now. Today.”
“I can’t just disappear…. ”
“He knows where you live. Where you work. He’s telling you he can get to you anytime.” Gojo grabs your shoulders. “Please. Let me protect you.”
You’ve never heard him say please before.
"What about Geto? Doesn't he…”
"Suguru's working another angle. Tracking down leads on the flower deliveries." Something flickers across his face… there, then gone. "It'll just be us. Is that okay?"
That’s how you end up in a safe house with Detective Gojo as your protection.
—
The house is small, isolated, forty minutes outside the city. Gojo does a full sweep before letting you inside…. checking corners, testing locks, his hand never far from his weapon.
“I’ll take the couch,” he says. “You get the bedroom. Don’t open the door for anyone. Don’t go outside. If anything feels wrong, you come find me immediately.”
“This is madness.”
“This is necessary.” He’s checking his gun, reloading it. “He’s obsessed with you. The profile says so. Your own fucking profile.”
He’s right. You’d written it yourself… the Rose Killer is fixated on an idealized victim. Someone he sees as pure, untouchable. Someone he wants to possess.
Someone like you.
“How long do I have to stay here?” You ask
“Until we catch him.” His smile is brittle. "Shouldn't be long. We're close."
“nd if you don’t?”
Gojo’s eyes meet yours. “I will. I promise you, I’ll catch this fucking monster before he gets anywhere near you.”
The conviction in his voice should comfort you.
But it doesn’t.
—
Three days in the safe house and you’re going stir crazy. Gojo leaves during the day to work the case, comes back at night with updates and takeout. You’re not allowed to leave. Not allowed to contact anyone except through him.
You’re a prisoner in everything but name.
Geto visits on day eight.
He arrives unannounced, stepping through the door with case files under his arm and tension radiating from every sharp line of his body. His eyes find you immediately, track over you like he's checking for damage.
"Any progress?" Satoru asks. His voice is too light.
"Some. Found connections between the victims we missed before." Geto's gaze hasn't left you. "How are you holding up?"
"Fine. Bored, mostly." You say
"Satoru taking good care of you?" There's an edge beneath the question, a blade wrapped in silk.
"Yeah. He's been great."
Something in Geto's expression darkens. "I'm sure he has."
—-
"Another body." Satoru slams his phone down so hard the screen cracks. Day ten. He looks wrecked…. dark circles under those bright eyes, stubble shadowing his jaw. “He’s taunting us. Left a note this time.”
You reach for the file. He catches your wrist. “Don’t. Trust me, you don’t want to see it.”
“Satoru…”
“It’s about you. Specifically. He knows you’re in protective custody. Knows I’m protecting you. And he’s…..” Gojo’s grip tightens. “He’s threatening what he’ll do when he gets you.”
Your stomach drops. “Let me see it.”
“No.”
“Detective Gojo, let me see the fucking note.”
He releases your wrist. Hands over the evidence bag with a photocopy inside.
The handwriting is elegant, almost beautiful:
She thinks she’s safe with you. She thinks you’ll protect her. But you can’t watch her forever, Detective. And when you blink, I’ll take what’s mine. I wonder if she’ll scream for you when I do. I hope she does. I want you to hear it.
Your hands shake. The paper crinkles in your grip. “He knows I'm here. Knows you're protecting me."
"Which means we have a leak. Someone in the department." Satoru runs both hands through his hair, tugging hard. "Or….”
"Or what?"
"Or it's someone close to the case. Someone who has access to everything we do." His eyes meet yours, and for the first time since you've known him, you see something that looks like fear. "Someone like Suguru."
"You think your partner is the killer?"
"I don't know what to think anymore." He drops onto the couch, head in his hands. "All I know is I'm not letting anyone near you. Not even him. Not until I figure this out."
Gojo takes the note back. “We’re moving you to a different safe house. Better security.”
“He’ll find me anyway.” Your hands are shaking
“Not if I kill him first.”
The way he says it… flat, matter of fact… makes you look up. There’s something in his expression you’ve never seen before. Something dark.
The new safe house is worse. More isolated. More secure. More like a fucking prison.
Gojo doesn’t leave anymore. Says he’s working the case remotely. But you notice he’s always watching you. Always between you and the doors. Always touching his gun.
“You need to sleep,” you tell him on day seven.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re exhausted. You’ll make mistakes.”
“Not with you. Never with you.” He’s sitting at the kitchen table, files spread everywhere. “He sent another letter. To the precinct this time.”
You don’t ask to see it. Don’t want to know.
“What did it say?”
“That he can smell your perfume. Knows what shampoo you use. Described what you wore three days ago.” Gojo’s hands are fists. “He’s been close to you. Close enough to…”
He stops. Breathes.
“[name], I’m going to find him,” Gojo says quietly. “And I’m going to make sure he never touches you.”
There’s something wrong with how he says it. Something that makes your skin prickle.
Something is very, very wrong.
—
You start paying attention. Start noticing things.
The way Gojo knows things about you. The way he has your favorite foods stocked. The way he watches you when he thinks you’re not looking… not like a detective protecting a witness, but like something else entirely.
Like obsession.
You search the house when he’s in the shower. Find a locked drawer in his room. Pick it with a hairpin…. thank you, YouTube.
Inside: photos of you. Dozens of them. At work. At the coffee shop. Getting into your car, backlit by afternoon sun. Walking home from the gym, earbuds in, oblivious. Some are surveillance style. Professional. Some are through your bedroom window.
All of them dated from months before you ever met him.
Your hands shake as you put them back. Lock the drawer. Walk calmly to the living room.
Gojo’s coming down the hall, hair wet, and he smiles when he sees you.
“Hey. You okay? You look pale.”
“Fine. Just tired.”
He crosses to you. Puts his hand on your forehead like he’s checking for fever, and you force yourself not to flinch.
“Maybe you should lie down,” he says softly. “I’ll make dinner.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
You go to the bedroom. Lock the door. Pull out your phone with shaking hands.
No signal. Of course there’s no fucking signal. No way out without a car, and he keeps the keys in his pocket at all times. The woods are dense enough to get lost in, and you don't know which direction leads to the road.
You’re trapped in a house with a man who’s been stalking you, and no one knows where you are.
You try to act normal during dinner. Smile at his jokes. Eat his pasta. Pretend your hands aren't shaking.
"You’re sure you’re okay?” he asks. "You seem quiet."
"Just stressed."
His hand covers yours on the table. "I know this is hard. But I promise…. I'm going to keep you safe. No matter what."
From what? you want to scream. From himself?
“What about the case? Any progress?” You ask
“Some. We’re closing in.” He’s lying. You can tell from the way his eyes shift slightly left. “Should have him in custody soon.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah.” He squeezes your hand. “Then you can go back to your life. Though I’ll miss having you here.”
Your stomach turns. “Will you?”
“Of course. It’s been nice. Taking care of you. Making sure you’re okay. I’d do it forever if you let me.”
“I’m tired. Going to bed early.” You say… standing up.
That night, you drag the dresser in front of your bedroom door.
—
You wake up to the smell of smoke.
The house is on fire.
You’re coughing, stumbling to the door, shoving the dresser away. The hallway is full of smoke. You can hear crackling. Feel heat.
“Satoru!!!” you scream.
“Here” He appears through the smoke, grabbing you. “We have to go. Now.”
He’s pulling you toward the back door when you see it….. a body on the floor. Long hair. Blood pooling.
“Who…”
“Don’t look. Just run.”
But you do look. And you recognize the face…Suguru Geto
“What did you do?” you whisper.
Gojo’s grip tightens. “Saved you. He was the killer. He was going to take you.”
“he was your partner….”
“He was a fucking psychopath who was obsessed with you”Gojo shouts over the fire. “I’ve been protecting you from him this whole time”
You try to pull away but he’s too strong. Dragging you outside into the cold night air.
The house collapses behind you. Evidence burning.
“Let me go,” you sob. “Please, Satoru , let me…”
He pins you against his car. “I can’t. Don’t you see? I can’t let you go. He’s not the only one who wanted you.” His forehead touches yours. “I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you at the conference. Since before any of this started.”
Your blood turns to ice. “The conference was before the murders.”
“I know.”
Oh god. Oh fuck.
“You’re him,” you breathe. “You’re the killer.”
Gojo’s smile is sad. Almost apologetic. “Not exactly. We both were.Suguru and me….partners in everything. We picked victims together.”
“Why?”
“Because it was fun and we were bored. Because we could.” His hand cups your face. “Until we both saw you. Then it stopped being fun. Then it became about… winning.”
You’re hyperventilating. “The notes.….”
“Suguru wanted to kill you and you to the collection. I wanted to save you. Keep you.” His thumb brushes your lips. “I won.”
“You killed him.”
“I killed a serial killer who was going to hurt you.” He opens the car door. “Get in.”
“No.” You’re shaking
“Please don’t make me force you.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“Somewhere safe. Somewhere we can start over.” His eyes are pleading. “I know I’m a monster. But I love you.”
He’s gentle as he guides you into the car.
He closes the door.
Locks it.
A/n : Your Reblogs and comments are appreciated 🫶🏻✨
Two years of dating, three years of marriage. You, Suguru and Satoru – a perfect marriage most friends could be jealous of. You loved each other so much, it almost hurt. Sometimes their love was too much, you would say. It's just... it might have been too close to the obsession. But it was okay, that's how a good marriage should look! Right? Right...? You're still wondering, while packing your bags as quietly as you can, to not wake up your husbands.
content/warnings: MDNI, marriage, husband Geto Suguru x reader, husband Gojo Satoru x readers, Satosugu, yandere, obsessive behaviours, possessive behaviour, dark romance, pregnancy, kinda babytrapping, it's a healthy relationship?, or maybe not, smut, breading kink, if I put this tag it'll be a spoiler, fem! reader runs away.
(ongoing)
First photo is from the manhwa Tears on a Withered Flower by GAE
Fanart is by I don't know who! I tried to find the artist but couldn't </3 if anyone knows them, please let me know!
Last photo is a collage also inspired by Tears on a Withered Flower
♡ 𖥻 when did you get hot? ──── a jason todd, dick grayson ongoing series.
┆PARING .ᐟ dick grayson x fem!reader x jason todd.
┆SUMMARY .ᐟ you spent your teenage years pining for your best friend's hot older brother, dick grayson. now that you've finally grown out of your awkward phase, he's slowly noticing you. but while dick's attention feels like a long-awaited dream, jason's steady gaze makes you question if you've been chasing the wrong brother all along.
┆ WARNINGS .ᐟ read on ao3, + 18 content, eventual smut. fem!reader. it's a messy love triangle. i'm following the canon/comics. reader is an honorary member of the batfamily. very slowburn. reader is jason todd's childhood best friend. there is a 6 year age gap between dick and reader.
SECOND CHAPTER ──── ❛❛BOYS, BOYS.❞
CHAPTER SUMMARY ──── ❛❛Jason meets your mom, and you have a surprising, heart fluttering encounter with his older brother.❞
LAST ﾉ MASTERLIST ﾉ READ ON AO3 ﾉ NEXT.
Your mom never owned a cell phone.
Not just because it was expensive, but because she had this stubborn loyalty to her landline. It was the first thing she’d ever gotten in her own name, and in a family barely scraping by, that clunky beige phone wasn’t just for calls, it was proof she could keep at least one thing steady on a waitress’s paycheck.
Which meant you got to see her face the night Bruce Wayne called your house.
It was early evening. You’d just trudged home from school, sweaty from sprinting for the bus. Simone had the TV blasting Twin Peaks in the living room, the baby wriggling on your mom’s hip while she tried to keep him from yanking on her earrings.
“Come on, little man, give grandma a break,” she muttered, bouncing him as he drooled down her shoulder.
The phone rang just as you were kicking off your shoes by the door.
“Gabriel, stop—oh. Hello?” Your mom’s voice flipped instantly, high and nervous. She smoothed her hair with her free hand, even though nobody could see her. “Yes, this is her mother. …Mr. Wayne?” Her eyes went wide. “Wait—your son and my daughter? Uh—yes, sir. Of course.”
You didn’t stick around. Heart thudding, you retreated into the bedroom you shared with Simone and dumped your backpack on the bed. Little Women slid out, along with the notes Jason had scribbled for you in class. You were still pulling out your pencil case when your mom appeared in the doorway, arms folded now that Gabriel had been handed off.
“Baby girl,” she said slowly. “Since when are you and the Wayne boy so close?”
“His last name’s Todd, actually,” you muttered, cheeks hot. Jason’s crooked smile at lunch flashed in your head before you could stop it. Most boys your age were gross, but Jason was… different. “He just invited me over to study. He asked for your number.”
Your mom arched a brow. “Uh-huh. Just talking, huh?”
“Yeah, just talking,” you said quickly. “So… can I go to Jason’s after school tomorrow?”
Her answer was immediate, a firm shake of her head. “Absolutely not. I’m not letting my twelve-year-old run off to some stranger’s house. I don’t care if it’s Bruce Wayne or the President. This isn’t the eighties. I told Mr. Wayne his boy can come here first. If I like him, then we’ll talk about you going over there.”
“Wait—did you just say Bruce Wayne?” Simone’s voice shot from the living room. A second later she came bounding in, Gabriel clinging to her like a little monkey. Her eyes were wide, gleaming.
“Yes, your sister’s got a study date with the Wayne boy,” your mom said. “He’s coming here tomorrow.”
Simone gasped. “No way. Wait—it’s not Dick Grayson, right? Right? He’s, like, eighteen, not some middle schooler like Ankle Biter over here.” She jiggled Gabriel on her hip like he was agreeing with her. “Oh my god—if Gotham’s prince is coming to our house—tell me it’s Dick Grayson.”
Of course. Her crush. Half her dresser was stuffed with clippings of him. People covers, glossy gossip mags, headlines like “From Circus Tragedy to Gotham’s Golden Boy” and “Rift with Bruce Wayne?” She’d read every word. To Simone, Dick wasn’t just Bruce Wayne’s ward, he was Gotham’s heartthrob.
She darted back to her drawer, fishing out a wrinkled magazine page and reading in her most dramatic voice: “‘From circus tragedy to Gotham royalty, Dick Grayson has captured the city’s heart—’” Gabriel tried to grab the paper, but she just spun away, “‘—the eighteen-year-old has stepped into the spotlight as a dashing young man—’”
You groaned, burying your face in your hands. Simone grinned at your misery.
“It’s not Dick,” you cut in, rolling your eyes. “It’s Jason. The new kid.”
Simone blinked, then smirked, rocking Gabriel on her hip. “Ohhh. That makes sense.” She leaned in with a wicked grin. “When Jason shows up, I’m asking for his brother’s number.”
“Don’t you dare embarrass me, you jerk,” you hissed, imagining Jason’s face if Simone started drooling over his older brother. Not that you were even sure if they were brothers, Bruce Wayne’s whole family situation was confusing as hell.
“Don’t call your sister names,” your mom snapped, shooting you a look. Simone only stuck out her tongue and dropped back onto the couch, TV volume cranked up until it rattled the cheap picture frames on the wall.
“Now hush, you’re ruining Twin Peaks,” she said, shoving Gabriel’s tiny hand away from the remote.
“I thought I was the middle schooler here,” you shot back, but Gabriel latched onto your sleeve, tugging until you laughed.
Simone didn’t glance up. “Shhh. I’m about to finally find out who killed Laura Palmer.”
In gym class, a volleyball came flying at your head. You barely had time to react before Jason’s hand shot up, snatching it out of the air like it was nothing. His jaw tightened, blue eyes flashing as he turned toward the girls who’d sent it your way. Without a word, he hurled the ball back. It smacked into the wall beside them with a sharp bang, making the whole group flinch.
He didn’t bother hiding his glare before turning back to you.
“So, what’d your mom say?” His voice was softer now.
“She said it’s not the eighties anymore, so I can’t just show up at your place without her meeting you first.”
Jason snorted. “Fair enough.”
“Which means,” you added, raising a brow, “you’re coming over to my place today.”
He just nodded.
You hesitated, glancing at the boys laughing nearby, then lowered your voice.
“I live in the Narrows. You… know that, right?”
Jason met your eyes without flinching. A grin tugged at his mouth. “What, you think I’m scared of a couple cracked sidewalks?”
“More like the daily homicides and muggings.”
He smirked. “Sounds charming.”
After class, he was waiting outside, wind messing up his hair. Gotham stretched out around you, still beautiful, even under the haze and the constant hum of traffic. Jason glanced over, about to say something, when a girl with short hair walked past with her friends.
“Hey, Carmen,” one of them sneered. “Did you know Jason’s dad’s rotting in prison for life?”
Carmen turned with a poisonous smile. “Really? Guess it’s only a matter of time before Jason joins him.”
The words cut sharp. Your head snapped toward Jason, bracing for his usual response, a scoff, a comeback, maybe even something reckless.
But he didn’t fight back.
His fists curled at his sides, knuckles whitening. The easy mask he always wore slipped, just for a moment, and something raw flickered through. Your chest tightened. You wanted to defend him, to shut Carmen up, but the words stuck in your throat. The girls’ laughter trailed behind them, cruel and smug, leaving only silence in their wake.
That flicker of embarrassment in Jason’s face made something inside you snap. Heat surged through you, rising fast. You locked onto Carmen’s blonde head and spun toward her.
“Listen, you—”
Jason’s hand closed around your wrist, cutting you off before your anger could sharpen. His grip was steady. Without a word, he steered you toward the academy gates.
“Let’s go,” he said quietly. Not harsh, but anchoring.
“But, Jason—”
“No.”
“But she—”
“It’s not worth it.” His jaw was tight, grip unyielding.
You swallowed your frustration as he led you, not to some sleek car with a chauffeur, like you half expected, but down the street to the bus stop. His fingers still curled lightly around your wrist, like he didn’t quite trust you not to whirl around and throw a punch.
“You should’ve let me say something,” you muttered.
“And what would you have said? She wasn’t lying.”
You glared at him, but the argument lodged in your throat. The evening breeze rattled the shelter around you. The bus screeched up, brakes hissing. Jason still didn’t let go, guiding you on board like he was afraid you’d start a fight the second he released you. He dropped the fare in without a word, shoulders stiff. For someone who usually carried himself like nothing could touch him, he suddenly looked worn.
He finally let go once you were inside, hand lingering in the air before shoving it deep into his pocket. He slid into a seat near the back, hunched forward, eyes fixed out the window. You followed and sat beside him before he could pretend he wanted space. The bus lurched back into motion, engine humming.
Jason’s reflection in the glass looked unreadable.
“She was lying,” you said softly.
His jaw clenched. “My dad’s in prison. That part wasn’t a lie.”
You leaned closer, making sure he couldn’t look away. “She was lying about you.”
He finally met your eyes, suspicion flickering there.
“You’ve had my back since I got here,” you said, voice steady. “Let me have yours too.”
The words hung between you, heavy as the rumble of the bus. Jason didn’t answer right away, but his shoulders eased, just slightly.
“I mean… if you really wanted to punch her, I wouldn’t stop you,” he muttered at last, voice low, like he was testing the waters.
Testing you.
And you couldn’t help it.
A laugh burst out, ugly and breathless. You pictured yourself swinging at Carmen’s smug face, the chaos that would follow, maybe even losing your scholarship. It was absurd, and somehow that made it funnier. Jason glanced at you, a faint flush creeping up his cheeks. For a moment, he looked his age, like your laugh had cracked through the armor.
Still smiling, you nudged him. “I know it sucks, your dad being in prison and all. But hey… at least you know where he is.”
Jason leaned back, shooting you a sidelong look.
“What? Your dad’s not around?”
“Not really,” you admitted, shrugging like it didn’t matter.
“That’s fucked up.”
“Very.”
The rest of the ride passed in silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Outside, Gotham shifted. Downtown’s shine gave way as the bus rolled into the Narrows. Buildings leaned close, brick and stone darkened by years of neglect. Fire escapes zigzagged across narrow streets, graffiti marked the walls, and the hum of life here carried a rougher edge.
The neat order of the city’s heart felt a world away, replaced by grit pressing in on both sides. You noticed Jason shifting in his seat, fingers tracing absent patterns over his backpack straps, like he was trying to will his thoughts into focus.
“My dad was a henchman,” Jason said, eyes still on the streets outside. “Ran with Penguin for a while… till he got caught.”
You shrugged, doing your best to act unimpressed, even though this was huge. He was actually opening up to you. “Hum… I don’t even remember my dad’s face. Honestly, probably for the best—he ditched us right after I was born, so I’m guessing he wasn’t much of a nice guy anyway.”
“That’s fucked up.”
“Eh… not worse than your dad working for a criminal, but yeah.”
You caught him snorting.
“What is this, Gotham’s Worst Dad Award?”
You bit down on your smile, but another laugh slipped out anyway. Jason shot you a quick side-eye, his blue eyes bright with the effort of keeping a straight face. His lips twitched, fighting a grin, until he finally gave in and laughed with you. The sound made your chest feel weirdly light. Your shoulders brushed, then your knees bumped. Neither of you pulled away, but you both pretended not to notice, like staying that close was an accident neither of you wanted to fix.
“Wait—that’s my street,” you blurted, already hoisting your backpack.
Without thinking, you grabbed Jason’s hand and tugged him toward the doors as the bus slowed. It wasn’t until you felt his fingers tighten just slightly around yours that you realized what you’d done. Heat rushed to your cheeks, but you didn’t let go.
Neither did he.
The two of you just walked side by side down the cracked sidewalk, the silence stretching in a way that felt strangely comfortable.
You glanced at him, heart thumping in your chest. “Hey… when Carmen said all that stuff about you ending up like your dad—what did she mean?”
Jason’s shoulders stiffened, but he didn’t pull his hand away.
“You don’t really keep up with the news, do you? Gotham Gazette, Gotham Times, any of that?” Jason asked. His eyes weren’t on you, they stayed fixed on the Narrows around you, like it was easier to watch the neighborhood than to face the past.
You shook your head. “Not really. My mom reads the Gazette sometimes, but I don’t. Why?”
The two of you walked past a corner bodega with bars on the windows, the smell of fried food drifting into the street. A group of kids played stickball with a dented soda can, their laughter echoing between the tight rows of buildings.
Jason’s hand tightened in yours. “Because if you did, you’d already know what she meant.” His voice was quiet, almost swallowed by the hum of the city, but heavy enough to sink in your chest.
He caught your confused expression and sighed.
“Before Bruce… before all this academy crap, I was in Crime Alley with my parents. My dad was locked up before I even turned ten. And my mom…” He paused, jaw tightening. “She wasn’t around much. Drugs, you know? By the time she overdosed, I already knew how to take care of myself. Stealing food, crashing wherever I could. That was just… normal.”
Finally, he looked at you, blue eyes sharp.
“Then Bruce caught me stealing the tires off his car,” Jason said, voice low. “He parked in Crime Alley, of all places. I couldn’t believe it.”
You raised an eyebrow. “That dumb?”
He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah… dumb enough. But that’s how he found me. Saw me struggling with the tires and… well, next thing I know, he’s taking me out of there. Adopted me. That’s how I ended up with him.”
He shrugged, like it was just another fact of life, but the weight behind his words hung between you.
“Gotham Gazette found out I was living on the streets before the adoption went through. Stealing whatever I could to survive,” Jason said flatly. “They ran an article. Bruce sued them, of course.”
You frowned. “But the damage was already done, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he admitted, eyes flicking to the cracked sidewalk. Then, almost against his own seriousness, a corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Carmen likes to call me a street rat. Like it’s supposed to be insulting.” He laughed again. “Total jerk move. But… I think she’s got a thing for me.”
You blinked, caught between disbelief and amusement. “A thing?”
Before he could answer, a voice cut through the quiet.
“Hey! You two—get down here!”
You both looked up. On the building’s fire escape, your mom leaned over the railing, arms crossed and eyes narrowing.
“Mom…” you groaned, letting go of Jason’s hand.
Jason raised an eyebrow, a small grin tugging at his lips. “Family reunion, huh?”
“Something like that,” you muttered, tugging your backpack higher.
Your mom shook her head, but there was a hint of a smile in her eyes. “Come on, you’re not standing out there all day. Get inside.”
You glanced at Jason. “Guess we’re heading up.”
He followed you as you led the way through the narrow stairwell, the city’s hum fading behind the walls of your apartment building. The door to your unit creaked open, and you stepped inside, the warmth of home washing over the tension of the streets. Jason paused at the threshold, taking it all in, then gave you a small, quiet smile.
“Nice place.”
“Thanks.”
“No shoes inside!” your mom called from the kitchen. You both froze for a second, then started kicking off your shoes almost at the same time, fumbling a little with laces and straps. Jason shot you an amused glance, and you couldn’t help but grin.
Before you could start explaining the apartment rules, like no shoes inside and no eating on the couch, your mom appeared in the living room.
“Jason, huh?” she said, giving him a careful once-over, arms crossed but her expression neutral. “You’re the one my kid’s been hanging out with?”
Jason straightened slightly, offering a polite nod. “Yeah. Nice to meet you, ma’am.”
Your mom studied him for a beat. Her gaze lingered on the faint smudge of dirt on his jeans, the way he kept his hands tucked close to his sides. Finally, a tiny smile appeared. “Alright. You don’t seem like a thug. That’s a good start.”
Jason allowed himself a small smirk. “I’ll take it.”
You couldn’t resist. “See? Told you she’s selective.”
She rolled her eyes, shaking her head, but the warmth in her expression was undeniable. “Selective, yeah… but fair. Now, come on—sit down before you two track dirt all over my floor.”
Jason raised an eyebrow at you. “Guess I better behave then.”
When you two finally went up to your room for the study session, your mom was very clear about one thing. The door had to stay open.
“Last time I wasn’t looking,” she said, arms crossed, “your sister ended up pregnant. So—door stays open.”
You froze, cheeks flaming. Mortified. Jason, meanwhile, looked like he wanted to disappear, maybe even throw himself out the nearest window.
“Uh… noted,” you managed, fumbling to pull your chair closer to the desk.
Jason gave you a weak, incredulous look, running a hand through his hair. “Seriously… what did I walk into?”
You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head. “Welcome to my life.”
Once the initial shock faded, you both got down to work. Books and notebooks spread across your desk like a small battlefield. You tried to concentrate, but Jason kept brushing past your arm as he reached for a pen, his closeness making your chest thump a little faster than usual.
By the time you hit the physics homework, both of you were running on fumes. Numbers weren’t really Jason’s thing, and your brain felt like it was slowly melting under the weight of equations and Newton’s laws. Jason had abandoned the desk entirely, perched in your chair with a resigned slump, while you lay sprawled on your bed, staring at the cracks in the ceiling and trying not to scream.
After a long pause, he muttered.
“What’s your favorite book?”
“Diary of a Wimpy Kid,” you said without missing a beat, letting your eyes wander back to the ceiling.
Jason raised an eyebrow, leaning back in the chair. “Really?” His voice carried a mix of disbelief and amusement. “That’s… your favorite?”
“Yep. Greg Heffley all the way,” you said, shrugging. “Don’t judge me.”
“I mean… it’s an okay choice for a middle schooler.”
“You’re a middle schooler, smartpants. So what’s your favorite book?”
“To Kill a Mockingbird. Harper Lee.”
“You’re twelve.”
“With a big brain,” he said, grinning.
You rolled your eyes. “A twelve-year-old with a big brain who reads sad, moral novels instead of, I don’t know… comics or something.”
Jason leaned forward, mock-offended. “Come on, that book’s a classic. And it’s about justice, morality, and human nature. Stuff that matters.”
“Yeah, well,” you said, sitting up a little, “all I want to know is whether Greg Heffley is actually touching the cheese in the schoolyard or not.”
Jason blinked at you, a corner of his mouth twitching. “You’re… serious?”
“I am twelve!”
Before he could respond, your mom called from the bedroom doorway.
“Alright, you two, I made something for you—come eat before it gets cold.”
You and Jason both glanced toward the doorway. Jason shot you a mock-exasperated look, like silently asking: do we really have to pause our profound Cheese Touch debate?
“You already know, food over morality,” you muttered, nudging him toward the kitchen. The moment you stepped inside, the warm smell of freshly baked cake hit you both. Your mom was wiping her hands on a towel, a proud smile on her face as she set the cake on the table.
“Sit down,” your mom said, motioning to the chairs.
She set two big slices of cake on your plates, then looked at Jason with a warm smile. “So… Jason, I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”
“You have?” he asked, raising an eyebrow in surprise.
“Well,” she said, nodding toward you, “Ankle Biter here doesn’t have a ton of friends, so she was pretty thrilled when you came along.”
“Mom…” you groaned, feeling your cheeks heat up.
“Ankle Biter?” Jason echoed, clearly confused.
She laughed. “Yeah, that’s a family nickname. When she was a toddler, she had this weird obsession with biting people’s ankles. Didn’t matter who, me, her siblings, everyone got nibbled. The name stuck.”
You buried your face in your hands, muttering, “Thanks for bringing that up again.”
Jason chuckled quietly, shaking his head. “Okay… that’s actually kind of adorable.”
While you two started digging into the cake, your mom paused, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Hold on—I think the family album’s in the living room. I’ll go grab it.”
Your stomach sank. “Mom…”
Jason tilted his head, curious. “Family album?”
“Oh, it’s mostly pictures of this one growing up,” she said, pointing at you with a grin. She disappeared down the hallway, leaving you and Jason alone for a moment. You shot him a nervous glance.
“Trust me,” you whispered, “this it’s going to be painful."
A few minutes later, she returned, album in hand, her grin impossibly wide. “Alright, kids, brace yourselves!”
She flipped open the pages, and soon Jason was laughing along with you at your childhood antics; Halloween costumes where you were inexplicably wrapped like a burrito, the time you flooded the kitchen trying to give your nephew a bath, crayon-eating sessions, and countless diaper disasters.
Jason shook his head, still chuckling. “You… were a weird kid.”
“Yeah… apparently, some things never change.”
After the cake break, and the humiliation of the family album, you and Jason slogged through the rest of your homework. By the time you both finished, the sun was dipping low and the apartment felt quieter, softer.
When your mom started clearing the table, Jason stood up without hesitation. “Here, let me help.”
“You don’t have to—” she began, but he was already stacking plates and carrying them to the sink.
A few minutes later, he was elbow-deep in suds, carefully rinsing dishes while your mom dried beside him. They traded easy small talk, her laughter ringing through the kitchen at something he said. You leaned against the doorway, watching. Your mom kept sneaking little approving glances at him, the kind she usually reserved for rare miracles, like when one of your siblings actually remembered to do their chores.
By the time they finished, you were pretty sure your mom was completely smitten with Jason Todd.
“Oh, honey, you definitely have to come by more often!” your mom said as Jason slipped his shoes on in the hallway.
Jason glanced up, clearly caught off guard. Before he could respond, she reached out and ruffled his hair like he’d been hers all along. He froze for half a second, wide-eyed, then let out a startled laugh.
“Uh—thanks, ma’am,” he said, scratching the back of his neck once she pulled her hand away. His voice was polite, but there was something softer underneath it, something almost shy.
You caught the look on his face, the way his surprise lingered, almost like he wasn’t used to this kind of easy affection. Maybe it had been a while since anyone’s mom treated him like he belonged. As she headed back into the apartment, Jason adjusted his backpack, still looking thoughtful. Then he muttered just loud enough for you to hear, “Your mom’s… kinda great.”
You grinned, bumping his shoulder. “She’s already adopted you.”
He just smiled.
“See you tomorrow, Ankle Biter.”
“Don’t start with that.”
“Sorry,” he wasn’t sorry.
It didn’t take long before you found yourself at Wayne Manor. By mid-July, the city was baking under the kind of heat that made the asphalt shimmer and the air feel heavy. Your grades had climbed, thanks in no small part to Jason’s relentless tutoring and your mom, pleased with the results, finally relaxed enough to let you enjoy a Saturday morning at Bruce Wayne’s pool. The idea of setting foot in that mansion still felt surreal, but the promise of cool water on a sweltering day was enough to push the nerves aside.
You were clutching your backpack and a pair of pink goggles when the enormous front doors creaked open. Instead of Jason, or even Bruce Wayne himself, you were met by a tall, neatly dressed man with the kind of posture that made him look both intimidating and gentle all at once.
“Good morning, Miss,” he said warmly, dipping his head in greeting. “You must be Master Jason’s guest. Welcome to Wayne Manor.”
You blinked up at him, momentarily forgetting the goggles in your hand. “Uh… hi.”
“I’m Alfred. Master Jason mentioned you’d be joining us today.” He stepped aside, gesturing toward the sweeping entryway behind him. “Please, come in. Shoes off if you plan to go near the pool. I do insist on keeping the floors spotless.”
You stepped inside, the marble floor gleaming beneath your sneakers, the air cool compared to the heavy July heat outside. Before you could say anything else, heavy footsteps echoed from the grand staircase. Jason came jogging down two steps at a time, hair a little messy, a smug grin already plastered on his face.
“Took you long enough,” he said, eyeing the goggles in your hand. “Nice look. Very intimidating.”
“Master Jason,” Alfred chided lightly, though his eyes held the faintest hint of amusement. “I’ll remind you that a good host welcomes his guests, not mocks their swimwear.”
Then he turned back to you, his voice polite as ever.
“Shall I bring refreshments to the pool, Miss, or would you prefer to settle in first?”
“Um… I don’t know, maybe—” you started, fumbling for an answer.
Before you could finish, Jason grabbed your wrist. “She’ll figure it out later,” he cut in, already tugging you toward the hallway.
“Jason—” you protested, stumbling after him.
Alfred’s lips twitched, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his composure as he watched the two of you disappear. “Very well,” he murmured to himself, already making a mental note to prepare lemonade anyway.
“Jesus,” you breathed, your eyes darting from the towering walls to the gleaming chandeliers. “Your house is… huge.”
Jason smirked, clearly enjoying your reaction as you trailed behind him, taking in every ridiculous detail of Wayne Manor’s endless hallways. But the second you stepped outside, all the polished wood and fancy décor vanished from your mind. Your jaw practically hit the ground.
The pool stretched out in front of you, sparkling under the July sun like something out of a magazine. It wasn’t just big, it was massive, the kind of pool that could probably fit your entire apartment building inside it.
Jason caught the look on your face. “Yeah,” he said casually. “Kinda beats the community pool, huh?”
Before you knew it, you were in the pool with Jason, the cool water a relief from the sticky heat. Within seconds, the two of you had devolved into chaos, splashing, dunking, and laughing so hard you could barely catch your breath.
Jason tried to push you under, but you kicked out and sent a wave straight into his face. He came up sputtering, hair plastered to his forehead.
“Oh, you’re dead,” he warned, grinning.
You squealed and swam away as fast as you could, only for him to catch your ankle and tug you back, both of you thrashing and laughing loud enough to echo across the entire yard.
It wasn’t elegant, or graceful, or anything remotely like what you imagined swimming at a billionaire’s pool might look like. But it was fun.
“Wait, wait, wait! I need water!” you called, water dripping from your hair as it plastered itself across your face.
You clambered out of the pool, the tiles slippery under your feet. Water splashed across the floor as you trudged toward the kitchen, still in your Minnie Mouse bathing suit and pink diving goggles, hair sticking in every direction.
Jason called after you, laughing. “Hey! Watch the floors!”
You barely heard him over the squelching sound of your wet footprints. You stomped into the kitchen, dripping water everywhere, hair plastered to your face and pink goggles still perched crookedly on your head and then—
He was there.
An older boy, maybe seventeen or eighteen, leaning casually against the counter. His black hair fell in soft, natural waves, and his blue eyes were bright, full of energy even as they casually scanned the kitchen. His posture was effortless, every movement smooth and confident, and the kind of grin he wore made your heart skip a beat. Your twelve-year-old brain short-circuited. Every coherent thought evaporated. He wasn’t just cute, he was everything your pre-teen imagination could dream up: athletic, graceful, and handsome in a way that made your stomach twist.
You blinked at him like an idiot, water dripping off your arms and legs, goggles slipping down your forehead, and your entire body felt like it had forgotten how to move.
“Uh… hi?”
“Water,” you squeaked, your voice sounding like a squeaky cartoon mouse instead of a human being.
His head tilted slightly, amused. He pointed toward the fridge. “Over there.”
You nodded so fast it was probably alarming, barely noticing your heart pounding in your ears. You grabbed the water bottle from the fridge, hands shaking so badly you nearly dropped it. Your brain had officially shut down. You couldn’t speak, couldn’t form a sentence, couldn’t even process how someone could look like that.
The older boy studied you for a moment, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You… you’re Jason’s friend, right?”
Your throat went dry. Words existed somewhere in your brain, but they refused to cooperate. All you could do was nod violently, blinking so fast it was a miracle your pink goggles stayed on.
“Uh-huh,” you squeaked.
He leaned a little closer. “Nice. I’m Dick.”
“Uh-huh."
Before he could say anything else, Dick flashed that grin again, his white, perfect teeth, and you almost screamed. Panicking, you spun on your heels and bolted back toward the pool, your wet feet slipping slightly on the shiny floor. You wobbled, arms flailing, barely catching yourself before a full-on faceplant.
From behind you, Dick’s laughter rang out, warm and amused. “Careful, kid!” he called, still grinning.
You didn’t reply, too busy trying to regain your balance and convincing yourself your heart wasn’t trying to leap out of your chest.
You officially hated boys.
┆NOTES .ᐟ Jason’s mention of his father being in prison aligns with Red Hood and the Outlaws: Rebirth. Willis Todd’s backstory is detailed in Red Hood: Outlaws #23.
♡ 𖥻 when did you get hot? ──── a jason todd, dick grayson ongoing series.
┆PARING .ᐟ dick grayson x fem!reader x jason todd.
┆SUMMARY .ᐟ you spent your teenage years pining for your best friend's hot older brother, dick grayson. now that you've finally grown out of your awkward phase, he's slowly noticing you. but while dick's attention feels like a long-awaited dream, jason's steady gaze makes you question if you've been chasing the wrong brother all along.
┆WARNINGS .ᐟ read on ao3, + 18 content, eventual smut. fem!reader. it's a messy love triangle. i'm following the canon/comics. reader is an honorary member of the batfamily. very slowburn. reader is jason todd's childhood best friend. there is a 6 year age gap between dick and reader.
FIRST CHAPTER ──── ❛❛I THINK I WOULD REMEMBER IF YOU HAD THAT FACE.❞
CHAPTER SUMMARY ──── ❛❛You never wanted that stupid scholarship or to attend a school full of snobby rich kids. But then Jason Todd showed up, and suddenly, you felt… something.❞
NEXT ﾉ MASTERLIST ﾉ READ ON AO3.
──── GOTHAM ACADEMY, GOTHAM, NEW JERSEY. EARLY 2011.
Rejection is probably the worst thing a pre-teen could feel.
It settles on your small shoulders like a heavy, tattered cape, dragging you down with every step. Your eyes stay glued to your shoes, two sizes too big, scuffed, hand-me-downs from your older sister’s high school days. The worn soles squeak softly against the polished floors, echoing through the hallways in a way that makes you feel painfully exposed. Around you, the other kids laugh in crisp uniforms, their shoes shiny and perfectly fitted, their backpacks glossy and new. The smell of polished wood and lemon-scented cleaner fills the air and every whisper of laughter, every glance at you, feels like a spotlight shining on your differences.
Your hands hang awkwardly at your sides, fingers brushing against the oversized sleeves of your blazer. Your mom couldn’t afford to buy a new uniform, but thankfully your neighbor’s daughter had been a scholarship student at Gotham Academy too, and now you have a set of her old blazers, one of them swallowing your frame. The skirt is another story, your mom patched the gaps with so much care that it almost hurts to look at it, the stitching holding more love than it could ever be fashionable.
“Are you kidding me? They just accept anyone these days. Bruce Wayne must be losing it,” you hear from behind. Four boys are passing by, their voices loud and casual, but every word feels like it’s meant to land right on you. The tallest one has messy blonde hair and a smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes. He glances you up and down, lingering just long enough for you to feel the weight of his judgment.
“Whoa… did you smell that?” he adds, laughing, and his friends snicker along with him. You shrink into your oversized uniform, tugging at the sleeves as if hiding could erase your presence. Your patched skirt and too-big shoes suddenly feel heavier, every step squeaking against the polished floor like it’s announcing your wrongness to the whole hallway. You force your gaze down, wishing the walls could swallow you up and make them forget you exist.
When the bell rang, you nearly bolted toward your classroom, slipping inside as quickly as you could. You didn’t dare look at anyone, didn’t pause to meet a single pair of eyes. Instead, you went straight for the last row, sliding into the corner seat like it was the only safe place left in the room.
The chair was surprisingly comfortable, far sturdier than the wobbly desks back at your old public school. Even the air here felt different, quieter, sharper, like everything at Gotham Academy had been built to remind you of how far you were from home. For the first time that morning, you let out a shaky breath, thinking maybe, just maybe, you could disappear here.
But then a shadow fell across your desk.
“That’s my seat,” a boy’s voice drawled. He stood over you, arms crossed, a smug grin tugging at his face. It’s the same blonde from the hallway. His friends lingered behind him, already laughing as if they knew how this would end. You froze, hands clutching the edge of the desk, heat rising in your cheeks.
He leaned closer, wrinkling his nose like you were some kind of disease. “Ew… do you always smell like that? Cheap, nasty perfume—my maid wears better stuff than that,” he sneered. “I can smell it from here. You’ve basically ruined the whole row with… whatever that is.”
His friends burst into loud, cruel laughter, the sound echoing off the classroom walls like it was meant to humiliate you. A few kids glanced over, some giggling, others quickly pretending they hadn’t noticed, like they didn’t want to be associated with someone like you. You felt your stomach drop, shrinking further into yourself, wishing you could vanish into the floor. But before you could even move, another shadow fell over the desk.
“Back off, Jordan.”
The voice came from your left. You looked up and saw a boy with dark hair and piercing blue eyes standing there. He didn’t move closer, didn’t shout, but the weight in his tone made the room feel heavier.
Jordan's smirk faltered. “Excuse me? Do you know who you’re talking to? My family—”
Your savior’s lips curled into a sharp, unreadable smirk. “Yeah, I know your family. You’re horrible with chicks just like your dad, huh? Wife-beater behavior runs in the family.”
The words hit Jordan harder than anything else could. His friends froze, unsure whether to laugh or retreat. Jordan's face went red with anger, his smugness cracking, but he opened his mouth to defend himself.
“My dad… my family—”
He cut him off, deadly serious. “I don’t give a fuck about your dad. Back off before I break your nose.”
Jordan’s scowl deepened, lips pressed into a tight line, but he finally stepped back, muttering under his breath. The black haired boy dropped into the seat next to yours and gave a small, almost invisible nod.
“I’m Jason,” he said, his tone casual, but there was a sharp edge to it, the kind of confidence that made it clear he wasn’t someone you messed with. On the surface, he looked like a regular rich kid, fancy shoes, hair perfectly in place. But his eyes… They carried weight, the kind of intensity you didn’t usually see in someone born with a silver spoon in their mouth. He leaned back slightly, one shoulder brushing yours, and gave a small, half-smile. “Don’t worry about Jordan. He acts like he’s got a stick up his ass all the time probably because his dad’s a disgusting piece of shit.”
“His dad?” you asked, surprised.
“Uhm… Mayor Hamilton Hill,” Jason said with a shrug, like it was common knowledge.
You glanced toward Jordan, who sat a few rows up with his friends gathered around him, tossing out half-baked jokes to lighten his mood. But he wasn’t laughing. The moment he felt your eyes on him, his head snapped back, and his gaze locked onto you, sharp, furious, like you’d trespassed into a place you didn’t belong.
It was insane. He didn’t even know you, yet the hatred was already there, simmering in the way his lips curled. It wasn’t just about a seat. It was about the uniform you wore that didn’t quite fit, the scuffed shoes on your feet, the patched skirt stitched with love instead of money. To him, you weren’t just a new student, you were a reminder that not everyone at Gotham Academy came wrapped in silk and gold, and he despised you for it. But your twelve-year-old brain didn’t hold onto things for long, and your attention shifted the moment class began. Physics was first, and you let out a quiet sigh as you pulled your notebooks from your bag.
The teacher started scribbling equations across the board, symbols and numbers flowing together like another language. You stared at them, eyes wide, as if you’d just been asked to solve rocket science. Back at your old public school, lessons had been slow, basic, sometimes the teacher didn’t even bother showing up. Here, though, everything moved too fast, built on foundations you’d never been taught.
Your pencil hovered uselessly over the page. It wasn’t just that you hated numbers, it was that you’d never been given a real chance to understand them. And now, surrounded by kids who nodded along like it was nothing, the gap between their world and yours stretched wider with every line the teacher wrote.
You felt your cheeks grow warm, shame settling heavy in your stomach. You shifted, hoping no one would notice.
But someone did.
Jason leaned back in his chair, glancing sideways at your notebook. He didn’t say anything at first, just smirked faintly, like he’d already figured out what was going on. When the teacher turned back to the board, Jason muttered low enough for only you to hear, “Don’t sweat it. Half these rich idiots don’t actually get it either—they just pay people to make ’em look smart.”
He tapped his pencil once against his desk, casual. Before you could give him more than an awkward smile and a straightened, whispered “thank you,” your teacher’s voice cut through the room.
“Alright, let’s see who was paying attention…” His eyes swept the class, finger pausing before landing right on you. “You—new girl. Can you answer this one?”
Your stomach dropped. The chalk marks on the board blurred together, numbers and symbols turning into a jumble that made your chest tighten. You gripped your pencil so hard it might snap. A couple of kids twisted in their seats to look back at you, some already smirking, waiting for you to trip.
Jason didn’t give them the satisfaction.
“She knows it,” he cut in smoothly, his tone sharp enough to snap the tension. He leaned back in his chair with a cocky grin, eyes locked on the teacher. “But if you’re really trying to put someone on the spot, pick me. I like this crap.”
A low ripple of laughter moved through the room. The teacher frowned, hesitated, then sighed and called on another student instead. The whispers quickly faded, the eyes on you turning back to the board. Jason glanced sideways, his smirk softening into something less sharp, almost reassuring. The knot in your chest began to ease, and you found yourself giving him a small, uncertain smile in return. Maybe, just maybe, you hadn’t walked into Gotham Academy completely alone.
“Mom, I’m home!” your voice echoed down the narrow, dimly lit hallway of the apartment building as you kicked off your shoes by the open door. The soles were caked with grime from the Narrows, subway dust, rain-slick asphalt, and everything else Gotham liked to cling to you on the walk back from the station. No matter how polished and pristine the Academy looked, the streets you crossed to get home never let you forget where you really lived. The apartment was small and warm, and smelled faintly of onions sizzling in a pan.
Your mom stood in the kitchen, still in her diner uniform, apron strings knotted tight around her waist. Her hair was falling loose from a bun, and she looked bone-tired, but her face lit up the second she saw you.
“There’s my smart girl,” she said, stirring the pot before wiping her hands on her apron. Her face looked worn, and the smell of cheap coffee still clung to her, but her smile was full of pride. “How was your first day?”
“It was nice, I guess.”
She tugged gently at your shirt and skirt, inspecting the seams with a frown, worried her stitching might not hold up through a long day. “Don’t forget—I need that uniform. I’m washing and pressing it tonight, no excuses.”
From the living room, your brother called out over the blaring baseball game. By his grunts, it sounded like the Gotham Knights were losing again. He was stretched out on the old couch in a clean T-shirt. Rare sight “Come on, ma,” he said, a grin in his voice. “She’ll survive one day at school without you wrapping her in bubble wrap.”
Your mom just kissed your forehead, “Go get cleaned up before dinner.”
You passed your brother in the living room. His feet were kicked up on the scratched coffee table, a pile of magazines teetering nearby. The couch sagged under him, its faded fabric dotted with crumbs and the faint smell of sweat and sawdust from work.
“Mom’s going to kill you for that,” you muttered, glancing at his scuffed boots by the door. He’d been working construction since he dropped out of high school, putting in long, dusty days at sites all over the Narrows. He always smelled like concrete and sweat.
He just reached out and ruffled your hair. “Go shower, Ankle Biter. You stink.” He sniffed dramatically and recoiled, waving a hand. “Wait… is that mom’s perfume?”
You wrinkled your nose.
“You know that stuff’s ancient,” he said, gasping as if he’d just uncovered a crime scene. “Seriously, go shower before she notices.”
Chances were, she had already noticed, not just the perfume, but that you’d tried to borrow some of her makeup. A bit of foundation under your dark circles, a touch of mascara, last night had been rough with your older sister’s newborn crying nonstop. But your mom was too kind to say anything, letting you slip by, proud of you no matter how small the effort to look presentable for the new school.
“Tony, take your dirty feet off my coffee table!” you heard your mom yell as you shut the tiny bathroom door behind you. Something thumped against the couch, probably whatever she had thrown at your brother this time. From the front door, your sister’s arrival reached your ears, your nephew babbling nonsense only she seemed to understand. You laughed and shook your head, slipping out of your uniform. The noise and chaos of the apartment faded into the background, a comforting white noise as you stepped into the shower.
But your moment of peace was short-lived. A knock at the bathroom door sounded insistent.
“Come on! I really need to pee—these pregnancy hormones are no joke!” your sister shouted.
The perks of having only one bathroom in the whole house.
“You’re not pregnant anymore, Simone,” you said, opening the door, already dressed in your Superman pajamas. She barged in, practically shoving you aside.
“She better not be!” your mom yelled from the kitchen as the baby reached up to tug at her hair.
Simone had become a teen mom last year, after six months of secretly dating the crackhead who lived down the street. You were pretty sure he was too old for her and he hadn’t paid a cent in child support. That’s why she dropped out of high school in her senior year, taking a job as a cashier at the corner bodega just to make ends meet. You still remembered the shouting matches between your mom and her.
And Tony? Well, he dropped out of high school in his junior year after your dad bailed, leaving your mom to raise three kids on her own. Since then, he’d stepped in, not just as a father figure, but as the one keeping the household afloat.
They were over the moon when you got the scholarship. You could see it in your mom’s eyes, in Simone’s beaming smile. In Tony’s quiet praises. For the first time, someone in your family was getting a shot at a real education, a chance to step out of the struggles of the Narrows and into something bigger.
At the dinner table, you carefully recounted your first day, making it sound smooth and easy, because you didn’t want to worry them. You left out the tears in the girls’ bathroom during lunch, and the awkward encounter with the mayor’s son. This was your moment and you wanted them to share in the pride, not the doubts.
Tony pushed his plate back slightly, crumbs clinging to his fingers. He leaned back in the chair. “Nice to hear your day was all sunshine and rainbows, Ankle Biter,” he said, voice teasing but gentle. “But… don’t you have homework? I doubt Gotham Academy goes easy on you.”
You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ll get to it.”
Across the table, your mom was sneaking glances at you while eating, and Simone cooed at her baby, mumbling something.
That night, you helped with the dishes. It was just you and your mom in the kitchen, steam curling from the leftover food as she slid containers into the fridge and you dried the plates. The apartment was quiet except for the clink of dishes and the low hum of the radiator.
“Mom,” you asked quietly, glancing up at her, “can you help me with my homework?”
She froze for a second, the spatula hovering mid-air, before straightening her shoulders like she knew exactly what she was doing. “Uh… of course,” she said, her voice a little too bright, a little too confident. You could see it in the way she smoothed her apron and tried not to fidget, homework had never been her strong suit, but she was determined to make you feel like she had it under control.
You smiled at her, and she returned it, though just barely. The tremor in her hands betrayed the confident posture she was trying to wear. You could see it in the way she shifted her weight from foot to foot, biting her lip, fumbling with her apron—your mom trying so hard to seem capable, even though you knew she’d never finished school.
You sighed softly and headed to the bedroom. Simone and the baby were already lying across her bed, the little guy murmuring an incoherent babble, while Simone was reading a copy of People magazine, her eyes caught on an article about Kim Kardashian’s whirlwind 72-day marriage that everyone had been gossiping about. You grabbed the textbook the school had handed you, opening it to the first chapter.
“I need to write an essay about Little Women by Louisa May Alcott,” you said, setting the book on your lap. You could feel your mom lingering in the doorway, hesitant, hands clasped together like she wasn’t sure whether to leave or step in.
“Uh… yeah, okay,” she said finally. “I… I can help. Sure. Sit down.”
You patted the spot beside you. She sat, sinking onto the edge of the bed with a little groan, the mattress dipping under her weight. Immediately, you noticed the way she scanned the page like it might explode in her hands, brow furrowed, lips pressed tight. She glanced at you, clearly anxious, pretending she understood, but the way she tapped the page with her finger betrayed her.
You looked at your mom with soft eyes, taking in the tired lines on her face and the slight tremor in her hands. You’d never seen her reading a book your entire life. Gently, you kissed her forehead.
“Mom… I actually asked my new friend—uh, Jason—to help me with this earlier,” you said casually. Sometimes, lying isn’t wrong—it’s just protecting someone’s feelings... “He promised to explain the parts I didn’t get, so you don’t have to worry.”
Her eyes widened a little, a flicker of relief, and maybe guilt, crossing her face. She tried to hide it with a nod. “Oh… right. A new friend,” she said, her voice just a little shaky. “That’s… good. That’s… really helpful.”
She stood up from the edge of your bed and shuffled around the cramped bedroom, fumbling slightly as she grabbed your uniform from the pile of laundry on the chair. Her shoulders were hunched, and the dark circles under her eyes betrayed just how little sleep she’d had.
“I’m going to wash it and press it,” she said, trying to sound firm.
“It’s midnight, mom… you have work tomorrow,” you protested softly, reaching out to stop her.
She paused and turned to you, giving you a small smile. The corners of her eyes crinkled, and she brushed a loose strand of hair from your face. “Just go to sleep, pretty girl. I’ve got this,” she said, her voice gentle.
For a moment, the hum of the radiator and the soft creak of the floorboards filled the apartment. You watched your mom from the bedroom doorway, folding your uniform carefully.
Once she was done, you closed the door behind you and walked over to Simone, who was lounging on her bed with the baby beside her, the TV flickering in the background with Keeping Up with the Kardashians. “Hey, have you read this book?” you asked, holding up the textbook.
“Of course not,” she replied without looking up, her eyes still fixed on the magazine. “I tried watching the movie with Christian Bale, but it was so boring I couldn’t even finish it.” She nodded toward the TV with a faint smirk. “Honestly, this show is way more entertaining.”
You rolled your eyes and sat down next to her. “Well, one of us has to actually, you know… learn something.”
She snorted, tossing a blanket over your lap. You closed the book and leaned closer to her. “Sure, Professor Ankle Biter.”
Slowly, your eyelids grew heavy. You drifted off with your big sister gently stroking your hair and with the soft weight of your nephew curled against you, drooling lightly on the sheets.
You didn’t see Jason again until four days later. By then, you’d noticed he had this strange habit of skipping school for days at a time and then showing up with fresh, unexplained bruises. This time, it was a swollen black eye, dark and raw against his skin. At lunch, the cafeteria buzzed with voices and clattering trays, every table crowded with clusters of friends, except his. He sat alone, hunched over, picking at the food he wasn’t eating.
“You should put some ice on that,” you said quietly, stepping up behind him.
Jason glanced up. “Yeah, I’ll get right on that.” His voice wavered just a little.
You shifted the Little Women book in your hands, hugging it against your chest, not sure what to say next. He noticed, his gaze flicking to the cover.
“You finish the essay yet?”
You shook your head. “Not even close.”
Something in his expression softened. “Good,” he muttered, leaning back in his chair. “Makes me feel a little better.”
You sat down, facing him, heart racing slightly. But you didn’t answer right away, and the silence stretched until he let out a long sigh. “It shouldn’t take long. Little Women’s an easy book.”
“Yeah, totally easy. I can read it with my eyes closed,” you said, shifting in your seat. But Jason caught it—the way your hands fidgeted with the spine of the book, the slight awkward twist of your shoulders. His gaze tracked every movement like he was piecing together a puzzle.
“You never read it, did you?”
“Mm… no.”
“You didn’t understand it?”
You shook your head, bracing yourself for a sarcastic jab, maybe even a laugh. But none came. Jason just sat there, studying you with that bruised face and tired eyes. He leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the table like he was debating whether to bother. Then he huffed out a breath. “Alright. Look. Little Women’s not rocket science.”
You tilted your head, clutching the book tighter. “Easy for you to say.”
He smirked faintly, but it didn’t quite reach his bruised eye. “Okay, so—you got four sisters, right? Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy. They’re dirt poor, but they’re trying to keep it together while their dad’s off fighting in the war.” He paused, making sure you were listening. “The book’s really about how they deal with growing up when everything around them kinda sucks.”
You blinked at him. “That’s… actually a lot clearer than how our teacher explained it.”
Jason shrugged. “Yeah, well, teachers like to make things sound fancy. Truth is, it’s just about family. Each sister’s got her thing—Meg wants to fit in, Jo doesn’t want to be told what to do, Beth’s sweet but too quiet for her own good, and Amy… well, Amy’s Amy.”
You bit back a laugh. “That’s it? That’s your literary analysis?”
His lips twitched. “Hey, I didn’t say I was writing your essay for you. I’m just giving you the cheat sheet. Point is, the story’s not about big words or whatever—it’s about trying to do right by your family even when life kicks you in the teeth.” His voice softened at the edges, like maybe he wasn’t just talking about the book anymore.
For a second, neither of you spoke. The cafeteria noise buzzed around you, but at that table, it was just the two of you.
You looked down at the cover of Little Women and then back at him. “You’re… actually kind of good at this.”
Jason smirked again. “Don’t spread that around. Gotta keep my reputation.”
“Yeah, sure but... Thank you,” you said quietly.
He leaned back, starting to wave it off. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve read this book a bunch of times, so it’s—”
“No, not just about the book,” you cut in, heat rising in your cheeks. “I mean… standing up for me. For not letting Jordan humiliate me. Or our teachers.”
For once, Jason didn’t have a quick comeback. His smirk faded into something gentler, almost surprised, like he wasn’t used to anyone noticing that side of him. He rubbed at the edge of his tray, looking everywhere but at you.
“Yeah, well,” he muttered, voice low, “somebody had to.”
Neither of you said anything after that, both of your faces heating up. Jason’s eyes dropped to his bruised knuckles, and you found yourself fiddling with the corner of your book.
“So, uh… did you start the physics homework?” he asked suddenly, like he needed to change the subject fast.
You shook your head. “No.”
“Okay, then. We’ll do the essay together, and after class we’ll tackle physics.”
Your eyes widened. “Really? I mean—I don’t want to bother yo—”
“Just give me your mom’s number,” Jason cut in, his words quick and clumsy. “I’ll… I’ll ask Bruce to talk to her. You can come over to my place. There’s more room to study there.”
You blinked. “Bruce?”
His body went rigid. He scratched the back of his neck, looking everywhere but at you. “Uh—Bruce Wayne. He, uh… adopted me. I’m… adopted.”
You froze for a second, eyes wide, your mouth opening and closing like you were about to say something smart but failing spectacularly. “Wait… so… you live with Bruce Wayne? Like… the billionaire guy?”
Jason’s cheeks flushed, and he jerked his hand toward the tray in front of him. “Yeah… but it’s not like I’m rich or anything, okay? Don’t tell anyone.”
You nodded frantically, heart racing, words tripping over themselves. “No, no! I—I won’t! I promise!”
He gave a small, awkward smile, and the cafeteria noise faded into the background, leaving just the two of you. Awkward, a little embarrassed, but strangely… allies in all of this.
┆NOTES .ᐟ Jordan Hill and his family aren't OC's. Fans of The Batman: The Animated Series might recognize him as the Mayor’s son. He’s not actually a jerk in canon, but I needed someone to fill the bully role here. Canonically, Dick Grayson was a Gotham Academy student in both the Young Justice comics and the show. I read Issue #408 and the subsequent issues covering Jason’s origin and didn’t find much about the school he attended before his death, but I decided to place him in Gotham Academy for the story.
┆NOTES .ᐟ A few small changes: I decided that the beginning of the story will take place in the early 2010s, with Jason and the Reader being 12 years old. The references and technology at the start will follow that period.
┆NOTES .ᐟ As an author, and especially one who writes "reader x" fics, sometimes the absence of a nuclear family for the MC makes me relate to them less as real people and more as ornaments in someone else’s story. Coming from a big family, being poor, and growing up in the Narrows are experiences that shape our reader and her perspective.
The data indicating the average person experiences 3.4 attacks annually is misleading. You- who seem to find yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time several times a month- represents a significant deviation from the norm and should not be counted in the dataset.
(Seriously, if there was a punch card for civilian endangerment, you'd have earned a free mug and a commemorative sticker by now)
Or; in which Nightwing accidentally develops feelings for the anxious woman whose rescue has become part of his regular nightly routine by this point.
10.7k words
It’s a Tuesday and there’s a gun pressed against your spine.
Tuesday has always been the worst day of the week in your opinion- past the motivation of Monday, too far from the relief of Friday, just existing in this pathetic middle ground of mundane awfulness. And now, apparently, Tuesday has decided to really live up to its terrible reputation.
“Don’t move,” a voice hisses behind you, and you can smell stale cigarettes and alcohol. “Empty your account. All of it.”
You’re at the ATM on the corner of 23rd and Hayes, the one you’ve used a hundred times because it’s on your route home from your soul crushing data entry job. The street is unusually empty for 9 pm, but that’s Bludhaven for you; people have finally started learning not to be out after dark.
Everyone except you, apparently, because you’re an idiot who needed cash for the laundromat.
“I have forty three dollars in checking,” you say flatly, finger hovering over the keypad. “And maybe twelve in savings. You’re really not making out well on this transaction.”
“Just do it!” The gun digs harder into your back, right between your shoulder blades.
Of course this is how you die. Not in some heroic way, not peacefully in your sleep at ninety- no, you’re going to get shot at an ATM on a Tuesday because you needed quarters. The universe has always had a sick sense of humor when it comes to your life.
You press the button for withdrawal from checking. “You know, statistically, you’d make more money just getting a minimum wage job. Even after taxes- ”
“Shut up!”
“I’m just saying, this is really inefficient- ”
You don’t get to finish your observation about the economics of street crime because suddenly the weight of the gun disappears from your back and there’s a crash behind you. You spin around- stupid, you should run, but curiosity has always been your fatal flaw- and watch as a blur of black and blue slams your would be mugger into the brick wall of the bodega next to the ATM.
The man crumples. The gun skitters across the pavement. And standing there, illuminated by the flickering streetlight and the harsh glow of the ATM screen, is Nightwing.
You’ve seen him on the news, obviously. Everyone in Bludhaven has. The cops hate him, the people love him, and the criminals fear him. He’s all lean muscle and acrobatic grace, his suit highlighting a body that’s been honed into a weapon. The blue bird across his chest seems to shimmer as he moves, and his escrima sticks hang from his hands like they’re extensions of his arms.
He turns to you, and even though you can’t see his eyes behind the domino mask, you can feel the weight of his gaze.
“You okay?” His voice is different than you expected; younger, with an edge of genuine concern that seems almost out of place on someone who just took down an armed mugger in three seconds flat.
You blink at him. “That depends on your definition of okay. Physically unharmed? Yes. Emotionally scarred by yet another reminder that the universe is chaotic and uncaring? Also yes.”
There’s a pause. You think you see his lips twitch.
“That’s… pretty specific.”
“I’m a pessimist. We’re detailed oriented.” You glance at the mugger, who’s groaning on the ground. “Is he going to need an ambulance, or just a therapist after you’re done with him?”
Now he definitely smiles. “Little of both, probably. You should get out of here. I’ll wait with him until BCPD shows up.”
“Right. Because the Bludhaven PD is so reliable and not at all corrupt.” But you’re already grabbing your card from the ATM, which, miraculously, still dispensed your pathetic forty dollars. “Thanks for the rescue, I guess. Even though I probably would have just given him the money and filed a police report that would go nowhere.”
“You guess?” He sounds amused now.
You shrug, stuffing the cash in your pocket. “I mean, appreciate the help and all, but let’s be real, I’ll probably be mugged again within six months. This is Bludhaven. Lightning strikes twice here. It’s practically a meteorological certainty.”
“That’s not how lightning works.”
“And yet.” You gesture vaguely at the unconscious mugger, the sketchy street, the flickering streetlight that’s been broken for three weeks. “Here we are.”
You walk away before he can respond, but you can feel his eyes on your back until you turn the corner. You’re not sure if he thinks you’re funny or just deeply disturbed.
Probably both.
Of course, both is good.
⋆.˚.𓅪࿐
You’re hanging from a fire escape.
It’s been two weeks since the ATM incident, and you’d actually started to think that maybe, just maybe, your luck was turning around. You got a fifty cent raise at work. Your landlord didn’t increase your rent. You found a dollar on the sidewalk.
But the universe doesn’t like it when you get comfortable.
You’re not even doing anything weird; you just came out here to water your singular, struggling tomato plant (which refuses to actually produce tomatoes) when the rusted bolts finally gave way. The fire escape tilted, you grabbed for the railing, and now you’re dangling four stories above an alley that definitely contains at least three used needles and a suspicious puddle.
“Help!” You scream, but it’s 11 pm and your neighbors include: one elderly man who’s definitely deaf, two college students who are always high, and a woman who once told you she “doesn’t believe in interference.”
This is exactly how you’d thought you’d die but you’d appreciate it if you weren’t right.
Your fingers are slipping. The metal is cutting into your palms. Below you, the suspicious puddle seems to shimmer with menace.
You’re wearing your nice jeans. The ones without holes. It seems important that someone know this.
“I’M WEARING MY NICE JEANS!” You yell into the void.
“Hold on!” A voice calls back, and you’re so startled you nearly let go.
Then he’s there, like some kind of acrobatic miracle, flipping up from the alley below and landing on the tilted fire escape with perfect balance. Nightwing grabs your wrists and hauls you up with absolutely no effort, pulling you against his chest as the fire escape groans ominously beneath you both.
“We need to move,” he says, and then he’s grappling to the roof, one arm wrapped firmly around your waist.
Your stomach does a complicated flip that has nothing to do with the sudden altitude change.
He sets you down on the roof, hands lingering on your arms to make sure you’re steady. “You okay?”
You’re breathing hard, adrenaline coursing through your system. “You know, you keep asking me that, and the answer keeps being ‘technically yes, but actually no.’”
He tilts his head, and there’s something about the gesture that’s almost bird-like. Fitting, given the whole theme. “Wait. ATM girl?”
“Oh, perfect. I have a nickname now.” You brush off your nice jeans, checking for damage. One knee is torn. Of course it is. “Yes. ATM girl. Also known as ‘that pessimist,’ ‘fire escape failure,’ and ‘person who can’t keep a tomato plant alive.’ Hi. Hello. Thank you for saving me again.”
“You remember me.” He sounds pleased.
“You’re dressed like an exotic bird and you saved me from a mugger. You’re pretty memorable.” You peer over the edge of the roof at your apartment window. The fire escape is completely detached now, hanging by a single bolt. “Great. There goes my security deposit.”
“You’re taking this pretty well.”
“What’s the alternative? Crying? I cried in 2019 and decided it wasn’t worth the effort.” You turn back to him, and in the moonlight, you can see more details; the curve of his jaw, the way his hair sticks up slightly, the almost absurd width of his shoulders. “So, do you just patrol this neighborhood specifically, or am I cosmically marked for disaster and you’re following the trail of chaos?”
He laughs, and it’s a good sound, warm and genuine. “Little of both, maybe. What were you doing on the fire escape?”
“Watering my tomato plant. Which has never produced a single tomato and probably never will, but I’m nothing if not committed to lost causes.” You sigh. “I should call my landlord. He’s going to love this.”
“It’s not your fault the fire escape collapsed.”
“And yet, I guarantee this somehow becomes my problem.” You pull out your phone, then pause. “Thanks. Again. For the rescue. You’re really good at those.”
“It’s kind of my thing.”
“Well, it’s a good thing.” You swallow, suddenly aware of how close you’re standing, how the moonlight catches on the blue of his suit, how he’s looking at you like you’re something interesting instead of just another disaster in motion. “You should probably go stop actual crime instead of babysitting the woman who clearly has a death wish via incompetence.”
“I don’t think you’re incompetent.”
“My fire escape would disagree. Also my tomato plant. Also my general life trajectory.”
He’s smiling again. You’re getting used to that smile, the way it makes something warm unfold in your chest despite your best efforts to remain emotionally neutral about everything.
“Get inside safely,” he says. “And maybe water your plant from the window from now on.”
“Bold of you to assume I’ll keep trying. That plant and I both know it’s a doomed enterprise.”
But you’re smiling too, just a little, as he grapples away into the night, all grace and controlled power.
Your landlord does, in fact, make the fire escape your problem.
Of course he does.
⋆.˚.𓅪࿐
You’re stuck in an elevator.
“I should have taken the stairs,” you say to the ceiling, because talking to the ceiling feels more productive than screaming into the void. “I always take the stairs. But no, today I thought, ‘You know what? Live a little. Take the elevator. What’s the worst that could happen?’”
“To be fair,” Nightwing says from his corner of the surprisingly spacious elevator, “this is more of an inconvenience than a disaster.”
You turn to look at him. He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking frustratingly calm for someone who’s been trapped in an elevator for twenty minutes. You, on the other hand, are definitely spiraling.
“We’re stuck in an elevator. In a building that’s scheduled for demolition next week. Because apparently, the city of Bludhaven doesn’t believe in proper notices or functional elevators in condemned buildings.”
“You didn’t see the notices?”
“I saw a flyer for a lost cat named Chairman Meow. I assumed that was more pressing than construction permits.” You slide down the wall until you’re sitting on the floor. “What are you even doing here?”
“Got a tip about some guys using the building as a storage facility for stolen goods.” He nods toward a duffel bag in the corner that you hadn’t noticed. “Found them. They ran when the elevator got stuck.”
“Of course they did. They probably took the stairs like sensible criminals.”
He moves to sit across from you, and even in crisis, he moves like water, all fluid grace. It’s unfair, really, how coordinated some people are. You trip over flat surfaces.
“You know,” he says, and you can hear the amusement in his voice, “most people would be more worried about being stuck.”
“Oh, I’m worried. I’m just also unsurprised. This is exactly the kind of thing that happens to me.” You let your head fall back against the wall. “Last month, I got jury duty for a case that was immediately dismissed. I didn’t even get to feel civically important. The month before that, I found a twenty dollar bill on the street and immediately stepped in gum.”
“The universe has it out for you.”
“The universe has it out for everyone. I’m just aware of it.” You glance at him. “Aren’t you supposed to have some kind of gadget that can fix this? Bat-elevator-escape-tool?”
“I’m Nightwing, not Batman. My utility belt has like, six things.”
“Wow, budget constraints even in vigilantism. That’s so Bludhaven.”
He laughs, and you’re starting to really like that sound. It feels like finding something valuable in a thrift store, unexpected and somehow precious because of it.
“You’re funny,” he says.
“I’m fatalistic. People often confuse the two.”
“No, you’re definitely funny.” He leans forward slightly. “And you’re handling this really well for someone who was hanging from a fire escape two weeks ago.”
“Oh, you think this is me handling it well? This is me disassociating. There’s a difference.” But you’re smiling despite yourself. “How long do you think we’ll be stuck?”
“I already hit the emergency call button. Fire department should be here in ten, fifteen minutes.”
“So enough time for you to tell me why you do this.” You gesture vaguely at his suit, his mask, the duffel bag of stolen goods. “The whole vigilante thing. Is it a rich person hobby? A elaborate form of therapy? A very committed cosplay situation?”
“What makes you think I’m rich?”
“That suit looks expensive. Also, you have incredible teeth. Dental work like that doesn’t come cheap.”
He grins, and yeah, those are really good teeth. “I can’t tell you my origin story while we’re stuck in an elevator. That’s terrible narrative pacing.”
“Fine. Tell me something else then.” You’re not sure why you’re pushing, except that sitting in silence feels worse than potential rejection. “Tell me why you remember me. ATM girl. Fire escape failure. Elevator disaster.”
“Because you’re different.” He says it simply, like it’s obvious. “Most people I rescue are either terrified or grateful or both. You were critiquing the economics of street crime while there was a gun pointed at you.”
“That was just my anxiety talking. I babble when I’m nervous.”
“And when you’re not nervous?”
“I’m always nervous. We live in Bludhaven.”
“Fair point.” He’s quiet for a moment, and you can feel him looking at you, really looking. “You act like you expect the worst, but you still watered your tomato plant. You still took the elevator instead of the stairs. That’s not pessimism. That’s hope wearing a disguise.”
The words hit something soft inside you, something you thought you’d armored over years ago with sarcasm and emotional distance.
“That’s a very poetic assessment of my character flaws,” you manage.
“I don’t think they’re flaws.”
Before you can figure out how to respond to that, before you can unpack the warm, fluttery feeling in your chest that feels dangerously close to something you can’t take back, there’s a grinding sound and the elevator lurches.
“Fire department?” You ask hopefully.
“Fire department,” he confirms, standing and offering you his hand.
You take it, and his grip is strong and steady, and you let yourself hold on for maybe a second longer than necessary.
The doors pry open to reveal two firefighters who look unsurprised to see Nightwing and very surprised to see you.
“Ma’am,” one of them says, “what were you doing in a condemned building?”
“Looking for Chairman Meow,” you say without missing a beat. “He’s still missing, by the way, if anyone’s seen an orange tabby with delusions of political grandeur.”
Nightwing makes a sound that might be a laugh or a cough.
As the firefighters escort you out (with several safety lectures), you glance back once. Nightwing is watching you go, duffel bag in hand, and even though you can’t see his eyes, you feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing.
You wave.
He waves back.
You tell yourself the flip in your stomach is just residual adrenaline.
You’re definitely lying to yourself.
⋆.˚.𓅪࿐
The fourth time you meet Nightwing, you’re not actually in danger.
You’re on your building’s roof (the landlord finally fixed the fire escape, but you’ve developed trust issues), lying on a blanket and looking at the stars. Or trying to. Light pollution in Bludhaven means you can see maybe seven stars on a good night, and most of them are probably planes.
“You know,” a voice says from behind you, “most people would consider this suspicious behavior.”
You don’t even flinch. Of course he would show up. Of course.
“Most people don’t live in my apartment,” you say, not sitting up. “My upstairs neighbor is having extremely loud makeup sex, my downstairs neighbor is learning the drums, and the person across the hall is watching what I think is the entire Fast and Furious franchise at maximum volume. I’m seeking refuge.”
Nightwing moves into your peripheral vision, then sits down on your blanket without asking. The casual intimacy of it makes your breath catch.
“All at once?” He asks.
“The universe coordinated it specifically to drive me to the roof. Where I will probably be struck by lightning or hit by a meteor.”
“Still not how lightning works.”
“And yet, you keep showing up during my disasters. What’s your excuse this time?”
He’s quiet for a moment, and when you finally turn your head to look at him, he’s staring up at the sky with an expression you can’t quite read.
“No excuse,” he admits. “I was patrolling nearby and saw you up here. Wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Checking on ATM girl? I’m touched. Truly.” But your voice is softer than usual, missing its typical sardonic edge. “I’m fine. Well, as fine as I ever am. No muggers, no collapsing structures, no stuck elevators. Just me and the seven visible stars.”
“Eight,” he says, pointing. “That one’s really faint, but it’s there.”
You look where he’s indicating and squint. “If you say so. I’ll take your word for it, since you seem to have superhuman vision along with superhuman acrobatics.”
“Just good training.”
“Right. Training. That you definitely do as part of your regular person job that’s definitely not related to being a billionaire or anything.”
“I never said I was a billionaire.”
“You also never said you weren’t.”
He laughs, and shifts slightly closer. You can feel the warmth of him now, even through his suit. “You’re very suspicious.”
“I’m very realistic. People don’t become vigilantes because they had a super normal childhood and well adjusted emotional regulation.” You pause. “No offense.”
“None taken. You’re not wrong.” He’s quiet for a beat. “You want to know something?”
“Is it your secret identity? Because I should warn you, I’m terrible at keeping secrets. I once accidentally told my coworker that another coworker was pregnant before she announced it, and I didn’t talk for three months out of shame.”
“Not my secret identity.” He sounds amused. “I was going to say that I actually look forward to running into you.”
Your heart does a complicated somersault. “You look forward to me nearly dying? That’s kind of dark.”
“I look forward to talking to you.” He turns to face you properly, and even in the darkness, you can see the curve of his smile. “You’re real. No filter, no performance. Just genuinely, refreshingly honest about how absurd everything is.”
“That’s just depression with better marketing.”
“It’s not, though.” He’s closer now, close enough that you can see the flecks of color in his mask, the slight stubble on his jaw. “You keep showing up. You keep trying. You’re watering that terrible tomato plant and taking elevators and lying on roofs looking for stars. That’s not giving up. That’s the opposite of giving up.”
You swallow hard. “You’re doing the poetic assessment thing again.”
“Is it working?”
“I’m not sure. My emotional processing system has been out of order since 2016.”
But you’re not pulling away. Neither is he.
“Can I tell you something?” You hear yourself say. “And you can’t make fun of me.”
“I would never.”
“You absolutely would, but I’m going to tell you anyway.” You take a breath. “I think I’m starting to actually look forward to the disasters. Because at least then I get to see you.”
The silence that follows feels enormous, stretching between you like something physical. You’re about to take it back, laugh it off, blame it on the drums and the makeup sex and the Fast and Furious franchise-
“Good,” he says quietly. “Because I’ve been taking extra patrols through this neighborhood for two weeks hoping to run into you.”
Oh.
Oh.
“That’s very inefficient crime fighting,” you whisper.
“I’m okay with that.”
He’s so close now. You can see the way his chest rises and falls, the slight curve of his lips, the angle of his jaw. Your hand moves without permission, reaching up to trace the edge of his mask.
“Can I-”
“Not yet,” he says, but he catches your hand and holds it against his cheek. “Soon. I promise. But not yet.”
“Okay.” And it is, somehow. Okay. “This is insane. You know that, right? I don’t even know your name.”
“You know me, though.” His thumb traces circles on your wrist. “You know the important parts.”
“I know you have good teeth and a concerning habit of showing up during my worst moments.”
“Your most interesting moments.”
“Same thing, in my life.”
He laughs, and then he’s leaning in, and you’re leaning in, and-
An alarm goes off somewhere in the distance. Police sirens. Something that sounds like gunshots.
He pulls back with a sigh that sounds genuinely regretful. “I have to go.”
“Of course you do. Crime never sleeps, and neither does my terrible luck with timing.”
But he’s standing, getting ready to grapple away, and you’re standing too, and before he goes he turns back and cups your face with one gloved hand.
“Same time next week?” He asks. “Same roof?”
“You’re scheduling our coincidental meetings now? That seems very organized for a spontaneous vigilante.”
“Call it hope wearing a disguise.”
He’s gone before you can respond, flipping off the roof with that impossible grace, and you’re left standing there with your hand pressed to your cheek where he touched you, smiling like an idiot at the seven- no, eight- stars.
This is dangerous, you think.
This is terrifying.
This is exactly the kind of thing that will definitely end in disaster.
You can’t wait.
⋆.˚.𓅪࿐
You're getting mugged again.
"I told you," you say to Nightwing as he drops from the fire escape above, landing between you and the two men who'd cornered you outside the 24-hour bodega. "I told you lightning strikes twice in Bludhaven. It's been exactly three months."
One of the muggers makes a run for it immediately. The other one pulls out a knife, which seems optimistic given that Nightwing was in the news for taking down an entire robbery crew last week with what you're pretty sure was just a pair of escrima sticks and audacity.
"You were counting?" Nightwing asks, disarming the guy with a move so fast you barely see it. The knife clatters into a storm drain. The mugger wisely chooses to follow his friend's lead and runs.
"I have a very specific relationship with probability and disaster." You hold up the energy drink you'd been buying. "I was just getting caffeine for my night shift. Is that too much to ask? One energy drink without a felony?"
He turns to you, and even though it's been three months of scheduled roof meetings (and several unscheduled disaster interventions), your stomach still does that stupid flip when he looks at you.
"You okay?" He asks, like always.
"Physically fine. Emotionally processing the fact that you either have a tracker on me or the universe is actively coordinating our meet-cutes through crime." You pause. "Wait. You don't have a tracker on me, right?"
"No tracker. I was two blocks away when I heard yelling."
"My yelling specifically, or just general Bludhaven yelling? Because there's a lot of ambient yelling in this city."
He steps closer, does that thing where he checks you over for injuries even though you've told him you're fine. His hands hover near your shoulders, not quite touching. "Your yelling has a specific quality."
"Is it the desperation? The resignation? The underlying notes of 'I knew this would happen'?"
"It's distinctive." His lips twitch. "You want me to walk you home?"
"Nightwing, it's three blocks. Surely there's actual crime happening somewhere that needs your attention more than my tragic walk of shame back to my apartment."
"Humor me."
So you do, because you're weak and he's looking at you like that, and honestly, your Tuesday (of course it's a fucking Tuesday) is already so absurd that adding a vigilante escort service barely registers.
You walk in silence for half a block before he speaks. "How's the tomato plant?"
"Dying. Finally gave up last week. I'm weirdly proud of it for lasting eight months though. That's longer than most of my relationships."
"You're in a relationship with your tomato plant?"
"Was. It's complicated. We wanted different things. It wanted proper drainage and sunlight. I wanted it to not be a metaphor for my inability to nurture living things."
He's laughing now, that warm sound you've become maybe slightly addicted to over the past few months. Your roof meetings have become the highlight of your week, even though you're both pretending they're casual. Even though you're both pretending that the almost-kiss from that first night didn't fundamentally alter something in the space between you.
"I got a new plant," you admit. "A cactus. The guy at the store said it was indestructible."
"How long has it been?"
"Four days."
"And?"
"It's looking suspicious. I think it's plotting something."
You've reached your building. The one with the formerly broken fire escape, the drum learning neighbor, and the upstairs couple who have apparently decided that their relationship drama is a communal experience.
You should go inside. He should go stop crime. This is where the night should end.
"So," you say instead, because you're bad at good decisions. "Thursday. Roof. Same time?"
"Wouldn't miss it." But he's not leaving. He's standing there, closer than necessary, and the streetlight is flickering (because of course it is), and something in his posture has shifted.
"What?" You ask.
"Nothing. Just..." He reaches up, almost touches your face, then drops his hand. "Be careful. Please."
"Careful? You do remember who you're talking to, right? I'm the fire escape girl. The elevator disaster. The woman who gets mugged on a schedule."
"Exactly." And there's something in his voice now, something that makes your breath catch. "So be careful. Because I..." He stops, shakes his head. "Thursday. Don't be late."
He's gone before you can ask what he was going to say, grappling up into the darkness, and you're left standing there wondering if it's possible to have your heart broken by someone whose real name you don't even know.
(It is. You're pretty sure it is.)
⋆.˚.𓅪࿐
Thursday arrives with all the enthusiasm of a dental appointment.
You're on the roof at 10 pm sharp, because apparently you're the kind of person who's punctual for secret meetings with a masked vigilante now. The blanket is spread out. You've brought snacks this time- chips, because you're not fancy, and two cans of the fancy lemonade from the bodega that doesn't get robbed as frequently.
He's late.
By 10:15, you're starting to worry, which is a new and uncomfortable feeling. Usually you're worried about yourself and your own impending disasters. Worrying about someone else requires emotional bandwidth you're not sure you have.
By 10:30, you're pacing.
By 10:45, you're googling "Bludhaven crime news" on your phone, which is probably exactly what you shouldn't be doing but your anxiety brain has never been good at following directions.
At 11:07, he lands on the roof, and you're on your feet immediately.
"You're late," you say, and it comes out more scared than annoyed. "You're never late."
"I know. I'm sorry. There was a thin- " He stops, and even in the darkness you can see something's wrong. He's favoring his left side. There's a tear in his suit near his ribs.
"You're hurt." It's not a question.
"It's nothing. Just- "
"Sit down." You're already moving toward him, hands hovering uselessly because you have no idea what to do with an injured vigilante but you need to do something. "Sit down right now or I swear I'll- I don't know what I'll do, but it'll be annoying."
He sits, probably more from surprise than actual obedience. You kneel beside him, trying to assess the damage through the suit.
"It's really not that bad," he says, but his voice is tight with pain. "I've had worse."
"That's not as comforting as you think it is." Your hands are shaking. When did your hands start shaking? "What do I do? Do you have a first aid kit? Do you need a hospital? Should I call Batman?"
"Please don't call Batman."
"I don't even know how to call Batman. That was an empty threat." You're rambling now, the words spilling out in a rush. "I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to help you. I barely know how to help myself. I once put a band-aid on upside down- "
"Hey." His hand catches yours, stops the flailing. "Breathe."
You breathe. It doesn't help.
"I have supplies in my belt," he says calmly. "Just need to... patch it up. It's honestly not serious."
"You have a hole in your suit. There's blood. That seems serious."
"I've had worse nights." But he's pulling out a first aid kit that's somehow compact enough to fit in his utility belt, wincing as he moves.
You take it from him before he can argue. "Let me. Please. I need- " Your voice cracks. "I need to help. I need to do something."
He looks at you for a long moment, and then nods.
His suit has some kind of panel near the injury that peels back, revealing a gash along his ribs that makes your stomach turn. It's not as deep as you feared, but it's definitely more than "nothing."
"Knife?" You ask, focusing on the injury instead of the implications, instead of the fact that this man you've been slowly falling for risks his life every single night.
"Broken glass, actually. Went through a window."
"Consensually or...?"
"The window was very against it."
You laugh, because the alternative is crying, and you carefully clean the wound with the supplies from his kit. He doesn't flinch, which is somehow more concerning than if he had.
"You do this a lot," you say quietly. It's not a question.
"More than I'd like."
"And you just... patch yourself up and go back out the next night."
"Usually."
You're applying butterfly bandages now, careful and methodical, trying not to think about how this could have been worse. How it could always be worse.
"Why?" The word comes out smaller than you intended. "Why do you do this?"
He's quiet while you finish bandaging, and you think maybe he won't answer. Then: "Someone has to."
"That's not an answer. That's a deflection."
"You're getting good at reading me."
"You're getting easier to read." You sit back, surveying your work. It's not pretty, but it'll hold. "Or maybe I'm just paying more attention than I should be."
"Is that what you think? That you're paying too much attention?"
You look up at him, and even with the mask, even in the darkness, you can feel the intensity of his gaze.
"I don't know what I think anymore," you admit. "Three months ago, I was just a person who got mugged sometimes and had a dying tomato plant. Now I'm the person who waits on roofs and worries when you're late and apparently knows how to do field dressing for vigilante injuries. I don't know how that happened."
"I do." His hand comes up, cups your face like he did that first night. "You kept showing up."
"You literally scheduled the meetings."
"You could have said no."
"Could I have?" Your voice is barely a whisper now. "Because I don't think I could have. I don't think I can. And that's terrifying."
"Why terrifying?"
"Because you're- " You gesture at him, at the suit, at the fresh bandage on his ribs. "This. All of this. You jump off buildings and fight criminals and apparently go through windows. You're not safe. This isn't safe. And I'm- I'm a person who expects the worst because the worst usually happens, but somehow you've become the exception and I don't know what to do with that."
His thumb brushes your cheekbone. "What if I told you I'm terrified too?"
"You? You're Nightwing. You're not afraid of anything."
"I'm afraid of you not being here next Thursday." The words are quiet, honest, devastating. "I'm afraid of you deciding this is too complicated. Too dangerous. Too- "
You kiss him.
It's not graceful. You basically just lean forward and press your mouth to his, cutting off his words, and for a second he's too surprised to respond. Then his hand slides into your hair and he's kissing you back, and oh, this is-
This is nice.
You break apart after a moment that feels both infinite and far too short. You're breathing hard, and he is too, and you're still close enough to count his heartbeats.
"That was..." he starts.
"Impulsive? Stupid? A terrible idea given the circumstances?"
"I was going to say worth waiting for."
You laugh, and it comes out shaky. "You're bleeding through your bandage and I just kissed you. This is the most Bludhaven romance ever."
"Is that what this is? A romance?"
"I don't know. Is it?"
He leans his forehead against yours, careful of the mask. "I want it to be."
"Even though I'm a disaster?"
"Because you're a disaster. My favorite disaster." He pulls back just enough to look at you. "I need to tell you something. Soon. About... everything. Who I am. But not tonight. Not when I'm- "
"Bleeding and probably concussed?"
"I'm not concussed."
"You went through a window. You're at least mildly concussed."
"Fair point." He's smiling though, even through the pain. " I'll tell you everything. Soon. I promise."
"Everything?"
"Everything you want to know."
You should be scared. This is the part where your pessimistic brain should kick in, should start listing all the ways this will inevitably end badly. But looking at him now, at the way he's looking at you like you're something precious instead of just another disaster in motion...
"Okay," you say. "Okay. I'll see you next Thursday. But if you're late again, I'm implementing a three strike policy."
"What happens after three strikes?"
"I'll have to actually learn your name through investigative journalism. It'll be very embarrassing for both of us."
He laughs, then winces. "You should go. Get some sleep. I'll watch you get inside safely."
"You'll watch me walk down one flight of stairs?"
"Humor me."
So you do, gathering your blanket and your unopened snacks, and when you reach the roof door you look back. He's still sitting there, hand pressed to his ribs, watching you with that impossible attention.
"Be careful," you call back. "Please."
"You first."
"That's statistically unlikely, but I'll try."
You're smiling as you head down the stairs, heart racing, lips still tingling, completely terrified and completely sure all at once.
This is definitely going to end in disaster.
But maybe- just maybe- it'll be the good kind.
⋆.˚.𓅪࿐
Nightwing hands you an envelope.
You're on your usual rooftop, and he drops down from seemingly nowhere, landing in that cat like crouch that should be illegal in terms of sheer attractiveness. You've been seeing each other- if you can call these rooftop rendezvous "seeing each other"- for almost four months now, and your heart still does that stupid flutter thing every time he appears.
"I have something for you," he says, and there's a nervous energy to him that's new.
"If it's another apology for having to leave mid-kiss last week because of a police scanner, I'm going to start charging you per interruption."
"It's not that." He sits next to you and pulls out a cream colored envelope, expensive looking, with your name written on it in actual calligraphy. "I want you to come to something."
You take the envelope like it might explode. "Is this a ransom note? A summons? A very formal breakup letter?"
"Just open it."
You do, and your brain immediately short-circuits.
You are cordially invited to the Wayne Foundation Annual Charity Gala...
"This is- " You look up at him, then back at the invitation. "This is a joke, right? This is fake. You printed this at like, a FedEx or something."
"It's real."
"Nightwing. This is a Wayne gala. As in Bruce Wayne. As in billionaire Bruce Wayne. As in- " You wave the invitation. "There's no way this is real. These things are invite only for like, celebrities and politicians and people who own multiple yachts."
"I know."
"So this is definitely fake."
He takes off one of his gloves and reaches for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. "It's real. I want you there. I want..." He pauses, and you can see him gathering courage. "I want you to meet me. The real me. Not just the mask."
Your heart is doing dangerous things. "You're going to be there? At a Wayne gala?"
"Yeah."
"As yourself. Your real self."
"Yeah."
"And you're either Bruce Wayne's secret son, or you're about to tell me you're Batman, or- " You stop. "Oh my god, are you Batman? Is that why you said you only have six things in your utility belt? Is it a budget thing or a 'I'm actually just a vigilante with a day job' thing?"
He's laughing now, soft and genuine. "I'm not Batman. But yes, I'll be there. And I want you there too. If you want to come."
"This is insane."
"Probably."
"This is going to be a disaster."
"Maybe."
"I don't have anything to wear to a Wayne gala. I can't exactly show up in my 'I Survived Bludhaven' tshirt and jeggings."
"You'll figure something out." He squeezes your hand. "Please? I know it's scary, and I know this is all backwards and weird, but- "
"Okay."
He stops. "Okay?"
"Okay. I'll come." You look at the invitation again, at the embossed Wayne logo, at the date that's only three days away. "I'm going to regret this. This is going to end terribly. But okay."
He kisses you then, deep and relieved and tasting like promises that you're terrified to believe in.
"Saturday night," he says against your lips. "Wayne Manor. Seven pm."
"I'll be the one having a panic attack in the corner."
"I'll find you."
After he leaves, you sit on the roof for another hour, holding the invitation and trying to convince yourself it's real.
It's probably fake, you think.
This is definitely a prank.
There's no way this ends well.
Saturday arrives with all the inevitability of a dental appointment.
You've spent the last three days having a sustained, low level panic attack. You went to every thrift store in Bludhaven and finally found a dress that doesn't look like it was donated after someone's divorce in 1987. It's black, because you're not ambitious enough for color, and it fits reasonably well if you don't breathe too deeply. It cost $27, which is $20 more than you've ever spent on a single item of clothing.
You've paired it with shoes you already owned (black flats with a scuff on the toe that you colored in with Sharpie) and a small purse you borrowed from your coworker who asked exactly zero questions, bless her.
You look in the mirror and see exactly what you are: a person in a discount dress pretending to be someone who belongs at a Wayne gala.
"This is fine," you tell your reflection. "This is totally fine. The invitation is probably fake anyway, and you'll get turned away at the door, and you can go home and eat ice cream and never think about this again."
The invitation sits on your counter, looking aggressively real.
You grab it, grab your purse, and head out before you can talk yourself out of it.
Wayne Manor is exactly as intimidating as you imagined, which is to say: very.
The uber driver drops you off at the end of a long driveway that probably costs more than your entire apartment building. There are actual literal limousines pulling up to the entrance. You can see people in gowns that cost more than your yearly salary stepping out with the kind of casual grace that comes from never having worried about rent.
"This is fine," you mutter, walking up the driveway because there's no way you're asking to be driven up like you belong here. "This is totally fine. The bouncer will definitely kick you out and then you can go home."
But when you reach the entrance, holding out your invitation like a shield, the man in the tuxedo just smiles and says, "Welcome, miss. Enjoy your evening."
And then you're inside.
Wayne Manor is obscene. There's no other word for it. The foyer alone is bigger than your apartment, with marble floors and a chandelier that probably costs more than a small country's GDP. Beautiful people in beautiful clothes are everywhere, holding champagne glasses and laughing with the kind of ease that comes from never having checked their bank account before buying groceries.
You are immediately, viscerally aware of every single flaw in your discount dress.
The woman next to you is wearing something that shimmers like starlight and probably has a designer name you can't pronounce. Her jewelry is real. Her hair is professionally styled. She smells like expensive perfume.
You smell like the lavender body spray you got on sale at Target.
"This was a mistake," you whisper to yourself. "This was absolutely a mistake."
You're about to turn around and leave, invitation be damned, Nightwing be damned, your own curiosity be damned, when a waiter appears with a tray of champagne.
"Would you care for a drink, miss?"
You take one because it's free and you're definitely going to need alcohol to get through whatever fresh humiliation this evening has planned.
The champagne is good. Annoyingly good. Even the alcohol here is fancier than you.
You drift through the crowd like a ghost, trying not to make eye contact with anyone, trying not to draw attention to your discount dress and your Sharpie-ed shoes. You find a corner near an elaborate flower arrangement (are those orchids? those are definitely orchids. you killed one once) and try to blend into the wallpaper.
This is fine. You'll stay for twenty minutes, drink your fancy champagne, and then leave. Nightwing was probably joking anyway. Or maybe he forgot. Or maybe-
"Excuse me," a voice says, and you turn to find a woman in a red dress that probably costs more than your car would if you had a car. "Are you here alone?"
"Um." You clutch your champagne. "Yes?"
"Oh, how lovely! I'm Caroline Whitmore. My husband is on the board of the Wayne Foundation." She gestures vaguely at a man across the room who's wearing a tux that fits him like a second skin. "Is this your first Wayne gala?"
"Is it that obvious?"
She laughs, but it's not unkind. "A little. You have that 'deer in headlights' look. Don't worry, everyone feels that way their first time. The Waynes can be a bit... overwhelming."
"That's one word for it," you mutter into your champagne.
"The trick is to just enjoy the free food and avoid Bruce Wayne's new girlfriend. She's dreadful." Caroline leans in conspiratorially. "Between you and me, I think he just dates models because he doesn't know how to have a real conversation."
You're saved from having to respond by a commotion near the entrance. The crowd shifts, and you can feel the energy in the room change, the way everyone's attention suddenly focuses on one point.
"Oh, there they are," Caroline says. "The Wayne family. They always make an entrance."
You shouldn't look. You should stay in your corner with your champagne and your discount dress and your existential dread.
But of course you look.
Bruce Wayne enters first looking exactly like the billionaire playboy philanthropist he's famous for being. Tall, handsome in a way that's almost aggressive, wearing a tux that probably costs more than your entire life.
Behind him is a younger man who looks uncomfortable in his suit, dark haired and scowling. Then another man, broader, with a white streak in his hair and an expression that suggests he'd rather be literally anywhere else. Another younger man who’s looking down at his phone and looks like he hasn’t slept since the day he was born.
And then-
And then-
Your champagne glass slips from your hand.
It hits the marble floor with a crash that echoes through the sudden silence, and everyone- every single person in the room- turns to look at you.
But you're not looking at them.
You're looking at the man who just walked in behind Bruce Wayne. Dark hair that sticks up in a way that's immediately, devastatingly familiar. A smile that you've seen in moonlight and shadows, now displayed under the crystal chandelier. A suit that's perfectly tailored to a body you've traced with your hands on rooftop meetings.
He's looking right at you.
And you know.
You know.
"Oh my god," you whisper. "Dick Grayson."
Because of course Nightwing is Dick Grayson. Of course he's Bruce Wayne's ward, the former circus performer turned billionaire's son, the golden boy of Gotham society.
Of course you've been making out with someone who's probably worth more than the entire city of Bludhaven.
Caroline is saying something about the broken glass, and a waiter is rushing over, but you can't hear any of it because Dick Grayson-Nightwing- is walking toward you.
The crowd parts for him like he's Moses and they're the Red Sea.
He stops in front of you, and up close, without the mask, you can see his eyes. Blue. Bright blue. The same eyes that have looked at you with concern and humor and heat.
"Hi," he says, and his voice is the same, exactly the same. "You made it."
"I- " Your brain is offline. Completely offline. "You're Dick Grayson."
"Yeah."
"The Dick Grayson. The- the son of Bruce Wayne. The- "
"Technically adopted son, but yeah."
"I've been kissing Dick Grayson on my roof."
He grins. "You have been."
"I told you that you were probably rich and you lied."
"I said I never said I was a billionaire," he points out. "Technically true. Bruce is the billionaire. I just have access to his credit cards."
"That's-you-" You look around at the crowd that's definitely, absolutely watching this entire interaction. At the broken champagne glass at your feet. At your discount dress next to his designer tux. "I'm going to pass out."
"Please don't." He takes your hand, the same way he has on the roof, his thumb finding that spot on your wrist that always makes you shiver. "Come on. Let's get you some air."
"I broke a glass. There's-I should clean that up. I should- "
"The staff will handle it." He's already guiding you through the crowd, past the staring faces and the whispered comments. Past Bruce Wayne, who raises an eyebrow but says nothing. Past the scowling boy and the man with the white streak and the teen that’s no longer looking at his phone but looking at you in curiosity.
He leads you out to a balcony that overlooks the grounds, and the cool night air hits your face like a slap.
"Okay," he says, turning to face you. "You can yell now."
"I can't yell. I'm at a Wayne gala. There are probably rules about yelling."
"There are definitely rules about yelling, but I'm giving you permission to break them."
You stare at him. At Dick Grayson. At Nightwing. At the man you've been falling for without knowing he's literally famous, literally rich, literally everything you're not.
"I'm wearing a twenty seven dollar dress," you say finally.
He blinks. "Okay?"
"I'm wearing a twenty seven dollar dress from a thrift store, and my shoes have Sharpie on them, and I colored in the scuff mark this morning because I don't own fancy shoes. Everyone in there is wearing clothes that cost more than my rent, and I'm- I'm- "
"Beautiful," he says simply. "You're beautiful."
"I'm a disaster."
"You're my favorite disaster."
And despite everything- despite the humiliation and the broken glass and the fact that you're definitely the poorest person at this gala- you laugh.
"This is insane," you say. "This is actually insane. I've been dating- are we dating? I don't even know if we're dating- I've been something with Dick Grayson and I didn't even know it."
"We're dating," he confirms. "Definitely dating. I'm not in the habit of having regularly scheduled rooftop makeout sessions with people I'm not dating."
"Your life is so weird."
"Says the woman who critiques muggers while they're actively mugging her."
You're about to respond, about to say something about how at least your weird is normal weird, not billionaire vigilante weird, when there's a commotion from inside.
Not the normal gala commotion. Something else.
Something wrong.
Dick's entire posture changes, his body going taut in a way you recognize from when he's in the suit.
"Stay here," he says.
"Yeah, that's not ominous at all."
But he's already moving back toward the ballroom, and you follow because of course you do, because the universe has never let you make smart decisions.
The scene inside is chaos.
The lights are flickering. People are screaming. And standing in the center of the ballroom, surrounded by henchmen in matching green suits, is a man with a purple suit, a cane, and a smile that makes your skin crawl.
The Riddler.
Because of course. Of course this gala is being crashed by a Batman rogue. Of course this is happening.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" The Riddler's voice carries across the ballroom with theatrical flair. "I do hope I'm not interrupting anything important. Though I suppose that depends on your definition of 'important,' doesn't it? After all, what's more important: champagne and canapés, or the answer to a riddle that could save your lives?"
You're frozen in the doorway. Dick is next to you, and you can see him calculating, planning, probably figuring out how to get to wherever he keeps his Nightwing suit stashed.
"Here's the riddle," the Riddler continues, twirling his cane. "What has hands but cannot clap, a face but cannot smile, and tells you when it's time to die?"
The crowd is silent, terrified.
And you-
You can't help yourself.
"A clock," you say.
It's not loud. It's barely more than a mutter.
But in the terrified silence, it carries.
The Riddler's head snaps toward you. "What was that?"
"I said it's a clock." Your voice is stronger now, because apparently when faced with mortal peril, your anxiety manifests as mouthy confidence. "The answer is a clock. It has hands, it has a face, and depending on your philosophical relationship with mortality, it tells you when you're going to die. Although technically, that's more metaphorical than- "
The Riddler stops in front of you, studying you with unsettling intensity. "You're not afraid."
"Oh, I'm terrified. I'm just also really annoyed because I was about to have a whole crisis about dating someone out of my league, and now you're here with your- " You gesture vaguely at his outfit. "Your whole situation, and I have to deal with that instead."
There's a beat of absolute silence.
Then Dick makes a sound that might be a laugh or a sob.
"You're dating someone?" The Riddler looks delighted. "How wonderful! And who might this lucky person be?"
"That's really none of your business, but thanks for the interest in my personal life. Very invested for a supervillain." You pause, and your brain- your traitorous, anxiety ridden brain- decides this is the perfect time to keep talking. "Actually, you know what? Can I ask you something?"
Dick's hand tightens on your arm. "Please don't- "
"Why are you even doing this?" You gesture at the terrified crowd, the henchmen, the whole hostage situation. "The crime thing. You're clearly intelligent. Like, really intelligent. Your riddles are actually good, which is more than I can say for most people's riddles. Why aren't you running an escape room empire or something?"
The Riddler stops. Blinks. "Excuse me?"
"Escape rooms!" You're on a roll now, your anxiety manifesting as what can only be described as aggressive career counseling. "Think about it! You could corner the entire market! You're already creating elaborate puzzles and death traps; just make them non lethal and charge people seventy five dollars a head to try to solve them. People LOVE that stuff. You'd be rich in like, six months. Plus, you'd get to feel superior to everyone who can't solve your puzzles, which seems like a big thing for you- no offense- and it would be completely legal!"
The entire ballroom is silent. Even the henchmen look confused.
The Riddler is staring at you like you've just spoken in an alien language.
"You- " He stops. Starts again. "You think I should open an escape room?"
"Not an escape room. Multiple escape rooms. A franchise. 'Nygma's Enigmas' or something. Trademark it. Get investors. Go on Shark Tank. You could be a millionaire legitimately, and you'd get to watch people fail at your puzzles all day, every day, and they'd literally be PAYING you for the privilege. It's the perfect business model for someone with your specific skillset and psychological needs!"
"I- " The Riddler looks genuinely taken aback. "I have never- "
"And think about the branding opportunities! Merchandise! Puzzle books! A YouTube channel where you explain how people failed! You could be internet famous! Do you know how much money internet famous people make? A LOT. More than you're probably getting from- " You gesture at the current hostage situation. "Whatever this is supposed to accomplish."
"She has a point," one of the henchmen mutters.
The Riddler spins to glare at him. "Whose side are you on?"
"I'm just saying, boss, the last three jobs haven't really paid that well- "
"SILENCE!"
"Plus, the Bat keeps catching us," another henchman adds. "An escape room business would have way better job security- "
"Are my henchmen seriously discussing CAREER CHANGES in the middle of a HEIST?"
"It's not a bad idea," a third henchman says thoughtfully. "My cousin runs an escape room in Metropolis. He cleared six figures last year."
"Yeah, and he doesn't get punched by Batman," the first henchman points out.
"EXACTLY," you say, pointing at them. "See? Your employees understand basic risk benefit analysis! You could offer them actual benefits! Health insurance! A 401k! Paid time off!"
Dick has given up trying to stop you. You can feel him shaking next to you, and you're pretty sure it's silent laughter.
Bruce Wayne is pinching the bridge of his nose in the background.
The Riddler looks like he's having an existential crisis. "But- but the CHALLENGE! The battle of wits with Batman! The thrill of outwitting the law!"
"You can still have that! Just make one of your escape rooms Batman themed! Make it really hard! Charge extra! He might even show up to try it, and then you get to watch him struggle with your puzzles in a legal, controlled environment! It's a win-win!"
"Batman themed," the Riddler repeats slowly.
"With like, gargoyles and batarangs and stuff. Make it super dramatic. People will eat that up. Gotham loves Batman. Merchandising nightmare, but that's what lawyers are for."
There's a long, long pause.
"That's..." The Riddler trails off. "That's actually not a terrible idea."
"RIGHT?!"
"I could create the most challenging escape rooms in the world. People would come from everywhere to test themselves against my intellect- "
"And PAY you for it!"
"And I could rate them. Publicly. On their failures- "
"Make a leaderboard! With shame tiers!"
"A SHAME LEADERBOARD." The Riddler looks genuinely excited now. "That's brilliant! That's- " He stops. Looks around at the terrified gala attendees. At his henchmen, who are all nodding enthusiastically. At you, in your twenty seven dollar dress, having just accidentally talked a supervillain into considering legitimate employment.
"This is..." He shakes his head. "This is the strangest hostage situation I've ever been in."
"Is it still a hostage situation if we're having a productive career counseling session?" You ask.
"I don't know! I've never had this happen before!"
"Well, there's a first time for everything. So, are you going to let everyone go, or..."
That's when the lights go out.
There's the familiar sounds of a Batfamily in action the thwip of grappling hooks, the thunk of escrima sticks, the crack of martial arts, and what sounds like a tiny angry Robin yelling something about "incompetent fools."
When the lights come back on, the Riddler and his henchmen are zip tied on the floor. Batman is glowering. Nightwing is clearly trying not to laugh behind his mask. Robin looks deeply offended by the entire situation.
"Did she just- " Robin starts.
"Give the Riddler career advice? Yes," Batman says flatly.
"Is that... allowed?"
"I don't think there's a protocol for this, Robin."
The Riddler, zip tied and defeated, looks up at you from the floor. "You know, in another life, I think we could have been friends."
"In another life, you could be a legitimate businessman," you counter. "It's not too late! Think about the escape rooms! Think about the shame leaderboard! If Martha Stewart can make bank after prison, so can you!”
"I AM thinking about it!" He actually sounds enthusiastic. "The possibilities are- "
"Okay, that's enough," Batman interrupts, gesturing for the GCPD. "Take him in."
As they're hauling the Riddler away, he calls back: "If I do this- if I actually do this- I'm naming you as a consultant!"
"I don't want credit for this!" You yell back.
"Too late! You're getting a percentage!"
"A percentage of WHAT?!"
"MY ESCAPE ROOM EMPIRE!"
And then he's gone, still yelling about business plans and shame leaderboards, and you're left standing in a ballroom full of Gotham's elite, having just accidentally become a business partner with a supervillain.
Dick appears at your elbow, back in his regular tux, no mask. He's grinning so wide it looks painful.
"Did you just- "
"I don't want to talk about it."
"You just convinced the Riddler to consider a legitimate career- "
"I was dissociating. My mouth just does things when I'm nervous!"
"That was the most amazing thing I've ever witnessed."
Bruce Wayne materializes on your other side. He looks at you for a long moment.
"If he actually does open an escape room franchise," Bruce says seriously, "and it keeps him out of crime, I'm writing you a recommendation letter for whatever you want."
"I don't- I can't- " You look between them. "This is insane. This whole night is insane. I came here in a thrift store dress and now I'm a business consultant for a supervillain?!"
"Twenty seven dollar dress," Dick corrects, still grinning.
"NOT THE POINT."
Caroline Whitmore appears with champagne. "Same time next year?" She asks cheerfully.
You take the champagne and down it in one go.
"Sure," you say faintly. "Why not. What else could possibly happen?"
The universe, as always, is listening.
⋆.˚.𓅪࿐
You wake up disoriented, head full of static, and for a moment you’re convinced the entire Wayne gala was a stress induced fever dream. The ceiling above you is definitely not the water stained plaster of your apartment: this one is smooth, painted a gentle gray, and if you squint you can see tiny glow in the dark stars scattered in one corner.
There’s a slow, delicious ache in your thighs that’s definitely not from stress.
You shift, and the sheet slithers over bare skin, warm and expensive, and the motion pulls your attention to the weight at your waist; an arm, long and golden and dusted with soft brown hair, wraps you close.
Oh.
You twist, carefully and there he is: Dick Grayson, hair rumpled, one hand tucked beneath his cheek, mouth parted with the kind of sleep heavy softness that makes you want to press your face to his shoulder and never move again.
Last night comes back in flashes: his mouth on yours as the adrenaline bled out in the back seat of the car, his hands clumsy and urgent as he unlocked the door to his apartment, laughter tangled with kisses, a trail of your thrifted dress and his designer tux winding through the hall.
You’d made love with the kind of desperate relief that comes from barely surviving- again- a night that should have been a disaster but somehow wasn’t.
Dick shifts, blinking blearily, and his gaze finds you, blue and bright and so gentle you could cry.
“Hey,” he murmurs, voice gravel soft with sleep. “You’re still here.”
“Wasn’t sure I would be.” You mean to say it with a laugh, but it comes out quiet, almost vulnerable.
His thumb brushes over your bare hip, slow and affectionate. “You always have a choice. You know that, right?”
You nod, trying not to melt into him. “You snore, by the way.”
He grins, no shame at all. “And you talk in your sleep. You told me the exact tax rate on laundromat quarters.”
You flush, and Dick leans in, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, your throat, the corner of your jaw. “It’s adorable.”
You let yourself settle against him, the two of you tucked into the soft tangle of his sheets, sun leaking in around the blackout curtains.
Dick rolls you gently onto your back, hovering over you, hair falling into his eyes. “You know what I want?” he says, voice gone low and teasing, eyes warm as sunrise.
“What’s that?”
He ducks down, lips brushing yours in a kiss that’s slow, sweet, the kind you never thought you’d get from someone like him. “I want to make you breakfast. And then I want to see if you’ll let me keep you here all weekend.”
Your heart does a ridiculous, traitorous thing in your chest. “You’d get sick of me by noon.”
He nips at your jaw, grinning. “Not possible. I’m insatiable.” He punctuates it with another kiss, this one lingering, his hand sliding over your waist, palm broad and steady.
You can feel him, hard and wanting against your thigh. The temptation to tease is irresistible. “Didn’t you say you needed to rest after last night, Mr. Grayson?”
He groans, but his mouth is already sliding down your neck, teeth scraping lightly. “I lied. Or maybe you just recharge me.”
Your hands slide into his hair as he kisses down your body, worshipful, reverent. His lips find your breast, tongue circling, and his hand drifts lower, cupping your thigh, thumb stroking lazily at your skin. The ache between your legs turns electric, all soft warmth and want.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmurs against your skin, breath hot.
“Don’t you dare.”
He laughs quiet, and so, so happy and then his mouth is on you, slow and patient, mapping every inch. When he finally presses inside, the stretch is familiar and perfect, and you wrap your arms around his shoulders and hold him close, moving together in the drowsy gold of morning.
He presses his forehead to yours, both of you grinning like idiots.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper.
He kisses you, slow and sure, as if sealing a promise: “Good. Because you’re my favorite disaster.”
The sun climbs higher, and you think, for once, that maybe- just maybe- everything is exactly as it should be.
And maybe lightning didn’t strike to destroy you for once: maybe it struck to set you alight.
To some who are using my inbox to send disgusting and repugnant things just because I pointed out that it's disgusting to write romanticizing rape or pedophilia: You won't be posted, you'll be reported. I don't applaud clowns; and the ironic fact that you remain anonymous only proves that in the end I'm right and you know it's not cool Writing this kind of thing 🤍
