Pixel post dividers for everyone! It's not much, but feel free to use them if you'd like.
I don't know the ideal size for these, so let me know if they're too tall. I can make them a bit shorter next time.
The training grounds were bright with late afternoon sun, the stone warm beneath your feet and the air sharp with the clean smell of smoke and metal. From where you stood beside Zuko, you could see the whole courtyard laid out before you: the high walls, the practice dummies, the rings of scorched stone, the banners hanging still in the summer air.
And in the center of it all stood your daughter.
Izumi was sixteen now, tall and straight-backed, with her hair tied neatly away from her face and her red training robes fitted close at the wrists and waist. She had the serious expression she wore whenever she was determined not to be interrupted, which unfortunately was very often. Right now, she was practicing a complex sequence of firebending forms with a concentration so sharp that even the guards lingering at the edge of the yard had fallen silent.
Her flame moved with impressive control,bright, fast, disciplined. She turned, pivoted, struck, and the fire followed her like it belonged to her hands alone.
Zuko watched her for a long moment with the unmistakable expression of a father trying very hard not to interfere.
You recognized that look immediately.
He took one step forward.
You caught his sleeve before he could take a second. “No.”
He glanced down at your hand. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was not.”
You gave him a flat look.
His mouth tightened. “I was considering saying something.”
“Exactly.”
He looked back at Izumi, who was now spinning into a low stance and sending a controlled burst of flame toward a training post. The post cracked, smoke curling from the edge of the mark she had made.
Zuko’s brows lifted a little. “She is rushing the ending of that form.”
“She is doing fine.”
“She could be cleaner.”
You sighed. “Zuko.”
“What?”
“You are staring at her like she is about to walk into battle.”
“She is training for the throne.”
“Yes,” you said patiently. “That does not mean you need to narrate her footwork from across the yard.”
He gave you a look that was almost offended. “I am not narrating.”
“You absolutely are.”
Izumi turned sharply at the far end of the practice ring, having clearly noticed the attention. Her expression shifted at once into the particular kind of irritation only a sixteen-year-old could manage,half embarrassment, half annoyance, and full certainty that her parents had become unbearable.
She raised her chin. “Can I help you?”
Zuko immediately straightened. “Your stance was too open on the turn.”
Izumi’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t ask.”
The silence that followed was just long enough to be uncomfortable.
You closed your eyes briefly.
Zuko looked mildly shocked, as though the answer had somehow been unfair to him. “I was only giving advice.”
“I do not need advice.”
His jaw tensed a little. “You always need advice.”
Izumi crossed her arms. “I am doing perfectly well.”
“You could be better.”
Her face changed in an instant.
The air around her hands warmed, a small flare of fire flickering over her fingers before she clenched them into fists. “I know that.”
Zuko paused.
He had clearly not meant to say it that way. You saw it in the way his expression shifted immediately from stern to careful. But the damage had already landed.
Izumi turned away first, lifting her hands again to resume the exercise with slightly sharper force than before. The fire that leapt from her palms was still controlled, but the rhythm had changed. She was angry now. Focused, yes, but angry.
Zuko watched her with a troubled look.
You exhaled quietly through your nose. “You did that on purpose.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
He glanced at you. “I was trying to help.”
“I know.”
He looked back toward Izumi, who was now repeating the sequence with visible determination, as though she meant to prove every word he had said wrong through sheer force of will. “She is going to make mistakes if she keeps training like this.”
“She knows that.”
“Then why does she act like I am insulting her by noticing?”
You turned to face him fully. “Because she is sixteen.”
That made him pause.
You continued, softer now, “And because she is your daughter.”
He looked at you, still puzzled.
You sighed and folded your arms. “Zuko, she is exactly like you were at her age.”
That stopped him.
For a second, he just stared at you.
Then his brows drew together. “I was not like that.”
You gave him an unimpressed look so complete it could have ended the discussion on its own. “You were worse.”
“I was not worse.”
“You absolutely were.”
He opened his mouth, then shut it again with visible effort. “I was more disciplined.”
You stared at him.
“More committed,” he tried.
You blinked slowly. “You were angry, stubborn, and impossible to talk to if you thought someone was questioning you.”
He crossed his arms. “That is not a fair description.”
“It is a very accurate description.”
He looked away, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “That was different.”
You smiled a little then, because it was different, but not in the way he meant.
You stepped closer, lowering your voice so Izumi would not hear. “When you were her age, you wanted to prove yourself to everyone. You hated being corrected. You hated being watched. You hated when anyone made you feel like you were not already good enough.”
His jaw tightened, but he did not deny it.
“And you,” you added gently, “did not exactly handle advice with grace.”
That earned you a quiet, exasperated huff. “I was younger.”
“She is younger.”
He looked back toward the training yard. Izumi was finishing the form again, and this time the flame trailing from her hands was cleaner, faster, sharper. She was, despite her irritation, very good. Better than good. Promising. Strong. Focused. A little too determined for her own peace of mind.
Zuko watched her for a long moment before speaking.
“I do not want her to make the same mistakes I did.”
The honesty in his voice softened something in you at once.
You reached for his hand. “I know.”
His thumb moved once against your palm, slow and absent. “I do not want her to waste time feeling like she has to fight everyone just to be heard.”
Your expression gentled. “Then stop giving her reasons to think she has to.”
He turned to you with a look of faint offense. “I am trying to help her.”
“I know.”
“And she needs guidance.”
“Of course she does.”
“Then what am I supposed to do?”
You smiled at him, a little sadly this time, because the answer was simple and painful all at once. “Remember that she does not need you to be her teacher in every moment. Sometimes she needs you to be her father.”
He was quiet then.
The practice ground below them carried on in its own steady rhythm. A guard shifted at the far wall. The wind moved over the stone. Izumi drew in a breath, exhaled, and sent another sharp ribbon of fire into the air.
Zuko watched her and said nothing.
You knew that silence. It was the silence of a man realizing, with mild horror, that he had indeed been exactly the kind of teenager his child now was. Maybe worse. Definitely worse.
After a moment, you let go of his hand and tilted your head toward the yard. “Go on.”
He looked at you. “What?”
“Go talk to her.”
His expression immediately became wary. “You just told me not to interfere.”
“I told you not to narrate her footwork.”
“That is a very specific restriction.”
“It needed to be.”
He gave you a look that said he was still not convinced.
You smiled. “You do not have to critique her to be useful.”
He glanced toward Izumi again. She was paused now, wiping the back of one hand over her brow, breathing a little harder from the practice. From this distance, she looked older than she had a moment ago and younger too somehow,less a future ruler and more a girl trying very hard not to disappoint the people she loved.
That seemed to reach him.
At last he nodded once and stepped away from you, crossing the yard with the steady, measured pace of a man who had spent most of his life learning how to approach hard conversations by force of will. Izumi saw him coming and immediately straightened, as if bracing herself for another correction.
Zuko noticed.
That was when his face changed.
He slowed before he reached her, his expression softening in a way that made him look far less like the Fire Lord and far more like the boy he had once been. Izumi held herself very still, waiting. Still suspicious. Still tense.
He stopped a few feet away.
Then, to your surprise, he said, “Your second turn was better.”
Izumi blinked.
Zuko crossed his arms, clearly trying to keep his voice even. “The balance improved. You corrected your shoulder line after the pivot. That was good.”
She stared at him as though unsure whether to trust the change in tone.
“And,” he continued, “you have strong control in your forward strikes.”
Izumi’s expression shifted by the smallest amount, but you saw it. She had not expected praise. Not direct praise. Not from him.
Zuko hesitated, then added, “I should have said that first.”
That made her look up sharply.
He met her eyes and, for once, did not try to hide the difficulty of it. “I was trying to help, but I know I sound like I am only correcting you.”
Izumi’s posture eased a fraction. “You do.”
He winced a little. “I know.”
She looked at him for a long second, then asked, with the bluntness only a sixteen-year-old could manage, “Why do you always do that?”
Zuko was quiet.
You could almost see the answer moving through him, through all the old habits and fears and long-practiced instincts. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and honest.
“Because when I was your age, I thought any mistake meant I had failed.”
Izumi’s expression softened despite herself.
He continued, “I did not know how to accept advice without feeling like it was proof I was not enough.”
The courtyard was very quiet now.
Even the guards at the edges seemed to have sensed that something real was happening and had the good sense to pretend they were looking elsewhere.
Zuko looked at his daughter and said, “So when I see you training, I want to make sure you are ready for everything. I forget that you do not need me standing over you every second to become strong.”
Izumi searched his face, cautious but less defensive now. “You really think I’m strong?”
He looked almost startled by the question.
Then his answer came without hesitation.
“Yes.”
Her shoulders eased again.
He went on, quieter this time, “Stronger than I was at your age.”
That made you smile from across the yard.
Izumi gave a small, reluctant breath that might have been a laugh. “That is not hard.”
Zuko’s mouth twitched. “No. It isn’t.”
She glanced at him sideways. “So what now?”
He looked at the scorched practice posts, the stone circle, the glint of sunlight off her hair. Then back at her.
“Now,” he said, “you show me the part of the form you hate most.”
Izumi groaned immediately. “Papa.”
He lifted one brow. “What?”
“I knew you were going to say something terrible.”
His expression was almost smug now. “I am your father. I know where you struggle.”
She narrowed her eyes. “That is not comforting.”
“It was not meant to be.”
Despite herself, she smiled.
You saw it and felt your heart loosen.
Izumi shook her head, but there was less irritation in it now. “Fine. But if you tell me to widen my stance, I am leaving.”
Zuko considered her seriously. “I would never only tell you that.”
She gave him a deadpan look. “That is somehow worse.”
You laughed softly, and both of them turned toward you at once. Zuko rolled his eyes, but there was warmth in it now. Izumi looked less annoyed and more resigned, which for her was practically a peace treaty.
When Zuko turned back to her, he had the expression he only wore when he was trying to be both ruler and father at once,careful, thoughtful, deeply invested. “Show me the sequence again.”
Izumi sighed. “You’re still going to criticize it.”
“Yes.”
She frowned. “At least you’re honest.”
“I try.”
She reset her stance.
This time, however, when she began the form again, Zuko did not interrupt at every turn. He watched. He let her finish. He only corrected her once, and when he did, he did it gently, pointing out the shift in her weight rather than telling her she was wrong.
Izumi noticed.
So did you.
The difference was immediate.
Her shoulders stopped tightening. Her movements became smoother. Her flame sharpened not because she was angry, but because she was focused. And when she finished the sequence, she looked at him not with annoyance, but with quiet expectation.
“Well?” she asked.
Zuko studied her for a moment, and then a small, genuine smile touched his face.
“Better,” he said.
Izumi blinked, then let out a breath she had clearly been holding without realizing it.
“Better?” she repeated.
“Yes.”
Her face brightened a little.
Then, because she was still herself, she lifted her chin and said, “Of course it was.”
Zuko’s smile widened just enough to show that he had been waiting for that exact reaction. “Do not get too proud.”
“I am allowed to be proud.”
“You are.”
She looked suspicious. “That was too easy.”
He shrugged. “You earned it.”
That made her pause.
And then, unexpectedly, she smiled at him,a small, real smile that looked much younger than sixteen and much softer than the Fire Lord’s daughter usually allowed herself to be seen.
You saw Zuko notice it too.
His expression changed immediately. There was pride there, yes. A great deal of it. But there was also something quieter. Something almost reverent. As though he could not quite believe this child, so fierce and brilliant and entirely her own, had come from the two of you.
Izumi wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist and said, “Can I be done now?”
Zuko looked toward you across the courtyard as if checking with the true authority in the family.
You smiled and gave a small nod.
He looked back at Izumi. “For today.”
She groaned as though this was a personal insult, but the sound lacked conviction.
“You are impossible,” she said.
“That,” he replied, “is inherited too.”
That got another laugh out of her, and this one was clearer. Freer.
You stepped closer then, finally joining them at the center of the training yard. Zuko reached for your hand automatically, and Izumi looked between the two of you with the air of someone embarrassed to have been watched this whole time but not enough to regret it.
When you reached her side, you brushed a bit of soot from her sleeve and said, “You did well.”
She looked at you first, then at Zuko. “You both say that like I’m about to be given a medal.”
Zuko’s mouth curved faintly. “You will have to settle for praise.”
Izumi gave a dramatic sigh. “Cruel.”
You laughed and kissed the top of her head. “Come inside. You’ve earned tea.”
That alone made her straighten.
“Tea?” she asked, already recovering some of her dramatic dignity.
Zuko gave you a knowing look. “See? She is our child.”
Izumi heard that and rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her.
The three of you began walking back toward the palace together, slowly, in the warm evening light. Izumi talked about a few of the finer points of the practice form now that the pressure had eased. Zuko listened, offering fewer corrections and more questions. You watched them both with the quiet contentment of someone seeing a difficult thing turn into something good.
Your daughter was growing into herself.
Your husband was learning, still, how to let her.
And somewhere between his old instincts and her stubborn independence, there was room for love.
Not perfect love.
Not painless love.
But steady.
And that, you thought, was enough for a future Fire Lord.
' all the ways we say i love you '
wherein the men discover that being loved is not the same thing as appreciating it.
tw : established relationships, arguments, emotional neglect, taking their partner for granted, hurt/no comfort, the jjk men being profoundly stupid
part 2 part3 part 4 toji's ending
a/n : thoughts and prayers to the boys. they're gonna need them.
The first time you realized the wedding was becoming a problem, it was because the palace had produced a seating chart large enough to rival a military map.
It had been spread across the long council table with colored markers, stacks of parchment, and enough notes in the margins to suggest the event was less a celebration and more a strategic siege.
A servant had been standing at attention beside it, trying very hard not to look nervous. Two ministers were already arguing over where to seat a visiting noble from the Earth Kingdom. Somewhere near the back, another official was insisting that a royal wedding should not be “too intimate,” as if intimacy itself were a threat to national security.
You stood in the doorway of the planning chamber with your arms folded and stared at the mess in silence.
Zuko, who had been pretending to read a document, looked up the moment you entered. He took one glance at your face and immediately knew.
“What is it?”
You pointed at the table. “What is that?”
He frowned, following your gesture, then sighed as though he had already regretted this meeting in advance. “A seating chart.”
“That is not a seating chart. That is an offensive battlefield.”
One of the ministers cleared his throat awkwardly. “We are simply trying to ensure proper arrangements for all invited dignitaries, Lady Y/N.”
You turned your head slowly. “How many dignitaries?”
The man swallowed. “At present? Three hundred and twelve.”
You stared at him.
Then you looked at Zuko.
Then back at the chart.
Then back at Zuko, because surely this had to be some kind of misunderstanding.
He gave you a look that was equal parts exhausted and apologetic. “I did not authorize all of this.”
“You did not stop it either.”
That was enough to make the minister shift uncomfortably, but Zuko only pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered, “I know.”
You walked farther into the room, your steps measured, and picked up one of the sheets from the table. It listed table assignments, ceremony order, guest ranks, tribute offerings, and something that appeared to be a full schedule of musical performances stretching into the afternoon.
“Why,” you asked carefully, “is there a second page devoted entirely to symbolic flower arrangements?”
The head steward, who had been trying to appear invisible, stiffened with professional pride. “The royal wedding should reflect the glory of the Fire Nation.”
You looked up. “With flowers.”
“Yes.”
“And three hundred guests.”
“Yes.”
“And twelve separate appetizer courses.”
“Yes.”
You lowered the paper very slowly. “Zuko.”
He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “I know.”
“You know?”
“I know.”
“Then why is this happening?”
“Because,” he said with obvious reluctance, “everyone keeps insisting it would be disrespectful to have a small ceremony.”
You blinked. “Disrespectful to whom?”
He gave you a look that said: everyone, apparently.
You stared at him for another second, then let out a breath through your nose that was just this side of a laugh. “You hate this.”
“I do not hate it.”
“You hate it.”
“I dislike it.”
“That is the same thing.”
“It is not the same thing.”
You made a small, helpless sound and set the papers back down before the urge to throw them across the room became too strong. “How did this get so bad?”
No one answered.
Zuko did not look at anyone in particular. He looked vaguely like a man who had entered a room to discuss one minor issue and had accidentally become trapped inside a national event.
You walked right up to him and lowered your voice. “How many guests did you want?”
He looked at you, and for a second the answer was already there in his expression before he said it.
“None.”
You stared.
He looked faintly defensive, as if he knew exactly how unreasonable it sounded but was prepared to stand by it anyway. “Or, at most, the people who matter.”
Your expression softened despite yourself. “That is a very small number for a Fire Lord.”
He gave a tired half-shrug. “I do not need a hundred strangers watching me promise my life to you.”
The room went very still.
It always happened when he said things like that. When the prince beneath the title slipped through the cracks in his composure and spoke as though he had not yet learned to hide how deeply he felt things.
You searched his face, then let your hand rest lightly against his sleeve.
“Zuko,” you said quietly, “you do realize this is a wedding.”
“I am aware.”
“It is supposed to be about the two of us.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you letting them turn it into a state ceremony?”
He looked away for a moment, and when he answered, his voice had dropped so low that only you could really hear it.
“Because people are watching.”
The words landed with the weight of something old.
You knew exactly what he meant. The palace knew him as Fire Lord now, but there were still too many eyes on him, too many people waiting to see whether he would fail, whether he would shrink, whether he would become his father in another form.
Some of them would always measure him through duty. Some would always think love and power should be arranged the same way: carefully, publicly, and with the approval of a room full of people who did not matter to the heart of it.
You let the silence sit for a beat.
Then you said, “And?”
He blinked. “And?”
“And what do you want?”
That question, simple as it was, seemed to confuse him more than the ministers had.
He looked at you for a long moment, then exhaled slowly. “I want it to be quiet.”
One of the aides, clearly having mistaken your conversation for practical logistics, jumped in immediately. “That can still be arranged with the proper seating,”
“No,” Zuko said.
The room stopped.
He straightened slightly, and when he spoke again, the firmness in his voice made the chamber go silent at once.
“No,” he repeated. “I do not want three hundred guests. I do not want twelve courses. I do not want a ceremony that lasts all day and ends with me standing in front of every noble family in the nation while they judge the way I hold your hand.”
The ministers looked alarmed.
You almost smiled, except his expression had turned so serious that it would have felt wrong to interrupt.
“I want,” he said, his gaze now fully on you, “one room. The people who know us. No speeches longer than necessary. No parade. No performance.”
He paused, then added more quietly, “I just want to marry you.”
Something warm and aching spread through your chest all at once.
Nobody in the room seemed to know what to do with the silence that followed. One steward was staring at the wall. Another had suddenly found the floor fascinating. The minister who had started all this looked as though he had just realized he had mistakenly organized the coronation of the heavens.
You turned toward the table, picked up the thickest stack of wedding proposals, and set it carefully aside.
Then you looked at Zuko.
“You’re impossible,” you said.
He gave a grim little nod. “I have been told.”
“You do understand that the palace will never let this go.”
“I know.”
“You also understand that there will be complaints no matter what we do.”
He looked faintly resigned. “Yes.”
“And still,” you said, taking one step closer, “you want something small.”
He looked back at you, his expression softer now, a little uncertain, a little vulnerable in the way he only allowed you to see. “Do you?”
That question caught you by surprise.
You blinked. “Do I what?”
“Want something small.”
The room blurred around the edges of that moment. Not because the question was dramatic, but because it was so honest. So unguarded. He was not asking because he was certain of the answer. He was asking because he trusted you to tell him the truth.
You let out a breath and glanced around the room at the waiting ministers, the endless records, the impossible logistics, the expectations piled so high that they threatened to drown the actual reason for any of it.
Then you looked back at him and said, very clearly, “I want your wedding to feel like ours.”
His face changed.
It happened all at once, in the softening of his eyes and the tension leaving his shoulders. He heard you. Really heard you.
You reached for his hand and squeezed it once.
“We do not need a room full of people to prove anything,” you said. “We do not need three hundred guests to make this real. I do not want a wedding that feels like a performance.”
He stared at you as if the shape of the answer had not occurred to him before.
You smiled just a little. “I want to stand beside you and know that this is ours. Not the court’s. Not the council’s. Not some political display built to impress people who will probably leave early.”
A startled, almost disbelieving smile touched his mouth.
You continued, softer now, “We have spent so long surviving. Running. Fighting. Hiding. We are allowed to have something that belongs to us.”
His hand tightened around yours.
One of the ministers, gathering the courage of someone who believed professionalism could save him, cleared his throat. “If I may, Your Majesty,”
Zuko did not even look at him. “You may not.”
The man went silent.
You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.
Zuko turned back to you and, in a voice so much gentler than the one he used for the room, said, “I just do not want our marriage to become another responsibility.”
Your smile softened at once.
“That,” you said, “is exactly why it should be small.”
He studied you for a moment, and then the last of the resistance in him seemed to go quiet.
All the tension in the room had shifted too. The ministers and attendants looked uncertain now, as if the shape of the celebration they had imagined had just been gently but firmly dismantled by the two of you standing in the middle of it.
You took advantage of the silence.
“Here is what we are going to do,” you said.
Every face in the room turned toward you.
You glanced at the clutter of plans and charts and lists. “We are going to choose a ceremony with only the people who truly matter to us. No unnecessary spectacle. No impossible guest list. No endless speeches.”
One steward opened his mouth, probably to object.
You lifted a hand. “And before anyone says it reflects poorly on the Fire Nation, let me remind you all that the Fire Nation survived a war. It can survive a smaller wedding.”
That shut everyone up.
Zuko’s mouth twitched.
You turned to him with a small, knowing smile. “A private ceremony.”
He considered that.
“Very private,” you added.
“How private?”
You looked toward the door, then back at him. “Private enough that you might actually stop feeling like you need to impress everyone in the room.”
His eyebrows lifted. “That private.”
“Yes.”
He thought about it a moment longer, then gave the tiniest nod. “I would like that.”
The minister looked horrified. “Your Majesty,”
Zuko cut him off with a look. “I said I would like that.”
The man swallowed.
You almost felt bad for him.
Almost.
Instead, you stepped closer to Zuko and lowered your voice. “You really do deserve happiness, you know.”
His eyes searched yours. “So do you.”
There it was again. That quiet, mutual stubbornness neither of you could fully escape. He had spent too much of his life believing happiness had to be earned through suffering. You had spent too much of yours learning how to survive without expecting softness in return. And now, standing in a room built from planning charts and pressure, the two of you were trying to make room for something neither of you had been taught to believe in easily.
Joy without punishment.
Love without spectacle.
A future that did not need to justify itself.
You smiled at him, and because he knew you too well, he seemed to understand the answer in your face before you gave it aloud.
“Yes,” you said softly. “We do.”
His expression changed again,this time into something quieter, more vulnerable, almost relieved.
Then, very carefully, he leaned his forehead against yours.
The room did not exist for a second.
No ministers. No seating charts. No endless list of dignitaries.
Only the two of you.
“I was afraid,” he admitted, so quietly that only you could hear.
Your hand slid up to his cheek. “Of what?”
“That it would feel wrong to want less.”
The truth of it made your chest tighten.
You brushed your thumb along his jaw and answered with complete certainty, “Wanting peace is not the same as wanting less.”
He closed his eyes briefly.
Then he exhaled, a long breath that seemed to leave some of the pressure behind with it.
When he opened his eyes again, there was a small, steady warmth there. “All right.”
You smiled. “All right?”
He gave a slight shrug. “We make it small.”
You grinned at that, unable to help yourself. “You say that like you’re bracing for battle.”
“I am.”
You laughed then, and this time the sound broke enough tension in the room that one of the aides visibly relaxed. A few of the others exchanged glances, perhaps realizing that the decision had been made and that resistance would only be painful.
You turned toward the table one last time. “We will need a list of the people who actually matter.”
The steward swallowed. “How many?”
You looked at Zuko, then back at the chart, and said, “Not three hundred.”
He nodded once, firmly. “Not three hundred.”
A pause.
Then, after a beat, he added, “Maybe twelve.”
You turned to him, delighted. “Twelve?”
He gave you a faintly embarrassed look. “It is a small room.”
You laughed softly and leaned in to kiss his cheek. “That is still more than I was expecting.”
“I am compromising.”
“You are being generous.”
“That is not what I would call it.”
The corners of your mouth turned up. “What would you call it?”
He looked at you for a moment, then at the room full of stunned officials, then back at you with a quiet little smile that was almost shy.
“I would call it enough.”
You went still.
Then your smile widened into something warm and tender and completely yours.
“Yes,” you said. “Enough.”
And for the first time since the wedding plans had begun, the future of it all felt exactly right.
hiiii cutie!! may i request a batfamily x batmom!reader where theyre on a plane (i know he has his own but for story’s sake he uses public airlines) and encounter a really mean old lady who finds discomfort with the family for some reason or other and makes it reader’s problem until bruce comes back from talking with the pilot or restroom or wtv and the old lady sees this and immediately goes hush. i just think thatd be so funny
Please Secure Your Attitude for Takeoff
Pairing: Batfamily x Batmom!AFAB!Reader
Words: 4k
Content Warning: None!
A/N: Hiiii!! Finally getting through my request inbox, yay!
Enjoy, Reader
This was going to be a shitshow.
You knew it the moment you arrived with Bruce Wayne at the public airport with seven children, two garment bags, far too many carry-ons, and the serene, devastating confidence of a man who had never once been personally humbled by boarding group numbers, overhead bin politics, or the particular little purgatory of removing shoes while an entire security line breathed down the back of his neck.
He had said it would be fine, because Bruce always said things would be fine in that low, steady voice that made disaster sound like an administrative inconvenience waiting for his signature.
The private jet was unavailable, which you strongly suspected meant one of the children had broken something expensive, another had attempted to hide the evidence badly, and Alfred had decided, with all the silent cruelty of a man who polished silverware like a verdict, that commercial air travel was the natural consequence.
So Bruce had bought first-class tickets, guided everyone through the airport with one warm hand at the small of your back, and said, “It will be good for them.”
You had looked up at him beneath the harsh airport lights, surrounded by travelers, rolling luggage, crying toddlers, and the smell of burnt coffee. “For them?”
“For all of us,” Bruce had said, which was much worse.
“That sounds like something said immediately before a tragedy.”
“It’s only a few hours.”
That was only an hour ago. Now the plane hums around you, that strange hush that only happens in the air, all of you sealed inside a narrow metal body above the clouds, breathing the same cold, recycled air. The engines drone low and steady, interrupted by the occasional soft chime overhead. Sunlight presses in through the oval windows, pale and bright, turning the leather seats glossy and catching on the plastic cups scattered across tray tables.
The cabin smells faintly of coffee, expensive perfume, warm electronics, and the sharp, artificial chill of pressurized air. Dick sits across the aisle, already adored by two flight attendants and a toddler with a dinosaur backpack. Dick Grayson could make polite eye contact with a vending machine and leave it feeling understood.
Jason has a paperback open in one hand, but he looks less like he’s reading and more like he’s daring the entire concept of literature to pick a fight. Your heart pulls a little when you catch him checking, just once, to see if you noticed the title; one of the stray, silent ways he still asks for approval, as if old habits might let him believe he is only visiting home.
Tim is behind you, laptop open, soul halfway gone, fighting sleep with the tragic dignity of a vigilante fighting bedtime. You remember the year you learned to make strong tea just the way he prefers, so he wouldn’t fade during finals.
Cass has already taken the laptop before it can slide off the tray table, moving so quietly that Tim just blinks at his empty hands like a magician stole his future. She gives you a fleeting, conspiratorial smile, the kind she reserves only for family.
Duke wears a travel pillow and watches the cabin with the mild amusement of someone waiting for the plot to thicken. On mornings when the world feels heavy, you still call him your little sun.
Damian sits beside you, sketchbook open in his lap, drawing Titus in what looks like a cape and a small, deeply judgmental cowl. He leans a little into your shoulder as he draws, a closeness he pretends is absent, but you know is his version of trust.
Bruce had been seated on your other side until ten minutes after takeoff, when a flight attendant leaned down and murmured something about the captain wanting a word. His eyes had shifted in that subtle way you recognized, attention sharpening behind the mask of a polite billionaire, and he had touched your wrist before standing.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” he said.
“You said that once and came back with a child.”
Jason coughed into his fist, and Dick suddenly became very interested in the safety card.
Bruce’s mouth barely twitched. “No more children.”
“Do you promise?”
“For the rest of the flight.”
“Romantic,” you said, and he brushed his thumb once over the inside of your wrist before disappearing toward the front galley, broad shoulders making the aisle look unfairly narrow as he moved past the curtain.
For approximately thirty seconds, there was peace.
Then the woman in 3C cleared her throat.
It was not an ordinary throat clear. It was a declaration of war wearing pearls, the sort of sound produced by someone who had been storing disapproval in her chest since boarding and had finally decided the cabin deserved access to it. You looked up and found her turned just enough in her seat to face you without fully committing to the indignity of twisting around.
She was elderly, elegant, and stiff-backed, with a silver bob sprayed into submission, coral lipstick, a cream cardigan buttoned over a pale blouse, and a handbag resting in her lap like a judgmental pet. Her eyes swept across Damian’s sketchbook, Jason’s jacket, Tim’s half-dead posture, Cass’s stillness, Duke’s watchful amusement, Dick’s easy charm, and finally settled on you with the hard little satisfaction of a woman who had found the person she intended to make responsible for her discomfort.
You knew that look. You had seen versions of it in school offices, charity events, grocery stores, hospital waiting rooms, and once in a museum where Damian had been accused of “lurking with intent” beside a Monet. It was the look people gave when they saw your family and decided love had exceeded the legal occupancy limit.
You gave her your politest smile. “Can I help you?”
“I certainly hope so,” she said.
Damian’s pencil paused against the page.
Dick leaned slightly into the aisle with that bright, well-meaning expression that made strangers believe diplomacy might survive the century. “Is something wrong, ma’am?”
The woman glanced at him, seemed briefly inconvenienced by the power of his face, then recovered. “I was speaking to the mother.”
Jason turned a page without looking up. “Which one? We rotate emotional support adults.”
“Jason,” you murmured.
The woman’s lips pinched. “That is exactly what I mean.”
You folded your hands in your lap because if you gave them nothing respectable to do, one might drift toward Damian’s wrist in warning or Jason’s shoulder in preemptive damage control. “What do you mean?”
“The noise,” she said. “The whispering, the constant shifting, the atmosphere.”
Duke blinked. “The atmosphere?”
“Yes,” she said, as if he had personally released a weather system into first class.
The bleakest part is that no one had been loud. The Wayne children in public could be many things, but when they needed to, they went quiet. Not normal quiet. Dangerous quiet. Rooftop quiet. The kind of quiet that makes sensible people check the exits and wonder why their instincts have started ringing little silver bells.
“I’m sorry you’re uncomfortable,” you said. “We’ll be mindful.”
“Mindful would have been arranging yourselves properly before boarding,” she replied, lifting her chin. “Children should not be scattered across the cabin like loose change.”
Jason’s eyes lifted over the top of his book.
The air changed almost imperceptibly, and a silk thread pulled tight. Dick’s smile stayed in place, but the warmth thinned at the edges. Cass’s gaze moved to the woman with calm precision. Duke straightened a little. Damian lowered his pencil, his mouth flattening into the expression he wore when deciding whether a person deserved mercy or a footnote.
“They’re in assigned seats,” you said.
“They’re practically surrounding people.”
“We do that,” Tim mumbled, still half-asleep. “Family tradition.”
Cass gently shut his laptop the rest of the way.
The woman stared at him. “Is he ill?”
“Sleep deprived,” Duke said. “Very tragic. Very Gotham.”
“Then perhaps he shouldn’t travel.”
Tim opened one eye. “I suggested cargo. Nobody listened.”
“Tim,” you said softly.
The woman seized on that tiny crack of chaos with visible satisfaction. “You see? Disrespectful. Dramatic. And that one looks as if he is about to start a fight.”
She pointed at Jason.
Jason looked down at himself, then around the cabin, as if searching for whatever violent criminal she could possibly mean. “Me?”
“You know it’s you,” Dick said quietly.
Jason placed one hand over his heart. “I’m reading Austen.”
“That does not comfort people the way you think it does,” Duke murmured.
The woman turned toward Damian next, apparently determined to catalog every offense by row and blood pressure. “And that one has been staring at me.”
Damian looked up slowly, and the temperature of the cabin seemed to drop by several degrees. “I have not. I have been drawing my dog.”
“You looked at me twice.”
“You were in my line of sight.”
“Damian,” you said.
His jaw tightened, but he looked back down. “Apologies.”
It sounded less like an apology and more like a royal pardon delivered under protest.
The woman clearly mistook your restraint for permission. Some people did that. They saw courtesy and decided it was an unlocked door; they saw motherhood and mistook softness for a public utility. “Large families like this always think the world should accommodate them,” she said, loudly enough now for the nearest passengers to hear, but not quite loudly enough to admit she wanted an audience.
“We paid for our seats too,” you replied.
“Yes, but you chose to bring this entire… assembly.”
Dick’s smile vanished.
It did not vanish dramatically. It simply left his face like a light being switched off.
“Assembly?” he repeated.
“Dick,” you murmured.
“I’m just checking the vocabulary.”
The woman looked at him, perhaps sensing for half a second that she had stepped onto a floorboard with teeth beneath it, but then her attention returned to you. You were always the safer battlefield. Bruce was too imposing, Jason too visibly unpleasant when provoked, Damian too sharp, Cass too unreadable, Tim too dangerous in proximity to electronics, Duke too watchful, and Dick too charming until he was suddenly not charming at all.
But you looked like the mother, the soft one, the one expected to absorb the blow and turn it into an apology. And in truth, you were their stepmother. It was a title that knew how to wear armor and softness at the same time, and you had learned to hold both, whether the world recognized the difference or not.
“I understand wanting to give children opportunities,” she said, her voice sweet in the way spoiled milk might be sweet if it learned manners. “But some children simply aren’t suited for public spaces.”
Jason’s book closed.
Not loud. Loud would have been less threatening. He closes it with one finger still marking his place, slow and deliberate, and lifts his eyes.
“Careful,” he said.
The woman recoiled, one hand fluttering to her pearls. “Excuse me?”
You looked at him. “Jason.”
“What?” he said. “It’s good advice. Lots of sudden drops on planes.”
“We are not doing this.”
A flight attendant named Maribel appeared in the aisle with the cautious smile of a woman who had smelled smoke before the alarm had started screaming. “Is everything alright here?”
The old woman turned to her immediately. “I’m being harassed.”
Jason made a sound like his soul had tripped over furniture.
Dick leaned forward. “No, she isn’t.”
“She is,” Tim murmured. “Being disagreed with.”
“Not helpful,” Duke whispered.
Maribel looked between all of you with admirable professionalism. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“I asked this woman to control her children, and they became rude and threatening.”
“Threatening?” Dick asked, and the word came out quieter than before.
“That one told me to be careful.” She pointed at Jason again.
Jason lifted a hand. “General safety reminder.”
“Please stop helping,” you told him.
“I have never helped once in my life.”
“That’s true,” Dick said.
“Do not defend my character right now.”
The woman turned back to you. “Are you going to allow this?”
Your smile thinned. “I’ve allowed a lot less than you think.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“I’m sorry if you feel disturbed,” you said, and though your voice stayed calm, you could feel your patience fraying beneath it, thread by thread. “But my children have done nothing to you.”
The words changed the cabin.
My children.
They were simple words, but they settled over the rows with a weight that made several of the kids go quiet in a different way. Dick’s expression softened for half a second, unguarded and young despite everything he had survived. Jason looked away, jaw working once as if the sentence had struck somewhere too private to acknowledge. Tim stared at his closed laptop. Cass’s gaze warmed with a softness that was nearly invisible unless you knew how to read her. Duke’s smile tucked itself away into something careful and touched. Damian’s pencil hovered above the page, unmoving.
The woman missed all of it, naturally.
“They’re not children,” she said. “Half of them are grown men.”
“Then stop tattling on them like they stole your crayons,” Jason muttered.
“Jason Peter Todd,” you said.
He winced. “That was unnecessary.”
The woman lifted her chin. “In my day, young people respected their elders.”
“In your day, planes had smoking sections,” Tim said, then looked immediately betrayed by his own mouth.
Duke covered his face with one hand.
Cass patted Tim’s arm.
The woman gasped. “Are you going to allow that?”
Tim looked at you with the doomed expression of a man who had wandered barefoot into a courtroom. “I may have over-participated.”
“You think?”
“Statistically, yes.”
The woman leaned back, offended dignity gathering around her like a shawl. “I don’t know what kind of household you run, but clearly these children have been given too much freedom.”
Your anger always arrives quietly. It isn’t fire, an explosion, or something that cracks through a room and demands attention. It gathers like weather over dark water, slow and heavy, giving people too many chances to mistake the horizon for peace.
“You can complain about the seats,” you said, voice low enough that the nearby rows had to fall silent to catch it. “You can complain about whispering, or atmosphere, or whatever else you’ve decided is unbearable about sitting near my family. But you will not talk about my children like they are burdens someone dragged onto this plane.”
The woman’s face stiffened. “I never said burdens.”
“You implied it.”
“I only meant,” she said, wearing a small, ugly smile now, “that it is generous of you to take on so many complicated young people. Though generosity does have limits.”
For a moment, no one moved.
The engines hummed beneath the floor. Sunlight flashed on the woman’s pearls. Damian went rigid beside you, and you felt the barely contained fury in him like a blade heating under cloth. Jason’s stare flattened into something cold. Dick’s hand tightened around the armrest. Tim was fully awake now, which was rarely a good sign. Cass became too still. Duke’s expression lost every trace of humor.
You reached over without looking and touched two fingers to Damian’s wrist.
“No,” you said softly. “It does not.”
Before the woman could answer, the cabin shifted.
You saw him first.
Bruce came through the curtain at the front of the plane with his dark hair slightly mussed, his suit jacket folded over one arm, his white shirt fitted across his shoulders in a way that made the aisle seem narrower by personal insult. He thanked the flight attendant near the galley, then walked back toward you with that quiet, controlled presence that made the world appear to straighten itself as he passed. No music swelled, no cape unfurled, no dramatic shadow fell across the cabin, though Jason would have paid actual money for all three. Bruce simply returned.
The woman turned because everyone else did.
Then she saw him.
And immediately went silent.
Not quiet. Silent.
It was the kind of silence that happened when someone realized the thunderstorm had a name, a jawline known to every gossip magazine in Gotham, and a very expensive watch.
Bruce stopped beside your row. His eyes moved over you first, always you first, and then over the children with a swift, practiced precision that missed nothing: Jason’s closed book, Damian’s clenched hands, Dick’s missing smile, Tim’s awake stare, Cass’s stillness, Duke’s sharpened expression, Maribel standing in the aisle with the fragile composure of a woman praying no one committed a felony at cruising altitude. Finally, he looked at the woman.
“Is there a problem?” he asked.
His voice was polite, even, and dangerous as a locked door.
The woman swallowed. “Mr. Wayne.”
Jason leaned back in his seat, delighted in the way only Jason could be when consequences arrived wearing cufflinks. “You were asking where our father was, right?”
“Jason,” Dick whispered.
“No, I’m helping.”
Bruce did not look away from the woman. “Were you?”
Her mouth opened, then closed. “There was a small misunderstanding.”
“A small misunderstanding,” Bruce repeated.
He glanced at you. You lifted one shoulder in a tiny motion that told him both nothing and everything. You could handle it. You had handled it. But Bruce looked at the children again, and something in his expression cooled.
“My wife,” he said, “is usually the most patient person in any room.”
The woman tried to smile. “Yes, well…”
“So if she became impatient,” Bruce continued, “I assume there was a reason.”
The smile died.
Maribel looked down, clearly fighting for her life somewhere behind her professional expression.
The woman clutched her handbag. “I didn’t realize this was your family.”
Bruce’s gaze sharpened. “That should not have mattered.”
Jason looked as if Christmas had arrived early and brought legal counsel.
Damian looked like justice had descended in human form and found the seating satisfactory.
The woman stared at her lap. “Of course.”
Bruce turned slightly to Maribel. “Has my family caused any disruption?”
“No, Mr. Wayne,” Maribel said. “They’ve been respectful.”
Bruce looked back at the woman. “Then I trust there won’t be further issues.”
It sounded like trust.
It was not trust.
“No,” the woman said stiffly. “There won’t be.”
“Thank you.”
Bruce sat down beside you and took your hand as if he had not just folded the entire argument into a neat little coffin and slid it beneath the seat in front of him.
For several seconds, no one spoke.
Then Jason whispered, “Dad voice still works.”
Dick exhaled a laugh, shaky with relief. “That wasn’t even full dad voice.”
Tim leaned back in his seat. “Full dad voice requires a first and middle name.”
Damian sniffed. “Father did not need volume. His disappointment was sufficient.”
Duke nodded solemnly. “Artisanal disappointment.”
Cass signed something with one hand that you couldn’t see fully from your seat.
Dick choked.
“What did she say?” you asked.
Dick grinned. “She said Bruce has resting principal face.”
Bruce looked at Cass.
Cass looked back, serene and merciless.
His mouth twitched. “Not inaccurate.”
You finally let out a breath, only then noticing how much tension had settled in your shoulders, tucked there like a smuggled knife. Bruce’s thumb moves slowly over your knuckles, hidden beneath the armrest where only you can feel it.
“What happened?” he asked quietly.
“She had opinions,” you said.
“About?”
“Our atmosphere.”
Bruce glanced around the cabin. “Our atmosphere.”
“Yes. Apparently we travel with a weather system.”
Jason muttered, “Accurate.”
You lowered your voice. “She said generosity has limits.”
Bruce’s hand stilled.
Damian looked up, his chin lifting with sharp, wounded dignity. “She implied we were burdens.”
“Damian,” you said softly.
“It is relevant.”
Bruce went very quiet.
Then he looked at them one by one. Dick, Jason, Tim, Cass, Duke, Damian. His expression did not transform dramatically, because Bruce’s face had always been a locked house with only a few windows lit, but something deeper moved beneath it, something heavy and certain and fiercely held.
“None of you are burdens,” he said.
The sentence landed gently, and somehow that made it heavier.
Tim looked down. Cass’s eyes warmed. Duke swallowed. Jason’s jaw tightened as he stared hard at his book. Damian glared at his sketchbook with ferocious concentration. Dick smiled faintly, the kind of smile that looked like it had been stitched out of old hurt and gratitude.
Bruce’s voice stayed low. “Not to me. Not to your mother. Not ever.”
Your throat tightened before you could stop it, because even when a truth was known, there were moments when hearing it aloud made it real in a new place.
The woman in 3C sat so still she seemed to be trying to become upholstery.
Maribel returned with drinks a moment later, giving you a quiet look of solidarity as she stopped beside your row. “More water, Mrs. Wayne?”
“Yes, please.”
“Anything else?”
“Coffee,” Tim said at once.
“No,” you, Bruce, Dick, Jason, Duke, and Damian said together.
Cass accepted the coffee Maribel had already poured and placed it on her own tray table, far from Tim’s reach.
Tim stared at her with hollow despair. “Cruelty from the quietest corner.”
Jason reopened his book. “This family hates innovation.”
“This family hates whatever happens when you drink airplane coffee after thirty hours awake,” Duke said.
“Thirty-one,” Tim corrected.
Bruce looked at him.
Tim closed his eyes. “Allegedly.”
Slowly, your family settles back into its shape. Dick makes Maribel laugh with something kind and easy. Cass watches the clouds like they’re speaking a language she almost understands. Duke quietly guesses which passengers are afraid of flying and keeps being right every time. Tim actually falls asleep, mouth slightly open, protected from caffeine by Cass and whatever higher power is on duty. Jason goes back to reading Austen with the grim focus of a man determined to win an argument with a woman who will never know she’s part of it. Damian finishes his drawing and, after a small hesitation, tears it carefully from the sketchbook and hands it to you.
You took it with both hands. Titus stood in the center of the page wearing a cape and a tiny cowl, one paw planted on a defeated vacuum cleaner.
“He looks brave,” you said.
“He is brave,” Damian replied.
“Is the vacuum cleaner dead?”
“Subdued.”
“Of course.”
Jason leaned over. “Can Titus have a gritty reboot?”
You laughed before you could stop yourself, and Bruce’s hand tightened around yours, his thumb brushing once over your skin like punctuation.
The old woman did not turn around again.
After a while, when the cabin had settled into that soft middle-of-flight hush and the clouds beyond the windows stretched white and endless beneath the wing, you leaned forward just enough for your voice to reach her. “I hope the rest of the flight is more comfortable for you.”
She turned slightly, embarrassed and stiff, no longer sharp enough to cut with. “Thank you.”
You sat back.
Jason stared at you. “You’re too nice.”
“No,” you said. “I’m exactly nice enough.”
Bruce’s gaze warmed. “Yes, you are.”
Damian frowned. “She did not deserve courtesy.”
“Courtesy isn’t always about deserve,” you said, watching the clouds glow like pale silk beyond the window. “Sometimes it’s about who you want to be when someone else is small.”
Damian absorbed that with the deep displeasure of someone who had asked for ammunition and received a philosophy lesson.
Jason groaned softly. “Great. Moral improvement at thirty thousand feet.”
“Hydrate,” you told him. “It’ll pass.”
Bruce lifted your hand and kissed your knuckles, the gesture hidden from most of the cabin by the angle of his body, but not from you. His lips were warm against your skin, brief and old-fashioned and tender in a way that made your heart ache.
“You were magnificent,” he murmured.
“I was irritated.”
“Magnificently irritated.”
You smile despite yourself and look around at your family, scattered across the cabin just like the woman said. Loose change, she called them, or close enough. But she was wrong, the way people are always wrong when they mistake what they can count for what they can understand.
Not loose change, you thought.
A constellation.
Bright, stubborn, impossible stars, scattered across the dark and still belonging to the same sky.
Reader has finally reached their limit of Jason’s temper. He’s working on it, of course, but working on it snd change are two different things. After he accidentally yells at them for the nth time, Reader gives an ultimatum. Either he go to therapy, or they’re done. Jason’s a bat, and bats should be able to handle their problems without therapy… right?
always
IN WHICH... you're sick and tired of jason taking all of his frustration out on the person he's meant to love. if he doesn't fix his problems, you're going to have to pull the plug.
warnings: angst, anger issues on jason's behalf, f!reader, cussing, pet names, mean!jason, 2nd person pov, y/n used like twice, open ending sort of
wc: 2k
part 2: i'll always choose you
Life as Jason's girlfriend wasn't always like this.
He didn't always yell at you after he had a bad night out on patrol. He didn't always snap at you when you were excited to ramble about your passions. And he certainly didn't always spend his nights asleep on the living room couch, mulling over everything he said to you.
Somewhere along the 5-month mark, though, Jason stopped masking his uncontrolled anger issues. Before that, he was almost...good at regulating them. He'd mutter a simple "sorry, love, but I need a moment," before slipping out onto the fire escape for a smoke. Perhaps once he finally got comfortable with you he figured he didn't need to hide it anymore, but this version of things was only hurting you more than his previous dismissal.
And tonight was just another one of those nights. Another night spent sitting numbly at the kitchen island while Jason spits cruel words in your face as if they have no consequences. You just stare at him tiredly, tears spilling down your face—you no longer have the energy to yell back.
All you'd done was ask him how patrol was when he'd gotten home around 11:30—late, as per usual. He'd ignored you. You pushed—maybe that's where you went wrong, because he just...exploded.
"Like, seriously, baby!" he yells—the juxtaposition of such a sweet name amongst the mean things he's yelling isn't lost on you. "You're just...so fucking annoying sometimes! When're you gonna give me a break, huh?"
"Jay-"
"No, I'm sick of it! Jay, how was patrol?" he mocks cruelly. "Jay, cuddle me! Jay this, Jay that– just shut up already! You don't need to be in my space 24/7!"
You sigh, reaching a hand up to wipe your now-wet face. "I'm sorry."
He rolls his eyes. "Whatever. I'm gonna go shower—don't join me."
You're forced to sit there, watching as Jason retreats to the bedroom and shuts the door behind him. As you hear the shower begin to run, you zone out, stewing in your thoughts.
I miss the old you, you think to yourself, and you're almost ashamed at the thought. As Jason's girlfriend, you're meant to love every side of him...right? But how can you love them all equally when one treats you like this?
On Jason's behalf, he's still grumbling to himself about a clingy girlfriend who's so fucking obnoxious as he undresses for the shower. When he finally steps under the scalding spray—alone—he lets himself begin to relax.
And only then does he reflect on how he just acted toward you, his babygirl. He'd told you to leave him alone...told you that you're annoying...told you he was sick of you. And on top of it all, he just stood there, watching as fat tears slid down your cheeks, weighing your pretty lashes down.
"Fuck," he mutters to himself, letting the water soak into his dark hair and slide over his body. As much as he hates to admit it, he wishes you were here with him. In a perfect world, you'd be washing his hair and back, listening to him ramble on about everything that was wrong. Instead of being something to attack, you'd be his teammate, his companion that he goes to.
Silently, he goes through the motions of a shower: shampoo in hair, rinse. Wash body, rinse. Wash face, rinse. He does it all with a heavy heart and a clouded mind. The same thought repeats in his head like a mantra: Why do I treat the love of my life like this?
As he shuts the shower off and wraps his soft white towel around his waist, he half-expects to walk out of the en suite bathroom to see you sat on the bed, patient and eager to help him unwind—to be there for him.
But of course, you're not.
Heaving a heavy sigh, he slips himself into a pair of sweats and a t-shirt, shaking his wet hair out with a towel. Twisting the door handle slowly, he creeps it open. "Sweetheart?" he calls out tentatively.
No response.
He inches out of the room, eyes scanning the apartment floor for you. Not in the kitchen, not in your office, not...
Oh, there you are. Curled up on the couch with a glass of wine and a book in your lap. So precious he thinks to himself, then silently curses himself for it. He shouldn't be allowed to think such soft things of you after how he treated you. "Hey..."
You glance up, look into his eyes with your sweet, gentle ones, then look back to your book.
His heart squeezes so painfully that he has to reach a hand up to rub his aching chest.
"Ma, please talk to me. I'm sorry," he murmurs gently, as if he's speaking to a wounded animal and not his girlfriend.
"I know."
"You know what...?"
"That you're sorry," you reply, looking up at him again. "You're always sorry, Jason."
Against his will, his temper begins to flare once more. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"You come home from patrol, explode on me, leave for an hour or so, then seek me out to tell me you're sorry," you say. "That's usually how my nights go nowadays."
"You can't just pin that all on me," he argues. You gently shut your book. Here we go. "It's not my fault that you just...piss me off so badly."
You nod. "Okay, Jason," you mutter, lifting off the couch and walking toward the bedroom. You dump whatever wine was left in your glass down the sink on the way.
He hates that he can see the dried tears on your cheeks. He hates even more that he can't shake this inexplicable anger he feels.
"What do you mean 'okay'?"
"I mean okay," you reply gently. "I'm going to bed."
He blinks, standing in the middle of the room like a lost dog. "You're just...going?"
You nod.
"O...kay. Why?"
You let out a sigh. "Really, Jason?"
"Yes, really!" he exclaims. "Why're you just leaving?"
"I don't wanna be around you, quite frankly," you murmur, walking closer to the bedroom.
His shoulders sag as he hears the click of the bedroom door shutting. Your words repeat in his mind, paining him.
I don't wanna be around you.
Of course you don't, because why would you, what with how he's been treating you. He glances at the microwave clock—12:15am. Simply seeing what time it is seems to make Jason's exhaustion weigh heavier on his shoulders. He yawns, rubbing his eyes softly.
Couch...or bed?
He's been sleeping on the couch for god knows how many days now, one more day wouldn't hurt. But at the same time, he misses his baby. He misses feeling you snuggle up against his chest, wanting to be held and loved. He smiles faintly at the memories of all the times you've nudged up into his hand, silently asking for him to play with your hair.
He doesn't deserve to have that anymore, he knows it. But still, he makes the decision that tonight, he is going to sleep where he's meant to: in his bed, next to the woman he loves.
He shuffles into the kitchen, washing your wine glass for you as well as the new dish you bought the other day but hadn't gotten around to cleaning. Then, flicking the light off, he makes his way to the bedroom door.
As he enters, he's met with a pitch black expanse of nothingness. The only light is the faint moonlight peeking through the curtains, perfectly illuminating the slope of your nose for him to see.
You're not asleep, he can tell from your breathing. Gently, he crawls in beside you, scooting close enough that he can spoon you. He hates the way your body tenses when his arms envelop you before releasing, hates that you're no longer used to his cuddles.
"It's just me, baby," he whispers softly, pressing a kiss to your temple.
"I'm not really in the mood to cuddle, Jay. Sorry..."
He blinks. "Oh. Yeah...sorry, love." His arms release from around your waist, and he slides back until he's on his side of the bed.
He stares up at the ceiling, eyes tracing the spin of the fan in order to avoid looking down at your pretty self. His strategy only works for a solid two minutes before his eyes instinctively flicker down to you.
His eyes trace you—your relaxed forehead, your soft brows, your shut eyes, those beautiful lashes, the slope of your nose...all the way down to those plush lips he loves so much.
"I don't know why I act the way I do," he whispers shakily, as if he's admitting his deepest, darkest secret. "I..."
You look over your shoulder at him. "You what, Jay?"
"I'm not...a violent dog. I don't why I bite..."
The pure sadness and insecurity in his voice does truly make your heart ache, but what about you? What about all the times he's lashed out on you without reason, making you feel unwelcome?
"I know, but..." you sigh. "I'm so tired, Jason. You didn't always used to treat me like this...you used to, I dunno, regulate it better."
"Tired of me?"
"Of how you treat me, like you're not afraid of losing me."
You can physically hear his breath catch. "But...oh, baby, no..." he whimpers softly. "Do I really make you feel that way, my love?" His hands cup your cheeks, thumbs gently stroking your cheekbones.
Softly, your hands find his wrists, removing his hands from your face and placing them in his lap.
"You're...you're losing me, Jay," you murmur. His eyes are immediately glassy, you can tell. You want to do nothing more than kiss that sadness away—but you can't. "You're definitely going to lose me if you keep treating me like I'm disposable."
"I'm trying to get better for you, baby, I swear I am–"
"I know you're trying, but nothing's actually changing, babe..." you pause a moment to look into his eyes, trying to truly get your point across. "I...I've considered leaving if this keeps up."
His breathing is labored and uneven as he imagines a life without you—it's a horrible, pain-riddled, miserable one. "No..."
"Jay..."
"Baby, no," he's actually crying now, tears streaming from his beautiful blue-green eyes. "I need you, ma, I–"
"Then you'll get help and fix your problem," you say. Your fingers twitch, aching to brush the tear away that's sliding down his cheek.
"Help?"
"Y'know, like therapy."
Immediately, his mood shifts. It's so quick, you'd miss it if you blinked. His eyes sharpen, his face hardens, and his body becomes more alert. He wipes the wetness off his face. "I don't need therapy."
"Then how else are you gonna fix this?"
"I don't know, Y/N, but I don't need therapy," he doesn't catch the way his voice is rising. "Me, Jason Todd—'son' of batman—therapy?"
"You're doing it again," you murmur numbly.
"What?" he blinks.
"Yelling. You're yelling at me, and you don't even realize it."
His eyes soften. "Oh."
"Yeah," you mumble. "You do that a lot, Jay."
"Okay, but I'm...I'm not getting therapy."
You look down, debating whether to say exactly what you're thinking or to just agree with him and move on, to let the cycle repeat.
"It's either therapy or me, Jason."
He blanches. "What?" he whispers, wondering if he heard you correctly.
"It's therapy or me," you repeat a little more firmly, looking into eyes when you say it this time.
"I'm a bat, Y/N. I don't do therapy," he defends.
"Jay, for christ's sake!" you exclaim. "Are you not like, processing what's happening right now?" You say your next words slowly, trying to get them through his head. "If you don't go to therapy and get help for your anger management, you're going to lose me. I'm going to leave. I won't be your girlfriend anymore.
"I can't just keep being your punching bag forever, baby, no matter how much I love you—how much I know you love me. So what's it gonna be, Jason? Your ego or our relationship?"
[ SYNOPSIS ] — After a brutal mission, Megumi Fushiguro says something that confirms your deepest fear that your voice is a burden. You shrink yourself into silence for weeks until a chance encounter with Yuuta Okkotsu finally lets you spill everything you've been holding in. When Megumi sees you having fun with Yuuta, his own insecurities convince him he was losing you. w.c: 6.7k
[ PAIRING ] — megumi fushiguro x talkative!reader
[ TAGS ] — THIS FIC IS A REQUEST!! fem!reader, hurt/comfort, established relationship, internalized self-doubt, self-esteem issues, jealousy issues, YUUTA MENTION!!!, platonic friendships, insecure megumi. art by: @/11101AM
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The silence in Megumi Fushiguro’s apartment had never felt like a weapon before. It had always been a soft, comfortable thing. The quiet of shared space, the peace of two people who didn’t need to fill every moment with noise. But tonight, the silence it felt different.
Megumi had come home late, later than usual, his shoulders hunched and his jaw tight. You’d watched him shrug off his jacket, his movements jerky and exhausted, and your heart had clenched with sympathy. You knew he’d had a brutal week. A mission had gone sideways, leaving him with a concussion and a civilian casualty that wasn’t his fault but weighed on him anyway. Then there had been the endless debriefings, the paperwork, the sidelong glances from the higher-ups who always seemed to be waiting for him to fail. You’d seen the dark circles under his eyes deepen with each passing day, watched him pick at his food without eating, and felt him toss and turn beside you in bed long after the lights went out.
So you’d done what you always did. You’d tried to help. You’d made his favorite tea, the ginger one that stung the nose and warmed the throat. You’d set out his comfortable clothes, the soft sweater with the frayed cuffs he loved. And when he’d sunk onto the couch with a bone-deep sigh, you’d settled beside him and started talking, hoping to pull him out of his head, to distract him from the darkness you could see swirling behind his eyes.
“I was thinking about time today,” you’d begun, your voice soft and meandering, the way it always was when you were trying to soothe him. “Not like, clock time, but geological time. Did you know that if you compressed the entire history of the Earth into a single year, humans wouldn’t show up until like, eleven-forty PM on December thirty-first? And the entire recorded history of human civilization would be the last few seconds before midnight? It’s wild, right? All of our wars and art and love and everything, just this tiny little blip. And it made me think about how when you’re in the middle of a bad week, it feels like it’s going to last forever, but in the grand scheme of things, it’s not even a fraction of a fraction of a—”
“Can you just be quiet?”
The words weren’t loud. They weren’t even particularly harsh. But they stopped you cold, your mouth still half-open around the next syllable, your hands frozen mid-gesture. You stared at him, waiting for the punchline, the softening of his eyes, the small quirk of his lips that meant he was teasing.
It didn’t come.
He wasn’t looking at you. His head was tilted back against the couch, his eyes closed, and there was a furrow between his brows so deep it looked carved there. The words hung in the air between you, ugly and final, and for one bizarre, disorienting moment, a single thought cut through your shock: This isn’t Megumi.
The thought was so strong, so visceral, that your eyes darted around the room, half-expecting to see the shimmer of a veil, the telltale distortion of a curse’s technique. Because this couldn’t be real. Your Megumi—your sweet, quiet, secretly tender Megumi who let you put face masks on him and once sat through a three-hour documentary about nudibranchs because you’d said they looked like tiny sea dragons and you loved them—your Megumi would never, ever say that to you. This had to be a curse. Some vile, parasitic thing wearing his skin, twisting his voice, using his exhaustion as a doorway in.
You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until your lungs started to burn. Your hands were trembling in your lap, but you kept them still, kept your face as neutral as you could manage, while your mind spiraled through every exorcism you’d ever studied, every curse you’d ever encountered. You searched his face for some sign of the supernatural, some glint of something that wasn’t him.
Megumi’s eyes opened, and you searched them desperately. But all you saw was exhaustion. Bone-deep, soul-crushing exhaustion, and underneath it, a flicker of irritation that made your stomach drop.
He must have seen something in your expression—the wide-eyed horror, the desperate scanning—because his brow furrowed further. "Nothing is wrong, I just… I can’t right now. I need quiet. Please.”
Please. He’d said please, like it was a reasonable request, like he hadn’t just taken the thing you were most vulnerable about—the thing you’d been terrified of your entire life—and confirmed it was true. You talked too much, you shared too much, you were too much, and the one person you’d trusted with all of it had finally gotten sick of pretending otherwise.
You didn’t remember standing up. You didn’t remember walking to the bedroom. All you remembered was the click of the door closing behind you, the sound of your own heartbeat thundering in your ears, and the slow, creeping horror of a new thought slithering into your mind.
What if he’s been holding this back for our entire relationship, and tonight he just… slipped?
You pressed your back against the bedroom door and slid down until you were sitting on the floor, your knees drawn up to your chest. The tears came hot and silent, and with them, the spiral.
Because the thing was, it made sense. It made terrible, perfect sense.
You’d always known you talked a lot. You’d been told so your whole life—by teachers who moved your desk to the back of the classroom, by friends who slowly stopped returning your texts, by family members who smiled tight smiles and said, “Don’t you ever run out of things to say?” You talked when you were happy, when you were nervous, when you were sad, and when you were excited. Talking was how you processed the world. It was how you connected, how you loved, how you breathed.
And Megumi… Megumi was so quiet. He spoke in glances and small gestures, in the brush of his fingers against yours, in the way he’d make you tea without being asked. You’d always thought—hoped—that your talking was the yang to his yin, that you filled the silences he didn’t want to fill himself, that he liked it, that he liked you.
But what if he didn’t? What if every story you’d ever told him, every random observation, every excited ramble about sea slugs or cloud formations or the socioeconomic implications of ancient Roman plumbing—what if every single word had been sandpaper against his nerves? What if all those little hums and nods, the ones you’d interpreted as listening, had actually been him just… enduring?
You thought back through your entire relationship, and the memories shifted and warped before your eyes, taking on a sinister new shape. The time you’d spent forty-five minutes explaining the plot of a book he’d never read, and he’d just sat there, silent. You’d thought he was being a good listener. What if he’d been wishing you would stop? The time you’d made him watch a video essay about the history of buttons, and he’d fallen asleep halfway through. You’d teased him about it, thinking it was cute. What if he’d been so bored, so exhausted by your endless stream of words, that his body had just given up?
Every memory became evidence. Every silence became a verdict. And you, who loved him so much, realized with a sickening lurch that your love might have been a burden. That the very thing you’d been offering him—yourself, unfiltered and enthusiastic and overflowing—might have been the thing he’d secretly wished he could escape.
You didn’t sleep that night. You lay in bed, still and silent as a stone, listening to Megumi’s breathing on the other side of the mattress. He didn’t reach for you. He didn’t say anything. And that, too, felt like confirmation.
───
The next morning, you woke up with a new resolve. If Megumi needed quiet, you would give him quiet. If your talking was a burden, you would set it down. You would become smaller, neater, easier. You would be the girlfriend he deserved, not the one he’d been saddled with.
It was the hardest thing you’d ever done.
The first day, you caught yourself a dozen times. You’d open your mouth to tell him about the weird bird you’d seen outside the window, and you’d snap it shut again. You’d pick up your phone to text him a thought that had just occurred to you, and you’d set it back down. Every suppressed word felt like a small death, a little piece of yourself that you were burying alive.
But you did it. For him, you did it.
“Morning,” you said when he stumbled into the kitchen. One word. Neat. Contained. You placed his coffee in front of him—black, no sugar, the way he liked it—and turned back to the sink.
Megumi grunted in response, rubbing his eyes. He didn’t seem to notice anything different. Why would he? This was probably what he’d always wanted. A quiet morning. A peaceful coffee. A girlfriend who didn’t assault him with trivia before he’d fully woken up.
The second day was harder. You saw a dog on your walk home that looked exactly like his Divine Dog, a big black shaggy thing with soulful eyes, and your first instinct was to take a picture, to send it to him, to say, “Look! It’s your son! He’s working at a café now apparently, very distinguished!” You had your phone out, the camera app open, before you remembered. You put the phone away. You walked home in silence. And when Megumi asked, “How was your day?” you said, “Fine,” and nothing else.
The third day, the fourth day, the fifth day—they all blurred together into a haze. You’d never realized how much of your life was made of words until you had to swallow every single one. You’d never realized how lonely silence could be until you were drowning in it.
You didn’t have a lot of close friends. It wasn’t that people didn’t like you—they did, or at least, they seemed to. But friendships required maintenance, and you’d always poured so much of yourself into your relationship with Megumi that there hadn’t been much left over. He’d been your person. The one you texted at 2 AM when you had a thought that couldn’t wait. The one whose shoulder you shook when you saw something beautiful or weird or funny, because sharing it with him was what made it real.
Now you had no one. The thoughts piled up inside you, a tower of unsaid words growing taller every day. You started a journal, but it wasn’t the same. The journal didn’t hum in the right places. The journal didn’t roll its eyes fondly or call you an idiot with that particular soft inflection that meant I love you. The journal was just paper, and you were so, so lonely.
Megumi didn’t notice.
Well, that wasn’t entirely fair. He noticed something. He noticed that you were quieter, but he chalked it up to mood swings. You’d always been emotional, up and down, sunshine and rain. He figured you were going through something personal—maybe family stuff, maybe hormones, maybe just the general weight of being a sorcerer in a world that never stopped needing saving. He’d ask, “You okay?” and you’d say, “I’m fine,” and he’d accept it, because Megumi was not, by nature, a person who pushed.
A small, petty part of you wanted him to push. You wanted him to grab you by the shoulders and say, “You’re not fine. You haven’t told me a single fact about marine biology in five days. What’s wrong?” But he didn’t. He just drifted through the apartment like a ghost, and you drifted with him, two silent ships passing in a fog of your own making.
Weeks passed. You got very good at being quiet. You learned the precise number of words required to get through a day without arousing suspicion: “Good morning.” “Do you want dinner?” “I’m going to bed.”
And through it all, the thoughts kept coming. They never stopped. Every moment of every day, your brain was churning out observations, questions, connections, jokes, stories. Did you know that octopuses have three hearts? Did you know that the moon is slowly moving away from the Earth? Did you know that I love you so much it’s killing me not to tell you? The words pressed against the inside of your skull and you had nowhere to put them.
Until Yuuta.
───
You’d gone to the sorcerer headquarters to drop off some paperwork for Gojo—a favor you’d agreed to in the morning. You were walking across the training grounds, head down, already composing the text you wouldn’t send Megumi about the interesting moss pattern on the path, when you literally ran into someone.
“Oh! I’m so sorry, I wasn’t—” You looked up into a pair of kind, worried eyes, and your brain short-circuited. “Yuuta?”
Yuuta Okkotsu smiled at you, that gentle, slightly awkward smile that made him look like a startled puppy. “Hey! It’s good to see you. I feel like it’s been forever. How are you? How’s Megumi?”
And something in you, something that had been wound tight for weeks, just… snapped.
“Did you know,” you said, the words tumbling out before you could stop them, “that there’s a species of jellyfish that’s biologically immortal? It’s called the Turritopsis dohrnii, and when it gets injured or stressed or just old, it can revert back to its polyp stage and start its whole life cycle over. It’s like hitting the reset button on your own existence. Scientists are studying it to see if there are applications for human aging, but honestly, I think the jellyfish is onto something. Imagine if every time you made a horrible mistake, you could just turn back into a baby and try again. Megumi would probably appreciate that, right? A do-over button for relationships? ‘Oh no, I’ve been a terrible boyfriend, time to become a polyp!’ Though I guess that’s not really fair. He’s not terrible. I’m the terrible one. I’m the one who talks too much. That’s literally what he said. Well, not literally, but implied. He said, ‘Can you just be quiet?’ and I’ve been trying, I really have, but it’s so hard because I have all these thoughts and nowhere to put them and I can’t tell him because he doesn’t want to hear it and I don’t have anyone else because he was my person and now I’m just—I’m just full. Do you ever feel full? Like you’re going to burst if you don’t say something, but if you say something, the person you love most in the world is going to look at you with that exhausted, annoyed expression, and you’ll die a little inside? No? Just me? Okay. Okay, I’m sorry. I’m doing it again. I’m talking too much. I should stop. I’m going to stop now.”
You stopped. You were breathing hard, your heart pounding, and you realized with a distant sort of horror that you’d just verbally vomited all over Yuuta Okkotsu, a man you barely knew, a man who was probably just trying to be polite and was now trapped in a conversation with a lunatic.
But Yuuta didn’t look trapped. He looked… concerned. And interested. And maybe a little bit sad.
“The jellyfish thing is really cool,” he said quietly. “Tell me more about that.”
You stared at him. “What?”
“The immortal jellyfish. How does it work, exactly? Does it remember its previous life, or is it a blank slate every time?”
It was like someone had opened a floodgate. You couldn’t stop yourself. You didn’t want to stop yourself. You told him about the cellular transdifferentiation process, about the way the jellyfish’s cells could change from one type to another, about the implications for regenerative medicine and the philosophical questions it raised about identity and consciousness and what it meant to truly die. And then, because he was still listening, still nodding, still asking questions with genuine curiosity in his dark eyes, you told him about octopuses and moon phases and the time you’d gotten lost in a museum and accidentally attended a lecture on medieval grain storage, and it had been the most fascinating hour of your life.
You talked for two hours. Two solid hours of uninterrupted, uncensored, gloriously rambling. You told Yuuta things you hadn’t even realized you’d been holding in. You told him about the specific shade of gray the sky turned before a storm, and the way Megumi’s hair fell over his eyes when he was concentrating, and the dream you’d had about flying whales, and the theory you’d developed about pigeons being government drones, and—
And through it all, Yuuta listened. He didn’t endure. He listened. He laughed at your jokes. He gasped at your revelations. He leaned in when you got to the good parts, and he shook his head in wonder when you finished a particularly convoluted tangent. He was, you realized with a pang, everything you’d been missing. Not a romantic prospect—you were too in love with Megumi for that, even now, even after everything—but a friend. A real, true friend who didn’t seem to mind that you talked too much. Who maybe even liked it.
“That was incredible,” Yuuta said when you finally wound down, your throat hoarse and your heart lighter than it had been in weeks. “You’re like a living Wikipedia, except way more entertaining. Megumi’s a lucky guy.”
The mention of Megumi’s name was like a splash of cold water. “I should… I should probably go. I’ve taken up enough of your time.”
“You didn’t take anything,” Yuuta said firmly. “I offered. And honestly?” He ducked his head, a little shy. “It was nice. I enjoyed learning so much, and if it made you feel better, then I am even more glad. So thank you. For talking to me.”
Something in your chest cracked open. “You’re welcome, thank you too for hearing me.” you whispered. And you meant it.
───
The afternoon sun was slanting through the trees of the training grounds, casting long, golden shadows across the grass, and Megumi Fushiguro was worried.
Something was wrong with you. He’d noticed it in the small things—the way you’d stopped texting him random facts in the middle of the day, the way the apartment had become so painfully quiet, the way you’d answer his questions with one-word responses and tight, brittle smiles that never reached your eyes. He’d told himself it was a mood swing, or stress, or something personal that you’d share when you were ready. He’d told himself to be patient, to give you space, to be the steady, silent presence you needed.
But today, the worry had sharpened into something sharper. You hadn’t answered your phone. Three calls, straight to voicemail. You were supposed to drop off paperwork for Gojo, a simple errand that should have taken an hour at most, but three hours had passed and you still weren’t home. Megumi had tried to ignore the cold knot forming in his stomach. He’d tried to reason with himself—maybe your phone died, maybe you got caught up talking to someone, maybe you just needed time alone. But the image of your face that morning, pale and drawn and so terribly quiet, had pushed him out the door.
He found you on a bench near the old training fields, a secluded spot dappled with light and shadow, the kind of place you used to drag him to for “cloud-watching dates” where you’d spend an hour narrating the lives of the cumulus sheep and their stratus shepherds. The memory hit him like a punch to the chest, a reminder of everything that had been missing, everything he’d somehow let slip away.
But you weren’t alone.
Yuuta Okkotsu was sitting beside you on the bench, his body angled toward you in a posture of complete, undivided attention. And you were talking. You were talking the way you used to talk to Megumi, your hands flying through the air, your face alight with an animation he hadn’t seen in weeks, your voice carrying across the grass in a bright, effervescent stream that made his heart seize in his chest.
"—And that’s why I’m convinced pigeons are actually government surveillance drones,” you were saying, your voice breathless with laughter. “I mean, think about it, Yuuta. They’re everywhere. They never migrate. They have that weird red eye thing that looks exactly like a camera lens. And have you ever seen a baby pigeon? No. You haven’t. Because they’re not born. They’re manufactured.”
Yuuta laughed—a real, genuine laugh, warm and surprised—and Megumi watched him shake his head in wonder. “That’s the most unhinged wild I’ve ever heard,” Yuuta said, but his voice was fond, almost admiring. “I love it. What else do you have? What’s your take on squirrels?”
“Oh, squirrels are just tree spies,” you said immediately, and you launched into another tangent without missing a beat, your whole body leaning toward Yuuta like he was the sun and you were a flower desperate for light.
Megumi stood frozen at the edge of the treeline, hidden in the shadows of a large oak, and watched.
He should have walked away. He should have announced himself, or texted you that he was there, or done anything other than stand there like a ghost, eavesdropping on a conversation that was never meant for his ears. But he couldn’t move. His feet were rooted to the ground, and his eyes were fixed on you, on the way you sparkled, on the way you came alive in a way you hadn’t around him in weeks.
Look at her, a voice whispered in the back of his mind, cold and insidious. Look at how happy she is. Look at how she’s glowing. You haven’t made her look like that in weeks. Maybe ever.
He tried to push the thought away, but it clung to him like a curse, sinking its claws into the softest, most vulnerable parts of his heart. He watched Yuuta lean in slightly, his dark eyes soft with genuine interest, and something bitter and acidic rose in Megumi’s throat.
Of course. Of course it’s Yuuta.
Yuuta Okkotsu, the prodigy. The special grade sorcerer who had overcome a curse born of love itself. The one everyone admired, the one everyone trusted, the one who was unfailingly kind and gentle and everything Megumi knew, deep in his bones, he could never be.
He’s perfect for her.
The thought was a knife twisting in his gut. Yuuta was everything you deserved. He was affectionate. He was emotionally available. He probably knew how to say “I love you” without choking on the words, without hoping his actions could speak loudly enough to drown out his silence. He would never snap at you after a hard week. He would never make you feel like your voice was a burden. He would listen—really listen, with his whole heart, the way he was listening now—and he would make you feel seen, cherished, adored.
And what did Megumi do? He grunted. He nodded. He made tea and hoped you understood that the steam rising from the cup meant you are my whole world. He was a coward, a man made of silences and shadows, and he’d always known, somewhere deep down, that it was only a matter of time before you realized you deserved more.
This is it, he thought, and the cold certainty of it settled over him like a shroud. She’s found someone who can give her what I can’t. Someone who can listen. She’s going to leave me.
He watched you laugh again, your hand reaching out to touch Yuuta’s arm in a gesture of easy familiarity, and something inside him cracked. You used to touch him like that. You used to look at him like that, like he was the only person in the world who mattered. And he’d thrown it away. He’d thrown it away with two stupid, careless sentences, spoken in a moment of exhausted weakness.
“Can you just be quiet?”
The memory of that night crashed over him like a wave of ice. He remembered the way your face had crumpled, the way you’d frozen, silent and terrified, before retreating to the bedroom without a word. How you’d looked at him like he was a stranger wearing a familiar face. And he’d been too tired, too wrapped up in his own misery, to follow you. He’d let you go. He’d let you think, for weeks, that your voice was a burden, that your beautiful, bright, overflowing self was something to be endured rather than cherished.
And now here you were, blooming under someone else’s attention, because he had starved you of his own.
She deserves this, he thought, and the resignation was so heavy it made his knees weak. She deserves someone who doesn’t make her feel like she has to be small. Someone who doesn’t need weeks to notice she’s dying inside. Someone like Yuuta.
Yuuta said something that made you laugh again—a full, unrestrained, head-tilted-back laugh that Megumi hadn’t heard in so long he’d almost forgotten the sound of it. The joy in it was a blade, and it cut him to the bone. He wanted to be the one making you laugh like that. He wanted to be the one you leaned toward, the one you touched, the one you trusted with your wild theories and endless curiosities. But he’d forfeited that right, hadn’t he? He’d pushed you away, and you’d found someone else to fill the space he’d left.
If you love her, you’ll let her go. The thought was noble, self-sacrificing, the kind of thought the heroes in your stories would have. But Megumi wasn’t a hero. He was a jealous, terrified, broken man who couldn’t stand the idea of losing you, even if it was exactly what he deserved.
He watched Yuuta stand up from the bench, saying something that made you smile and nod. You stood too, and for one horrible, heart-stopping moment, Megumi thought you might hug him, might press yourself against Yuuta the way you used to press against him. But you didn’t. You just waved, a cheerful, grateful wave, and Yuuta walked away, leaving you alone on the path.
Megumi should have waited. He should have let you walk home, should have given himself time to compose his thoughts, to find the right words, to be calm and rational and mature about this. But he’d spent his whole life being calm and rational and mature, and look where it had gotten him. Standing in the shadows, watching the love of his life light up for someone else because he’d been too stupid, too silent, too scared to tell her how much she meant to him.
He stepped out from behind the tree.
You saw him immediately. Your head turned at the sound of his footsteps, and the smile—the beautiful, radiant smile you’d been wearing for Yuuta—froze on your face and then slowly, painfully, died. It was like watching a door slam shut, and Megumi felt the impact in his soul.
“Megumi,” you said, and your voice was flat. Neutral. Nothing like the bright, bubbling stream he’d just been eavesdropping on. “What are you doing here?”
He opened his mouth to say something reasonable—“I was worried about you,” or “Your phone was off,” or “Let’s go home and talk about this calmly”—but what came out instead was: “So that’s it, then. You’re going to leave me for him.”
Your eyes widened. “What?”
“Yuuta.” Megumi’s voice was shaking, and he hated it. He hated the way he couldn’t control it, the way all the fear and jealousy and self-loathing he’d been swallowing for weeks was spilling out of him like poison. “I saw you. Just now. You were so happy, talking to him. You were so… you were yourself again. And you haven’t been yourself with me in weeks. So I get it, okay? I get it. He’s better than me. He’s everything I’m not. And you deserve someone like him.”
The words hung in the air between you, ugly and raw and desperate. Megumi watched your face cycle through shock, confusion, and then—slowly, devastatingly—understanding.
“You were watching us,” you said quietly.
“I came looking for you.” He couldn’t meet your eyes anymore. He stared at the ground, at the grass, at the ants marching in a neat line across the path. “You weren’t answering your phone. I was worried. And then I saw you with him, and you were talking the way you used to talk to me, and I just… I knew. I knew you’d finally realized I’m not enough.”
“Megumi—”
“Do you know what I was thinking the whole time I watched you two?” The words kept coming. His hands were shaking at his sides. His chest was so tight he could barely breathe. “I was thinking, ‘Of course. Of course it’s Yuuta.’ Yuuta is kind and gentle and he probably never forgets to tell you how much he loves you. He probably listens to every word you say and tells you you’re brilliant and doesn’t just grunt and hope you understand. He’s affectionate and he’s sweet and he’s exactly what you need, and I’m just… I’m just me. I’m dark and quiet and broken, and I’ve always known, deep down, that someday you’d wake up and realize you could do better.”
He finally looked up at you, and the expression on your face made his heart shatter into a thousand pieces. You were crying. Silent tears were streaming down your cheeks, and you were looking at him with something that wasn’t anger or confirmation—it was heartbreak. Pure, aching heartbreak.
“Oh, Megumi,” you whispered.
He couldn’t stop. Everything he’d been holding in for years was pouring out in an uncontrollable torrent. “He’s better for you. Everyone knows it. Gojo, Nobara, probably even you. Yuuta is the kind of person who deserves someone like you—someone bright and warm and full of life. I’m just the guy who told you to shut up when you were trying to help me. I’m the guy who didn’t notice you were dying inside for three whole weeks because I was too wrapped up in my own head. I’m the guy who can’t even say ‘I love you’ without feeling like I’m going to choke on it. So go ahead.” His voice cracked, and he felt the hot sting of tears in his own eyes, tears he’d been fighting for weeks, for years, for a lifetime. “If you’re going to leave me for him, just do it. I won’t stop you. I won’t fight. I just… I need to know.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Megumi stood there, trembling, his heart laid bare in the ugliest possible way, waiting for the axe to fall. He’d said it. He’d said all of it—every fear, every insecurity, every dark thought that had ever whispered in the back of his mind. And now you knew. Now you knew exactly how fucked up he was, exactly how little he thought of himself, exactly how terrified he’d been from the very beginning that you would leave.
You took a step toward him. Then another. And then you were right in front of him, your hands reaching up to cup his face, your thumbs brushing away the tears he hadn’t even realized had fallen.
“You absolute walnut,” you said, your voice thick with tears. “I’m not leaving you for Yuuta.”
Megumi blinked. “You’re… you’re not?”
“I’m not.” You tightened your grip on his face, forcing him to meet your eyes. “I’m not in love with Yuuta. I don’t want Yuuta. I want you, you emotionally constipated disaster of a man. I have always wanted you.”
“But you were so happy with him,” Megumi whispered, and the words came out small and broken. “You were laughing. You were talking. You were… you were yourself. And you haven’t been yourself with me in weeks. I thought… I thought you’d finally found someone who could make you happy.”
Your face crumpled. “I haven’t been myself with you because you told me to be quiet,” you said, and the words were gentle but they hit him even harder. “You told me to be quiet, and I thought… I thought you’d been holding that in our whole relationship. I thought every story I’d ever told you, every random fact, every ramble about clouds or sea slugs or whatever—I thought you’d just been enduring it. I thought my voice was a burden to you, the person I loved most in the world. So I tried to be less. I tried to be what I thought you wanted. And it was killing me, Megumi. It was killing me because I have all these things I want to tell you, all these thoughts and ideas and questions, and I couldn’t, because I was so terrified you’d look at me the way you did that night. Like I was exhausting. Like I was too much.”
Megumi felt the ground tilt beneath him. Everything you were saying—it was so much worse than he’d imagined. He’d thought you were pulling away because you’d outgrown him. He’d thought you were preparing to leave because you’d found someone better. But the truth was so much more devastating: you’d been trying to stay. You’d been contorting yourself into someone smaller, someone quieter, someone you thought he wanted, and it had been destroying you. And he’d been so blind, so self-absorbed, that he hadn’t even noticed.
“I talked to Yuuta today because I was desperate,” you continued, your voice breaking. “I’ve been drowning in silence for weeks, and he was there, and he listened. That’s it. That’s all it was. He was a life raft in the middle of an ocean I’ve been trying not to drown in. He’s not you. He’ll never be you. I don’t want a life raft. I want my person back. I want the man who makes me tea without being asked and lets me put face masks on him and sits through documentaries about nudibranchs even though he’s probably bored out of his mind. I want you, Megumi. Just you. But I need you to talk to me. Actually talk to me. With words. Out loud. So I don’t have to guess what’s going on in that beautiful, overthinking brain of yours.”
Megumi stared at you, his heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat. “You want… me? Still? Even after everything?”
“Even after everything.” You smiled, a watery, trembling smile that was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. “I’m still mad at you, by the way. Very mad. ‘Can you just be quiet?’ What kind of thing is that to say to the love of your life?”
“I’m sorry.” The words came out in a rush, desperate and sincere. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it. I was exhausted and I was taking it out on you, and that’s not an excuse, it’s just… it’s the truth. I was drowning in my own head, and you were trying to help, and I pushed you away because I’m an idiot who doesn’t know how to accept love. I should have apologized the next morning. I should have apologized every single day for the past three weeks. I should have noticed. I should have seen that you were hurting and asked you what was wrong instead of just… assuming.”
You shook your head, still holding his face in your hands. “Don’t blame yourself. I know you love me, Megumi. But sometimes I need the words too. Sometimes I need you to tell me, out loud, that I’m not too much. That my voice isn’t a burden. That you like listening to me.”
“You’re not too much.” The words came out fierce, almost angry in their intensity. “You’ve never been too much. You’re exactly enough. You’re more than enough. Your voice is—it’s the best part of my day. Every day. When you talk to me about clouds or jellyfish or the socioeconomic implications of Roman plumbing, it’s like you’re chasing all the shadows out of my head. I’m not bored. I’m never bored. I’m just… quiet. I’ve always been quiet. But that doesn’t mean I’m not listening. That doesn’t mean I don’t love every single word.”
You were crying again, but you were smiling too, and Megumi realized with a jolt that these were good tears. Relief tears. The tears of someone who had been holding their breath for weeks and was finally, finally allowed to exhale.
“I’m sorry I compared myself to Yuuta,” he said quietly. “I just… I saw you with him, and you looked so happy, and I thought… I thought maybe he could give you something I can’t.”
“He’s not you,” you said simply. “And I don’t want someone who isn’t you. Yuuta is sweet. He’s kind. He’ll probably make some other rambling disaster of a person very happy someday. But he’s not my person. You are. You’ve always been my person.” You paused, and a mischievous glint flickered in your tear-bright eyes. “Now, I have approximately four hundred more facts to tell you, and I’ve been holding them in for three weeks, and I’m pretty sure my brain is going to explode.”
Megumi let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob, and he didn’t kiss you—not yet. Instead, he pulled you into his arms and held you as tight as he could without breaking you, burying his face in your hair and breathing you in like you were oxygen and he’d been drowning for weeks.
“Tell me,” he whispered against your temple. “Tell me everything. I’m listening. I swear I’m listening.”
“Did you know that wombats have cube-shaped poop?”
He laughed, a real laugh, startled out of him by the sheer absurdity of it. “…What?”
“It’s true! It’s so they can stack it to mark their territory without it rolling away. Nature is amazing and also deeply weird, and I have so many more where that came from. Are you ready?”
“I’m ready,” he said, and he meant it. He was ready to listen. He was ready to learn. He was ready to spend the rest of his life proving to you that your voice was the most precious thing in his world, that your words were never a burden, that he would never, ever make you feel small again.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, to take in the way the setting sun caught the tears still drying on your cheeks and turned them to gold. “I love you,” he said, and the words didn’t choke him the way they usually did. They felt right. They felt necessary. “I should have said it more. I love you and I love your voice and I’m sorry I made you feel like you had to be quiet.”
Your smile, when it came, was the sun breaking through the clouds after a storm. “I love you too, you walnut.”
And then you kissed him, and he kissed you back, and the silence between you wasn’t a weapon anymore. It was a soft thing. A comfortable thing. A thing you could share together, without fear.
Later, you would walk home together, your hand in his, and you would tell him everything—the immortal jellyfish, the medieval grain storage, the flying whales, the specific shade of gray the sky turned before a storm. He would listen to every word, and he would ask questions, and he would make the right hums in the right places, and he would silently vow to spend the rest of his life being the kind of partner who deserved the gift of your voice.
But for now, there was just this: the two of you standing in the golden afternoon light, holding each other like you’d found your way home after a long and lonely journey. The sky overhead was doing that thing you loved—turning that specific shade of gray before a storm—and you’d tell him about it later. You had time. You had all the time in the world.
sokka finally pops the big question ⊹ fem!reader 𓈒 fire nation reader ⋮ fluff ＼ 2k words
✉️ྀི ៸៸៸ based on this req :3 ！ i wrote way more than i thought i would & i think i kinda deviated from what the req asked, but i hope you enjoy nonetheless ♡
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀sokka swears the moment he had set eyes on you, his heart had decided that you were the one. you'd always tell him he was exaggerating, but if there was ever some way he could show you just how his entire body had melted and how vehemently his heart had hammered against his chest the second he was in your presence, he's sure you'd understand his sentiment much better!
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀it's been nearly eight years since the two of you got together, your relationship blossoming from the ripe age of seventeen. of course, you've had your fair share of arguments（albeit the majority of them purely silly ones and it's simply a battle of you two ragebaiting one another）. . only one of them ever threatening your relationship, almost leading to what seemed to be an inevitable breakup. but he'd begged for you back and that's exactly when he knew that he never wanted to be in this position ever again — because all he desires in this universe is to love you and hold you for the rest of his life.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀and sokka is going to make that happen very, very soon.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀though don't get it twisted! it's not as if he hasn't been dreaming of this day for years and years. he's been badgered by everyone around him to just tie the knot already, that you both are perfect for each other and there's no need to wait around. his grangran was the most persistent（pestering）one of the lot, asking him nearly everyday when she would get the honour of welcoming you into the family.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀"i would like to see her become my granddaughter-in-law before the day i die." grangran will comment, sighing dramatically in front of sokka. he will simply roll his eyes before reassuring her that he has every intention to become your husband . . at the right time.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀"do not waste this precious time, my sweet boy." grangran will monish. "someone better will come along and scoop her up before you even get the chance, i'm warning you."
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀the main reason he's even waited this long is due to your commitment to your royal duties. he so deeply admires how much you care for the people the fire kingdom. you are always the one to plan and execute galas, always attending to diplomatic matters with care, and handling the military troops with an iron fist but a heart of gold. he knows you are devoted to the devoir of being a duchess and hence, he'd waited for you to tell him when you were ready to get married.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀and the day had finally come! it was so random, too. the two of you had been frolicking in the palace gardens, chatting away about anything and everything under the sun. after a few beats of silence, you had blurted out, "i'd like to get married soon, sokka."
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀". . to me, right?"
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀"who else would, dumbass."
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀──── ୨୧ ────
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀sokka feels like his heart is about to fall out of his ass. he's sitting in the gardens in the exact spot where you'd told him you were ready for marriage. he's pacing back and forth, nervous and fitful, re-reading his proposal speech for the umpteenth time. it's a speech he's had with him for the last five years — because that's when he had known he wanted to be yours forever.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀as he's practicing his speech out loud, he hears some rustling nearby and he knows it's you. he scrambles to hide the piece of paper back in his pocket, and tries his best to conceal the bethrotal necklace that he bears in the palm of his hands for you. gosh, he hopes it is up to your standards. and he just hopes you say 'yes.'
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀"hi kaka~" you trill as you sashay your way towards him, wearing a gorgeous scarlet and ivory gown with the prettiest butterfly clips clasped to each side of your head. the very ones he'd gifted you for your eighteenth birthday. the very ones you have worn every single day since. you just look so breathtakingly perfect and he is certain he will soon fall to the ground from how enamored he is with you.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀"why do you still call me that incessant nickname?" he mutters, trying his best to gain some composure as he greets you with a soft kiss to your lips. "i am not caca! i am worth much more than that, aren't i?!"
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀you respond with a quiet giggle as you take a seat on the bench besides you. he follows suit, tucking a stray strand of hair that fallen loose from your hairdo behind your ear. "how was your day, baby?" he asks you, doing his best to stall time whilst he prepares himself to do the single most important thing he's ever going to do in his life.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀you tell him all about the meetings and people and duties you had to tend to today, griping about how exhausted you felt but that you found solace in the fact that this was for the betterment for the kingdom — oh my, hearing you talk this way has him falling in love with you all over again.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀with a deep breath, he suddenly hops to his feet（which makes you flinch since you were still talking）and before you can ask him what's the matter, he's kneeling in front of you and mumbles under his breath, "okay . . you got this, man."
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀"my love." sokka begins, boring his azure eyes into yours, unadulterated adoration twinkling in his pupils. you smile at him. that saccharine sweet smile that has his heart doing palpitations. on any other day, he'd just sigh and admire you . . but right now, he feels like he's on the verge of a heart attack.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀"my-my love." he stammers. his breath hitches in his throat, voice nearly cracking. he's doing his best not to cry. "my star. the light of my life. the reason i live and breathe."
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀"did you do something to make me mad?" you tut, narrowing your eyes at him. he just gives you a placid smile, gingerly shaking his head as he takes your hand in his and tells you to close your eyes and open up your hand. you're still a little skeptical, he can tell, but with a sigh you do as he says. the very moment you do, he fishes out the necklace out from his pocket and places it in the palm of your hands.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀"open your eyes, sweetie." and you do. and when you do, you gasp as you look at the beautiful piece of lavaliere that you're holding now — a sumptuous ruby carved into a heart dangles from a bright golden chain, the stone so delicately and intricately fashioned.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀you're at a genuine loss of words, too awestruck as you marvel at the necklace, your heart thrumming against your chest as you realise what it is he's going to ask of you.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀"since the day i have known you, i have been in love with you. i know you don't believe me when i say that, but i really want you to. because it is the truth, my star. and every day from then, i have only fallen for you more and more. you are not only the most beautiful woman i have laid eyes upon, but you are compassionate, kind, intelligent, ambitious, and a bit of a hothead who never fails to smack me across the head when i'm being stupid . . which is all the time."
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀a soft giggle escapes you as you wipe the tears streaking down your cheeks.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀"i have known for a very long time that you are the one i want to spend the rest of my life with. i want to wake up with you every morning, fall asleep with you every night. i want to grow old with you, see each other's hairs turn grey and white. i want to be besides you with everything you do. forever and forever. and if you will grant me my one wish, i will be the happiest man alive."
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀sokka looks down at the beauteous pendant he had forged for you, then back up at you, waiting for you to say something. he gently caresses your face with his calloused hands, swiping the tear drops running down your flushed cheeks. "so . . are you going to fulfill my wish or —"
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀you interrupt him with the fattest smooch to his lips, ecstatically telling him to tie the adornment around your neck. he does it in a heartbeat, now letting the tears freely spill down his own face as he fastens the chain with a small 'click'. he rises to his feet and picks you up along with him, pulling you into his embrace and nuzzling his head in the crook of your neck as he whispers 'i love you' over and over again.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀"CONGRATULATIONS!" a voice suddenly cuts through the air. the two of you jump in surprise and when you turn around, four very overjoyed people appear from the bushes — your dearest friends who are now rushing over to you both and cheering deliriously.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀"spirits, we have been waiting for this day for far too long!" aang exclaims pulling the both of you into a suffocating bear hug. "me more than anyone else! you guys are so stinking cute, oh i love you both so much!"
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀"we are so, so happy for you two." zuko muses, awkwardly patting your backs as he pulls out a dazzling medallion with a blazing fire symbol cleaved right in the middle, handing it over to you. "think of it as a gift from the fire nation. not only as a symbol of your prosperous future as a wedded couple, but to serve as gratitude for your servitude to the people that i know will never waver."
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀"tsk you just had to one up me, didn't you, flameo lameman?" aang pouts, crossing his arms in front of his chest like a petulant child. that earns him a smack right across the back of his head from toph. "ouch what was that for?!" he whines but she simply shrugs, looking away like she had no idea what he was talking about.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀"oh you guys!" kataara squeals, her eyes watering slightly as she looks at the two of you, her gaze momentarily landing on the stone dangling around your neck. "grangran is going to be over the moon. she's been waiting just as long as i have. and you!" she grabs your hands, flailing them around excitedly. "you're gonna be my sister-in-law! how amazing is that?"
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀toph nudges（jabs）sokka on his side, which makes him yelp in pain. "you held yourself together well, boy." she teases. "i could feel your heart rate going so fast, i was worried you were going to explode."
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀"you guys were listening in on us?" he frowns, glaring straight at aang who was the only one who had known about his plans to propose to you today and where it was going to happen. he just winks, wearing that infamous cheeky smile of his, beaming like he'd done something of note. sokka rolls his eyes. of course he would have never been quiet about this.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀but in all honesty, sokka cannot bring himself to care. he can only stare at you, his gaze soft and lovelorn. you're surrounded by the four of them, each of whom are just bombarding you with the sweetest flattery and the girls（and aang）are already planning out the details of your grand wedding!
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀zuko drifts to where sokka is who snaps out of his daydream when the firelord says, "your speech was very touching. i really loved it." and just as sokka is about to thank him, he is interrupted, "it was nothing like the speech you shared with me though."
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀"ugh don't remind me! my brain got all muddled up in the moment because i was so damn nervous and she just looked too beautiful and GAH!" the man is now nearly pulling his hair out in anguish when zuko pries his hands away from his head.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀"you can always use them for your vows, you know?"
…YOU LET ME CALL YOU BABY BUT I CAN’T CALL U MINE ?
sum. when geto is partnered up with you for a ‘fake family’ project, it gives him the perfect excuse to touch you as he pleases. but when you continue to laugh him off, can his frat brothers help him make you see him as boyfriend and not ‘bestie’?
“you’re partners with y/n?! that’s your sign to lock in, man. stop playing safe and take the fucking leap.”
ΣΧ
“i think we should name the baby ‘nagito komaeda.’”
“i think you’ve lost your damn mind.”
in the common room of the sigma chi frathouse, geto suguru has his legs spread lazily & his back against the old couch. he’s scrolling through his phone with bleary eyes as sato & sukuna debate a name for their project’s fake baby. sato gojo is scribbling names in red on the whiteboard. ryomen sukuna is taking up half the space on the living room couch.
“sukuna the second,” sukuna says with a gulp of his cola. he sets the can down with a thud & crosses his feet over the wooden coffee table, leaning back into suguru’s space. “it’s the only respectable option. suguru, what do you think?”
geto suguru thinks that sukuna hasn’t showered today.
he also thinks his privacy screen is his greatest investment. ryomen sukuna has his cheek smushed against suguru’s shoulder and his brown eyes blinking up at him, but he doesn’t notice that geto is scrolling through your instagram posts, staring at pictures where you look too pretty to be real with a tight jaw & stifled heartbeat. sukuna flicks his temple. “helloo. earth to suguru?”
suguru’s silver piercings are glistening in the heat. he blinks once, twice—memorizes the photo on his screen where you’re grinning while hugging a plush bear bigger than your head—& clicks his phone off with a sigh. his head rolls back in defeat.
“y/n is my project partner.”
the room goes silent.
gojo sato freezes against the whiteboard, marker still in hand. sukuna has leaned away from suguru, eyes wide, as if suguru has just admitted to not showering this morning. the two boys stare at suguru. then at each other, then back to suguru again.
“ouuuu shii,” they drawl simultaneously.
“please don’t start this nonsense…”
“suguru, this is huge!” sato lets his marker fall to the floor, and runs to crouch in front of geto, elbows on suguru’s knees. “think about it, man. you and the girl of your dreams. partnered up to play husband n’ wife and take care of a plastic baby.”
suguru bites his cheek, neck hot. “it’s just a project.”
“no, it’s an opportunity,” sukuna corrects. “this is the girl who calls you bestie even when you look at her like you wanna eat her alive.” he snaps his fingers. “this is your chance, idiot. to show her you’re husband material. you have an excuse to call her wifey, for fuck’s sake.”
suguru’s phone is tight in his palm. his thumb is still tracing the line of your smile in the image he was staring at before he clicked his phone off.
“she thinks i’m her friend,” suguru murmurs, voice half-gone as he slips his phone into his pocket. “she’s comfortable with me. i’m not gonna ruin that by acting like a feral dog.”
“you’re already feral, idiot. y’think i didn’t see you staring at her IG photos like a creep?”
geto blinks. “how did you—“
“not important!” sato interrupts, slapping suguru’s thigh. he rests his chin on suguru’s knee, blue eyes glimmering in the light. “what’s important is, you have an opportunity. she’s already comfortable with you—you just have to take it further. call her sweetheart. baby. wife. see if she doesn’t stop you. take the leap, suguru.”
“take the leap,” sukuna grins.
take the leap. but the leap is a jump with no safety net. geto suguru knows what’s at stake. he knows if he ever let himself get too greedy—too carried away—he risks losing the friday mornings spent at the library with your head against his shoulder while you pretend to read from a book. he risks your voice calling his name across campus, and the way you hug his arm when you haven’t seen him in days, and the way you tug the piercing on his lip with a playful smile when you want his attention. geto suguru knows better than to risk it. he knows not to take the leap.
but he nods, lips tight as he reaches for his car keys on the table. “i’ll take the leap.”
“let’s go, daddy geto!” sato roars, dapping sukuna up. the boys watch with stupid grins as geto shoves things in his pockets. geto glances at the time: 5PM. “i’m going to her place now, we agreed to meet up.”
sukuna clutches his heart, then waves. “go get your wifey, asshole.”
suguru doesn’t look back. it’s time to fucking leap.
# SHOW TIME !
“suguruu, stop acting responsible and come cuddle me.”
ah, you’re such a fucking bother.
it’s sometime after six and geto suguru is in your bedroom with his shirt tossed somewhere on the floor and his silver chain cold against his chest. he’s putting together the plastic baby crib in preparation for the project’s official start on monday, and trying very fucking hard to ignore the fact that you’re all sprawled out on your bed behind him: hair fanned out, pillow to your chest, and whining his name because who are you if not a tease?
“you’re such a bad husband,” you mumble wistfully. “leaving your wife all alone on her bed like this…”
god.
geto’s throat bobs. there’s blood in his throat but his eyes skim the instructions with hazy focus. lord knows he wants nothing more than to press you into the covers and kiss you till you’re laughing his name and you can’t fucking breathe, but he knows the minute he pads over there you’ll laugh in his face.
his mouth dries.
“someone has to build the crib, angel,” he murmurs. it comes out lower than he intended, but whatever—it came out regardless. pet name number one, okay. “unless you want our fake baby sleeping on the rug?”
“i want my fake husband,” you hug your pillow tighter, and geto can hear the pout in your voice. your eyes are still on the ceiling, and geto doesn’t miss the fact that you don’t comment on the pet name. perhaps you didn’t hear it. perhaps you just don’t care. “and the baby is plastic,” you grumble. “it doesn’t care if it sleeps on a mattress or a floor.”
he hums. “bet it doesn’t complain as much either.”
“hey!” you gasp, chucking your pillow at him with a laugh. geto’s lip twitches in a smile. he rubs the back of his head, sweeping away the black strands falling in his face. he turns to glance at you, and then he wishes he didn’t, because you’re staring back at him with the brightest eyes he’s ever seen.
he bites his cheek. and then he pads over to you.
you watch, starry eyed, as geto lets the instruction manual glide to the floor. he presses a knee into the mattress, leg swinging over your thighs, bed dipping underneath his weight. his hair tickles your jaw and his chain dangles in front of you and geto suguru smells like dogwood and something too warm to have a name.
you blink up at him. “Hi.”
“Hi,” he murmurs. “you look cute like this.”
he shouldn’t say that, he knows he shouldn’t, but you’re already curling your hand around his necklace and letting your thighs squeeze underneath him. and geto’s eyes rake down your body—just once, just a little, because he knows better than to leap that fucking far. so he bites his lip.
“i always look cute..” you mumble, lashes fluttering and voice fading underneath him.
“mm, but you look extra cute today,” he mutters, “like a real life mommy.”
you tug his necklace, grin cheeky. “geto suguru. are you trying to seduce me?”
“no,” he murmurs, and his voice is too low and the words come too fast. “i’m being a good husband. taking care of my wife’s needs before she even asks.”
he’s still propped up over you, bare pecs heaving & chain glinting too close to your face. the heat of his body pricks at your skin. you tug him closer by the chain: “and what needs do i have?”
“attention,” he murmurs, thumb grazing your cheek. “you've been whining since I got here. wanted me to stop working. wanted me to come cuddle you.”
“i was only joking..” you mumble, slightly shy. and geto wishes you wouldn’t say that. wishes he didn’t know that already.
but he’s a patient man. and how can he be upset when you look so pretty underneath him?
“i know,” he murmurs, voice warm, half-lidded eyes boring into yours. “i’m sorry. am i making you uncomfortable?”
he says he’s sorry but his thumb still grazes your cheek, because he can’t not. you lean into him reflexively, and then you blink.
“what—? no, no. it’s just—“ your brows furrow, and you frown in that way that makes geto want to kiss it off. “it’s just… you’re so good at this, geto!”
his thumb pauses over your cheek. “what?”
“this husband thing!” you grin up at him, cheeks flushed. “you made me feel all hot and funny inside. your future wife is gonna be so lucky.”
geto blinks. you keep going.
“you were so hot,” you cup his cheek with a palm, and geto’s jaw is slack. “and you’re so responsible setting up the baby stuff. whoever you date and marry is gonna be so lucky. in a way this is perfect practice, isn’t it?”
his jaw tightens. “yeah, practice.”
he doesn’t say you’re the only girl he’s ever wanted, the only girl he’ll ever want, that last summer when you fell asleep on his couch with his hoodie on your shoulders he thought about you with his last name; or that every time you swat his chest and laugh away his efforts his heart cracks a little in his chest. he doesn’t tell you he’s only a man and his heart can’t take much more much longer.
but he squeezes your hip. bites your neck so you giggle and swat him away. rolls off you and pretends his chain isn’t still warm from your grip.
geto suguru pads away to kneel by the crib’s side. “is my wife gonna keep whining, or is she gonna help me fix this?”
SATO’S REMARK : TOUGH LUCK. BUT KEEP AT IT, BROTHER!
HUSBAND TACTICS #2: GET DOMESTIC !
taught by: toji zenin
“wanna woo her? take her on a family-esque activity. that’ll show her you’re husband material.”
ΣΧ
sigma chi’s frathouse kitchen is two bottles of bourbon & cranberry jam left open on the countertop. in the kitchen suguru geto is there, a hyper-realistic plastic baby on his hip as toji scribbles grocery items in handwriting geto will have to pretend to understand.
“here’s everything,” toji grumbles, clicking his pen and passing the note to suguru. geto’s face scrunches immediately, piercings glimmering as he squints his eyes in a desperate attempt to read the list. “how the hell is your handwriting worse than sukuna’s?”
“you’ll figure it out. it’s for meg,” toji answers, bored, drumming his pen against the sticky counter. “and some of the organic stuff my girl likes. i’ll be back late today, so i need you to drop it off at my place.”
suguru shifts the doll over his chest, taking one last look at the sorry note before stuffing it in his pocket. “are you taking meg with you today?”
“no, he’s home with the babysitter,” toji grunts, slipping his hands into his skinny jean pockets to hide the fake ice on his wrist. “new job’s paying good, so i’m taking the missus out on a date.”
“aww,” suguru softens, smile tugging at his lips. he’s pleased to see toji doing better, to say the least. he’s engaged to a pretty, rich lady now; working hard as a ghost writer for drake, all while being a good young father to meg. he pats the doll’s head absentmindedly. “that’s cute. what are you planning?”
“luxury shopping date,” toji mumbles.
“really?” suguru tilts his head. “where are you going?”
“shoppers drug mart.”
geto doesn’t comment.
“you should take that girl with you,” toji says, hands still in his pockets. “take her n’ your plastic doll grocery shopping. it’s good domestic practice. get her some expensive strawberries and see if she doesn’t fall head over heels.”
suguru bites his lip, phone already heavy in his pocket.
can’t hurt to try, right ?
# SHOW TIME !
suguru wishes you wouldn’t do this to him.
wishes you wouldn’t look all cute standing by the store’s glass doors, lashes fluttering as you blink around trying to find him. he should raise his hand, text you he’s just two aisles over and you should move before the lady behind gets mad at you for blocking the entrance. instead he watches with a fond smile as you frown and fumble to grab your phone from your purse.
he sighs, walking over to stand behind you with the fake baby in his arms. your eyes are still on your phone as your thumbs tap frantically, typing a message to send to his contact: ‘SUGURU. where are u???’
his lip twitches. he’s leaning so close over your shoulder that he can smell your shampoo, and your hair is tickling his nose, but you still don’t notice. so cute. geto thinks you’re so cute.
he hums into your neck. “who are we texting?”
“suguru!” you gasp, whipping around at the sound of his voice. he’s looking down at you with those half-lidded eyes, teasing smile, dark sweater sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms. you frown at him. “you scared me! don’t you know you shouldn’t sneak up on vulnerable young women?!”
suguru blinks. “what?”
“you heard me,” you grumble, fake pout on your lips as you lean down to the plastic doll in his arms. “hi, lafayette. daddy’s being mean to mommy again.”
“i still can’t believe you named our baby after a revolutionary leader.” geto mutters.
“he’s my fave in hamilton,” you hum, slipping lafayette into your arms. “shall we get shopping?”
——
in geto’s shopping cart, there’s five shades of lipgloss, a bag of plantain chips, and four other items that are not on the shopping list.
geto suguru needs to start saying no. but it’s hard to deny you when you look up at him with those pretty eyes, batting your lashes all sweet in that way that makes his chest hurt. so he pushes the cart, resigned, watching the sway of your hips as you balance lafayette on your side and coo silly things to him like he’s a real human child. he shakes his head, bites his lip. geto suguru is utterly fucked.
“suguru! look at this!”
he shouldn’t look. because it’s just going to be another item you’ll seduce him into buying, but he looks anyways. you’re pointing at a box of dinosaur cereal—a clear off-brand version of froot loops. “lafayette would love this. can we get it for him?”
he pads around the cart to get a better look. “lafayette can’t eat cereal.”
“i meant megumi,” you coo, running a hand down his pecs. “he likes dinosaurs. he’ll love this.”
“no, he likes gummy worms,” but geto suguru is already distracted by your hand stroking his chest. his lip twitches, “you want this for yourself, don’t you?”
“caught me,” you flash him your sweetest smile, squeezing his pec before setting mamdani in the cart. geto watches as you lean up to the top shelf, skirt riding up your thighs as you reach for the box of cereal. his eyes drop. but then his neck heats and he quickly looks away.
“suguruu,” you frown, still reaching. “help me.”
suguru lets out a rough breath. he shouldn’t help, but he always will—what else can he do when you call his name like that?
he steps behind you, chest pressing against your back, arm reaching up and caging you in the process. your breathing hitches. suguru doesn’t miss it.
“suguru,”
“hm?”
“what are you doing?”
your voice comes out breathy, and suguru has to pretend he doesn’t like the way you sound or how you’re staring up at him with big eyes. he hums coolly. “i’m helping my wife.”
“oh,” your lashes flutter as he reaches to tug down your skirt. his knuckles brush your thigh & you glance down at his arm snaking around your hips before mustering up a smile.
you tease, “such a good husband, protecting my modesty.”
“mm,” he murmurs, “the best.”
your mouth opens slightly, but no words come out. geto watches your lashes flutter—shy? nervous?—as your hand curls around his bicep to steady yourself. your palm squeezes his arm. he lets his hand dip to squeeze your inner thigh, and prays you don’t hear his breathing hitch.
“do good husbands usually grope their wives..?” you murmur, and geto thinks you’re teasing, but your lashes are low and your voice is so small and god he wants to kiss you so badly.
“don’t think so,” he mutters. “am i bad?”
“so bad,” you breathe. and your breath is hot & he’s leaning so close he can feel it on his lips. you squeeze his arm, eyes boring into his, and you really need to fucking stop before he leans down and kisses you. “but i don’t mind.”
god. you’re gonna fucking kill him. geto parts his lips to speak but you get your words out first.
“so,” you beam up at him, “the cereal?”
oh. the cereal.
fuck you and the cereal.
he doesn’t mean that, though. his jaw tightens as he lifts the box and drops it into the cart. his hands shove in his pockets, and geto suguru can only blink away the irritation burning in his eyes.
“thanks, sugu,” you lift lafayette into your arms. he’s gripping the cart handle right now, trying to ignore the fact that you’re smiling up at him and cursing himself because even now he thinks you are so beautiful.
“well then,” you chirp, grin sweet, “back to shopping!”
TOJI’S REMARK : SHE DON’T WANT YOUR ASS 🤦🏿♂️
HUSBAND TACTICS #3: GET SMOOTHER.
taught by: toru gojo
“your problem is that everything you do maintains plausible deniability. i think it’s time you claimed her in a way she can’t deny.”
ΣΧ
the good news is, even though geto ended up spending $200 on items not on toji’s list, the plantain chips you roped him into getting were really good. the bad news is, sato gojo is lying here on his lap, forcing geto to feed him said chips while gaming on sukuna’s nintendo switch.
“sugu, i want one,” -> geto feeds sato a chip. chew, swallow. “i can’t believe you embarrassed yourself like that.”
suguru’s eye twitches. “no more chips for you.”
they’re on the bed in toru’s room, and toru gojo sighs before slipping his headphones off at his desk. “sorry, but you guys are getting crumbs on my bed.”
sato laughs. “as if sukuna doesn’t jerk off in here every other day.”
“that was before he finished therapy,” toru mumbles in response, cheeks flushed in dismay. god bless geto for enrolling sukuna in therapy for his exhibitionist kink, despite sukuna’s wishes. toru takes his glasses off, runs a hand through his hair. “suguru, what’s this about you and y/n?”
“every time suguru tries something with her, she laughs him off,” sato snitches. he flashes geto a clumsy grin, smile totally innocent. “sugu, i want one.”
geto shoves him off his lap.
“maybe you’re not obvious enough,” toru plays with the stem of his glasses. “you guys are super close. even if you’re touching her, she might not take it seriously because she’s used to touchy friendships.”
“yeah!” sato agrees, fist pumped up, face flat on the floor. “my thoughts exactly, twin brother.”
“shut up.” geto and toru say simultaneously.
“anyway,” toru continues. “maybe get bolder. do something she can’t pass off as ‘just friends’.”
geto stares at the chips in his lap. “just friends, huh?”
#SHOW TIME!
geto leans by the kitchen door. “hi, mommy. what’re you doing?”
suguru’s over at your house for dinner. he’s just put lafayette to sleep in his crib, and he has his hands in his pockets as he pads over to you, sweatpants low on his hips. his arms cage you by the stove. “you smell good,” he mutters.
you ignore him. “i’m making dinner!” you beam, turning to face him.
geto can’t even tell what you’re showing him. in your hands is a charred mess, and geto can only pray the squiggly thing on the plate is spaghetti and not something else. his brows furrow in amused confusion as you beam up at him, lashes fluttering.
he cocks his head. “is this a burnt offering?”
“rude,” you swat his chest, and geto only smiles, eyes tracking the way your hair falls over your shoulders. you mutter curses as you shift the plate away, staring at the pot in dismay. “i wanted to cook for you.” you grumble.
his lip twitches. “like a real life wife?”
“yeah,” you turn to him, lips in a pout as you play with the chain on his chest. “but it didn’t work out. can you believe it?”
“i believe it,” he hums, but in reality he’s trying not to laugh, or rather, avoiding thinking about how glossy your lips look when you pout. his palms find your waist, “need your hubby to help?”
you smile up at him, “if he’d be so kind.”
geto lifts you by the hips before you can think better of it. you yelp as he sets you down on the counter, gripping him in a panicked hug. “suguru! you can’t just do that!”
he smiles, big. “do what?”
“lift me! and without warning!” you’re still hugging his neck tight, heart racing against his collarbone. he laughs, face in your hair to muffle the sound. his hands are splayed on your back, anchoring you against him.
“stop laughing at me,” you frown, and geto pulls back. he still has that lazy smile on his lips. “i’m not laughing,”
“yes you are,” you cup his face, smushing his cheeks in your palms. “look at your smile. it’s mocking.”
“adoring,” he mutters, gaze reverent.
“lying,” you pout, frown deep.
geto doesn’t argue. he only watches, eyes half-lidded, as you lift a palm from his cheek to card through his hair, stroking softly. you’re still pouting, still pretty. his thumb presses into your spine.
“i’ve never lied to you in my life,” he murmurs.
“yeah?” you’re still raking his hair, eyes never meeting his own. “then were you laughing at me just now?”
“no, mommy.”
“see?” you cock your head. “liar.”
he lets out a long, shuddering breath, hands sliding from your back to your waist, then down to squeeze your hips. you’re still stroking his hair, unbothered. no idea that you’ve got him crumbling beneath you.
“you feel so soft,” he murmurs before he can think better of it.
you tilt your head. “my hips?”
“and your waist, and your thighs,” he drawls, and he’s not even thinking straight anymore. “everywhere.”
you stare at him, brows knit, hand pausing in his hair. “suguru,”
“yeah, baby?”
“you’re being bad again.”
he lets out a strangled breath. he’s staring at your lips, he has been for a while now, and his gaze is bleary & eyes half-lidded. “sorry mommy,” he mumbles, “are you uncomfortable?”
“no?”
“then i’m gonna kiss you now.”
“sugu—“
and he does. he pauses just slightly—just enough to let you pull away if you don’t want this, if you don’t want him—but you don’t so geto presses his lips to your own. his first thought is gloss. your lips are so glossy; strawberry sweet & sugary fake. he lets his tongue slip out to lick your mouth, before cocking his head to kiss you deeper. you squeak, moaning into his mouth, kissing him back as he presses you into him. your thighs squeeze around his waist and geto slips a groan past your lips.
“so good,” he chases your lips when you pull away to breathe, “taste so good, pretty,”
you let him press sloppy kisses to your jaw, hands still in his hair.
but geto doesn’t notice how you freeze underneath him.
TORU’S REMARK: MY ADVICE WORKED?! THIS IS WHY I’M THE BETTER TWIN!! :)
HUSBAND TACTICS #4: GO GET YOUR WIFE !
taught by: ryomen sukuna
“good progress, bud. now all you gotta do? maintain the pace. keep showing her you’re the man now.”
ΣΧ
in sigma chi’s living room, ryomen sukuna is strapped to an armchair as sato hooks him up to a birth simulator.
idiots, the both of them. it started with sukuna saying that taking care of their plastic baby isn’t much work after all, and so motherhood can’t be that bad, and giving birth must not be that bad either. sato, ever the feminist, decided to challenge him on that. now it’s a weekday evening and sato is pressing electric pads to sukuna’s belly with his tongue in his cheek. sukuna the second (their plastic baby—sukuna won the argument it seems) is crying somewhere in the distance.
“nice work, daddy geto,” sukuna hums, shifting so sato can press another pad to his belly. “you’ve gotten the girl.”
geto has. so why doesn’t he feel like it?
you kissed him back. kissed him again. in fact, he’d say he had your lips for dinner. but the texts he sent you this morning are still unread: did you sleep well? can we talk?
geto shakes his head, relaxing into the sofa with his legs spread out as he watches sato fumble with the machine. “now all you gotta do is keep up the good work,” sukuna mumbles. “easy-peasy.”
“i feel like something’s wrong,” geto plays with his necklace. “but i’m not sure what it is, exactly.”
“nothing’s wrong, dumbass,” sukuna squints, watching sato frown at the remote. “you’re just not used to being forward. months of holding back will do that to ya. what you need to do now? ramp it up. tell her you wanna put a baby in her or something. girls love that shit.”
“oh, i agree with that. it’s like saying she’s wifey type.”
“you get me, sato.”
sato grins. then he presses a button on the remote and sukuna screams.
“jesus christ of nazareth!” sukuna roars, jerking in the chair. “fuck—! turn this shit off! sato!”
sato watches him jerk with his hands on his hips, lips bent in a clumsy smile. “what? i can’t hear you over your screaming!”
suguru eyes his frat brothers, both sukuna’s—and sukuna the second’s—cries roaring in his ears. he’s still not sure why this is even happening, but he’s long concluded both his frat brothers were born with a brain. he sighs, burying his face in his hands.
he really needs to fucking see you.
#SHOW TIME !
geto wasn’t sure you’d want to see him.
but you’d already planned to meet up today; long before he kissed you on the countertop, long before he sent you six messages & deleted them all when he received no response. it would be wiser to stay home but he shows up anyway, because he’s a coward who’s trying not to be, and he hasn’t eaten anything in days because everything in the sigma chi kitchen suddenly tastes like your lips.
you greeted him with a smile on your face.
lafayette on your hip, pretty smile as you beckoned him in. said you were just about making lunch. asked him to go handle it in the kitchen because obviously you don’t want to see his face.
geto shakes his head, stares at the water running off his hands in the sink. he has to think positive.
“lafayette, baby, please don’t cry,” your voice comes from the living room. “mommy’s trying so hard—oh my god. i swear i’m gonna take out your batteries!”
geto laughs through his nose before he can think better of it.
he wipes his hands, pads over to the doorframe to watch you fuss over lafayette in the living room. you’re bouncing the plastic robot in your hands, trying to get it to stop its automated wailing. “shhh. want me to sing you a song, baby? you like songs from hamilton, right? okay, okay. why do you cry like you’re running out of time—”
lafayette screams. geto falls in love.
well he was already in love, but somehow his heart has gone sticky in his chest. it’s silly, isn’t it? but geto’s thought about it a lot. your laugh in the kitchen on sunday mornings, your contact saved with his last name, you waking him up at 3am for some ridiculous craving; and he’d get up to retrieve it, of course. because geto suguru would go to the ends of the earth for you if you’d allow it.
is it weird to think of domestic life with someone you aren’t even dating?
probably. but then he thinks about your thighs squeezing his waist on the kitchen counter, your pretty moans in his mouth, your hands in his hair—and god. god god god. geto suguru has never wanted something so badly.
so he doesn’t think too much before padding over to join you in the living room, arms wrapping around your hips. “hey.”
you tense, just a little, just enough that geto doesn’t notice, then relax into him just slightly. “hi. are you being bad again?”
he can hear the smile in your voice, but your usual playfulness isn’t as strong. “maybe. you look cute, bouncing our baby like that.”
you force a smile, eyes dropping to lafayette wailing in your arms. “well—“
“you’d make such a pretty mommy,” geto breathes, and even he’s not sure what he’s saying. all he knows is you’re warm and pretty and in his arms and it’s all he’s ever wanted, all he’ll ever want.
you don’t respond, and geto’s in his feelings now, so his mouth keeps moving: “i think about it a lot,” he murmurs. “mornings with you. you burning the eggs because you’ve never been a good cook.” his palm shifts to your belly. “and i’ll eat them anyways.”
“suguru,”
“and you’d get mad at me for eating them,” he breathes, collapsing into your neck. “tell me you don’t need my sympathy and frown up at me while bouncing our baby on your hip. and then you’d kiss me because you secretly find it sweet of me.” he breathes. “i think about it a lot.”
“you’d make such a pretty wife, such a pretty mommy,” geto breathes. and your neck is so warm, and his lips are ghosting over it, and as his palm glides over your belly his dizzy mind flashes back to sukuna’s words: girls love feeling like they’re wifey!
so he kisses your neck. “can’t wait to see you round with my baby.”
if you were tense before, you’re frozen now.
“suguru.”
“hm?”
“i’m uncomfortable.”
geto freezes.
you step out of his hold, lafayette to your chest, pretty eyes looking up at his. but you’re not looking at him with your usual fondness. your eyes are bored—unimpressed—something geto’s hazy mind can’t seem to name. your lips are tight. “i think you should take lafayette for the weekend.”
“y/n—“
“and don’t contact me,” you snap, irritated. “don’t call, text, nothing. i just—“ you bite your lip, “you need to leave, geto.”
not suguru, geto. okay. okay.
geto leaves with lafayette in his arms. his heart is still in your living room.
SUKUNA’S REMARK : WHO TOLD YOU TO SAY THAT?!
HUSBAND TACTICS #5: DIVORCE COURT !
taught by: nanami kento
“you’ve been leading with actions instead of words. are you really surprised?”
ΣΧ
is it so bad to be forward?
geto has his head on the steering wheel & his heart in his throat. lafayette is crying in the backseat but geto doesn’t care, doesn’t care to rip out the batteries or at least sing the doll to sleep. instead he grips the steering so hard his knuckles turn white.
can’t wait to put a baby in you.
why did he say that? he wants to blame it on sukuna but he can’t. geto knows it’s all on him, of course. he let himself get too love drunk, too hope drunk, too drunk on a future that will never exist. he thought about sato and sukuna who don’t think before they talk and still manage to get the girl. but life has never let him have anything easy, and with you in his arms he managed to forget that. now the only girl he’s ever wanted thinks he sees her as just flesh, and geto is a coward so he doesn’t plan to redeem himself.
it’s best to let you go.
“do you intend to drive?”
nanami’s voice is flat beside him. it’s more of a bored comment than a question, and geto lifts his head up slow. nanami kento is beach-blond hair & pressed on clothes and a bored look that never seems to leave his face. he stares at geto. geto stares back.
“i’m going through a crisis.”
“i observed. should i get toji to drive me instead?”
“have a heart, kenny,” geto slumps against the driver’s seat. nanami’s license is on a three-day suspension for being slightly tipsy while driving, and it’s unusual for kento, but we all have our problems. geto reaches for a cigar in the glove box. nanami smacks his hand away.
“this is about y/n, correct? sato told me all about it.”
of course he did—what a snitch.
geto rests his head on the wheel, careful not to let the horn sound. “is it my turn for some advice?”
“i suppose,” nanami pushes up his glasses. “did you ever try speaking english?”
geto blinks. “english?”
“the others advised you to be forward, correct?” nanami starts. “touch her, kiss her, all of it. but did you ever speak english? tell her that you liked her? wanted her?”
geto blinks. but kento’s not done.
“i heard about what happened most recently, sukuna told me all about it,” nanami sighs. “telling a woman she’d make a pretty mom. telling her you can’t wait to see her round with your baby.” kento scoffs. “you have your domestic fantasies, geto. but do you know how terrifying that is to a woman who you haven’t even told ‘i love you’?”
ah. geto knew he’d been missing something.
he’s always been a coward. at thirteen, he pierced his own ears with a ballpoint pen and hid the bleeding from his parents for weeks. at seventeen, he got his first tattoo, and charred it off with cigarette butts until all that remained was the outline. at nineteen, he kissed a girl and blocked her the next day. at twenty-two, he fucked up his chances with the only woman he’s ever loved. geto suguru has never known how to handle wanting something. he either destroys it or runs far, far away.
“so what do i do now?” geto asks, brows knit. “she told me to stay away from her.”
“then you do exactly that,” nanami’s already unbuckling his seatbelt. “give her the space she needs. you’ve crowded her for long enough, suguru.”
he has, hasn’t he?
“i’ll ask toji to give me a lift,” nanami is standing outside the car. “you’re in no condition to drive.”
nanami slams the door shut. lafayette is still crying in the backseat.
# SHOW TIME !
geto suguru is back in your room again.
not in the way he’d like, not sprawled on your bed or with you curled into his side. he’s sitting diagonally across from you on the mini-table you have laid out, because he’d tried to sit opposite you and caught the way your lip twitched with irritation.
geto is on his best behavior.
the plastic doll is asleep in its crib as you and suguru fill out spreadsheets. logs on feeding times, that sort of thing. he stares at the gleaming columns—empty. they’ve been empty for an hour now, because geto suguru can’t stop his eyes from shifting from his laptop screen to your face.
“feeding log,” you say flatly. “did you do the 2PM ?”
“yeah,” he did—he thinks. everything is blurry.
“no you didn’t,” you bite. “i’m literally looking at the column right now. it’s empty. and it shouldn’t be.”
geto’s fingers twitch over his keyboard. the spreadsheet in front of him is empty, but the previous one—the one you’re looking at—shouldn’t be. he remembers logging it yesterday with his back bent over the kitchen island, eyes clouded over, thinking, wondering if he should send you a message.
he croaks, “i did fill it in. check the—“
“you didn’t,” you snap, and geto’s never had you snap at him before so he’s not sure what to do with that. “i’m literally looking at it right now. can you please take this seriously?”
“okay,” he swallows.
you turn back to your laptop, irritated. geto fills out the spreadsheet in front of him. he won’t give you reason to be upset with him any longer.
———
the second time geto sees you after the incident, it’s at the local library.
you’re already done with today’s work, and the walk back to the residences is long & winding. geto suguru knows his place. he has his eyes down on the pavement, wind flinging his hair in his face, three feet behind you because you’d eye him if he got any closer.
you’re shivering.
and geto noticed it three minutes ago, to be honest. noticed how your shoulders hugged together, how you shoved your hands into your pockets. he should give you his jacket. you’re cold, and he doesn’t want you getting sick, and he doesn’t want you to snap at him or shoot him down but you’re cold and you’re beautiful and geto suguru is calling your name before he can think any better of it.
“y/n—here.”
he holds out his jacket. you turn back to look at the material, and then back at him.
“i don’t want it.”
he should stop. “you’re freezing. i don’t want you to catch a—“
“i’d rather freeze.” you deadpan. “can you not speak to me?”
geto bites his lip. he stops himself before he can say okay.
——
in the library’s study room, geto suguru has his head on his keyboard and eyes staring at the glass door.
his phone chimes, but he doesn’t check the message because he knows it’s just team snapchat. but then it chimes again, and geto reaches for his phone even though he knows there’s no point.
—
y/n :)
where are you
i have your location.
we need to work on the project
—
geto scrambles—actually scrambles, he accidentally knocks over the chair behind him—and then he breathes. wipes his face with his hoodie sleeves. breathes again.
when you walk in, you don’t say hi.
you sit diagonally across again, and open up your laptop. you look pretty today. hair loose over your shoulders, cheeks flushed from the weather, lashes fluttering in the light. and your lips are glossy again, like they were in the supermarket, like they were on the kitchen counter—and oh god. geto needs to stop staring.
but he doesn’t. he watches, mouth slightly agape, as your nails click at your keyboard. he can tell you’re upset or irritated, and he thinks—no, knows it’s because of him, and he really needs to get this work done so you won’t get sad and snap at him again. he doesn’t want to be in trouble. he doesn’t know what to do when you get like that. so he turns his eyes to his laptop. but somehow, they drift back to your face again.
“can you stop fucking staring at me?”
“sorry—“ he flinches. “i’m sorry, i’ll look away.”
there’s a lump in his throat. he’s looking at the screen but he can’t quite see it, and the numbers and columns have mixed together and swollen up on the page.
but you aren’t done.
“seriously, what is your problem?” you snap, irritated. “we have a project to do. and you’ve been letting your stupid feelings get in the way of it all!”
he wants to say he’s sorry again, and that his feelings aren’t stupid but he’s sorry, and it’s all he’ll ever be, but instead his voice comes out as a croak. “i’m trying.”
you stare at him in disbelief. his fingers are shaking under the table. has he always been this jumpy?
“you need to try harder,” you snarl. “or what? too busy thinking about marrying me? having me round with your baby?” he shrinks. “what the fuck, geto?”
he doesn’t know how to explain that that day in the living room he wasn’t thinking of actually giving you a baby, at least not right now. he doesn’t know how to explain that when he looks at you he thinks of forever, he wants forever, and ever since starting this project ‘forever’ has looked like wedding bells and sunday mornings and grocery runs with a mini-you in the cart. he doesn’t know how to say he wants you to be his, your last name, your everything, and it’s sick and twisted and too much too fast but geto suguru has never been able to want in increments.
so he shrinks. stares at his keyboard. you snap, “say something!”
“i’m sorry,” he croaks, eyes on his lap. “i didn’t want to—i wasn’t trying to—“
“you scared me!” you snap. “geto, you scared me. you’ve been scaring me! these last few weeks—“ you slam your book shut. “touching me. kissing me. and i don’t mind—swear to god i don’t. but you’ve been acting so weird so suddenly! saying things you’ve never said before. is this some kind of twisted roleplay?!”
geto stifles a breath. tries to count in his head so he doesn’t breakdown in front of you. he knows that wouldn’t be fair. you keep going:
“i don’t know what i’m supposed to think,” you grip the table. “my best friend of how many years gets partnered with me for a project, great! but then he starts kissing me on countertops. standing too close in grocery stores. telling me i’d make a pretty wife and mommy and—it’s weird! i don’t know where it’s coming from! he’s never said he likes me in his life, but he can’t wait to see me round with his baby?”
you’re sniffling now. “what the fuck, geto?”
your shoulders are shaking, and you’ve sat back down, and your pretty face is in your hands as you cry. geto’s heart aches. because you’re not supposed to cry because of him. because he’s not supposed to make you uncomfortable, or confused, or upset, and he’s done all of that in the span of a week. and geto’s mouth dries. he wants to pad over and hold you in his arms but he knows he doesn’t have the right to fucking do that.
he breathes in, deep.
“i’m sorry—for moving too fast,” his hands fist. “i’ve been in love with you since freshman year. and i tried, i swear i did, to show it. but you always laughed it off. and instead of telling you outright, i just got more and more aggressive with it. i think part of me has always thought you’d never feel the same,” he swallows. “so i thought it’d be safer to show it than say it out loud. but that was only safe for me.”
he bites his lip. you’re still bawling into your hands, small and terrified, and geto‘s eyes sting. he can’t believe you’re shaking because of him.
“baby—“ he catches himself, “please don’t cry,”
“i hate you,” you sob, “i’m never gonna forgive you ever.”
he swallows. “you don’t have to. but please don’t cry,” his hands tighten on his jeans. “i don’t know what to do when you cry.”
and it’s the first time geto’s been honest, because he really doesn’t know. because you’ve never cried because of him, and normally if you ever cried at all he’d drag you into his chest but right now that doesn’t feel appropriate.
but he gets up anyways.
takes your hands from your face. and you’re so gorgeous even with tears on your cheeks, eyes glistening wet, lips puffed out & nose flushed from crying. and he wants to hug you so badly, but for now he settles for crouching to your height and wiping the tears from your eyes.
you glare down at him, and he should be scared again but all he can think is that you’re so fucking cute. your nose is all puffy and your eyes slightly red. “you’re such an idiot.”
“i know.”
“and this is so cliché.”
“i know.”
“and i want you too, but slower.”
“i didn’t know that.”
“you know it now,” you curse. “you’re an idiot, i swear.”
geto breathes. and then you cup his face, watching the way his eyes glisten with wet. “you still haven’t confessed to me, suguru.”
“i love you,” he says too quickly. “since freshman year. i think about you too much. you’re always on my mind, and i don’t want anyone but you, and i love you so much y/n and i’ll love you forever if you’ll let me—“
you interrupt him with a kiss.
BONUS !
“i can’t believe he said he wants you round with his baby.”
the project is long over, and today you’re on the countertop of the sigma chi kitchen, legs swinging as you gossip with sukuna. he has your plantain chips in his hands, leaning against the counter as he eagerly munches on the snacks.
“i told him to approach you calmly and honestly, y’know? told him girls love communication,” sukuna clicks his tongue. “nobody listens to me in this household.”
you laugh, “really? that would’ve saved him a lot of trouble.”
“right?” sukuna shakes his head, passing you a plantain chip. “he’s got his brain in his ass cheeks, i swear.”
you giggle, and right then, the door swings open. sato gojo hurts in with his arms spread out in glee. “we’re back!”
geto trudges behind him, holding too many shopping bags for one person. sato has already run towards his room, leaving you and sukuna confused—but then geto drops the bags to the floor with a thud. he looks up at you. “hey,”
sukuna absentmindedly blocks your head with his own. “yo, man.”
“can you move your fat fucking head?” geto walks past him, ignoring the gasp sukuna lets out. he brackets you on the counter, forehead slightly sticky with sweat, chain glistening in the afternoon heat.
he murmurs, “hi, baby.”
“hi, handsome,” you cup his face. “back from your date with sato?”
“not a date,” he mumbles, kissing your palm, then your cheek, then your jaw. “was getting groceries.” he murmurs. “missed you so bad, pretty.”
you gigle, squeaking and squirming away as he attacks your face with kisses. he pulls back teasingly, smile smug, before you tug him back in by his chain. sukuna watches calmly, shoving another plantain chip in his mouth. he nods in approval of the flavor.
but he quickly grows bored. “don’t get too comfortable guys. i’ll whip out my dick and start stroking right now.”
“what...?”
“can you pretend to be normal?!”
before suguru can strangle sukuna, sato bounces back into the kitchen. his grin is clumsy, cap tilting off his hair, and in his hands is a machine that looks like a mini-tablet and a bunch of wires connected to pads at the ends.
I heard you were looking for some request for Zuko 🔥 how about this:
Zuko & his wife (reader) are sitting in a grand council meeting however the chamberlain is a bit to disrespectful & thinks that no woman should be in the meetings. After hearing some harsh words the reader storms out with Zuko defending her & finding her somewhere in the overly large palace. Whatever happens after I’ll leave that to you🙂↔️
The Firelight Between Us
Pairing: Adult! Zuko x Reader
Summary: a tense council meeting, a line crossed, and zuko making it very clear where he stands.
Word Count: ~4k (estimate)
Warnings: sexism, confrontation, established relationship, soft intimacy
Author’s Note: this is set when zuko’s already fire lord and you’re married + working as his advisor. so it has a bit of sexism (which kind of pissed me off as well haha) but yea. I hope you like it! constructive criticismis more than welcome :)
The grand council chamber was a monument to Fire Nation power—towering columns of polished obsidian stretched toward a vaulted ceiling, and the afternoon sun filtered through high windows in rich, amber streams. The space was deliberately designed to make anyone within it feel small, insignificant.
Everyone except him.
You'd always thought Zuko managed to make even this intimidating room feel less suffocating simply by occupying it with such quiet certainty.
He sat elevated on the Fire Lord's throne, resplendent in his ceremonial robes—deep crimson silk that caught the light like liquid fire, gold embroidery tracing intricate patterns across his broad shoulders. The structured shoulder plates caught the afternoon gleam, a physical manifestation of the burden he carried. His dark hair, longer now than in his younger years, was partially pulled back with a gold clasp, the rest cascading past his shoulders in a way that made him look simultaneously powerful and almost gentle.
Almost.
You could see the faint tension in his jaw as Chamberlain Katsuro spoke—a man who'd served three Fire Lords before Zuko, and who clearly resented that the world had changed since his youth.
"The proposal submitted by the Trade Minister is sound," Katsuro was saying, his voice dry as ash. "Though I must note that we would be far better served if our Fire Lord consulted with his actual advisors on such matters, rather than allowing…" He paused, his eyes sliding toward you with barely concealed disdain, "…sentimental influences to cloud his judgment."
You felt the temperature in the room shift. Not literally—though with Zuko, one never entirely ruled that out—but the energy changed. Sharpened.
You'd been married to the Fire Lord for three years now, and you'd served as his economic advisor for four before that. You had a degree from the Royal Academy, had spent two years studying trade routes in the Earth Kingdom, and had personally negotiated three major treaties that had strengthened the Fire Nation's economy considerably. But apparently, none of that mattered to a man who still believed that a woman's place was in the home, bearing children and arranging flowers.
"Perhaps," you said quietly, your voice cutting through the heavy silence that followed Katsuro's words, "the Chamberlain would like to review the specific metrics of the last three trade agreements I've negotiated? Or does experience and education matter less to him than the fact that I happen to possess ovaries?"
Several council members made sharp, indrawn breaths. One of them—Minister Tang—actually smirked.
But Katsuro's face darkened with anger at being challenged. "Your position here is a courtesy, nothing more. The Fire Lord indulges you because of your… relationship. But make no mistake—you have no actual authority, no real qualification beyond—"
"That's enough."
Zuko's voice was quiet. Dangerously quiet. The kind of quiet that came from a man who'd spent decades learning to control an inferno within his very soul.
He rose slowly from the throne, and the room seemed to contract around him. The gold embroidery on his robes seemed to glow in the afternoon light, and his scar—that weathered, familiar mark that you'd traced with your fingertips more times than you could count—was thrown into sharp relief as he turned his full attention toward the Chamberlain.
"You will apologize," Zuko said, his voice steady and final. "To my wife. Now."
"Fire Lord, I merely—"
"You will apologize," he repeated, and this time there was heat in it—literal heat, you could feel it radiating from him like a furnace, "or you will tender your resignation effective immediately. Choose."
Katsuro's face had gone pale. After a moment of strained silence, he bowed stiffly. "My sincerest apologies, Fire Lady. I spoke out of turn."
The words were hollow as a burned-out husk, but you nodded curtly in acknowledgment before you stood. You could feel every eye in the room on you, but you didn't meet any of their gazes as you walked toward the chamber doors with your head high.
You heard him stand, heard the rustle of those heavy robes, but you didn't wait. You couldn't. If you stayed even one more second in that room, you were going to say something that would make the political situation infinitely worse, and you wouldn't do that to him. Zuko had worked so hard to build a Fire Nation based on honor and respect rather than fear and domination.
You wouldn't let Katsuro and his archaic views undermine that.
The palace corridors were a labyrinth, and you navigated them with the familiarity of someone who'd come to call this place home. Your feet carried you away from the official chambers, past the war room, away from the administrative wings until you found yourself in the private gardens.
This had become your sanctuary—a place designed by some long-ago Fire Lord who'd believed that even in a fortress of power, there should be spaces for beauty. Red and gold flowers bloomed in carefully tended beds, and a small waterfall trickled down black stone into a reflecting pool that mirrored the sky above.
You sank onto the stone bench beside the water, suddenly exhausted. Not from the meeting itself, but from the effort of always having to be perfect, always having to prove yourself twice as capable as the men around you simply to be considered equal.
"I wondered if I'd find you here."
You didn't turn—you'd recognized his footsteps immediately. Zuko moved with the controlled grace of a master martial artist, but there was a particular way he walked toward you, a softening in his usual military bearing.
The stone sank slightly as he sat beside you, and he was close enough that you could feel the residual warmth still radiating from him. He still smelled like incense and something uniquely him—smoke and sandalwood and home.
"I'm sorry," you said quietly, still looking at the reflecting pool.
"For what?" There was a note of something in his voice—amusement, perhaps, or simple confusion. "You did nothing wrong."
"I challenged him. In front of the entire council. I made it difficult for you."
Zuko was silent for a moment, and then you felt his hand find yours. His palm was warm, calloused from years of firebending, and he linked his fingers through yours with the kind of gentle certainty that made your chest tighten.
"You know what I see when I look at you?" he asked softly. "I see someone brilliant. Someone brave enough to stand up to men who've held power for decades and tell them the truth, even when it's uncomfortable. I see my wife, who's made more progress on rebuilding our relationship with the Earth Kingdom than my diplomats have in three years."
You finally turned to look at him, and found him watching you with those amber eyes—darker than they'd been in his youth, lined now with the weight of kingship, but no less intense. The scar that bisected his left eye was more pronounced now, a testament to his journey, and you found your free hand reaching up to trace it gently.
"I love this," you murmured. "Your scar. I know that sounds strange, but I do. It's part of who you are. It's your honesty, written on your face."
A soft smile crossed his features—the kind reserved only for you, you suspected. "I used to hate it. Now I barely think about it."
"That's because you learned to see yourself the way others see you," you whispered. "Powerful. Honest. Beautiful."
He leaned in slowly, giving you time to pull away if you wanted to. You didn't. His lips met yours with a tenderness that belied the strength in him, the fire that burned just beneath his skin. It was a kiss that said I choose you, over and over again.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
"Come," he said quietly. "Let me show you something."
He led you deeper into the gardens, away from the main palace, along winding stone paths that were becoming shadowed as the sun moved lower in the sky. You arrived at a private pavilion you'd never seen before—a semi-enclosed space with open sides, draped in silks that shifted like flames in the evening breeze.
"I had this built last year," he admitted, a note of uncertainty in his voice. "I wasn't sure… I wanted a place that was just ours. Away from the council, the advisors, the politics."
The interior was simple but elegant—cushions and soft furs scattered across the floor, lanterns placed strategically to create pools of warm, golden light. A low table held wine and fruit and small cakes dusted with cinnamon sugar.
"Zuko," you breathed, "it's beautiful."
"You're beautiful," he said, and there was no arrogance in it, just simple truth. "And you deserve spaces where you can just be yourself. Where you don't have to fight, don't have to prove anything."
He drew you down onto the cushions, and as the last light of day painted the sky in shades of amber and rose, he kissed you again—slower this time, deeper. His hand traced the line of your spine, gentle and reverent, and you felt the familiar warmth of him seep into your very bones.
The silk curtains billowed around you, and for a moment, it felt like the rest of the world fell away. There was only this: the warmth of his breath against your neck, the soft sound of his voice saying your name like it was prayer, the way his hands—a warrior's hands, scarred and strong—held you like you were something infinitely precious.
The fire Lord's robes were carefully set aside, piece by piece, revealing the broad, muscular expanse of his chest, marked with old burn scars from battles long past. You traced them with your fingertips, each one a story, each one a reminder of how far he'd come.
"I love you," you whispered against his skin. "Not despite everything, but because of it. Because of who you are—the man who would stand up in front of his entire council for someone he believes in. Because you see me."
His response was wordless, communicated through the way he held you, the way he moved with you as if you were two flames intertwining, two parts of a whole. It was tender and passionate all at once, unhurried and completely devoted.
Later, as you lay tangled in the soft furs, your head on his chest, you could hear his heartbeat slowly returning to normal. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your shoulder, and you felt the rumble of him speaking against your cheek.
"Katsuro will retire," he said quietly. "I've already decided. We'll announce it in two weeks, make it seem natural. But I won't have him poisoning the council with his bias."
You lifted your head to look at him. "You don't have to do that for me."
"It's not for you," he said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear with surprising tenderness. "It's for what's right. You belong in those meetings. Your ideas matter. And anyone who can't see that doesn't deserve to sit at my council table."
You kissed him softly, a gesture of gratitude and love all intertwined. Outside the pavilion, the stars were beginning to emerge, and somewhere in the distance, you could hear the gentle rush of the waterfall in the gardens.
For the first time since the meeting, you felt your shoulders relax completely.
"Thank you," you murmured.
"For what?"
"For seeing me. For choosing me, over and over again."
Zuko smiled, that rare, genuine smile that transformed his entire face, making him look suddenly less like the stoic Fire Lord and more like the man you'd fallen in love with—complicated, strong, endlessly kind.
"That," he said softly, "is the easiest choice I've ever made."
Hi lovely! If you’re still taking requests I was wondering if you could do angst/ comfort where reader doesn’t know Jason is red hood and he keeps missing important events, reader confronts him which leads to a fight so reader stops including him in outings, night outs, work events, etc thinking he’s just not interested.
When he realizes he grovels and confesses? I would eat that up ❤️❤️❤️
The Space You Left
navigation , dc navigation
requests are open
dividers by @cafekitsune
The first time Jason missed something important, you told yourself it was just bad luck.
Your company's awards dinner—the one where you were receiving recognition for the project you'd spent eighteen months leading—fell on a Friday night. Jason had promised he'd be there, had even helped you pick out your dress the week before, spinning you around your apartment and telling you that you'd be the most beautiful person in the room.
"I'm so proud of you," he'd said, kissing your forehead. "I can't wait to watch you accept that award."
But when the night came, his seat beside you remained empty.
You checked your phone obsessively between courses. No calls. No texts. Just silence where his support should have been.
You accepted your award with a smile that felt like it might crack your face, thanked your team, and tried not to notice the pitying looks from your coworkers who'd heard you mention your boyfriend would be there.
Jason showed up at your apartment at 2 AM, bruised knuckles and a cut above his eyebrow that he brushed off as "a stupid accident at the gym."
"I'm so sorry," he'd said, pulling you into his arms. "There was an emergency at work. I tried to get out of it, I swear, but my boss—"
You'd accepted the apology because you loved him. Because accidents happened. Because he looked so genuinely devastated that you couldn't stay angry.
The second time, you told yourself it was coincidence.
Your best friend's wedding. You'd been talking about it for months, had your dress picked out, had confirmed with Jason at least five times that he'd be your plus-one.
"I promise," he'd said the night before. "I'll be there. Wouldn't miss it."
But when you waited outside your building in your bridesmaid dress, makeup perfect and hope still intact, he never showed.
You went alone. Smiled through questions about where your boyfriend was. Made excuses about work emergencies and unavoidable conflicts. Caught the bouquet and felt nothing but hollow.
Jason had shown up the next morning with flowers and apologies, another cut on his face, moving stiffly like his ribs hurt.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry," he'd repeated, and you'd wanted to scream at him but he looked so broken that you'd just cried instead.
By the third time—your mother's birthday dinner, the one where you were finally introducing him to your family—you'd stopped telling yourself anything at all.
You'd just started recognizing a pattern.
The fight happened on a Tuesday night, after Jason missed your work anniversary celebration.
Three years at your company. Your boss had taken the team out to celebrate, had specifically asked you to bring your boyfriend because he'd "heard so much about him."
Jason had promised. Had sworn up and down that he'd be there. Had even set three separate alarms on his phone while you watched.
You'd waited at the restaurant for forty-five minutes, making increasingly desperate excuses, before finally admitting he wasn't coming.
When Jason showed up at your apartment that night—late again, another bruise blooming on his jaw—you didn't let him in.
"We need to talk," you said, blocking the doorway.
"I know. I'm sorry. There was—"
"An emergency at work," you finished flatly. "Right. There's always an emergency at work."
"It's not like that—"
"Then what is it like, Jason?" Your voice cracked. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you just don't care. About me. About my life. About anything that doesn't involve whatever mysterious job you have that always seems to require you at the exact moment I need you."
"That's not fair—"
"Fair?" You laughed, and it came out bitter. "You want to talk about fair? I've sat alone at four major events in the last six months. Four, Jason. My awards dinner, my best friend's wedding, my mom's birthday, and now this. Do you know how humiliating it is to constantly make excuses for you? To watch people's faces when I tell them my boyfriend couldn't make it again?"
"I know, and I'm sorry, but if you'd just let me explain—"
"Explain what? That your job is more important than me? I already figured that out."
Jason's face went hard. "My job is complicated—"
"Then uncomplicate it! Get a different job! Do something that doesn't require you to disappear at random intervals with no explanation!"
"I can't just—it's not that simple—"
"Why not?" You were crying now, angry tears that you couldn't stop. "Why can't you just be honest with me? Tell me what's so important that you can't even send a text to say you're not coming. Tell me why you keep showing up with bruises and cuts that you brush off with obvious lies. Tell me why I feel like I'm in a relationship with a ghost!"
"I'm trying to protect you—"
"From what?!" You shouted. "From your job? From the truth? Or from having to actually commit to this relationship?"
Jason flinched. "That's not—I'm committed. I love you—"
"Do you? Because it doesn't feel like it. It feels like I'm an afterthought. Something you fit in when it's convenient. When there's no 'work emergency' pulling you away."
"You know that's not true—"
"Do I?" You wiped at your eyes. "Because all I know is what you show me, Jason. And what you show me is that I'm not a priority. That whatever you're doing is more important than being there for me."
"It's not about importance—"
"Then what is it about? Because I'm tired of guessing. I'm tired of making excuses. I'm tired of feeling like I'm in this relationship alone."
Jason reached for you, but you stepped back.
"Don't. Just—don't." You took a shaky breath. "I can't keep doing this. Waiting for you to show up. Hoping that this time will be different. I deserve better than this."
"You do," Jason said quietly. "You deserve so much better than this. Than me."
"That's not—" You stopped. "You know what? Maybe you're right. Maybe I do."
You closed the door in his face and pretended you couldn't hear him standing outside for the next twenty minutes before finally leaving.
After the fight, you stopped inviting Jason to things.
It started small. Your coworker's happy hour on Friday—you just didn't mention it. The gallery opening your friend invited you to—you went alone. Your company's quarterly dinner—you told them your boyfriend couldn't make it and didn't bother asking.
Jason noticed.
"Hey, didn't your team have that thing tonight?" He asked one Thursday when he showed up at your apartment.
"Yeah. It was fine."
"Why didn't you tell me about it?"
You looked at him over your laptop. "I didn't think you'd be able to make it."
"You didn't even ask."
"Would you have come?"
The silence was answer enough.
Jason's jaw clenched. "That's not fair. You can't just assume—"
"I'm not assuming anything. I'm just saving us both the disappointment." You turned back to your screen. "Besides, you were probably busy with work anyway."
"I would have tried—"
"Jason." You closed your laptop. "It's fine. Really. I'm not mad. I just... I've adjusted my expectations."
"What does that mean?"
"It means I've stopped expecting you to be there. It's easier this way."
You could see the words hit him, watched his expression crack before he carefully put it back together.
"I don't want you to stop expecting things from me," he said quietly.
"Then maybe you should have shown up," you replied, and opened your laptop again.
Your birthday was the breaking point.
You didn't tell Jason about the party your friends were throwing. Didn't mention the dinner reservation. Didn't say anything when he asked what you wanted to do to celebrate.
"Nothing special," you'd said. "Just a quiet night in."
"Are you sure? We could go out, do something nice—"
"I'm sure. I'm pretty tired lately anyway."
It wasn't a lie. You were tired. Tired of hoping. Tired of being disappointed. Tired of feeling like you were the only one trying.
Your birthday fell on a Saturday. You went to brunch with your friends, then to the spa, then to dinner at your favorite restaurant. You laughed and drank wine and accepted gifts and tried not to think about the fact that your boyfriend wasn't there.
Tried not to think about the fact that you hadn't wanted him there.
That night, when you got home to your apartment, Jason was waiting outside your door with flowers and a small wrapped box.
"Happy birthday," he said, smiling. "I know you said you wanted a quiet night, but I thought maybe we could—"
He stopped when he saw what you were wearing. The dress. The heels. The makeup that was clearly not for a quiet night in.
"You went out," he said slowly.
"Yeah."
"You said you wanted to stay in."
"I changed my mind."
"You didn't tell me."
"You didn't ask."
Jason's hands clenched around the flowers. "Where were you?"
"Out with friends. Dinner. The usual birthday stuff."
"You didn't invite me."
"No."
"Why not?"
You looked at him—really looked at him. At the hope in his eyes, the hurt, the confusion. At the flowers he'd brought and the present he'd wrapped. At this man you loved who could never seem to show up when you needed him.
"Because I knew you wouldn't come," you said simply. "Or you'd promise to come and then cancel last minute. Or you'd show up two hours late with an excuse I'm supposed to accept without question. And I didn't want to deal with that on my birthday."
"I would have come. If you'd asked, I would have—"
"Would you?" You unlocked your door. "Because you didn't come to my awards dinner. Or my best friend's wedding. Or my work anniversary. Or any of the other dozen things I've invited you to in the last six months. So forgive me for not believing that my birthday would be any different."
"That's not fair—"
"Stop saying that!" You turned on him, suddenly angry. "Stop telling me what's fair and what's not when you're the one who keeps disappearing! When you're the one with the secrets and the bruises and the mysterious job that always takes priority!"
"I'm trying—"
"Are you? Because it doesn't feel like it. It feels like you're just... going through the motions. Showing up when it's convenient. Leaving when something better comes along."
"You're not—there's nothing better than you—"
"Then prove it!" The words came out broken. "Show up. Be present. Stop making me feel like I'm in this relationship alone!"
Jason looked at you, and you could see him struggling with something. Some secret he wanted to tell but couldn't. Some truth that was caught in his throat.
"I can't," he said finally. "I can't explain. Not yet. But I need you to trust me—"
"I'm tired of trusting you, Jason. I'm tired of waiting for you to let me in. I'm tired of feeling like I don't actually matter to you."
"You do matter. You matter more than anything—"
"Then act like it!" You were crying now. "Because right now, all I feel is alone. And if I'm going to be alone anyway, I might as well make it official."
The words hung between you, heavy and final.
"What are you saying?" Jason's voice was barely a whisper.
"I'm saying that maybe we should take a break. Figure out what we really want."
"I know what I want. I want you—"
"You want the idea of me. The convenient girlfriend who doesn't ask too many questions. Who accepts your excuses. Who waits patiently while you live your secret life." You shook your head. "But I can't be that person anymore. I won't."
"Please. Just give me a little more time—"
"Time for what? For you to miss more events? To come up with more excuses? To keep me at arm's length while you do whatever it is you're doing?" You stepped into your apartment. "I've given you six months, Jason. Six months of understanding and patience and benefit of the doubt. And I'm done."
You started to close the door, but Jason caught it.
"I love you," he said desperately. "I know I've been shit at showing it, but I love you. Please don't do this."
"I love you too," you said, and your voice broke. "But love isn't enough when you're the only one fighting for it."
This time when you closed the door, he let you.
Jason stood outside your apartment for a long time after you closed the door, the flowers wilting in his hand, the birthday present in his pocket feeling like a lead weight.
He'd fucked up. He knew he'd fucked up. But he hadn't realized how badly until tonight, seeing the look in your eyes when you told him you were done.
Done waiting. Done hoping. Done with him.
He made it three blocks before his phone rang. Dick.
"Can't talk right now," Jason said.
"You need to get to the Bowery. There's—"
"Handle it without me."
Silence. Then: "Are you okay?"
"No. But that's my problem. I'm taking the night off."
"Jason—"
He hung up and went to the only place he could think of.
Roy opened his door to find Jason standing there with wilted flowers and a devastated expression.
"She broke up with me," Jason said.
"Shit. Come in."
They sat on Roy's couch, and Jason told him everything. Every missed event. Every excuse. Every time he'd chosen Red Hood over you because it seemed more urgent, more important, more necessary.
"I thought I was protecting her," Jason said, staring at his hands. "Keeping her separate from the vigilante shit. Keeping her safe."
"By lying to her?"
"By not telling her. There's a difference."
"Is there?" Roy leaned back. "Because from where I'm sitting, you've been lying by omission for six months. And she noticed."
"I know." Jason's voice was rough. "I just—I thought if I could keep her away from this life, she'd be safer. Happier."
"Was she? Happy?"
Jason thought about your face tonight. The resignation in your eyes. The way you'd stopped expecting him to show up.
"No," he admitted. "She was miserable. Because of me."
"So what are you going to do about it?"
"I don't know. She said she's done. That she can't keep waiting for me to let her in."
"Then let her in."
"It's not that simple—"
"Why not?" Roy interrupted. "You love her, right?"
"Of course I love her—"
"Then tell her the truth. All of it. The Red Hood stuff. The reason you keep disappearing. Give her the choice instead of making it for her."
"What if she can't handle it? What if knowing puts her in danger?"
"What if keeping her in the dark is what loses her?" Roy met his eyes. "Jason, you're already losing her. At least if you tell her the truth, you're losing her honestly."
Jason was quiet for a long time. Then: "What if she hates me? For lying for this long?"
"She might. But she'll hate you more if you keep lying. And at least if you tell her now, you're giving her the respect of the truth." Roy paused. "She deserves that much, don't you think?"
"Yeah." Jason stood. "She deserves a lot more than I've been giving her."
"So go give it to her."
"Not tonight. Tonight she needs space." Jason headed for the door. "But tomorrow... tomorrow I'm telling her everything."
You weren't expecting Jason to show up at your door Sunday morning.
You definitely weren't expecting him to look like he hadn't slept, or to be carrying a duffel bag, or to say "I need to tell you everything" before you'd even said hello.
"Jason—"
"Please. Just—let me talk. And then if you want me to leave, I'll leave. But I need you to hear this."
Against your better judgment, you let him in.
He sat on your couch, hands clasped between his knees, and for a long moment, he just looked at you.
"I've been lying to you," he said finally. "Not about loving you. Never about that. But about everything else. About my job. About the bruises. About why I keep missing things."
"Okay," you said carefully. "So tell me the truth."
Jason took a deep breath. Then he unzipped the duffel bag and pulled out a red helmet.
"I'm Red Hood," he said.
You stared at him. At the helmet. Back at him.
"You're... what?"
"Red Hood. The vigilante. The one who operates in Crime Alley." He set the helmet on your coffee table. "That's my job. That's why I keep disappearing. Why I have bruises. Why I can never explain where I've been."
"Because I was trying to protect you. Keep you separate from that part of my life. Keep you safe." Jason's hands clenched. "But all I did was push you away. Make you feel like you didn't matter. Like you weren't important enough to let in."
"Jason—"
"Wait. Please. I need to—I need to explain." He took another breath. "Every time I missed something, it was because someone needed Red Hood. A trafficking ring that couldn't wait. A hostage situation. A tip about a weapons shipment. Things that felt urgent. Important. Life or death."
"So you chose them over me."
"I thought I was choosing both. I thought I could keep you safe by keeping you separate. But I was wrong." Jason looked at you, and there was devastation in his eyes. "I was so wrong. Because all I did was hurt you. Make you feel alone. Make you feel like you didn't matter when you're the thing that matters most."
You were quiet, processing. "How long have you been doing this?"
"Years. Since before I met you."
"And you never thought to tell me?"
"I wanted to. So many times. But I was scared. Scared that if you knew, you'd be in danger. Scared that someone would use you to get to me. Scared that—" His voice broke. "Scared that you'd leave me if you knew what I really was."
"What you really are," you repeated. "And what's that?"
"Someone who's done terrible things. Someone who's killed people. Someone who's more comfortable with violence than he should be." Jason's hands were shaking. "Someone who doesn't deserve you but loves you anyway."
You looked at the helmet on your table. At this man you loved who had been living a double life. Who had been lying to you for six months while you slowly fell apart.
You should be angry. You should throw him out. You should tell him that this was exactly what you were afraid of—that he'd been keeping secrets, that he hadn't trusted you.
But mostly, you just felt tired.
"I wish you'd told me sooner," you said quietly.
"I know. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry." Jason's voice was rough. "I thought I was protecting you, but all I did was push you away. Make you feel like you weren't important. Like you weren't worth being honest with."
"Why are you telling me now?"
"Because I'm losing you. Because I've already lost you. And I realized that I'd rather lose you honestly than keep you with lies." He moved closer, but didn't touch you. "You said you felt alone. That I was making you feel like you didn't matter. And I can't—I can't let you keep believing that. Not when the truth is that you're everything."
"Everything except important enough to be honest with."
Jason flinched. "You're right. And I have no excuse for that. I was scared and stupid and I convinced myself that keeping you in the dark was somehow protecting you. But all I did was hurt you."
You stared at the helmet. "You're really Red Hood."
"Yeah."
"And every time you disappeared—"
"Someone needed help. Or there was an emergency. Or something that couldn't wait." Jason's jaw clenched. "I'm not making excuses. I chose that life over you, over and over again. And I hate myself for it."
"Why didn't you just tell me? Why let me think you didn't care?"
"Because I thought if you knew, you'd be in danger. That someone would figure out you mattered to me and use you against me." He laughed bitterly. "But I put you in danger anyway. Different kind of danger. The kind where you slowly stop believing you're worth showing up for."
You were crying now, angry and hurt and confused. "I spent six months thinking I wasn't enough. Thinking that whatever you were doing was more important than me. Making excuses to my friends and family and coworkers about why my boyfriend could never be bothered to show up."
"I know—"
"Do you? Do you know how humiliating it was? How alone I felt? How many times I cried because I thought you just didn't care?"
"I care." Jason's voice broke. "I care so much it terrifies me. You're the best thing in my life, and I've been sabotaging it because I was scared. Scared of losing you. Scared of putting you in danger. Scared of—" He stopped. "Scared of a lot of things. But most of all, scared of this. Of you looking at me like you are right now. Like I'm someone who hurt you."
"You did hurt me."
"I know. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Jason was crying now too. "I would take it all back if I could. Every missed event. Every lie. Every time I made you feel like you weren't the most important person in my world."
"But you can't take it back."
"No. I can't." He wiped at his eyes. "All I can do is promise to do better. To be honest. To show up. To fight for you the way you've been fighting for me."
"What if that's not enough?"
Jason's face crumpled, but he nodded. "Then that's what I deserve. For being too scared to trust you with the truth. For making you feel alone when you should have felt loved."
You looked at him—really looked at him. At the man you loved who had been carrying this secret. Who had been living two lives and somehow managing to fail at both.
But also at the man who had shown up to tell you the truth. Who had brought his helmet, his secret, his entire hidden life and laid it at your feet. Who was crying because he'd hurt you and couldn't take it back.
"I need time," you said finally. "To process this. To figure out what it means."
"Okay." Jason stood. "Take all the time you need. And if you decide you can't do this—can't be with someone who lives this kind of life—I'll understand."
"Jason—"
"I mean it. I want you to be happy. Even if that means being happy without me." He picked up the helmet. "But if you decide you want to try—if you think we can make this work—I promise I'll do better. I'll show up. I'll be honest. I'll prove to you that you matter."
"How?"
"However you need me to. Whatever it takes. I'll fight for this. For you. For us." He moved toward the door. "I love you. I've loved you from the beginning. And I'm sorry it took losing you for me to realize I needed to show it better."
He left, and you sat alone in your apartment with the truth settling over you like a weight.
Jason was Red Hood. A vigilante. Someone who fought crime and saved lives and put himself in danger every night.
And for six months, he'd been doing it alone, keeping you separate, thinking he was protecting you when all he was doing was pushing you away.
You should be angry. Should be furious that he'd lied for so long.
But mostly, you just felt sad. For him. For you. For the relationship you'd both been trying to save in completely different ways.
Your phone buzzed. A text from Jason.
Jason: I know you need time. But I wanted you to have this.
A link to a folder. Inside were dozens of photos—you at your awards dinner, taken from a distance. You at your best friend's wedding. At your work anniversary celebration. At your birthday party.
Another text.
Jason: I was there. Not the way I should have been. But I couldn't let you be alone. Even if you didn't know it.
You stared at the photos. At the proof that while you'd felt abandoned, he'd been watching. Protecting. Trying to be there in the only way he thought he could.
It didn't excuse the lying. Didn't make up for the loneliness.
But it was something.
You texted back: We need to talk. Really talk. About all of this.
The response was immediate: Whenever you're ready. I'll be there.
You: Tomorrow. 7 PM. My place.
Jason: I'll be there. I promise.
And somehow, looking at those photos, at the proof that he'd been there even when you couldn't see him—you believed him.
Jason showed up at 6:45, because of course he did.
When you opened the door, he was holding coffee from your favorite place and a bag of pastries from the bakery you loved.
"I know it's not much," he said. "But I wanted—I needed to show up. Properly this time."
You let him in and took the coffee. "You're early."
"I wasn't going to risk being late. Not for this."
You both sat on the couch, careful distance between you, and for a moment neither of you spoke.
"I don't know where to start," you admitted finally.
"Me neither." Jason set down his coffee. "But I meant what I said. About being honest. About doing better. So... ask me anything. I'll tell you the truth."
"Everything?"
"Everything."
You took a breath. "How did you become Red Hood?"
And Jason told you. About dying. About coming back wrong. About the Lazarus Pit and the rage and the years of trying to figure out who he was supposed to be. About choosing to be Red Hood because he could help people in ways the law couldn't.
You listened, and your heart broke for him. For everything he'd survived.
"I'm sorry," you said when he finished. "That's—that's a lot."
"It is. And I didn't want to burden you with it. I thought if I could keep you separate from all of that, you'd be safer. Happier."
"But I wasn't happy. I was miserable."
"I know. And that's on me." Jason looked at you. "I chose wrong. Over and over again. I chose the mission over you because it seemed more urgent. More important. But I was wrong."
"Were you?" You challenged. "If you'd come to my awards dinner instead of stopping that trafficking ring—would those people have been saved?"
Jason was quiet.
"That's the question, isn't it?" You continued. "Because I understand why you chose what you chose. Lives were at stake. People needed Red Hood. And me—I just needed my boyfriend to watch me accept an award."
"That's not—you're not just—" Jason struggled for words. "Yes, people needed Red Hood. But you needed me. Jason. Your boyfriend. The person who's supposed to show up for you. And I failed at that."
"Because you were saving lives."
"That doesn't make it okay. There had to be a way to do both. To be Red Hood and be your boyfriend. I just—I didn't know how to balance it."
"So you chose."
"I chose wrong." Jason moved closer. "I thought I was being noble. Heroic. Putting others first. But all I did was neglect you. Make you feel alone. Make you feel like you didn't matter when you're the person who matters most."
"How do I know that?" The question came out small. "How do I know I'm not always going to be second to Red Hood? That the next time there's an emergency, you won't choose it over me again?"
"Because I'm going to do better. I'm going to—" Jason stopped. "I can't promise there won't be emergencies. I can't promise I won't have to leave sometimes. But I can promise to communicate. To let you in instead of shutting you out. To stop trying to protect you from my life and start including you in it."
"What does that look like?"
"It looks like honesty. It looks like telling you when I have to leave for Red Hood business instead of making up excuses. It looks like introducing you to my family—the Bats—so you understand the world I'm part of. It looks like showing up when I say I will, and if I can't, actually explaining why."
You were quiet, processing.
"I know it's not perfect," Jason continued. "I know there will be nights where I have to choose. Where someone's life is in danger and I have to go. But I'm asking for the chance to do it right this time. To be honest about it. To let you decide if this life—if I'm—worth it."
"And if I decide you're not?"
Pain flashed across his face, but he nodded. "Then I'll accept it. I'll hate it, but I'll accept it. Because you deserve someone who can be there for you. Fully. Completely. And if I can't be that person—"
"Jason." You cut him off. "You can be that person. You just have to actually try."
Hope flickered in his eyes. "Does that mean—are you willing to try? To give this another chance?"
"I don't know yet." You were being honest. "I'm still hurt. Still angry that you lied for so long. Still processing all of this."
"That's fair."
"But I also—" You stopped. "I also love you. And I understand why you made the choices you made, even if I don't agree with them. So I'm willing to try. If you're willing to actually let me in this time."
"I am. I swear I am." Jason reached for your hand hesitantly. "Can I—"
You let him take it.
"I'm going to do better," he said. "I'm going to show up. I'm going to be honest. I'm going to prove to you that you can trust me again."
"How?"
"However you need me to. Starting with this." He pulled out his phone and opened his calendar. "These are my patrol nights. The nights I'm Red Hood. I'm giving you access so you know where I am. What I'm doing. When I'll be back."
You stared at the phone. "You're sharing your vigilante schedule with me?"
"I'm sharing my life with you. All of it. No more secrets. No more lies. Just—honesty. Even when it's hard."
Something in your chest loosened. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay. We can try. But Jason—if you miss one more important event without a really good explanation, I'm done. For real this time."
"Understood." He squeezed your hand. "I won't let you down again. I promise."
"Don't promise. Just do it."
"I will."
And looking at him—at the determination in his eyes, the hope, the love—you believed him.
It wouldn't be easy. There would be hard nights and difficult conversations and moments where you'd have to choose between being understanding and standing up for yourself.
But maybe—maybe—you could make this work.
Together.
Honestly.
Finally.
Three months later, your company's holiday party was the first real test.
You'd told Jason about it weeks in advance. Had marked it on both your calendars. Had confirmed multiple times that he'd be there.
And when the night arrived, you were prepared for disappointment. Had your excuses ready. Had steeled yourself for another lonely evening.
But Jason showed up.
Not just showed up—he arrived early, in a suit that fit him perfectly, with flowers for you and charm for your coworkers. He held your hand. Laughed at your boss's terrible jokes. Told anyone who would listen how proud he was of you.
When your boss pulled you aside to tell you about a promotion, Jason was there to celebrate. When your coworker asked to take a photo, Jason pulled you close and smiled.
"You came," you said later, standing on your apartment balcony while the party continued inside.
"I promised I would."
"I know. But I was still—"
"Scared I wouldn't." Jason pulled you closer. "I get it. I have to earn your trust back. This is part of that."
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For being here. For trying. For actually doing what you said you'd do."
"I'm going to keep doing it," Jason said. "For as long as you'll let me. I'm going to keep showing up. Keep being honest. Keep fighting for us."
"Even when it's hard?"
"Especially when it's hard." He kissed your forehead. "You're worth it. We're worth it."
And looking at him—at this man who had finally learned to balance his two lives, who made time for you even when it was difficult, who showed up—you knew it was true.
It wasn't perfect. There were still hard nights. Still emergencies that pulled him away. Still moments where you had to be understanding when you wanted to be angry.
But he was trying. Really trying.
And that made all the difference.
"I love you," you said.
"I love you too." Jason smiled. "Now come on. Let's get back to your party. I promised your boss I'd tell him the embarrassing story about your first date."
"Jason, don't you dare—"
But he was already pulling you inside, laughing, present, there.
Can we get crime lord Jason x enemy’s daughter reader haha maybe someone gets kidnapped for ransom but it’s just them flirting with each other and getting annoyed by the other
Ransom
navigation , dc navigation
requests are open
dividers by @cafekitsune
You woke up with a splitting headache and your hands tied behind your back, which was honestly not how you'd planned to spend your Thursday.
"She's awake," someone said.
You blinked, vision clearing, and found yourself in what appeared to be a warehouse. Because of course it was a warehouse. Where else would Gotham's criminal element take their kidnapping victims?
A man stepped into view—tall, built, wearing a red helmet that you recognized immediately from your father's increasingly stressed rants about "that upstart Todd boy."
Red Hood. Crime lord. Your father's newest rival for control of Gotham's underworld.
"Well," you said, voice hoarse. "This is cliché."
The helmet tilted. "Excuse me?"
"Warehouse. Ropes. Dramatic lighting." You looked around pointedly. "What, no single hanging lightbulb? I'm disappointed. Really expected more from Gotham's rising criminal mastermind."
There was a pause. Then Red Hood laughed—actually laughed, the sound distorted slightly by the helmet's modulator.
"Your daughter's got jokes," he called to someone off to the side. Then, to you: "You know why you're here?"
"Let me guess. Ransom? Leverage against my father? A bold statement about your territory expansion?"
"All of the above."
"Efficient. I respect that." You tested the ropes. Tight, but not cutting off circulation. Professional. "So what's the plan? You send him a finger? An ear? A lock of hair with a threatening note?"
"I was thinking a phone call. Maybe a video. Something modern." He crouched down to your level. "You're taking this very well."
"Would you prefer I scream and cry? I can do that if it helps the aesthetic."
"I'd prefer you take this seriously. Your father's a dangerous man. This isn't a game."
"Funny. He says the same thing about you." You met his gaze—or where you assumed his gaze was behind the helmet. "So are we doing this or are you going to monologue at me for the next hour? Because if it's the latter, I'm going to need some water. Maybe a snack. Kidnapping is surprisingly dehydrating."
Red Hood stood abruptly. "She's definitely his daughter. Same annoying attitude."
"I heard that!"
"You were supposed to!"
One of his men—because of course he had men, this was a whole operation—approached hesitantly. "Boss, should we... do you want us to...?"
"Get her water," Red Hood said with a sigh. "And something to eat. Can't ransom a dead hostage."
"How considerate," you called after him as he walked away. "Five stars on Yelp for my kidnapping experience!"
Twenty minutes later, you had a bottle of water (opened for you, since your hands were still tied) and what appeared to be a protein bar.
"Peanut butter chocolate chip," you observed. "Good choice. Though I'm more of a cookies and cream person myself."
Red Hood was leaning against a crate, arms crossed, watching you eat. It was deeply unsettling.
"Do you ever stop talking?" He asked.
"Do you ever take off that helmet? Must get hot in there."
"That's not how this works. I ask questions, you answer them."
"That sounds boring. How about we make this interesting?" You took another bite of the protein bar. "Twenty questions. You answer mine, I answer yours."
"I'm the one with the leverage here—"
"Are you though? Because from where I'm sitting, you need me alive and cooperative for this ransom to work. Dead or traumatized hostages don't really inspire generous fathers to pay up. They inspire revenge."
Another pause. Then: "You're either very brave or very stupid."
"I've been told I'm a delightful combination of both." You smiled sweetly. "So. Twenty questions?"
"Fine. But I go first." He straightened. "Why aren't you scared?"
"That's your question? Really?" You considered. "Because being scared won't change anything. I'm tied up in a warehouse with a crime lord who wants to use me as leverage against my father. Fear seems like a waste of energy at this point."
"Most people would still be terrified."
"I'm not most people. My turn—why the helmet? Dramatic effect or genuine identity protection?"
"Both."
"Boring answer."
"Honest answer." He moved closer. "My turn. What does your father care about more—you or his empire?"
The question hit harder than you expected. You kept your expression neutral.
"What kind of question is that?"
"The kind that determines how this plays out. If he cares about you, he'll pay. If he cares about his empire more, this gets complicated."
You met his gaze steadily. "He'll pay. Not because he loves me, but because someone took what's his. My father doesn't handle disrespect well."
"So you're property to him."
"I'm leverage. Same as I am to you." You tilted your head. "My turn. Do you actually intend to hurt me, or is this all for show?"
Red Hood was quiet for a moment. "I don't hurt people who don't deserve it."
"And I don't deserve it?"
"You're not your father. You don't make his choices." He paused. "That wasn't a question."
"It was implied. I'm counting it." You shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position. "Your turn."
"Why haven't you tried to escape?"
"Have you seen these ropes? Professional work. I'm impressed, actually. Also, where would I go? I'm in a warehouse in what I'm assuming is Crime Alley, judging by the ambiance. I'd last maybe ten minutes before someone else grabbed me. At least with you, I know the endgame."
"You're assuming I'm the lesser evil?"
"I'm assuming you're the evil who needs me intact. That's good enough for now."
He made a sound that might have been a laugh. "You're insane."
"You kidnapped a crime lord's daughter and expected what, exactly? Tears and compliance?" You grinned. "My turn. What's your endgame here? And don't say money. You're already wealthy. This is about territory, isn't it?"
"You've done your research."
"My father talks. I listen. Mostly to figure out which of his enemies might come after me eventually." You looked around the warehouse. "Honestly, I expected this to happen sooner. You're actually late to the kidnapping party."
"There have been others?"
"That's another question. You're wasting your turns." But you answered anyway. "Two attempts. Both failed. This is the first successful one. Congratulations, you're officially the best at kidnapping me."
"I'm honored."
"You should be. I don't give out that title lightly."
Three hours into your kidnapping, you'd learned several things about Red Hood:
He had a dry sense of humor under all that intimidation
He was definitely younger than you'd expected based on the helmet and reputation
He was getting increasingly frustrated with your complete lack of fear
He had excellent taste in protein bars
"So," you said, because the silence had stretched for a solid ten minutes and you were bored. "Are we going to call my father or are you waiting for dramatic effect?"
"I'm waiting for him to sweat."
"He doesn't sweat. He simmers. Like a pot of water before it boils over and scalds everyone nearby."
Red Hood looked at you. "You don't like your father much."
"That's not a question."
"It's an observation."
"Then observe quietly." You wiggled your fingers, trying to keep circulation going. "These ropes are really well done. Who tied them? You or one of your guys?"
"Does it matter?"
"I'm curious about skill level. If you did it, I'm impressed. If one of your guys did it, you've got good people."
"Why do you care about my organizational structure?"
"Because I'm bored and you're interesting." You leaned back against the crate you were propped against. "Most of my father's enemies are old, boring men who talk about the 'good old days' and traditional values. You're young, ambitious, and apparently good at logistics. It's refreshing."
"I can't tell if you're complimenting me or insulting me."
"Why not both?"
He made that sound again, definitely a laugh this time. "You're either the best or worst hostage I've ever had."
"I'm going to choose to take that as a compliment." You paused. "So when are you calling him? Because I should warn you, he's probably already planning some dramatic rescue that will result in property damage and civilian casualties. The sooner you make contact, the less likely he is to burn down half of Crime Alley looking for me."
"You seem very concerned about my territory."
"I'm concerned about the people who live here. My father doesn't care about collateral damage."
Something in Red Hood's posture shifted. "And you do?"
"I'm not him. I don't make his choices, remember? You said that yourself."
"Yeah, but saying you're not like him and actually proving it are different things."
You met his gaze—or where his gaze should be. "I volunteer at a women's shelter in the East End. Under a fake name, because if my father knew, he'd shut it down out of spite. I funnel money from his accounts to food banks. I tip service workers in cash so there's no paper trail back to his operations. I'm not a saint, but I'm not him."
Red Hood was very still. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you asked. And because—" You stopped, considering. "Because I think you actually care about Crime Alley. About the people here. And I want you to know that not everyone with my last name is a monster."
Silence.
Then: "I'm going to call your father now."
"Tell him I said hi. And that his security is shit if someone got past it this easily."
"I'll be sure to pass that along."
You couldn't hear your father's side of the conversation, but you could hear Red Hood's, and it was enlightening.
"I have your daughter... Yes, that daughter... She's fine. Unharmed. Eating better than she probably does at home, actually..." A pause. "The price is simple. Back off my territory. Stop pushing into Crime Alley. Leave the people here alone... I don't care about your expansion plans... No, I'm not negotiating. This is the deal—your daughter for your withdrawal."
He listened for a moment.
"You have twenty-four hours to decide. And just so we're clear—anything happens to anyone in Crime Alley while I have her, the deal's off." Another pause. "Yeah. I thought you'd see it my way."
He hung up.
"How'd it go?" You asked cheerfully.
"Your father's a piece of work."
"I'm aware. What did he say?"
"Asked if you were damaged. Like you're a car he's considering buying."
"Sounds about right." You'd stopped being hurt by your father's emotional distance years ago. "Did he agree to your terms?"
"He said he'd consider it."
"Translation: he's already planning something violent and dramatic." You sighed. "You should probably increase security. He's going to try to get me back without actually agreeing to your terms. It's kind of his thing."
"You're very calm about this."
"Would panicking help?"
"Most people would at least pretend to be worried about their father's response."
"Most people have fathers who care if they live or die. Mine cares about winning." You shifted again. "Can I ask you something?"
"Is this part of twenty questions?"
"No. This is off the record." You waited until you had his attention. "If my father doesn't agree to your terms... what happens to me?"
Red Hood was quiet for a long moment. "I don't hurt innocent people."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I'm giving right now."
"Fair enough." You tested the ropes again. Still tight. "For what it's worth, I don't think you're going to hurt me. You've had plenty of opportunities and you haven't taken any of them. You gave me water and food. You haven't threatened me or tried to scare me. You're either the world's nicest kidnapper or you're not actually comfortable with this whole situation."
"What makes you think I'm not comfortable?"
"Because you keep pacing. And your guys keep looking at you like they're waiting for orders you're not giving. And you've been here the entire time instead of delegating to your people." You smiled. "You're not a kidnapper. You're a crime lord who needed leverage and hates that the leverage is a person."
"You don't know anything about me."
"I know you care about Crime Alley. I know you have principles. I know you're trying to protect people." You held his gaze. "I know you're one of the good guys playing the bad guy because that's what Gotham requires."
"You're making a lot of assumptions."
"Am I wrong?"
He didn't answer, which was answer enough.
Hour six of your kidnapping, and things got complicated.
One of Red Hood's guys burst into the warehouse. "Boss, we've got a problem. Three cars just pulled up outside. Armed men. Your girl's father isn't waiting for the deadline."
You sighed. "Told you he'd do something dramatic."
Red Hood was already moving, barking orders to his people. "Defensive positions. Non-lethal if possible but protect yourselves. And someone—"
"I'll watch her," one of his guys said, moving to stand guard over you.
"Wait," you called out. Red Hood paused. "You're outnumbered. My father brought at least fifteen men if he sent three cars. You have what, eight people here?"
"Your point?"
"Untie me."
"Absolutely not."
"I can help—"
"You're the hostage. You don't help."
"I'm also the only person here who knows my father's tactics. I've sat through enough of his planning sessions to know how he approaches extractions. Untie me and I can give you an advantage."
Red Hood stared at you. "Why would you help me against your own father?"
"Because he's going to get people killed. Your people, his people, probably some civilians who are in the wrong place at wrong time. And because—" You took a breath. "Because you're trying to protect Crime Alley and he's trying to exploit it. I know which side I'm on."
"Boss," one of his guys said urgently. "They're moving."
Red Hood made a decision. He crossed to you in three strides and cut your ropes.
"You try to run—"
"Where am I going to run? Toward the armed men who work for my emotionally distant father? No thanks." You rubbed your wrists. "He'll send a team through the front as a distraction. The real extraction team will come through the back or the roof. He always splits his forces."
"How many on each team?"
"Front will have more—ten maybe. Back will have five but they'll be better trained."
Red Hood relayed this to his people via comm. Then he looked at you. "Stay behind me."
"I don't need—"
"That wasn't a request. You might be helping but you're still—" He stopped.
"Still what? Still your hostage? Still your responsibility?" You moved to stand beside him instead of behind. "I can take care of myself."
"Can you fight?"
"My father insisted I learn. Krav Maga, mostly. Some boxing." You picked up a discarded piece of pipe. "I'm not helpless."
"That's not— you shouldn't have to—" He seemed frustrated. "Just don't get shot."
"I'll do my best."
The front doors exploded inward—breaching charges, you noted clinically. Very dramatic, very father.
Red Hood's people opened fire—rubber bullets, you realized. He really was trying to minimize casualties.
You stayed close to Red Hood, watching his back as he'd asked, while scanning for the real threat.
There—movement on the catwalk above. The extraction team, right on schedule.
"Above you!" You shouted.
Red Hood spun and fired in one smooth motion. The man on the catwalk dropped, unconscious from what looked like a taser round.
"Good eye," he said.
"I told you I could help."
The fight was chaotic but brief. Red Hood's people were well-trained and the element of surprise—knowing about the two-pronged attack—gave them the advantage they needed.
Within ten minutes, your father's men were subdued. Tied up. Disarmed.
"Well," you said, slightly out of breath. "That went better than expected."
Red Hood was staring at you. "You actually helped."
"I said I would."
"But you—you fought against your own father's people."
"They're not my people. They're his." You set down the pipe. "There's a difference."
Before Red Hood could respond, his comm crackled. "Boss, we've got one more incoming. Single person. They're asking to talk."
"It's him," you said quietly. "My father. He'll want to negotiate in person."
"Then he can—"
"Let him in." You met Red Hood's gaze. "Trust me. This is how we end it."
Your father walked in like he owned the place. Expensive suit, cold eyes, the kind of presence that made people nervous.
He looked at his tied-up men. At Red Hood's people. At you, standing next to Red Hood with a piece of pipe still in your hand.
"Daughter," he said. Not your name. Never your name. "You're unharmed."
"No thanks to your dramatic rescue attempt."
His eyes narrowed. "You helped him."
"I helped prevent unnecessary casualties. There's a difference."
"You fought against my people."
"I fought against a bad plan that would have gotten people killed." You didn't back down from his stare. "You taught me to be strategic. This was strategic."
Your father's attention shifted to Red Hood. "You've trained her well."
"I didn't train her. She made her own choices." Red Hood's hand moved to his weapon. "And she chose to help protect people instead of protect your ego."
"Bold words for someone I could destroy."
"You tried that already. Didn't work out great for you." Red Hood gestured at the tied-up men. "Here's how this is going to go. You're going to back off Crime Alley like I asked. You're going to leave the people here alone. And in exchange, I won't release the footage of your failed rescue attempt to every news outlet in Gotham."
"You're bluffing."
"Try me."
Your father was silent, calculating. Then he looked at you. "You're coming home."
"No," you said quietly. "I'm not."
"That wasn't a request."
"And that wasn't an invitation." You stood straighter. "I'm eighteen. Legally an adult. I'm not your property anymore."
"Everything you have, I gave you—"
"Then I'll give it back. The credit cards, the apartment, all of it. I don't want anything from you."
Your father's expression was cold. "You'll regret this."
"Maybe. But it'll be my regret. My choice." You took a breath. "I'm done being leverage. Yours or anyone else's."
For a long moment, your father just looked at you. Then he turned to Red Hood.
"Crime Alley is yours. For now. But this isn't over."
"It never is in Gotham."
Your father left, and you felt something in your chest loosen.
"So," Red Hood said after a moment. "That was dramatic."
"I did warn you about the drama thing." You set down the pipe. "I'm sorry about—about all of this. Using your warehouse for my personal family drama."
"Are you serious right now? You just—you walked away from everything."
"I walked away from him. There's a difference." You managed a smile. "Besides, it's not like I had much of a life anyway. Might as well start fresh."
"Where are you going to go?"
"I'll figure something out. I always do." You headed for the exit, then paused. "For what it's worth, I meant what I said. About you being one of the good guys. Crime Alley's lucky to have you."
"Wait."
You turned. Red Hood was standing there, looking uncharacteristically uncertain.
"You need a place to stay," he said.
"I'll be fine—"
"And I need someone who knows the inner workings of your father's organization. Someone who can help me anticipate his next moves."
You raised an eyebrow. "Are you offering me a job?"
"I'm offering you a mutually beneficial arrangement. You get a safe place to stay and protection from your father. I get inside information on his operations."
"That's... actually not a terrible idea." You considered. "What's the catch?"
"No catch. But you'd have to—you'd be working for me. With me. Whatever. And people will talk. Crime lord's daughter working for his rival? That's going to create complications."
"I've spent my entire life as a complication. What's a little more?" You walked back toward him. "Okay. I'm in. But I have conditions."
"Of course you do."
"I'm not bait. I'm not leverage. I'm an actual employee with actual value beyond my last name."
"Agreed."
"And I get to keep helping people. The shelter, the food banks, all of it. That's non-negotiable."
"I wouldn't ask you to stop."
"And—" You hesitated. "And if this is just because you feel responsible for me or guilty about the kidnapping, I don't want it. I want this to be a real offer."
Red Hood moved closer. "You helped defend this warehouse. You fought against your own father. You gave up everything you had because it was the right thing to do. You think I'm offering this out of guilt?"
"Then why are you offering?"
"Because you're smart, capable, and you actually give a damn about people. Because Crime Alley needs people like you. Because—" He stopped. "Because I trust you."
The admission seemed to surprise both of you.
"Okay," you said quietly. "Then I accept."
"Good. We'll set you up in one of the safe houses. Get you new ID, new everything. Your father won't be able to find you."
"He'll try."
"Let him try. He'll have to go through me first."
You smiled. "My hero."
"Shut up."
"Make me."
There was a pause. Then Red Hood laughed—that genuine, unmodulated laugh you'd pulled from him during the whole kidnapping ordeal.
"You're going to be so annoying to work with," he said.
"You're going to love it."
"I really might."
Several Months Later:
"You know," you said, reviewing the latest intelligence reports in Red Hood's—Jason's—base, "when you kidnapped me, I didn't expect this to be the outcome."
Jason, helmet off now because you'd earned that trust, looked up from cleaning his weapons. "What, you didn't plan on becoming a crime lord's strategist?"
"I planned on being ransomed and going back to my depressing life. This is definitely an upgrade." You marked something on the map. "Your father's pulling back from the East End. Looks like our last operation convinced him to consolidate."
"Good. That's three neighborhoods we've cleared this month." He set aside the gun he'd been working on. "You did good work on that."
"We did good work. Team effort." You stretched. "Though I still think my kidnapping was the most dramatic recruitment strategy ever."
"I didn't kidnap you to recruit you—"
"Didn't you though? You saw an opportunity and you took it." You grinned. "Admit it. Best kidnapping decision you ever made."
Jason threw a cleaning rag at you. You caught it, laughing.
"You're insufferable," he said, but he was smiling.
"And yet you keep me around."
"Because you're useful."
"Because you like me."
"That's debatable."
"Is it though?" You moved closer, perching on the edge of his work table. "Because from where I'm sitting, you've gone from kidnapper to employer to friend to... what exactly?"
Jason looked at you, something shifting in his expression. "What do you want it to be?"
"I asked first."
"You always ask first."
"Because you never answer."
"Maybe I don't know the answer yet."
You studied his face—the face you'd earned the right to see after weeks of working together, building trust, becoming something more than crime lord and strategist.
"Well," you said softly, "when you figure it out, let me know."
"What if I already have?"
Your breath caught. "Jason—"
He pulled you closer, and you went willingly, until you were close enough to see the green flecks in his blue eyes.
"Worst kidnapping victim ever," he murmured.
"Best kidnapper ever," you countered.
"We're both insane."
"Probably."
He kissed you, and it tasted like possibilities and new beginnings and the strange twisted path that had led from warehouse hostage to this moment.
When you broke apart, you were both smiling.
"So," you said. "Think my father would be mad about this?"
"Definitely."
"Good. That's just a bonus then."
Jason laughed, pulling you closer. "You're going to be the death of me."
"At least you'll die entertained."
"There's that."
And somewhere in Gotham, in a warehouse in Crime Alley, the best worst kidnapping in the city's history had somehow turned into the beginning of something real.
Hiiiiiilove! Can I please request an aang xfirebender reader or a zuko x firebender reader fic where they are fighting in battle and the reader has some childhood trauma so while she’s fighting the bad guy they pull her hair and that triggers her and she gets so angry and blinded by rage and she starts bending white fire and she’s kinda going out of control so zuko or aang basically reach out to her kinda like rea ch ing out to aang in the avatar state, so one of them grounds her and comforts her saying it’s okay
a white-hot rage
zuko x reader, fem!reader, firebender!reader, fluff, angst, established relationship, hurt/comfort, childhood trauma, slight domestic fluff
words: 2.8k
lowercase intended, kind of proofread, mentions of the leaked movie plot
tw: contains mention of physical abuse and sexual assault
synopsis: during a battle, your past trauma is triggered and the gaang finds out just how powerful you really are
a/n: nonny, you did your big one with this request. this is probably my favorite thing i’ve written so far. requests are open!!!
it wasn’t often that aang asked his friends to abandon their lives and responsibilities to help him with something, at least not since the end of the hundred year war. only once before had you received a messenger bird from aang, asking to help you find sonam’s scepter and fight against the denied. you had agreed without hesitation then, but now you wished you had thought about his second request in more depth.
a week ago, you received a messenger hawk to the fire nation palace, addressed to you and zuko. aang wrote about an uprising of earthbenders from the outer ring of ba sing se led by an former dai li agent named pili that was intent on taking down republic city in the name of their new queen, hoping it would get them out of poverty. aang asked you to join him in the fight for peace and unity. of course, you agreed.
you chased the rebels away from republic city and the fight led you to the si wong desert, where toph had flattened the sand into bendable earth that none of you would lose your footing on. you and zuko fought side by side, hurling fire at the eartbenders trying to kill you.
you lunged forward, shooting a line of fire in the direction of one of the earthbenders. you turned your head toward zuko, pulling your arm back and sending a fireball in the direction of a rebel coming at him from behind.
“if we don’t make it out of this,” you started, “your mom should raise zumi, not anyone from the palace.”
zuko gave you a scrupulous look. “we’re going back home,” he shouted over the chaos of the fight. “izumi is staying with us!”
while you were turned around, talking to zuko about your daughter whilst firing at the rebel benders behind him, one of them gained on you, moving in complete silence.
“y/n, watch out!” toph hollered across her makeshift battlefield.
zuko turned to face you, intent on holding off the earthbender until you could gather your bearings to fight him off yourself. but he was too close for zuko to get a clean shot without hurting you.
just as you turned, the earthbender, who you recognized as the rebels’ leader, pili, grabbed your hair and gave it a sharp yank. you lost your footing and then,
suddenly, you weren’t on the battlefield anymore. your family, noble and they may be, had dark secrets.
as pili yanked you down by your hair, you were transported into a darker time that smelt like liquor and felt like the suffocating weight of a flying bison pressed on your chest. you could feel repressive hands forcing you against a thin mattress, cold chains wrapping around your wrists so you couldn’t fight back with your bending, finger nails ripping into your scalp, yanking you back by your hair so the hands could grasp onto more of you. you felt something foreign press into you, and the powerlessness you felt in that moment, returned tenfold.
you weren’t sure when the battlefield came back into view, but you were twenty feet above it. flames came out of your feet, propelling you upward.
you weren’t that same girl you were all those years ago. now, when you cried out, a white flame erupted from the back of your throat. it scorched the sand that had shifted onto the battlefield, leaving behind little shards of glass.
katara’s voice sounded warbled as she warned toph about the glass. “be careful!” she shouted to the blind woman.
you tried to focus onto the battlefield, locating pili’s hulking figure and his buzzed hair. he wasn’t a rebel fighting for what he thought was right, he was equated now in your mind with your father. just another man who believed he could take pieces of you he wasn’t entitled to, that he could mar your skin with reminders of his presence. pili, like your father, believed that he was in control—and right now, he couldn’t be more wrong.
the others stopped what they were doing. in fact, the whole battlefield seemed to freeze as your white-hot flame located pili. zuko was the first to realize what was happening: that you were about to kill pili.
he pushed him out of the way. “y/n, don’t do this.”
you paused, realizing that it was your beloved husband who now stood in your line of fire. you stopped immediately, because zuko was a different man. he held you when you couldn’t bear to see anyone, not even your own reflection. he spent the entire twenty-six hours you labored when izumi was born telling you how beautiful you were, wiping your head with a cool cloth, and reminding you how strong you were.
zuko knew almost everything about your past, but the entire truth hid behind thin veils. he knew that your family hit you, demeaned you, called you worthless. and he did his best to undo the damage they did, replacing every harsh touch with a gentle kiss, uttering affirmations in the dead of night when he thought you were asleep and loudly professing his love for you. but he didn’t know what happened when the lights went down and the liquor started flowing, you kept that to yourself.
when you looked past him, you saw pili. he was still on the ground where zuko had pushed him. the rest of his rebels had been captured by katara when they took pause to watch you rise with your white-hot rage. she had frozen their feet and hands together with the water from her waterskin. pili was the only rebel left.
you pushed yourself forward, ignoring zuko’s pleas for you to stop. you aimed your fingers in pili’s direction, summoning a current from the sun, sending a bolt of white lightning hurtling toward him.
again, zuko stepped between your wrath and pili, using the redirection technique his uncle had taught him all those years ago to send the lightning into the sand just outside of the battlefield.
“stop!” you shrieked, hurling fireballs past zuko, raining them down on the earth surrounding pili. “let me do it, please!”
zuko stood firm and tilted his head to look up at you. the earth under his feet was burning hot and he could only tolerate it because he was used to the heat by nature. everyone else aside from zuko and pili had stepped into the sand, watching you with mouths agape in surprise.
“come down and we can talk about this,” zuko tried to reason with you.
your face felt hot, tears streaking through the layer of dust that had blown up and stuck to your skin. “just get out of the way, zu! this isn’t about you,” you yelled back.
he tried again. “do you want to go home and face our daughter after you kill this man?” zuko shouted to you.
“i don’t want to die,” pili whined, clutching to zuko’s robes. “please, spare me.”
zuko kicked him off and shot him a harsh look. “you’re at her mercy, not mine.”
“i am not powerless!” you screamed, tears streaming down your face harder.
“no one said you were,” zuko returned. he was beginning to realize that pleading with you wasn’t going anywhere. “my love, please just come down.”
you shook your head, your resolve as hot as the white flames erupting from your feet. realizing that negotiating wasn’t fruitful, zuko propelled himself up to you, using fire of his own.
level with you, his voice was softer. “please, y/n. come down. the fight is over.”
“you don’t understand,” you cried, “it’s never over.”
zuko moved closer to you slowly. “i’m going to bring you down,” he said softly. his arms extended and effortlessly lifted you away from the flames you were creating. “you’re alright, my love. i’ve got you.”
you wiggled and squirmed against zuko as you descended back to the surface. once you were on the ground, pili shrunk away from you.
you tried to firebend at him, but you energy was depleted and all that left your fingertips was a puff of smoke. realizing you were now defenseless, pili moved to bend a boulder in your direction, but zuko stopped him with a flick of his wrist, whipping him back down with a flame of his own.
as he led you away from pili’s slouched form (not dead, just unconscious), you could hear the others chattering.
katara spoke quietly. “that was incredible. terrifying, but incredible.”
“i didn’t know white fire even existed!” sokka exclaimed in a hushed tone.
“i don’t even know white fire looks like,” toph returned, waving her hand in front of her glazed eyes. “all i felt was hot.”
aang’s eyes were wide, his jaw completely slack. “she should’ve been my firebending teacher.”
zuko shot your friends a disparaging look, and led you onto the airship that had been anchored in the sand nearby. you leaned on him heavily, unable to support yourself. your body felt weak, but your mind was inexplicably weaker. you were having a hard time separating the past and the present, unable to decipher what was happening and what was just replaying in your mind.
you stumbled on the bridge of the airship. “i’ve got you, my love,” zuko uttered, stabilizing you against his body.
once in the cabin, zuko laid you down on one of the benches. he could hear the trudging steps of your friends and the rebels boarding the airship.
“how are you feeling?” he reached out to brush your hair away from your face.
you winced at his touch and his hand quickly fell away as he realized. “there was more, wasn’t there?” he asked.
“zu… ‘m sorry,” you managed. “zumi..”
he nodded. “we’re going home to see zumi,” zuko said gently. “i’m gonna go get katara.”
zuko left you in the cabin and rushed down to the hull where your friends were loading pili and his rebels into a makeshift cell toph had metalbent together. “katara, i need you in the cabin.”
“is it y/n? is she hurt?”
zuko nodded, then shook his head, unsure of exactly what was going on. “i just think she needs help, from well, a woman.”
katara nodded understandingly and followed zuko to the cabin, instructing the others to go wait in the cockpit. once in the cabin, katara knelt beside the bench you were laid on. she hovered her hand above your head, then your chest.
“her chi is weak,” katara told zuko. “she just needs to rest.”
you looked at katara silently pleading with her to ask what was wrong. “give us a minute?” she asked zuko.
he nodded and left the cabin, but he lingered just outside the heavy door, hoping to catch any of what you say. zuko knew it was wrong, but he was desperate to help you, and if that meant eavesdropping, then he would certainly stoop to that level.
katara’s hand ran through your hair. “what’s wrong, y/n?”
your voice stuck in your throat. “my dad- he,” you started to say, but your voice came out like shards of glass. “hurt me
“he hit you?” katara asked.
you shook your head and pointed toward your legs, your hand hovering over where your tunic met your pants. katara’s face softened and she grabbed your hand.
the smoothed out your sweaty hair. “you’re okay now,” she whispered. “no one is going to hurt you, y/n, okay? try to get some rest, sweetheart.”
you watched warily as she pulled water out of her waterskin, charging it with her healing current. zuko came back in, you could hear his boots against the metal. your eyes fluttered closed as she circulated water over your chest and head, attempting to recenter your chi.
when you awoke, izumi was sitting on your feet at the end of the bed. “mommy!” she shrieked excitedly as you opened your eyes. “‘mommy, i missed you!”
it took you a second to adjust to your surroundings but as you did, your breathing evened out and any trace of fear fell away as you set your eyes on your four year old daughter.
“hi baby,” you said slowly. your mouth was dry and your eyes still watered from the dust you had kicked up during the fight. “where’s daddy?”
“talking to auntie katara and uncle aang,” izumi said happily as she crawled up to your chest and nuzzled her head into your neck. “daddy said i had to go to bed, but i wanted to wait for you to wake up.”
izumi was surprisingly well spoken for a four year old—maybe it was all the time she spent in the palace, heating everyone talk so officially to one another.
“is it night time, zumi?”
the toddler nodded. “way past bedtime.”
you scoop her up and hold her like a baby against your barely clothed chest. “why don’t you go to sleep, firefly?” you suggested. “mommy won’t let go of you as long as you sleep.”
it didn’t take long for her to drift off once she was securely in your arms. when zuko didn’t hear her usual chaos, he came to your bedchambers to look for her, instead finding you awake and holding your sleeping daughter.
you looked at zuko warily. you couldn’t remember much, just the way that sweat curled your hair to your forehead and the immense fear and rage that swallowed you whole. “what happened?”
“we were fighting pili and his rebels,” zuko explained, taking the spot beside you in the bed. “he pulled your hair and you… flew up and were throwing white fire at him. you tried to kill him, y/n.”
the memory flooded back all at once, the root of your hair pulling against your scalp at pili’s hand, the heat lapping your face as zuko tried to reason with you, zuko carrying you down from your high ground.
zuko leaned his head gently atop of yours. “y/n, what happened?”
“my father,” you said, tears brimming against your lashes. “they hit me, you know that. but they also…”
you trailed off, the words caught in the back of your throat. you had never said it out loud before, not to zuko or to anyone. but you didn’t have to. katara didn’t tell him anything, but when she didn’t say anything, he pieced it together.
“oh,” was all zuko said. “and when pili pulled your hair-“
“it was like i was back in that house, chained up and- and powerless,” you explained, now crying. “zuko, im so sorry.”
he shook his head and cradled your body against his. “don’t apologize. nothing happened to me, and pili is fine for a man spending ten years in prison.”
“i shouldn’t have lost control like that,” you insisted. “i mean, zumi pulls my hair all the time and that’s never happened. i’m normally in control.”
zuko nodded. “yes, love. but it’s different when our thirty pound daughter pulls your hair while she plays and when a two hundred pound man yanks it to get the upper hand are two different situations.”
you traced the slope of izumi’s face. “what if i lose control like that again around her?” you asked and she stirred in your arms.
placing a kiss on your head, zuko reassured you, “you won’t.”
“how do you know?”
“because i know you,” he responded simply. “and i know how much you love izumi, and what happened today was an isolated incident.”
you stared into your daughter’s perfect face and wondered how anyone could hurt their child, the one thing they were supposed to love unconditionally. you couldn’t imagine ever hurting your daughter and you knew, deep down, that despite the unpredictability of your flashbacks and their effect on your bending, that it wouldn’t happen around izumi.
“it wouldn’t be an isolated incident,” you said quietly, “if i saw him again. i think i would kill him.”
zuko, unsure what to say, held you closer to him and kissed your head again. “and h will be tight there to carry you home after,” he said finally. “i know who you are and you’re so powerful.”
you nestled into his chest, izumi still cradled into you, clutching the edge of the robe that separated the skin of your chest from her soft cheek.
you spent the night like that, slumped against zuko’s chest, izumi slumped against yours. his inner flame pooled in his stomach, fueled by anger toward your father, hatred for you mother for letting it happen.
zuko canceled the rest of his meetings with the grand council and invited katara and aang to stay at the palace in case you ended up needing a healer. all week, the palace staff brought food to your chambers, izumi’s teachers did her lessons from the foot of your bed, and all of them allowed you to remain in your bube with your perfect little family; the family that taught you love doesn’t have to hurt.
By the time the sun had climbed high over the Fire Palace, Fire Lord Zuko had already accepted that he was being followed.
Again.
He noticed it first in the corridor outside the eastern archives, when he turned after dismissing a messenger and saw the small figure at the far end of the hall, just barely peeking around a carved pillar. When he kept walking, the figure moved too, quick and quiet and determined to remain unnoticed despite being about three feet tall and wearing a bright red dress that made “stealth” entirely impossible.
Zuko stopped.
The little shadow stopped too.
He folded his arms. “Suri.”
A beat of silence.
Then, from behind the pillar, his daughter stepped out with a solemn expression that she clearly believed was very convincing. Her hair had been tied back by your hand that morning, though now half of it had escaped and curled around her face in loose dark waves. She looked at him with all the seriousness of a royal guard.
“Yes, Papa?”
“You have been following me all morning.”
Suri blinked once, then looked mildly offended. “I have not.”
Zuko raised one brow.
She considered this, then changed course without hesitation. “I have been… walking nearby.”
“That is still following.”
“It is different.”
“How?”
She put one small hand on her hip, just like you did when you were being theatrical on purpose. “Because I am not following you. I am making sure you are safe.”
The answer was so matter-of-fact, so entirely confident, that Zuko had to bite back a laugh.
He crouched slightly so he was eye level with her. “You are four.”
“I know.”
“That is not usually the age when children patrol the palace.”
Suri frowned. “I am not patrolling.”
“No?”
“No.” She lifted her chin. “I am helping.”
Zuko stared at her for a moment, then glanced down the hall as if appealing to the spirits for guidance. “Helping.”
“Yes.”
“And what exactly are you helping with?”
She thought seriously about that. “You.”
That stopped him.
The stern line of his mouth softened before he could stop it. “Me?”
Suri nodded as though this should have been obvious. “You have important work. Important work needs watching.”
Zuko exhaled through his nose, looking away for a second so she would not see how close he was to smiling. “Who taught you that?”
“Mama.”
He should have known.
He straightened and offered her a hand. “Come on. If you are going to insist on being my shadow, you might as well do it properly.”
Suri’s face lit immediately. She took his hand with both of hers, and the two of them continued down the corridor together, her tiny steps keeping pace beside his much longer ones.
For the next hour, she was there for everything.
She accompanied him to the receiving chamber when a pair of merchants came to present a proposal about imported tea. She sat very still on a cushion beside his throne while he listened to them explain shipping costs, trade routes, and the politics of ceramic jars. When one of the merchants glanced at her and smiled, Suri smiled back with unnerving solemnity.
Zuko could feel the man trying not to be distracted.
“Go on,” Zuko said dryly. “My daughter is not judging your numbers.”
Suri whispered loudly, “I am not.”
That, unfortunately, made it worse.
After the merchants left, Zuko found her swinging her feet on the cushion and staring at him in complete absorption.
“What?” he asked.
“You were very serious.”
“I am usually serious in meetings.”
She nodded as though this confirmed something important. “You look serious all the time.”
He leaned against the arm of the throne and gave her a look. “That is rude.”
“It is true.”
“And your mother says you should not say every true thing you think.”
Suri brightened. “Mama also says I am very honest.”
“Did she say that as a compliment or a warning?”
Suri grinned, entirely unrepentant.
By noon, the palace had begun to notice the tiny royal escort.
A servant carrying a stack of folded linens nearly tripped when Suri appeared beside Zuko in the hallway, silent as a cat and twice as determined. Two guards at the doorway to the council chamber exchanged glances when she tried to mimic her father’s stride, planting her feet with great seriousness and swinging one arm just slightly too much. Zuko caught one of those looks and immediately sighed.
“No,” he said.
The older guard straightened at once. “Your Majesty?”
“I know what you are thinking.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
“You are thinking she is adorable.”
The guard’s expression remained perfectly neutral. “I would never presume,”
“She is,” Zuko said flatly. “You are not allowed to laugh.”
The second guard cleared his throat, suspiciously close to a cough.
Suri looked up at him. “Papa, why can’t they laugh?”
Zuko opened the council chamber door for her and muttered, “Because then they will never stop.”
Inside, the room fell into the usual uneasy silence of a meeting beginning too early in the day. Advisors sat around the long table with scrolls and ledgers stacked neatly before them. A few looked mildly alarmed to see Suri following Zuko in and taking her place right beside his chair as though she had every right to be there.
One councilman leaned toward the others. “Has the princess been invited to this meeting?”
Suri heard him.
She turned her head and said, with complete composure, “I invited myself.”
The room went still.
Zuko pinched the bridge of his nose. “That is also not how invitations work.”
Suri blinked. “But it worked.”
It did not, strictly speaking, help the atmosphere.
The meeting dragged on through border disputes, grain supplies, and a long, tiresome discussion about reconstruction budgets in the western provinces. Zuko spoke when necessary, listened when he had to, and tried not to smile every time he looked down and found Suri sitting on the floor beside his chair, drawing tiny fire lilies on scraps of paper with a charcoal nub one of the servants had given her.
She was very quiet there. Very focused.
Every few minutes, though, she would look up at him.
Just to check.
Just to make sure he was still there.
Still safe.
Still hers to follow.
At one point, as one advisor droned on about tax levies, Zuko noticed Suri leaning against the side of his chair, her little eyelids beginning to droop. She had made a heroic effort all morning, but the palace was warm, the room was stuffy, and being a tiny shadow required more endurance than she could keep up forever.
She rubbed one eye with a tiny fist.
Zuko lowered his voice without interrupting the speaker. “Suri.”
Her head lifted at once. “Mm?”
“You can go find your mother.”
She shook her head immediately. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I am helping.”
He nearly smiled again. “You are falling asleep.”
“I am not.”
She said it with such offense that one of the advisors coughed into his hand to hide a laugh. Zuko heard it.
He pointed at the man without looking away from his daughter. “Do not encourage her.”
Suri straightened her back valiantly, determined to prove him wrong. “I can stay.”
“Of course you can.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You do not believe me.”
“I believe you are very stubborn.”
“I learned it from you.”
That drew a real smile from him at last.
The council chamber, which had been miserable ten seconds earlier, visibly struggled not to react. Zuko looked down at his daughter, who was now swaying only slightly in place, and his expression softened in a way no one in the room was meant to see.
“You did learn that from me,” he admitted.
Suri looked victorious.
Then, suddenly, she yawned so wide that she nearly lost her balance.
Zuko stood at once, startling the entire council into silence. “Meeting is adjourned.”
One advisor opened his mouth. “Your Majesty, we have not,”
“We have.” He reached down, scooped Suri up before she could protest, and settled her against his shoulder. She immediately melted into him with the trust only a child could have. “Continue tomorrow.”
The advisor looked scandalized. “Because the princess is tired?”
Zuko’s gaze lifted, calm and unyielding. “Because my daughter has been following me around the palace all day and I have decided she has earned the right to nap.”
No one argued after that.
By the time he reached your chambers, Suri was already half asleep in his arms, her cheek pressed into his robes and one small hand curled in the fabric at his chest. You were sitting near the window when he came in, reading with your feet tucked beneath you, and the moment you looked up, your face changed.
“There she is,” you said softly. “My tiny spy.”
Zuko gave you a tired look. “She claims she was helping me.”
You closed your book with a smile. “Was she?”
“I think she believes she was.”
You stood and crossed the room to meet him, brushing your fingers lightly over Suri’s hair. Your daughter stirred at your touch, then sighed and burrowed deeper against him.
Zuko looked down at her, then at you, and something warm passed across his face.
“She followed me everywhere,” he said quietly. “The throne room. The archives. The council chamber.”
You laughed under your breath. “And did the Fire Lord survive?”
He adjusted Suri in his arms with careful hands. “Barely.”
Your smile softened. “Did she tell everyone she was helping?”
“She did.”
“And did anyone believe her?”
He paused, then answered with complete seriousness, “I did.”
That made you grin.
Zuko glanced between you and the sleeping child in his arms, then sighed in the long-suffering way of a man who had been defeated by affection and did not mind at all.
“She is very small,” he said.
You reached up and touched his cheek. “Yes.”
“She is also very determined.”
“Yes.”
“And she thinks she is my guard.”
You kissed the corner of his mouth. “She is.”
He looked down at the sleeping bundle in his arms, then back at you. “I think I may have created a problem.”
You smiled. “A very cute problem.”
Zuko huffed quietly, but there was no complaint in it. Only love.
He bent his head and kissed your forehead, then carried his tiny shadow toward the bed, where he could let her rest after a long day of important work.
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