Hi! So guess who fell in love with @orange-artist version of Yonji? That's right, me! I did! And I anon asked (2 years ago, they may have forgotten but I haven't :D) if the creator of @good-yonji-au was chill with x reader of him (yes it belongs to @orange-artist ), I got the green light and here it is! Ignore the fact it's 2 years later
Warning: Heavy topics in conversation (they are only mentioned), read at your own risk
"You're the new tailor?"
"Hm?" The man looked up from his work, meeting your eyes. "Ah, yes! Yes, I am."
You watched him stand up from his desk and make his way over to you. You hold up your hand. "I'm [Y/n]."
"Yonji." He smiles as he shakes your hand.
"Yonji, it's nice to have another fashion designer in the Army. I love Iva, but their fashion is a bit too flashy for my aesthetic."
"I've only heard stories about 'em from Sabo, I've yet to meet them, but I'm sure I'll like them."
The workshop settles into a cozy atmosphere, both of you basking in the warm smiles. You may have only just met, yet you find yourself at ease. You wonder where the rev found someone as wholesome as him.
"How can I help you, [Y/n]?"
"Oh, um, I do apologize if I'm interrupting your work." You glance over at the pin project Yonji was working on.
"Don't worry about that," Yonji reassures you, waving his hand. "It's a suit I'm working on for my brother, but it'll be a bit before I see him again."
"Right then, you're good at suits, could you possibly make me a standard servant suit?"
"Sure thing, I can start it now if you want."
"That'd be great." You smile.
"I'll just need to take your measurements." Yonji holds up the yellow tape, then gestures over to an open corner with a stand circle by a couple of mirrors. "If you could stand there."
"If possible, could you make me look more square with the suit?" you request as you take your position on the stand.
"Square?"
You hear it in his tone, he's confused, amusing you. "I figured a square shape, as common as it is, would make it plan, draws less attention. People shaped like an upside-down triangle with their broad shoulders or an hourglass with their assets draw more attention, especially when they're emphasized."
Yonji hums in acknowledgement as he takes your measurements. "I'm guessing this is for an undercover operation, then?"
"Yes, I'll be infiltrating a royal banquet, I need to go in unnoticed."
"I'll do my best."
"Thank you."
The conversation fissles out, Yonji finished all your measurements and moved on to sketch out the cuts he needs to make on some fabric. Curiously, you watch him do his job, mesmerized seeing him in his natural element. The way his hands glide over the fabric as if he has a sixth sense before drawing the precise lines is fascinating.
"You septacular talent."
"Uh- thank you." Yonji, a little bashful from your comment, glows with pride.
"How did you come to join us?"
"Well-" Yonji sets aside the chalk and grabs scissors, hands steady and careful as he begins to cut the fabric. "I owned a tailor shop in one of the island located in the Paradise side of the Grand Line. One day, Sabo entered my shop, I didn't know at the time he was on an undercover mission. One thing lead to another, I got caught up in a Revolution fight, and when it was over, I was in too deep and had the skills to hold my own, so Sabo let me join the Army."
"Fascinating." You pondered for a moment. "Do you prefer it here, making clothes and disguises for us over being on the front lines?"
Yonji paused at the final cut of the fabric. "You could say that." He picked up his pin cushion and the newly cut fabrics, walking over to you. "Hold still."
"Right." You had your arms out and held still for him.
"What about you, why did you join the army?" Yonji asks as he carefully pins the cloth around your figure.
"A common reason really," you said, shrugging the question off. It seemed pointless to answer when you found the majority of your companions to share the same motive.
"Well, aside from Sabo and Koala, I've yet to get to know more people here and their story."
You hum, you supposed you could indulenge him. "I was under oppression. Back then... I was a servant of a royal family. No... servant's not right. I was a slave under their order."
Yonji held up a poker face, trying to stay focused on the suit while you continued.
"The king demanded perfection, not one spec of dust or wrinkle in the laundry, and every time something went wrong, I had to beg for forgiveness, plead for mercy." You spoke of the memory, each word clicking with distaste. "His children were worse."
Yonji stiffened his shoulders, kept his face out of sight.
"Make messes on purpose, throw food in my face, had me kneel before them and kiss their boots in act of begging for mercy only to kick my face." Your hand touched the side of your face, feeling the phantom sting of those brusies. "Always simmering with manic joy at my expense."
"It only grew worse as we grew up." Your stomach dropped and you felt ill, yet you can't seem to break out of the memories. "My appearance was dazzling to their eyes, and they'd dress up me up and make me dance to their tune, a puppet for their amusement. The envious ones took out their anger on me, angry they could never fully disenchant my face."
It didn't occur Yonji ceased pinning.
"The Revolution came, I played a big part in the resistance. We over threw the royals and now the island is a republic. I stayed with Revolutionary Army because I know there are more people out there who were like me, some even worse, and I want help free those people."
Yonji had his head low and quiet.
"Oh- Sorry, was I rambling too long?" You tilt your head.
"No, no," Yonji chuckled awkwardly. "At least you got out of there, right?"
"I supposed I was lucky. I knew a few servants who got executed, usually because one of the children framed them for one reason or another. I guess that's why I prefer to blend in and go unnoticed, I knew my head would be next in line if did something to purposely grab their attention."
"Do you hate them?"
"Pardon?" You didn't quite catch Yonji's words with his low tone.
Yonji hesitated, "The royals, ones like them, do you hate them all?"
Silence sat down between you. There seemed to be a heavy weight in Yonji's words, and you weren't sure what clouded his mind to prompt his question. You knew to be honest, yet needed time to give a proper response.
"To hate all would be wrong. I do not know the depth of who each one is, and I do believe some only do so because it is all they know. Do I hate their ignorance, yes. However, if they understood what it is like to live in our shoes, the commoners, to understand our pain and struggles, it is then their actions they choose that will decide their character."
"And what action is that?"
"If they choose to grow better or to grow bitter."
Gotham's Faith is a multi-part @whumptober 2025 fic, shared out of order based on prompt day. All parts are tagged 'gotham's faith' and the whole thing will be posted on Ao3. Eventually.
Day 29 - Fainting
“What are you doing here?”
Tim looks as Dick hobbles into his office at WE. Dick makes his way to the couch and collapses onto it before answering.
“Came to invite you to lunch!”
“Dick, I have a lunch meeting.”
“Yes. With me.”
As if on cue, Tam sticks her head in. “Derrick Rodgers rescheduled, and your one loved the idea of a family lunch.”
Tim scrunches up his face. “My one was Lucius.”
“Yes, and now he’s my lunch date," Tam beams.
Dick grins at Tim’s groan. He can tell it’s half-hearted. “Fine. I have a meeting now though. Dick, you’re on crutches, we’ll have lunch here. Just…order something and have them drop it off in the lobby under my name. I’ll be back in thirty.”
Dick watches him go, then shares a shark grin with Tam. “He left his wallet. Wanna buy sushi for four?”
Tam laughs. “That will not be ready in thirty and I insist Tim’s lunch hour stays an hour. Most of his meetings are important. Poké a good compromise?”
“I guess,” Dick sighs. “But I want a large bowl.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Wayne.”
She ducks out, and Dick makes a face at the address. He knows it was a tease, but for all that Dick is Bruce’s son, he’s never taken on the Wayne name. Not like Tim.
Dick stretches his legs out on the couch, staring at Tim’s desk. There’s a name tag reading Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne shoved in a corner. Honestly, who is coming in here that doesn’t know who Tim is?
Tim’s famous in ways he’s not entirely comfortable with, but Dick thinks he’s okay being known as the youngest CEO in history more so than one of Gotham’s eligible bachelors.
Dick presses the palms of his hands into his eyes and dips his head off the arm of the couch. His little brother is so smart. He wants to ask how he knew about the Escabedo Cartel two days ago. Wants to bounce ideas about a case off him, in person instead of via phone because Dick’s long weekend in Gotham has turned into a week long stay at least thanks to getting shot. Wants to see Tim’s eyes light up in that aha moment of excitement, way more expressive than Bruce when he latches onto a clue.
Wants to just spend time with his baby brother, and remind Tim that he is a baby brother.
Dick pulls out his phone. Seven past noon. Dick groans. He needs a distraction, but he played so many phone games this morning. He scans the room and his eyes catch on a box on the coffee table.
It’s fancy, like the type you’d get from a boutique chocolate store, with a dark green lid and golden bottom. Dick doesn’t mind spoiling his lunch. He pivots on the couch, careful of the bullet wound, to rest on his side and pull it towards him.
It’s not chocolate.
There’s two smaller boxes of sweets inside and a collection of game books - math sudoku, crosswords, what looks like a computer science journal from London. Dick wonders if he’s stumbled upon a personalized gift from a vendor or a date, but there’s no logo or name.
Dick picks up one of the books, flipping through the blank pages. He is bored, decides he's too much of a word search guy. He doesn't want to strain his brain for fun.
The sweets are more interesting. There’s fried dough in mandala circles, almost too pretty to eat. The second is something that Dick can only call fancy dessert granola bars made with dates and nuts that smells strongly of cloves and cinnamon. The box is lined with wax and it’s two layers of sweets thick. If Dick just eats one and rearranges things Tim won’t know Dick’s had a sample.
It’s sweet, but not overpowering, the flavor profile similar to stuff he’s tasted at a middle eastern bakery Damian pretends to not like. It’s no kitchen sink cookie, but Dick likes it enough that as he’s licking the slight stickiness from his fingers he’s debating about having another. He’s already stolen one of Tim’s treats, what’s one more? There’s seven more in that box.
His eyes go blurry from not blinking as he debates, and Dick shakes his head to reset. Only that makes him dizzy, his vision not keeping up with the speed he moves his head. There’s an unnatural hitch in his breath.
Dick presses a palm against his gunshot wound for the anchor - the bandage is dry. His mouth is dry, cold office air filling his cheeks as he tries to suck in air.
Someone gifted the baby bat poison, and Dick’s just eaten it.
Tam’s outside. He needs to get her attention. If he pushes himself off the couch, the thud should hit her ears. As Dick lifts his torso, a rush of heat floods through him and his vision goes black.
When he opens his eyes, Tim is maneuvering him into a sitting position, setting his back against the base of the couch. Two seconds later? Two minutes? Dick’s not sure of how long he's been in a dead faint on the floor.
“Tam!” Tim shouts over his shoulder.
“What?” She says, poking her head in. “Oh,” she darts for the wastebasket under Tim’s desk.
Tim shoves his fingers into Dick’s mouth.
His gag reflex kicks in and Tam catches most of the vomit in the trash. Then she’s gone. And back. Little green kit in her hand. Dick thinks the bottles are antidotes. He’s not sure. His vision is fuzzy. That might not even be bottles.
Tim forces water into Dick’s mouth. Tam does something with the granola bars. Tim makes him throw up a second time. Tam prepares an injection. Something jabs Dick in the thigh - the opposite one from his wounded leg.
Gently, Tim slots himself into Dick’s side, guiding his head to Tim’s shoulder as a hand comes up to track his pulse. Dick leans into his brother, taking in not deep breaths, but deeper than before. He closes his eyes and lets his body settle, the little tremors in his body more from the crash than anything else. His mouth tastes awful. He wants more water. He never wants a moist, clovey granola bar again.
After a minute, Dick opens his eyes. “Those granola bars-”
“Yeah,” Tim says. “We figured. Sorry, Tam and I know to district those, but I shoulda remembered your sweet tooth.”
“Who?”
Tim sighs. “Ra’s likes to send me gifts. The sweets aren’t always poisoned, and they’re always things I like. I usually check them over at the Nest before eating them. I think he sees it as offering me another fun strategy puzzle.”
He sounds so blase about it. “Ra’s sends you gifts.”
“Hmm, he likes me.”
Dick had thought they might be courting gifts.
“I don’t like him, obviously. But if he’s gonna send me fun things why not use them.”
“Fun things.”
“I happen to like crossword puzzles. And he always manages to find a scientific paper I’m not aware of. Plus, like I said, he knows the treats I like. He never poisons all of them.”
“I-”
Dick’s not certain if his brain is broke from poison or the sheer lunacy of Ra’s sending Tim gifts. He’d never sent them to Damian or Bruce. Nor had Talia.
But Tim intrigues the guy so much, he sends him regular curated care packages.
Dick looks at Tam. She’s packing up the poison kit, cool as a cucumber, and then sighs at the mess of vomit and spilled lunch. One of the lids of the poké bowls popped open when Tim dropped the bag, scattering roe, salmon, and rice across the carpet.
“I’ll call the janitors. Want me to also call Alfred to pick up Dick?”
Dick wants to stay. He wants to quiz Tim, both on Ra’s and his original questions about the Kinvy warehouse bust. But like Alfred, Tam’s request isn’t actually a request. Dick wilts. The manor is a better place for him than Tim’s office couch. And he really should get a tox screen to be safe.
“Yes please,” Dick mutters.
Once she’s gone, Dick pulls away to look at Tim. “Sorry about lunch.”
“Sorry you got poisoned," he says. “It was stupid to just leave those out. But, thank you for even coming over for lunch and attempting to drag me from my laptop. I appreciate it.”
“Anything for you, baby bat.”
Tim gives him a soft smile. They both know the statement is a half truth, but they’re both trying, fixing bridges from Dick putting Damian’s needs over Tim’s.
Dick thinks there’s something else he has to work on too.
Bimbo Musts No 29: Glitter. A bimbo is sparkling, exciting. She is an event, a sight, a spectacle. She is expensive, a luxury, a delicacy. She is trophy, soaking beauty, overwhelming richness and finesse in being attractive. She is always the center of attention, a magnet of manly recognition, a gravitating doll and Barbie to support her owner, leader, decisive keeper. She is the highlight of everybody, incarnating supremacy of refined femininity in the 21st century!
Scented Candle | Troubled Past Resurfacing | "What happened to me?"
After his transplant, Harrison finally started going from strength to strength. It took what felt like a lifetime, and he was so aware he'd never have made it half as far without the support of the family.
The closer he got to discharge, the more he realised what he needed to do to just get back on his feet. His injury alone was one hell of a journey, but that combined with the complications from his liver had made things a million times worse.
Once he'd been discharged, things felt impossible. His clothes hung off him, and his prosthetic no longer fit his leg. He kept trying to convince himself it was only temporary, just a tiny price in comparison to still having his life.
Most of his days were spent on the sofa, or in bed, curled up with Scout. Even the smallest thing exhausted him, and showers were a distant memory. With Tai's support, and quite often at least one kid joining him, he managed to get into the bath, and finally seemed to find it enjoyable.
On one of his rare days off, Fao had come to visit. As much as Harrison enjoyed it, he was too tired for niceties. He did his best to stay awake, but after the fourth jolt awake in ten minutes, Fao called it. He gave Harrison a hug, told him he'd lock up and not to worry about it, and let the other man sleep.
It was early afternoon when Tai returned, the kids in tow. "Hars? You in?"
Still dozing on the sofa, he'd barely woken before the kids attacked him. "Uh, yeah. I'm in here."
"Did we have a parcel?"
"No?"
Tai entered the living room, box in his arms. "It was left inside the door."
Harrison frowned. "Oh. Fao was over. He must have left it."
"What's in it?"
"I don't know, open it?"
Tai settled by Harrison, passing him the box. He took it carefully, opening it with a slight frown. It quickly faded into a grin, looking up at Tai.
“The soft sod. He’s made a proper little care package.” He laughed. “Look at this, hot chocolate, scented candles, bath bombs…I swear he’s a girl at times. Ooh, a blanket!”
Tai joined in the laugher. “Yeah? Just Fao, I’m sure. Everyone reacts the same to a blanket.”
“He’s got fluffy socks for the pair of us.”
“Ooh, he has?”
Harrison nudged him. “You’re just as bad.”
“Fuck off.” He teased, quietly so the kids wouldn't hear.
“Want to join me in the bath tonight? Once the rascals are sorted?”
“I wouldn’t say no.”
Once the kids had been corralled into bed, six hundred stories and hugs later, and Harrison’s bath had been drawn, the pair sat in the bathroom. It still took a little coaxing to get harrison into the bath, but he was getting better with each try. The candle was lit, and they;d both been pleasantly surprised by the scent.
“Wanna put a bath bomb in first?” Tai offered after a few more minutes of silence
Harrison jumped slightly. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, probably a good idea.”
“Here, this one first?” He held one out. “It smells good.”
Harrison took a moment. “I'm gonna get in and then do it.”
It was a slight struggle to get into the bath, it always was, but the water was warm and surprisingly calming. The bath-bomb helped distract him too, the quiet crackle of the candle and Tai’s soft chatter was a far cry from the baths he’d become used to as a kid, and he found himself enjoying it. It was relaxing, and as tai joined him in the bath behind him, he happily leaned against his husband.
“You having fun?” He murmured with a grin.
Harrison hummed, his eyes closed. “Mm, it's nice.”
“Yeah, it is. You’ll have to thank Fao for it.”
“I will.” He gave a heavy sigh.
Tai didn’t reply, letting Harrison unwind and relax on top of him. It was nice to be able to enjoy it together, and he’d be lying if he said it hadn’t been a lot of work. But, he supposed, all of Harrison had been. It didn’t mean the end product was any less for it, far from it. He linked his fingers with Harrison’s.
