genshin sugar daddies: when they finally meet each other
you have seven sugar daddies: one for each day of the week. and although it can get overwhelming at times, you’ve done well to keep each and every relationship relatively separate, no matter how demanding of your attention they are. well, that all goes to shit when they’re all attending the same fucking party.
tw: nsfw, dark content
you’re fucked.
“is something wrong, dear?” ayato inquires. you do your best to put on your prettiest smile, smooth down your dress like nothing’s wrong, and squeeze his hand to reassure him that everything is a-okay.
“i’m fine. feeling a bit under the weather, is all.”
everything is not a-okay. underneath your jewel-encrusted gown you are trembling. kaeya shouldn’t even be here, you think. but there he is, chatting up some local politician that ayato had introduced you to earlier. it takes everything in you not to suggest leaving the gala when you had just arrived an hour ago.
ayato smiles, pressing a chaste kiss between your brows. “alright.”
home. just a couple weeks ago, ayato has begun to change his vocabulary. he says ‘ours’ instead of ‘my’ and ‘we’ instead of ‘me.’ every time you take off your new diamond-encrusted ring, he gives you a look you can’t stomach and glides it back onto your finger whenever he gets the chance. he’ll kiss you sweetly like nothing’s wrong but from the way his hand lingers on your ring finger says otherwise.
“i wish i could take you home right now,” ayato laments, taking your hand in his and slowly caressing the back of your knuckles like a lover would. “but you know how things are. publicity is half of the job.”
that’s why we entered this kind of relationship in the first place. you purse your lips. it was supposed to be contractual, nothing more.
ayato’s whispers of sweet-nothings into your ear contrasts your thoughts. he tells you how beautiful you look, how your cerulean gown matches his suit, about how he’ll take it off when you get back, all the while he’s navigating you through the crowds of people. his hand rests gently on the small of your back, as if it was his way of soothing you.
you’re fine, you tell yourself. there’s too many people here. kaeya won’t see you. you dread the idea of locking eyes with him, the dark scowl that’d spread on his lips, if you had the misfortune of seeing him again tonight. he might’ve known that you had other clients, but if he met them in person, you’re sure you’d never hear the end of it.
“are you sure you’re fine?” ayato asks softly. he brushes a stray strand of hair away form your face. he presses his lips to your cheek like it belongs there.
a frank ‘no,’ dances on the tip of your tongue. your survival instincts are screaming at you, begging you to call off this entire thing. you want to go home. you want to tell him no, you’re not fine. but if you do, ayato would most likely take you home. not your home. but home. and as much as you wanted to escape, you knew being in a room alone with this man who stared at you as if you were is one and only was even worse.
so you don’t. you do what you practiced. you stare into this man’s eyes and smile like you mean it. you kiss him on the lips, to which he reciprocates eagerly, and tell him, “i told you, i’m okay.”
the way ayato smiles is devious. he smoothly hooks his hand around your waist and guides you to the center of the ballroom. try as you might, you can feel the envious gazes burning into your skin. towards you or ayato, you’re not sure, but you don’t want to think about it further.
ayato, it seems, doesn’t mind. his hold on you becomes all the more tighter, confident.
the two of you are once again talking to one of ayato’s associates. you’ve seen this man at other social events here and there, but you’ve never talked to him personally.
you shudder at the way he eyes you up.
“oh, you must be the rumored miss ayato seemingly can’t stop talking about,” the man surmises. he stares into his glass of wine before taking a greedy gulp. “ayato has never talked about a woman so fondly, so i figured you must’ve been really special. now that i’ve finally been introduced to you, i can see i was right.”
you open your mouth to retort, but ayato beats you to it.
his nails are practically digging into your bodice. “yes, this is my fiance,” he hisses. you don’t appreciate how much emphasis he puts into his words. you almost want to correct him, but you don’t, because this is what you’re paid for: to ward off potential marriage proposals. so sure, you’ll let this one slide, as long as he says nothing about it in private.
the man, seemingly oblivious to ayato’s rising anger, smiles. “ah, so you’ve finally put a ring on it? what a pity.”
“i can hardly say it’s a pity,” ayato mutters. “we’ve been together for a very long time, it was only a matter of time. if anything, it seems as if you’re trying to make a pass.”
ayato’s associate jumps at his tone. “oh, no, that wasn’t my intention...”
his words start to melt into the background noise, the music, the meaningless chatter. you smile awkwardly, knowing that if you tried to handle things yourself ayato would only take over for you. so instead, you stand there and look pretty, trying to not draw any more attention than you should.
instead, you opt to observe the room. between the crowds of mingling elites, you’re desperate to find out where kaeya had gone. was he close? was he far? did he leave? did he see you?
your stomach flips at the mere thought. at the very beginning, kaeya was fun. casual. he was friendly but not invasive. he’d flirt with you and mean it, but you knew his attraction to you didn’t extend beyond the bedroom. at least, that’s what you thought. before you knew it, kaeya had grown so attached to you it were as if you were his second heart, as if he wanted to meld you into his skin and whisper all of his thoughts and praises.
if he discovered you here with someone else, you don’t know what would happen.
in the midst of your discreet search, you catch a familiar glimpse of someone else in the crowd. you usually see him in his work attire when it’s designated day, but today he’s donned on an emerald suit, decorated with gold embellishments.
your heart drops to the pit of your stomach when alhaitham’s gaze sweeps across the crowd, as if he’s looking for something too. to his right, tighnari matches his pace. they seem to be in some sort of conversation, mumbling to each other over glasses of champagne as the crowd moves forward. they live on the opposite side of the city. what are they doing here? you were so sure that this event would only be attend by those with business in the inazuma district. what went wrong?
you’re just about to look away when it happens.
alhaitham looks back.
it’s like a bucket of ice has been poured over you.
his stare goes from surprise, to confusion, to realization, to absolute anger.
you don’t forget how ayato’s hand rests comfortably on your waist. alhaitham’s eyes seemed to be pinned there, like he’s undressing you with his eyes, burning holes into every pore of ayato’s hand.
you’re caught like a deer in headlights. tightnari’s trying to talk to him, but alhaitham ignores him entirely. his entire focus, his entire being, is locked onto you. you don’t know what to do at this point.
ayato’s tight grip loosens. without even realizing it you’re being guided away from the conversation.
“i’m so sorry about that,” ayato murmurs as he wraps both hands around your waist. he presses into you, his nose finding its way inbetween your neck and your shoulder.
you’re entire body freezes as alhaitham’s gaze drags up your hips to your neck. for a second, his eyes catch yours and he gives you this look as if to say, i’m going to kill him.
“ayato, we’re in public,” you say as you gently press onto his shoulders. you hope that he can’t feel the way your fingers tremble.
“let them see,” he replies with a breathy exhale. “that way, no one ever tries anything with you again. besides, is it wrong for two lovers to express their love in public? especially so soon after being engaged.”
this is wrong. the ayato you knew when you first met didn’t like drawing attention to himself. he’d rather sit in the shadows and people watch rather than become the spectacle himself. and of all things, at the worst time.
you feel as if ayato is unknowingly digging your grave. every time ayato moves so much as a milimeter closer to you, you can see alhaitham’s jaw clench just a little tighter.
at this point, tighnari has caught on to what alhaitham has been so distracted by. tighnari doesn’t hesitate to size you up. the both of you. for a moment, his ears pull back. he’s threatened.
“my dear?”
you’re attention whips back to ayato. his gaze is almost intense as alhaitham’s and tighnari’s. it’s full of love, adoration, and obsession. he looks at you like you’re the one for him. that he had just discovered you two were soulmates. but you’re not.
you smile, even though you feel like turning your stomach inside out. you have to pretend that you’re fine. and you’re good at that, right? you’re good at pretending to be what these men want, which is convenient, emotionally available, and loving. even though you’re entire world, everything you’ve worked so hard to maintain, is falling apart right this moment, you will smile. because that’s your job, isn’t it? you’re good at giving what your customers need. you’re good at your job.
so you keep your voice nice and light, even though you’re words are anything but what ayato wants to hear. “but we aren’t engaged, though.”
he hums, nuzzling deeper into your skin. “but we are, aren’t we? my ring is on your finger.” his fingers thrum against your hips. “did you know? my name’s engraved on the inside.”
as much as ayato’s words alarm you, your entire focus is locked onto alhaitham and tighnari, who look livid. their mouths are moving. the two of them are speaking to each other, and it kills you not to know what they’re saying.
just before you can get away from ayato, they make their way towards you.
their pace is slow, but intentional. their gazes don’t dare pry away from you.
and just like that, it all becomes too much.
“i have to go to the bathroom,” you blurt out. with some kind of newfound adrenaline, you manage to push ayato off of you. he gives you a look of hurt, confusion, anger, and absolute shock. “i’ll be right back.”
ayato’s clearly confused, but as he attempts to reach out to you, you blend yourself within the throng of people. without looking back, you disappear into the crowd, leaving ayato all by his lonesome.
you’re quick to push through the crowds, but careful to avoid the other ticking time bombs in the room. you feel as if you’re being chased. and in reality, you are. you zigzag through different conversations, hoping to miraculously become invisible. and yet, despite your absolute care, you somehow step on your own minefield.
you hear the sound of your name first.
you see him second.
childe’s standing there, in a suit you’ve never seen him wear before.
is everyone at this party?
“i thought it was you, looking so pretty. are you all dressed for me?”
you both know what the answer is, and yet you don’t say anything.
childe chuckles. “why do you look so scared? you look like you’ve just been caught cheating.”
he slowly slides his hand down your arm, almost sensually. his fingers interlock with yours before he’s swinging it playfully, but you know his mood is anything but. he’s staring at your interlocking hands so intently. you look down to realize that he’s staring at the ring ayato put on your finger.
shit.
childe doesn’t say anything. he simply kisses your hand all prince-like, his gaze meeting yours. he’s so calm it’s disturbing.
“whoever got this for you has bad taste. i bet he just chose whatever ring had the biggest jewel, right?” he plays with your fingers dismissively, gentlely drawing patterns around your ring finger. “you always told me i couldn’t buy you a ring, and yet this fucker can. what’s so different? i bet he just thinks whatever is biggest is the prettiest. but truth is, it’ll never be pretty. it’ll never be my special kind of pretty, isn’t that right, girlie?”
you’re tempted to curl into yourself, but you hold your ground.
“let go, childe.”
“and let you run away from me to some other man who doesn’t know you as well as i do? hmm? he uses his hold on your hand as leverage to pull you closer to him. his other hand wraps itself around your torso, pressing you into him. you struggle to escape, but you can’t. to anyone else, you two would’ve looked to be in a lover’s embrace. he caresses your cheek, as if appraising you. “maybe i should leave my own mark on you. maybe that’ll show everyone who you really belong to.”
you wriggle in his grasp. “childe, i’m serious. stop—”
“hmm, at least your next is exposed. yes… i think a hickey here would be nice—”
“childe! what are you up to this time?”
childe immediately pulls away to reveal a man smiling amicably at the two of you. a pair of silver frames rest on his nose.
“ah, pantalone.” childe replies. “it’s nothing.”
you don’t hesitate to use this opportunity to escape. the moment you can, you whisk yourself away. you don’t care for niceties at this point. instead, you find refuge in the ladies’ restroom.
you lock yourself in one of the stalls, grateful that no one else is in there. with no one around to stare, observe, or judge you, you close the toilet seat and plop onto it unceremoniously with your head in your hands.
at this point, everything is spinning. your heart is thumping at thousands of miles per minute, and you’re trying to get a grip on reality. you think about the bills you need to pay, your overwhelming debt, and the life that rests on your hands. you think about all the things you need to do, and all the things you can’t do, not by yourself.
you need money to survive.
once you’ve properly calmed down, you take a deep breath and open the door. you look at yourself in the mirror, taking note of all the little details in your makeup and your outfit, all of which were made by ayato, for ayato. all dressed in light blues, you look like you belong to the kamisato clan.
you look like ayato’s wife.
“you look wonderful in blue.”
you don’t have the time to turn before he’s on you.
if you didn’t know better, you would’ve thought that kaeya had returned to his old self. he’s kissing you like he hates the space between you. his mouth is hot and tastes of alcohol. his hands find their place on your hips like it’s natural.
you can’t breathe, with the way he kisses you.
underneath his heated movements, there’s a underlying desperation. like kaeya somehow needs to overdose on your every breath to survive. his hands are all over you, rumpling the dress you tried so hard to smooth out.
he pushes the two of you into one of the open stalls, smoothly locking it behind him. you’re pressed against the bathroom door, a hardness pressing into your abdomen.
“kaeya—”
your words are immediately swallowed up by his mouth. he can’t be bothered to speak to you. you can feel how angry he his with his fingers dig into your skin. he just wants to kiss you senseless, is that so wrong?
his tongue runs over yours. he’s exploring your mouth like it’s a treasure trove. as if this his first time ever kissing you and he wants to learn what makes you tick.
but really, you can’t breathe.
“kaeya—”
he pulls away from you like it’s the most painful thing he’s done. and it’s then you meet his eyes for the first time that night. his gaze is vulnerable. it’s obsessive, and needy, and desperate, and too, too much. too emotional. it’s not what you signed up for, and it’s not what he promised you.
but he doesn’t care about that right now. he nuzzles into your neck, breathing in your scent like it’s his drug.
“i saw you. with him.”
“who?” comes out of your mouth before you can stop yourself.
“i saw you the moment you got here,” kaeya replies, ignoring your question. “do you know how hurt i felt? how much i wanted to just strangle him? i could do it, you know. i could stage it like it was an accident. or make it look like he was a danger to the people. no one would know.”
you knew kaeya was a ticking time bomb, but you’ve never seen him like this.
he wraps himself around you and pulls you close, resting your head on his chest. you can hear how fast his heart is pounding. “you’d still love me, if i did that, right? you know everything about me, everything no one else knows. only you could love me.”
there’s a crazed look to him. he’s so out of it, you’re hesitant to touch him. his embrace steals the breathe out of your lungs, quite literally. he holds onto you like if he let up for just a second you’d disappear into thin air.
“kaeya—”
he kisses you again, a small moan leaving his lips. “say my name again, please. say it like it’s yours. i’m all yours.”
you run your hand through his hair and pull, but he only groans in response. you can feel his hard-on grinding into you. a whimper escapes you as he brushes against your clit through the dress.
if it’s not his name, kaeya’s bent on not letting you speak. his kisses keep getting more insistent, more greedy.
you run your hand through his hair and give it a hard tug.
“aagh—just like that.”
you’re out of options at this point. kaeya won’t pull away, so eager to breathe you in.
kaeya’s too lost in you to notice your hand blindly grabbing at the bathroom’s lock. when the door opens, it creates enough momentum to seperate the two of you. kaeya’s taken off guard, so you take the chance to bolt it out of there and escape back into the crowd.
you just want to run away from everything. from these disastrous men. from these claustrophobic parties. from this entire situation. from all your problems. your debt. from small, tiny hospital rooms and endless nights praying for a miracle—
you don’t care what you look like at this point. you don’t care that your dress is in disarray, that tears are probably streaking down your face, or that you’re so out of breath you’re gulping down air like it’s water.
fuck this.
fuck that.
fuck everything.
you’re so focused on escaping you bump shoulders with a stranger. quite roughly, at that.
diluc looks surprised. he appraises you concerningly, but you can’t stomach it. his gaze is so full of love and adoration and possessiveness you think you’re going to hurl.
you don’t even say anything. when you see kaeya chasing after you, you book it. you don’t even text ayato you’re leaving. you just…disappear.
the hospital room’s quiet. it always is. save for the occasional nurse, no one else is here, save for the patient.
in a way, this room is your escape.
you’re still in ayato’s dress. it’s a bit dirty from tonight’s events, a bit ruffled. you look like a victim in those crime TV shows with a shock blanket.
right now, you’re curled up on the sofa, staring into nothingness. you don’t want to think of anything right now. there’s no point in saying anything. you know she won’t say anything back.
what would she say if she were here right now?
she’d scold you, for sure. she’d nag you for how messy your apartment was. how you dropped out of college when you promised her you’d pursue your dream. how you haven’t once visited your parents’ grave. how you sold your mind, body, and soul just for some few bucks.
you crumble at the thought. oh, how much money it took to keep her alive. to hide the both of you away from them. to keep sniffing dogs off your trail. you could always move away, hop from place to place. but if you did, what would you do about her?
your sister was like a second mother to you. how could you abandon her like that?
the door opens so abruptly, you practically jump out of your skin.
“kazu?”
“i knew you’d be here.”
somewhere down the line, you heard that kazuha had descended from a long line of honorable samurais. seeing him like this, appearing out of thin air as if he was there all along, you thought it could be true.
kazuha enters the room like a soft gentle breeze, like it’s a suggestion.
you’re speechless.
he sits next to you on the couch and presses the side of your head to lean onto his shoulder. the two of you look at your comatosed sister together, as if if you stared hard enough, she’d finally wake up.
“it’s going to be okay,” kazuha whispers.
“how did you know i was here?”
“what do you mean?” he turns to kiss the crown of your head so tenderly. “i’ll always be there for you, don’t you know that?”
your blood runs cold. you pull away to look at him. “kazuha, i never told you where i was. no one knows about this hospital.”
he looks at you earnestly, as if you don’t know any better and he adores it.
ENGINEER GIRL: YAN!BONTEN x FEM WEAPONS DEALER!READER
CW/TW: bonten arc, weapons/guns, alcohol, tiniest mention of AI lmao (no it is not used to write this), murder, blood/gore, smoking, drug use/mention, sanzu, yandere behavior, misogyny, non-consensual thigh touching, mentions of boners, stalking, i think that is it...
i’m ngl i haven’t watched or read tokyo revengers in so long but this idea constantly haunts my mind. if it’s ooc leave me alone, but also we saw so little of bonten i’m saying it’s canon anyway idc. i may write a long-term fic on it one day (on like a03 or quotev), but for now, we hone our skills on tumblr
Thinking of yan!bonten being infatuated with weapons dealer!reader.
I imagine your criminal career began after you, a weapons engineer, got laid off.
Every application you put in got ghosted, and work seemed almost impossible to find. As one does, you go to a bar to numb the worries of paying rent.
Honestly, you don't even like the taste of alcohol, but the burn in your throat is the distraction you really came for.
The bartender cringes watching you basically chug shot after shot.
"What's got a pretty girl like you drinking like this? Breakup with your guy?" He asks, filling the shot glass once more.
You place your elbows on the bar and lean your head into your palms. "Breakup with my job. Dickheads laid me off."
The bartender sucks in a breath, sliding the shot towards you. Truth be told, he's had more and more people coming in for the exact same reasons. Hell, he's working two jobs himself. Times are hard.
"That sucks. What was your job?"
Your voice is slightly slurred, but you still get it out. "Weapons engineer. Worked at that company for years, and this is what I fucking get. I'd like to see AI try and test a rifle for company clearance."
His eyebrows raise. "Oh, so you make guns and shit?" And, he almost has to laugh. Some of the other guys working with him at his new gig mentioned they needed a new weapons guy.
Boss killed the other one. For reasons he isn't important enough to know.
The bartender slightly leans over the counter, his eyes glancing around to make sure no one's paying attention. "How bad you need a new job?"
Yan!Kakucho is the one tasked with finding Bonten a new method of weapons trafficking. When some random low-ranked members blow up his phone promising a trustworthy source, he's honestly suspicious. And annoyed.
What idiots would message such obviously incriminating information to his phone?
Is it a set-up from the cops? Enemies? Either way, Mikey really fucked up killing the last guy. Not that he'd say it out loud, but looking for a new source has been a real pain in the ass.
So, he decides to bite the bullet (no pun intended) and just go. Just for security measures, he decides to bring Takeomi with him.
Yan!Takeomi clutches his gun in one hand and a cigarette in the other. The meeting place is as suspicious as one would assume-an abandoned car lot, to be exact. He blows smoke from his mouth as Kakucho does the talking.
"So, I'm just supposed to trust some bitch you met at the bar? What if she's just an alcoholic looking to run off with our money?"
The bartender snorts at that bit. "Then I guess you'll just have to kill her."
Your heart drops at that. I mean, dying and not paying bills sounds great, but you don't want to die. Not really. "I-i worked my past job for a few years! I can..I can tell you exactly how guns work, how to manufacture them, all of that. Just supply the material and I'll make it happen."
Your words come out quick. Too quick. It's obvious you're nervous, and really, who wouldn't be? Bonten in notorious for all the wrong reasons. You don't know anyone here that well. Not even the bartender. You're just desperate.
Both of the men before you laugh at your response. "I'm just joking with you. We did a background check on the little engineer before even considering coming over here."
"Oh." You say quietly. That's their definition of joking? Making someone think they're about to die? The sound of the bartender laughing beside you as well is irritating.
Chances are he was afraid, too. He couldn't be too bad. He is helping you find work. But still. What's so funny about that?! It's starting to look like no job would be better than this.
"Ah, but...seriously, though. You're real bold for sending that message about meeting here. Usually, we decide an address for any kind of...business. You know that."
The tension is high. The further Kakucho speaks, the colder it feels out here. The bartender beside you shrugs, and his voice takes on a proud tone. As if he thinks bringing them you will let him sit at their table. "What can I say? I'm a straightforward kind of guy when I wanna be."
"The kind that gets us in trouble." Takeomi says, stepping forward. He throws his cigarette to the ground and stomps out the embers. Then, he raises his right arm, and a gunshot breaks through the short silence.
You cover your ears and instinctively duck down. A sharp scream burns your. You hear the bartenders body hit the ground just below your feet. He shot him. He really just shot him. When you open your eyes?
There he is with a single, grotesque bullet hole right through his head. The blood already runs to cling at your shoes. The sight of his brain matter just staring right up at you makes bile rise in your throat.
Your body violently hurls, vomit painting your shoes on-top of the blood. Your instincts won't stop screaming. I need to leave. I'm next. They're shooting me next. I'm stupid! All the articles, all the news reports, and yet I still agreed to come here! Why?!
Takeomi lets out a sharp whistle. "Jesus. You'll definitely be seeing more of that, so it's a good thing we got it out the way", he chuckles, earning him an elbow nudge from Kakucho.
Kakucho sighs. "That idiot was too obvious with his texts. There's a reason we arrange these kinds of meetings, not the other way around. He could've gotten us busted." He steps closer to you, ignoring the fear in your eyes. You aren't trying to run, so clearly, you're still interested in the job.
"You won't do that, now will you?" He grabs your chin and jerks your head to face him, uncaring of the vomit dribbling down your chin and onto his hand. "You'll keep your pretty little mouth shut and just follow orders. I don't think we'll have any issues with you at all."
Yan!Sanzu is jealous. Ever since Kakucho brought in an engineer to manufacture all of Bonten's weapons, he's been on Mikey's good side. Sanzu is Mikeys number two. He's his right-hand man! He begged and begged for this task, and yet, Mikey refused.
The worst part of it all? He's enjoying it. Every time the bastard brings in the shipment of weapons, he looks all giddy. It's fucking annoying. He must think he's better than him. He's mocking him.
What if Mikey promotes him? No way. He wouldn't! Sanzu is Bonten's number two for a reason! Right? Right. Mikey would never replace him. Especially not with Kakucho. And yet, there's still that little voice in his head telling him to confront him.
"Fuck are you staring at?" Kakucho scoffs, unzipping the duffel bag and sitting down several different types of ammuniton. Every few weeks he meets with the mysterious engineer god-knows-where and brings back new weapons.
It's real suspicious that no one has met this so-called engineer. Something Mikey doesn't even think twice about! But it's fine. This is his job. To help his king. Even when he doesn't realize help is needed.
Sanzu grabs an assault rifle, his boney fingers trailing the length. "Fancy. That new engineer knows what he's doing, huh?" He mumbles, voice clearly suspicious.
"She."
"Huh?"
"She knows what she's doing." Kakucho corrects, grabbing the rifle from Sanzu and placing it back on the table.
An awkward silence falls over the both of them before Sanzu bursts out into laughter. "Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Now I REALLY have to tell Mikey." He gasps between laughter, so tickled that he can barely even speak.
"First", He begins, Kakucho already blocking out his voice and continuing to line up the guns. "You randomly get a tip about an engineer after you spent months trying to find one."
He shrugs in response. "A miracle, if you will."
"Then, no one ever sees this engineer, and you're all secretive about bringing in the shipments yourself."
He narrows his eyes. Sanzu walks around the room all excited, like a kid on Christmas morning. "You gotta lay off the drugs, man."
Sanzu pauses slightly, an offended expression taking over his face before he continues. "Finally, you claim this mystery person is a woman. I knew it! I knew something was up! I asked myself, why would Mikey even give you-"
The door to the meeting room swings open. Takeomi walks inside, humming at the sight of the new shipment. "Damn, she really outdid herself this time."
Sanzu blinks. Once. Twice. Three times. "Wait. You're in on this shit too?" Takeomi grabs a cigarette. "In on what?" He asks, clicking his lighter.
Yan!Sanzu gets over his binger and realizes the engineer is definitely real. Definitely wasn't a fake ploy by Kakucho to try and take his place. Of course not. He didn't even truly believe that. He was just...testing them!
Yan!Kakucho tries to keep you for himself.
Originally, he wanted to keep you distant from the rest of Bonten to avoid a repeat of last time. Mikey is trigger happy, and, honestly, so is everyone else. Finding you was hard enough, and he doesn't want to go on that search again.
However, he grows to like the little secret meetings you two have. He drops off a cash stipend so you can purchase material, and you hand over a duffel bag of the new weapons.
You're like a little doll just for him. God, it makes him so hard. He loves to tease you. Loves to watch you flinch in shock when he says something crude. Loves when you step backwards and glare at him for "accidentally" grazes your thigh. You're his doll. No one else knows the real you.
You told your family you're working for the government to explain why your new job is so secretive. Both of you knows that's a lie.
You told the cops you have no idea what happened to the bartender that night. Both of you know that's a lie.
You swear you're better than him. That you only "make guns" and there's no more to it. That you're on some moral high ground. Both of you know that's a lie.
He enjoys this game you two have. He loves that he and his doll have something just for the both of them. That he's the one who dragged you into this lifestyle. He's the one who made you question your morals.
That's exactly why he gets so angry when Sanzu just can't stop sniffing around! Even after his binger, he won't stop bothering Kakucho about the "engineer girl". Hell, Takeomi was there to meet you, and not even he is bothering him yet!
Sanzu is aways asking questions. Asking to go with him to get the shipment, asking your name, asking what you look like.
Which, he's no idiot. He knows it's because Sanzu feels threatened by his accomplishment. [Name] was hard to find, and valuable to keep. He would honestly brag about it all, but it's more fun playing with the doll by himself. He doesn't want to share. He doesn't want eyes on you.
Yan!Sanzu ego hurts that Kakucho not only was given the task he asked for, but that he carried it out so well. The weapon shipments are consistent and quality. Even better than they were before.
It hurts his feelings. Mikey gave someone else HIS job. The same Mikey who he calls his king-who he always delivers good on. So why Kakucho? He's never failed Mikey.
So why?!
He wants to make Kakucho look bad. He wants him to fuck up. Wants Mikey to trust himself more than any other member of Bonten.
So, naturally, he starts to dig into the engineer girl. It's hard to find you at first, but he eventually finds your background check saved on some old files. And good googly moogly-
"Damn, look at those tits..." He mumbles to himself, staring at your photo on the screen. For a moment he forgets what he's even doing. Just, wow, they sure are pretty. That company shirt frames you well.
He chuckles darkly, adjusting his jeans. "Down, boy. That's not what we're doing right now."
He scrolls through the information, hoping to find something that will convince Mikey to kill you at best, and fire you at least. "Graduated from blah blah university, worked for blah blah company, lives on blah blah street..." He groans, bored out of his mind. Sanzu slams the laptop shut, gripping his own hair in pure frustration.
"Dammit! I'm not buying it. Something is up with this whole thing. Kakucho fucked up. I KNOW he did!"
He reaches into his back pocket, dry swallowing some pills to help himself calm down. If he can't find something incriminating on the background check, he'll have to find it for himself.
Lucky for him, your address was right there on file.
Questions and answers (Astralis Desires and AD spin-off)
Main masterlist
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
Table of Contents:
Chapter 1: A Heart that Longs for the Stars
Chapter 2: The Astral Express
Chapter 3: Through His Eyes
Chapter 4: New Beginnings
Chapter 5: Belobog
Chapter 6: The Underworld
Chapter 7 coming soon…
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
Questions and Answers:
Who won’t be yandere?
Is Dan Feng dead in this AU? Is Yanqing going to be a platonic yandere? Lore on reader? Info/lore of this AU?
What are the other characters? Yandere, Darling or Neutral?
Will Misha become a yandere too? Is this AU like a A/B/O AU? What will the society do with the readers “case”?
Are they born as a yandere or do they develop into one on their own? Will it follow the canon plot or will the plot be completely different? Will the Aeons be yanderes as well?
Will the reader learn how to fight?
Will the Titans in Amphoreus be yandere’s as well?
Is the Flame Reaver a yandere? Are the yanderes able to snap out of it? Like realising what they’re doing if they fucked up and regret it?
Can a yandere become a lover aka be in a romantic relationship with someone? Can a yandere chase another yandere? Are all yanderes romantic? Are you interested in adding platonic elements?
Will the reader be “weak”?
Will Caelus be as chaotic as he is in game if he’s also a yandere? If so, would reader ever encourage or even join in?
pairings: yan! magic school students x mary sue/gary stu reader
tw/cw: yandere, mary sue! reader, hatecuddling. part headcannon, part storytelling. more yun dream ideas so don’t expect stuff to make much sense. minor character death.
You wake in someone’s arms
They’re solid. Heavy with warmth and tension, like a creature always one breath from snapping. Their hand rests at the small of your back, fingers twitching as if still mid-dream. You’re not sure how you got there.
The room is dim. A fire burns low. There’s blood on someone’s shirt—probably not yours. The scent of ash and pine lingers on the air.
You blink once. Twice. And then you recognize the body you’re tangled up with.
Thorn.
The one person who should’ve killed you weeks ago.
You don’t flinch. You just exhale, and bury your face into his chest.
Maybe it’s the lack of male attention, you tell yourself. Maybe it’s the obsession in his silence. Or maybe . . . maybe it just feels good to be held by someone who hates you and still holds on.
And gods help you, it really does.
You were born perfect. Or rather, reborn perfect.
They didn’t find your body on Earth. Of course they didn’t. You were flattened by a truck in the middle of a rainy Wednesday while trying to rescue a stray cat.
The next time you opened your eyes, you were wrapped in velvet, your face reflected in polished obsidian, and a woman with trembling hands was calling you “Your Highness.”
A new world. A magic school. A royal title.
You’d seen enough anime to know what this was.
You weren’t scared. You were ecstatic.
Cael Thorne wasn’t your usual magical academy. There were no silly floating candles or bumbling potions professors. The entrance exam involved dodging live spellfire. First-year students were taught to disarm armed opponents in under ten seconds. Swords and strategy, blood and bones.
And you? You aced everything. Every spell. Every duel. Every etiquette test and court politics scenario.
You were the pride of the academy. You were the heir to the country that housed it.
And you were so painfully bored.
Which is why you started the chaos.
It began with a whisper. A rune left in chalk in the girls’ lavatory. A forbidden incantation you slipped into a novice’s incantation homework. Nothing catastrophic. Just . . . curious. But the ley lines of the school ran deep. The old magic listened. It saw you—a perfect, clever thing—coaxing threads loose from the tapestry of order.
And it whispered back.
That was when the obsessions began.
They loved you. No—worshipped you. Fought over who got to stand beside you in battle formations. Lingered too long when brushing past your robes. Giggled when you blinked in their direction.
Magic did that. Old magic. Hungry magic.
It made them devoted.
Most of them.
Then there was Thorn.
Hunter Division. Reserved. Quiet. Skilled beyond comprehension. Never enchanted. Never swayed.
Always watching you like you were a snake slithering toward a sleeping village.
He didn’t flirt. Didn’t glance. Didn’t laugh. He scowled. You adored him for it.
Because if magic wouldn’t make him love you . . . You’d just have to do it the hard way.
The first student to fall in love with you was Pyria Velloren.
You don’t remember her falling. Only the aftermath.
A girl from the War Division—too soft to be a soldier, too smart to be overlooked. She always sat two rows behind you in arcane theory. You only spoke to her once, to ask for an extra quill. She dropped it. Hands shaking.
You noticed the way her pupils dilated when your fingers brushed hers.
But that night, when your name was spelled in scorched symbols across the dueling arena wall in dragonfire script—yeah. You also noticed then.
She confessed the next morning. On her knees. In front of the whole classroom. Holding the charred skin of the student who mocked you in etiquette class.
You told her, very gently, “That wasn’t necessary.”
She replied, “But it felt so good to do it for you.”
She sleeps outside your dorm now. Doesn’t blink unless you speak. Smiles when you’re cruel to her.
You stopped telling her not to.
Then there’s Seren Arak, the potion prodigy.
He has a habit of making you tea. Always the right flavor. Always the right temperature. Never asks how you’re feeling—he knows.
You once asked him how he always seemed to anticipate your needs. He just blinked at you slowly and said:
“I’ve been testing your blood. Tiny traces. From when you cut your hand last month.”
He’s brewed love potions before. Dozens. Not to use on you, but on himself—so he can feel more in love with you than any other creature possibly could. The side effects are fascinating.
He no longer dreams about anything but you. He said that with pride. He has a little vial of your tear saved in crystal. You’re not sure if he’s more alchemist or zealot at this point. But the tea really is perfect.
And then, there’s Orin Kestrel. The dreamwalker.
He shouldn’t be obsessed with you. His division is forbidden from weaving into classmates’ minds. But you learned about him the same way everyone did:
You had a dream. A warm one. With arms around you. A voice whispering, “You’re not alone anymore.”
The scent of pine. Rough skin. Callused hands.
Comforting, even though the face beside you was blurred and strange.
You woke confused.
Three days later, Orin was waiting outside your combat class. His hair was damp. His eyes sunken.
“I finally found you,” he said, voice rasping. “You’re the only one who dreams in color.”
You’d never spoken to him before.
Now he follows you, like a shadow that dreams of being real. You’ve caught him outside your door, holding your pillow with tears in his eyes.
Once, in the library, he murmured:
“You never dream of me when you’re with others. It makes me feel so lonely, Your Highness.”
You don’t correct him anymore. He calls you that like a prayer.
But the worst—the most dangerous—is the one you haven’t decided what to do with yet:
Thalia Rook.
The only one whose obsession didn’t need magic. She’s in your division. Top of the year after you. Pretty. Poised. Brilliant. And utterly, irreversibly, consumed by you.
Thalia doesn’t leave you offerings. She leaves threats.
On your desk: a silver dagger. “For the throat of anyone who looks at you too long.”
In your dorm: a journal of everyone you’ve spoken to, with ratings.
In your boot: a letter that read, “I will gut them all for you if you only say the word. I know you won’t, though. You like the way we break for you.”
She’s not wrong.
Thalia has killed for you already. You didn’t ask her to. You only smiled at her during breakfast.
You think she wants you to destroy the kingdom, if only so she can rebuild it in your image.
You gather their affections like trinkets in a box. You know you should be careful. You know you should be afraid. But when Thalia brushes her hand over your shoulder and sighs,
When Seren asks if he can press your pulse point to his lips,
When Orin whispers your name into your dreams,
When Pyria giggles and draws your silhouette in blood with her fingertip—
You feel more alive than any crown could ever make you.
Thorn doesn’t fall. He sinks.
He resists you for twenty-three days. You count them. You measure them like burns on your hands.
Thorn is a sentinel in your story. A stone in a river. Unmoving, unshakable, unloving. When others sigh at your glance, Thorn narrows his eyes. When students follow you with blades hidden behind love letters, Thorn follows them—with real steel.
“He’s suspicious,” Pyria says, brushing your hair with fingers that tremble with joy.
“He’s dangerous,” Thalia hisses, lounging on your bed like she owns it.
“He doesn’t dream of you at all,” Orin whispers, and the jealousy in his voice makes your skin crawl.
But you say nothing. Because Thorn has to stay unswayed. Because when the rebellion begins, he needs to be the one you conquer by hand.
And maybe—
Maybe there’s a part of you that wants one of them to love you for the wrong reasons.
Wants to see him crack not from spellcraft, but from want.
The first crack comes at dusk, on the combat fields.
He’s shirtless, glistening with sweat and fury after sparring against five students who clearly tried to kill him “accidentally.”
You sit at the edge of the field, sipping water like royalty — as you were one you supposed — , legs crossed, chin resting on your hand.
“You have admirers,” you say, as he tosses aside a broken staff.
“I have stalkers,” he mutters.
“They only want your attention.”
“I don’t have any to give.”
You smile. He hates that.
He hates that he notices the curve of your mouth, how it tilts like a secret you won’t share. He turns his back. So you speak again.
“I don’t use magic on you, you know.”
His shoulders tense. His voice is low. “I know. I know how you . . . how you compel.”
You rise from the bench. Walk toward him. Slowly.
“Then why haven’t you reported me?”
He doesn’t answer. So you do it for him.
“Because deep down, you like this. You like the chaos. You like me.”
He turns.
And for the first time—just for a second—he looks at you like he believes it.
You see him watching you more after that.
He doesn’t talk. He doesn’t touch. But he’s always there. At breakfast. At spell drills. In the hallway where you pause to speak to an admirer. He’s carved from silence, but his presence is a warning to the others.
Their affections become sharper. More violent. More desperate.
You let it happen.
The second crack comes when you bleed.
A failed binding ritual. For once, you hadn’t expected the spell backlash that tore into your shoulder. The world spun. The scent of iron filled the air.
You heard them first—the footsteps.
But it wasn’t Thalia. Not Orin. Not even Seren.
It was Thorn.
He said nothing. Just ripped the cloth from his tunic, pressed it hard against your wound, and glared into your face with that damnable expression.
“You could’ve died,” he said, voice shaking.
You smiled through the pain. “You’d miss me.”
“I’d kill you,” he whispered, “for putting yourself in that kind of danger again.”
You don’t know why that thrilled you. But it did.
You reached up. Touched his cheek with a trembling hand.
“You’re trembling, Thorn.”
He grabbed your wrist.
You thought he’d shove you away.
But instead—he lowered his forehead against yours. Just once. Just briefly. Just broken.
The third crack doesn’t come with any more blood. Thankfully. It comes with quiet.
It’s late. You’ve dismissed the others. You’re in your dormitory tower, candlelight painting gold across your skin.
And Thorn knocks on your door. You let him in.
He looks tired. Haunted. Like a man who’s realized the hunt was never about the kill.
“Why are you here?” you ask softly.
His eyes flick to your lips. Your hands. The scars on your arm.
“I can’t stop dreaming about you,” he says.
You freeze. “You said you didn’t—”
“I didn’t. But now I do.”
He steps closer. And closer. Until his hand is at the back of your neck, and your breath catches.
“There’s no spell on me,” he growls. “No enchantment. No charm.”
“I know,” you whisper. You fought the ley lines itself to keep him untouched.
And then—
He kisses you.
It’s not sweet. It’s not soft. It’s every night of tension poured into teeth and tongue and heat. It’s a surrender carved in bruises and restraint. It’s him saying: I hate you for what you’ve done. I love you because you did it anyway.
And you kiss him back.
Because Thorn never fell.
He sank.
The rebellion doesn’t begin with fire. It begins with a smile.
Yours.
You stand at the edge of the observatory tower, wind curling around your uniform, cloak snapping like a banner. Beneath you, Cael Thorne Academy pulses with old magic and unspoken tension.
Below: your classmates. Your worshippers. Your enemies. And your pawns.
You’ve spent weeks seeding chaos. Little spells tucked behind chapel mirrors. Secrets whispered into desperate ears. Runes etched into library shelves, activated only by touch—only by love.
And they love you.
Every one of them.
They’d burn for you. They already have.
“You’re not hesitating,” Thorn says from behind you.
You don’t turn. “Should I be?”
“You’re about to destabilize the most powerful training institution in the country. Possibly the world.”
“Mm.” You hum. “And you’re still here.”
He steps beside you. His jaw is tight. His eyes . . . conflicted.
“I should be stopping you.”
You glance at him, tilt your head, brush fingers down his sleeve.
“But you won’t.”
He doesn’t reply. And that silence? That’s your victory.
You call them in stages.
First comes Pyria, cloak wet with blood from a duel she claimed was “for practice.”
Then Seren, fingernails ink-stained, eyes shining with devotion, muttering under his breath like he’s reciting prayers in your name.
Then Orin, who’s already grinning when he walks in. “I saw this in a dream,” he says. “You were standing on top of the ashes.”
And lastly—Thalia.
Who isn’t smiling. She stands apart from the others. Arms crossed. Lip twitching.
“You’ve changed the plan,” she says flatly.
“No,” you correct. “The plan is evolving.”
She doesn’t like that. But she doesn’t leave either.
Because she wants the world to fall apart. As long as you’re standing in the center of it.
It begins that night.
The moment the stars are at their zenith, you release the layered enchantments across the school. Dormitory wards falter. Communications scramble. Locking runes invert—open where they should close.
The faculty, caught in their own order, scramble to contain the spread.
But it’s not magic that’s destroying them.
It’s your students.
You didn’t need soldiers. You had obsessed hearts and loyal hands.
Thorn watches the chaos from the tower, arms crossed.
“You know this won’t last.”
“It doesn’t have to,” you say softly. You just needed a momentary reprieve from boredom after all.
He studies you.
“This is all just a game to you.”
“No,” you say. “The game ended the moment they started loving me more than they feared the law.”
He doesn’t answer. Because he knows you’re right.
But the rebellion isn’t without cost. You hear the first scream at dawn. One of the students you spared.
Unaffected by magic. Loyal to the kingdom. Dragged to the ritual chamber by Thalia’s lieutenants and “taught” to be obedient.
You feel Thorn’s gaze on you as the screaming echoes through the halls.
“You said you’d only enchant them.”
“I did.”
“Then stop her.”
You look at him.
“Would you still love me if I didn’t?”
He goes quiet. He’s starting to understand what this is. Not a rebellion. A crucible. Everyone here is being tested. The ones who pass?
They get to live in your world.
By dusk, half the school has fallen.
The professors are cornered.
And you sit on the throne carved into the lecture hall podium, arms draped over the sides like a god waiting to be worshipped. Your students kneel.
Thalia smiles like she’s finally home.
Pyria cries when she sees you—whispers, “We did it, Your Highness.”
Seren presents a list of everyone who opposed you. Some of the names are crossed out.
Blood dots the parchment.
And Orin . . . Orin kneels with his head to your knee. “I saw it all,” he whispers. “Your rule. Your mercy. Your cruelty. I loved you in every version.”
And behind them all, Thorn, silent and unreadable.
Still untouched by enchantment. Still here.
You meet his eyes. He doesn’t speak. But he doesn’t walk away. And that silence still feels like a promise.
There’s something in the air.
It’s not just the smoke, or the arcane aftershocks from the rituals performed in your name. It’s something quieter. Thicker. Like tension made tangible.
You smile as you rise from the throne.
Your loyal students watch with adoration. Expectation. Some kneel. Some reach. All of them aching for your approval.
“Stand,” you say.
They obey instantly. Magic doesn’t need to compel them anymore. They’re already yours.
Thalia steps forward, proud and blood-slicked. “The east wing has been cleared. We took the last resistance down. All that’s left is the Archmagister’s chamber. We can storm it with you at the front.”
“No,” you say.
Pyria flinches, startled. “But—why?”
You descend the steps slowly, cloak trailing, boots clicking across the marble that still gleams beneath scorch marks. Seren bows his head, like he expects absolution. Or a kiss.
You give him neither.
“I’ll go myself,” you continue. “There are things I need to do. Alone.”
Minutes later, you’re walking the forbidden corridor behind the headmaster’s wing. The eyes of ancient statues seem to follow you, but they do not speak.
Because this is the part of the plan they never knew.
The original plan. The true one.
You stop before a hidden door, fingers brushing the sigil.
It opens to reveal a figure in white robes and shimmering armor. Her face is obscured—magically cloaked—but you know her voice.
“You’ve done well,” she says. “More than we hoped.”
You bow your head just slightly.
“I have the names. And evidence. The spellcraft used. The manipulations. The unsanctioned rituals.”
“And the students?”
You hesitate.
“. . .Some of them will resist.”
The figure nods.
“You’ll do what’s necessary.”
By the next dawn, your betrayal is complete.
The doors of Cael Thorne Academy are thrown open. Guards pour in. Magisters. Clerics. Royal Inquisitors. There’s no battle. Because you gave them everything. The blueprints. The passphrases. The map of corrupted wards.
They knew exactly where your devotees would be.
One by one, they’re taken.
Pyria screams when they take her blade.
Seren sobs as they burn his research.
Thalia doesn’t scream. Doesn’t beg. She just looks at you.
And you—still in the throne they built for you—watch them fall.
Orin never fights. He just smiles.
“I always knew,” he says as they shackle him. “That your love would destroy us.”
But Thorn?
He’s not in the cells. He wasn’t among the captured. He never participated after all. He watched it happen. From the shadows.
And now, he stands at your door. Again.
Eyes dull. Jaw locked.
You look at him across the silent warzone that was once your school.
“You lied to all of us,” he says.
“I did.”
“You played with their hearts.”
“I did.”
He steps forward. “And mine?”
You don’t answer.
Because his voice is trembling. Because his hands are clenched. Because his eyes are wet.
You don’t expect it when he grabs your collar.
“Then tell me this,” he snarls. “Did anything you felt with me . . . ever matter?”
Your breath catches. The world holds still.
Then—
“Yes.”
You say it quietly. Too quietly. But it’s real. And he sees that. So he pulls you close. And kisses you. Not like a lover. Not like a prince. He kisses you like he’s claiming a ghost.
Blood still on your lips. Smoke still in the air. And his hands trembling from everything he didn’t say.
You have no throne now.
But Thorn still won’t leave you.
Not because of the enchantment.
But because he saw the real you . . . and chose to fall anyway.
Even now—when you are nothing but ruin and memory—his obsession hasn’t died.
Giving the girlies a well-deserved blue lock yandere reverse harem fic x a girly girl reader
Masterlist !!
But the best part is that I want to hear what you, yes you, want in it !! Just like blue lock and soccer, I want this to be a group effort. Me as the writer, and everyone else as a muse telling me what to do! I have never seen someone do this concept before, so I'm really excited to try it out.
Key things I do want to mention:
This is smut-free, but there will be suggestive language. Also, some sexual behaviors might be implied.
The story will be a slow-burn, nothing happens immediately and things will get worse over time.
The reader's race, features, and clothes will not be defined, but the reader will be an overly feminine girly girl because that is my demographic of reader.
My first language is not English, so there might be some errors in my writing
I'm planning to do multiple endings
there will be dark themes
It will be implied that the reader is of high-school age like the boys are
It will have the pov's of the boys and the reader
AU IDEAS
Fantasy/fairytale AU. You'll get to see monster hunter kaiser on this one.
Trapped inside an otome game AU
Fuck the AU's, I want canon
Voting ended onJul 13
If Fantasy wins, the reader will be a runaway princess who wishes to escape her arranged marriage with the cold prince, Rin Itoshi.
If trapped inside an otome game, the winner will be stuck as an NPC character who isn't part of the main cast until she accidentally breaks the game by bonding with characters she shouldn't.
If fuck the A.U.'s wins, the reader will be ego's daughter, and that's how she ends up in Blue Lock. Unfortunately, Ego might use his daughter as a prize to be won to raise their egos.
no matter what AU is chosen, please be aware that there will be dark content such as stalking, forced helplessness, and abuse. I will be tagging mindfully each chapter !! Important: The only characters that will be the Yandere's are the boys, not the adults. I'm strictly against adult x minor romance.
Anyways! please put suggestions and questions in the comments! the more ideas the better !!
You don't know how or why, but you've been isekai'd into the world of Jujutsu Kaisen. Although your first instinct is to stay away from the plot, you've been blessed with an abnormal amount of cursed energy, and for better or worse, you find yourself sucked into the storyline. You decide that you may as well use your newfound powers for the greater good, and if you're lucky, you might succeed in rewriting some of the characters' fates. But it turns out that your presence in this world is an even bigger deal than you first thought, and soon, everyone wants to make you theirs.
00 — prologue
01 — budding friendship
02 — a sudden encounter
03 — set in motion
04 — fateful beginning
05 — anomaly
06 — what lies ahead
07 — moving in
08 — the last member
09 — teacher’s pet
10 — facing the future
11 — on the brink of death
12 — claimed
13 — in mourning
14 — entrusted with a secret
15 — long time no see
16 — memories erased
17 — rude intrusion
18 — someone dearly beloved
19 — a happy day
20 — seize the opportunity
21 — best friends
22 — everyone's favorite
23 — hand in hand
24 — foreboding
25 — cursed place
More chapters are available on Wattpad and Ao3!
⊱.⋅follow + post notifications on for story update announcements or join the author's discord!⋅.⊰
a/n *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ This might just be my most requested series besides the Yan!ATG fic. I was this close to abandoning it, but y’all refused to let me and now I’m on a roll again! There should be at least two more chapters before my motivation dips again, so keep the energy coming. And as always, don’t forget to Comment, Reblog and Like (☆≧▽^)
Comment to be added to taglist
Pt. I | Pt. II | Pt. IV | Pt. V
Jason found a rare, familiar solace in the ritual of maintenance. After the grit and grim reality of his nocturnal duties—whether as a vengeful vigilante or a strategic crimelord—true moments of peace were fleeting. The garage of his old friend’s repair shop had become a sanctuary. When he wasn’t patrolling Gotham's rain-slicked rooftops or navigating the fraught politics of its underworld, he came here, letting the scent of grease and gasoline clear his head.
There was a profound, uncomplicated satisfaction in laying hands on machinery, in feeling an engine respond to his adjustments with a purr or a roar. It was a realm of clean problems, where issues could be solved with the right tool, a precise oil change or the decisive smack of a wrench. Here, he was in control—a stark contrast to the tangled, human complexities that otherwise defined his life, problems no toolkit could ever seem to fix.
He was deep in the rhythm of it, sleeves rolled up and focus narrowed to the motorcycle before him, when a voice cut through his concentration.
“Sorry to bother you but do you know where Jonah is?”
Jason looked up, wiping his hands on a rag. The man in the doorway was unfamiliar—around his own age, perhaps a few years older, with a relaxed posture and mid-length hair and a tan complexion that suggested origins far from Gotham’s perpetual gloom. But it wasn’t the man who fully captured Jason’s attention.
It was the machine beside him.
An absolutely stunning Kawasaki Ninja ZX-10R, custom-painted in a deep, iridescent purple that seemed to swallow the workshop’s feeble light. The bike was a masterpiece of aggression and elegance. Jason felt an immediate, almost electric connection to it. His eyes, usually sharp with suspicion or guarded coolness, lit with genuine, unguarded appreciation.
“It’s his day off,” Jason said, straightening up. His curiosity, piqued by both the man and the machine, got the better of his customary reserve. “And you are?”
“Name’s Krish,” the man replied, easing the magnificent bike forward. “I wanted to drop her off for repairs. Jonah mentioned you’d be around if he wasn’t.” A casual, trusting gesture accompanied his words. “Mind taking a look?”
Jason gave a noncommittal shrug and pushed himself up from the creeper seat, the well-worn leather of his jacket creaking with the movement. He ambled over to the bike, his earlier focused intensity shifting into a more appraising, professional curiosity. Jonah knew him too well—knew that a machine of this caliber was an irresistible lure, a puzzle and a pleasure rolled into one. Still, a flicker of caution cut through his appreciation. Trust was a brittle currency in Gotham and Jonah giving out his name, even casually, pinged on Jason’s internal radar. That name could be a thread and threads had a way of unraveling back to places best left in the dark.
He pushed the thought aside for now, circling the Kawasaki. Up close, its condition was even more impressive. The custom paint was flawless, the chrome gleamed and the engine, even cold, spoke of meticulous care. A quick visual inspection suggested it needed little more than routine maintenance—maybe a fluid change, a chain adjustment. It was less a project and more a privilege to handle.
“You don’t look like you’re from Gotham,” Jason remarked, his voice casual as he ran a thumb along the edge of the pristine fairing. Krish let out a warm, easy laugh. “Oh, god, no. I’m based out of New York these days, but my work has me on the road more often than not. A bit of a nomad, really.”
“That business sent you to Gotham?” Jason cocked an eyebrow, his tone lightly skeptical. Few legitimate enterprises required a voluntary stop in his city.
“No, this trip is personal,” Krish clarified, his expression softening. He placed a hand on the bike’s fuel tank, a gesture that was both possessive and tender. “I’m just here to drop this baby off. She’s been sitting in my garage for too long and it’s time I let her go.” A sigh, wistful and genuine, escaped him.
Jason straightened up, crossing his arms. He couldn’t mask his bewilderment. “I don’t get it. Why part with something you’ve clearly put this much of yourself into?”
Krish’s smile turned a touch melancholy. “Let’s just say I got one of those requests you just can’t refuse, y’know?”
A knowing, slightly crooked smirk played on Jason’s lips. His time on both sides of the law had schooled him in the many meanings of an ‘offer you can’t refuse.’ “Good money,” he ventured, his tone laced with implication, “or someone special?”
“The latter,” Krish confirmed, his eyes holding a glint of private happiness. Then, as if shaking off a reverie, he clapped his hands together lightly. “Oh, that reminds me—do you sell helmets here?”
Jason tilted his head toward the far wall, where rows of helmets were mounted in a spectrum of colors and designs, from sleek full-face models to vintage open-face classics. “Take your pick,” he said, gesturing with his chin. “Just don’t go for the cheap stuff. A head’s worth more than that.”
Krish walked over to the display wall, his gaze traveling appreciatively over the orderly rows of helmets. He didn’t just look; he studied them, his fingers lightly tracing the contours of a matte black shell then the sleek racing stripes of another. “Do you have anything on the… cutesy side?” he asked after a moment, turning back to Jason with a playful, almost conspiratorial glint in his eye. “Something in pastels? Or… maybe, anything with a bit of glitter?”
Jason couldn’t suppress a rough chuckle—a rare sound in the oil-scented gloom of the shop. “Pastel and glitter in Gotham?” he mused, wiping his hands again on a rag. “That’s one way to make a statement. Might be the brightest thing in a five-block radius.” He scanned the wall, his eyes landing on a particular helmet tucked slightly to the side, almost as a novelty item. It was a vibrant pink number adorned with a cluster of cheerful Sanrio characters. With a half-smirk, he unhooked it and held it out toward Krish. “This cute enough for you?” he asked, the question dripping with friendly sarcasm.
To his surprise, Krish didn’t laugh it off. Instead, he took the helmet, his expression shifting to one of serious contemplation. He turned it over in his hands, examining the weight, the interior padding, the quality of the visor mechanism, ignoring the flamboyant decals. His gaze narrowed thoughtfully, as if he were visualizing it in a context Jason couldn’t see.
“You know what?” Krish said finally, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face. “This fits. I’ll take it.”
Jason’s other eyebrow joined the first in a look of pure, unvarnished disbelief. “Wait, what? Seriously? You’re picking this?” His gesture encompassed the garish pink helmet as if it were a radioactive artifact. His tone clearly questioned not just the aesthetic choice, but the man’s entire sense of judgment.
Krish’s grin only widened, infused with a strange delight. “Oh, trust me,” he said, his voice warm with amusement. “When you see her, you’ll get exactly what I’m talking about.”
Her. The word hung in the air, and Jason’s mental image shifted. This wasn’t some generic gift; it was for a specific person. He gave a mental shrug, the judgment fading into pragmatic acceptance. Ultimately, what did he care? If this guy wanted to buy a ridiculous helmet for his significant other, that was his business. And Jason had to grudgingly admit that beneath the eye-searing design, Krish had instinctively chosen one of the most durable, high-spec models on the wall—a helmet that prioritized safety and quality construction over everything else. The man might have eccentric taste but he wasn’t a fool.
“Your money, your head,” Jason conceded with a final, dismissive shake of his head, already moving to ring up the sale. “Or, I guess, her head.”
Jason finished the minor tune-up, accepted the cash with a nod and watched as Krish prepared to depart. The transaction was complete, but the stranger lingered for a moment by the door, the soft Gotham dusk framing him from behind. Though the more Jason talked to him, the more he felt like he knew the man. Not the way that you’ve met them before but the type you’ve seen before, somewhere, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
“Hey,” Krish began, turning back with a look of casual consideration. “You’re around the shop often, right? Since I won’t be in the city, I’d feel better knowing there’s someone trustworthy I could reach out to for any bike troubles down the line. You seem like a solid guy.”
Jason leaned back against the workbench, crossing his arms. The request was simple, but in his world, connections were liabilities. “Jonah’s usually here,” he stated, his tone carefully neutral. “But honestly, for a… lady,” he said, subtly referencing the helmet’s intended recipient, “I wouldn’t recommend this part of town for a roadside rescue. It’s not exactly welcoming.”
He moved to the chipped shop counter, rummaged in a drawer and pulled out a slightly grease-stained business card. With a pen snatched from behind his ear, he scribbled down one of his many untraceable, burner-like numbers—a line that routed through several buffers before it ever reached him. It was a concession, small and controlled.
“Here,” he said, sliding the card across the counter. “If there’s an issue, call this number. I’ll make sure someone reliable gets sent to help.”
Krish took the card, tucking it securely into an inner pocket with a grateful nod. He swung a leg over the magnificent Kawasaki, its custom paint job seeming to drink in the shop’s fluorescent light. In a move that perfectly captured his contrasting sensibilities, he carefully secured the pink Sanrio helmet to the rear seat with a bungee net. Then, he pulled on his own helmet—a sleek, professional piece in matte black and dark blue that perfectly matching his bike’s stunning color scheme. The engine purred to life with a deep, respectful growl.
“Thanks, Zack,” Krish called out over the muted rumble, giving a casual two-finger salute from his temple. “You’re a real one.”
Jason blinked. The name landed like a misplaced gear. Zack? Jonah’s latest hire who mostly handled invoices and coffee runs. “I’m not—” he started, the correction automatic.
But Krish was already gone. The bike leaned into a smooth turn and disappeared into the gathering evening, the sound of its engine fading into the city’s perpetual hum.
Silence reclaimed the shop. Jason stood there for a long moment, the ghost of a wry, relieved smile touching his lips. The misunderstanding wasn’t just amusing; it was a relief. It meant Jonah hadn’t given his name away after all. His identity, fractured and precarious as it was, remained tucked behind the anonymous walls of the repair shop, shielded by a simple case of mistaken identity. He was just a mechanic to Krish. For now, in this small space, that was all he needed to be.
“Y/N.”
The voice was a lilting, melodic chime, cutting through the fog of deep sleep. Y/N jerked awake with a soft gasp, the world swimming into focus—the familiar wood grain of her desk, the warm glow of her study lamp and the screen of her laptop where Vani’s amused face peered out at her.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m—I’m up,” Y/N mumbled, pushing herself upright and rubbing the lingering stiffness from her eyes. A faint line from the edge of a textbook was imprinted on her cheek. “What time is it?” She’d been deep into her latest project, a intricate digital design that had consumed the evening, before sheer exhaustion had finally pulled her under right there at her workstation.
Vani and Y/N had a pact, an unbreakable ritual born of mutual necessity and comfort. Their video call was a near-permanent fixture, a shared digital space that bridged the distance between their rooms. For Y/N, it was the perfect alternative to braving the trip to the library; she could burrow in her favorite blanket fort and still be ‘at school.’ For Vani, it was a failsafe against procrastination—a friendly, watchful presence that kept them both vaguely accountable. It was less about constant conversation and more about the quiet, comforting hum of another soul being present.
“It’s time,” Vani said, her voice dropping into a stage whisper, a knowing smirk playing on her lips, “to get up and look out your window. There’s a gift waiting for you.”
Y/N’s brow furrowed in sleepy confusion. A gift? At this hour? Pushing her chair back, she padded over to the window that overlooked the quiet, tree-lined street below. The scene was mostly shadows and the soft pools of streetlight. But then her eyes locked onto a silhouette leaning casually against a parked sports bike—a silhouette whose posture, whose very outline, was etched into her memory. Her breath hitched.
For a second, she was frozen, a statue of disbelief. Then, movement. She scrambled, snatching up the worn outdoor slippers by her door and bolted from her room. The journey down the stairs was a barely controlled stumble—she nearly tripped over her own feet three times, her heart hammering against her ribs. She fumbled with the heavy main entrance door before finally wrenching it open.
Then she was flying. Across the small front yard, through the gate she didn’t bother to close properly, a direct line to the figure who was now turning toward the sound of her frantic footsteps. She launched herself at him with the full, unrestrained force of her momentum, wrapping her arms around his torso in a tackle-hug that knocked a soft “Oof” of air from his lungs.
“Krishu!” Her voice was muffled, pressed into the familiar leather of his jacket. “What are you doing here?”
He staggered back a step, laughing as he regained his balance and returned the hug just as fiercely. “What can I say?” he murmured into her hair, his voice warm with affection. “I missed my chotu too much.” nickname used for someone tiny/small
At the old, teasing nickname, Y/N finally leaned back just enough to swat his chest. “Stop calling me that!” she protested, but the effect was ruined by the beaming smile she couldn’t suppress. The smile then wavered, giving way to a playful pout. “And do you even realize mujhe aapki kitni yaad aati thi? No calls, no texts… it’s like you forgot all about me!” she complained, the Hindi slipping out in her earnest, half-exasperated scolding. how much I missed you
Krish held up his hands in a gesture of playful surrender, his grin unrepentant. “Accha, accha, maaf kardo, meri ma,” he said as a smooth counterpoint to hers. “I was hiking in the Atacama in Chile. Trust me, the network there is basically non-existent. You’d have had better luck sending a message by carrier pigeon.” He gave her hair another affectionate ruffle, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “But see? I’m here now. And I come bearing actual gifts, not just my charming presence.” alright, alright forgive me mom
"Gift? What gift?" Y/N asked, pulling back from the hug to look at him, her eyes still wide with sleepy surprise and lingering disbelief at his sudden appearance.
Krish just gave her a mysterious, lopsided smile and held up a single finger—wait for it. He stepped back, creating a little space between them and pulled out his phone. With a few swift taps, he dialed a number and put it on speaker. It rang only once before Vani’s voice, now laced with triumphant glee, crackled through.
“Is she there? Did she faint? Do I need to call an ambulance?” Vani’s rapid-fire questions spilled out.
Without a word, Krish handed the phone to Y/N, his eyes dancing with amusement. “Vanshita,” he announced to the air, as if presenting a formal witness. “Explanations, please.”
Y/N took the phone, pressing it to her ear, her gaze darting between Krish’s expectant face and the stunning motorcycle gleaming under the streetlight. “Vani di,” she said, her voice a mixture of confusion and dawning suspicion. “What is all this about? What’s going on?”
“Okay, listen,” Vani began, her tone shifting to one of conspiratorial delight. “Our dear Krishna here was committing a cardinal sin. He was letting that absolutely gorgeous Kawasaki just… rot in his garage. A tragedy, right? And we were talking and I may have mentioned that I knew someone—someone brilliant, someone who’s been working herself to the bone, someone who could really, really use a spectacular win in her life right about now.”
Y/N’s breath caught. Her eyes flew to the bike, then to the keys Krish was now dangling from his finger, the metal catching the light. “No,” she whispered, the word more a puff of air than sound. It was a denial of the impossible, a rejection of a happiness too large to accept all at once.
“Yes,” two voices chorused in perfect unison—one from the phone in her hand, rich with sisterly satisfaction and the other, warm and steady, from the man in front of her.
Krish stepped forward, the keys swinging gently. He offered them to her, his expression softening as he saw the sheen of tears instantly welling up in her eyes. The moment her lower lip began to tremble, he was there. He gently cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the first treacherous tears before they could fall.
“Rote nahi,” he murmured, his voice dropping into a soft, pleading command. “Rona nahi, Y/N. Mai bol raha hoon, rona nahi.” His words were a frantic, loving mantra. “If you start crying, I swear I’ll put it right back on the trailer. I’ll take it back to New York. Don’t make me do that!” Don't cry, Do not cry, I'm telling you, don't cry.
From the phone, still clutched in Y/N’s hand, Vani’s dry commentary floated out. “Stellar way to console a person, Krish. Truly top-tier emotional support.”
“Oh, shut up, Vani!” Krish retorted, his eyes never leaving Y/N’s watery ones, a flicker of panic in his own. “You know how I get around crying people! Women in particular! I’m not equipped to deal with this!”
The comical desperation in his voice, the tender way he was holding her face and the absurdity of the situation finally broke the tension. A wobbly laugh bubbled up through Y/N’s sniffles, the threatened downpour of emotion receding into a glitter of unshed joy in her eyes.
“Aur haan,” Krish continued, his tone shifting from playful to purposeful. He reached into the inner pocket of his worn leather jacket, his fingers emerging not just with the gleaming key fob, but also with a slightly worn business card. He pressed both into Y/N’s palm, folding her fingers over them with a firm, meaningful squeeze. “This is important. The card is for a repair shop in the city—a place I trust completely. The owner, Jonah, is a good man.” and yes
He flipped the card over, tapping a finger on a series of numbers handwritten in a quick, utilitarian scrawl. “And this,” he emphasized, “is the direct number for one of the employees there. His name’s Zack. If anything at all feels off with the bike or if you just need a second opinion, you call him. Tell him you know me. He’ll make sure you get the help you need.” He paused, ensuring he had her full attention. “I’ve already spoken to Jonah. He’s expecting you. He’s the kind of guy who knows everyone and he’s going to help you navigate getting your full license sorted out. No shortcuts on the paperwork but he’ll make the process smooth.”
Before she could fully process the practical flood of information, Krish turned back to the bike. From a secure net strapped to the rear seat, he carefully extracted the final piece of the gift. It was the helmet—the gloriously, unabashedly pink Sanrio helmet he’d chosen with such specific intent. A soft laugh escaped him as he presented it.
“And this,” he said, his voice softening, “is non-negotiable.” Gently, he placed the helmet onto her head, his fingers deftly fastening the strap under her chin, checking the fit with a practiced tug. The world outside muted slightly, filtered through the visor. “Never. Without. A helmet. Samjhi?” His eyes, visible through her visor, were uncharacteristically serious, all traces of his earlier panic gone, replaced by a bedrock of protective concern. “Not for a two-minute ride around the block. Not ever. This is the rule.” got it?
Y/N nodded enthusiastically, the movement making the cheerful characters on the helmet bob slightly. The promise was easy to make, fueled by a lifetime of conditioning. Her father had been a devoted motorcycle enthusiast, his passion filling their garage with the scent of engine oil and the low rumble of classic engines. Y/N had grown up not just around bikes, but on them, learning to balance on a cousin’s tiny dirt bike long before she’d learned long division.
Her mother had always disapproved, citing safety and unladylike conduct, but her father’s world of freedom and wind had been too magnetic. He’d taken her on countless rides, her small hands gripping his jacket as the world blurred into a stream of joyous sensation and that love had been irrevocably imprinted on her soul.
Knowing Krish had only poured accelerant on that spark. He was the only person in her life whose bikes were faster, whose stories of open roads were more thrilling and who never once dismissed her fascination as a phase. He was always happy to indulge her, explaining mechanics, letting her sit on his machines, and now… this. This was more than indulgence; it was an investment, a passing of the torch wrapped in glittering pink plastic.
From the phone, still loosely held in her hand, Vani’s voice cut through the moment, warm with approval. “See? I told you he’d come through with the full safety lecture.”
Krish shot a mock-glare toward the phone. "I'm hanging up on you now, Vanshita. My emotional support duties here are done." He reached over and ended the call, plunging them into a sudden, significant quiet, broken only by the distant city sounds.
The reality of the moment, so joyous just seconds before, began to settle with a sobering weight. Krish’s smile lingered, but it had softened around the edges, tinged with a melancholy that Y/N felt echo in her own chest. “I should get going, Y/N,” he said, his voice quieter now, pitched for just the two of them in the dim evening light.
The words landed with a dull thud. So soon? “Why?” she protested, the plea slipping out before she could temper it with reason. “You just got here. At least… at least come up for some chai. I’ll make it the way you like it.” The offer was automatic, a thread of normalcy she desperately wanted to cling to, even as she knew it was futile. She understood the mechanics of their lives all too well. Krish’s work was a demanding, globe-hopping entity and her own academic pursuits were a vortex of deadlines and projects.
Their worlds orbited on different axes and the gravitational pull that had once kept them close was straining under the distance. Growing apart felt less like a possibility and more like an inevitable, slow-motion drift she was powerless to stop. As a child, Krish and Vani had been her constants. She had sworn silent oaths to never let them go, but adulthood, she was learning, was a series of gentle, necessary goodbyes.
“You know I can’t, yaar,” he said, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder. The regret in his voice was a tangible thing. “I have a flight to Taipei first thing tomorrow. Clients waiting, deadlines breathing down my neck.” He shrugged, attempting a casualness that didn’t reach his eyes. In their deep, familiar brown, Y/N could see a mirror of her own reluctance—a sadness that this stolen hour was all they could manage. dude
“I understand,” Y/N nodded slowly, the words tasting like ash. There was no point in arguing with logistics, with the tyranny of schedules and responsibilities. Together, in silence now, they carefully wheeled the magnificent Kawasaki into the designated parking area of her apartment building, the quiet rumble of its tires on concrete feeling like a final, solemn ceremony.
A soft beep from his phone broke the stillness. Krish glanced at the screen, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly. “The cab’s here,” he announced, not looking up, his focus on the glowing rectangle as if it could shield him from the goodbye. “I should go.”
But before the distance could formalize, before he could take that first step away, Y/N moved. She crossed the short space between them and threw her arms around him in another tight embrace, this one devoid of the earlier giddy force, filled instead with a clinging, wordless plea. She buried her face in his jacket, inhaling the familiar scents of leather and distant places, fiercely holding back the hot press of tears.
The impact made him let out a soft, grunting laugh. “Arrey, what is with you and body-slamming me tonight?” he chuckled, the sound warm and strained as he brought his arms around her, one hand coming up to pat the top of her head, right over where the pink helmet had been. “Trying to give me internal injuries as a parting gift?”
“Shut up,” she mumbled into the fabric, her voice thick. He didn’t reply, simply holding her, his own cheek resting against her hair, savoring the quiet, precious moment of connection, memorizing the feel of it.
Finally, as the cab’s headlights swept across the street, he gently loosened his hold. Pulling back just enough to see her face, he brushed a stray strand of hair from her cheek, his thumb briefly grazing her skin. “Alright,” he sighed, the playful mask gone again. Then, a flicker of his old self returned, a last attempt to leave her with a smile. “So… duty-free run. Do you want anything from Taipei? Skincare? Those weird flavoured Kit-Kats you’re obsessed with? A decorative sword? Name it.”
She pulled back, sniffling once but managing a wobbly smile. "Just for you to comeback safe and sound. And maybe a postcard. A really ugly one."
"That's my girl," he said, his own smile finally reaching his eyes again, if only for a second. "Ugly postcards are my specialty." He tapped the side of her head gently. "Remember. Card. Jonah. License. In that order."
He gave her one last, long look, as if etching the scene—her standing next to the beautiful, impossible bike, the ridiculous pink helmet now clutched in her hands—into his memory. Then, with a final, decisive nod, he turned and walked towards the waiting cab, its engine idling with impatient warmth.
Y/N stood rooted to the spot, watching as he slid into the back seat. He didn't look back as the car pulled away from the curb, its taillights shrinking into two red pinpricks before dissolving into the river of Gotham's night traffic. The sudden silence felt immense, a vacuum left in the wake of his vibrant energy.
Her gaze drifted from the empty street to the motorcycle beside her. It wasn't just a machine; it was a promise, a tether. He couldn't stay, but he'd left a part of himself behind—a roaring, purple and black fragment of his world, now parked in hers. The cool metal of the key bit into her palm, a tangible anchor.
If the weekend's surprise had felt like a burst of radiant, impossible color, Monday morning was a harsh, high-contrast black and white photograph. Y/N L/N’s reality snapped back with a vengeance and it was currently embodied by her boss, Timothy Drake Wayne, who was in a mood so foul it seemed to warp the very air of the office. The cause was a mystery—a crappy client meeting, a traffic jam, a critical email from god-knows-where but the effect was painfully clear: Y/N was his designated pressure valve.
While the other junior associates were across the office, clustered around senior architects’ screens, eagerly observing the early-stage digital reconstruction of a property recently damaged in one of the Red Hood’s more explosive disputes— allegedly a result of his latest face-offs with one of the rogues, leaving Y/N was anchored to the small pantry. Her primary architectural contribution for the morning was achieving the perfect steep time for a cup of chai, Tim’s third in two hours.
“Hmmm,” she mused under her breath, stirring a generous spoonful of her precious, personally blended chai mix—a cardamom-and-ginger concoction Tim had once tasted and now felt aristocratically entitled to—into a pot of simmering water. “Should I spit in it or is this finally the day for rat poison?”
“Poison, definitely,” a cheerful, unfamiliar voice agreed directly behind her.
Y/N jumped, nearly sending the pot clattering into the sink. She whirled around, her prepared glare dissolving into stunned silence.
Leaning against the pantry doorway was a man who seemed genetically engineered to disrupt the monotony of a Monday. He had a relaxed, athletic grace with mid-length hair that looked artfully tousled rather than unkempt. But it was his eyes that halted her—a vast, brilliant blue, the kind you saw in travel posters for tropical skies. They were nothing like Tim’s icy, assessing glare; these were open, warm, and currently crinkled with amused apology.
He was dressed simply in a well-fitted blue shirt and dark trousers, but the clothes hung on him with such easy perfection they might as well have been a tailored suit. He looked like if Hrithik Roshan and Brad Pitt had decided to collaborate on a greek god of a love child. Ghoorna band kar, she mentally scolded herself, tearing her gaze away from his smile. Stop staring.
“Sorry about that,” the masterpiece said, straightening up and taking a step forward. His voice was as pleasant as the rest of him, friendly and laced with that same easy charm. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I’m Dick.”
A new, entirely different reaction bloomed across Y/N’s face. The awe, the shock of his appearance, was momentarily vaporized by a wave of profound, cosmic pity. Dick. Of course. It was a universal law, apparently. The universe had to nerf the devastatingly handsome ones. Why did all the unfairly attractive white men come saddled with the most godawful, conversation-stalling names? Josh? Chad? Tim? Dick? It was like a built-in humility feature.
She managed to school her features into something resembling professional neutrality, though a spark of her earlier mischief remained in her eyes. “Right,” she said, her voice dry. “Of course you are. Can I help you… Dick? Or are you just here to advocate for workplace toxicity?” She gestured vaguely with the spoon still in her hand.
“I was, uh—just here to grab myself a…” His sentence trailed off as his gaze swept the small pantry, landing on a nearly empty snack rack. He snagged a lone, slightly stale-looking oatmeal cookie from a crumpled cellophane packet. “This. Yeah.”
The move was so transparently improvised that Y/N had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. She gave a noncommittal shrug and turned her attention back to the simmering pot, the rich, spicy aroma of cardamom and ginger beginning to fill the small space.
Instead of leaving, however, Dick moved. He casually sidled up to the counter next to her, closing the distance with a natural ease that made the cramped pantry feel even more intimate. He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a stage whisper that was warm and conspiratorial. “So,” he murmured, as if they were old allies planning a coup. “Who are we poisoning and why again? I need the full briefing if I’m going to be an accessory.”
The proximity, the low timber of his voice, the playful glint in those impossibly blue eyes—it was a concerted assault on her composure. Y/N leaned back instinctively, creating a few crucial inches of space. A faint, unwelcome blush heated her cheeks. She was accustomed to handsome men, sure. She worked for Tim, whose sharp, aristocratic features were a study in cold perfection and she’d grown up with Krish, whose roguish charm was its own brand of compelling. But in both cases, their personalities—one icy and demanding, the other mischievous and overbearing—had instantly neutralized any superficial appeal. This was different. This was a handsome man who was also… genuinely, disarmingly nice. It was an unfamiliar and slightly overwhelming combination.
“Take a guess, would you?” she finally managed, her tone drier than the cookie in his hand. Seeking a small, petty revenge, she deliberately scooped an extra spoonful of sugar into Tim’s tea, knowing full well he preferred it bitter. The petty act, witnessed by this charming stranger, felt both childish and satisfying.
“A name does come to mind,” Dick mused, nodding thoughtfully as he watched her stir the sugary revenge. He took a bite of his cookie, his expression one of sympathetic contemplation.
That tiny hint of solidarity was all the invitation she needed. The dam of her professional frustration, already weakened by the morning’s tedium, gave way. “He’s the worst,” she hissed, keeping her voice low but letting the venom flow. “He acts like I’m his personal errand girl, not a junior architect… intern. And on top of the actual mountain of work, there’s just this… sheer avalanche of bullshit he dumps on me. I get it, he’s a control freak and I’m his assistant, but there’s a line! Somewhere! A very clear, bright line that he joyfully pole-vaults over every single day!” She punctuated her rant by clanging the spoon a little too hard against the rim of the mug. “And then there’s his stupid, smug face. God, I could just—” She made a brief, violent wringing motion with her hands.
Dick didn’t just smile or offer a polite nod. He let out a loud, hearty, unreserved laugh—the kind that filled the small pantry and seemed to bounce off the tiles. It was a sound of pure, unfiltered amusement.
Y/N immediately cut off, her furious momentum halted. She glared at him, the blush returning full-force, this time from indignation. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing, nothing,” he said, raising his hands in a placating gesture, though his eyes still sparkled with mirth. “It’s just… you seem to have some very strong feelings for him. Passionate. Visceral, even.” He took another bite of the cookie, looking thoroughly entertained.
“Against,” Y/N corrected with a sharp huff, giving the simmering pot a final, aggressive stir. “Very, very much against.” As if on cue to prove her point, her phone buzzed on the countertop with the specific, dreaded tone she’d assigned to one contact. She glanced down, and her expression hardened into a mask of pure, simmering fury.
Mendhak:
Make an extra cup. I have a guest coming.
The sheer, casual audacity of it—the assumption, the lack of a ‘please,’ the fact he was texting her from approximately thirty feet away—sent a fresh wave of irritation through her. She could practically feel her molars grinding together.
Dick, who had politely averted his gaze from her phone but couldn’t miss the storm cloud that settled over her features, offered what was probably meant to be a mitigating observation. “I mean,” he ventured, his tone still light but shifting slightly towards diplomacy, “you have to cut the guy a little slack. He’s only nineteen and he’s basically the acting CEO of a billion-dollar empire. That’s got to do… something to your personality. Puts a certain kind of pressure on a person.”
Y/N slammed the spoon down on the counter with a definitive clack. She turned to face him, the last vestiges of her earlier flustered blush gone, replaced by the fiery righteousness of the perpetually put-upon. “That,” she declared, jabbing a finger in the general direction of Tim’s office, “might explain the ego, the impossible standards, maybe even the permanently smug expression he wears. What it does not explain, or excuse, is his pathological refusal to use the perfectly functional, top-of-the-line espresso machine in his own private cabin!”
She gestured wildly toward the pantry’s sad, drip-style coffee maker, as if presenting Exhibit A. “He bought it! He had it installed! It makes coffee that probably costs more per cup than my hourly wage! But no. Instead, he demands I make this,” she pointed at the pot of chai, “from a personal recipe. And he doesn’t ask. He commands. ‘Make an extra cup.’ Not ‘Could you?’ Not ‘When you have a moment.’ It’s a text order, like I’m a drone in his personal beverage air force.”
Dick’s lips twitched, his earlier full laugh now tempered into a smile of genuine, shared commiseration. “Well, I should probably get going,” he said, his tone light. “But truly, I wish you all the best in your… ongoing campaigns.” He gave her a final, friendly nod that felt like a genuine salute before turning and slipping out of the pantry, leaving behind the faint, clean scent of his cologne and a palpable void of charm.
Y/N deflated slightly, the brief spark of camaraderie extinguished. She stared at the empty doorway. Why couldn’t her professional life be filled with people like that? People who laughed easily, who whispered about poison with a twinkle in their eye instead of just doling it out in passive-aggressive memos. Her mind, seeking distraction, began to categorize him. What department was he with? Finance? No, he lacked the predatory sharpness, the hollow sheen of a finance bro. Sales, then. It had to be sales. Companies always hired the incredibly attractive for client-facing roles—a classic tactic, weaponizing charm and good bone structure for persuasion. The theory satisfied her, neatly filing Dick away as a pleasant, transient anomaly from a different, more glamorous sector of the corporate machine.
With a resigned sigh, she turned back to her duty. She prepared a second cup, then carefully reheated the first, knowing from bitter experience that Tim Drake considered anything less than scalding to be an personal affront. Arranging both mugs on a tray with mechanical precision, she carried the loaded peace offering down the hall to his office.
She knocked softly, the careful tap-tap-tap of someone balancing hot liquids and their own simmering resentment. A muted “Come in” filtered through the door.
Pushing it open, she stepped into the sleek, minimalist space—and froze.
There, perched casually on the edge of Tim’s immaculate desk, one leg swinging slightly, was Dick Grayson. He was in the middle of a story, gesturing animatedly, a bright grin on his face. And Tim—her Tim, the Mendhak, the source of her morning misery—was leaning back in his chair. He wasn’t just listening; he was relaxed, his arms crossed, wearing an expression of open, unguarded amusement. It was a face she’d never seen him wear in her presence.
The scene was so dissonant, so utterly wrong, that the tray in her hands gave a dangerous wobble.
“Oh, Y/N, perfect timing,” Tim said, his voice still carrying traces of that unfamiliar warmth. He gestured casually between them. “I have someone to introduce you to. This is Dick Grayson.” He paused, and a smirk touched his lips—a real one, not the cold, calculated kind she was used to. “My brother.”
The words landed not as an introduction, but as a physical blow. Brother. The air left her lungs. The carefully maintained tray tilted; china clinked a frantic, perilous alarm before she managed to steady it through sheer, white-knuckled will. The feeling that surged through her wasn’t just shock. It was a hot, humiliating wave of betrayal. She’d just unloaded her professional grievances, painted her boss as a petty tyrant, to the tyrant’s own brother. He’d stood there, nodding along, sympathizing, laughing.
Somehow, her body moved on autopilot. She set the tray down on the corner of the desk with a soft, definitive clink. Every movement was measured, robotic. She turned to Dick and manufactured a smile. It was a polite, professional, utterly hollow stretch of her lips that didn’t touch the storm in her eyes. “Nice to meet you, sir,” she said, her voice unnaturally even. A vein pulsed dangerously at her temple.
Dick’s reaction was immediate. All the easy charm had evaporated. His eyes had gone wide, his easy posture stiffening. He looked at her not with amusement or sympathy but with deep, genuine concern—and a flicker of something that looked like alarm. He opened his mouth as if to say something, to explain but no sound came out.
Y/N didn’t give him the chance. She pivoted back to Tim, her spine straight as a ruler. Her face was a mask of impeccable neutrality, but her tone was so carefully, chillingly devoid of inflection it was more scathing than any shout. “Sir, I need to confirm the details for your four o’clock conference call with the Tokyo investors. I’ll be at my desk if you require anything further.” Not a question. A statement.
Without waiting for a dismissal, she turned on her heel and walked out, closing the door behind her with a soft, precise click that echoed in the sudden, stunned silence she left in her wake.
Work ended early, a small, unexpected mercy and Y/N refused to let the lingering shadow of the Wayne brothers—one a micromanaging prodigy, the other a charming, duplicitous enabler—taint what came next. The solution to all her misery, she decided, was waiting for her in the parking garage.
It was finally time to take her baby for a spin.
A part of her, the sentimental part nurtured by years of shared adventures, wished Krish were here for this inaugural ride. His whoop of approval, his inevitable critique of her posture, the shared ritual of it—it would have felt more complete. But his life was a series of departures and hers was learning to be a series of arrivals in his absence. Besides, she reasoned, she had practicalities to attend to. The food rations ran dangerously low and the nearby supermarket was only a fifteen minute ride away. Surely a quick, careful trip for essentials, license still pending, wouldn’t hurt. It was a test drive with a purpose, not a joyride. That’s what she told herself.
In her apartment, she strapped on the cheerfully bright Sanrio helmet. The pastel and cartoon characters were a stark, almost absurd contrast to the Kawasaki’s purple and cobalt severity, a touch of childish whimsy against a machine of pure, adult power. But Krish had chosen it and that connection made it precious. She loved the dichotomy. Securing the strap under her chin, she felt a familiar, comforting enclosure.
Downstairs, the bike waited. She swung a leg over, settling into the seat that felt like it had been molded for her. Her thumb found the ignition. The engine didn’t just start; it awoke with a deep, throaty purr that vibrated up through the frame and into her bones. It was a feeling that transcended mechanics—it was a conversation, a potential energy humming under her control. She let it idle for a moment, soaking in the sensation, then gave the throttle a gentle, experimental twist. The responsive growl that answered was electric.
The sound transported her instantly to her memory back years, across an ocean, to the heat-hazed tarmac of the Delhi expressway, tucked behind Krish on his old Triumph, the wind screaming past her helmet as they chased the horizon. To the feeling of limitless asphalt ahead and the wild, weightless freedom of speed. Y/N could almost hear Vani’s frantic calls afterward. She’d always been their unwilling accomplice, left to craft elaborate lies for her parents, put in what she called “morally precarious situations.” She’d swear, every time, that she was done, finished, never covering for them again. And yet every time, she’d be bribed back into compliance with a packet of imported cigarettes and a plate of steaming, spicy momos from their favorite roadside stall. The memory drew a small smile from Y/N.
With that warmth in her chest, she eased the bike out of the parking spot and into the dusky Gotham evening. The trip to the small Indian supermarket was a short, cautious navigation of side streets, every stop and start a new lesson in the bike’s sensitive controls. She pulled into a spot right out front, killing the engine. The sudden silence felt loud.
Pushing open the shop’s door triggered a familiar, welcoming chime. The air inside was thick with the comforting scents of sandalwood incense, fresh herbs, and spices. And there, emerging from behind a stack of ghee tins emerged a man who could only be described as a giant, Sikh golden retriever. Baldeep Singh was built like a wrestler, with a beard that rivaled a king’s and eyes that perpetually crinkled with good humor. He looked, she always thought, like if the chirpy innkeeper from Frozen.
“Satsriakal, Paaji!” Y/N called out, her earlier troubles melting away in the warmth of the place. “Sabh changa?” Hello sir (used informly for an older brother figure), everything good?
His face split into a beam so wide it seemed to generate its own wattage, brightening the entire aisle of lentils and dried beans. “Y/N!” he boomed, his voice a baritone of pure delight that vibrated in the air, making the nearby jars of pickles and spices hum in sympathetic resonance. He lumbered out from behind the counter, wiping hands on the apron stretched over his broad chest. Before she could utter another word, he closed the distance and delivered a welcoming thump to her back that rattled her teeth and nearly sent her stumbling into a display of pappads.
“Wah! Look at you, breathing our air again!” he laughed, his eyes twinkling. The hefty slap was just Balpreet Singh’s version of a handshake—a little overwhelming but brimming with uncomplicated affection. Having spent decades at his family’s dhaba in Delhi before transplanting his family and his hospitality to Gotham, he treated Y/N with the proprietary warmth of a hometown elder. In his eyes, her Delhi roots earned her the coveted ‘local’s discount,’ a currency far more valuable than dollars.
“I’m just here for the essentials,” Y/N said, catching her breath and pulling up a list on her phone. “Half kilo of arhar daal, maybe some rice… and a few of those minute-made curry packets for the week.” Balpreet’s magnificent smile instantly inverted into a formidable frown. His bushy eyebrows drew together like two caterpillars in a conference.
“Aunty is well, I hope?”
“The missus is in radiant health, waheguru ki kripa se,” he declared, waving a dismissive hand. “Which is precisely why she would box my ears if she learned I let you walk out of here with those… those emergency rations.” He said the words with the distaste of a master chef presented with a microwave dinner. “Growing young people, working hard with their brains, need proper fuel! Real food! Not powder in a packet.” by the grace of waheguru
Y/N offered a sheepish, pragmatic smile. “The internship stipend hasn’t hit my account yet, Paaji. The budget is… austerity-level this week.”
It was as if she had casually insulted his ancestors, his culinary lineage and the sacred cow all at once. Balpreet’s expression shifted from disapproval to profound personal offense. He drew himself up to his full, impressive height.
“Bas cha kar putter! No more of this talk,” he commanded, his voice softening even as his resolve hardened. “You come with me.” Enough kid
He snatched a basket from a stack and began a purposeful march down the aisles, a general on a war campaign. Y/N trailed behind, a smile tugging at her lips, knowing resistance was futile. Into the basket went a fresh bundle of coriander, plump tomatoes, a bag of onions, a bottle of his house-blended garam masala that smelled like heaven, and a container of ghee he insisted was medicinal.
“My own Arshpreet,” he said as he selected a bag of the finest basmati rice, “is off at Berkeley, becoming a big-shot engineer. Her mother, my Roop, she calls her every night and her first question is always, ‘Beta, what did you eat?’ We cannot be there to put a plate in front of her, so we worry.” He placed the rice in the basket with a gentle pat. “But you… you are here, in my shop. If I cannot ensure my own daughter is fed like a sher, I can at least make sure someone else’s child, far from home, does not eat like a… a sparrow.” He glanced back at her, his eyes crinkling with a warmth that melted any remaining protest. lion
“With all due respect,” Y/N said, her voice thick with a mixture of gratitude and gentle scolding. “You are going to run a thriving business straight into the ground because of me. I’m a liability to your profit margins.”
He let out a hearty laugh that shook his broad shoulders. “Profit? Pah! This is not profit. This is seva. And what is a business for, if not to take care of its own?” He stopped at the counter and began ringing up the items at speeds that defied logic, his thick fingers flying over the ancient cash register. The total he named was a fraction of the actual cost, a number so symbolic it was practically a fairy tale. selfless service (one of the core principles of Sikhism)
He bagged the groceries with practiced efficiency, tucking in a small container of homemade ginger candy “for digestion.” Y/N paid the token amount, the transaction feeling less like commerce and more like accepting a blessing. As she hefted the bags and turned to leave, a violent, cacophonous crash shattered the quiet evening from the street outside. The sound of rending metal and shattering glass was unmistakable.
Balpreet’s head snapped up. “Oye! What is this now?”
“Paaji, you lock the door,” Y/N said, her voice tight. Her heart leapt into her throat, a single, terrifying thought eclipsing all else: her bike. She dropped the bags just outside the doorway and bolted outside, the shop’s bell jangling a frantic alarm behind her.
Relief, swift and dizzying, washed over her first. The Kawasaki stood untouched, gleaming under the streetlight, a solitary island of beauty amidst the sudden chaos. The destruction came from the narrow, trash-strewn alley that ran alongside the spice shop. From its shadows came the grunts of impact, the sickening thud of fists on flesh, and the clatter of a metal dumpster being slammed into.
Against every screaming instinct of self-preservation, she found herself moving toward the noise. She clicked her helmet’s visor down, the simple action feeling like donning a thin layer of armor, and crept closer to the alley’s mouth, pressing herself against the rough brick wall to peer around the corner.
The scene was a blur of violent motion under the sickly, intermittent glow of a Gotham streetlight that flickered as if gasping its last breath. A group of men, hulking shapes in the gloom, were swarming a single figure. It was impossible to make out details—except one. A flash of streetlight caught on a familiar, stark shape: the unmistakable, domed curve of a red helmet.
Red Hood.
The recognition was instant, a fact filed away from news clips and hushed, fearful conversations. Before the thought could fully form, one of the attackers was hurled backward as if from a cannon. He sailed past Y/N’s hiding place, missing her by feet and crashed onto the asphalt with a nauseating crunch of bone and a pained groan. She flinched back, scooting deeper into the shadow of a stone pillar, her breathing shallow behind the helmet.
As the fight ebbed and flowed, she watched with dawning horror. Red Hood was a cyclone of brutal efficiency but he was moving wrong. There was a hitch in his step, a favoring of one side. A dark, wet stain was spreading across his leather jacket. He’s hurt. And he was severely outnumbered. He’d beat several down, but they were like roaches—stunned, then slowly, shakily rising again.
The man who had landed near her was one of them. He pushed himself up, swaying, his face a mask of rage and pain. His hand dipped into his jacket and emerged clutching a pistol. He raised it, the barrel wavering as he tried to steady it, aiming directly at Red Hood’s back. The vigilante, locked in combat with two others, was completely exposed.
Logic was a clear, cold voice in her head: Stay hidden. Get on your bike. Go home. This is not your fight. This is Gotham.
But another voice, louder, born of a childhood watching her father and Krish tinker with engines and talk about fixing what’s broken, screamed back. These people fight every day to keep the city from swallowing itself whole. And you’re just going to watch?
Her eyes scanned the ground. There, beside a fractured piece of curb, lay a half-brick, discarded and ordinary. Without another thought, her fingers closed around its rough, gritty surface. It felt heavy. Final.
A prayer her father used to mutter before tackling a stubborn engine block surfaced from her memory. “Jai Mata Di,” she whispered, the words a quiet breath against her visor.
Then she stepped out, just enough to get a clear angle. With a grunt of effort that was part fear, part fury, she hurled the brick.
It sailed through the dank alley air in a short, brutal arc. It didn’t whistle; it was too clumsy for that. It just thudded against the back of the gunman’s skull with a sound like a rotten melon hitting concrete. His arms flew out, the pistol clattering away into the darkness. He stood frozen for a surreal second, then his eyes rolled back and he crumpled to the filthy ground, out cold.
Silence, sudden and profound, descended for one heartbeat. Then all remaining eyes in the alley—the dazed thugs and the slowly turning, bloodied red helmet—swung toward the alley’s mouth, toward the figure in the absurdly cheerful pink helmet, standing with empty hands and a racing heart.
Civilians, in Jason Todd’s extensive and brutal experience, followed a simple rule: see the Red Hood, run the other way. Their fear was rational, a survival instinct he often relied upon to keep them out of the crossfire. Direct intervention was rare, and almost always stupid. Not that he was ungrateful, in a distant, abstract way, but a panicking civilian usually became a liability, a hostage, or a stain on the pavement—three outcomes that just made his night more complicated.
So when the figure in the pink helmet spoke, his first reaction was a surge of pure, exasperated irritation.
“Uh, Mr. Red Hood. Hello, I—uh—” Her voice was muffled by the helmet, young and tight with adrenaline. She gestured vaguely toward the unconscious gunman. “I just wanna say… thank you for your service? And uh… yeah.”
Service. The word almost made him bark a laugh, if every breath didn’t feel like a knife in his ribs. He’d just shattered a man’s knee cap and likely broken another’s orbital bone. This wasn’t a community outreach program.
“Go,” he growled, the voice modulator in his helmet layering the single syllable with metallic menace. It wasn’t a suggestion.
She nodded, the cheerful Sanrio characters on her helmet bobbing rapidly. “Yeah. Totally. Great idea. I’m just gonna… go.” She let out a high, awkward laugh that was pure nerves, turned on her heel and began speed-walking back toward the mouth of the alley.
Good. Smart. Finally.
Jason turned his attention back to the remaining thugs. Two were still down, but one was staggering upright and the sounds of shouting and converging footsteps echoed from the far end of the alley. Backup. His comms were fried, his bike was three blocks away and currently on fire—courtesy of an earlier, separate disagreement and the deep gash in his side was leaking through the Kevlar weave. The tactical assessment was grim: he needed to disengage and he needed to do it now.
He took a limping step backward, putting weight on his bad leg sent a white-hot spike of pain up his spine. One of the thugs, seeing his vulnerability, let out a ragged yell and charged. Jason pivoted, channeling the pain into the movement and drove his fist into the man’s jaw with a crack that echoed off the bricks. The man dropped like a sack of cement, but the exertion cost him. He swayed, the world tilting for a dangerous second.
“Um, Mr. Red Hood?”
He stiffened. That voice again. He turned his head, the red lenses of his helmet fixing on the pink-helmeted woman who had, inexplicably, returned. She was standing just outside the alley now, one hand on the seat of a motorcycle he hadn’t registered before—a custom-painted Kawasaki Ninja that glowed like a jewel under the streetlight. Of course.
Why didn’t she leave? Can’t she see the ‘Welcome to a Bloodbath’ sign flashing over this alley? The thoughts were a furious, internal roar. Was she pathologically kind, suicidally naive or just spectacularly dumb?
“Do you… need a lift?” she asked, the question so absurd it seemed to hang in the smoke-tinged air.
He stared at her. A lift. From a civilian. On a iridescent purple sports bike. It was the kind of scenario that belonged in a particularly deranged cartoon. He opened his mouth to tell her to get the hell out for the second and final time.
But then a bullet whined off the dumpster beside him, showering sparks. The shouts were closer. The math, however insulting, was simple: pride and protocol versus not bleeding out in a garbage-filled alley where his body would likely be looted before the Bats even got the alert.
The choice was humiliating. It was also the only one he had.
Slowly, gritting his teeth against the pain and the sheer ignominy of it, he gave a single, curt nod.
He began limping toward her, each step a study in agony and stubborn will. The woman didn’t freeze or flinch. She sprinted the few feet to the front of the spice shop, snatched up two heavy-looking grocery bags that had been abandoned there and was back at the bike in seconds.
“Please hold these,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady as she thrust the heavy grocery bags backward toward him without looking.
Jason stared at the woven handles dangling in the space between them. The absurdity of the situation reached a new, crystalline peak. “Are you serious?” The modulator couldn’t fully mask the sheer, flabbergasted disbelief in his tone.
She tilted her head just enough for him to see the serious, determined set of her jaw beneath the helmet’s edge. “Want that lift or not?”
A groan, part pain, part profound existential frustration, rumbled in his chest. With his free arm—the one not currently applying pressure to the weeping wound on his side—he snatched the bags. They were deceptively heavy, pulling at his shoulder. “Lady, you feeding a family of seven or what?” he grunted, the mundane question feeling surreal amidst the scent of his own blood and alley filth.
She didn’t grace him with a response. Instead, she shifted forward, making what little space existed on the seat. Unfortunately, one of the few design flaws of a Kawasaki Ninja—a machine built for speed, not for passenger comfort—was its complete lack of second-passenger real estate. He was pressed flush against her back, his thighs bracketing hers, the contact unavoidable and intensely personal for two strangers. Almost immediately, he felt her stiffen. A damp, cold patch on the back of her shirt, right between her shoulder blades, was growing steadily cooler against his leather-clad chest. Blood. His blood. She’d definitely felt it.
He heard her take a sharp, bracing breath, as if steeling herself against the sensory violation. You just had to play hero, huh? Her own brain was probably screaming the same thing his was.
Then, she didn’t just ease the bike forward. She floored the accelerator.
The Kawasaki leapt forward like a startled panther, the sudden G-force slamming him hard into her back. A pained hiss escaped him as the impact jolted his injuries and he felt her own shudder at the full, wet press of his wound against her spine. The sensation was unmistakable now—a sticky, chilling dampness seeping through fabric. The ‘ick’ was almost a tangible wave coming off of her but she didn’t slow down.
What followed wasn’t a direct route. It was an evasive maneuver worthy of someone who’d watched one too many chase scenes or who possessed a surprisingly sharp instinct for survival. She wove through narrower side streets, took sudden, sharp turns down one-way alleys going the wrong way, and circled blocks in dizzying patterns. Her head was on a constant swivel, checking mirrors and glancing over her shoulder, not at him but past him, scanning for tails. She was running interference and she was doing a damn competent job of it.
Finally, after a circuitous journey that left even his seasoned sense of direction slightly scrambled, she slowed and guided the bike into the deep, shadowed mouth of an alley behind a nondescript café called ‘Sip and Savour.’ The engine’s roar dropped to a low, uneasy purr as she killed the ignition. The sudden silence was heavy, broken only by the distant hum of the city and the sound of their breathing—hers slightly ragged, his deliberately controlled through the pain.
She sat perfectly still for a moment, listening, watching the alley’s entrance. Then, seemingly satisfied they were clean, she let her shoulders slump a fraction. The makeshift rescue mission, it seemed, had reached its temporary terminus.
“The GCPD headquarters is about three blocks that way,” she said, her voice muffled but practical as she pointed with a gloved hand down the main street. “There's a public hospital two blocks east of that. And if you take a right out of the alley, there's a bus stop where the next one leaves in...” She lifted her wrist, checking a sleek, sporty watch. “...five minutes. Should get you wherever you need to go.”
Red Hood had been a statue of silent, pained intensity for the entire ride. As soon as the bike stilled, he moved. He swung his good leg over with a grunt, dismounting with a stiffness that spoke of serious injury. The grocery bags, which he’d clutched like bizarre, life-preserving totems, were unceremoniously dumped onto the grimy asphalt of the alley.
He didn't offer thanks. Instead, his hand went to a back pocket of his tactical pants. He pulled out a small, damp billfold and extracted two crumpled hundred-dollar bills. Without a word, he placed them neatly on the seat of her bike, right where he’d been sitting.
“For your troubles,” his modulated voice grated out. A bloodied finger, its leather glove stained dark, pointed vaguely at the center of her back. “And the shirt.”
Y/N twisted, trying to crane her neck to see the damage. Thankfully, she’d worn black. In the low light, the stain was invisible but the damp, chilling patch against her skin told the whole story. A shudder she couldn’t suppress ran through her. “There’s no need for—” she began, turning back to face him, ready to refuse the money.
But the space where he had been standing was empty.
He was just… gone. Vanished into the deep shadows of the alley as if he’d never been there at all. No sound of footsteps, no rustle of fabric. One second he was a solid, bleeding reality; the next, he was a ghost. A classic Bat trick, she thought, a mix of irritation and awe curling in her gut. She’d heard the stories but seeing the unnerving precision of the disappearance firsthand was something else.
Alone now, she looked at the two bills on her seat, then at the abandoned grocery bags on the ground. With a sigh, she picked up the money—it was soaked at the edges with a concerning coppery dampness and stuffed it into her own pocket before retrieving her groceries.
Three blocks away, perched on a rusted fire escape landing in a pool of darkness even deeper than its surroundings, Jason Todd pressed a freshly packed wad of gauze against his side. The world had a fuzzy, tilting quality, a combination of concussion and significant blood loss that made thinking in straight lines a chore.
But it was in that muddled, pain-hazed state that the puzzle pieces finally clicked together.
The woman’s voice, the way she held herself, the absurdly cheerful helmet… and the bike. The bike. The custom-painted Kawasaki Ninja ZX-10R with the cobalt and purple. He’d seen it before, just days ago. It had been wheeled into the shop by a tan, traveling man who’d asked for Jonah. The man who’d bought the ridiculous pink helmet for his… whoever.
‘When you see her, you’ll get exactly what I’m talking about.’
The stranger’s words from the repair shop echoed in his memory. He’d said it with a knowing grin, handing over cash for that pink shell.
A low, pained chuckle escaped Jason, the sound rough and humorless even to his own ears. He shook his head, the movement making the world swim. The universe had a truly deranged sense of humour.
He looked down at the blood seeping through the fresh gauze, then back in the direction of the alley where the bike’s purr had now faded into silence.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered to the empty night, the modulator off, his own voice raw. “It does fit.”
╰ ┈➤ A/n: Sorry to keep you waiting, but I hope you enjoyed it! With this chapter, all three Batboys have officially made their entry. Let’s see where the story goes from here. Also I tried to make the translations as accurate as possible but please do correct me if i made any mistakes. And credits to @swamiiyasssss for the biker Y/N idea.
This is an idea in progress. Only a few chapters are finished right now, and I want to complete arc 1(season one) before I post the official work.
Post is long under the cut, you've been warned.
Yandere(slow burn) reverse harem x Chloe! reader.
Disclaimer: This is NOT a salt fic. There are spots where behaviors of characters and original series continuation are scrutinized, but these are all on an as-appropriate basis and not a main theme. MC is also an unreliable narrator. Ultimately, this was written for silly entertainment and is not intended to be taken as a rewrite or canon fix it. You will be very dissapointed if you come in expecting fixes.
REITERATION: THIS IS NOT A FIX IT FIC. I AM TAKING THOMAS'S BROKEN DOLLS AND THROWING THEM IN THE MEAT GRINDER.
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You reincarnate as a mindless bully.
In any story you've read where someone reincarnates as the villain, especially after said villain already has a history, the hero's problematic traits go crazy. Naturally, Marinette's dark side suddenly has much more dramatic emphasis, but not in the way you'd think.
Reincarnation wasn't as bad as everyone made it seem. Sure, there was the mind altering reality, and the loneliness, but you knew those feelings already.
And reincarnation into a children's show? It was all so easy! And sure, some things you had no influence over had changed, but it couldn't be that big a deal, right?
You hated people who weren't like you.
People who could be as self-centered and outright cruel as they wanted without feeling the repercussions in their heart.
People who, when given the option of giving an act of kindness, one that barely took the effort needed to lift a finger, and even potentially save someone's life, would never do it. People who took the around way with others even if it was inconvenient. Often for the attention.
Whether it was the people who were unnecessarily cruel because they believed they alone existed in the world, or the people who stay back and watch because 'it's not them, why should they care?'.
People who weren't haunted by every little action or inaction. People who couldn't look back on their day and think, 'hmm, maybe this resulted from something I did, or will result from it?'. 'I might have worded that wrong.'.
You hated them. You hated them all.
Wouldn't it be enough if, by smiling at a stranger on your way to wherever, you gave them just enough strength to think over the action of taking their own life, even for just a moment? Even if you never know?
You especially hated when those bland, two-toned single-minded unsalted potatoes tried to create. Everything they created was just like them, only serving to darken an already dark world.
Especially their main characters. The characters that were just like them. Who made things 'dark' and thought that somehow this made them cool.
All things light existed from darkness, so why twist it back? Did they really think they were new and innovative because their main characters were a little meaner? What was so appealing about never caring? Or caring only enough to be cruel?
If they hated the light so much, they could go blind. If they so despised happiness in other's voices, they could go deaf.
They wanted 'gritty'? Fine! But they aught to stop making their copy-pastes and just curl up in a dark room with the true nature of the fairy tales that they claimed to hate for being so bright and unrealistic.
This was why your relationship with Villainess stories was complicated. One had a 50/50 shot of getting The Mindless Bitch or Genuinely Interesting. But with all the other tropes, one was much more likely to get the first option. And you'd much rather the second.
You mean, come on? Being a teenager was NOT a valid personality trait! Even as a teenager, you had hated characters like these! So why was it the only personality these people had?!
And maybe all of this was why you, someone who disdained hurting others, were just a little bit indignant about your current situation.
After all, you just experienced for yourself first-hand the most popular trope of the 2020's:
You were a villainess.
You didn't have the stomach to play Cinderella's Step Sisters. BOTH the protagonists went through enough hell thanks to everyone else. Especially Marinette in s5! They were CHILDREN and they shouldered the weight of Paris at a minimum while dealing with their own personal struggles. You weren't going to make that worse, oh hell no! Absolutely not. Even if you were a late teen now, implying the rest of the characters were as well, that was a lot even for an adult! You'd been through the process of dealing with the weight of humanity's feelings on top of crippling life events, and you sure as hell were not making things worse.
Nor did you have any particular crush on any of the characters in a way that would warrant getting in the way of either of the main characters, or anyone really.
Even if all you were doing was helping Marinette by backing off(She definitely needed it, poor thing) that was just fine! Those poor kids(even if you are all the same age) needed a break!
Sure, you were a control freak; and refusing your character's role meant that almost all of your intellectual control of the plot was relinquished. But you'd lived your first life without that control, and you could live your second one without it too.
Especially in a kid's show. Even with the monsters around, you were virtually in no danger so long as you didn't instigate anything or become a villain/hero. After everything you'd already been through, this would be a piece of cake.
Sure, your character did get a miraculous, but it was temporary and she was barely used because everyone knew about it. Besides, someone much more suited for the hero role would come along eventually. You'd only have to transform and fight less than five times, if any at all. Especially since you wouldn't go around causing issues anymore.
Without your character, at least half of the akumas, especially in the class, would never occur. Normally, a character like that would be necessary to have on a leash. But since you are her now, it would cost significantly less effort. The main character's life will be a whole lot easier without you ruining everything.
Speaking of main character, you decided that even though you had time before you both were forced to meet in class, you wanted to meet her before then. After all, it would take time for her to accept that you truly changed, and she was supposedly the one you had treated the worst over the years. Besides, waiting until you had no choice would make you feel even cheaper.
You had gone out believing you were prepared for all possible turnouts, knowing how canon Marinette was in personality, and how you couldn't rely on the writing of the show to get an accurate read on how she would respond to you.
What you were not prepared for, was to turn around and see the main magical girl of the show, the female lead, was in fact quite different from the one you were expecting.
Marinette...it was a damn good thing you hadn't addressed her by name.
After all, it probably wasn't her name, considering she was a he.
You aren't a hero, so your only responsibility is to be a decent human being. Surely.
At least, it would have been.
But what could you do?
You had been planning to change so much just by doing nothing at all.
You weren't the only thing that could change the story.
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Yanderes/love interests:
Marinette Dupain-Cheng/Ladybug
Adrien Agreste/Chat Noir
Sabrina Raincomprix
Alya Cesaire/Rena Rouge/Rena Furtive
Nino Lahiffe/Carapace
Nathaniel Kurtzberg
Luka Couffaine/Viperion
'Lila Rossi'
Kagami Tsurugi/Ryuko
Felix Graham De Vanily
Various OCs(Plot significant)
This list can and will be adjusted according to my whim or comment input. There are certain characters that are absolute, but only some.
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IMPORTANT
-I am making age adjustments to the characters. The year this story starts in will have them at 17-18 for season one and maybe season two, and they will be adults for most of the book. Coincidentally, season two onwards is when I originally planned for things to start taking a turn for the worse anyway.
-To add to that, I am making up a fictional school system because their school lives are such a big part of the series. And I'm too lazy to adjust all that, lol.
TRIVIA:
-Marinette and one other character are the only ones I have adjusted. Marinette will be the sole genderbent character, and the other change is a surprise.
-The Astruc cameo episode will be fucked to hell. This is very plot significant and will be a major player in the explanation of how the universe works in the fic and many differences from the original.
-MC is covered in burn scars. This is also fairly important for certain plot deviations.
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Just so we are clear, this is a dark fanfiction. If dark or 'problematic' themes upset you, you should be relatively okay reading up until the end of season one. But season two will be the beginning of extremely dark and very triggering themes. So please beware.
My story may have some similarities in line with other fics. If not explicitly stated otherwise, this is entirely a coincidence. As my story continues, it will relatively follow the plot of MLB up to the end of season five so similarities to other same-premise fics are inevitable. However, there are some very significant story plot points that should very clearly set this apart from others. As time goes on, it will be increasingly different from other seemingly similar stories already out there.
If a fellow writer is at any point worried I may be copying them, for whatever reason, feel free to PM me and I can give a vague outline of what I have in mind to reassure any doubts.
