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a weee but revised. not by a ton because full time job means no time 😻

Bruce Wayne | Batman X Reader

ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ Gotham Socialite ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ

masterlist

I want to make some batman themed oneshots where it explores a relationship between you and him.

EDITED- changed a bit of dialogue and description because I want the reader to be super cool and amazing

High society, meet the reporter reader. Reporter reader, meet Bruce Wayne

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ Gotham’s elite are as gaudy as the chandeliers hanging above them. expensive, bright, and utterly useless. The grand ballroom of the Gotham City Opera House is filled with them, men and women draped in designer gowns and tailored suits, sipping champagne as if their wealth isn’t built on the backs of the people suffering outside these marble walls.

You move through the crowd like a ghost, unseen despite being one of the few people here actually worth listening to. They invited you because of your work because your name is attached to articles Gotham’s wealthy pretend not to read but secretly obsess over. You don’t write puff pieces about Gotham’s heroes; you write about its monsters. You dig into their minds, their motivations. Why does Edward Nygma need to prove he’s the smartest man in the room? Why does the Joker turn his suffering into a performance? What makes a villain tick? That’s what you care about.

Not this.

Not the empty smiles. Not the soulless small talk. Not the way these people clutch their designer purses like they contain anything of real value.

You exhale sharply through your nose, taking another sip of your drink just to give yourself something to do. It tastes expensive but meaningless, like everything else here.

As you turn to leave, you accidentally bump into someone a woman in a tight, sequined dress that probably costs more than you’ve made in the last six months.

“Oh, my God,” she snaps, stepping back as if you just assaulted her. “Are you serious?”

Your brows lift. “Oh, relax. You’ll live.”

Her expression twists in outrage, but before she can respond, a man approaches tall, broad shouldered, with a perfectly practiced smile. And just like that, she flips a switch.

“Oh my God, Bruce!” she gasps, laughing like she wasn’t just seconds away from throwing a fit. She rests a hand on his arm the same arm she previously flung up in disgust when you bumped into her. “I didn’t think you’d actually show up tonight! You never come to these things anymore.” You watch with mild disgust as she transforms in real time. It’s like watching an AI desperately try to mimic human emotion.

“Yeah,” you mutter, just loud enough to be heard. “hmmm I might see myself out”

Bruce Wayne glances at you then, his interest piqued. You don’t fawn over him. Don’t preen or attempt to charm your way into his good graces. No, you just look at him like you’re wholly unimpressed. Its not that he wasn’t appealing. Of course you found him attractive. Though finding him attractive felt a little like betraying the people you grew up around. Just because you escaped the extremely poor doesn’t mean you want to abide by it.

“You know,” you say, tilting your head, “for a guy whose while company is built on working with the community , you don’t seem to have much of a grip on reality.”

The woman beside him gasps in horror, clutching Bruce’s arm even tighter, but you’re not done.

“This whole act,” you gesture vaguely at him, “isn’t cute. I mean no disrespect though, go party and go crazy.” Your eyes lock onto his with something sharper than hatred indifference. “I don’t know how you stomach it. It’s honestly an insult to humans.” Silence settles over you like a fog. The woman looks scandalized, staring at you as if you just spit in her drink.

Bruce, on the other hand, just looks intrigued. His usual mask of carefree billionaire playboy falters just for a second. His blue eyes search yours, something thoughtful flickering behind them. Then, just as quickly as it had cracked, the mask slides back into place. He lets out a chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck in feigned sheepishness. “Well,” he says, flashing that same easygoing smile he always wears in public, “can’t please everyone, I guess.”

The woman beside him giggles like an idiot, but you just roll your eyes. Bruce Wayne is a good actor, you’ll give him that and judging by the look in his eye, he looks a little off put.

You don’t give Bruce another glance as you turn on your heel, moving toward the exit with the same single minded determination as a prisoner inching toward an open cell door. You’ve had enough of this place enough of the fake smiles, the rehearsed laughter, the suffocating air of money and ego pressing in on you from all sides.

Bruce watches you go.

He should just let you leave. He should turn his attention back to whatever mindless conversation he was meant to be entertaining tonight. But he doesn’t. Instead, his gaze follows you, his interest snaring on something he hadn’t expected.

You very evidently don’t belong here. Not in the way these people do, with their polished exteriors and empty souls. He mentally jokes that press training might be on a to do list for your manager.

No, you move like someone who doesn’t care to belong. Which from his relationship woth selina, Its definitely evident that women from the narrows dont care. You weave through the room with an awkwardness that’s both endearing and painfully obvious dodging trays of champagne like they’re landmines, sidestepping small talk with barely concealed irritation. Your distaste is written all over you, from the way your fingers tighten around your glass to the way your shoulders hunch slightly, as if trying to make yourself smaller, less noticeable.

But that’s the thing. You are noticeable. More than anyone here. Bruce takes in the way you tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, the way you mutter something under your breath when a socialite nearly clips you with a careless turn. He watches as you catch your footing after bumping into a server, your apology quick and sincere so different from the sneering entitlement of the rest of the room.

A quiet chuckle leaves his mouth as he watches you finally get to a corner. Bruce’s lips press together, something flickering in his chest that he doesn’t have time to name.

He should let you go. Instead, he steps forward, slipping through the crowd with the kind of practiced ease that only someone used to wearing masks can manage. You don’t notice him until he’s beside you, his voice cutting through the noise of the room like a knife.

“You’re not very good at this,” he says, amusement lacing his words.

You glance up at him, eyes narrowing slightly. “At what?”

Bruce gestures vaguely to the room. “Blending in.”

A scoff leaves your lips as you finally reach the exit, one hand already pushing against the heavy door. “Yeah, well,” you say, sparing him one last glance, “I’m used to this kind of thing.” And then you’re gone.

Bruce watches the door swing shut behind you, his reflection staring back at him in the glass. For the first time all night, he finds himself smiling.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ Bruce barely makes it through the front doors of Wayne Manor before he’s pulling at his bow tie, loosening the suffocating knot that had been pressing against his throat all evening. The moment the silk slides free, he exhales, rolling his shoulders as if shedding the weight of the night along with it.

The grand doors swing shut behind him, the quiet of the manor swallowing the distant hum of Gotham’s high society. The transition is immediate, like stepping out of a suffocatingly bright stage and into the cool embrace of shadow. The mask the one made of careless grins and charmingly vague conversation falls away as effortlessly as the jacket he shrugs off, tossing it onto the nearest chair without care.

From the hall, Alfred watches the display with an arched brow, ever the picture of poised amusement. “Welcome home, Master Wayne. I see the evening was as eventful as anticipated.”

Bruce sighs, running a hand down his face. “That might be an understatement.”

Alfred steps forward, hands clasped neatly behind his back. “I assume you spent the night ok though master wayne?”

“Something like that.” Bruce rolls his neck, loosening the last remnants of his socialite persona. “A lot of people talking without actually saying anything. You’d think I’d be used to it by now.”

“The inevitable I hear,” Alfred muses, “you always seem equally miserable every time you return.”

Bruce lets out a humorless chuckle, unbuttoning the top of his dress shirt. “That’s because it never gets any less exhausting.”

Alfred gives him a knowing look before stepping toward the chair where Bruce had carelessly discarded his jacket. He picks it up with practiced ease, shaking his head. “One of these days, you might consider hanging these properly.”

“I consider it every time,” Bruce remarks, already making his way toward the hidden entrance to the Batcave. “Just never quite get around to it.”

Alfred merely sighs, following him with a well worn patience. “Shall I prepare something for you to eat? Or will you be brooding on an empty stomach this evening?”

“Not brooding,” Bruce corrects as he reaches the hidden panel in the wall. The mechanism clicks, revealing the passage leading down into the cave. “Just… following a curiosity.”

Alfred hums, ever perceptive. “Would this curiosity have anything to do with the young woman who managed to offend half the room tonight?”

Bruce pauses mid step, glancing back at him. “You heard about that?”

Alfred gives him a pointed look. “Master Wayne, the moment someone dares to tell off a socialite at an event like that, it becomes the only thing worth discussing. I’d be surprised if her picture isn’t already pinned on some poor soul’s dartboard.”

Bruce huffs out a short laugh before shaking his head. “I’ll be in the cave.”

Alfred merely nods, already knowing there will be no convincing him otherwise.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ The Batcave hums softly with the sounds of running water and flickering monitors, a stark contrast to the suffocating luxury of the ballroom he had left behind. Here, Bruce is no longer Gotham’s golden boy. No longer the playboy billionaire.

Here, he is himself.

He settles into the chair before the Batcomputer, fingers swiftly typing as he pulls up a search. He hadn’t planned on looking you up. At least, that’s what he tells himself. But there was something about you something about the way you moved through that room, awkward yet unyielding. You didn’t belong there, and you didn’t care to. The way you had looked at him, unimpressed and disinterested, had been a rarity in a world where everyone was either too enamored by his wealth or too busy trying to figure out what game he was playing.

His fingers move with purpose, bringing up your name, your records. The first thing he finds is that, unlike many of the people who had surrounded you that night, your life had been anything but privileged.

You were born and raised in the Narrows Gotham’s forgotten underbelly. A place where opportunities were scarce, and survival was a skill honed from childhood. Your record is clean remarkably so, for someone who grew up in the part of Gotham where crime wasn’t a choice but a necessity. No arrests, no notable scandals. You had gone to school, worked through college, and carved out a place for yourself in a city that did everything it could to swallow people whole.

But what catches his attention the most are your writings. Articles. Interviews. Pieces dissecting the minds of Gotham’s most notorious criminals. Not in the sensationalized way tabloids did, but with an analytical depth that spoke of genuine understanding. You weren’t interested in painting them as mere villains or glorifying their crimes you wanted to understand them.

Your work focused not on the spectacle of their actions, but on the why. The motivations. The cracks in Gotham’s system that had allowed them to exist in the first place. You had interviewed ex gang members, street level criminals, and even those who had managed to escape Gotham’s cycle of violence. You wrote about the lives that high society ignored the people who lived in the shadows cast by the city’s towering skyscrapers.

You gave them voices.

Bruce leans back in his chair, studying the screen. You had lived a normal life at least, as normal as someone from the Narrows could. You had no connections to the criminal underworld beyond your work. No secret vendettas, no affiliations.

And yet, your writing showed a perspective that very few people in Gotham ever took the time to understand. You weren’t just observing Gotham’s worst. You were showing that they had stories worth telling.

Bruce’s eyes flicker over the last article on the screen, the words settling in his mind.

“Society has already decided who deserves redemption and who doesn’t. But if you never listen to someone’s story, how do you know they weren’t doomed from the start?”

His fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment before he finally leans forward again, exiting the search.

Curiosity, he tells himself. That’s all this is and yet, as the screen fades back to black, he can’t shake the feeling that you might be someone worth paying attention to.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ If you wanted your stories to be heard, you had to be seen. That’s what your publicist told you. That’s what you repeated to yourself as you stepped through the towering entrance of yet another Gotham high society event, where old money mingled with new power, and influence dripped from every word spoken between sips of champagne.

You didn’t belong here. You never did. But belonging wasn’t the point.

This was the price of being heard. If you wanted your work to matter if you wanted people to actually read what you wrote, to listen to the stories Gotham’s forgotten had to tell you had to stand in rooms like this. Not because you cared about these people or their whispered scandals, but because they had the power to shape the city’s narrative, whether they deserved that power or not.

And so, despite the suffocating air of wealth and self importance, you showed up.

The ballroom was an exhibition of excess. A long, lavish table stretched the length of the room, set with gold rimmed plates, crystal glasses, and floral centerpieces so elaborate they could have easily funded an entire year’s worth of rent for a struggling Gotham family. Conversations bubbled up around you hollow laughter, polite murmurs, the occasional hushed gossip passed between sculpted lips.

You found your seat. And nearly laughed. Right beside Bruce Wayne. Of course.

You weren’t sure if this was some kind of twisted joke or if the hosts had simply thrown darts at a seating chart, but there it was your name card placed neatly next to Gotham’s most beloved. Maybe they thought you were more important than you actually were. Maybe they thought Bruce had the patience of a saint. Though you have a feeling after your last stunt, they were trying to see if another PR disaster would come from this. Maybe more publicity for them. Any publicity is good publicity you guess.

Either way, it was too late to change it now. Sighing, you pulled out your chair and sat down, reveling in the last few moments of solitude before the night officially began.

And then, the atmosphere shifted. Even before you turned your head, you knew. Gothams golden boy had arrived.

The energy in the room changed, as if the very air had been pulled toward him. Conversations faltered just slightly, eyes flickered in his direction, and there was a quiet ripple of interest that passed through the gathering like an unspoken current. It was always like this.

The city’s most eligible bachelor. The name that sent tabloids into a frenzy and made socialites tilt their heads just so, hoping to catch his attention. He was power wrapped in effortless charm, an untouchable figure who played the role of the careless heir so well that even the most cynical couldn’t help but watch him.

You risked a glance. Of course, he looked perfect. Dressed in a dark, tailored suit that cost more than your entire apartment’s worth of furniture, he moved through the crowd with the kind of casual grace that made it seem like he belonged everywhere. A relaxed smile curved his lips, and the people surrounding him whether they were whispering behind their glasses or outright gushing were captivated.

It was almost infuriating, how easy it was for him. Why can’t beautiful people feel more im reach?

When then he reached his seat and saw you. For the briefest moment, the mask slipped. Not much just a flicker of something sharp in his eyes before it smoothed over, replaced with something unreadable.

He barely acknowledged the lingering hands on his arm, the voices vying for just another second of his time. His attention had already shifted. To you. You on the other hand are practically clutching your pearls to remain calm. Your publicist told you to absolutely DO NOT fuck up again.

Bruce had been willing to chalk that first encounter up to chance. A passing curiosity. Now he was beginning to think fate had a sense of humor.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he murmured as he sank into his chair, his voice carrying the warmth of amusement.

You exhaled through your nose, already bracing yourself. “Yeah, well. maybe i won the lottery to be seated next to Gotham’s golden boy.”

His lips twitched. “I doubt im anything that special”

You gave him a dry look. “Didn’t take you for a masochist, Wayne.”

He chuckled, low and quiet. “Only selectively.”

You sighed, picking up your menu just to give yourself something to do. “I do want to apologize for last time, I swear im more civilized. I guess that I kinda got thrown off a bit?” Bruce leaned in slightly, his voice dipping just enough that only you could hear.

“Acting all fancy? Where’s the fun in that?”

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ If you had to endure one more second of this sanctimonious drivel, you were going to jam your fork into the back of your hand just to feel something.

The dinner had been dragging on for what felt like an eternity, and the conversation at the table was as unbearable as expected. The hosts, a couple who clearly thought themselves Gotham’s greatest benefactors, were speaking at length about their so called “generosity” and the many ways they had given back to the community. It was all so painfully rehearsed.

“We simply couldn’t sit idly by while Gotham suffered,” the woman declared, holding her glass delicately between her fingers. “Which is why we’ve dedicated ourselves to philanthropy.”

Her husband gave a solemn nod. “Yes. Our foundation has put millions into rehabilitating Gotham’s most… unfortunate areas.”

Unfortunate areas. You took a slow sip of your wine, pressing your lips together to stop yourself from blurting something you’d regret. They were talking about the Narrows. Where you had grown up. Where people still fought to survive every single day, no thanks to the people in this very room.

They spoke as if their generosity was some grand solution to the city’s suffering. As if they had single handedly saved Gotham. You exhaled through your nose, already feeling your patience fraying. It was then that you felt someone shift beside you.

“Did you hear that?”

The words were spoken so casually, so smoothly, that at first, you weren’t sure you had heard them at all. You turned your head slightly, finding Bruce Wayne sitting beside you, his face the perfect picture of polite interest. His voice was quiet, just low enough that only you could hear him.

“Hear what?” you muttered, confused.

He took a sip of his drink, his expression unreadable. “The sound of Gotham being saved.”

You blinked. “what?”

Bruce gestured subtly toward the hosts. “Between the Restoration Project and last week’s fundraiser, I think we can safely say Gotham’s problems have been solved.”

For a moment, you just stared at him. Then, before you could stop yourself, you let out a sharp, amused breath. “Oh, absolutely,” you whispered back. “Crime? Poverty? Completely eradicated. I bet even the Joker is rethinking his entire life’s work.”

Bruce tilted his head, considering it. “Maybe he’ll go into finance. Become a hedge fund manager.”

You snorted. “I’d pay to see that.”

Bruce hummed, pretending to ponder it. “Or accounting. Something low risk. Maybe he’d be great at tax fraud.”

You bit your lip, forcing yourself not to laugh.

“Honestly?” you whispered, leaning slightly closer. “A few more dinner parties and we might even get Two Face to start a nonprofit.”

Bruce’s mouth twitched. “And I hear Penguin’s investing in an animal conservation project.”

You covered your mouth with your hand, shaking your head. How had this happened?You had been so close to losing your mind just minutes ago, and now here you were, whispering snide remarks with Bruce Wayne of all people. The absurdity of it hit you all at once.

You scoffed, shaking your head. “This is ridiculous.”

Bruce arched a brow. “What is?”

You glanced at him, lips twitching. “Didn’t think you were so much of a hater.”

Bruce leaned slightly closer, his voice amused. “Isnt that your job? you haven’t stopped being one.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide your smirk. “I think it’s a little more nuanced than that. Guess I’m a glutton for punishment.”

He chuckled, his blue eyes sharp with something unreadable. “Funny. Me too.”

Bruce wasn’t sure when it happened. When the night had gone from something exhausting to something… bearable. Enjoyable, even.

He had sat down at this table expecting the usual the same empty conversations, the same mindless flattery, the same performance he had perfected over the years.

You, who had spent the first half of the evening looking like you wanted to crawl out of your skin. You, who had made no attempt to charm him, who had barely acknowledged his presence at all until he had decided to push you just a little. when you had responded, it had been effortless. Natural.

He wasn’t sure how long it had been since he had felt that. Since he had been able to talk to someone like this without posturing, without pretending. It reminded him of something. Something old. Something familiar. A woman in a black catsuit, teasing him from the edge of a rooftop. Bruce’s fingers curled slightly against his knee.

Selina had been one of the first people to remind him what it felt like to be real. To be alive and now, somehow, you were doing the exact same thing and you didn’t even realize it.

Bruce glanced at you from the corner of his eye. You were still trying to suppress a smile, still glancing around the table like you couldn’t believe you were actually enjoying yourself. He found himself studying you really studying you. You didn’t belong here, that much was obvious. The way you sat stiffly in your chair, the way your fingers tapped lightly against your wine glass when you were irritated, the way you watched the room rather than participated in it.

You were observing. Just like him. Just like he had been doing since he was a boy, since he had first learned how to read a room, how to pick apart every detail, every lie. for all your sharp observations, you had completely missed the fact that you had captivated him.

Bruce Wayne was staring at you like you were a puzzle he needed to solve.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Your voice cut through the air softly, and Bruce blinked, pulled from his thoughts. You had caught him looking. For a brief moment, he considered deflecting, playing it off with a practiced joke. But he didn’t want to.

So instead, he simply shrugged. “I was just thinking,” he said, voice low, “that this might be the first time I’ve actually enjoyed one of these things.”

You frowned, clearly skeptical. “Bullshit. You go to these all the time.”

Bruce smirked. “Doesn’t mean I like them.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, still not quite believing him. “And I’m supposed to believe this dinner is different?”

His smirk deepened. “Well, you’re here, aren’t you?”

You blinked, and Bruce almost laughed at the way you processed his words, as if you weren’t quite sure what to do with them. But then, slowly, you shook your head, exhaling a quiet laugh.

“You’re so full of shit, Wayne.”

Bruce grinned. “Took you long enough to figure that out.”

For the first time that night, he didn’t feel like the billionaire playboy. Didn’t feel like Batman. He just felt like Bruce. Which wouldn’t that feel weird? He always believed that Batman was the real him. Right now feeling like a teenage boy meeting a girl.

&&&&

The second the speeches ended, you were on your feet. Not rudely just quickly. The second round of self congratulation had begun, and if you had to listen to one more person pat themselves on the back for “saving” Gotham, you were going to lose your mind.

You made your way toward one of the grand patios, slipping past gilded columns and chandeliers that cost more than your entire apartment complex. The doors were open, the cool night air seeping in just enough to make you crave the quiet outside. The moment you stepped onto the patio, you exhaled.

It was massive of course it was. Probably bigger than some of the city blocks you had grown up on. A perfect marble terrace with pristine railings, overlooking the twinkling skyline of Gotham. You leaned against the stone railing, closing your eyes for a moment. Peace. Finally. But, of course, peace never lasted long in Gotham.

“You know, for someone who doesn’t like high society events, you sure end up at a lot of them.”

You opened your eyes, lips already twitching into a smirk before you even turned around. Bruce Wayne stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets, looking at you with that same insufferably amused expression. A short, incredulous laugh escaped you. “stalking me now rich boy?”

Bruce stepped further onto the patio, shaking his head. “Just wanted the air, cant blame me”

You rolled your eyes, turning back to the skyline. “Mhm. Right. Sure. Just a coincidence you keep popping up wherever I am.”

Bruce leaned against the railing beside you, his voice casual. “Well, if it makes you feel better, I’ll be sure to keep a three foot distance from now on.”

You smirked. “Six, just to be safe.”

“Ten, and I might start getting offended.”

You shook your head, biting back a grin. There was something so easy about talking to him. Too easy. The thought was unsettling. “I have to admit,” Bruce mused, tilting his head slightly. “I didn’t expect you to show up tonight.”

You sighed, toying with the rim of your glass. “Believe me, if I could have avoided it, I would have.”

“you can say that again”

You exhaled through your nose, staring out over the city. “Yeah, well. If I want my stories to actually matter, I have to be seen.”

Bruce was silent for a moment, watching you. Then, his voice softened. “Is that why you do it?”

You turned to him, brow furrowing. “Do what?”

“Write the stories you do.” His blue eyes searched yours, something unreadable flickering behind them. “Why villains? Why not the heroes? You’d probably get a lot more recognition if you did.”

You huffed a small laugh, shaking your head. “Because the heroes don’t need me.”

Bruce’s gaze didn’t waver. “And the villains do?”

Your fingers tightened slightly around your glass. “The people who get thrown into Arkham, who are labeled as ‘monsters’ and ‘freaks’ and just written off most of them have stories no one ever hears.” You exhaled. “I want people to understand them. Or at least see them. Even if they don’t deserve sympathy, they at least deserve to be known.”

Bruce didn’t say anything right away. He just stared at you. Not in an uncomfortable way, not in the way men at these events usually did. No, Bruce was really looking at you. And for some reason, it made you shift under his gaze.

“…What?” you muttered.

Bruce just smiled slightly, shaking his head. “Nothing. I just didn’t expect that answer.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, well. Sorry to disappoint. I know the usual arm candy around here doesn’t have thoughts.”

Bruce snorted. “You really think that’s all I see you as?”

You arched a brow. “What else would I be?”

His expression turned thoughtful. “I dont really know”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “Well, if you’re looking for something interesting, you should probably set your sights somewhere else. I have no interest in being one of the people you “help” from the sidelines”

Bruce’s lips quirked. “help from the sidelines?”

You gestured vaguely. “I want to respect the people in there. the ones who have influence. Though when you’re on the other side of the spectrum its a little rough. The rich like to be seen and not heard.” You turned to him, meeting his gaze directly. “I have no intention of being a footnote in the pretend of gotham.”

Bruce watched you for a long moment, his smirk slowly fading into something softer. Then, finally, he spoke. “I have no intention of making you just a fling or to discard your work.”

The words were said so smoothly, so matter of factly, that they took a second to register. You blinked. Your mind blanked. Your entire brain shut down for a solid five seconds. Because what…what did he mean by that? You weren’t sure what part of the sentence flustered you more.

The fact that he wasn’t denying wanting you, or the fact that he had just so casually implied that you are going to be something more than a just a thought. Your lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

Bruce just smirked, watching you flounder. Then, slowly, he leaned in just a fraction.

“Speechless?” he murmured, voice low.

You snapped out of it, your pride kicking back in. “Please.” You scoffed, turning away. “You wish.”

Bruce chuckled, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

And as much as you hated to admit it… You kind of loved that he had caught you off guard.

The soft breeze ruffled your hair as you leaned back against the stone railing, trying to gather your thoughts. You couldn’t remember the last time someone had left you this disoriented. Bruce’s smirk only deepened as he studied your reaction, clearly enjoying the fact that he had thrown you off balance. You could feel the heat creeping up your neck, and no amount of cool air could wipe the warmth from your face.

“So…” he began, his voice far too smooth for your liking. “I take it that wasn’t exactly the response you were expecting?”

You forced yourself to look at him, swallowing back the knot in your throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really?” His gaze darkened just a little, and for a moment, there was no teasing, just something more genuine. “I think you do.”

The way he said it made your stomach flutter uncomfortably. You couldn’t decide if you wanted to laugh or slap him so you did neither. Instead, you stepped back from the railing, trying to put some distance between you and the overwhelming presence that was Bruce Wayne.

“fucking rich people,” you muttered, crossing your arms over your chest as if to shield yourself from him.

Bruce didn’t move, his eyes still locked on yours, his lips slightly curled. “Is that a no?”

Your heart skipped a beat. You blinked at him, dumbfounded. “A no?” you echoed, unsure if you had heard him right.

Bruce gave you that damnable, knowing look again. “You know, you don’t have to act all tough. You’re not fooling anyone.”

“I’m not acting tough,” you shot back, despite your nerves. “I just I don’t even know what you’re asking me.”

Bruce tilted his head slightly. “I’m asking you if you’d like to go out with me.”

Your jaw dropped. “Wait. What?”

He chuckled, clearly amused by your reaction. “Yes. That.”

You stared at him, utterly baffled, before glancing at the ground as if it might have the answers to everything you had just heard. You couldn’t tell if you were about to burst out laughing, slap him, or just walk away and pretend none of this happened.

“…You’re serious?” you managed to croak out after what felt like an eternity.

Bruce simply gave you a shrug, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Dead serious.”

For a long, torturous moment, all you could do was blink at him, trying to make sense of the situation. Bruce Wayne Gotham’s richest, most infamous playboy was asking you, the rebellious daughter of the shadows, on a date and you couldn’t even think of a single coherent response.

Finally, you let out a frustrated breath and turned your head away. “You’re insane.”

Bruce’s smirk softened into a more genuine smile. “I try.”

You shook your head, not knowing whether to feel mortified or weirdly elated. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“Well, you could say yes,” Bruce offered casually, his voice now a little more sincere.

You looked back at him, your heart still racing from the unexpected turn of events. “…I’m going to need a lot more time to process this.”

Bruce raised his hands in mock surrender. “Fair enough. I’ll give you time. But just so you know… I’m not going anywhere.”

The tension between you two was still there, thick in the air. But for some reason, it didn’t feel uncomfortable anymore. More like the beginning of something unexpected. Something that might change everything. And just like that, you were thrown back into the whirlwind that was Bruce Wayne.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ It was a quiet night as you walked home, the cool breeze against your face, your mind lost in thought. It had been a long day at work reporting, editing, and finalizing a piece about Gotham’s growing underbelly, a story that seemed to sink deeper with every layer you uncovered. You were used to it. You thrived on it. The truth was your domain, and you’d learned how to swim in the darkness long ago. It was something that made you feel connected to your roots, to the people you came from.

The streets of Gotham felt familiar, in a way. No matter how much money flowed into this city or how many pretty buildings sprang up in the skyline, you couldn’t forget the parts of it you grew up in. The darker corners, the alleys, the people who had nothing but each other to survive. They were your people, the ones you understood more than you ever could the high society types you’d been forced to mingle with.

You rounded the corner onto a familiar street, just a few more blocks before you were home. Then, without warning, the atmosphere shifted. The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end, and you slowed your pace. Gotham had a way of making you hyper aware, and tonight was no exception.

You felt it before you saw them. The footfalls behind you, too quiet, too steady. Your pulse quickened.

Before you could even react, two men emerged from the shadows, blocking your path. The dark shapes loomed over you, the threat in their eyes clear. One was holding a sharp looking knife, the other a crowbar. The older, taller man grinned, a twisted, unsettling look that made your stomach churn.

“Give us your bag, sweetheart,” he sneered, a rough, gravelly voice edging the threat. “We don’t want any trouble, but we will make it happen if you don’t cooperate.”

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t back down.

“Sorry, I don’t have time for this,” you muttered, trying to side step the bigger man, but he was quick, grabbing your arm with a vice like grip.

“Not so fast,” he growled. “You’re not going anywhere until we get what we want.”

You spun around quickly, your elbow connecting with his ribs in a sharp strike. He grunted, but it didn’t stop him from tightening his grip. The other man stepped forward, the crowbar raised as if to swing.

That was when you knew you were in trouble. But only for a second. You kicked back, slamming your foot into the first man’s knee, hearing the sickening crack as he stumbled backward. He swore, holding his leg in pain. You used the opening to break free, turning to face both men. The one with the crowbar swung at you wildly, but you ducked under his reach and used his momentum against him, redirecting his strike into the side of the nearby wall. Your movements were quick, practiced clean, precise. You didn’t need to fight dirty. You didn’t need to be anything other than efficient. All you needed was enough of an excuse to escape. Within seconds, the two men were on the ground, groaning in pain, incapacitated by your calculated strikes.

Breathing hard, you exhaled slowly, dusting yourself off. That was easy. But when you looked up to check for any more threats, the air around you grew heavy.

Batman was standing at the edge of the alley, his towering form almost blending with the shadows. His cape fluttered slightly in the wind, the symbol of the bat glaring on his chest, and those piercing eyes those damn eyes locked onto yours.

You froze. For a moment, it felt like time slowed down. It was him. Batman. The dark vigilante, the city’s protector, who had always hovered over Gotham’s criminal world like a myth, now staring at you with an unreadable expression.

His eyes narrowed. Recognition flashed across his face, though his expression remained carefully controlled.

You stared at him, blinking rapidly, confusion clouding your mind. You knew him. But how? But you hadn’t had you really? You were too caught up in your own world to truly pay attention to the rumors and gossip. He was, after all, just the Batman to you. That was all you cared about. But in that moment, you realized with an unsettling clarity: He knew who you were.

You laughed awkwardly, feeling a rush of heat to your face. “Oh great, just what I needed tonight,” you muttered under your breath. You quickly brushed a hand through your hair, trying to act like this wasn’t the most bizarre encounter you’d had in a while. “Listen, don’t worry about me. I appreciate what you do for the community though.”

Batman didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. His posture remained rigid, intimidating, but his eyes… his eyes seemed to soften for a split second. There was something in them something that spoke volumes. You couldn’t place it, but it felt like something more than just the bat.

“No,” he said, his voice low, gravelly. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.” His words were firm, but there was a thread of concern beneath it. “Gotham isn’t safe.”

“Yeah, well, Gotham doesn’t care about safe,” you shot back, your frustration bubbling to the surface. “It’s just me out here. If I want to get home, I’ll get home.” You didn’t want to admit it, but there was something about the way he said that it made you feel smaller. But you didn’t let it show. You lifted your chin, defiant. “I can take care of myself. Just like I did with them.”

You gestured to the two men still groaning on the ground, the earlier tension dissipating into the night air. But Batman didn’t reply. His eyes swept over you in a way that sent a chill down your spine. His body language shifted just slightly, enough for you to notice, but before you could say anything more, he was moving.

“Get inside,” he said abruptly, his voice unwavering. “I’m not letting you walk home like this.”

There it was again. The command in his voice. You narrowed your eyes, a little defiant but feeling a strange pull toward the urgency in his tone. “It’s very courteous of you but please. I told you, I’ve got it. I’m fine.”

Batman didn’t even blink, his tone now sharpened. “Get inside, now.”

His words left no room for argument. You were tempted to push back tempted to keep up your independence. But there was something about the way he said it, the way his gaze hardened, that made you swallow your pride. With a small, frustrated sigh, you turned and started walking towards the street, heading home. You could feel his presence lingering behind you, watching, making sure you weren’t followed.

For a split second, you almost wanted to ask him more. But you stopped yourself. You didn’t need him. Not really. He was just Batman, after all. You shook your head. No need to think about it. Sometimes you want to find and interview him for why he punches first and asks later. Though the bias for your work might be interfering with those thoughts.

But somehow, you couldn’t ignore the tight knot in your chest. The tension in the air between you and him felt like more than just a confrontation. It felt like something else. And that something else… well, it lingered.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ Bruce Wayne stood in the Batcave, his back pressed against the cool stone wall, his fingers lightly grazing the edge of the Batcomputer. His cape hung loosely behind him, still damp from the rain soaked night. The adrenaline of his patrol had long since faded, but an odd unease lingered in the pit of his stomach, something he couldn’t quite shake.

He’d spent countless hours in this cave, fighting Gotham’s worst and dealing with the city’s many challenges. His mission had always been clear: protect the innocent, bring justice, and make Gotham a better place. But tonight, something was different. Something about the encounter with you had stayed with him in a way he hadn’t expected. He couldn’t stop thinking about how you had handled yourself, standing tall despite the danger.

He had seen countless people fight back, but there was something unique about the way you did it. You weren’t just trying to survive you were alive in the moment, every move deliberate, confident, and unapologetic. You weren’t waiting for someone to come save you; you were saving yourself. It was rare in Gotham, a city where people often needed help just to make it through the day.

And yet, there was a sadness to it all.

Bruce knew that the city had a way of wearing people down, turning them into something else something bitter or broken. People like you, who had grown up in the shadows, had learned to fend for themselves because Gotham didn’t make it easy. He couldn’t help but wish that you hadn’t had to be so strong. You shouldn’t have had to fight alone.

His thoughts wandered back to the moment he’d seen you in the slums. Despite your strength, despite the control you’d taken of the situation, Bruce felt a pang of sympathy. The city had failed you, just as it had failed so many others. Gotham had a way of demanding too much from its people, and it had never been kind to those who were already struggling.

It was clear you weren’t someone who needed saving. You had made your own way, fought for your own space in a world that hadn’t always welcomed you. Bruce couldn’t help but admire that. It was something he understood well carving out a place for yourself in a city that tried to break you. But it still frustrated him that Gotham had forced you into a corner like that.

He pushed away from the computer, rubbing his eyes as he tried to clear his thoughts. He had a duty to the city, a duty that didn’t leave room for distractions or feelings. Yet, something about the way you carried yourself, how you didn’t let Gotham’s grime get the best of you, lingered in his mind. You were a reminder of the resilience he’d always admired in this city, but also a stark reminder of how much still needed to be done.

Bruce had always seen Gotham as a city to fix, a place in desperate need of change. He’d dedicated himself to that cause, but seeing you, standing strong in the face of everything this city threw at you, made him think what if there were more people like you?

But you shouldn’t have to be like that. You shouldn’t have to fight for your survival in a city that was supposed to be your home. And yet, you had.

Bruce exhaled deeply, leaning back against the stone wall again. It was moments like these that reminded him of how complex Gotham truly was. People like you weren’t just victims or criminals. They were the heart of the city, the ones who kept going even when the world seemed determined to make them quit.

He didn’t have the answers, but seeing you hold your own, standing up to those men like it was just another day, reminded him why he kept doing this. Gotham wasn’t just about fighting crime it was about protecting the people who refused to be broken. People like you.

Bruce let out a slow breath, turning back toward the Batcomputer, but his thoughts were still on you. He wasn’t sure where this would lead, or if it would lead anywhere at all. But for the first time in a long while, he found himself hoping that, somehow, Gotham would be a little less lonely for you.

For all of them.

Alfred: So, how did the gala go, Master Wayne?

Bruce: I think it went well. There was a very pretty woman. She didn’t say no when I asked her out

Alfred: Fascinating. Like watching a car crash in slow motion and calling it a graceful landing.

Bruce: …I’m sensing sarcasm.

Alfred: No, no. I’m very impressed. You managed to express interest without brooding in a corner or vanishing mid conversation. Progress.

Bruce: I hate it when you bully me.

Alfred: And yet, I persist.

rody soul x reader

｡𖦹°‧ You Matter To Me ｡𖦹°‧

it a the middle it the night kill a me but i’m tired but the brain rot is too strong. When i see him i think howl and calsifer

masterlist

Rody means the world to you, The world has a way of taking advantage

“Come on, slowpokes!” you called over your shoulder, already halfway up a stack of crates that led to your usual rooftop hideout above the bakery.

The streets of Otheon were always full of life, bustling markets, kids darting between stalls, the occasional shouts of vendors selling fresh bread or trinkets. But for you, Rody, and his siblings, the real adventure was never in the busy streets. It was in the quieter places, the hidden nooks and rooftops where no one bothered you.

“I’m trying!” Rody huffed, carrying Roro on his back while Lala clung to his arm. “Unlike you, I’ve got two little germs to deal with!”

Lala pouted. “I’m not a germ!”

“You kinda are,” Roro mumbled sleepily against Rody’s shoulder.

You laughed, hopping back down to help. “Alright, Lala, your ride’s here.” You crouched down, and without hesitation, she scrambled onto your back. “Hold on tight!”

Rody blinked at you, a little surprised, then turned his head away, hoping you wouldn’t notice the faint blush creeping onto his face. Pino, on the other hand, chirped way too much for it to go unnoticed. The little pink bird flitted around excitedly, landing on your shoulder and nuzzling into your cheek

As soon as she wrapped her arms around your neck, you effortlessly climbed back up, Lala giggling the whole way. When you reached the rooftop, you set her down, and she plopped onto the ground dramatically. “Made it!”

Rody finally got up after you, carefully setting Roro down before collapsing onto his back. “You have way too much energy,” he muttered, glancing at you.

You smirked. “you’re just getting old.”

“I’m old?” He scoffed, sitting up. “Excuse me? Who was the one struggling to carry Lala just now?”

“you were the one that was struggling with both—”

Pino, who had been fluttering around your head this whole time, landed on your shoulder and nuzzled against your cheek. You grinned and reached up to gently scratch her head. “What’s up with your little bird today? She’s been extra clingy.”

Rody stiffened. “Uh—no reason! She just, uh—likes you!”

Pino chirped a little too enthusiastically at that.

“she’s so cute and affectionate,” you said, narrowing your eyes. “If you ever want her off your hands i’ll gladly take her”

Rody quickly turned away, rubbing the back of his neck. “AHH! nooo. nope. no. nooooo. she’ll just stick with me”

You raised an eyebrow at him but let it go. If there was one thing about Rody, it was that he was always a little mysterious when it came to certain things.

Roro tugged at your sleeve, looking up at you with big eyes. “Can you tell us a story? The one about the hero who tricks the bad guys!”

“Again?” You grinned. “You guys never get tired of that one.”

“It’s the best one!” Lala said, scooting closer. “But this time, make Rody do the voices!”

Rody groaned. “Why me?”

“Because you’re good at it!”

You smirked, nudging him. “Yeah, come on, partner. Don’t leave me hanging.”

Rody sighed dramatically, but when Lala and Roro gave him matching puppy-dog eyes, he caved. “Fine.”

As you spun your tale, Rody, despite his earlier complaints, got really into the voices. Lala and Roro giggled at his exaggerated villain impressions, and even you had to bite back laughter at his over the top dramatic gasps. By the end of the story, Lala was leaning sleepily against your arm. “You’re gonna be a real hero someday,” she mumbled.

You ruffled her hair, grinning. “Maybe. But for now, I think Rody’s the real hero, he takes care of you guys all the time., you both better appreciate him” by the end you’ve adjusted to squishing her cheeks

Rody sputtered, caught off guard, and Pino chirped in agreement. “Whaaa No, I mean, I just do what I have to.”

His siblings nodded enthusiastically, and Lala giggled. “Then you can be the sidekick!”

“Hey!” you pouted, crossing your arms. “I think I should be the main hero here!”

Roro laughed. “No way! Rody’s way cooler!” Rody looked away, scratching the back of his head, clearly embarrassed but also secretly pleased. You just smirked at him, nudging him lightly with your shoulder.

“Guess that makes us partners, huh?” you said, offering your pinky to him.

For a second, Rody just stared at your outstretched hand, his heartbeat stuttering. Then, swallowing down whatever goofy feelings he had, he looped his pinky around yours, locking it in place.

“Yeah,” he said, softer this time. “Partners.” Pino chirped, flitting excitedly around you again.

“See? Even your bird agrees.” You shot him a teasing grin before offering your pinky. “Well i mean Ill say you’re my hero at least”

Rody just stared for a second, his heart skipping a beat. Then, swallowing down whatever weird feeling was creeping up on him, he linked his pinky with yours.

“You’re too much,” he said quietly.

Pino chirped again, landing between your hands.

You sighed dramatically. “Seriously, what’s with her today?”

Rody groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I don’t know, okay? Just—drop it!”

Lala giggled, Roro snickered, and you? You just awkwardly smiled. You had no idea what was really going on. And Rody really hoped you wouldn’t figure it out anytime soon.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

The warm glow of the Otheon sunset stretched across the rooftops as you made your way back home, the scent of freshly baked bread still clinging to your clothes. The afternoon had been perfect laughing with Rody, telling stories to Roro and Lala, and soaking in the feeling of belonging. But that feeling always faded when the night came.

The streets were quieter now, shadows stretching long against the buildings. You kept your head down, slipping through alleys with the ease of someone who had grown up in them. A habit. A necessity. Because the truth was, you couldn’t afford to be seen anymore.

Not after they found you.

It started a few weeks ago an offer, one you couldn’t refuse. The commission had their eyes on you for a while, watching, waiting. Not a hero in the traditional sense, but something else. Someone who could move unseen, get things done where others couldn’t.

They told you the country needed people like you. That you could make a real difference. after everything you’d been through, everything you’d done to survive, wasn’t that what you wanted?

Still, it didn’t feel real until you stepped inside the headquarters for the first time. Unlike the crowded streets of Otheon, the commission building was sleek, clinical. People moved with purpose, their faces unreadable. You weren’t sure what you expected maybe more warmth, more reassurance. But the moment you signed that contract, any illusions of comfort vanished.

“Your work will be in the shadows,” your handler had told you, sliding a file across the table. “We’re not looking for another flashy hero. We need efficiency. Discretion.”

You hesitated for only a moment before flipping the file open. That night, as you lay in your small apartment, staring at the ceiling, you thought about Rody and his siblings. About Lala’s certainty that you’d be a hero one day. About Rody’s quiet admiration when he thought you weren’t looking.

Would they understand this choice? Would they forgive you for walking a path that pulled you further away from them?

You exhaled sharply, sitting up. There was no room for hesitation. This was the only way forward. They didn’t need to know.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

The trailer smelled like coffee and something faintly sweet, probably the remnants of breakfast from earlier that morning. The small kitchen was as cramped as ever, with barely enough space for one person, let alone two. Yet, somehow, you and Rody had both ended up here, navigating the tight space like an old dance neither of you had forgotten.

You reached for the sugar at the same time he did, your hands brushing. “Sorry—”

“My bad—”

You both pulled back, only for you to move toward the sink as he turned in the same direction. Your hip bumped against his, making him stagger slightly. “Seriously?” he huffed, rubbing his side with an amused smile.

“Not my fault your kitchen is tiny,” you shot back, nudging him playfully before grabbing a mug from the cabinet.

He shook his head, taking a sip of his coffee. “Or maybe you’re just in my way.”

You smirked. “Maybe you’re in mine.”

Another bump, this time, your shoulder against his as you reached for a spoon. The closeness wasn’t new, not really. You’d spent your childhood shoulder to shoulder, running through the streets of Otheon, always moving together. But something about now about being here after all this time made the space feel even smaller.

Rody exhaled, setting his cup down with a soft clink. “Y’know… I don’t see you much these days.”

The shift in his tone made you pause. You stirred your coffee absentmindedly, the spoon clinking softly against the ceramic. “Yeah? Guess I’ve been busy.”

“Right. Busy.” He crossed his arms, leaning against the counter. “You always disappear for weeks at a time. Then you show up out of nowhere, act like nothing’s changed, and then poof. Gone again.”

You looked at him, seeing the way his brow furrowed just slightly, the way Pino chirped softly from his shoulder, almost as if echoing his thoughts. You flashed an easy grin. “What, miss me that much?”

Rody rolled his eyes, but there was no real bite to it. “Not the point.”

You let out a soft chuckle, stepping aside as he reached past you for the sugar again. In the tight space, you barely had room to move without brushing against him. He didn’t step away, and neither did you.

“Come on, Rody,” you said lightly. “You know me. I go where the wind takes me.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “Yeah. You always say that.”

The words were familiar, like an old refrain, but this time, they held something heavier beneath them. You didn’t answer right away, just took a sip of your coffee, letting the warmth settle in your hands. Rody studied you, waiting. You could feel it the way his gaze lingered just a little longer than necessary. Like he was searching for something.

Pino fluttered over to you, landing on your shoulder and nuzzling into your cheek. You smiled, brushing your fingers gently over her feathers. “Your bird’s really loves me. I think she’ll be happier following me around”

Rody exhaled a soft laugh, “she’s…. just affectionate ”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The quiet wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t the same as before. It wasn’t the easy silence of two kids who had nothing to worry about. It was something different now something heavier, something older.

“Still the same, huh?” Rody finally said, his voice softer this time.

You smiled, tilting your head slightly. “Wouldn’t be me if I wasn’t.”

But you both knew that wasn’t true. You weren’t the same kids running through the streets, scraping by on clever tricks and sheer determination. Time had pulled you in different directions, left gaps that neither of you knew how to fill.

Still, you wouldn’t say that. You wouldn’t tell him where you’d been, what you’d been doing. Some things were better left unspoken. Rody let out a small sigh, running a hand through his hair before picking up his coffee again. “Guess I’ll just have to enjoy the company while you’re here, then.”

You clinked your mug against his in a small toast, your grin still in place. “I hold the company I have with you so close.”

Pino chirped again, and Rody glanced at her before shaking his head with a smile.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

A question came up more often than you liked.

“You don’t have a hero name?”

People always asked with some mix of surprise and curiosity, like the idea of someone doing this kind of work without a flashy title was strange. Like it wasn’t normal to just be a person. But you never had an answer that satisfied them.

Because the truth was, you never needed one. Heroes had names to stand for something hope, power, legacy. They had people waiting for them, people who chanted their names in the streets, who relied on their presence. But for you?

There was no crowd waiting. No legacy to uphold. Just the job. That’s what you sold yourself too. Growing up in Otheon, names didn’t mean much. You learned early on that no one was coming to save you. No one cared what you called yourself when you were scraping by, running through life with Rody, protecting his siblings from the kind of people who didn’t bother learning kids’ names before taking what they wanted.

Survival was enough. A name wouldn’t have changed a thing. Even now, with the commission branding you as one of their best assets, you still didn’t see the point. The work you did wasn’t meant for the spotlight it was quiet, precise, the kind of thing that made people uneasy when they thought about how things really got done.

And maybe, deep down, it was better this way. A name meant being known. And to be known was to be missed.

You weren’t sure you could handle that.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

The night air was cool against your skin as you leaned back against the hood of Rody’s beat up car or is probably his car, you stopped asking. Staring up at the Otheon sky. The city lights blurred out most of the stars, but a few stubborn ones still shone through, distant but steady.

Rody sat beside you, one leg pulled up, his arms resting lazily over his knee. Pino was curled up on his shoulder, half dozing. For once, the world wasn’t pulling either of you in different directions. No missions. No responsibilities. Just this.

“You ever think about leaving?” he asked suddenly, voice softer than usual.

You glanced at him. “Otheon?”

“Yeah. The city. The country. Just… all of it.”

You exhaled, tilting your head back. “I used to.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just sat with it, letting the silence settle between you like a familiar weight. Then, finally “But you stay.”

You turned your head toward him. His eyes were unreadable, reflecting the dim city lights, but there was something in them, something careful. Like he was waiting for an answer that mattered.

“…Yeah.”

Rody hummed, looking away, a small smile playing on his lips. “Good.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Good?”

“Yeah.” He let out a breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “Because if you left, I think the whole damn world would feel it.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “…Rody.”

“I mean it.” He turned to face you fully now, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “I know you don’t think about yourself like that. I know you don’t see yourself the way you should. But you—” He huffed, shaking his head. “You matter, Y/n. To me. To the kids. To a hell of a lot more people than you think.”

Your throat tightened. You had spent so long moving in the dark, convincing yourself that it was better that way, that your presence wasn’t needed. Rody saw right through that. Like he always did.

“…You really believe that?” you asked quietly.

He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Of course I do, dumbass.”

Rody reached for your hand, threading his fingers through yours with a familiarity that made your chest ache. His grip was warm, solid, grounding.

“We’ve always been surviving against the world, I’m scared you don’t know how much you mean. Everything is changing and… and-” he said. “You just need to be you. And that’s enough.”

You swallowed hard, looking down at your intertwined hands. There was no teasing in his voice, no deflection. Just truth. For a long time, you had carried the weight of being unseen, unnoticed, untethered. But Rody saw you.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

It was supposed to be another straightforward mission for you, a pro hero on a routine contract. The job was simple, intercept an illegal exchange of weapons and information, apprehend the individuals involved, and ensure the goods didn’t make it onto the streets. You had done this hundreds of times. But now, standing above the alley, you realized just how easily something simple could spiral into chaos.

You’d always kept your personal life separate from your work as a pro hero. Being top tier came with its own pressures, and if you were honest with yourself, you didn’t need anyone’s pity or sympathy. The world of heroes was a strange one, filled with expectations, spotlight, and public relations. You never cared for the fanfare or the flashy name. To you, it had always been about getting the job done, saving lives, and making sure that people who needed help got it.

The mission was unfolding, but everything felt wrong.

You crouched low, eyes scanning the alley below as you noticed the familiar figure of Rody, his lanky frame standing awkwardly among a group of shady looking individuals. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, trying to play it cool, but the tension in his shoulders told a different story. He was out of his depth, and you could see it.

The voices from your earpiece crackled with static, a reminder of the task at hand. “Y/n, do you have visual on the target?”

You clenched your jaw. “Yeah. I see him.”

The rush of adrenaline hit you. You were supposed to be the one in control. You were the one who was supposed to stay ahead of this. no surprises, no distractions.

You’d seen Rody around the city occasionally, but you never really asked about what he was doing. He always seemed to disappear for days at a time, coming back with some new odd job, a bit more worn down, a bit quieter each time. He never talked about his work, and you never asked. You had your own life to handle, your own responsibilities to take care of. But seeing him standing there, surrounded by men you knew were tied to dangerous underground syndicates, made your blood run cold.

“Shit,” you muttered under your breath, realizing what this was.

You’d been hired for the same mission, but you never imagined he’d be involved in something like this. The contract you’d taken was straightforward: stop an illegal arms trade. But seeing Rody here, in the middle of it, made your stomach drop. He wasn’t a part of this world the world you worked in as a pro hero. This wasn’t the carefree kid you’d grown up with, not by a long shot. He was knee deep in a deal with people you knew to be dangerous, and the worst part was, he didn’t even seem to notice the weight of it.

Rody adjusted his jacket, glancing around like he was trying to hide his nerves. The man in front of him, a bulky figure with a scar running down his cheek, sneered as he took a step closer. “You’re late. You got what we asked for?”

You tensed, instinctively crouching lower behind the ledge, your heart pounding in your chest. The contract you had taken was to take down a ring of illegal arms dealers that had been slipping through the cracks of the law. They were smart, elusive slipping between the hands of the law with fake names and a string of different identities. You had been tracking their movements for weeks, and now here they were, just a few steps from being caught.

But Rody didn’t belong here. It wasn’t just the shady group of people. It was the fact that he was so calm too calm. This wasn’t the awkward, lovable Rody you grew up with. This was someone else, someone playing a part in a world you didn’t want him anywhere near.

The scarred man reached into his coat, pulling out a small package wrapped in cloth. “You know what to do with this,” he said in a low, menacing tone, handing it over to Rody. You couldn’t see the contents from this angle, but you didn’t need to. The exchange was happening.

You swallowed, unsure of what to do next.

“Rody, what the hell are you doing?” you muttered under your breath, a mix of anger and confusion flooding your chest. You never thought he’d go this far this deep into the underground world.

A flash of movement caught your eye, and you snapped your attention back to Rody. He was holding the package now, slipping it into his jacket like it was no big deal, still wearing that careless grin of his. The man gave him a nod of approval, and Rody took a step back, almost as if he was waiting for something.

Your heart raced. Was this the moment to act? Static crackled again in your earpiece. “Y/n, what’s your status?”

You exhaled, trying to steady your breath. “I’ve got eyes on the target.” You hesitated, your thoughts racing. “There’s someone else in the mix. Stand by.”

The radio was silent for a moment. “Acknowledged. Proceed with caution.”

You didn’t respond. Your mind was already made up. You couldn’t leave him there. You couldn’t just walk away and pretend it was any other mission. You had to act. Slowly, you slid from your perch, moving down toward the alley with practiced silence. Every movement, every step, had to be calculated. This wasn’t just about catching criminals anymore. This was about saving someone you cared about, someone who, despite everything, still mattered to you.

As you neared the corner, you heard Rody’s voice, low and a little too relaxed for the situation. “So, uh, do I just walk away, or what?”

The scarred man smirked. “You’ve done your part. Now get lost.”

Rody shrugged, turning as if he were about to leave. But then, just before he could make it to the exit, you rounded the corner.

“Hey!”

He froze, eyes wide as he looked up, catching sight of you standing at the end of the alley. His expression shifted surprise, then recognition, followed by that damn grin of his. “Y/N? What the hell are you doing here?”

You didn’t answer. You took a step toward him, hands raised, quirk already activating. “Get out of here,” you said, voice low but firm. “Now.”

He didn’t move. He just stared at you, a thousand questions in his eyes. “wait what?”

You didn’t want to explain. You didn’t want to answer the question he had no right to ask. You had always kept your work separate from your personal life, and this was not how you wanted him to find out what you’ve been occupied with.

The scarred man behind him grunted, clearly annoyed by the interruption. “What’s this?” he growled, eyeing you suspiciously.

Rody held up a hand, signaling for the man to calm down. “Hey, it’s fine. She’s an old friend. We go way back.”

But you couldn’t lie to him now. Not when he was standing there with a package in hand, standing right in the middle of your mission.

“I’m a pro,” you said, the words slipping out of your mouth before you could stop them. “But I’m not here for you. You need to walk away before things get worse.”

Rody blinked, looking down at the package in his hand, then back at you. “This… This is what you’re after?”

You didn’t answer. Rody swallowed, the tension suddenly making itself clear. “You know what this is, don’t you?” His voice was quieter now, a little softer.

“I know,” you said quietly. “But this isn’t the world you want to be in. It never was.”

The confident grin faded from his face for the first time since you’d seen him. His shoulders stiffened, his eyes narrowing. “I don’t need you to tell me what I can and can’t do.” His voice was sharp, defensive like he was trying to convince himself as much as he was trying to convince you.

You stepped forward, keeping your voice steady. “This isn’t some delivery, Rody. This is an illegal arms deal. And you’re standing right in the middle of it.”

He didn’t answer, but his jaw tightened, and his gaze shifted uneasily. You could see the conflict behind his eyes now, the way he was trying to hold on to that facade of control, but it was slipping. He didn’t want to admit that he’d made a mistake, that he’d gotten too deep.

“You don’t have to do this,” you said softly, lowering your hands slightly. “There’s always another way.”

Rody stared at you for a long moment, the tension thick between you. His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a second, it felt like he might say something real, something vulnerable. But then he just shook his head, the smile returning, forced this time.

“Yeah, well, we all gotta make a living somehow.” He picked up the package again, slipping it into his jacket, and turned his back to you. “I’m not your problem anymore.”

You reached out instinctively, grabbing his arm and spinning him around. “Rody, stop!”

He met your eyes, his expression unreadable, but the way his gaze flickered for a split second told you everything. “I have to do this.”

The words hit harder than you expected, and for a moment, you were both frozen in place, neither of you moving. The sound of Pino chirping nervously on his shoulder barely registered in the background.

Finally, Rody pulled his arm away gently, but there was a finality in the motion that stung more than it should have. “You’re a hero,” he said quietly, his voice almost sad now. “You do your thing. Let me do mine.”

You couldn’t let him go. Not like this. Before you could speak again, the scarred man growled, stepping toward you. “Enough talking. You’re not gonna ruin this deal, are you?”

Rody didn’t look back at you. He just started walking toward the exit, his steps slow but determined.

You stood there for a moment, torn between staying on mission and pulling Rody back from the edge he was so dangerously close to falling off. But you knew he was too far in now.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Rody had expected this to be another routine gig quick in, quick out, no complications. But now? He was sprinting through a crumbling warehouse, barely keeping up as bullets ricocheted off steel beams and crates splintered around him. This was not what he signed up for.

And the biggest problem wasn’t the deal gone wrong. It was you.

You moved through the fray like it was second nature, weaving through enemies like you had all the time in the world. Rody had always known you were quick, clever, and strong growing up, but this? The way you fought, the way you anticipated every move before it happened, the sheer confidence in your stance, none of it made sense.

He’d seen you fight before. Back when you were kids, you used to take down low level thugs together, scamming the occasional rich idiot out of their money just to survive another day. But that had been scrappy, desperate. Survival.

This was something else entirely. He barely ducked under a flying crate, cursing under his breath. “Oh, come on—”

The guy who threw it didn’t get another chance. You pivoted, a single sharp movement, and with barely a touch, redirected the momentum of the crate straight back at its sender. The impact sent him flying into a rusted container with a loud clang.

Rody’s brain stuttered. You hadn’t just dodged, you had controlled it. Like you’d known exactly where the force was going to go.

And you were completely calm about it.

He barely had time to process before another attacker lunged at him. Rody braced himself, twisting just in time to dodge, but before he could counter, you were already there. A single, well placed strike sent the guy sprawling to the ground, unconscious before he hit the concrete. Rody exhaled sharply. “Okay—what the fuck—”

You just turned to him, barely out of breath. Then another wave of enemies poured in.

“Later,” you said, grabbing his wrist and pulling him behind cover just as gunfire shredded through a nearby wall. He felt the way your grip tightened not panicked, not frantic, but controlled. You had everything mapped out in your head. You knew exactly what was happening.

Rody didn’t know what to focus on, the gunfire, the chaos, or the fact that the person he grew up with, the person he thought he knew, was not the same anymore.

You peeked out from cover, scanning the situation. “Alright, we need to move—”

Rody grabbed your sleeve, yanking you back before you could go any further. “No.” His chest rose and fell as he tried to catch his breath. His mind was spinning. “What do you do?”

You blinked. He wasn’t joking. His usual carefree expression was gone, replaced with something between shock and frustration. His brown eyes searched yours for some kind of explanation, some reason why the person standing in front of him wasn’t just the same street smart kid he grew up with.

You hesitated for only a second before smirking. “Let’s just say…” You adjusted your stance, tilting your head slightly. “I got a little more official than you.”

Rody blinked. Then the realization hit him like a train.

“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me. what you said earlier was real? ” Rody groaned, running a hand through his hair as the realization fully settled in. “You’re a hero?” The words sounded ridiculous coming out of his mouth, but there was no denying it now.

You gave him a lopsided grin, adjusting your stance. “Surprised?”

“Surprised doesn’t cover it,” he muttered. His heart was still pounding, half from the gunfire, half from the fact that everything he thought he knew about you was apparently wrong.

You shot him a knowing look, but before he could argue more, another burst of gunfire tore through the air, forcing you both to duck. The remaining thugs were regrouping, barking orders, trying to surround you.

Rody exhaled sharply. No time to argue.

“Alright,” he said, glancing around. “We need an exit.”

You peeked over the crate you were crouched behind, scanning the warehouse. “Main doors are too risky, they’ll have snipers covering the outside. Back entrance?”

“Locked, bolted, probably rigged to hell,” Rody said without missing a beat. He had already been looking for exits the moment things went sideways. Years of slipping in and out of trouble taught him to always have a way out.

You grinned. “ok pretty boy i’m gonna need you to lock in.”

Rody rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Give me cover, I’ll get us out.”

Just like that, the tension shifted. The shock of finding each other on opposite sides of the mission took a backseat to something more instinctual survival. The old rhythm kicked in before either of you could think about it. You launched forward, drawing the attention of the gunmen while Rody moved, darting between shadows and obstacles, slipping into the background like he was made for it.

And damn it, it was smooth. While you dismantled threats head on, Rody did what he did best found an opening no one else would’ve noticed. He spotted a rusted out maintenance ladder leading up to a row of high windows. If they could get up there, they could drop onto the roof and disappear before anyone noticed.

He worked fast, prying open an access panel and overriding the lock mechanism with a flick of his wrist.

“Y/N!” he called over his shoulder. “Exit secured!”

You heard him, but you were still occupied, two guys left, both moving in sync, trying to corner you. You sidestepped one’s attack, caught his wrist mid swing, and redirected the momentum into the other guy, sending them both sprawling.

Rody stared with awe. “Damn.”

You grinned, breath steady. “Told you. Official.”

“Yeah, yeah, get moving!”

You fell into step behind him, scaling the ladder with practiced ease. As soon as you reached the top, Rody swung the window open and hoisted himself onto the roof, offering a hand to pull you up after him.

“Not bad,” you said as you both landed, crouched low on the rooftop. The night air was crisp, the chaos below now just a dull hum.

Rody dusted off his jacket, grinning despite himself. “Yeah, well… turns out I still know how to work with you.”

You met his gaze, and for a second, it was like nothing had changed like you were still just two kids running through the streets of Otheon, watching each other’s backs, finding your way out of trouble together.

Except now, the stakes were higher. And you weren’t sure where you stood anymore. Rody exhaled, shoving his hands into his pockets. “So… what now, hero?”

You glanced back at the warehouse. “You tell me, thief.”

The tension between you both lingered, but there was no time to pick it apart. Not now. Not while the remnants of the fight still rang in your ears, and adrenaline buzzed beneath your skin.

Rody shook his head, letting out a breath as he stared out over the rooftops. “You know, I thought tonight was gonna be simple. Just another job, in and out, no surprises.” He shot you a look, half exasperated, half amused. “And then you show up.”

You smirked, crossing your arms. “What, disappointed?”

He scoffed. “I don’t know what I am. Still trying to wrap my head around the fact that you—” He gestured at you, exasperated. “—are a hero.”

You shrugged, feeling the weight of the moment settle in. “Wasn’t exactly the plan growing up. But life happens.”

“Yeah. Life happens.” He let out a short laugh, rubbing his temple. “And apparently, it happened to you a lot harder than it did to me.”

You just hummed in response, watching the city stretch out below you. The streets you both grew up on were still the same bright, busy, uncaring. But standing here now, after everything, you realized you weren’t the same kids anymore.

Rody shifted beside you, reaching into his jacket. “Speaking of jobs…” He pulled out a small, tightly wrapped package, the one he had been hired to deliver.

You frowned. “That what this was all about?”

“Yeah. Didn’t exactly ask questions when I took the gig.” He exhaled sharply, tossing the package once in his hand. “Turns out, I probably should’ve.”

You held out your hand. “Let me see it. Rody hesitated for half a second before placing it in your palm. You turned it over, feeling the weight. The package was small, but whatever was inside wasn’t just some ordinary delivery. You had a bad feeling about it.

“I need to take this,” you said finally, slipping it into your jacket. You shot him a look. “This thing nearly got you killed. Whatever’s inside? It’s dangerous. And if it’s linked to whatever bastard sent those guys after us, I need to know what it is.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I figured you’d say that.”

“Then why do you sound so annoyed?”

“Because,” he grumbled, shoving his hands in his pockets, “I was really hoping I wouldn’t have to deal with you stealing my paycheck tonight.”

You smirked. “Technically, it was never yours to begin with.”

He groaned. “Oh, shut up.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The weight of the night, the revelations, the near-death experienced it all settled between you.

Then, Rody stepped closer, tilting his head slightly. “You know, for what it’s worth… I get it now.”

You blinked. “Get what?”

He gave you a lopsided grin. “Why you stayed.”

Your breath caught. He wasn’t teasing. Wasn’t deflecting. He just meant it.

And suddenly, everything—the mission, the years of knowing each other , the different paths you had taken it all faded into something smaller. Less important. Without thinking, you grabbed his jacket and pulled him into a hug. Rody stiffened for only a second before relaxing, arms wrapping tightly around you. He smelled like gunpowder and cheap cologne, familiar and warm in a way that made your chest ache.

“Idiot,” you muttered against his shoulder. “You mean more to me than some dumb package.”

Rody let out a breathless laugh, squeezing you a little tighter. “Yeah. You too.” And just when the moment felt too much, when your heart was on the verge of really saying something stupid

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Something in his voice made your chest tighten. You had spent so long keeping your distance, letting your work pull you away from him and the life you once had. Now, seeing him like this standing beside you, after everything you realized how much you missed him.

And you weren’t going to let the moment slip away. Before Rody could react, you closed the distance and wrapped your arms around him.

He stiffened at first, caught off guard. But after a second, he sighed, his body relaxing as he slowly returned the embrace. His arms curled around you, firm but familiar, like they belonged there. You turned your head and kissed his cheek.

Rody froze.

A strangled noise escaped him as he immediately let go, taking a full step back. “H-Hey! What was that for!?”

You grinned, hands on your hips. “Oh, relax, pretty boy. Just proving a point.”

His ears were bright red. “You are so—”

But before he could finish, a tiny, distressed chirp rang out. You barely had time to react before Pino, who had been perched on Rody’s shoulder, suddenly collapsed, dramatically fainting onto your head.

Both of you stared at the tiny bird, now sprawled over your hair like she had just witnessed the most scandalous thing in existence.

Rody groaned, covering his face. “Pino, please.”

You burst out laughing. “Oh my god—”

Pino twitched weakly, as if trying to recover from the absolute shock of it all. “Pino—?” Your brows furrowed in concern, carefully cupping your hands around her small form.

Rody sighed beside you, rubbing the back of his neck, but there was no real annoyance in his voice when he muttered, “Yeah… saw that coming.”

You looked at him, confused, but his expression told you everything you needed to know.

Pino was relieved.

He never told you his quirk but right now you saw him in her. She had always been a reflection of Rody’s true emotions, the ones he didn’t say out loud. And right now, she wasn’t holding anything back she was clinging to you, sobbing like she had been carrying the weight of all the time you had been gone.

Your chest tightened.

You gently stroked her head with your thumb, whispering, “Hey, I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Pino let out another wobbly chirp, her grip tightening. Rody let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah, she’s gonna be like this for a while.” He glanced at you, something unspoken in his gaze. “Guess I can’t blame her.”

You met his eyes, something settling between you and Rody no matter how much he pretended otherwise had missed you just as much.

How long had it been since you had really been here? Since you let yourself be with Rody, without the weight of your job, without keeping him at arm’s length?

Too long. Way too long. The thought hit you all at once, and before you could think twice, you launched yourself at him.

“Rody!”

His eyes barely had time to widen before you crashed into him again, arms wrapping around his shoulders as your full weight sent the both of you stumbling. He let out a startled grunt, barely keeping his balance as you buried your face against his neck.

“Whoa—okay—hi didn’t we just do this?” He sounded surprised, but his hands instinctively came up to hold you steady.

You didn’t care.

“You mean so much to me,” you mumbled against his skin before pressing a firm kiss to his cheek. “Like, so much.”

Rody froze. You felt his whole body tense, his breath hitch. Pino, still curled between you two, let out a delighted little chirp, wiggling excitedly at the pure joy radiating off of you.

For a second, Rody was completely silent. “You really had to go for the cheek, huh?”

You pulled back just enough to see his face, his ears were red. Like, burning red. His usual easy smirk was nowhere to be found. Instead, he was staring at you, wide eyed, lips parted slightly, and way too stiff to be playing it cool.

You grinned, tilting your head. “What? Would you rather I kissed you somewhere else?”

He made a choked noise. “I—”

You laughed, tightening your hold on him. “I missed you, idiot.”

Slowly, his hands settled more firmly against your back, fingers gripping just enough to keep you there. His chest rose and fell beneath you, and finally, he let out a quiet chuckle.

“…Yeah.” His voice was softer now, barely above a breath. “I missed you too.”

Pino chirped happily, flapping her wings.

“Now come on, partner. We’ve got work to do.”

Rody rolled his eyes, but there was a smile tugging at his lips as he held you tighter.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

The small trailer was as rowdy as ever, filled with the sounds of Roro and Lala excitedly recounting their day. You sat on the couch, Lala clinging to your arm while Roro dramatically reenacted a scene from school.

“—And then I told him, ‘That’s not how you do it!’ and bam, I solved the problem first!” Roro grinned proudly.

You gasped, playing along. “No way. You totally outsmarted them.”

“Obviously.”

Lala tugged at your sleeve. “Did you see my drawing? I made you a hero!”

Your heart warmed. “Yeah? Let me see.”

She beamed and scrambled to grab her notebook. Rody, meanwhile, leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching. His expression was unreadable, but you knew him well enough to catch the way his fingers tapped lightly against his arm a small habit of his when he was thinking too much.

After Lala finished showing off her masterpiece (which featured you punching a villain twice your size), Rody finally spoke up.

“Alright, alright, bedtime,” he announced.

Roro groaned. “But—”

“No buts.”

Lala pouted dramatically. “You just wanna talk to Y/n alone.”

Rody sputtered. “I—what? No, I just—”

You burst into laughter. “Smart kid.”

Lala giggled, dragging Roro toward their room. “Goodnight, Y/n! Don’t let Rody be too boring.”

The second their door closed, the trailer fell into a quieter hum. The absence of their voices made the space feel smaller.

You exhaled, standing up. “They’ve got you figured out.”

Rody huffed, moving to the sink. “Yeah, yeah.” He grabbed a glass, filling it with water. “So, you sticking around this time, or am I gonna have to wait another few months for you to show up again?”

You blinked. There it was, the question you had expected, but still weren’t fully ready for. Stepping into the kitchen, you leaned on the counter beside him. The space was narrow, just enough that every time Rody shifted, his arm brushed against yours.

“You miss me?” you teased.

Rody scoffed. “No. Pino does.”

Right on cue, Pino fluttered onto your shoulder, nuzzling into your cheek with an excited chirp.

You grinned. “Uh-huh. Just Pino, huh?”

Rody turned to face you, his usual smirk in faded something about it was different. Maybe it was the way his fingers drummed absently against the counter. Maybe it was how his breath had slightly hitched when you got closer.

“What do you want me to say?” he asked.

You shrugged. “Maybe the truth.”

Something flickered across his face. Neither of you moved, the weight of unspoken things pressing between you. suddenly, you were done waiting. You reached up, cupping his face, and before Rody could react.

You kissed him.

It was soft hesitant for just a second—until Rody melted. His breath caught, his hands gripping the counter like he was grounding himself, like he was making sure this was real.

Pino let out the most dramatic squeak you had ever heard before fainting onto the counter.

You barely registered it, too focused on the warmth of Rody’s lips, the way he exhaled like he had been holding this in for years. When you finally pulled back, his eyes were wide.

“You—” His voice cracked, and he coughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You really do so much for me?”

You glanced up at the tiny, unconscious bird. “…Yeah, when it comes to you, i’ll do anything”

Rody groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Y/n…. what is this .”

You smirked. “did you like it?”

Rody opened his mouth paused then sighed, shaking his head with a lopsided grin.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Yeah, I did.”

You grinned, wrapping your arms around his waist, and this time

He pulled you in first.

A Not-So-Disastrous Romance

Saiki Kusuo x Non-Binary! Reader

Book 1

Follows the events of Season One

Prologue: Troublesome "Friends"

Chapter One: Girl Problems and Beach Woes

Chapter Two: Ghosts and Guardians

Chapter Three: Sports Festival

Chapter Four: Safety Drills and Clairvoyants

Chapter Five: Ramen Shops

Chapter Six: Christmas Eve

Chapter Seven: New Year's Day

Chapter Eight: Valentine’s Day Chaos and Movie Night Misunderstandings

Chapter Nine: Mothers and Meetups

Chapter Ten: Traveling to Okinawa

Chapter Eleven: Accidents and Reveals

Chapter Twelve: Insecurities and Sweets

Chapter Thirteen: Punk Transfer

Chapter Fourteen: Festival Display

Chapter Fifteen: Festival Problems

Chapter Sixteen: Taking Teruhashi Out (on a Not-Date)

Chapter Seventeen: Delinquent Run-In and Teruhashi’s Home-Visit

Chapter Eighteen: Karaoke Party

Chapter Nineteen: Toritsuka’s Possessions and Club

Chapter Twenty: Crepes and Breaks

Chapter Twenty-One: Adventures in London

Chapter Twenty-Two: Summer Break Days

Chapter Twenty-Three: Rich Transfer Trouble

Chapter Twenty-Four: Celebrations

Book 2:

Follows the Events of Season Two

Prologue: Relationships

Chapter One: Cafes and Clothes

Chapter Two: Saiko's Mansion

Chapter Three: Cold Days and Warm Hearts

Chapter Four: Cute Girls and Ghost Girls

Chapter Five: Competition and Curses

Chapter Six: Seasick

Chapter Seven: Stranded

Chapter Eight: Raft

Chapter Nine: Misinformation and Memories

Chapter Ten: Fortune-Telling Transfer

Chapter Eleven: Mark of Death

Chapter Twelve: Family

Chapter Thirteen: Festival Competition

Chapter Fourteen: Elderly Project

Chapter Fifteen: Dates and Judo

Chapter Sixteen: Teruhashi's Tears and Rifuta's Crush

Chapter Seventeen: Occult Love versus Sweet Loves

Chapter Eighteen: Evil Spirits and Pranks

Chapter Nineteen: Insecurity and Talkative Transfer

Chapter Twenty: Investigative Transfer

Chapter Twenty-One: Culture Festival

Chapter Twenty-Two: Festival Play

Chapter Twenty-Three: New Year's Premonition and Valentine's Day Gift

Chapter Twenty-Four: Clone Trouble

Chapter Twenty-Five: Confessions

Specials:

Pride Specials: 2024

Halloween Specials: 2024

Taglist:

@elaemae, @painstakingly-juno, @characterreaderwriter, @melovepurple, @sleep-7372, @w0mank1sser, @geminigengar, @noodleryworld, @leonardo-dabitchy, @janezee12751275, @xenop0p, @ex160-blog1, @boogiemansbitch, @dmitrytherat, @yuriisclumsy, @sixxze, @constellationguy, @k03ume, @sweatyinternettrash, @paastaboi, @unorthodox-gob, @girlswhopanic, @h-i-g-h-w-a-y-t-o-h-e-l-l-l, @drowningfishy, @rinwho, @izzieg3987, @candylp, @jmclouds, @ittomain1, @justamina-blog, @newtscreatures347269, @digital-dumbass, @chronovala, @yappydoo, @mymomsdisappointment, @lvvcian, @kyliexreads, @b3bybunny, @sle3pyh3ad2, @snowy-violet, @jaguarthecat, @isaacdaknight, @newttheglue250, @thelameone101, @peqch-pie, @rai-xxx, @loverzxi, @s0ggyrats, @introvertathome, @pandaquick, @sleepyk0dyz, @girgal73

THIS IS SO REAL OMG 😱

Kon-el | Connor Kent X readerbatsis!

⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡ ° Batblood ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡ °

uhhh self indulgent bat family stuff

masterlist

This is mostly Batfamily X Batsis. Though I think I had enough Conner Kent X Reader to classify this as a thing.

GUYS I WROTE DAMIENS NAME WRONG THROUGHOUT THIS WAIT

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡ ° ✩ The first thing you learn about your parents is that they are fundamentally incompatible. The second thing you learn is that they will never stop trying anyway.

You don’t remember a time when Bruce and Selina were ever something as simple as together. They exist in contradictions she flirts, he broods; she steals, he stops her; she leaves, he waits. You used to think they would eventually find a middle ground, but you’ve long since given up on that idea.

Bruce and Selina have always been on and off, a constant push and pull. He loves her, but he can’t accept her choices. She loves him, but she refuses to change for him. You grew up watching them dance around their feelings. One moment, she’s draped over his desk in the Batcave, teasing him, and the next, she’s gone without a trace, leaving only a cryptic note behind.

Still, they make sense, in a way that defies logic. And despite all their back and forth, they both love you just in completely different ways. The truth is, Bruce and Selina will never be able to give you the same kind of love.

⸻

“Again.”

You grit your teeth, clenching your fists as Bruce circles you in the Batcave’s training area. You’ve already gone through this drill a dozen times. Your muscles ache, your ribs are sore from earlier blows, but he’s relentless.

You feint left, then pivot sharply, throwing a kick at his side. He blocks it easily. Too easily. His expression remains unreadable, but you can feel his disapproval.

“Sloppy,” he says, stepping back. “You’re letting yourself get tired.”

“That’s because I am tired,” you snap. “We’ve been doing this for over an hour.”

He crosses his arms. “On the field, you don’t get to decide when you’re done.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, but Tim does? Jason does? Even Damian doesn’t get this much micromanaging.”

Bruce’s jaw tightens. “This isn’t about them. It’s about you.”

“No, it’s about me being your daughter.”

His silence confirms it.

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “You trained all of them, let them fight their own battles. You trusted them to figure it out. But me? You’re scared to let me.”

Bruce’s expression darkens. “I’m not scared.”

“Then what is it?” you challenge, stepping closer. “You push me harder than you ever pushed them, but you still won’t let me prove myself. What’s the point of all this if you’re just going to hold me back?”

His voice is quiet when he finally answers. “Because I can’t lose you.”

The weight of those words presses against your chest. You want to be angry, to keep fighting him on this, but the raw emotion in his voice makes it impossible.

You don’t know what to say, so you settle for the only truth you have.

“You won’t,” you murmur. “But you have to let me go.”

Bruce doesn’t answer. He just exhales slowly, tension still radiating from his stance. You don’t expect him to change overnight, but at the very least, he doesn’t call for another round. That’s something.

⸻

Selina finds you hours later, sprawled out on the balcony of her penthouse. You weren’t planning on coming here tonight, but after your fight with Bruce, you needed air. And if there’s one thing Selina understands, it’s the need to escape.

She slides the glass door open, stepping onto the rooftop with effortless grace. “I thought I’d find you here.”

You don’t turn to face her. “Bruce is being impossible.”

She chuckles, settling beside you. “He’s still your dad don’t call him bruce, though when isn’t he?”

You sigh, tilting your head back against the cool metal railing. “I just… I don’t know how to make him see me as more than just his kid. He acts like I’ll break if I take one wrong step.”

Selina hums thoughtfully. “That’s what he does. He builds walls around the things he loves, convinces himself it’s the only way to keep them safe.”

You glance at her. “And you?”

She smirks. “Oh, I’d never keep a bird in a cage. I’d teach her to fly.”

There’s something appealing about that. With Selina, there are no rules, no suffocating restrictions. Just a quiet, unwavering confidence in your abilities. Even if you don’t approve of the way she lives, you can’t deny that she makes you feel free.

She pulls a small velvet pouch from her pocket and tosses it into your lap.

You raise a brow. “Do I want to know?”

She grins. “Just a little something I picked up.”

You groan, shoving it back at her. “I told you to stop giving me stolen jewelry.”

Selina only laughs. “It’s not stolen technically. I swapped it for something better.”

“That’s still stealing.”

“Details, darling.”

You can’t help but laugh. She winks, ruffling your hair before standing. “Come on. Let’s get something to eat before you let your father’s brooding ruin your whole night.”

You shake your head but follow her anyway.

For all their differences, Bruce and Selina have one thing in common: they both love you, fiercely.

Your dad will always try to protect you from the world. Your mom will always remind you that it’s yours to take. You exist in the space between them.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡ ° ✩

Patrol had been standard until it wasn’t. You and Tim had been watching an arms deal go down from the rooftops of Gotham’s East End. The intel from Oracle suggested this was a simple exchange one that didn’t require much interference. The plan was to observe, gather intel, and report back if things escalated. But you weren’t convinced.

Something felt off. You crouched beside Tim, scanning the warehouse below. The deal was happening inside, but your eyes were locked on a figure slipping through a side entrance, unnoticed by the others.

“Tim, we’ve got movement,” you whispered.

He barely glanced at the figure before shaking his head. “Not our priority. We wait and”

“I’m going after them,” you interrupted, already moving.

Tim grabbed your arm. “That’s not the plan.”

“I have a bad feeling about this,” you insisted, shaking him off. “Cover me.”

And before he could protest, you were already gone.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The side entrance led you through a narrow corridor, crates stacked high along the walls. You moved quietly, using the shadows to your advantage.

The man you were following a mercenary by the look of his armor spoke softly into an earpiece. You couldn’t hear what he was saying, but the urgency in his tone sent a chill down your spine.

You pressed closer, peering around a crate. Then you saw it.

This wasn’t just an arms deal. There were bombs. Crates of them. Military grade explosives, lined up and ready to be moved.

Your stomach dropped.

“Oracle,” you whispered, touching your comm. “We have a problem.”

“I see it,” her voice came through your earpiece. “I’m running facial recognition on the men inside. This isn’t just some street gang these guys are mercenaries.”

“Figures.”

Tim’s voice suddenly crackled through. “You were supposed to wait.”

“I’d say ‘I told you so,’ but I’m a little busy.”

A movement caught your eye. The mercenary was reaching for a detonator.

Shit.

You sprang from cover, knocking him back with a swift kick to the ribs. The detonator clattered across the floor.

“Got company,” you muttered.

“On my way,” Tim responded.

But it was already too late.

The other mercenaries had heard the commotion, and within seconds, you were surrounded.

⸻

Fighting in the Fire

You moved on instinct, blocking the first blow aimed at your head and countering with a knee to the gut. The second merc swung at you with a baton, but you ducked, sweeping his legs out from under him.

The fight was brutal there were too many of them, and you were alone.

A blade sliced across your side, and you hissed, twisting to avoid a deeper wound. Blood soaked into your suit, but you ignored it, focusing on staying alive.

Then the explosion hit.

A grenade thrown from somewhere behind you detonated against one of the stacked crates. The force sent you flying, crashing through a pile of debris. Your ears rang, and your vision blurred.

Somewhere in the distance, you heard Tim’s voice in your earpiece. “Hold on I’m almost there!”

Gritting your teeth, you forced yourself to move.

You weren’t dying here.

When the dust settled, the mercenaries were either unconscious or retreating. The explosives were still intact, and Tim arrived just in time to secure them.

But you were wrecked.

He looked at you, taking in the blood seeping from your side. “You’re an idiot.”

You gave a weak smirk. “Yeah. But at least I was right.”

Tim muttered something under his breath before helping you out of the warehouse.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡ ° ✩

The moment you step off the platform, you feel him before you see him.

Bruce is waiting. Arms crossed. Silent.

He’s still in the Batsuit, the cowl pulled back, his expression unreadable but you know better. You’ve seen that look before.

Tim doesn’t say a word. He just gives you one final glance and walks off, leaving you alone with the inevitable.

You brace yourself, but Bruce doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t have to. His disappointment is a physical weight in the air.

“You abandoned your partner,” he says, voice like stone.

“I chased a lead.”

“You disobeyed orders.”

You grit your teeth. “It was the right call.”

He steps forward, and suddenly, you feel small. Not because you’re afraid Bruce would never hurt you but because his presence alone is suffocating.

“The right call?” His tone sharpens. “You were injured. You could have been killed.”

“But I wasn’t,” you argue, though the sting in your side says otherwise.

Bruce exhales slowly, his jaw tightening. “You’re reckless.”

“You don’t say that when literally anyone else is on a mission,” you snap.

He doesn’t answer immediately, and that silence stings. Because you already know the truth. You’re different. You’re his daughter. And that changes everything. but it doesn’t Damien is younger than you. You don’t get it.

“You’re dismissed,” he finally says, voice cold.

You hesitate, fists clenched, but there’s no point in arguing. Not when his mind is already made up.

You turn and head toward the med bay, fuming the entire way.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡ ° ✩

You’re half out of your suit, sitting on the medical table while Alfred patches up your side, when Jason storms into the Batcave like a force of nature.

“The hell happened tonight?”

You groan. Of course he found out.

Bruce, still near the Batcomputer, barely glances up. “Jason”

Jason ignores him, turning straight to you. His eyes flick to the bloodstained bandages, and his expression darkens. “Who did this?”

“Relax,” you sigh. “It’s just a scratch.”

Jason scoffs. “A scratch?” He turns to Bruce, eyes blazing. “What the hell was she doing in a situation where she could end up like this?”

“I made the call,” you interject. “It was my decision.”

Jason looks at you like you’ve lost your mind. “That’s not a good thing, dumbass.”

You scowl. “It’s part of the job.”

Jason shakes his head, pacing. “Nah. No. You shouldn’t be out there like this. He shouldn’t be letting you”

“I let her do nothing,” Bruce interrupts, his voice a low warning.

Jason laughs humorless, sharp. “Oh, really? Because it looks to me like you’re putting her through the same damn cycle we all went through. How long before she ends up dead in an alley too?”

“Jason”

“No, screw that,” Jason snaps. “You’re just letting her walk into this life like it’s fine. Like it’s not gonna chew her up and spit her out like the rest of us.”

You push yourself up from the table, ignoring the sharp sting in your side. “I chose this, Jason. No one forced me.”

Jason turns his glare on you. “You don’t get it, do you? You think this is just about being a hero, about doing good?” He scoffs. “It’s a death sentence.”

You clench your jaw. “So what, you expect me to just sit at home and do nothing?”

“I expect you to be smarter than this,” he snaps.

Before you can fire back, his eyes narrow, and suddenly, the conversation takes a sharp turn.

“Speaking of dumb decisions,” Jason mutters, crossing his arms. “You’re still with Superboy, right?”

Your frustration spikes. “Oh my godseriously?”

Jason gives you a deadpan look. “knock off superman? Really? You could do better.”

You throw your hands up. “Why does everyone have a problem with me dating Conner?”

Jason rolls his eyes. “Because he’s a walking red flag wrapped in blue spandex.”

You glare. “That’s rich coming from you.”

Jason scowls. “I don’t trust him.”

“You don’t trust anyone.”

He doesn’t deny it.

You exhale sharply, rubbing your temples. “Look, I’m tired, I’m injured, and I don’t have the energy for this right now.”

Jason studies you for a moment, then sighs, running a hand through his hair. His anger hasn’t faded completely, but the sharp edge of it has dulled.

“Fine,” he mutters. “But if he ever screws up, I will break his face.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a flicker of something warmer underneath the annoyance. Jason will never say it outright, but you know what this is.

It’s not just anger. It’s fear.

Bruce was right about one thing losing people leaves scars. And Jason? He has more than most. He won’t stop you from fighting your battles. But he’ll sure as hell be there when you fall.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡ ° ✩

Dating in the Batfamily was a challenge. Dating Conner Kent? That was practically a declaration of war.

You weren’t an idiot you knew what your family thought of him. Bruce didn’t trust him. Superman’s clone, an unpredictable force of power, a boy with too much strength and too little control. That’s how your father saw him, at least. Jason didn’t respect him. “A knock off in a leather jacket? Come on, you can do so much better.”

Tim was wary. Conner was his best friend, but even he had his doubts when it came to you.

And your mother? Selina raised a delicate brow when she first caught wind of your relationship, a teasing smirk playing at her lips. “Oh, darling,” she had purred. “You know how your father’s going to react, right?”

You had sighed, rubbing your temples. “Yes, Mother, I know.”

She had hummed in amusement. “Well, Im starting to think i’m a bad influence, at least try not to be like me and your dad.”

“Mom.”

She had only laughed.

At first, it was easier to keep it hidden. You and Conner met in the shadows, in places no one else would look.

Abandoned rooftops, dimly lit diners on the outskirts of the city, quiet parks in the dead of night where he could float just above the ground, keeping you wrapped in the warmth of his presence.

He wasn’t like Superman and you weren’t just Batman’s daughter.

That’s what you loved about being with him. When he looked at you, he didn’t see the vigilante, the heir to Gotham’s dark legacy. He didn’t see someone who had to be perfect. He saw you. Your flaws, your fears, your messy, complicated emotions. And he never tried to change them.

“I don’t care about what your dad thinks,” he had told you once, leaning back against the fire escape outside your window. “Or your brothers. Or your mom, even.”

You raised a brow. “Not even a little?”

He grinned. “Okay, maybe a little. But it doesn’t change anything.”

You had smirked. “You are stubborn.”

“Says the girl who won’t admit she likes me.”

You scoffed, but he had been right. Liking him had been the easy part. Accepting that he was yours? That had been harder.

Gotham was a city of ghosts.

Your life had been built on shadows, on silent movements, on always thinking five steps ahead. Mistakes had consequences, emotions were weaknesses, and attachments?

They got you killed.

But Conner… Conner made you feel like you were alive.

He never cared about the weight of your family name. He never expected you to be perfect. He let you be wrong, and he still stood by you.

One night, after a brutal mission, you had been exhausted, bruised, and pissed at your father for another round of overprotection.

Conner had found you on the rooftop of your shared apartment, sitting at the edge, staring out at the skyline.

He had landed softly beside you, his presence warm against the cold night.

“You okay?”

You hadn’t answered right away.

Then, quietly, you had admitted, “Sometimes I think its much more worth it to leave this place”

Conner had been silent for a moment before he shifted closer. “Yeah. I get that.”

And you knew he did. Superman saw him as something broken. A project. An accident to be controlled. Bruce saw you as something fragile. Something not ready.

You had glanced at Conner then, at the way he looked at you not as something to fix, but as someone whole. You had leaned into him, and he had let you.

That was the thing about Conner.

He didn’t just love you. He trusted you to be exactly who you were.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Your father was the last to acknowledge it.

Bruce had spent months pretending you weren’t sneaking out to see Conner, pretending he didn’t know why your patrol routes started conveniently lining up with the edge of the city.

But Bruce noticed everything. eventually, he noticed him. It started with the little things.

Conner was always near you in battle, always the first to shield you from an explosion, always ready to catch you if you fell.

Bruce watched the way Conner would take the hit for you not because he thought you couldn’t handle it, but because he could. Conner was powerful, but he never used that strength to control you. He never underestimated you.

One night, after a particularly nasty fight against a group of assassins, you had ended up battered and bloody, a knife wound deep in your side.

Conner had carried you back to the Cave.

Bruce had been waiting.

The air had been tense as Conner laid you gently on the med bay table, his jaw tight, eyes burning with barely contained fury.

“She shouldn’t have been alone,” Conner had said, voice sharp.

Bruce had met his glare, unreadable. “Yeah she shouldn’t have.”

“Then act right on this and she wouldn’t have been alone,” Conner snapped. “shes strong but I don’t care like assholes like you neither does she.”

Silence.

Then Bruce had simply turned and walked away. It wasn’t approval. But it wasn’t rejection, either. You supposed, in his way, Bruce was starting to understand.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡ ° ✩

Looking back now, lying in the med bay once again, you let out a slow breath.

The room was empty.

The cave was silent.

Your body ached, your side still throbbing from the mission gone wrong. You stared at the ceiling, letting exhaustion creep in.

Jason’s words still echoed in your head.

“Tights and a cape? Really?”

You sighed.

They’d never understand.

when Conner held you, when he saw you, when he treated you like something more than just Batman’s daughter… It didn’t matter what anyone else thought.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡ ° ✩

Gotham was different when Dick was in town. Maybe it was the way he carried himself loose, easy, like the city didn’t weigh on his shoulders the way it did on everyone else’s. Maybe it was because he didn’t live here anymore, so Gotham’s shadows didn’t cling to him the way they clung to you, to Jason, to Bruce.

Either way, his presence always changed the air. Right now, though? It just made the tension in the Batcave feel even heavier.

Dick had barely been back for a full twenty four hours before he noticed. The way Bruce’s jaw was tighter than usual, how Jason was avoiding both of you, how Tim kept smirking behind his coffee cup like he was enjoying the chaos. And you?

You were just done.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched.

Watched as Bruce checked your gear three times before your patrol. Watched as Jason kept throwing pointed glances your way, muttering curses under his breath like you were the idiot. Watched as Tim leaned back against the Batcomputer with the most entertained expression, like this was his own personal sitcom.

Eventually, Dick just sighed.

“Alright, kid,” he said, slinging an arm around your shoulders. “Burgers. Let’s go.”

Bruce barely looked up. “She has patrol.”

Dick raised a brow. “No, she has burgers with her favorite brother.”

Jason scoffed from across the room. “Favorite? Yeah, okay, Nightwing.”

Tim sipped his coffee. “I don’t know, Jay. He is also my favourite.”

You didn’t argue. You just grabbed your jacket and followed Dick out before Bruce could protest.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The diner was a little hole in the wall place, tucked between two crumbling buildings. Greasy food, crappy lighting, the kind of place that felt like Gotham to its core. You slumped into the booth, arms crossed as Dick slid in across from you.

He didn’t push. Didn’t prod. Just casually unwrapped his burger and took a bite, waiting. It didn’t take long for you to break.

“He treats me like a soldier,” you said suddenly, frustration bubbling to the surface. “Not even a good one. Just one he doesn’t trust to make their own decisions.”

Dick chewed, nodding. “Bruce?”

You rolled your eyes. “Obviously Bruce.”

You picked at your fries. “he’s such an ass, i know he’s had this tough love thing since Jason but god why cant he let me be? Every move I make, he second guesses. Every mission, he reroutes my patrol to keep me ‘safer.’ He acts like I’m some reckless idiot who’s one bad decision away from getting killed.”

Dick hummed. “Jason probably isn’t helping.”

You huffed. “Oh, he’s worse. At least Bruce lets me fight Jason acts like I’m made of glass. Like I need protecting, like I can’t handle myself.”

Dick smirked. “Well, you did almost get blown up yesterday.”

You scowled. “That’s not the point.”

“Mmhmm.”

You ignored him and kept going.

“And then there’s Tim. Who just smirks. Like he enjoys watching me get lectured by dad and chewed out by Jason. Like this is all some kind of entertainment to him.”

Dick laughed. “It is entertaining.”

You threw a fry at him. He caught it without looking.

“It’s just” You exhaled sharply. “Bruce doesn’t trust me, Jason coddles me, and Tim thinks it’s all a joke. And yet Damian gets to do whatever the hell he wants.”

Dick raised a brow. “Ah. So this is about Damian.”

You stabbed your fork into your fries. “It’s not. It’s about all of it. But also? Yeah. It’s about Damian.”

Dick took another bite of his burger, chewing thoughtfully. “Bruce would let him get away with murder?”

“Literally,” you muttered. “Meanwhile, I take one risk one calculated risk and suddenly I’m ‘not ready.’”

Dick sighed, setting his burger down. “Okay. So, what’s the actual problem?”

You frowned. “I just told you”

“No, I mean the real problem. You don’t actually care that Bruce is strict. You expect that. You don’t even care that Jason’s overprotective he does that to everyone he loves.”

You looked away. “…So?”

“So,” he said, smirking, “what you actually hate is that they don’t see you as an equal.”

You frowned.

Dick leaned back, crossing his arms. “They see you as their little sister. Their daughter. They see someone they have to protect, not someone they can trust.”

Your grip on your fork tightened. “And that’s not fair.”

“No,” he agreed easily. “It’s not.”

Silence stretched between you.

Then, casually, Dick added, “But hey, at least Conner treats you like an equal.”

You froze mid bite.

Slowly, you looked up at him.

He grinned.

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t.”

He tilted his head. “What?”

“Don’t start.”

“I’m just saying,” he teased. “You could’ve gone for someone normal, but nooo. You had to pick another dark, broody, overpowered meathead”

“Dick, I swear”

“You surround yourself with annoying guys”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “Never speak again.”

“Oh, absolutely not.” He leaned forward, eyes glinting mischievously. “In fact, I think I should speak more. Maybe bring this up at family dinner. Hey, Bruce, did you know your daughter has a thing for emotionally constipated guys in leather?”

You threw another fry at him.

He dodged it effortlessly, laughing.

“Dick. I will kill you.”

“I kinda want to meet this guy.”

You glared.

He just smiled. But despite your annoyance, despite everything Bruce’s overprotection, Jason’s coddling, Tim’s smirking something about the conversation helped. Because at least one of your brothers saw you.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡ ° ✩

You regretted ever telling your family now. Dick knowing about Conner means you’ve been introduced to hell.

oh satan over there? yeah he’s on the body of your bug brother.

Not because he was mad not even because he was disapproving but because he was Dick.

Which meant relentless teasing.

Which meant grinning at you like he had the world’s juiciest blackmail material. Which meant the exact sentence that had been haunting you ever since your burger night.

“I want to meet my younger sister’s hero.”

It had been two days. Two. And he would not let it go.

You tried to avoid it. Tried to make excuses. But Dick was persistent.

So now here you were on a Gotham rooftop, arms crossed, glaring at him as he sat on the ledge like he didn’t have a care in the world.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m interested,” he corrected. “I mean, c’mon. I’ve only ever heard about this guy from our brothers, and none of them have anything nice to say.” He smirked. “Figured I should form my own opinion.”

You groaned. “Can you not?”

“Oh, I definitely can,” he said. “I just won’t.”

Before you could argue further, a gust of wind swept through the air, and There he was.

Conner landed a few feet away, hands in his jacket pockets, red cape billowing slightly behind him. His gaze flickered between you and Dick, brows furrowed in mild suspicion.

“You okay?” he asked you first, like he always did.

You exhaled. “Yeah. I just ” You shot Dick a look. “Had a situation to handle.”

Conner raised an eyebrow.

Dick, meanwhile, was grinning.

“Well, well, well,” he said, standing up and brushing off his suit. “The infamous Superboy.”

Conner’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And you’re…?”

Dicks mouth dropped glancing to you “Oh, wow. That actually hurt.” Then he extended a hand. “Dick Grayson. Also known as Nightwing. Also known as best older brother. Nice to finally meet you.”

Conner eyed him for a second before shaking his hand. “…Right.”

Dick’s smirk widened. “So. You’re the little guy my little sister’s been sneaking around with, huh?”

You instantly regretted your entire life.

Conner’s gaze flickered to you before he answered, clearly unsure how to respond. “Guess so…?”

“Oh, I like him already,” Dick laughed. “Got that classic ‘brooding hero’ energy. I see the appeal.”

You glared. “Dick”

“I mean, you do have a type,” he continued, grinning at you. “The whole ‘dark, broody, overpowered’ thing? Classic. keep the family values. I respect it.”

Conner glanced at you, fidgeting slightly as if trying to hold back a laugh. “its not a wrong point.”

You smacked his arm. “Not you too.”

Dick just laughed. “So. How’s the Super life treating you?”

Conner shrugged awkwardly, clearly not sure how to navigate the conversation. “Could be worse.”

“Dealing with my family yet?”

“All the time.”

Dick nodded sagely. “Yeah, that’s rough, buddy.”

Conner gave a quiet, awkward chuckle. “It’s not that bad.” His gaze softened slightly when he looked at you. “She makes it easier.”

Dick raised an eyebrow. Then slowly he grinned.

“Oh, man,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re down bad.”

You groaned. “Dick. it’s gross when you say that. Shut up.”

“I love this,” he continued, delighted. “This is so much better than I imagined.”

Conner crossed his arms and tried to lean against the ledge nonchalantly, but there was a slight stiff tension in his posture. “I wont stop her if she starts fighting”

Dick gasped, hand over his heart. “You’d turn her against me?”

“mmmmm i’m in a Y/n wrongs and right are rights morality,” Conner pointed out with a soft, awkward chuckle.

Dick sighed. “ew you sound like me with women.”

You rolled your eyes. “Okay. We’re done here.”

But before you could drag Conner away, Dick clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“Look, all jokes aside,” he said, suddenly more serious, “I get why Bruce and Jason are… difficult about this. You’re powerful. You’re dangerous. You’re not one of us.”

Conner tensed slightly, glancing over at you like he didn’t know how to respond.

Dick met his gaze. “But I see how you look at her. And I see how she looks at you.” His expression softened. “So, for what it’s worth? You’ve got my approval.”

Conner blinked, clearly caught off guard. He cleared his throat, trying to hide the flush creeping up his neck. “Wasn’t asking.”

Dick grinned. “Oh, I really like you.”

You groaned. “I hate both of you.”

Conner just took your hand, squeezing lightly, trying to brush off the awkwardness that had started to settle in. “You love me.” he whispered

You muttered something under your breath. Dick slung an arm around your shoulders, still grinning.

“Alright, Superboy. Don’t break her heart. Or I will break you.”

Conner didn’t flinch. “You could try.”

“Ohhh, I really really like him.”

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡ ° ✩

The gala was everything you dreaded about Gotham’s elite. The high end designers. The glittering chandeliers. The fake smiles and empty conversations about stock markets and charities you knew were just tax write offs. You were dreading it. But you had no choice. Your dad had insisted.

“You’re going with me,” Bruce had said, his tone one you couldn’t argue with. “Damien’s going too.”

Damien.

You rolled your eyes. If there was one silver lining, it was that Damien would make the night more bearable. Sure, he was insufferable, but deep down, he was your favorite… well one of them.

You didn’t know when it started, but you couldn’t deny it. Every time someone made a comment about you, something snide about being Bruce Wayne’s daughter or how you’d grown up in a world of privilege, Damien was right there. He might have been a bratty little boy, but he had a surprisingly soft spot for you.

He’d bark back at anyone who dared talk down to you. And that always made you smile.

Still, you hated the galas. The whole act of pretending to be someone you weren’t, of feigning interest in the people who rubbed elbows with the most corrupt figures in Gotham. It made you feel like you were just another part of Bruce Wayne’s PR machine, just another Wayne for the rich to admire, the perfect daughter.

You weren’t. At least not in the way they thought you were.

⸻

You stood in front of the mirror in your dress, adjusting the neckline slightly. It wasn’t too flashy. Not as tight or revealing as some of the other dresses you’d seen at these events. It wasn’t your style to try and look like you were above everyone else. There was an elegance to it, sure, but it wasn’t over the top.

You sighed, glancing at the clock. You were almost late. You had not been in the mood to get dressed up and pretend you weren’t itching to leave this stupid party as soon as you walked in.

The door to your room creaked open just a bit, and you turned to see Damien standing in the doorway, his usual scowl plastered on his face.

“Are you done yet?” he demanded, crossing his arms.

You blinked at him. “Are you done yet? You look like a little mini Bruce.”

He shot you a glare. “I’ll have you know, I’m a Wayne too, and I’m far superior to Father in many ways.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Mm. Sure, Damien. If that’s what helps you sleep at night.”

Damien’s eyes narrowed in the way they always did when he was being stubborn. “I’m just here to make sure you don’t embarrass the family again.”

“Again?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

You chuckled. “Whatever, Damien. Just don’t get in my way.”

He huffed, but his expression softened for a second. “You know, you don’t have to act like you don’t belong there. It’s your place.”

The rare kindness from Damien caught you off guard. You almost wanted to tease him about it, but something in the way he said it made you pause.

Before you could respond, Bruce’s voice echoed from downstairs. “Damien, [Y/N], let’s go.”

You rolled your eyes. No escape.

⸻

The gala was in full swing when you arrived, the grand ballroom filled with well dressed Gotham’s elite, all laughing, talking, and pretending to be better than they really were. As you walked in behind Bruce and Damien, you couldn’t help but feel like a fish out of water.

Damien, ever the mini Bruce, stepped confidently beside you, his posture straight, eyes sharp. He barely even looked at anyone around him, already ready to shoot down any attempts at conversation. You, on the other hand, put on your best poker face, walking with your head high, but your mind already halfway to escaping.

Bruce was already surrounded by some of the usual suspects, but it didn’t take long for the first person to notice you.

“You know,” a woman with a glass of champagne in hand said, smiling in that way people did when they thought they were better than you. “It’s nice to see the Wayne family so well represented. A fine, upstanding family, despite… well, you know…”

The pause was intentional, like she wanted to see if you’d react to the snide remark. It was a comment about your family’s history, a little jab that no one dared speak out loud but always found a way to slip into their conversations. Isnt being a woman supposed to be about supporting other women? Damien arguably had the same history as you.

You opened your mouth to say something, but Damien beat you to it.

“That’s quite enough.” He said it flatly, stepping forward with a warning glare. “I’m sure if you don’t have anything productive to say, you’d be better off leaving.”

The woman blinked, surprised by the bluntness, but Damien was already walking away, his weird little aura behind him like he was some miniature Dark Knight.

You couldn’t help but smile at him. You were right. He was your favorite.

Bruce glanced at you both, an eyebrow arched. He had seen the whole exchange. You could practically feel him holding back a smirk.

“Damien,” Bruce said, his voice a little too controlled. “You don’t have to go picking fights.”

Damien didn’t back down. “I’m simply defending Y/n. Some of these people need to remember their place.”

Bruce didn’t say anything, but the faintest glimmer of approval passed through his gaze, and it was enough.

⸻

The night dragged on, but you found yourself less uncomfortable with Damien by your side. His quiet protectiveness, the way he always seemed to catch the smallest slight before you did, made it easier to navigate the pretentious conversations. Every time someone made a comment about your family, you could feel Damien’s posture tense and his eyes narrow. And each time, he defended you.

Despite everything, despite how much you complained about his bratty tendencies, Damien was your brat. the weight of the night began to settle. The glittering lights of the gala still flickered in your mind, but the presence of your father and Damien beside you made the ride back almost bearable. Damien, as usual, sat stiffly, his posture perfect even in the backseat of the car, while Bruce remained uncharacteristically quiet, his gaze focused out the window.

You couldn’t help but glance over at Damien, who was looking out his own window, seemingly lost in thought. There had been a moment earlier when Bruce had shared a look with him, something small but meaningful a look you couldn’t quite place. But it was enough to make you feel something unspoken between the two of them. It wasn’t often you saw your father show a soft spot for anyone, let alone his own kids.

The car pulled up to the Manor, and as it came to a stop, you turned to Damien, the words already spilling out before you could stop them.

“You know, you’re not as bad as you pretend to be,” you said, voice teasing but soft. “I might just like you after all.”

Damien scoffed. “You shouldn’t like me. I’m better than you, after all.”

“Pfft, whatever,” you grinned, ignoring his words. The sudden burst of affection you felt in that moment made you throw all your self control out the window. Without thinking, you lunged at him, wrapping your arms around him in a tight hug.

Damien let out an exaggerated, dramatic gasp, his body going stiff in shock. “Unhand me, woman,” he hissed, clearly uncomfortable with the sudden outburst of affection.

You ignored his protests, squeezing him tighter. “Nope! Not until you admit that you love me.”

Damien scowled, his face flushing just slightly. “I do not love you, you foolish girl.” But there was no hiding the faint blush creeping onto his cheeks as he tried unsuccessfully to push you away.

Bruce, who had been watching the exchange with mild amusement, cleared his throat from the front seat, as though reminding you both that you weren’t exactly alone. But it was too late to stop now.

You pulled back just enough to look Damien in the eye, still grinning like a cat. “Come on, admit it. I know you love me.”

Damien tried to glare at you, but there was no hiding the slight curve of his lips. “I tolerate you,” he said begrudgingly.

You held him tighter. “Close enough!”

He growled, finally breaking free from your grip. “This is not over,” he muttered under his breath, adjusting his suit with a dramatic flair.

You leaned back, still grinning like an idiot. “Sure, sure, Damien. You can pretend all you want.”

Bruce finally spoke up, his tone surprisingly light. “Alright, break it up, you two. We’ve still got a whole night to get through.”

Damien shot a glare at Bruce. “I’m not the one causing disruptions here.”

You and Bruce shared a look, and for just a brief second, you saw it, something rare and almost tender between the two of them. Damien wasn’t as bad as you’d thought. he had his own way of showing care.

Damien, still grumbling, marched ahead toward the front door, muttering something about how he was going to “train” and “get away from these ridiculous people.” But you knew better. Underneath the bravado, Damien was just like everyone else in this family he cared.

As you stepped out of the car and onto the front porch of Wayne Manor, the cool night air hit your face, carrying the faint scent of rain. You were exhausted, mentally drained from the fake smiles and shallow conversations of the gala, and the weight of the night hung heavy on your shoulders. You couldn’t wait to retreat to your room, get out of this damn dress, and let your thoughts settle.

But as you walked toward the front door, something or rather someone caught your eye. Standing by the door, just under the archway of the Manor, was a familiar silhouette. The figure straightened when he saw you approach, a soft smile appearing on his face.

Conner.

Your heart skipped a beat. You hadn’t expected him to be here, but there he was, waiting for you, like he always did.

“Hey,” you said softly, as you run over to him. your exhaustion suddenly lifting at the sight of him.

He tilted his head, his expression a mix of amusement and concern. “You look… very beautiful tonight.”

You let out a small, tired chuckle. “Beautiful? someone is learning how to express his emotions”

Conner’s brow furrowed, his eyes scanning you like he could see the exhaustion beneath your calm exterior. He stepped forward, his large frame nearly blocking the door. “You okay?”

You nodded, but only half heartedly. “Yeah, just… tired of it all. Tired of pretending.”

Conner didn’t say anything at first, but his gaze softened. His next words were simple, but they always meant more than you expected. “you’re done now, don’t have to think about it now.”

You stepped closer to him, letting the tension in your body melt just a little. “Thanks, Conner. It means a lot. I don’t think I could stand much more of these stupid galas if I didn’t know you’d be waiting for me.”

He smiled at that, the kind of smile that made your heart flutter in your chest, as he stepped aside to let you in. “Always. You know I’ve got your back.”

You couldn’t help but grin. “You’re the best.”

Conner chuckled, stepping back as you passed him. “I’m just doing my job, keeping you out of trouble.”

You shot him a playful look over your shoulder. “Really? Keeping me out of trouble?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Well, you seem to find it even when I’m not around.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, but the moment you passed him, you felt his hand gently grasp your arm, a soft but firm hold that pulled you back toward him.

“What?” you asked, confused.

Conner was staring at you, his blue eyes intense but gentle. “You looked like you needed someone tonight. If you want to talk about it, I’m here.”

You stared at him for a moment, letting his words settle. But instead of saying anything, you simply let out a long sigh and let your shoulders relax. You didn’t need to talk about it now. Not when Conner was here, offering comfort without the need for words.

Instead, you smiled softly, stepping into his embrace, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. “I think… I think I just need this right now.”

Conner wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close as if to shield you from everything outside this moment. “I’ve got you.”

You closed your eyes, letting the familiar warmth of his embrace wrap around you.

The moment of quiet was shattered by the unmistakable sound of someone clearing their throat.

You tensed slightly, already knowing exactly who it was before you even turned your head.

Bruce stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, expression unreadable but his presence alone was enough to make the warmth in your chest falter just a bit.

“It’s late,” he said, voice even, but carrying that weight of authority only he could manage. “You should be inside now.”

You sighed, pulling back slightly from Conner but keeping your hand locked around his wrist. Of course, Bruce had impeccable timing.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going,” you muttered, turning toward the door but you didn’t let go of Conner. Instead, you tugged him along with you, acting like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Bruce’s eyes flicked down to your hand still gripping Conner’s, his expression barely changing, but you knew he noticed.

Conner hesitated for half a second, casting a glance between you and your father, as if gauging whether it was a terrible idea to follow you inside. But you weren’t giving him a choice.

Bruce let out the tiniest sigh, stepping aside to let you both in, but not without a warning glance at Conner.

“Don’t make me regret this,” Bruce said evenly.

Conner just glared at him, tight lipped smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it, sir.”

You definitely caught the way Bruce’s brow twitched ever so slightly at the sir, but you didn’t dwell on it. You just smirked to yourself and pulled Conner further into the Manor, past your father, past all the unspoken tension, and straight toward the one place you could finally relax.

Conner leaned in as you walked, voice low and teasing. “You dragged me in here.”

You grinned up at him. “What, scared of my dad?”

Conner huffed. “No. But I am scared of what your brothers are gonna say when they see me here.”

You just laughed. “Oh, you should be.”

As you pulled Conner deeper into the Manor, you moved quickly, knowing full well that the longer you lingered, the higher the chance of getting ambushed by one of your loving brothers.

You practically speed walked through the grand hall, past the dimly lit corridors.

“Ah, welcome home, Miss.”

You skidded to a stop as Alfred appeared seemingly out of nowhere, standing near the bottom of the staircase with his usual composed demeanor.

Conner tensed beside you, standing up straighter like he was about to get scolded. Clearly, even he wasn’t immune to Alfred’s presence.

You shot the butler a quick smile, still keeping a tight grip on Conner’s wrist. “Hey, Alfred. Gala was awful, as expected. Goodnight!”

And before he could reply, you dragged Conner up the stairs.

“Goodnight, Miss. Goodnight, Mister Conner,” Alfred called after you, voice laced with mild amusement.

Conner barely managed to glance over his shoulder to offer a polite, “Uh goodnight, sir,” before he was pulled around the corner and out of sight.

When you finally made it to your room, you threw the door open and all but shoved Conner inside before shutting it behind you with a sigh of relief.

“Okay, safe,” you muttered, leaning against the door.

Conner raised a brow. “You act like we just broke into the White House.”

You pointed a finger at him. “This house probably has better security than the white house.”

Conner snorted, shaking his head as he glanced around your room. He’d been here before, but it was still surreal for him standing in Wayne Manor.

You walked over to your bed, flopping onto it dramatically. “I swear, I love Alfred, but he always pops up at the worst moments. It’s like a sixth sense.”

Conner smirked, stepping closer. “Maybe he was just making sure I wasn’t sneaking in to corrupt his favorite Wayne.”

You peeked up at him through your arms. “Bold of you to assume I’m his favorite.”

He sat down beside you, resting his elbows on his knees. “You definitely are.”

You grinned, nudging him lightly with your foot. “Flatter me more, Superboy.”

Conner just chuckled, shaking his head. “You don’t need flattery. You already know how great you are.”

You huffed, rolling onto your side. “Tell that to my dad.”

Conner didn’t say anything right away, just let his hand rest on yours, grounding you. You let out a slow breath, the exhaustion of the day finally settling in.

“Get some sleep,” Conner murmured. “I’ll stay as long as you want.”

You didn’t even think about it before squeezing his hand. “Stay.”

And he did.

Conner sat beside you on the bed, his fingers tracing absentminded circles against your wrist. The room was dimly lit, casting shadows across his face, making his blue eyes stand out even more than usual. He was warm, solid, grounding in a way you desperately needed after the night you’d had.

You shifted closer, tilting your head up toward him. He caught the movement instantly, his gaze flicking down to your lips before he leaned in, closing the space between you.

The kiss was gentle at first, unhurried. His lips pressed against yours in a way that made your chest tighten not with nerves, but with something softer, something steady. His hand slid up, fingertips brushing your jaw before cradling your face, pulling you just a little closer.

You sighed against him, your hands resting against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palms. He kissed you again, deeper this time, as if memorizing the shape of your lips, as if reminding himself that you were here, that you were his.

A loud noise from the window, followed by the distinct sound of fabric rustling, and then.

THUD.

Conner barely had time to pull back before a voice cut through the moment.

“Oh, come on I just ate.”

You both snapped your heads toward the window, where Tim stood, looking absolutely horrified, like he’d just walked in on the worst crime imaginable.

You groaned, flopping back onto the bed. “Jesus Christ, Tim”

Tim pinched the bridge of his nose like he was experiencing actual pain. “You know I tolerate this relationship for your sake, right? Doesn’t mean I need to see it.”

“Theres a reason we’re in my room with the door closed. what did you even want anyways”

“Ok miss shitbag, I was gonna see if you brought any food from the gala”

Conner, looking far too smug for someone just caught making out, leaned back on his hands. “You could’ve knocked.”

Tim made a disgusted face. “Knocked? On her window? I didn’t think I needed a warning before coming in.” He gestured wildly between the two of you. “I thought I was safe! But no, I have to live with the trauma of seeing my best friend all over my sister.”

You threw a pillow at him. “We weren’t even doing anything!”

Tim caught it with one hand, unimpressed. “There was face touching. That’s enough.”

Conner just shrugged. “If it makes you feel better, I think she’s a better kisser than you.”

Tim immediately gagged, doubling over like he’d been physically attacked. “WHY WOULD THAT MAKE ME FEEL BETTER?!”

You burst out laughing, while Conner grinned like he’d won something.

Tim groaned dramatically, shaking his head as he turned toward the window. “I hate this. I hate both of you. I’m leaving.”

“Goodnight, Tim,” you called sweetly.

“I hope you both stub your toes,” he shot back before disappearing out the window.

As soon as he was gone, you turned to Conner, still grinning. “You did that on purpose.”

Conner smirked. “Maybe.”

You rolled your eyes before pulling him back down into another kiss because if Tim was gonna be dramatic about it, you might as well make it worth it.

Boothill HSR X Reader

“Im Just Baking Cookies”

Boothill LOVES how you are so quiet but still tries to sound mean.

MASTERLIST

ᡕᠵデ气亠. The scent of warm vanilla and butter hung in the air like a soft lullaby. The kitchen of the Astral Express was cozy, golden light pouring in from the windows that overlooked the glowing dreamscape of Penacony. The others were out exploring, no doubt causing a mess. You’d opted out this time. From Caelus running around all the time and Dan Heng being the most cynic you’ve ever met. you needed a you day

You stood at the counter, a smear of flour on your cheek and a whisk in your hand as you mixed the batter with care. A batch of cookies cooled beside you while the next round waited patiently for the oven. The rhythmic sound of metal scraping against the bowl was oddly soothing.

You didn’t even hear the door open. You didn’t hear the soft boots on metal. But you did hear the voice. “Now darlin’, I gotta say, I didn’t think the Express came with an angel in the kitchen.”

You jumped, the bowl nearly slipping from your hands. You spun on instinct, heart rocketing up your throat. Without thinking, you pointed your whisk like it was a weapon. Boothill stood in the doorway, hat tipped low, a roguish grin cutting across his face like it had been carved from charm itself. He leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, lazy and at ease, like he hadn’t just snuck onto the Astral Express uninvited.

And yet, there was no panic in your chest. Just annoyed disbelief. “You lost?” you said, tone flat, though your grip on the whisk didn’t loosen.

His grin widened. “Nope. Think I found exactly what I was lookin’ for.”

He strolled further into the kitchen, bootsteps slow and deliberate. He moved like a man who knew his effect on people. With every step closer, you felt your expression harden. But your stance never wavered. “You’re trespassing,” you said. “Which means you’ve got about five seconds to explain yourself before I chase you out with a kitchen utensil.”

Boothill paused a few feet away, giving the whisk a curious once over. “Now hold on there, sugar,” he drawled, voice thick with that warm southern charm. “Didn’t mean no harm. Just couldn’t help followin’ the scent of somethin’ sweet. Turns out it wasn’t the cookies.”

You stared. Said nothing. He chuckled, low and velvety, hand reaching up to tilt his hat back. “You always this silent?”

Still, you didn’t respond. You raised your whisk a little higher, narrowing your eyes as if sizing him up for a duel.

Boothill blinked, then gave a small, amused whistle. “Well, I’ll be. You’re a real pistol, ain’t ya?”

He took another step forward. You jabbed the whisk at him not quite a threat, slowly taunting over. He stopped. “Easy now,” he said, palms raised. “Ain’t here for a shootout. Just figured… if the rest of y’all were out, you might enjoy some company.”

You glanced at the oven. Back at him. “I was enjoying the lack of company.”

Boothill didn’t flinch. “Sure you were. But look at it this way you keep bakin’, I’ll keep talkin’. Maybe I’ll even convince you I ain’t all that bad.”

You stared a moment longer, weighing your options. Finally, you turned back to your bowl with a soft sigh, lowering the whisk but only slightly. “Stay out of my way,” you muttered. “And don’t touch anything.”

Behind you, Boothill gave a triumphant hum, the grin still stitched to his face “No promises, sugar.” But he didn’t touch anything.

He just leaned against the wall, arms folded, hat tipped low, and talked and while you didn’t flirt back not once your silence didn’t push him away either. You kept your back to him, the sound of the whisk hitting the sides of the metal bowl grounding you as much as it filled the silence. Well not quite silence. Boothill kept talking, weaving lazy words in that smooth, southern drawl of his, like he was just killing time on a front porch somewhere.

You weren’t listening. Not really. But you also hadn’t kicked him out. “What is that smell?” he asked eventually, voice a little closer now. “Somethin’ sweet. Kinda like you.”

You rolled your eyes finally turning to grab the small bowl of buttercream frosting you had chilling on the side. You dipped a spoon in, then held it out toward him wordlessly. “Try it,” you said. “Since you’re so good at judging what’s sweet.”

He grinned like a devil given permission. “Well now, don’t mind if I do.” Boothill stepped forward, real slow. He didn’t take the spoon from you. No, that wouldn’t have been too easy. Instead, he leaned down and tasted it mouth brushing the edge of the spoon like it was something far more intimate than sugar and butter. His lips curled as the flavor melted on his tongue.

He took another step forward. Then another. Until the air between you thinned, stretched taut like a wire. He was close now too close. You hadn’t moved, hadn’t flinched, but your hand was still midair holding that spoon, and Boothill was standing in the halo of soft kitchen light like a man who knew exactly how to make it all feel too much.

His eyes locked with yours glinting with that same wild. “Now that,” he murmured, voice dipped in honey and danger, “is the best damn thing I’ve tasted in a while. And trust me, sweetheart, I’ve tasted a lot of things in my time.”

You breathed out quiet, shaky. The kind of breath you didn’t mean to let slip. The kind that betrayed something deeper.

He smiled wider, a knowing tilt of his mouth. “Didn’t mean to leave you speechless, sugar. But I gotta admit… it looks real good on you.” Your hand finally lowered, the spoon forgotten. Your other tightened slightly around the whisk at your side like it could anchor you. You weren’t flustered you weren’t. But the warmth in your cheeks? The way your heart tripped in your chest?

Still, your voice came back to you, steady despite the hitch a second ago “You’re standing too close.”

Boothill didn’t move. He just leaned in, just enough for his words to graze your ear. “Funny,” he said lowly. “Feels like I’m just where I oughta be.”

You didn’t push him away. But you did tilt your head just slightly, eyes narrowing.

“watch yourself,” you warned, “I’ll shove that spoon somewhere frosting doesn’t belong.”

Boothill laughed quiet and genuine, like you’d just made his whole day. He finally stepped back with both hands up again. “Got it, sugar. No touchin’. For now.”

You exhaled once more, this time through your nose. Then turned back to the bowl, ignoring how warm the kitchen suddenly felt. You heard him lean against the counter behind you.

When the last batch of cookies cooled and the frosting was tucked away in a small container, the adrenaline had finally worn off. The rush of being snuck up on, the intensity of his presence, all of it settled into a quiet buzz at the back of your mind. Boothill hadn’t left not that you’d asked him to anymore but the kitchen had grown calmer. Now you sat beside him on the small bench by the kitchen window, legs pulled up slightly as you bit into one of your cookies. The sweetness was warm, rich, buttery. Comforting.

Boothill, meanwhile, was still talking. Something about Penacony. Something about how the colors were too bright and too fake. Something about a guy he once knew with “a mustache that could lasso a comet.” You weren’t really following. You just nodded occasionally.

But as you chewed slowly and let your thoughts drift, something clicked in the back of your mind. Wait… if his whole body’s robotic everything but his head then… He can’t eat. Not really. Not like this. Which means… he can’t feel. No nerves, no receptors. No warmth, no pressure. No pain. No pleasure.

Your eyes narrowed faintly in thought. So… theoretically, he couldn’t You glanced sideways at him, a half laugh puffing through your nose at your own internal joke. He probably can’t even get horny. Not that you were planning on testing that theory. Ever.

Boothill kept yapping, completely oblivious to the odd train of thought you’d gone down. His arms were folded behind his head now, hat tilted back slightly as he rambled about something that might’ve involved a gunfight on top of a moving train. Or maybe a bar fight. With him, it was hard to tell.

As he went on, your eyes landed on the way his hair had slipped down into his face again. It was long too long, really, for someone so full of motion and swagger. It fell in front of his eyes, almost shielding them. A curtain of copper and gold. Without thinking, you reached out and brushed it aside just enough to tuck a few strands behind his ear.

And that’s when he stopped. Mid sentence. Mid word. Just… froze. His whole body stilled like someone hit a pause button. You blinked, suddenly realizing what you’d done. Boothill’s eyes slowly met yours.

You lowered your hand, unsure for a split second. But Boothill didn’t look away. Didn’t say a word

Maybe not in the way most people did. But there was something in that simple moment your fingertips brushing his temple, sliding the hair from his face that made the air feel a little sillier.

The expression on his face wasn’t cocky. It wasn’t charming. It was just… still. You took another bite of your cookie, suddenly feeling like you’d done something much more intimate than you intended. Boothill finally cleared his throat, a flicker of motion returning to his features. The grin came back but it was softer now “Well,” he said, voice a little more low pitched than before, “that was… somethin’.”

You just looked out the window, letting the taste of sugar and frosting linger on your tongue, and felt the weight of that quiet between you both. For the first time since he’d stepped foot on the Express, Boothill wasn’t talking.

You reached for another cookie, already bracing yourself for Boothill to launch into another absurd story something about a bounty, a jailhouse escape, maybe even a mechanical rattlesnake this time because he always did. You thibk by now he knows you’re not the biggest talker in the world. But just before your fingers brushed the plate, his hand caught yours.

Your breath caught in your throat. His touch was firm but not harsh. Metal fingers curled gently around yours, cool and seamless, humming faintly with life. You didn’t even have time to react before he brought both your hands up… and pressed them to his face.

The contact was immediate.

The warmth of his skin, the faint vibration of the robotic parts moving beneath it all sank into your palms as he leaned in, into your touch and he just kept talking.

“Well now, this reminds me of the time I went toe to toe with a fella named Colt McGraw big ol’ gunslinger, real sore loser. Got hisself stuck in a barrel of moonshine after I tricked him into thinkin’ I was a ghost long story.”

His accent was as thick and honey smooth as ever, drawling like he hadn’t just casually stolen the most flustering moment of your entire day. Your hands stayed there, pinned softly to the sides of his face. His hair tickled your knuckles. His skin, the only flesh left on his body, was warm beneath your fingertips. And those vivid eyes sharp, playful, aware were half lidded in a way that made it worse. So much worse.

You sat completely still, back straight, staring at him like someone had just pulled the floor out from under you. Your face burned. It crept up from your neck, flushed across your cheeks, and hit the tips of your ears in a matter of seconds. He knew. He had to know.

But he just kept rambling, voice slow and syrupy. “Y’know, I gotta say, ain’t every day someone can be so on guard and make me feel this way. Makes a cowboy feel like a person again.” He smiled. “Kinda nice.”

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out. You tried again. Still nothing. Your brain was static, your thoughts replaced with a single screaming line of internal monologue: what is happening what is happening what is happening.

Boothill didn’t seem fazed in the slightest. If anything, he looked relaxed. Comfortable. Still holding your hands to his face like they belonged there.

And you flushed, frozen, helplessly red just sat there, cookie forgotten, wondering how the hell a man made mostly of metal could make you feel this warm.

ᡕᠵデ气亠

Boothill’s words kept rolling, painting images of outlaw duels and near death standoffs with the kind of ease that came only from experience or embellishment. Probably both. But he never let go. Your hands stayed cradled against his face the whole time, his metal fingers wrapped gently around your wrists like he wasn’t ready to let the moment end. He leaned into your touch time and time again.

Eventually, though, the story began to wind down. Something about escaping a collapsing bridge with nothing but a grappling hook and “a prayer to whoever was listenin’.” He chuckled at his own punchline, the corner of his mouth curling in that easy, boyish way that somehow made everything worse.

Then, slowly reluctantly he let your hands go. He lowered them from his face with a gentleness that didn’t match the brashness he wore like a badge. His fingers slid away last, like he was memorizing the shape of you with the tips of his metal hands. When he looked at you, his eyes were steady.

“Lil’ darlin’,” he said, voice low and warm like sunbaked earth, “you got hands that feel like home. I ain’t sure what kinda trouble you’re stirrin’ up in that head o’ yours, but I reckon I’ll be thinkin’ about this for a good long while.”

He tipped his hat just slightly and started to turn like he meant to leave. Your eyes dropped to your lap for half a second before you stopped him.

“…I really liked your stories,” you said softly, barely above a whisper.

He paused in the doorway. You hadn’t meant to sound so genuine. So raw. But it was too late to take it back. Boothill glanced over his shoulder, just enough for you to catch the smile tugging at his lips.

“Yeah?” he murmured. “Well… guess I’ll have to come back ‘round and tell you another sometime, huh?”

And just like that, he was gone. Leaving behind the faint scent of old gunpowder and desert air and a heartbeat in your chest that didn’t quite know how to settle down.

Boothill: So… if I “accidentally” kissed you, youd fall in love right?

You: If you “accidentally” kissed me, I’d “accidentally” reload your gun with glitter and watch you die fabulous.

Cleanup on aisle 4

Hizashi Yamada / Present Mic X Reader

↻ Off The Record ↺

Masterlist

So like….. this one I really thought of a Batman/ Jason Todd reader…. Also its been a while! whoopie! also this is a lot of tension without resolve. Someone asked for a angst one but then wanted comfort and by the time I was done this I realized it was too late for that. So youll be getting a double angst fic soon for some more comfort.

Synopsis: You and Hizashi had a family. Until one day you didn’t. When is it a point that you can avenge your family.

The camera focuses in on a patch of green where a blanket is spread out. Sitting cross legged in the middle of it is a young woman hair tied up messily, sleeves rolled past her elbows, and wearing an old, oversized band shirt that’s clearly been through more than one laundry battle. She’s got something smudged on her cheek maybe mashed banana and she doesn’t seem to notice or care. Just in front of her, a baby with soft blond hair and a gummy smile is trying to crawl with intense determination. Their chubby little arms slap against the blanket as they inch forward, letting out squeals of delight every time they gain a few inches. From behind the camera, Hizashi’s voice comes through, a little breathless from laughter.

“You’re getting this, right?” the reader calls, glancing up with a grin.

“I never stopped,” Hizashi replies, his voice warm. “I always catch the moments of my beautiful girls”

“You said that last time and then forgot to hit record,” she teases, catching the baby just as they topple forward with a squeak. She lifts them into the air with practiced ease, blowing a raspberry on their tummy that makes them shriek with laughter.

“That was one time,” he defends, shifting the camera a bit to frame her better. “And anyway, you’re the one covered in banana. If anything, I’m preserving art right now.”

The reader sticks her tongue out at him, still holding the baby against her chest. “bleh bleh bleh.” The baby reaches up, curious fingers poking at her face before pressing against her nose. She goes still, cross eyed, then bursts into laughter.

“Oh no. That was a critical hit. Guess I’m down for the count,” she groans playfully, flopping back into the grass and pulling the baby down with her. The baby giggles again, burying their face against her collarbone. Her hand comes up to gently support the back of their head, and her laughter softens into something quieter, more content. The camera zooms in just a little. The sunlight catches the edges of her hair, and even from behind the lens, it’s obvious how peaceful she looks. Hizashi’s voice lowers, more to himself than anything.

“My beautiful beautiful girls”

The camera lingers on the moment the baby nestled against her, her hand cradling them gently, her eyes half closed as she sways slightly in the grass. The wind moves through the trees, and for a moment, everything is still.

[END RECORDING 1]

There’s a small inflatable pool in the center of the yard. The water sloshes gently as a toddler barely old enough to speak in full sentences sits inside, smacking the surface with open palms and laughing at the splash. The reader crouches at the edge of the pool, sleeves rolled up and jeans cuffed just above the ankle. She’s holding a little plastic cup, pretending to sip from it before handing it back to the toddler with exaggerated delight. “Mmm! That’s the best pool water tea I’ve ever had,” she says, wiping fake tears from her eyes. “You really outdid yourself this time.” The toddler giggles and claps, delighted, before refilling the cup by dunking it haphazardly back into the pool. Most of it spills over their arm.

“You want more!” they declare proudly.

“Oh, absolutely. A whole round, chef,” she grins, holding out her hands with mock anticipation. “Let me savor this deluxe pool water blend.”

From behind the camera, Hizashi’s voice breaks in. “You two openin’ a café back there or just giving away five star service to VIPs?”

“You wish you were invited,” the reader calls, not looking back. The camera jerks a little clearly Hizashi’s picking it up now. The view bobs as he walks closer, eventually settling in on the reader and the toddler who’s now attempting to pour the ‘tea’ onto her head. She shrieks and leans back just in time.

“No! We don’t serve it like that! That’s assault!” she laughs. The toddler dissolves into giggles, proud of the reaction. Hizashi kneels beside the pool, one arm visible as he reaches in to push a floating rubber duck toward the baby.

“You’re teachin’ them all your bad habits,” he teases, looking over at her with a crooked grin.

“Oh, yeah?” she says, nudging him with her shoulder. “She got your hair and your voice. you have cursed her.”

“extremely cool and amazing style, you mean,” Hizashi corrects with a wink, then turns the camera back to the toddler who’s now taken the duck and is trying to make it “fly” through the water. There’s a long pause no talking, just the soft splash of water, the toddler’s happy babbling, the creak of a tree branch above them. The camera dips a little, and Hizashi exhales slowly through his nose. His voice is quieter when he speaks again.

“Man… she’s getting so big.”

The reader leans back on her hands, watching the child with that same soft look from the last video. “I know,” she says. “I keep thinking if I blink too long, I’ll miss something.”

The toddler looks up, eyes shining, and yells, “Dada! Look!” holding up a soggy duck triumphantly. Hizashi laughs, hand coming into frame to gently ruffle the baby’s wet hair. “I see ya, little rocker. Ten outta ten splash style.” The screen slowly starts to fade as the camera slips back into the grass, forgotten in favor of joining the moment.

[END RECORDING 2]

The room is dark, lit only by the faint blue glow of a laptop screen. Everything else is still. The walls are lined with old posters and shelves cluttered with memories records, photos, little things that once felt important. But right now, all of that fades into the background. Hizashi sits hunched in front of the desk, elbows on his knees, head bowed low. He’s still in his clothes from the day, shoes kicked off and forgotten beside the chair. The laptop screen flickers as a video ends static for half a second and then begins again.

The reader is sitting in the grass, wind in her hair, laughing as their baby crawls toward her. Her voice echoes faintly from the speakers. “C’mon, c’mon ! You can do it, little storm!”

Hizashi doesn’t speak. He barely blinks. His fingers, curled tight around the laptop’s edges, twitch. He rewinds the video ten seconds. Plays it again. Rewinds. Again. Over and over. The sound of her laugh becomes a loop warm, full of life, a sound that feels so distant now it may as well be from another lifetime. His chest rises with a shallow breath then another. A shaking exhale escapes his throat, and he bites the inside of his cheek as if that might hold something in. His eyes stay locked on the screen.

“C’mon, little storm,” she says again, softer this time.

The baby giggles. He presses pause. The image freezes on her face smiling, eyes glowing with joy. The baby is half lunging forward, caught mid motion. Hizashi swallows hard, jaw tight, knuckles white. He presses play again. Then rewind. Again. Again. There’s no sound in the room now except for the looping of her voice and the faint whir of the laptop fan. His breathing grows uneven, but he doesn’t let himself cry. Not yet. He just sits there, stuck in time with her rewinding the only piece of her that he still had.

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|• 0:10 Hizashi’s sprawled on the couch, one leg kicked up over the armrest. He’s wearing his tinted glasses, though they’ve slipped slightly down his nose. In his hands is a sleek, beat up notebook with audio notes scrawled in the margins and ideas circled three times. Across from him, Aizawa sits in a chair, arms crossed, hair pulled back just enough to look like he tried. He’s sipping something that probably started as coffee but has long since gone cold.

“so I was thinking,” Hizashi says, flipping the notebook toward Aizawa with a grin, “for the next episode, I bring in a retired pro hero who’s been doing underground rescue work. You know, off the grid, totally unofficial, but still out there saving people. The guy’s voice is all gravel and chain smoke it’ll sound awesome in post.”

Aizawa raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You’re going to platform someone who’s technically breaking the law?”

“It’s inspiring, not incriminating. I’ll edit carefully.” Hizashi grins, waggling his brows. “And I’m not naming names. Just telling stories.”

“You said that last time and still ended up with Nezu calling you in for a ‘polite conversation’ that lasted an hour and a half.”

“He understands.”

Aizawa sighs into his cup. “If it were me, they’d shut the whole thing down.”

“That’s because you sound like dead puppies or something. total buzzkill” A faint twitch tugs at Aizawa’s mouth full of amusement.Hizashi laughs, stretching his arms behind his head. “Hey, what can I say? People like when I talk. It’s either the podcast or every event this place has. If i was bad at what I do they would not ask me to do the things I dooooooo.”

“ew stop.”

Hizashi leans forward, smirking. “You’re just jealous you don’t have a fan club of sleepy office workers who listen to you while folding laundry.”

“Correct,” Aizawa deadpans. “I want none of that.”

Before Hizashi can fire back, the intercom crackles to life, breaking the moment. “Yamada, Aizawa please report to my office at your earliest convenience,” Nezu’s cheerful voice chirps through the speakers. “Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble!.”

The intercom clicks off. A beat of silence. Hizashi squints up at the ceiling. “I feel like im in highschool again”

Aizawa sets down his mug with a quiet sigh and stands, already reaching for his capture weapon. “He calls you like this all the time”

“Yeah so exactly like highschool” Hizashi follows, grabbing his jacket off the back of the couch.

“I just want to go home.”

“Come on, Shota, don’t be like that,” Hizashi grins, catching up as they head for the door. “Our fearless leader is calling.” “ugggggggh.” And with that, the lounge door swings shut behind them.

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|• 0:10 The door to Nezu’s office swings open with a faint creak, the familiar scent of tea and paper drifting out to meet them. Nezu sits perched behind his desk, paws folded neatly, tail swishing slowly as he watches them enter with that ever pleasant smile that somehow always makes people nervous.

“Ah, thank you for coming so quickly!” he chirps. Aizawa steps in first, quiet and unreadable, hands shoved in his pockets. Hizashi follows, a little slower, his usual swagger dialed down into something more neutral though he still offers Nezu a quick two finger salute. Nezu gestures to the chairs across from him. “Please, have a seat. I won’t keep you long.”

The two settle in, Hizashi lounging back while Aizawa sits forward slightly, eyes already narrowed in suspicion. Nezu picks up a folder from his desk and slides it open with practiced ease. “I received a request this morning from a pro hero agency one you both are familiar with.” He lifts his gaze, tone still light. “Lumine’s (Y/n hero Name) agency.”

Aizawa’s eyes flick to Hizashi before Nezu even finishes the sentence. Hizashi goes still. Nezu continues, unaware or simply unbothered by the sudden tension in the air. “They’ve taken on a delicate undercover case. They need more pro heroes involved enough to form the appearance of a cooperative task force, but discreet enough that it doesn’t draw too much attention. They specifically asked if I had any heroes in mind.”

Hizashi’s fingers curl around the arm of the chair. Aizawa’s voice cuts in, cool and even. “Send someone else.”

Nezu blinks, tilting his head. “Oh?”

Aizawa doesn’t look at Hizashi. “There are plenty of capable pros who could play the part. You don’t need us.”

“I’m aware,” Nezu replies calmly, clasping his paws again. “But your teamwork history with her is one of the strongest among U.A. affiliated heroes. There’s a unique rhythm there. And in this case, familiarity might be more useful than sheer numbers.”

“Still,” Aizawa starts again, firmer this time, “it’s a mistake.”

But before he can say more, Hizashi leans forward. “I’ll do it.”

Aizawa finally looks at him. “Yamada ”

“I’ll do it,” Hizashi repeats, more certain now, even though his jaw’s tight. His voice is steady, but his eyes aren’t quite meeting Aizawa’s. “She asked for help. I’m not gonna sit back and pretend I didn’t hear that.”

Aizawa studies him for a long, silent moment. There’s something sharp behind his gaze, something protective. He doesn’t speak again not yet. Nezu nods, pleased. “I knew I could count on you.”

He turns to Aizawa next. “And what about you?”

Aizawa doesn’t answer right away. He looks at Hizashi again, then slowly exhales through his nose. “…Fine,” he mutters, rubbing at the corner of his eye. “But I’m not playing backup if this gets personal.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” Hizashi says quietly.

Nezu claps his paws together. “Wonderful! I’ll forward you the brief. You’ll both head out in two days.”

As they stand to leave, Hizashi lingers for a moment, staring down at the folder still resting on Nezu’s desk. His eyes trace the corner of your name just barely peeking from a report inside. His hand tightens once before he forces it to relax. And then he turns, following Aizawa out of the room.

The door shuts behind them with a soft click, sealing off Nezu’s office and all the weight it carried. The hallway is quiet. Hizashi walks a step ahead, hands shoved deep in his pockets, mouth set in a line. His usual energy is gone no humming, no idle chatter, no light bounce in his step. Just silence. Aizawa follows beside him, eyeing the tension in his shoulders, the way he hasn’t said a word since they left the office. They pass a group of first years who pause to wave, but Hizashi doesn’t even notice.

“What was that?”

Hizashi glances sideways. “What?”

“You know what I’m talking about,” Aizawa says, voice low.

Hizashi doesn’t answer right away. They keep walking past empty classrooms, the echoes of their steps filling the space between them. Finally, he exhales, slow and shaky. “It’s just been a while,” he says, too quickly.

Aizawa stops walking. Hizashi slows but doesn’t turn. he he “I’m serious,” Aizawa says. “If this is going to get in your head, I need to know now. You’re not the only one going in. I’m not dragging you out of something you weren’t ready for.”

Hizashi finally stops, his back still to Aizawa. He runs a hand through his hair, ruffling it more than usual, then turns halfway just enough to speak over his shoulder. “She asked for help, Shota,” he says quietly. “Whether she meant to or not, she did. I’m not gonna ignore that.”

Aizawa’s gaze narrows. “This isn’t about obligation. Don’t pretend it is.”

Hizashi chuckles once, but there’s no humor in it. “It’s not. But… I need to do this. Maybe for her. Maybe for me. I don’t know yet.”

Aizawa steps closer, voice dropping lower. “You haven’t talked to her since…”

“Yeah,” Hizashi cuts in. He finally turns fully, arms crossed, leaning back against the wall like he’s trying to hold himself up with it.

“I miss her every single day,” he murmurs. “Whether I understand it or not Im going to be there for her”

Aizawa watches him in silence, the faint crease between his brows softening just a little. “Alright,” he says. “If you’re in, I’m in.”

Hizashi gives a weak smile. “Thanks, man.”

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|• 0:10 Hizashi and Aizawa step in, both dressed In their hero gear. Hizashi scans the place, mouth a thin line. Aizawa just yawns behind his scarf. “Can I help you?” the receptionist asks, eyeing them both before recognition softens her tone. “Oh Present Mic, Eraserhead. Lumine said to expect you.”

“She mention what this was about?” Aizawa asks, voice low.

“She said she’d brief you personally,” the receptionist replies with a tight smile. “She’s just ”

FWUMP.

A faint rush of wind and a shimmer of light drift in through the skylight above and then you land lightly in the center of the room, boots clicking softly as you straighten. Hair tousled by the wind you offer a nod to the others in the room before your gaze lands on the newcomers.

Your breath catches for a beat. Hizashi. You weren’t expecting him. But you recover quickly. A smile curls at your lips professional, measured, but undeniably a great thing. You brush your hair back and take a few steps forward.

“Thanks for coming,” you say to the room, your voice smooth and sure. “I’ll keep this quick. The mission’s simple. There’s a formal pro hero gala tonight big guest list, all high ranking heroes and agency leaders. Somewhere in that crowd is a contact I need to extract information from.”

You pause and glance around. “Problem is, I can’t make a direct move. Too many eyes. So I need all of you trusted faces to act as cover. Draw attention, start conversations, keep the spotlight off me.”

One of the pros a tall woman with a flame patterned cape raises a brow. “You brought this many people just to run interference?”

The others murmur similar questions. Your smile doesn’t waver. “Sometimes the most valuable thing in a room full of pros isn’t strength. It’s distraction. And trust.”

Still, a few of them exchange skeptical looks. Then, from your left “…Why us?” The voice was one you knew all too well. Hizashi steps forward just a little, arms crossed. He’s not challenging you but his gaze is steady, careful. “Why me?”

The room goes quiet. You meet his eyes those same eyes that used to crinkle when he laughed too hard. Your heart stutters, but your smile remains. “Because Nezu has a good memory,” you say lightly. “he knows what works best.” Hizashi tilts his head, lips parting like he might say something else but you turn toward the rest of the team before he can. “Everyone, get your formal gear ready. The gala starts at eight. I’ll brief you again in the transport. No costumes. No weapons. just please kiss some ass.”

As the others disperse, still murmuring to each other, you linger where you stand eyes trailing Hizashi just a little longer than necessary before turning away. He watches you, silent, that same tension in his shoulders he had in Nezu’s office.

Aizawa quietly steps up beside him and mutters, “This was a bad idea.” But Hizashi doesn’t answer. He just keeps watching you. The corridor glows with warm light from the sunset bleeding through the floor to ceiling windows, streaking gold across polished floors and glass panels. It’s quiet up here. Peaceful. A break from the constant motion of the agency below. You stand near the railing, clipboard in hand, eyes trained on the city skyline but you’re not really looking at it. Your smile is soft, just enough to pass, just enough to say: I’m fine. This is fine. Behind you, footsteps approach. Light, familiar. You don’t turn.

“You always did like ahen things were quiet,” Hizashi says casually, his voice easy, light. “Something poetic about it.”

You turn your head just a little, enough to see him in your peripheral. “Poetic? Did you pick up a new hobby? must have been something I missed while you were off being a radio star?” You make it a joke. You even add a small laugh that feels practiced now.

Hizashi steps up beside you, resting his elbows on the railing, looking out. “Nah. Still can’t write poetry for anything. But I can still recognize when you are hiding.”

Your smile twitches, just slightly. But it doesn’t drop. “If I was hiding, this would be the worst place to do it. Big windows.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches you from the side. “I didn’t come up here for the mission,” he says finally.

You nod slowly, still staring straight ahead. “Yeah. I figured.”

“You gonna ask why I did?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” You keep your voice airy. “Everyone missed me. I’m the star attraction around here.”

Hizashi’s laugh is quiet. “You always were in my eyes”

You turn to face him with a too sunny smile. “Anyways Present Mic, what can I do for you?”

That earns a grin from him, but there’s something searching in his eyes like he’s not buying it. Like he never really did. “Just wanted to see you,” he says, voice quieter now. “Cant say that Ive seen you in a while”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the clipboard. “Well, lucky for you, this is it. Ta da.”

But it doesn’t come out with the same flair as usual. The exhaustion slips through the cracks. He catches it. “You don’t have to pretend with me, y’know,” he says gently. “You never did.”

then you laugh small, hollow, just barely a sound. “You say that like it’s easy.”

He tilts his head. “Isn’t it easier than bottling it up?”

You look away again. “Bottling it up got me this far.”

Another silence. You hear him shift closer, just a little. Still not touching, but close enough that you feel the warmth radiating from him. “I missed you,” he says.

You blink. Slowly. The weight of those words settle over your shoulders like a coat you forgot belonged to you. “I missed a lot of things,” you murmur. “Doesn’t mean I know what to do with them now.”

“You don’t have to,” Hizashi replies. “Just… don’t shut the door all the way, okay?”

Your smile fades, softens into something tired and unsure. But you nod. “…Okay.”

He leans a little closer, voice gentle. “And for the record? I didn’t come up here for closure. I came up here because the door’s still open. Even if it’s just a crack.”

You let out a slow breath. Then quietly, more vulnerable than you’d like you say, “Don’t make promises you don’t plan to keep.”

Hizashi smiles “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|• 0:10 The room is quiet except for the soft clink of a makeup brush against a ceramic palette and the low hum of distant city traffic. Golden light from the setting sun filters through the tall windows, catching on your vanity mirror. You sit in front of it, barely blinking as you apply a dark line of eyeliner with practiced ease. Your reflection stares back at you. Polished. Perfect. Controlled. Like you haven’t broken a hundred times over. Your hand pauses mid swipe. Lips slightly parted, mascara wand hovering. The image in the mirror doesn’t look like you. Not the version of you who’s been slipping through alleyways in the dead of night. Not the version who helps the desperate and the voiceless when the system turns away. This version? She’s a performance. She’s what the hero system still expects you to be. You press the wand down and exhale shakily. And then your mind drifts to him.

Hizashi.

Of all the people Nezu could’ve sent, of all the names that could’ve landed on that list it had to be his. You grit your teeth, swallowing the rise of emotion burning in your throat. Of course you still love him. You always have. From his dumb jokes to his reckless optimism. From the way he held your baby like the world might fall if he didn’t… to the way he shattered when it actually did. But that love lives under the ash of everything you lost. The system said you couldn’t move your child. Protocol. Civilians were to shelter in place while pros handled the threat. And what happened? He escaped again. Again. Again.

How many people did it take before they actually locked him away? Too late. Always too late. Your hand trembles against the vanity. They told you to trust the law. To wait. They said justice would come. It did but only after blood. So you stopped trusting them. You still wear the hero name, still hold the title because it’s useful. But when the uniform comes off, you become you. The one who helps where the law won’t go. The one who tracks the ones the system forgets. The one who avenges. You sacrificed everything to live that life. Even him. Even love. Because the hero system let you bury your child. And now… now you’re here again, curling your lashes, dabbing soft shimmer onto your eyelids, pretending you’re whole. Pretending you’re going to a party. Pretending you’re just another hero at a gala with a mission.

You click the lipstick shut, the final touch complete. The woman in the mirror stares back beautiful, unreadable, deadly. No one in that room tonight will see anything else. You rise slowly, smoothing out the fabric of your dress midnight blue, sleek and elegant, with a slit that hides your knives and your scars. Another mask. You glance once more at your reflection.

“…Let’s get this over with,” you whisper.

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|• 0:10 The gala glows beneath chandeliers and camera flashes, a swirl of polished shoes, clinking glasses, and hero agency logos gilded in gold along the walls. Music hums soft and jazzy beneath the polite roar of conversation, laughter.

Hizashi Yamada is in the center of it all, exactly where he knows you need him to be. His suit is sharp dark green with golden accents, the kind of color that catches the light just enough to make him pop. His hair’s tied back neatly, but the grin on his face is pure Present Mic: loud, magnificent , effortless.

“C’mon, c’mon!” he says, waving his drink with a flourish as a small circle of heroes gathers around him. “You haven’t lived until you’ve been in a karaoke bar in Osaka with Gang Orca and Fat Gum. I swear Orca screamed ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ like his life depended on it!”

The circle bursts into laughter, even the stiffer heroes cracking smiles. A few paparazzi hover near the edge of the group, lenses trained on him, capturing every animated gesture and flashy grin. Exactly as planned. If he was going to do this help you with this mission he was going to do it right. Draw the spotlight. Drown out the background. Let you move like a shadow behind the scenes.

“You’re really working this room,” comes Aizawa’s voice, low and unimpressed, as he appears beside him with a glass of water in hand and his long coat thrown over the more traditional black suit.

“Course I am,” Hizashi says through a grin, only just glancing at him. “Isn’t that the job?”

“You’re being loud even for you.”

“People like loud,” Hizashi replies, motioning around the room. “Loud means attention babygirl”

Aizawa physically recoils at the nickname ans follows his gaze. Your figure is barely visible, cutting clean through the crowd in a sleek dress, slipping between clusters of distracted pros with silent precision. You’re already at the far end of the room, unnoticed. Unbothered. Just like you wanted.

Aizawa hums, eyes flicking back to Hizashi. “So, what happens if they start looking for you when the lights go down?”

Hizashi’s grin softens, just a little.

“Then I keep being the one people hear.”

And with that, he throws an arm around a nearby hero, dragging them into the conversation, voice booming again like nothing’s changed. But behind the volume, behind the show, his eyes keep darting toward the edges of the room where he knows you are. And he prays they keep looking at him, just a little longer.

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|• 0:10 The room spins in soft gold and velvet shadows as the band shifts into something slower strings and piano, romantic and dangerously timed. Laughter hushes to murmurs as couples begin to gather at the polished dance floor, gliding in practiced steps.

He sees you. You step out from the fringe of the crowd, no longer a shadow. No longer just the woman on a mission. You’re standing beneath a chandelier, its light bathing you in soft firelight. Midnight blue silk wraps around you like the night itself, slit high enough to whisper of the weapons hidden beneath, and yet all he sees is you. like the memory he’s never been able to rewrite. Hizashi’s mouth parts, breath catching in his throat. For a second just a second he forgets what he’s supposed to be doing. He forgets the crowd, the mission, the weight of years between you.

All he sees is the love of his life.

You’re scanning the room, eyes sharp but you feel it the burn of a gaze that cuts deeper than the others. When you meet it, your chest tightens. Of course he’s looking at you like that. Like it’s the first time. Like it’s the last time. Like it’s always been you. Your jaw ticks slightly, but before you can move away.

He’s already in front of you. You feel it before you see him. His hand on your waist. Warm, firm. Familiar. His other hand gently, reverently, slides into yours. Your breath stutters. “Dance with me,” he says, voice low, the wild energy of his public persona stripped away.

You look up, annoyed just a little. “This isn’t part of the plan.” But there’s no venom in your tone. There never is, not with him.

His thumb brushes your hip, soft. “Maybe not. But I’ve waited years for five minutes with you that weren’t shadowed in grief.” He leans down, hand still clasping yours, and presses a kiss to your wrist. Then another, up your arm. Slow. Like he’s memorizing the pieces of you he thought he’d never touch again. You say nothing. You don’t pull away. Because your heart is screaming. He leads you gently toward the floor. The crowd shifts, moving out of your path, and the room seems to hush, the music rising as the two of you step into its rhythm. You dance. Bodies close, breath shared. His touch is careful, not possessive never possessive but like he’s holding something fragile. You’re stiff at first, guarded, but then your fingers curl tighter in his hand, your other hand brushing his shoulder. It feels like coming home and stepping into a fire, all at once.

Neither of you speaks. You don’t need to. His hand squeezes yours. you let yourself rest your cheek against his shoulder for just a moment. One song. That’s all he asked for. And for the first time in what feels like forever… You let him have it.

The music wraps around you like silk smooth and slow, the kind of song that sways rather than marches. You move with him, step for step, breath for breath. But your posture is rigid. Not cold, not cruel just closed. Hizashi doesn’t push. His hand remains at your waist, guiding you gently across the floor, fingers warm against your lower back. You’re dancing, but your eyes keep flicking away over his shoulder, past the crowd, toward your objective. He doesn’t mind. He’s just watching you. Fully. Softly. Like he doesn’t care who sees.

“Its been so long,” he murmurs, his voice low enough only for you. “you still look like a rockstar as much as the last time i've seen you”

You glance at him, unamused.

“Don’t start.”

He grins. “Just sayin’. It’s cute.”

Your brows tighten, your gaze cutting to the side. The rhythm doesn’t falter, but your walls stay up. You keep moving like a soldier dressed as a socialite. He chuckles softly, not deterred. “This dress, though…” His fingers graze the silk at your hip, reverent. “Do you know how beautiful you look”

You say nothing. You just breathe in through your nose, shoulders sharp.

“I mean it,” he goes on, shameless. “You look like a star. Like the kind that burns out entire galaxies”

You roll your eyes, lips twitching into a ghost of a smile. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Yeah, well. I’m allowed to be,” he says, eyes on you like you’re a masterpiece. “Haven’t seen you like this in forever. Let me be ridiculous.”

You stare straight ahead, chin tilted just slightly higher. “I’m working,” you say softly.

“I know,” he replies, no protest in his tone. “I’m just dancing. With the woman I love.”

Your chest tightens. You hate the way that lands. The way it splits you open with something soft and aching. But you don’t reply. You just keep dancing. His thumb brushes circles against your spine.

“You’ve always been good at this,” he says suddenly, quieter now. “Ive always liked things loud and fast. But I think… I think I always liked you best when you stayed still. Just for a minute. Just long enough to look at me.”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. Not yet. He smiles anyway. “You don’t have to say anything. I just… needed to tell you.”

The song fades into its last few notes, and you step back from him, just a little. The space between you isn’t wide but it feels like miles. Still, his hand never drops yours.

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|• 0:10 The sun barely filters through the blinds of the teachers’ lounge, casting long stripes across the floor. The coffee in Hizashi’s mug has gone lukewarm. He doesn’t seem to notice. Slouched on the couch in his yellow hoodie and black joggers, he’s staring blankly at the muted TV screen as the early news drones on in the background. Aizawa stands near the counter, dark hair tied back, arms folded across his chest, his cup untouched. The room feels heavy like something is waiting to drop. Then the news breaks.

“We interrupt your regular programming with breaking news. Last night, the body of Daigo Nishida was discovered in a private lounge of the Pro Hero Gala. Authorities report the man had been dead for several hours before staff discovered the scene.”

Both men turn their heads.

Hizashi’s eyebrows pull together. “Wait what?”

Aizawa is already narrowing his eyes, moving toward the remote to turn the volume up.

“Initial speculation assumed it was a heart attack, but the situation has taken a drastic turn. Investigators have confirmed that Daigo Nishida had been under covert surveillance for months. Allegations include child trafficking, harassment, and laundering funds through hero support firms. Authorities are now treating the death as a possible homicide.”

A still photo of Nishida appears on the screen, taken at some formal event. He’s smiling. Glass raised in a toast.

Aizawa’s jaw clenches. “He was at the gala.”

Hizashi blinks slowly, sitting forward. “He was there. We were there. We were what, fifteen feet away the whole damn night?” They sit in stunned silence as the anchor continues listing charges, connections to known black market labs, even a supposed deal that fell through with a hero firm overseas. Hizashi scrubs a hand through his hair. “You’re telling me all that was happening and we were out there charming sponsors and spinning small talk?”

“I didn’t even see him in the crowd,” Aizawa mutters.

“Same.” Hizashi leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You’d think I’d catch a guy like that. Especially at that kind of event.” A beat of silence. He stares at the screen, face unreadable. “Can’t say I’m shedding tears over it, though.” Aizawa gives him a look but doesn’t disagree. Hizashi shakes his head, muttering, “Guy like that getting away with that much, that long… Makes you wonder who else was looking the other way.”

But he isn’t angry about that. Not really. His mind is already somewhere else circling you. He remembers the tension in your shoulders. The way you never quite softened, even when you danced with him. The way your eyes kept drifting always watching, always calculating. You’d known something. Or someone. And if you were close to it if you were even near whatever happened in that room Hizashi’s jaw tightens. I should check in on her, he thinks, quietly.

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|• 0:10 Your fingers move fast, scribbling notes, signing documents, flipping pages without hesitation. There’s always more to do. There always has to be more to do. A knock breaks through the silence. You don’t look up. “Come in,” you call, already bracing yourself. Another pro. Another secretary. Another bright eyed intern wanting advice. Your voice shifts instinctively preparing the familiar bubbly tone, the one people expect from you now. But when the door opens, and you finally glance up Your heart stutters. Hizashi stands in the doorway, one hand still on the knob, the other tucked into his jacket pocket. His usual energy is dulled still him, still tall, still magnetic in the way only he is but quieter. He’s in his casual wear again: yellow hoodie layered under his bomber jacket, hair loose and a bit windswept from being outside. Your throat tightens. You immediately look back down at your papers, flipping to the next sheet like it’s more interesting than the man you once shared a life with. He steps inside slowly and closes the door behind him. You speak first, flat but polite. “Need something for the report?”

Hizashi doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he studies you. The way your jaw clenches. The way your pen stills just slightly before moving again. The way you’re not looking at him really refusing to. “…Are you okay?”

The question hangs there, heavier than it should be. You don’t flinch, but your fingers tense around the pen. “Why wouldn’t I be?” you reply, still not meeting his eyes.

“Because,” he says softly, stepping closer, “a man was killed at the gala last night. You were off on your own when it happened. who wouldnt be scared after that?.”

You finally stop writing. The silence stretches. He waits. You take a breath shallow, careful. Then say, “I’m fine.” And maybe if it were anyone else, they’d believe it. You’ve made a second career out of pretending to be fine.

But Hizashi isn’t anyone else. He watches you for another beat before quietly asking, “Can I sit?”

You finally look up at him again, reluctant. Just tired of trying to guard things he already knows. You gesture to the chair across from your desk. The air between you both feels thinner now. Hizashi leans forward in the chair, elbows on his knees, hands loosely folded, eyes never leaving you. His voice cuts through the quiet, softer than usual. No booming theatrics. No playful edge.

“…I miss you,” he says.

You blink, your chest tightening.

“I miss us.” He smiles faintly, almost bitterly. “There’s not a single day I don’t think about the life we had. About ” His voice catches for half a second. “ about our baby.” That word still feels sacred. Shattering. Whole. Your hand stiffens where it rests on the desk. But you don’t speak. “I still hear her laugh sometimes,” Hizashi says, his voice rougher now. “In my dreams. The little squeal she used to do when she saw you. The way she’d hold my finger with that tiny hand like she thought I could protect her from the whole damn world.”

You still say nothing. But you move. You get up slowly, walk across the room without a word, and turn the lock on the door with a soft click. Then, instead of sitting back behind the desk you perch on top of it. Facing him. Closer. A little more honest.

“I miss you too,” you say quietly and tiptoeing around the edges. “God, Hizashi… of course I miss you.” He looks up at you, eyes aching. You exhale a long, shaky breath. “But I couldn’t do it anymore. Not when the same system that asked us to stand for justice told me I wasn’t allowed to take my daughter to safety. Told me to wait. Told me it wasn’t protocol. Told me he’d be caught eventually.” Your voice wavers. “I needed to protect her. That’s all I ever wanted to do.”

“I know,” Hizashi whispers. There’s a beat. Then, he sits up straighter, eyes searching yours, like he’s stepping to the edge of a cliff. “…Come back,” he says. Your heart lurches. “Come back to me. Please.”

You look at him and the ache in his voice, the longing behind his words, it shreds through every wall you’ve tried to rebuild. Your gaze softens. “It’s too late,” you whisper. And yet your feet move before your mind can stop them. You slide off the desk, stepping between his legs, and lower yourself slowly into his lap. His hands hover at your sides, unsure, until your arms slide around his neck and your face finds the crook of his shoulder. Hizashi exhales shakily, like he’s been holding his breath for years. His arms curl around your waist, firm but reverent, pulling you impossibly closer. One hand presses flat against your back while the other slides up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers threading into your hair like he needs to remind himself this is real. You’re here. You’re his again, even if only for this moment. He buries his face against your shoulder, and you can feel it his breath catching, the way his chest rises like he’s trying not to break down.

“You don’t know how many times I’ve imagined this,” he murmurs into your skin, voice barely holding steady. “What I’d say… what I’d do if I ever got to hold you again.” Your grip around his neck tightens, and your eyes sting, but no tears fall. Not yet. You’ve cried enough behind closed doors. You’ve mourned in silence long after the world moved on. “I thought letting you go would be what you needed,” he continues. “But I never stopped waiting. I never stopped hoping you’d come back. Or… or maybe you’d let me come to you.”

You stay quiet, your nose brushing the side of his neck, breath warming his skin.

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|• 0:10 The city hummed beyond the cracked walls of the abandoned parking structure, its sound dulled by distance and the encroaching dark. Sunset spilled its last rays through broken slats, casting jagged lines of orange across the concrete. The air was heavy with dust and the ghosts of burned rubber. Years of neglect stained the ground with oil and time, and now it bore the tension of a battleground. Hizashi’s boots struck the floor in rhythmic strides as he entered, his silhouette framed by the last bit of daylight. His voice rang out, echoing between the pillars with confident bravado, that trademark flair he never quite dropped. “C’mon, man,” he called, scanning the shadows. “You’ve got a good quirk, slick moves, and bad taste in timing! But you picked the wrong night to stir the pot.”

He could’ve waited for the rest of the team outside. Could’ve played it safe. But something in the reports had itched at the back of his brain, and he wanted to see this vigilante for himself. A sharp motion sliced through his peripheral. He pivoted instinctively, ducking just as a metal pipe came sailing through the air and smashed against a pillar with a shriek of impact. Hizashi spun on his heel, already shouting. “YEAHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

The Voice Pulse detonated like a cannon. A wave of sound surged forward, cracking the air and hammering into the attacker. They flew backward, slammed into the ground with a sickening thud that echoed like thunder. The impact threw up a cloud of dust and debris, choking the air in a fog of grit. Hizashi didn’t wait. He launched forward, every muscle braced, boots skidding as he weaved between the pillars. Another attack came this one closer. The vigilante had recovered faster than he expected. A shockwave burst from their palm, hurling a chunk of concrete at him with kinetic force. Hizashi ducked, rolled, and came up swinging his voice again, a controlled blast meant to knock them off balance without killing. The two clashed in rapid bursts strike, dodge, counter, repeat. Sparks flared as a baton scraped metal. Energy hissed against sonic force. It was messy, fierce, personal. The vigilante moved like someone who didn’t care about pain, only results. Hizashi fought like someone who had to win but didn’t want to destroy the person in front of him. Eventually, a low kick swept the vigilante’s legs out. Hizashi lunged forward, slamming his shoulder into their chest, sending them sprawling. They hit the ground hard, a choked gasp escaping as they slid across the cement and into a low wall.

Dust swirled again. Silence returned. A groan followed. Breath ragged, Hizashi jogged over, eyes narrowed behind his visor. The vigilante was pushing themselves up on one elbow. Their mask stark black with jagged red lines was cracked along the edge. Their body was wrapped in mismatched, tactical gear, not a hint of official regulation in sight. No hero would wear that. But the way they moved the way they flinched when he approached it twisted something in his gut, something he couldn’t quite name.

“You talk a big game,” he muttered, crouching beside them, keeping a cautious distance. “But your moves? yeah I can just guess thats all it is. All talk.”

The vigilante laughed, low and bitter, blood at the corner of their mouth. “You heroes,” they rasped, “you think you’re saving people by playing by the rules. But all you’re doing is running alongside the tracks, hoping the train’ll stop before it kills someone.”

Hizashi’s eyes darkened. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You know the trolley problem?” they asked, spitting blood to the side. “If one life saves ten, you pull the lever. If it saves a hundred, you run to pull it. But heroes?” They coughed, the sound dry and broken. “You wait for backup. For clearance. For someone to sign the damn form. You’re not saving anyone. You’re just dragging it out while more people get hurt.”

“Funny way to justify hurting people,” Hizashi said, quieter now. There was something about that voice. The cadence. The way they spoke like they’d already lost something they couldn’t get back. It echoed too close to home.

They didn’t answer. Didn’t move. He hesitated, then reached forward with a slow, steady hand. “You’re done,” he murmured. Fingers curled around the edge of the mask. A tug. It slipped free. Time stopped. The mask fell from his hand and hit the ground with a hollow clatter, echoing louder than it should’ve. His eyes widened. His breath caught halfway through his throat and never made it out. His heart slammed against his ribs like a prison break.

“No…” You were staring up at him. Your face was streaked with dirt, blood dried at your temple, lips cracked and trembling. But your eyes your eyes were the same. Hizashi staggered back a step, almost tripping over himself. “You?”

The word barely left his mouth. His voice, always so loud, now a broken whisper. Everything around him dust, darkness, the mission blurred into nothing. His hands shook. And then, you smiled. Faint. Wounded. Soft in a way that felt like the end of the world.

“Hello,” you whispered, voice hoarse but steady. Your eyes didn’t waver from his. “Hello, my love.” And just like that, Hizashi’s heart split clean down the middle.

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|• 0:10The fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead. The walls are sterile, lined with gray panels. A single metal table sits in the center, bolts securing it to the floor. Across from the table is you handcuffed, ankles crossed, posture relaxed like you’re waiting for a friend at a café. You’re smiling. The interrogator across from you flips a page in their file, eyes narrowed.

“You’re a pro hero. Top ten, even,” he says, frustration threading through his voice. “What made you throw all of that away?”

You lean forward a little, a glint of amusement in your eye. “I didn’t throw anything away,” you say cheerfully. “I just started picking up where everyone else left off.”

“Don’t play games. We’ve connected your movements to multiple incidents. Incidents where people wound up dead. Or disappeared.” His voice is harder now. “You were supposed to protect the system, not act like you’re above it.”

You rest your chin in your palm, smile deepening like it’s painted on. “And who exactly is the system protecting?” you ask softly, tone still sugar sweet. “Because it sure as hell wasn’t my kid.” The interrogator falters. You sit back, stretching your shoulders as much as the cuffs allow. “It’s funny,” you continue. “People love heroes until it’s inconvenient. Until they need someone to really fix things. But no one wants to get their hands dirty. No one wants to do anything. Just wait for the paperwork to clear, hope the next press conference goes well.” You laugh light, like a bell. Like none of this matters. “It’s exhausting, isn’t it? Being the good guy while watching people fall through the cracks.”

You tilt your head, still smiling. “Is it really a crime to protect the people I love?” Then your eyes shift slowly toward the mirrored glass. Behind the glass, Hizashi stands frozen. Shoulders rigid. Jaw clenched. You’re looking straight at him. i… he doesn’t look away. Not from the woman he still loves. Not from the woman he failed to protect. Not from the woman who’s trying to save others the only way she knows how. Hizashi hasn’t moved.

He’s barely breathing. Your words echo in his head “Is it really a crime to protect the people I love?” and they cut deeper than any blast or wound he’s ever taken. The interrogator beside him keeps talking into the mic, flipping pages, preparing more questions. But Hizashi doesn’t hear a word. His eyes are glued to you through the glass. That smile that isn’t really a smile. The light in your eyes that no longer warms. His hands are curled into fists. Then he speaks, voice low and uncharacteristically quiet.

“Let me talk to her.”

The interrogator glances at him. “Mic, she’s in the middle of an official ”

“I said,” Hizashi cuts in, sharper this time, “let me talk to her.”

The silence that follows isn’t long, but it’s heavy. Eventually, the man sighs and gives a short nod. “You’ve got ten minutes.”

Hizashi doesn’t wait. He’s already moving.

The door hisses open. Your eyes flick lazily toward it, the grin on your face sharp and bright an obvious performance, polished to perfection. But the moment you see who steps in, it falters for half a second. Hizashi. Of course. You straighten in your seat, smile shifting into something thinner, more barbed. “Well, if it isn’t Present Mic himself. Come to yell me into a confession?”

He says nothing at first, just closes the door gently behind him. His shoulders are rigid, but his eyes his eyes are soft. Too soft. You hate that. He takes a step toward the table. You don’t let him get close.

“Don’t,” you warn. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” he asks, voice low.

“Like you still can love me.” That silence is the kind that suffocates. He takes another step, and you narrow your eyes at him. “I don’t need your pity, Present Mic,” you bite, spitting out the name like it burns your mouth. “I’ve made my bed.”

Hizashi flinches at the name. You’ve never had called him that before, opting for zashi even before dating. “Stop acting like you’re surprised,” you continue, leaning back in your chair, chains of the cuffs clinking against the table. “What did you think I was doing when I disappeared? Yoga retreats? This was always coming.”

“I’m not here to judge you,” he says, quietly. “I’m here because I needed to see you.”

“Well. You’ve seen me.” You motion dramatically with your cuffed wrists. “Hope the visual lives up to whatever fantasy you had in your head.”

His jaw tightens. You expect him to argue, to raise his voice, to be the loud, animated man everyone knows. But he doesn’t. He just looks at you achingly quiet. “I’m not here as Present Mic,” he says, barely above a whisper. “I’m here as Hizashi. The man who inderstands this more than probably anyone else.”

Your face twitches, the hostility cracking like glass hit with a stone. You look away, blinking hard, gripping the edge of the table like it’ll keep you grounded. “You don’t get to say that,” you whisper.

“Why not?”

“Because you got to move on. You still get to be the hero. You didn’t have to become this.” You gesture to yourself worn down, tired, a mask made of bright smiles that hide nothing.

Hizashi takes the seat across from you, slow and careful like he’s afraid you’ll bolt if he moves too fast. “I didn’t move on,” he says. “I just survived. Without you. Without our kid. Every damn day I woke up and wished everything played out different. Wished I’d fought harder. For both of you.”

You grit your teeth, eyes stinging. You won’t cry. You won’t cry in front of him. “You think this was easy for me?” you murmur. “You think I wanted this?”

“Then why didn’t you let me help?” he asks, and his voice breaks just a little. “Why did you shut me out?”

You finally meet his eyes. They’re glassy now. He’s holding everything in by a thread. “I didn’t want you to have to choose,” you say. “Between me and a normal life”

He leans forward. “I would’ve chosen you. Every time.”

You laugh once, sharp and bitter. “Yeah? Even if it meant losing your hero license? Even if it meant turning your back on everything you fought for?”

“If it meant protecting you?” Hizashi swallows hard. “If it meant protecting our kid?”

“There was never even a question.”

Your breath catches, chest tightening painfully. You blink down at your hands.

Hizashi: I miss you.

Reader: That’s unfortunate.

Hizashi: …I deserved that.

Reader: You really didn’t. I just have unresolved feelings and sarcasm is easier than tears.

𓇢𓆸☾☼ Let me be your wings

Keigo Takami X Reader

This is based on my isekai story, and since I’m having such a hard time writing the chapters (I didn’t plan…I just started writing), HAVE THIS FOR NOW! This might be used for the story later, but for now, it’s just to show how their dynamic will be.

𓇢𓆸☾☼ Hawks had been teasing you for years.

It wasn’t just the usual banter, oh no, he had perfected the art of getting under your skin in ways no one else could. The perfectly timed winks, the way he’d drawl out, “Aww, you miss me?” whenever you texted him for mission details, the relentless nicknames that ranged from “Featherweight” to “Speed Bump” (the latter because, as he put it, you were “always in his way but never slowing him down”). He lived for it.

The mission had been a success, but it left you winded. You stood on the rooftop of a high rise, still catching your breath, while Hawks looked as unbothered as ever, stretching his arms behind his head like he’d just woken up from a nap. His feathers rustled in the evening breeze, the city lights below casting an amber glow on his face.

“You good there, champ?” he asked, smirking as he tilted his head at you.

You shot him a glare, still breathing heavily. “I just ran five blocks at full speed chasing that guy while you took a scenic flight over the skyline.”

He grinned. “Perks of having wings. Maybe you should invest in a jetpack.”

“Maybe you should do more than just provide aerial commentary next time.”

“Ohhh, attitude. Someone’s feisty when they’re exhausted,” he teased. “Tell you what, I’ll carry you next time. if you ask nicely.”

You groaned, pushing your hair out of your face. “If you ever carry me, I’m taking a pair of scissors to your wings.”

“Ouch. That’s attempted murder, y’know.”

Before you could fire back, you caught a flash of something in his hand too quick to react in time.

Your stomach dropped. “Hawks… did you just—”

Hawks flipped his phone around, displaying the screen for you to see. There it was a perfectly timed, completely unflattering shot of you mid wheeze, hair sticking to your forehead, looking like you’d just been through hell and back.

“Oh, I absolutely did,” he confirmed, his golden eyes twinkling with mischief. “You know, for posterity. Gotta capture these special moments.”

Your jaw clenched. “Delete it.”

He locked his phone with a dramatic flick of his wrist and tucked it into his jacket. “Nah, I think I’ll keep it. Maybe I’ll use it as your contact photo.”

You took a threatening step forward, but he was already floating just out of reach, laughing.

“Keigo Takami, I swear—”

“Whoa, full name? I really hit a nerve, huh?” He shot you a wink before launching himself into the sky. “See you around, Speed Bump!”

You watched him disappear into the night, fists clenched. Of course working with him was always so fun but god does it make you want to scream. Hawks had just taken off, disappearing into the sky like the show off he was. You watched until he was just a dot in the distance, then sighed, shaking your head.

This whole thing was still weird. Being here, seeing all of them in real life talking, breathing, making stupid jokes at your expense. You had spent years watching them from the other side of a screen, and now you were smack in the middle of it. It was like stepping into a show you used to binge watch, except now the characters had opinions on your coffee order and occasionally stole your fries.

Your eyes drifted back to where Hawks had just been, and you huffed out a laugh. Keigo Takami. You still remembered the first time you saw him in the anime all smug grins, lazy charm, and way too cool for his own good. You also remembered groaning because, of course, he had to be attractive. And a blonde.

You sighed dramatically. “God, my type is so predictable.”

First, it had been fictional blondes. Now? Now it was very real, very smug blondes who took pictures of you at your worst and made everything look effortless. Some things never changed.

Shaking your head, you turned on your heel and headed toward the next rooftop. You had your own agency to get back to top ten heroes didn’t have time to stand around having existential crises about their anime crushes coming to life.

Still, as you leapt off the edge, you couldn’t help but mutter, “At least I have good taste.”

⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆

The sun dipped below the Musutafu skyline, casting streaks of gold and crimson across the sky. The city hummed beneath you and Hawks, the distant sounds of traffic and chatter blending into the cool evening breeze. Perched on the edge of a rooftop, the two of you were supposed to be on patrol, but the quiet lull of the city made it feel more like an excuse to loiter.

Hawks stretched his arms behind his head, wings twitching slightly as he scanned the streets below. “Man, it’s almost too peaceful tonight. I was hoping for at least one car chase to spice things up.”

You smirked, leaning back on your elbows. “You say that now, but the second some villain starts monologuing, you’re gonna be complaining.”

“Pfft, that’s fair.” He shot you a sideways glance, amber eyes glinting with mischief. “Though, I gotta say, spending an evening with you is its own kind of excitement.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide your grin. “Flattery won’t make me buy you dinner after this, bird boy.”

He gasped, placing a hand over his heart. “Getting chicken together would be such a good idea though, here I thought we had something special.”

“Oh, we do,” you said, pulling out your phone. “And I have just the thing to prove it.”

Without another word, you tapped the screen, and soft, whimsical music began to play. The opening notes of “Let Me Be Your Wings” from Thumbelina drifted into the air, delicate and romantic.

Hawks stiffened immediately.

His feathers ruffled as he slowly turned his head to you, an expression of pure, dawning horror washing over his face.

No. No way. He knew this song. Scratch that, he really knew this song.

It had been stuck in his head more times than he cared to admit. And, worse, he had definitely imagined you singing it to him at least once. Or twice. Maybe five times. But that was beside the point.

“Let me be your wings… let me be your only love~”

You grinned at him like the devil incarnate. “C’mon, Hawks. This is our song now.”

His eye twitched. “You’re not serious.”

“Oh, I’m deadly serious,” you said, placing a hand over your chest in mock sincerity. “It just fits you so perfectly. The majestic wings, the whole ‘sweeping people off their feet’ thing—”

“—I don’t sweep people off their feet—”

“—and of course, your deep, burning desire to be someone’s tiny fairy prince.”

Hawks groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You suck.”

“is this you asking?” you teased, raising the volume. “Let me take you far beyond the stars~”

His wings twitched violently. He was sweating. You can’t let them know you’ve actually thought about this, Keigo. Play it cool. Play it—

“I hate that I know every lyric to this song.” The words slipped out before he could stop them.

Your jaw dropped, eyes widening with glee. “Oh my god.”

“Forget I said that.”

“You’ve thought about this, haven’t you?” You leaned in, voice full of mock realization. “You’ve imagined yourself singing this to someone.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“You so have.”

“I haven’t.”

You gasped theatrically. “Wait… have you imagined someone specifically?”

Hawks shot up so fast he nearly lost his footing on the ledge. “ALRIGHT, THAT’S ENOUGH OUT OF YOU.”

Before you could react, he grabbed the back of your collar and launched into the sky.

“WAIT—WAIT, KEIGO, I DIDN’T MEAN LITERALLY—!”

“TOO LATE, YOU’RE GETTING THE FULL THUMBELINA EXPERIENCE.”

The city blurred beneath you as he ascended, the wind whipping past as he effortlessly carried you into the night. You kicked your legs in protest, but his grip was firm, his wings beating steadily as he soared higher.

Below, your phone now abandoned on the rooftop continued playing the song, the tiny speaker projecting “We’ll see the universe and dance on Saturn’s rings~”

A civilian walking down the street paused, glancing up as your distant scream echoed overhead

“KEIGOOOOOO, PUT ME DOWNNNN—!”

As Hawks soared higher, you flailed in his grasp, wind whipping past as the city blurred below. “I WAS JUST TEASING YOU” you shouted.

“Oh, but you started this,” Hawks shot back, smirking down at you. “C’mon, you started this! You played our new song, and now I’m just giving you the full fantasy.”

“The fantasy doesn’t include me plummeting to my death, KEIGO!”

He gasped dramatically, placing a hand over his heart. “Plummeting? Please. You’re in the safest hands in Musutafu.” Then, without warning, he spun you midair.Your stomach flipped.

“KEIGO—!”

“Shhh, Thumbelina, just enjoy the moment,” he teased, effortlessly twirling you again like you weighed nothing. His golden eyes gleamed as he grinned. “Isn’t this romantic? The stars, the city lights, me your dashing, winged rescuer?”

“You’re so lucky I can’t hit you from this angle.”

Hawks only laughed, catching you with ease before adjusting his grip one arm under your legs, the other supporting your back.

“Oh wow, holding me like a bride?” you deadpanned. “Really committing to the bit, huh?”

He smirked, wings shifting as he hovered smoothly above the rooftops. “I’m just staying in character. Besides, Y/n or should I say Thumbelina, in this situation, it’s you. Small, feisty, getting swept off their feet by a very handsome flying man”

“I am not small—”

“—and tragically falling for his irresistible charm.”

You let out the longest, most exasperated sigh of your life. “I hate you.”

Hawks gasped. “You love me.”

Then he twirled you again, and this time, it was slow and dramatic, like he was dancing with you midair, like you really were some fairytale princess in his arms.

“I swear, Takami” you breathed out a little more gently.

“You’re adorable when you’re mad.”

You groaned. “I’m going to fight you when we land.”

“Aw, you wanna spend more time with me?” You smacked his shoulder, and he laughed, finally descending back toward the rooftop.

As soon as your feet hit the ground, you staggered, trying to shake off the dizziness. Hawks landed beside you, grinning like he hadn’t just been the most unbearable person alive.

“Whew, what a rush, huh?” He stretched, wings twitching. “I really think we captured the essence of the song.”

You glared. “You twirled me like a ballerina.”

“Yeah, well, you fit in my arms so nicely, what was I supposed to do?”

You inhaled sharply, pointing a warning finger at him. “If you don’t shut up, i’m telling your fans their favorite pro kidnaps people when he likes them”

Hawks gasped, “That’s so gross, you wouldn’t.”

You sighed dramatically, brushing the wind tangled hair out of your face. “Yeah, yeah. Now c’mon, bird boy, let’s get food before I report you for kidnapping.”

His feathers ruffled in amusement. “Dinner and a song?”

You side-eyed him as you picked up your phone. “Keep dreaming, fairy prince.”

“‘You know, you should make make ‘Let Me Be Your Wings’ your new ringtone for me.” he smiles from across you

You smirked. “I would.”

His eyes narrowed. “…Damn. That’s hot.”

You groaned and turned away. “I’m leaving.”

He fell into step beside you as you made your way back toward the edge of the building, still grinning like an idiot.

Blondes, man. They were gonna be the death of you.

~~~