nora

ABOUT ME she/her. im 19. scorpio. with my whole heart I love wally west, he’s so divine. gah i cant i love wally west. i love my cats. Salvadorian. No but seriously Bruce Wayne is just so majestic and so so so amazing. I love cmbyn and saltburn. Timothy we love u. atp i love u (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) .ᐟ.ᐟ

MASTERLIST

MDNI

Today was the day—the day you were to wed Sukuna Ryomen, the curse.

You were scared—the rumors that circled around him weren’t so kind. You’ve heard stories.

The girls in your village whispered that he killed people, ate them, and decimated villages.

Your stomach was swirling and those same voices captured your attention. This man—no monster was going to kill you.

The creak of the door opening caught your attention immediately. You fixed your posture and smiled. It was only Uraume—just them.

Your heartbeat slowed as they spoke—their tone was so very soft.

“Master Sukuna awaits your arrival,” They paused before speaking further as if testing the waters, “Don’t make him wait, he’s not a very patient man.”

You look at them through the mirror, your breathes uneven before walking up to them. You share the same height but you feel like you’re being constrained.

Your voice comes out in a small squeak, you don’t want Sukuna to overhear.

“Uraume am I going to die? Will he—Sukuna eat me? I’m so so terrified.”

You look them in the eyes—your own tears threatening to spill.

“Master Sukuna means no harm I assure you, just do as you’re told. Come now and wipe your tears, he hates weaklings.”

The word weakling made you flinch—what if just what if you were deemed one?

You followed Uraume and wiped your tears—the sight of Sukuna nearly knocked you off balance.

You straightened yourself not daring to breathe or move any wrong move and your worst fear comes true—your dead.

A low rumble spilled from Sukuna’s throat—half laugh, half growl.

The sound vibrated through the air as his grin widened, sharp and feral, the madness in his eyes burning like embers given life.

He took a step forward, deliberate and unhurried, as if savoring the way you stiffened in response.

“What’s this?” he drawled, voice dripping with mock amusement. “My little wife, trembling already? Don’t tell me you’re afraid of me.”

His tongue clicked against his teeth as he tilted his head, the markings along his face shifting with the movement. “Come now… I don’t bite.” A pause, a glint of danger. “Not unless you beg me to.”

You shook your head so fast it almost hurt, but your eyes couldn’t meet his.

The faint rustle of silk drew your attention anyway—his black-and-crimson robe parting just enough to reveal the defined lines of his torso, the inked curses etched into his skin alive with faint power.

His smirk deepened, predatory and pleased, as if your fear itself was something he could taste.

One of Sukuna’s hands—veined and inked with the remnants of his cursed markings—rested beneath your chin, his clawed fingertips tilting your face upward.

His gaze swept over you with a cold, deliberate precision, as if he were appraising a relic rather than a person. Then, his mouth curled into something that resembled a smile, though it carried no warmth—only possession.

You were deemed worthy, and that alone sealed your fate.

The sudden crack of his hands colliding split the air like thunder, making you flinch.

Cursed energy rippled faintly from the motion, pulling every spectator into instant obedience. Servants, attendants, and cursed beings alike straightened, their fear palpable.

The officiant—some trembling fool foolish enough to preside—fumbled through his scrolls. His voice faltered as he began, the words tripping over each other until Sukuna’s eyes flicked toward him. The mere glance froze the man mid-stutter, forcing the ritual along.

“R-right—today we gather to honor this union,” the officiant stammered, his tone shaking. “A day where two souls bind themselves—to care, to be cared for, and to love.”

Sukuna gave a low chuckle, the sound echoing through the chamber like a blade dragged across stone. His gaze returned to you, heavy with dominance.

“Sukuna,” the officiant began again, “do you take Y/N to be your wife? To hold her when she is lost—to protect, to provide… to be a husband, even a father, should you wish it?”

The air thickened. The king of curses tilted his head, amusement glittering in the red of his four eyes. “I absolutely do.”

The officiant smiled one less heavy thing off his chest. He turned to your eyes— expectant. “Now Y/N, do you take Sukuna Ryomen to be your husband? Provide heirs and be the best wife to your abilities?”

The question hangs and you seem out of it. You don’t want to disappoint anyone but the subtle differences in the way he spoke to Sukuna versus you makes you want to vomit.

But that’s all you were—someone’s wife. A title heavy enough to crush the person beneath it.

The thought clung to you like ash, but you swallowed it down. Words died on your tongue as your gaze found Sukuna—those crimson eyes gleaming with something that could never be mistaken for love.

When your eyes drifted to the onlookers, you managed a sigh, then a fragile, practiced smile.

The words slipped out, soft as honey and twice as fatal. “I do.”

The ceremony pressed forward. Cold metal met your skin; the ring felt less like a promise and more like a curse made tangible—a binding of souls that no exorcism could undo.

You felt the finality of it sink deep. You were his. Forever this.

“You may now kiss the bride.”

Sukuna didn’t wait. He closed the space between you like a predator cornering prey.

You lifted your eyes—still too innocent for the havoc that waited behind his grin—and he devoured the distance.

His lips were rough, almost bruising, tasting of iron and fire. The kiss stole your breath completely, leaving your chest empty and burning for air he refused to give back.

When he finally pulled away, his pupils were blown wide in hunger. Yours mirrored his, wide and dazed. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was something far darker.

—

You laid in his chambers awaiting for him to take you. You were pushed back onto the bed, your breath quickened. You were rightfully scared.

This giant were to conquer you—to mark and steal your innocence.

His crimson eyes bored into yours as he began undressing you, his mouth worked quick against yours.

“Wife, take a breath. You look like you’re not enjoying this,” Sukuna drawled, a grin cutting across his face. “I promise—by the end of this, you’ll feel very different.”

You had learned early that peace came only on his terms. The faintest glimpse of defiance always ended the same.

Your mind drifted—back to the village girls whispering behind woven fans, laughing as they boasted of lost innocence, of men who’d claimed them in moonlit fields.

Would that ever be you? Would you boast of it too?

“Focus on me,” Sukuna’s voice cut through your thoughts like a blade through silk. His tone held no room for disobedience. Rough hands brushed against the hem of your robes, fingers slipping lower. But before the fabric could fall, your body reacted faster than your mind.

Your trembling wrist caught his forearm, weak yet desperate. Tears blurred your vision as you stammered, “P-please, don’t… I’m not— I’m not pretty down there. It was a mistake. I—I’m sorry.”

Sukuna stilled. For a heartbeat, something colder than anger flickered across his face. His crimson eyes darkened as he dragged the cloth aside anyway, revealing the scars that marked your skin.

He had seen countless wounds in his centuries of slaughter—but this? This silenced even him.

Scars. Pale, uneven, carved into skin that once knew gentleness.

He said nothing at first. Only his eyes moved then his fingers, tracing the pale lines marring your thighs, the history carved there by hands not his own.

“Tch,” Sukuna exhaled slowly, the corners of his mouth curving in something between irritation and curiosity. “Scars… and you think I’d find that ugly?”

His voice was low, edged with derision but heavy with a strange gravity that pulled the air from the room. “You truly know nothing of what beauty means to a demon, do you?”

He leaned closer, the scent of smoke and iron clinging to him.

His hand, adorned with sharp claws, ghosted over your skin, yet didn’t wound. “Each mark is proof you’ve lived,” he murmured, tone now slow, deliberate. “Proof that you survived what tried to end you. That is power, wife.”

His thumb pressed near one of the scars, deliberate enough to draw a shiver from you. “Hide them again and I’ll tear the fabric from you myself. I take no pleasure in falsehoods—or fragile things pretending to be whole.”

Then, with a smirk that dripped with centuries of arrogance, he whispered, “If you bear such marks, then they belong to me now. As does everything else you’ve tried to hide.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. You could hear the faint crackle of the oil lamps, the rustle of silk between your fingers as you tried to keep steady.

Sukuna’s presence swallowed the room whole. It wasn’t just his body towering over you — it was the weight of him, the centuries of blood and arrogance breathing against your skin.

He tilted your chin upward with a clawed finger, the gesture deceptively gentle. “Look at me,” he said, and somehow his voice felt worse when quiet — heavy, deliberate, like an order wrapped in seduction.

Your lips parted, though no sound came.

“You shame yourself for being broken,” he murmured, eyes half-lidded as if studying prey. “But tell me, little wife, what is a god of slaughter if not made of broken things?”

He let out a soft laugh, one that rattled through your bones. “You should wear those scars like a crown.”

His thumb brushed a tear from your cheek, then lingered there, smearing the salt across your skin. “Do not hide from me again,” he warned, voice dropping lower, darker. “If you do, I’ll carve the truth into you myself — and this time, you’ll remember who marked you.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The room smelled of incense and dread; the candle flames bowed away from him as if even fire knew better than to draw too close.

And yet, when he finally released you, the absence of his touch felt colder than before.

Sukuna turned away then, settling back with an air of finality, the faintest ghost of amusement curling his lips. “Sleep, wife,” he said, the word stretched thin between mockery and claim. “Tomorrow, you will learn what it means to belong to me.”

You wanted to reach out for him—to touch, to hold, to find warmth in the same hands that had once brought kingdoms to ruin.

This was the monster the world feared? How strange, then, that he had shown you more gentleness than any man before him.

Your voice trembled as you pushed yourself upright, silk sheets pooling around your legs. “You… you do not wish to claim me anymore?” you asked softly, the title escaping you like a prayer. “I thought that was what husbands did, my lord.”

Doubt gnawed at you, cold and insistent.

You thought of your scars, the uneven lines he had seen, and shame welled up until it overflowed. “You saw them, didn’t you?” you whispered, tears sliding down your cheeks.

“You don’t want me because of them.”

Your breath hitched as you clasped trembling hands together, voice breaking between words.

“I can be perfect for you,” you pleaded, eyes shining with desperation. “Please… let me prove it. Let me have this.”

For a heartbeat, silence reigned again. The only sound was your uneven breathing and the faint crackle of the brazier beside the bed. Sukuna regarded you the way a storm watches the shore — impassive, vast, inevitable.

Then, a low rumble emerged from his chest — not quite a laugh, but something darker. “Perfect?” he echoed, his voice heavy with disdain. He rose slowly, the movement fluid, predatory. “You think I desire perfection, woman?”

He leaned in, his hands braced on either side of you as his shadow swallowed yours whole. “Perfection is fragile. It shatters the moment it meets truth. I have no use for that.”

His breath brushed against your skin, warm and sharp like the promise of flame.

His fingers lifted your chin again, forcing your gaze to meet the deep crimson of his eyes.

“I have slaughtered thousands who prayed to die as beautifully as you beg to please me,” he said, his tone almost reverent — almost. “But I am no gentle god, wife. If I claim you, it will not be because you seek to be perfect, but because you belong to me, scars and all.”

He released you with a scoff, stepping back, expression unreadable.

The faintest glimmer of something — not mercy, not pity, but understanding — flickered across his face before it vanished.

“Do not mistake my silence for rejection,” he said, turning toward the faint light slipping through the shōji. “You are mine already. What remains,” a smirk ghosted his lips, “is for you to accept it.”

“Please,” you whispered, almost to yourself at first. Then, louder, the word trembling on your tongue. “Sukuna… stay. Just for the night.”

He paused at the threshold, half-turned toward you, one hand loose at his side. The amused curl of his mouth deepened. “What an absurd request,” he said, his tone laced with mockery. “Do you truly think a god would waste his night keeping company like some village husband?”

You bowed your head, shame flooding you, but the ache of loneliness outweighed your fear. “I only…” You swallowed hard, voice catching. “I only want someone to hold me. Just once. I won’t ask again.” Your hands trembled where they clutched the bedsheets, and under the flickering lamplight, the tears on your cheeks looked like glass.

For a moment, Sukuna simply stared — silent, unreadable. Then, with a low sigh, he crossed the room. The floorboards creaked beneath his bare feet as he approached, each step deliberate, like a decision he hated himself for making.

“Pathetic my wife is such a crybaby,” he muttered, though there was no venom in it. His hand brushed the top of your head before he sat beside you. The weight of him bent the mattress. You couldn’t meet his eyes, afraid to shatter what little mercy he offered.

“Do not mistake this for affection,” he warned, his voice low, almost a growl. “You asked for company — nothing more.”

Then, to your disbelief, he lay back and pulled you against him.

His touch was heavy, his skin radiating heat that seeped into your chilled bones. There was no tenderness in the motion, yet his arm remained where it lay — firm around your waist, a barrier against the world.

“Sleep,” Sukuna commanded, his breath stirring the strands of your hair. “And stop trembling, wife. You begged for this… now have it.”

You closed your eyes, fragile against the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. He did not move for a long time. And though he’d never admit it, when you finally drifted into sleep, his grip on you only tightened — as if daring the night to take what was his.

Dick Grayson messes up Valentines can he make it up?

Dick Grayson x femreader, established relationship, domestic fluff, Valentine’s Day.

Morning sunlight trickled through the blinds, thin and soft, painting stripes of gold across the white sheets. Normally, mornings in your apartment began with a soft fussing sound coming from the crib at the foot of the bed — the unmistakable cooing of your three-month-old daughter, Marcy. But today, the air was still. Quiet.

It’s strange, you think. The kind of quiet that isn’t peaceful… the kind that feels wrong.

You stretch an arm toward the other side of the bed, expecting warmth — but your hand meets only cool fabric. Dick’s side is empty. You sit up with a frown, your gaze landing immediately on the small folded note sitting on his pillow. His handwriting is elegant yet just slightly messy, a balance you’ve always thought mirrored him perfectly: calm precision with a streak of chaos.

“Morning, love. Got called in — something came up with the team. Marcy’s with Bruce at the Manor. Promise I’ll make it up to you later. Don’t hate me too much.”

— D ❤️

Your heart sinks. Valentine’s Day. He couldn’t have just… waited?

You want to kill him—strangle him.

You drag yourself out of bed, every movement heavy with disappointment. The apartment—the one you and Dick chose together after your wedding, far enough from Blüdhaven’s chaos but close enough that Nightwing could still vanish into the night—feels too big without your baby’s tiny sounds echoing through it.

You make coffee just for something to do, sipping it slowly by the window. Gotham’s skyline gnaws at the horizon, the morning clouds stretching long and gray over the rooftops. You imagine Dick out there, flipping across some rooftop, heart pounding, adrenaline surging. That’s always been a part of him — the thrill, the duty. But today of all days, you wish he’d chosen you instead.

Hours crawl by. Noon, then afternoon. You tidy things that don’t need tidying, scroll through photos of Marcy sleeping in Bruce’s arms, feel your chest tighten. By early evening, as twilight casts violet shadows across the floor, you’re sitting on the couch in one of Dick’s sweatshirts, hair undone, heart cracking quietly.

Until your phone rings.

“Hey…” His voice filters through the speaker — soft, guilty, and a bit breathless. You can hear noise behind him: sirens, comm chatter, Jason’s low voice snapping something sarcastic.

“Grayson you really haven’t gotten her anything, god what a shitty husband, I could treat her better.”

You hear arguing from both of them before silencing Dick with your tone.

“Don’t ‘hey’ me.” It comes out sharper than you intend, but you can’t help it. “You left. On Valentine’s Day, Dick.”

“I know, babe. I know. I feel like the worst husband alive.” You can hear fabric rustling, the hitch in his breath as he ducks away from something. “Believe me, this isn’t how I wanted today to go. There was a new lead on that arms case—”

“Of course there was,” you mutter under your breath.

“—but I promise you, I’m wrapping things up.” His voice softens again, that signature Grayson warmth slipping through like sunlight after rain. “I need you to do me a favor, okay?”

You sigh. “What?”

“Go get ready. That red dress. The one that turns my brain into static every time I see you in it.”

You laugh despite yourself, pressing a hand to your face. “Dick—”

“I mean it. Put it on. Trust me. It’s worth it.”

You hesitate, torn between frustration and hope. But your heart — traitorous thing that it is — still believes in his promises. Always has.

So you do what he asks. You shower slowly, letting the water calm your nerves, then slip into that crimson dress he loves. You add perfume at your pulse points, fix your hair, brush on a red lip. When you catch your reflection, you look more alive already — even if your heart still aches.

But eleven o’clock comes, and still no Dick.

You lean against the window, gazing out over the streetlights below. All the disappointment you kept buried rises to your throat, ready to spill over. For a moment, you consider changing back into pajamas, washing the makeup off, and calling it a night.

tink.

You pause. A soft sound — like a pebble hitting glass. Then another.

You push open the curtains warily and peer out. And then… you laugh. You can’t help it.

Down below, in the cold February night, Dick Grayson stands in full Nightwing costume — mask, armor, the whole thing — surrounded by a clumsy circle of candles flickering on the sidewalk. His motorcycle gleams behind him, half-buried in red rose petals that must’ve been stolen from somewhere. He’s holding a small speaker, blasting a loud, unmistakably popular song, to be exact Sorry by Justin Bieber and he’s singing along.

Completely off-key sounding like a hyena dying.

“Is it too late now to say sorry cuz I’m missing more than just your body!!!”

“Are you serious Richard Grayson?!” you shout from the window, doubling over in laughter as he belts another hideous high note.

He looks up, grinning that big, stupid, irresistible grin. “I couldn’t miss Valentine’s Day with my favorite girl!”

“Girls,” you correct automatically, but warmth floods your chest.

“Right! You and our amazing cutest baby ever that we created!”

You cover your face, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. The neighbors are absolutely watching, but you couldn’t care less. You slam the window shut and sprint downstairs, heart pounding, heels clicking on the pavement.

The moment you see him up close — the blue symbol on his chest glinting faintly under the streetlight, his hair a mess from the wind — you melt. You don’t even give him time to speak before you crash into him, arms wrapping tight around his chest.

“God, I missed you,” you whisper into his armor.

He smiles against your hair, kissing the top of your head. “I missed you more.”

When you finally pull back, he bites his lip and nods toward the car parked by the curb. “Okay. Now turn around. No peeking.”

“Oh god, this better not be one of Jason’s ideas.”

He chuckles. “Jason’s still yelling at me through the comms, actually. Told me I was a ‘sap with no priorities.’”

You laugh again, shaking your head, but you close your eyes like he asked. You feel anxious tiny sweat beads running down your face. You hear rustling behind you — the soft sound of fabric, a tiny coo — and your heart stutters.

“Okay, turn around.”

You do.

And what you see makes your throat tighten completely.

Dick’s standing there, smiling like he’s barely holding himself together, holding Marcy in his arms. Your baby girl — cheeks flushed, eyes blinking sleepily, a fat little fist halfway to her mouth — is dressed in a bright yellow sunflower costume. Soft felt petals surround her head like a halo.

“She’s—” You cover your mouth, suddenly crying and laughing all at once. “Dick…”

He shrugs, bashful now. “Every flower shop was wiped clean. I wanted to bring you your favorite flower, so… I improvised.” He grins sheepishly. “Bruce was not happy when I took her back. Pretty sure the man was reading her The Art of War before bed.”

You giggle through your tears, stepping forward to cup Marcy’s chubby cheek. She gurgles happily, kicking her tiny feet.

“She’s perfect,” you whisper. “My little sunflower.”

“Our little sunflower,” Dick corrects softly, pulling you close until all three of you are wrapped up — warmth, laughter, love, candlelight flickering around you.

Later, back upstairs, after you tuck Marcy into her crib and the apartment finally feels whole again, you find yourself curled up against him on the couch. His outfit is gone; now it’s just Dick in his sleep shirt, hair damp from his quick shower, exhaustion lining his face but love softening every edge of it.

The candlelight dances across the walls. Your fingers trace idle circles on his chest as he whispers, “Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetheart.”

You smile, your voice a sleepy sigh. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Nightwing.”

He chuckles against your skin. “You’re never going to let me live that performance down, are you?”

“Not in a million years.”

“…Worth it.”

Outside, Gotham hums on — but tonight, for once, it feels like the city is giving you this moment. Just you. Him. And your little sunflower.

You “accidentally” damage Sukuna’s prized possession

The first thing people notice about your boyfriend isn’t the shop.

It’s him. His aura.

Sukuna Ryomen leans against the open hood of a car like it personally offended him, tattoos crawling up his arms and disappearing under a grease-stained tank top. His hands are always dirty, his mouth always sharp, and somehow somehow people still line up to let him overcharge them just to watch him work.

You don’t get jealous. You never do, it would be ridiculous. If idiots want to pay extra because your boyfriend is hot, that’s their problem.

More money for you.

Which is exactly why you’re currently pulling into his shop in your ridiculously cute little car—the one he rebuilt, tuned, and painted himself. It purrs when it runs. It sparkles in the sun. It exists entirely because Sukuna said, “If you’re gonna drive, woman, you’re not doing it in some ugly piece of trash.”

Unfortunately.

You are, as Sukuna likes to say, a menace to machinery.

The crunch when you clipped a pole earlier still echoes in your head. You really messed up. Couldn’t even look Sukuna in the eye when you told him you crashed.

Now he’s sweating under the summer heat, arms flexing as he works on your car, jaw tight, eyes sharp. He’s been at it for hours—ignoring customers, pushing everyone else back in line—because you stood there earlier, pouting.

“I want mine first, Kuna.”

He hated that. He hated even more that he couldn’t say no. Especially when you begged so prettily.

You’re sitting on a folding chair nearby, legs crossed, scrolling on your phone like he isn’t slowly cooking alive on concrete.

“Are you even watching?” he snaps without looking up.

“Mm,” you hum, not looking up. “You look hot. Working so hard, such a goodboy.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I look pissed.”

He straightens suddenly, wiping his hands on a rag, irritation rolling off him in waves.

“We’re missing a part.”

You finally glance up. “What?”

“One stupid part,” he growls. “And no, I don’t have it. And no, I’m not waiting for delivery.”

He grabs his keys.

“You’re coming.”

“Wait Kuna, I don’t want to go let me stay here.” You scrunch your face in discomfort.

Sukuna shoots you a look that has you freezing and immediately looking away before he curses you out.

“Y’er fucking dumb if you think you’re staying after making me fix your car in the fucking heat.”

Ten minutes later you’re in one of his cars—low, loud, and expensive—while he drives like the road personally wronged him. You’re touching up your makeup in the mirror like nothing’s wrong.

He smokes something he absolutely should not be dealing with right now, courtesy of his half-brother, Choso Kamo. You know Choso. He’s weirdly polite to you. Has offered you things you always refuse while Sukuna glares holes into him.

The drive turns into an argument. It always does.

Right now, Sukuna’s patience is gone.

“I mean how do you even crash the car?,” he says flatly.

“It was an accident.”

“You are an accident, you’ve been an accident from birth.”

You scoff eyeing him up and down. “If you say that again I will slap you, Ryomen.

“Tch.”

“You’re being dramatic,” you say, lining your lips.

“You wrecked my entire afternoon, woman.”

“I said sorry.”

“You said ‘oops.’”

“It felt apologetic.”

He slams the brakes at a stop, engine idling angrily. “Get out. Pump the gas.”

You scoff. “Ask nicely and I will.”

“Jesus Christ woman! Just pump the goddamn gas before I lose my temper.”

SMACK.

Your hand flew to the back of Sukunas head in an instant.

“Disrespect me again and you’ll see what happens.” You slam the door on your way out—harder than necessary.

He curses. Loud. Rubbing the back of his head. He does not play about his cars. You know this very well.

At the pump, you stare at the options. You don’t actually know which one his car takes. So you do what feels right.

You pick the one that looks pretty.

Diesel.

You fill it, close the tank, and climb back in like you’ve just completed a side quest.

A few minutes later, the car starts… wrong.

The engine sputters. Loses power. Shudders like it’s offended.

Sukuna’s hands tighten on the wheel. “Alright what the hell—”

The car gives up.

He swears viciously and gets out, stalking around the hood. You finish your lipstick, smack your lips together, satisfied.

Then your door is yanked open so hard the car shakes.

“What gas did you put in,” he demands.

“The green one.”

His expression goes blank.

“…Shut up,” he says slowly. “Before I blow you up.”

You blink. “You’re being dramatic.”

He laughs—sharp, furious, unbelieving. “You put diesel in my car.”

“I didn’t know!”

Sukuna barks. “How could you not know it’s common fucking sense!? Are you not watching me when I put gas in my car?!”

You flinch slightly looking down meekly. “No, m’sorry Kuna-“

He’s never gotten this mad before-well not at you. It makes you feel like a scum of the earth. You want to crawl into a hole and die.

“Save it. I really don’t want to hear your shit right now.” He slams the hood shut and drags a hand down his face, breathing hard, muttering curses you absolutely pretend not to hear.

A phone appears in his hand.

“Choso,” Sukuna snaps the second it connects. “Pick us up. The brat filled up my tank with diesel.”

There’s a pause. Then laughter.

“She did what?” Choso says, absolutely delighted.

“I will tear your tongue out,” Sukuna says sweetly.

Choso shows up twenty minutes later, still laughing, leaning against his car when he sees you.

“You okay?” Choso asks you, amused. “You look innocent.”

“She is not,” Sukuna says instantly. “She is a walking disaster.”

You smile. “You still love me.”

Sukuna clicks his tongue, shoving his hands in his pockets, glaring at his ruined car.

“…Unfortunately, now shut up before I stop loving you.”

And as Choso laughs again, Sukuna adds, low and dangerous:

“I’m fixing her car first.”

Suguru Geto x reader x Satoru Gojo

TAGS/WARNINGS- Major character death (canon and non-canon) Depictions of grief, depression, and emotional breakdowns/ Suicidal ideation and off-screen suicide (non-graphic)/ Themes of emotional dependency and unresolved trauma/ Hospital / death pronouncement mentions/ Heavy angst throughout/ Mentions of violence (non-graphic)

SUMMARY- After losing Suguru Geto, you try to build a life with Satoru Gojo, but love becomes fragile—every touch steeped in guilt, every argument haunted by grief. When Satoru is brutally taken from you as well, the world moves on while you remain frozen in loss, quietly unraveling despite therapy and smiles meant to convince others you’re healing. On Christmas Eve, confronted by the truth that you were never truly better, you choose to follow the love you couldn’t live without.

You don’t remember when love stopped feeling safe.

It might have been the first time someone said Suguru Geto’s name like it was a crime scene instead of a person.

Or maybe it was the night Satoru stood in front of you, hands shoved into his pockets, eyes hidden behind his blindfold, and said quietly—

“…We don’t have to call it anything if you don’t want to.”

That was how it started.

Not with confession.

Not with warmth.

But with avoidance dressed up as mercy.

The apartment is too quiet most nights.

You sit on opposite ends of the couch, knees drawn to your chest, television playing something neither of you are watching. Satoru scrolls on his phone, posture loose, careless—like nothing in the world weighs on him.

You know better

“You didn’t eat,” he says suddenly, not looking at you.

“I did.”

“When?”

“…Earlier.”

He finally looks over. One pale brow lifts.

“You’re lying.”

You shrug, fingers tightening around your sleeve. “Does it matter?”

Something sharp flashes across his face. Gone as quickly as it appears.

“Everything matters,” he says, voice light but brittle. “That’s kind of the problem.”

Silence swells between you.

You hate silence now. It gives your thoughts room to breathe.

Sometimes he reaches for you like he’s afraid you’ll flinch.

Sometimes you do.

His hand brushes yours in the kitchen, accidental, and you jerk back before you can stop yourself.

Satoru freezes.

“…Sorry,” you blurt. “I didn’t— I wasn’t—”

“It’s fine,” he says too quickly. He smiles, wide and easy and fake. “Relax. I’m not gonna break if you don’t touch me.”

The words land wrong.

You swallow. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” he says.

But his jaw tightens like he doesn’t believe it.

You try to kiss him once.

It’s late. You’re exhausted. He smells like soap and cigarette smoke and something painfully familiar. He leans down, slow, giving you time to pull away.

You don’t.

Your lips meet his

And all you can think about is Suguru.

The way Suguru used to smile into kisses. The way he held your face like it mattered. The way his presence felt heavy and grounding and real.

You pull back, gasping.

Satoru doesn’t chase you.

He steps away instead.

“…Was that my fault?” he asks quietly.

Your chest tightens. “No.”

“Then whose?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. The arguments start like sparks. Small. Stupid.

“You left the window open.”

“I was airing the room out.”

“It’s freezing.”

“You didn’t say it bothered you.”

“I shouldn’t have to say everything out loud!”

“Well, I’m not a mind reader!”

He laughs then—sharp, humorless.

“Funny. Suguru always seemed to know exactly what you needed.”

The moment the name leaves his mouth, regret slams into his face.

Your breath leaves you.

“…Don’t,” you whisper.

“I didn’t mean—”

“You always mean it,” you snap. “You just don’t think before you speak.”

“That’s rich,” he fires back. “You barely speak at all.”

Silence crashes down again, heavier this time.

Finally, Satoru rubs his face, exhaustion bleeding through every line of his posture.

“I don’t know how to love you without hurting you,” he admits quietly.

Your voice breaks. “Neither do I.”

Nights are the worst.

You lie beside him in white sheets that smell like detergent and ghosts. His back is to you. Yours aches with the effort of not touching him.

You turn onto your side, pressing your fist to your mouth as tears slip free.

You cry for Suguru—who loved you without fear.

You cry for Satoru—who loves you like he’s bracing for impact.

You cry because loving either of them feels like betrayal.

Satoru shifts.

“…You’re crying,” he murmurs.

You freeze. “I’m not.”

He rolls over anyway, close enough that you can feel his warmth.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Talk to me.”

You shake your head.

“Please.”

Your voice comes out broken. “If I start, I won’t stop.”

“Then don’t stop,” he says. “I can take it.”

You laugh weakly through tears. “You say that like you don’t already look exhausted.”

That one hits.

“…I am,” he admits. “But not because of you.”

“Then why?”

He hesitates.

“Because I’m competing with a dead man,” he says quietly. “And I’m losing.”

Your heart shatters all over again.

“I never asked you to compete.”

“I know,” he whispers. “That’s what makes it worse.”

Some days are almost normal.

He tells a stupid joke. You laugh before you remember you’re not supposed to be okay. He smiles at you like he’s won something.

Those moments keep you alive

They make you stay.

A crooked grin in the doorway.

A careless promise whispered at 3 a.m.

A hand squeezing yours during a nightmare.

“Stay,” he says once, forehead pressed to yours. “Just… stay.”

You nod.

You always nod.

Because for one fragile moment, you believe him when he says—

“It won’t always hurt like this. Come on talk to me, baby.”

And then the pain sharpens again.

Until one day—

It doesn’t matter anymore.

You were there.

That’s the cruelest part.

You didn’t hear someone tell you later. You didn’t see it on a report or feel it secondhand through mourning eyes.

You watched it happen.

“Satoru—!”

Your voice breaks before his name is finished.

He doesn’t look back.

There’s too much noise. Curses screaming. Sukuna laughing—low and cruel, like the world itself is amused by what it’s about to take from you

You try to move.

Your body refuses.

Then the sound hits you.

Not the scream. Not the impact.

The sound—bone giving way, blood spilling, something sacred being torn apart like it was disposable.

“No,” you whisper.

Your knees slam into the ground so hard it jars your spine. You don’t feel it. You don’t feel anything except the way your lungs stop working. Your hands shake violently as you claw at the air.

“Satoru,” you try again, louder. “Satoru—please—!”

He finally looks at you.

Those eyes.

Those impossibly bright, infuriating eyes that once looked at you like the world was survivable. They dim

Just for a second.

And in that second, something inside you collapses.

“No,” you choke. “No, no, no—”

He falls.

And the world doesn’t stop.

After, someone is talking to you.

You don’t know who.

“…You need to move.”

You don’t. “I can’t.”

“…It’s dangerous here.”

You stare at the blood on the ground. At the empty space where he should be standing. Your hands won’t stop shaking.

“I need him,” you say blankly. “I need him back.”

No one answers.The days blur.

Someone puts a blanket around your shoulders. Someone else presses a cup into your hands.

You don’t drink. You don’t eat. You sit on the floor of the apartment you shared with him and stare at the wall.

Sometimes you talk to it.

“I’m still here,” you whisper once. “I stayed like you asked.”

The wall doesn’t answer.

You don’t sleep.

When you do, you wake up screaming.

“Don’t go,” you sob into the darkness. “Please don’t go—I’ll do better, I swear—”

Your throat burns raw. Your eyes ache constantly.

Weeks pass. People come and go.

“I’m so sorry,” they say softly.

“You were strong,” someone else tells you.

You stare at them.

“I don’t want to be,” you reply.

They don’t know what to say after that.

Everyone else seems… functional. Sad, yes. But living. Laughing quietly. Returning to work. Finding reasons. You’re stuck in the moment his eyes went dark.

A flower crushed beneath winter snow.

Shoko finds you sitting on the bathroom floor one morning, knees pulled to your chest.

She doesn’t say your name.

She just sits beside you.

You shake so badly your teeth chatter.

“…I don’t know how to do this,” you whisper.

Shoko exhales smoke slowly.

“You don’t,” she says. “You survive it.”

“I don’t want to survive it,” you admit.

She doesn’t argue.

She just reaches over and grips your sleeve like she’s anchoring you to the earth.

Therapy is a blur of white rooms and gentle voices.

“I want you to describe how you’re feeling,” the therapist says kindly.

You stare at the carpet.

“…Empty.”

“What does empty feel like?”

You think of Satoru’s laugh. Suguru’s warmth. The way love used to feel safe.

“It hurts,” you whisper. “And then it doesn’t. And that scares me more.”

The therapist nods like that makes sense. Shoko sits beside you every session. Sometimes she speaks for you when you can’t.

“She hasn’t slept,” Shoko says once. “She barely eats.”

You flinch. “Don’t tell them that.”

Shoko looks at you sharply. “Then start living.”

The word feels obscene.

Eventually, Shoko moves in. Not because she asks. Because she does. She sleeps on the couch. Leaves lights on. Replaces untouched food without comment.

You find her on the balcony late one night, cigarette glowing softly.

“Why are you still here?” you ask quietly.

She doesn’t look at you.

“Because if I leave,” she says, “I won’t like what happens next.”

You say nothing.

She flicks ash into the tray.

“…You don’t have to thank me,” she adds. “Just stay.”

One day, the therapist smiles.

“You’re stable,” they say.

The word feels hollow.

“Grief doesn’t disappear,” they continue. “It changes shape.”

You nod. You smile. You don’t tell them that the grief never changed. You just learned how to hide it better.

You start giving things away.

A sweater Suguru once wore.

A mug Satoru loved.

Clothes you no longer recognize yourself in.

Shoko watches you pack a box.

“…You sure about this?” she asks carefully.

“I don’t need them,” you reply softly.

She studies you.

“You’re smiling more,” she says. “That’s good.”

You smile wider. No one questions it. And you don’t correct them.

December 24th comes again. Shoko’s prepared you for this day, stay calm. Stay calm, stupid.

Your hands move before your mind does.

The tree goes up crooked, lights tangled the way Satoru always left them. You don’t fix it. You don’t need to. Your fingers know where each ornament belongs—Suguru’s favorite one first, then Satoru’s, then the rest filling in around the absence.

You kneel slowly and place the gifts beneath it.

Three of them.

One wrapped in dark paper.One too bright, almost obnoxious. One neat and simple.

“For you,” you murmur softly, touching the first. “And you.”

Your throat tightens, but you don’t stop.

“And for you, Shoko.”

You sit back on your heels and stare at them.

“It’s tradition,” you tell the empty apartment. “It’s normal.” The apartment doesn’t argue.

That night, you lie in bed staring at the ceiling.

Your heart aches with a quiet, desperate hope.

Maybe this time.

Maybe you’ll wake up to voices. To footsteps. To someone complaining too loudly in the kitchen.

“Tomorrow,” you whisper into the dark. “Just… tomorrow.”

Sleep comes gently.

Too gently.

Morning breaks.

Silence.

You sit up slowly, breath already caught in your chest.

“—Satoru?” you call hoarsely.

Nothing.

“Suguru?”

Your feet hit the floor before your brain catches up. You move down the stairs too fast, heart pounding violently.

The tree stands exactly the same.

The presents are untouched.

“Oh,” you whisper.

Reality crashes into you so hard you stagger, gripping the back of a chair to keep from falling.

“Oh—no.”

Your breathing fractures.

“No, no, no—” You laugh weakly, pressing your palms together like prayer. “That’s not funny. You’re late. You’re just—late.” Your chest tightens painfully.

“They’re gone,” you say out loud.The words sound wrong in your mouth. “They’re gone,” you repeat, louder. “They were always gone.”

Your hands shake violently. You press them together harder, knuckles whitening. “Get it together,” you tell yourself. Laughing maniacally. “You’re fine. You’re better. Remember? You’re better.”

“See?” you say to no one. “I’m smiling.”

You notice Shoko’s gift still unwrapped.

That feels important.

You sit on the floor and carefully rewrap it, smoothing the paper, tying the ribbon just right. You slip the letter inside with shaking fingers.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper as you place it beneath the tree. “I really tried.”

You straighten it so it looks perfect.

She deserves that.

The song starts playing again.

Why does the sun go on shining…

You don’t turn it off. You let it repeat.

Again. Again. Up the stairs you go.

Each step feels heavier, like the air itself is pressing down on you. You talk as you walk.

“I kept going,” you murmur. “I stayed. I did what you asked.”The bathroom light is too bright when you flick it on.

“I stayed alone,” you say quietly. “You left me alone.” Your voice cracks.

“That wasn’t fair.” The door locks behind you with a soft click. The song plays on.

Memories crash over you all at once.

Suguru’s voice, calm and warm—You don’t have to be strong all the time.

Satoru’s laugh, loud and careless—Hey, don’t look at me like that. I’m still here.

You sink down slowly.

“I loved you,” you whisper. “I loved you both. I didn’t know how to do it without hurting someone.” Tears spill freely now.

“I didn’t get better,” you admit softly. “I just got quieter.”

Shoko’s face flashes through your mind and guilt claws at your chest.

“She’ll hate me,” you sob. “She’ll think she failed.”You shake your head weakly. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I’m so sorry…..wait I’m not ready. Shoko..!”

But the feeling doesn’t leave. It feels decided. Like something inevitable.

The song repeats.

When Shoko gets home, the apartment feels wrong immediately.

The music is playing.

Over and over.

Her cigarette pauses halfway to her lips.

“…No,” she mutters.

She drops her bag and moves faster, heart hammering violently. “Hey,” she calls out. “I’m home.”No answer. Her steps echo too loudly.

“Don’t do this,” she says sharply, panic bleeding through. “Answer me.”

She sees the tree.

The gifts.

Your name written carefully on one tag.

Her breath stutters. “—Where are you?” She hears the water. Sees it creeping across the floor. The bathroom door is locked. Her heart slams painfully against her ribs.

“No, no, no—” She pounds against it. “Open the door! Please—open the door!”

She yells your name until her voice breaks.

The song keeps playing. Again. Again.

“Please,” she sobs. “I’m right here. I won’t be mad. Just—please.”

When the door finally gives, Shoko stumbles forward. And her world collapses. She drops to her knees beside you, hands shaking as she grabs your shoulders.

“No—no—hey—hey, wake up,” she cries, voice breaking completely. “You’re not allowed to leave me too. You hear me?”

She shakes you harder.

“Don’t do this. Don’t you dare do this.”

Her tears fall onto you as she presses her forehead to yours, sobbing openly. “…You promised you were better,” she whispers.

The song keeps playing. And the silence answers back.

You wake up.

That’s the first thing that feels strange—waking without pain. The second is the quiet.

Not the heavy, suffocating silence you learned to fear, but something softer. Like the pause between breaths. Like the world is waiting.

You sit up slowly.

The space around you is vast, open—an airport terminal stretching endlessly in white light. Polished floors reflect your shape back at you. There’s no blood. No ache in your chest. No weight pulling you down.

Just… stillness.

“…Is this it?” you whisper. Your voice doesn’t echo.

You stare ahead, numb, hands resting uselessly in your lap. Your wrists a reminder of the damage done.

Then— Laughter. Your breath catches violently. You don’t turn around. You don’t need to.

That sound followed you through every nightmare, every sleepless night, every moment you pretended you were okay.

Your hands fly to your face as sobs rip out of you, broken and ugly and uncontrollable. Your shoulders shake so hard you almost fold in on yourself.

“No—” you choke. “Please—please don’t—”

Footsteps rush toward you. Fast. Urgent. “Hey—hey, are you okay?!” The voice is familiar. Too familiar.

People who die are usually confused. Panicked. Lost.

But when you turn your head—

They freeze.

Suguru stares at you like you’ve shattered reality itself.

“…No way,” he breathes.

Satoru’s mouth opens, then closes. His breath catches painfully in his throat.“…You’re—” His voice breaks. “You’re not—”

You break first.

“I’m sorry,” you sob immediately, words spilling over each other. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—I tried, I really tried—”

Satoru moves before Suguru can say a word.He’s on you in an instant, arms wrapping around you so tightly it almost hurts, like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he lets go.

“Don’t,” he says hoarsely. “Don’t apologize. Don’t you dare.”

You cling to him, fingers digging into his jacket, crying into his shoulder like you did in life—like you never stopped needing to.

“I waited,” you sob. “I waited like you asked. I stayed.”

“I know,” he whispers, voice cracking completely. “I know.”

Then you pull back—

And Suguru is right there.

He opens his arms slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid to scare you.

“…Come here,” he says softly.

You fall into him.You hold him longer. Press your face into his chest, breathing him in, crying until your body finally starts to slow, until the ache eases just enough to breathe. He’s real. He’s infront of you.

Suguru rests his chin on your head, eyes closed.“You did so well,” he murmurs. “You were so strong.”

You shake your head weakly. “Wasn’t strong enough apparently, I didn’t want to be.”

“I know,” he says gently. “That’s okay.”

Satoru watches you like he can’t look away. Then his voice sharpens, panic bleeding through the disbelief.

“Why are you here?” he demands, hands gripping your shoulders. “You had so much life left.”

Something inside you snaps.

“You left me!” you shout, tears spilling over again. “Both of you! You left me alone and I didn’t know how to do it without you!”

Satoru flinches. Suguru exhales shakily.

“You think we wanted to?” Satoru fires back, eyes wet. “You think I wanted to leave you there?”

“I needed you!” you cry. “Every day!”

Suguru steps closer, voice trembling. “We know. We saw.”

You stare at him.

“…You did?”

“We did,” he says softly. “Every tear. Every night you thought you were alone.”

Satoru laughs suddenly—broken, breathless. “God, you were so stubborn,” he says, wiping his face. “You never stopped loving us, did you?”

You let out a shaky laugh through tears. “No,” you admit. “I didn’t.”

And then—laughter breaks through the grief. All three of you, laughing and crying at the same time, clutching each other like the universe might tear you apart again.

You tell them everything. About the apartment. The arguments. The nights you cried yourself to sleep.

About Shoko.

Satoru goes quiet at that.

“…She’ll be okay,” he says finally, softer than you’ve ever heard him. “She’s stronger than she thinks.”

Suguru nods. “She’s not alone.”

Your chest tightens. “I didn’t want to hurt her.”

“You didn’t,” Suguru says firmly. “You loved her.”

Satoru squeezes your hand.

“And she’ll always know that.”

The ache in your chest finally loosens.

For the first time in years—

You feel it.

Peace.

Not the absence of pain. But belonging.

Suguru’s warmth at your back. Satoru’s arms around you.

Love that doesn’t demand you choose. Love that doesn’t hurt. Together, you walk forward into the light, laughter soft and real, hands intertwined.

At last.

That’s all you ever wanted.

Ex!Suguru Geto x Reader x Satoru Gojo / Satoru Gojo x Suguru Geto

SUMMARY: You’re Tokyo’s untouchable number-one model, walking the line between lethal charm and heartbreaking past, haunted by Suguru Geto the ex who left scars you still taste and tangled in the messy allure of his boyfriend, Satoru Gojo. Over three grueling, intimate, and scandalous days of photoshoots, you manipulate the tension between them, playfully flirting, whispering secrets, and commanding attention with every step, every glance, and every kiss. Suguru struggles to maintain professionalism while his control crumbles, and Satoru, initially smug and untouchable, finds himself unraveling under your gaze, flushed and speechless.

WARNINGS/TAGS: MDNI/ Love triangle / ex-boyfriend dynamic/ Jealousy Manipulation / emotional power play/Flirtation / sexual tension (implied, not explicit)Suggestive content / swearing /Adult themes / workplace-themed photoshoot intimacy/ Cheating on both sides/

Tokyo loves you the way it loves disasters: loudly, obsessively, and with zero mercy.

You are the city’s scandal-darling, the girl who can stop traffic with a single step and ruin reputations without ever opening her mouth. Paparazzi call your walk lethal—hips rolling like a threat, chin lifted like you’re daring the world to say something. Stylists whisper that no one wears rage as beautifully as you do. Fans say you look untouchable.

They’re wrong.

Your heart never recovered from Suguru Geto.

Two years ago, you and Suguru didn’t break up—you detonated. Screaming so loud the neighbors called security. A wine glass shattered against the wall, red splashing like blood. Accusations hurled like knives: fame, ego, loyalty, who was using whom, who was shrinking to let the other shine. He told you you’d changed. You told him he was afraid of your light. He walked out, slamming the door so hard the frame cracked, leaving you alone in a ruined apartment with mascara streaked down your face and his name still burning on your tongue.

You survived the aftermath the only way you knew how: drugs that numbed, parties that blurred, strangers whose names you never bothered to learn. You learned exactly how many hours it took for heartbreak to fade if you stayed high enough. Every night ended with you alone, scrolling through tabloid photos of Suguru like reopening a wound just to prove it still hurt.

And it always did.

Because Suguru didn’t just move on.

He upgraded.

The world decided his new boyfriend was perfection incarnate.

Satoru Gojo—Tokyo’s number one model. White hair like a provocation. Cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. Eyes so pale they look unreal, like the camera loves him more than it loves anyone else. He’s beautiful in a way that feels unfair, effortless, inevitable.

Together, they’re unbearable.

Soft-focus selfies between shows. Backstage kisses caught “accidentally.” Suguru smiling in photos the way he never smiled with you—open, unguarded, like he finally found peace. Captions about being “each other’s safest place.” Every post hits a million likes, and every time it does, you hit another line and tell yourself you don’t care.

You stalk their Instagrams anyway. Religiously. Memorizing the way Suguru tilts toward Satoru like gravity finally won.

Then Tokyo decides to be cruel.

The announcement drops on a Monday morning: The Top 10 Fashion Showcase—the most brutal event of the year. No sponsorship mercy, no soft edits, no protection. Just the ten most coveted models in the city, ripped apart and ranked in public.

You don’t even attend the ratings party. You don’t need to.

You land number two without trying.

Fashion blogs lose their minds. The industry’s untouchable dark star. A living controversy. A walk that could end careers. But every article carries the same poison sting:

Number one is Satoru Gojo. Again.

And number three—because the universe has a vicious sense of humor—is Suguru Geto.

The rule everyone knows but no one escapes: the top three share the closing photo spread. Three days. No escape. Locked studios, forced intimacy, cameras hunting for cracks. Whoever survives it becomes fashion royalty.

That means you, your ex, and the man who replaced you.

The first call sheet meeting is where Satoru decides to make himself known.

He leans in too close, eyes glittering with amusement, voice silk-smooth as he compliments your walk—then ruins it with a casual, “You’re almost on my level.” He talks about how healing Suguru’s life has been since leaving “chaos” behind. Smiles while he says it. Enjoys the way your jaw tightens.

He knows exactly what he has.

And he knows the world loves him for it.

But when you step onto that runway, something shifts.

Under blinding lights and hungry cameras, surrounded by models desperate to matter, you walk like the stage was built for you alone. Every step is a declaration: you are not replaceable. Not second best. Not the girl they buried two years ago.

The cameras catch it—the moment Suguru’s composure fractures, his gaze following you before he can stop himself.

They catch Satoru’s smile sharpening, just slightly, as he realizes the story might not belong to him anymore.

By the time the three of you are pulled into the same frame for the first test shot—Suguru in the middle, Satoru draped over his shoulder, you at his other side like a ghost that refused to stay dead—the city stops asking who is number one.

Now they’re asking whether this shoot will crown a legend…

Or destroy all three of you on live television.

The studio smells like expensive perfume, hairspray, and old money.

You arrive early on purpose.

Not because you’re eager because you refuse to be caught reacting.

Your dressing room is stark white, a single mirror framed in lights too bright to hide behind. You shrug out of your coat, studying your reflection. Calm face. Dead eyes. Perfect.

A knock breaks the silence.

Not polite. Not hesitant.

Cocky.

The door opens without waiting for permission.

“Wow,” Satoru Gojo says, leaning against the frame like he owns the place. “They really did give you the villain lighting.”

You don’t look at him right away. You pick up your lipstick, twist it slowly.

“Takes one to recognize one,” you reply. “Didn’t know they let accessories wander the halls.”

He laughs—light, unbothered, beautiful. Of course he does. You hate him for that.

“Accessory?” he repeats. “That’s cute. Suguru usually calls me his good luck charm.”

That gets your attention.

You meet his gaze in the mirror, eyes flat. “Funny. He used to say I was his downfall.”

Satoru steps closer, close enough that you can see the unnatural clarity of his eyes. He smells like clean skin and arrogance.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “He told me.”

Your lipstick pauses mid-air.

“Oh?” you murmur. “And what else did he tell you?”

Satoru tilts his head, smiling like a man who knows he’s won something. “That loving you felt like standing in the middle of a storm. That everything was always loud. Intense. Messy.”

You cap the lipstick with a sharp click and turn fully toward him.

“And yet,” you say, sweet as poison, “here you are. Dating the man who thrives on chaos.”

His smile flickers. Just barely.

Before he can answer, a second voice cuts in—lower, familiar, dangerous.

“Satoru.”

Suguru Geto stands in the doorway.

Black hair tied back neatly. Expression carefully neutral. The kind of calm that used to make you feel safe—until you learned it was a mask.

His eyes meet yours.

The air tightens.

“…You look well,” he says, after a beat.

You laugh quietly. “That’s what people say when they don’t know what else to say.”

Satoru glances between you, interest sparking. “Wow. Is this what unresolved tension looks like? Because I feel like I should charge admission.”

“Satoru,” Suguru warns again.

“What?” he shrugs. “I’m just observing.”

You step closer, heels clicking like punctuation marks. “You always talk this much,” you say, eyeing him, “or is that just when you’re nervous?”

He grins. “Nervous? About you?”

“Yes.”

He leans in, voice dropping. “Please. You’re the past.”

You smile—slow, sharp.

“Careful,” you whisper. “Past things have a habit of coming back. Especially when they’re buried alive.”

Suguru exhales through his nose. “Enough. We’re here to work.”

You turn to him then, really look at him.

“Is that what you call this now?” you ask. “Work?”

His jaw tightens. “Don’t do this.”

“Do what?” you tilt your head. “Pretend we didn’t burn?”

Satoru claps his hands once. “Okay! Before this turns into a tragic indie film—”

You cut him off without looking at him.

“Quiet, bottom boy.”

The room freezes.

Satoru blinks. “Excuse me?”

You finally give him your full attention, eyes dragging over him deliberately. “All that face. All that hype. And still clinging to another man’s shoulder like a security blanket.”

Suguru snaps, “Don’t talk to him like that.”

You raise a brow. “Like what? Honestly?”

Satoru laughs again—but it’s sharper this time. “Wow. So that’s what this is. You’re bitter.”

“No,” you correct calmly. “I’m bored.”

A stylist bursts in moments later, blissfully unaware of the emotional wreckage. “Okay! First test shots in ten. Suguru, center position. Satoru—over his shoulder. And you—” she gestures at you, “frame left.”

You step into position without complaint.

Suguru stands between you and Satoru, like a man caught between two lives. Satoru drapes himself easily against him, hand resting at Suguru’s collarbone. Familiar. Intimate. Intentional.

The camera clicks.

“Closer,” the photographer calls. “I want tension.”

You lean in just enough that Suguru can hear you.

“Does he know,” you murmur, “you still flinch when I get this close?”

Suguru’s breath stutters.

Satoru notices.

“Oh?” he says lightly. “Is that so?”

Suguru forces a smile for the camera. “Ignore her.”

You smile too—slow and devastating.

“Oh, I plan to,” you say. “For three days.”

The shutter keeps firing.

And for the first time, Satoru Gojo doesn’t look like the man in control.

Dinner is served like an afterthought.

Long folding tables draped in black cloth, catered food arranged with fake elegance—roasted meats, pastas, bread baskets, wine bottles uncorked without ceremony. Laughter drifts across the room from the models who still have something to prove.

You don’t sit with them.

You take your tray salad, barely dressed, black coffee so bitter it burns and claim a chair at the far end of the studio. Away from noise. Away from eyes. Away from him.

A cigarette waits between your fingers, unlit for now.

Three tables down, Satoru is in his element.

“Another plate,” he says brightly, already smiling at the caterer. “Suguru, try this—no, this one. You’ll like it.”

Suguru exhales. “Satoru, I’m fine.”

“You say that every time and then steal my food.”

“That’s because you order enough for six people.”

Satoru laughs, leaning into him anyway, chin on Suguru’s shoulder. “You love it.”

You don’t look at them while you eat.

You chew slowly, deliberately, eyes unfocused, pretending the room doesn’t tilt slightly with every heartbeat. The headache has been building since the shoot ended—dull, insistent, right behind your eyes.

You light your cigarette.

The first drag steadies you.

You grab your phone and hit ring.

Shoko.

You smirk faintly and stand, tray abandoned, cigarette between your fingers as you push through the studio doors into the cold night air.

Shoko answers on the first ring.

“Please tell me you’re calling to say you’ve committed arson.”

You laugh softly, smoke curling from your lips. “Not yet. Give it time.”

“God,” she sighs. “I heard. Top three dinner. You alive?”

“Barely,” you mutter, leaning against the brick wall. “They’re worse together.”

She snorts. “Let me guess. Gojo’s insufferable.”

“Insufferable doesn’t cover it,” you say, rubbing your temple. “He smiles like he’s already won. Keeps poking at me. Keeps poking at him.”

“Geto?”

You hum. “He’s cracking. I can see it.”

Shoko pauses. “That’s dangerous.”

You drag from your cigarette. “So is boredom.”

You tell her everything—the dressing room, the barbs, the way Suguru’s breath hitched during the shoot. By the time you finish, the cigarette is ash and your headache is pulsing.

“Listen,” Shoko says quietly. “Don’t burn the place down just because you can.”

You smile into the dark. “You know me better than that.”

“Do I?”

You flick the cigarette away and head back inside.

That’s when you hear them.

Raised voices. Sharp. Fractured.

You stop just short of the open door, pressing yourself against the wall, hidden by stacked equipment cases.

Satoru’s voice breaks first.

“Don’t lie to me, Suguru.”

“I’m not lying,” Suguru snaps. “I’m telling you you’re imagining things.”

“Then why do you look at her like that?” Satoru demands. “Why does she still get under your skin?”

A pause. Too long.

“…She doesn’t,” Suguru says, but it’s thinner now.

Satoru laughs, brittle. “You hesitated.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means everything,” Satoru says, voice shaking. “You still love her.”

Silence.

You can almost see it—the way Suguru rubs the bridge of his nose when he’s overwhelmed.

“Satoru,” he says carefully, “this is not about—”

“It is!” Satoru’s voice cracks. “I see the way you look at her. Like she’s a wound you never let heal.”

“That’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair,” Satoru snaps, “is being second place in your heart while pretending I’m number one.”

There’s a soft, humiliating sound.

Crying.

Your lips curve.

“Say it,” Satoru whispers. “Tell me you don’t still want her.”

Suguru doesn’t answer fast enough.

That’s the mistake.

Satoru lets out a broken laugh. “Unbelievable. I give you everything and she still—she still owns you.”

“Satoru—”

“No,” he chokes. “I can’t do this right now.”

Footsteps. Fast. Unsteady.

You flatten yourself against the wall as Satoru storms out, eyes red, jaw clenched, not seeing you as he passes. He disappears down the hall.

You wait.

Count ten breaths.

Then you step inside.

Suguru is still there, hands braced on the table, head bowed. He looks exhausted. Stripped raw.

Perfect.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

He stiffens. “You shouldn’t have heard that.”

“But I did,” you say, moving closer. “And I hate seeing you like this.”

He scoffs weakly. “You don’t get to care.”

You step into his space anyway, voice dropping, honey-smooth. A fake pout playing at your lips. “I know you better than anyone. You always shut down when you’re overwhelmed.”

He swallows.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” you whisper near his ear. “You never did.”

His breath hitches.

“You deserve someone who understands you,” you continue. “Someone who doesn’t demand pieces of you you can’t give.”

He turns his head slightly. “Why are you doing this?”

You smile. “Because I still know exactly what you need to hear.”

For a moment—just one—he leans in.

And that’s when you step back.

You straighten. Your face closes off completely.

“Goodnight, Suguru.”

You walk away, leaving him in the silence you just carved open.

Later, deeper in the studio, you find Satoru.

He’s sitting on a crate near the loading bay, face in his hands, shoulders shaking.

You don’t pretend to be kind.

“Tough night, bottom boy?” you ask lightly.

He looks up, eyes furious and wet. “Get away from me.”

You crouch in front of him anyway. “You know,” you say thoughtfully, “he used to cry like that with me too.”

“Shut up.”

“I was his first love,” you continue, voice gentle and lethal. “The one who made him who he is. You’re just… convenient.”

His hands clench. “He chose me.”

“For now,” you shrug. “You’re a pretty face, Satoru. Cameras adore you. But I’m the better model.”

“You’re sick.”

You stand. “And you’re replaceable.”

You lean down one last time. “No matter how perfect you look on his arm, you’ll never be me.”

You leave him there.

Crying. Doubting. Cracking.

And as you walk back into the lights of the studio, you feel lighter than you have in years.

Three days left.

And Tokyo has no idea how ugly this story is about to get.

The next day the studio feels smaller than usual. Tension hangs like fog. Satoru and Suguru arrive almost at the same time, eyes snapping to one another. You glance up from your outfit, a soft pastel Valentine’s ensemble your stylist swore would make you “suddenly irresistible and deadly at the same time”. It’s ridiculously cute, and you love it.

Satoru folds his arms. “Okay, we’re not doing the silent treatment this time. It’s distracting.”

Suguru’s jaw tightens, but he nods. “Agreed. Let’s get it over with.”

You’re watching from your dressing chair, arms crossed, a small smirk tugging at your lips. Finally, a fight to watch. But your enjoyment dips when they’re both suddenly cooperative, chatting casually as if nothing exploded the night before.

“You’re actually solving it?” you mutter under your breath, rolling your eyes.

Satoru catches it. “Excuse me?” he asks, tilting his head with mock innocence.

“Nothing,” you reply smoothly, letting your smirk linger just enough to annoy him.

Suguru doesn’t say anything, just shakes his head at your theatrics. Perfect. I’m annoyed, but I’ll play along.

The theme for today’s shoot is Valentine’s Day, and the production team has gone all out. You twirl in your frilly skirt, biting back a giggle. “They’re really selling me as innocent cupid, aren’t they?”

The producer claps. “Exactly! You’re adorable, but deadly—like the perfect Valentine.”

You glance over at Suguru and Satoru, both dressed sharply, leaning into their respective roles. Professional. Damn it.

The first pose: you laying down, Suguru under you, Satoru on top.

A shiver runs up your spine, body heat rising faster than it should. Your facade threatens to slip.

Suguru is calm, collected—too close, too gorgeous, cheekbones cutting into your vision. You haven’t seen him like this since the breakup, and it’s unfairly distracting.

Satoru rests against you in perfect form, body solid, eyes trained on the camera. There’s something unnervingly precise about his professionalism—and something in his gaze that leaves you questioning… does he really only want men?

You shake your head. Stop thinking that. Stop thinking about him. Focus.

The first pose ends. You get up, reset. Heart thumping, slightly dizzy.

Second pose: producer wants you sitting on Satoru’s lap, head tilted toward Suguru.

You gulp lightly, but keep it subtle. Suguru’s siren eyes lock on yours, drinking in every inch of your movement. Your fingers clench slightly, hiding it in your skirt folds.

“Perfect, perfect,” the producer says, snapping shots. “Now, kiss him. Full-on Valentine’s kiss. More passion!”

You hesitate a heartbeat—then lean in.

Satoru’s lips are soft, sweet, and shockingly… pleasant. Your body betrays you as warmth spreads through your chest. This isn’t wrong, you tell yourself. It’s art. It’s work.

Suguru watches quietly, expression unreadable. But his eyes… they pierce you like knives. Jealous? Conflicted? Something sharp curls in his chest, and you feel it.

The kiss ends. You lick your lips casually, meeting Suguru’s gaze head-on. His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t look away.

“Good,” the producer claps. “Now, both of them kissing your cheeks. Cupid in love with chaos!”

The next few shots are electric. Suguru presses a kiss to your right cheek, Satoru on your left. You play the middle, blushing just enough to make it believable, pretending innocence. The camera eats it up.

Next pose: Eiffel Tower pose, you sandwiched between them. Suguru slightly behind, Satoru leaning forward, they connect hands. The director is ecstatic. “This is it! The tension, the playfulness, the power—you’re selling every second of it!”

You grin, feeling the thrill of control. They both care. They both react. Perfect.

“Honestly,” the director says, wrapping an arm around you, “one second you’re innocent, the next, you look like you could take their souls. This is spectacular!”

The day ends with ice cream—a small miracle. Models stick to strict diets, so this feels indulgent. You get the same flavor as Suguru, a rich chocolate, while Satoru gets something saccharine, like bubblegum.

“Is that for kids?” you ask, smirking.

“Maybe I am a kid,” Satoru shrugs, smiling softly.

You and Suguru exchange a quiet glance as you lick your ice cream. A subtle connection—just yours. No words.

For once, Satoru doesn’t comment. He’s watching you, noticing how you move, the way your laugh curves. And somewhere deep, he thinks: Does she make him happy like that? Does she even notice me?

Suguru rises from his chair, wallet in hand. “I’ll cover the check,” he says casually, eyes flicking toward you like he’s calculating something.

You glance at Satoru. Your lips curve faintly. “Give me a second?”

He nods, hesitation flickering in his eyes.

You follow him a few steps away from the table. The hum of the studio fades behind you.

“I… I wanted to apologize,” you begin softly, voice careful, measured. “For what I said before. When I got jealous… I came off harsher than I meant to.”

Satoru’s brows lift, a small incredulous smile tugging at his lips. “Oh?”

“Yes,” you say, stepping closer. “I’ve always… admired your work. Your skill, your precision. You’re incredible at what you do. I never meant to be such a… bitch about it.”

He studies you, eyes flicking between your face and your hands. “You… you mean that?”

You nod, tilting your head slightly with false innocence. “I do.”

Slowly, you reach for his hands, letting your own wrap around his. The warmth of your touch lingers, deliberate, intimate. You meet his gaze fully.

“You’re brilliant,” you whisper, “and I’ve always noticed. I just… I got caught up in myself before.”

Satoru’s face flushes. His hands shake lightly in yours. His heartbeat spikes so suddenly he can feel it in his throat. God, he thinks. She’s perfect. Up close, she’s… impossible.

“You… you’re hard to miss,” he admits, voice soft, almost trembling. “Maybe… maybe that’s why I—”

You tilt your head, a small smile teasing your lips. “Maybe that’s why you hate me,” you finish for him, your tone light, melodic. “Because I… have both you and Suguru wrapped around my finger.”

His hands tremble slightly more. He swallows hard, trying not to betray the way your words are unraveling him.

Before anything else can happen, the sound of footsteps signals Suguru’s return. You let go of Satoru’s hands as naturally as you can, turning back to him with a small, innocent smile.

Suguru narrows his eyes suspiciously but doesn’t say anything, just takes Satoru’s hands in his own with a quiet, measured grip. You follow them out as they lead the way toward the car.

The producer drives in silence, leaving the three of you wrapped in your own thoughts. You break the quiet first.

“Chocolate and bubblegum?” you tease lightly, nodding toward the ice cream flavors earlier.

Suguru only nods. Satoru gives a small shrug. That’s it. Simple, controlled, nothing to read. Perfect.

Back at the studio, everyone disperses. Satoru heads straight to his room. You walk to yours—but you don’t notice Suguru trailing behind, silent, calculating.

When you close the door, he quietly shuts his own behind him, tilting his head as he studies you.

“What did you tell him?” he asks, voice low, sharp. “What did you do to him?”

You tilt your head innocently. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Suguru’s eyes narrow. “Don’t lie to me.”

You shrug lightly, feigning cluelessness. “I’m just tired, Suguru. You’re imagining things.”

He steps closer, tension radiating off him. “I know you. I can see right through your act.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you reply softly, tone calm, innocent—but the edge in your words is razor-sharp.

“Stop it!” he snaps suddenly, voice rising. “Stop acting like this! You’ve always had to manipulate everything, haven’t you?”

You laugh lightly, taking a step closer, tilting your head as if nothing is wrong. “Suguru, I’m just… me.”

“Me? You’re impossible!” he shouts. “You ruin everything with everyone! You—”

“Shh,” you whisper, moving close enough that your lips brush the shell of his ear. “You should get back with me. Leave Satoru. Come back to me.”

He freezes, hands clenching at his sides.

“Why,” you continue softly, “why did you leave me when we were… perfect? Just break up with your boyfriend.”

Before he can answer, you wrap your arms around him. The world contracts, the tension, the frustration, the years of longing, pouring into the desperate grip.

His hands find their way around you. Lips meet roughly, urgently. Every missed kiss, every argument, every moment of distance collapses into one raw, desperate connection.

It’s everything you’ve missed—the heat, the taste, the push and pull of a love that never fully died.

And for the first time in a long time, he responds fully. His control cracks, his body tightens, hands threading through your hair.

The world narrows to just the two of you, voices strangled, hearts racing, breaths mingling.

When you finally pull back, forehead against his, both of you gasping, the tension hangs differently—charged, unresolved, but alive.

Suguru studies you, eyes dark, calculating, a storm behind them.

And you just smile. Small. Innocent. But deadly.

You wake slowly, body heavy, sore in the way that makes memory rush back all at once.

Warmth beside you.

Suguru.

He’s asleep on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes like he’s trying to block out the world even in his dreams. His breathing is uneven, troubled. You wonder—briefly—what he’s dreaming about. You. Satoru. Regret.

You don’t get long to decide.

Suguru jolts awake suddenly, like he’s been shocked.

“—shit,” he mutters, sitting up too fast.

He looks around the room, the sheets, you—then his expression collapses inward. Panic. Guilt. Reality crashing down.

He grabs his phone.

“What time is it—?” His eyes widen. “Fuck.”

He’s out of bed instantly, pulling on his clothes with frantic movements, fingers shaking as he buttons his shirt wrong the first time.

“Suguru,” you say quietly.

He freezes for half a second, back to you.

“…I messed up,” he says hoarsely. “I really messed up.”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to.

“Did I really—” He cuts himself off, curses under his breath. “Satoru didn’t deserve that.”

He doesn’t look at you again.

The door shuts behind him with a soft but final click.

You lie there, staring at the ceiling, heartbeat steady. You don’t feel regret—only the echo of control slipping back into place.

Then—

BANG.

Your door rattles.

“UP!” your producer shouts from the hall. “GET UP, GET READY—WE’RE LATE!”

You sit bolt upright. Shit.

The next hour blurs.

Hands in your hair. Brushes on your skin. Fabric tugged into place. Your team moves fast, efficient, focused. You’re still half asleep.

“It’s the last day,” your stylist says. “Make it count.”

When you finally look in the mirror, you almost laugh.

Office siren.

A blouse that barely pretends to be professional, clinging in all the wrong ways. A grey plaid pencil skirt hugging your hips perfectly. Kitten heels. Glasses perched low on your nose.

You look lethal.

Out on set, Suguru won’t meet your eyes. He refuses to.

He’s dressed immaculately—dark suit, tie crisp, jaw tight. Satoru stands beside him in a button-up with sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, relaxed, unaware, devastatingly handsome.

Today’s shoot is intimate.

Again.

The first pose has Suguru behind you. Your hand grips his tie, dragging him across the mock office floor while Satoru kneels in front of you—your heel lifted on his forehead, blocking him from coming closer.

Satoru chuckles under his breath. “Wow. I feel attacked.”

The director is ecstatic. “YES. THAT’S IT. Power. Control. Women leading men like dogs. It’s her.”

It sounds like you.

Suguru swallows hard, eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder, doing everything he can to stay professional.

Next setup.

Satoru sits in a leather business chair. You straddle his lap, leaning in to whisper something the camera can’t hear. Suguru stands across the desk, hands braced, like he’s making a high-stakes proposal.

“Action!”

You lean in—but something’s off.

“Cut!”

The director storms forward. “No. No, no, no. You’re not selling it.”

You blink. “I—”

“I don’t feel danger,” he snaps. “I don’t feel control. You’re holding back.”

The words sting.

He throws up a hand. “Break. Five minutes.”

It’s the first time you’ve ever been yelled at on set.

Satoru looks at you immediately. “Hey,” he says gently. “No hard feelings. He’s intense. You’re doing fine.”

Suguru doesn’t say anything. He looks distant. Haunted.

Satoru reaches for him, squeezes his hand. “You okay?”

Suguru nods. Lies.

You open your mouth—

“Back to set!” the producer yells.

This time, the pose is worse.

You’re bent over a desk. Suguru stands behind you, phone to his ear, pretending to take a call while writing something across your back with a pen and paper. His tie is loose now. His fingers linger longer than necessary.

His gaze drops. Stays.

You don’t look at him back at him.

You look at Satoru.

He stands across from you holding the files, glasses on, looking every bit the diligent assistant. His expression tightens when he notices Suguru’s hand still there.

“Perfect,” the director murmurs. “Don’t move.”

The shutter clicks endlessly.

And then—finally—

“That’s a wrap!”

Applause breaks out. Relief crashes through you all at once.

It’s over.

You laugh, breathless, adrenaline buzzing through your veins. The shoot—hellish, intimate, chaotic—is finally done.

As you pack your things, a flute of champagne is pressed into your hand.

“Exceptional work,” the producer says, clinking glasses with you.

“It’s what I do.” You take a sip, bubbles sharp and sweet on your tongue.

You did it.

Whatever comes next—fallout, heartbreak, confessions—you’ll face it standing tall.

Because Tokyo is watching.

And you never lose when the lights are on.

You’re almost out.

Bag slung over your shoulder, champagne buzz warm in your veins, heels clicking against concrete as you head toward the exit—when a familiar voice calls your name.

“Hey. Wait.”

You turn.

Satoru stands a few steps behind you, hands shoved into his pockets, posture casual but eyes oddly serious. The lights catch in his white hair, make him look softer than usual. Human.

“I just—” he exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wanted to say thank you.”

You raise a brow. “For?”

“For… everything,” he says. “You were amazing to work with. Really. You brought something out of the set that—I don’t know. It wouldn’t have worked without you.”

You smile, slow and indulgent. “That’s sweet of you.”

He hesitates, then adds, quieter, “And I’m sorry. For before. For the way I talked to you. I was… defensive.”

“Protective,” you correct gently.

His lips curve into a small, rueful smile. “Yeah. That.”

He glances away, then back at you. “You and Suguru… you’re really moved on from each other, huh?”

If only you knew, you think.

You step closer instead, invading his space just enough to make him still.

“People grow,” you say lightly. “Feelings change.”

Your fingers brush his sleeve as you speak. Not accidental. Never accidental.

“You’re fun to tease, you know that?” you add, eyes glinting. “All confidence until someone gets too close.”

He swallows. “I’m not—”

Your gaze drops.

To his lips.

The pause stretches. The air tightens.

Then you lean in and kiss him.

It’s brief. Soft. Calculated.

When you pull back, Satoru is frozen—eyes wide, breath caught somewhere in his chest.

You smile.

“Goodbye, Satoru.”

And you walk away before he can say a single word.

Behind you, his heart slams violently against his ribs.

Did I just—

Did I just cheat on Suguru… with his ex?

The guilt hits hard.

You don’t look back

The next morning, Tokyo explodes.

Your phone won’t stop vibrating.

You wake up, hair a mess, still sore in that lazy, satisfying way, and squint at the screen.

BREAKING: TOKYO’S NEW NUMBER ONE MODEL CROWNED

You sit up.

There it is.

Your face, front and center. Office Siren. Cupid. Power. Control.

RANKINGS UPDATE:

🥇 YOU

🥈 Satoru Gojo

🥉 Suguru Geto

You laugh—loud, unrestrained.

Scrolling.

Comments flood in faster than you can read.

“SHE ATE. NO CRUMBS.”

“Suguru’s ex dethroning Gojo is INSANE.”

“The tension in that shoot??? Unreal.”

“Why choose?? She should date BOTH of them.”

“Tokyo’s villain era just began.”

“She looks like she owns them.”

“Office Siren changed my brain chemistry.”

“Satoru Gojo losing to his boyfriend’s ex?? Oh that’s poetic.”

“She’s playing them like chess pieces, gosh men are EASY!”

You throw your head back, laughing harder.

This was always the plan.

Charm Satoru. Disarm him. Take his crown.

Your phone rings.

Shoko.

You answer immediately. “Tell me.”

She doesn’t even say hello. “Satoru just called me. He is in distress.”

You burst into manic laughter. “Oh my god.”

“He kept asking how this happened,” Shoko continues, incredulous. “Like the rankings personally betrayed him.”

“Did he mention me?” you ask sweetly.

“Yes,” she sighs. “A lot.”

You grin at the ceiling. “Poor thing.”

You can already imagine it—Satoru staring at the headlines, realizing he lost to you. Suguru’s past. The woman he underestimated. The one who kissed him and walked away.

You end the call, still smiling.

Tokyo wanted a queen.

And you gave them one.

Jason Todd (Red Hood) x Female Detective!Reader

SUMMARY- You’re a detective with too many late nights, too much coffee in your system, and a bad habit you’re trying to shake. Jason Todd, aka Red Hood, has made himself a permanent fixture in your apartment—freeloading on your couch, cooking in your kitchen, and keeping an annoyingly close eye on you.You’ll never admit how much you love it.

You sigh as you lean against the doorframe, watching Jason sprawled on your couch like he owns the place—which, honestly, he kind of does by now. His boots are kicked off, one foot propped on the armrest, the other resting on your coffee table, which you swear you just cleaned yesterday. The TV plays some old action flicker, but Jason’s attention is mostly on the bag of chips he’s quietly raiding.

“I swear, if you break that table, I’m charging you for it,” you say, arms crossed, trying to sound stern but failing when a small smile tugs at the corner of your lips.

Jason looks up, smirking like he knows exactly what he’s doing. “Relax, detective. I’m just ‘borrowing’ your hospitality. Besides, you’re the one who won’t kick me out.”

You roll your eyes but don’t move to shoo him off. Part of you likes this—the way your apartment feels warmer, less empty, when he’s here. You never tell him that though. You don’t want him to get any ideas about staying longer than “just tonight.”

“So,” you say, grabbing a mug from the kitchen and filling it with coffee, “how long are you planning on freeloading this time?”

Jason shrugs, eyes gleaming with that infuriating charm. “Could be a few days. Could be forever. Depends on how many donuts you bring me.”

You smirk, setting the mug down next to him. “Don’t get used to it, Red Hood.”

“Too late,” he grins, pulling you down to sit beside him. You sigh as you lean against the doorframe, watching Jason sprawled on your couch like he owns the place—which, honestly, he kind of does by now. His boots are kicked off, one foot propped on the armrest, the other resting on your coffee table, which you swear you just cleaned yesterday. The TV plays some old action flicker, but Jason’s attention is mostly on the bag of chips he’s quietly raiding.

“I swear, if you break that table, I’m charging you for it,” you say, arms crossed, trying to sound stern but failing when a small smile tugs at the corner of your lips.

Jason looks up, smirking like he knows exactly what he’s doing. “Relax, detective. I’m just ‘borrowing’ your hospitality. Besides, you’re the one who won’t kick me out.”

You roll your eyes but don’t move to shoo him off. Part of you likes this—the way your apartment feels warmer, less empty, when he’s here. You never tell him that though. You don’t want him to get any ideas about staying longer than “just tonight.”

“So,” you say, grabbing a mug from the kitchen and filling it with coffee, “how long are you planning on freeloading this time?”

Jason shrugs, eyes gleaming with that infuriating charm. “Could be a few days. Could be forever. Depends on how many donuts you bring me.”

You smirk, setting the mug down next to him. “Don’t get used to it, Red Hood.”

“Too late,” he grins, pulling you down to sit beside him.

And just like that, you forget about the mess, the stolen chips, and all the reasons you should kick him out.

You shift carefully, settling yourself on top of Jason’s chest, your head resting just under his chin. His arm wraps around your waist like he’s claiming you as his own, and you can’t help the quiet warmth that spreads through you. The murder documentary plays on the TV, the dim light casting flickering shadows across the room.

Jason’s voice is low and teasing. “Alright, detective, here’s the deal. Whoever figures out whodunit first doesn’t have to cook dinner tomorrow. You in?”

You smirk, already knowing you’re about to win. “You’re on, hoodlum.”

The case unfolds with sinister details: a wealthy socialite found dead in her mansion, a slew of suspects with motives ranging from jealousy to greed. You both lean closer to the screen, whispering theories and picking apart clues.

Jason’s fingers absentmindedly trace circles on your back as you analyze the timeline. You glance down at him, and the corner of his mouth quirks up, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

“Got it,” you murmur, eyes locked on the screen.

“Really? What’s your verdict?” he challenges.

You smile triumphantly. “It was the butler. The one with the hidden gambling debts.”

Jason groans, resting his forehead against yours. “Damn it. Fine, you’re off cooking duty.”

You laugh softly, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Don’t get too comfortable. Tomorrow’s another day.”

He tightens his hold, and you stay there, warm and content, happy to be the one freeloading—at least for tonight.

The faint clatter of pots and pans fills the kitchen as Jason moves around with a surprising ease that contradicts his usual rough-and-ready reputation. You’re perched on one of the stools by the counter, a mug of lukewarm coffee forgotten beside you as you watch him. The warm light overhead casts a soft glow on his defined arms—the ones he flexes without even realizing, making your heart do an involuntary flip.

You can’t help but stare, marveling at how those biceps ripple when he lifts a skillet or chops vegetables with quick, precise movements. It’s honestly distracting. You lean forward, resting your chin on your hand, a slow smile tugging at your lips.

“Seriously,” you say, voice soft but full of affection, “I’m this close to tying little bows around your arms and parading you around like a prize.”

Jason glances over his shoulder, eyebrow raised. “You think I’d let you get away with that?” His smirk is cocky but warm. “I’m more of a ‘tie you up with a spatula’ kind of guy.”

You laugh, the sound light and full of love. Watching him cook—his focused expression, the slight crease of concentration between his brows—makes you realize how much you adore this man, this complicated, fierce, freeloading man who’s somehow carved out a home in your life and your heart.

He moves closer to the stove, flipping a piece of chicken with the practiced flick of his wrist. The scent of garlic and herbs fills the kitchen, wrapping around you like a comforting blanket. You breathe it in deeply, feeling that rare stillness, that rare peace.

As he plates the food with a flourish that’s all his own—no fancy chef’s touches, just raw, honest effort—you feel your chest tighten with affection. Jason sets the plates down on the table and wipes his hands on a dish towel, finally turning to you with that familiar mischievous grin.

“Alright, detective. Time to judge the Red Hood’s cooking skills.”

You pick up your fork, eyeing the food—perfectly cooked chicken, roasted veggies glistening with just the right amount of oil, and a side of buttery mashed potatoes that make your mouth water.

You take a bite, and it’s… incredible. Juicy, flavorful, with just enough seasoning to make you close your eyes in delight. Your heart swells with a mix of pride and adoration for this man who, despite his rough edges and lone-wolf tendencies, has made this moment for you.

“Chef,” you say suddenly, a teasing smile spreading across your face. “You might just be the best damn chef I know.”

Jason’s eyes widen just a little, and then he’s leaning in, capturing your lips in a slow, warm kiss. It’s gentle but charged with everything unspoken between you—trust, love, and the promise of countless moments like this.

When you pull back, still smiling, you murmur, “Don’t think this lets you off kitchen duty anytime soon.”

He chuckles, fingers tracing a lazy path along your arm. “Oh, I’m counting on it.”

And as you settle into the evening, full of food, laughter, and quiet contentment, you realize this—this messy, imperfect, beautiful life with him—is exactly where you want to be.

Dinner was long gone, replaced by the easy quiet that always settled in after the two of you were full and content. Now, you were back on the couch, stretched out with Jason’s head in your lap. He had one arm lazily draped across your waist, his eyes half-lidded, a satisfied smirk tugging at his mouth every time your fingers worked into his hair.

Your nails scraped lightly along his scalp, and he let out a low, pleased hum that made you want to keep going forever. The warmth from the kitchen still lingered in the air, mixing with the scent of his cologne and faint traces of garlic from dinner. You felt… peaceful.

Then your phone rang.

You groaned before you even looked at it, the shrill tone cutting through the soft rhythm of Jason’s breathing. The moment your gaze landed on the screen—Station—you felt your stomach sink.

Jason cracked one eye open, catching your expression. “Don’t answer it.”

“I have to,” you sighed, swiping to pick up. You tried to keep your voice level, but your fingers never left his hair. “Detective Y/L/N speaking… yes… okay… I’ll be there in twenty.”

You hung up with a long exhale, your free hand rubbing at your face. “They need me downtown. Homicide scene.”

Jason didn’t move. At all. In fact, he shifted closer, his head pressing against your stomach like a stubborn cat. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Jason…” you warned, though your tone lacked conviction.

“Nope,” he said, popping the p. “You’ve got a guy bleeding out in his girlfriend’s lap here. Priorities, detective.”

You bit back a smile, pushing lightly at his shoulder. “That’s not how this works.”

He caught your wrist, pressing a kiss into your palm before laying your hand back on his head. “Just five more minutes,” he murmured, closing his eyes again as if the conversation was over.

Your chest ached in that bittersweet way—the one that comes when you want nothing more than to stay exactly where you are but duty’s already calling you away. You let your fingers slide through his hair again, telling yourself you’d give him exactly five more minutes before you got up.

The truth was, if he didn’t move, you weren’t sure you’d have the willpower to move him.

You gave him those five minutes.

Okay, ten.

Fine—fifteen.

Jason hadn’t moved an inch. If anything, he’d gotten heavier, pressing more of his weight onto you like a human sandbag. You’d stopped massaging his scalp a while ago, but his hand was still curled possessively around your thigh like he could physically anchor you to the couch.

Finally, you huffed, shoving at his shoulder. “Alright, get off me, fatty. I have to go put real criminals behind bars.”

His head popped up, eyes narrowing playfully. “Fatty? Excuse me, sweetheart—this is pure muscle.”

You gave him a dry look, trying to wiggle free, but he clamped both hands around your waist. “Jason—”

“Nope.” He buried his face against your stomach again, voice muffled. “This is the safest you’ve been all week. Out there? You’ve got psychos with knives and guns. In here? You’ve got me. Who’s basically a heavily armed pillow.”

You laughed despite yourself, carding your fingers through his hair once more. “You’re ridiculous. Now let me up before I’m late.”

He groaned like a man being forced to relinquish his last meal, finally pushing himself upright with that slow, lazy swagger he always seemed to have—even when he was wearing sweatpants and no shirt. “Fine,” he muttered, “but I’m walking you out.”

You rolled your eyes, heading for the door to grab your coat. “You don’t have to—”

“Yeah, I do,” he cut in, already slipping on his own jacket. He didn’t bother with shoes; you knew he’d just stand barefoot in the hall until you were out of sight.

At the door, you started zipping your coat, but he caught your chin between two fingers, tilting your face up toward his. His expression had softened, the playful spark in his eyes dimming into something warmer—something heavier.

“Keep your vest on,” he said quietly, “and don’t be a hero if you don’t have to. You hear me?”

“I am a hero,” you teased, but your voice was gentler now.

“Then be a smart one.” His thumb brushed along your jaw, then he dipped down to kiss you—slow, deliberate, like he was trying to brand the memory into both of you before you left.

When he finally pulled back, he smirked faintly. “Call me when you’re on your way back. If you don’t, I’ll assume you’re dead and start shooting.”

“Charming,” you said, shaking your head as you stepped into the hall.

“Realistic,” he shot back, leaning against the doorframe with that lazy posture that still somehow screamed don’t mess with her.

As you walked away, you glanced over your shoulder to find him still watching you, hands shoved in his pockets, jaw tight. You didn’t have to hear it to know what he was thinking.

And, God help you, part of you already couldn’t wait to get home.

The streets were wet from an earlier rain, slick under the harsh glare of streetlights. Your car idled to a stop just outside the yellow tape, the faint hum of the engine the only sound in the otherwise quiet block—quiet, except for the muted chatter of uniforms and the occasional crackle of a police radio.

It was 2:03 a.m. You’d already downed one coffee on the drive over, and you were halfway through your second now, the bitter heat of it burning down your throat. It wasn’t enough to chase away the fog clinging to your brain.

In your other hand, a cigarette burned low, the smoke curling lazily into the damp air. You told yourself you were quitting—you were quitting. But there was something about standing on the edges of a crime scene, the weight of another dead body just steps away, that made the craving coil tight in your chest. The nicotine wasn’t comfort so much as it was ritual.

You only ever let yourself smoke on the job now. Never at home. Never when Jason was around. You couldn’t stand the idea of him catching the scent on you—knowing, seeing that weakness. He’d nag, sure, but worse, he’d worry. And you couldn’t stomach that.

You crushed the cigarette out against the pavement just before ducking under the tape.

The scene hit you immediately—bright floodlights harsh against the shadows, evidence markers scattered across the cracked concrete, the sour tang of iron in the air. A young patrol officer glanced up, giving you a quick nod of acknowledgment before returning to his notepad.

You stepped forward, boots squelching in a shallow puddle, your eyes scanning the perimeter. And then you saw it—him.

The victim was sprawled in the alley, limbs awkwardly splayed, eyes staring sightlessly at the sky.

You exhaled slowly, shaking your head. “Jesus,” you murmured, the word low enough to be swallowed by the hum of the lights overhead.

Some nights, the job felt like a puzzle you were eager to solve. Other nights—nights like this—it felt like a weight that would drag you under if you let it.

You squared your shoulders and stepped in, notebook ready. There’d be time to fall apart later. Right now, there was work to do.

You were crouched low near the victim’s side, gloved hands carefully moving aside the collar of his shirt to check for markings, bruising, anything that might tell you what happened here before the final blow. The alley was narrow, the air damp and heavy, the hum of the portable floodlights filling the silence between the muffled chatter of the uniforms working perimeter duty.

You were in your zone—mentally cataloging the scene, trying to piece together a timeline—when the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end.

It wasn’t the usual discomfort of a crime scene. No, this was… different. That familiar, electric awareness that came from knowing you were being watched.

You straightened slowly, scanning the shadows beyond the yellow tape. And that’s when you saw him—half-obscured in the darkness, leaning casually against the brick wall like he had all the time in the world.

Red helmet. Leather jacket. Holstered pistols at either thigh.

Red Hood.

No one else seemed to notice him—none of the uniforms, at least. Which meant he was staying far enough out of the light to keep himself invisible to anyone not actively looking. But you could feel his gaze through that visor, steady and unblinking.

You crossed the alley toward him, keeping your pace casual, as if you were just doing a sweep of the scene. When you got close enough, you hissed under your breath, “What the hell are you doing here?”

His voice came through the helmet’s modulator, deeper and rougher than usual. “Making sure you don’t get yourself killed.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I’ve been doing this for years, Hood. I can handle a crime scene without the city’s most wanted looking over my shoulder.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Can you handle it without lighting up in the middle of it?”

Your stomach sank. You knew immediately what he meant, and you hated the way heat crept into your cheeks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you muttered.

His voice softened just a fraction, but it was no less pointed. “You smell like smoke. And don’t give me that ‘just one’ crap. You told me you were quitting.”

You crossed your arms, defensive. “I am quitting. It’s… work. Different rules.”

He let out a low, annoyed sound through the helmet, the kind that meant he was biting back something sharper. “Yeah, well, I don’t care about your ‘different rules.’ I care about you not shaving years off your life for a bad habit.”

You glanced back toward the scene to make sure no one was watching, then stepped closer until you could see your own reflection in the smooth, crimson curve of his helmet. “You shouldn’t even be here. If someone sees you—”

“They won’t.” His voice was steady, calm, absolute. “And you can’t stop me from watching your back.”

You wanted to argue, but the words wouldn’t come. Not when his presence—dangerous, reckless, and undeniably him—was also making you feel safer than you’d like to admit.

“Go home,” you said finally, softer this time. “Before someone spots you.”

He didn’t move. “Only if you promise me no more cigarettes tonight.”

You let out a frustrated breath, but the truth was, you’d already decided against another one anyway. “Fine. No more tonight.”

There was a beat of silence, then his modulated voice came through, quieter. “Good girl.”

And just like that, he pushed away from the wall, melting back into the shadows as if he’d never been there at all—leaving you standing in the alley with your heart hammering, wondering if you’d ever win a fight with him.

The drive back was a blur—empty streets, stoplights stretching red longer than they should, the faint ache in your shoulders pulsing with every heartbeat. You pulled into your spot with the engine’s hum echoing in your head, the kind of bone-deep fatigue that coffee couldn’t touch settling into your bones.

It was 5:17 a.m. by the time you dragged yourself up the stairs to your apartment. Your keys jingled as you fumbled with the lock, muttering a quiet curse under your breath when the key jammed for half a second before finally clicking open.

The apartment was dark except for the soft, warm light coming from the living room.

You knew before you even stepped inside who it was.

Jason was stretched out on the couch, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting lazily across his stomach. He’d swapped the leather jacket and helmet for a black t-shirt and sweats, his hair still slightly damp like he’d just showered. He looked comfortable—annoyingly comfortable—like he’d been here for hours.

“Three hours,” he said, voice low but carrying that faint edge of disapproval. “You said twenty minutes.”

You kicked off your boots by the door and tossed your bag onto the counter. “Homicide scenes don’t run on twenty-minute clocks,” you muttered, rubbing your eyes.

He sat up as you crossed the room, watching you with that quiet intensity that made you feel like he was cataloging every detail—the slump of your shoulders, the dark circles under your eyes, the faint smell of coffee clinging to your clothes.

“You eat?” he asked.

“Coffee counts,” you said flatly, dropping onto the couch beside him.

He gave you that look—the one halfway between you’re impossible and I’m trying not to fight with you right now. “Coffee’s not food, sweetheart.”

You leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “We gonna do this now? ‘Cause if you want to yell at me for smoking again, I can tell you I didn’t.”

“I’m not here to yell,” he said, softer this time. “I just… want to make sure you’re okay.”

That almost made you laugh—you were the one used to asking that question. Instead, you turned your head to look at him. “You didn’t have to come by.”

“Yeah, I did.” He shifted closer, resting his forearm on the back of the couch so he could face you. “You looked… tired tonight. More than usual. And I don’t like leaving you like that.”

You let your eyes close for a second, his words sinking in, peeling away that thin layer of armor you always carried after a scene. “It was a bad one,” you admitted quietly. “You were right to check on me. Just… maybe don’t do it in full vigilante cosplay next time?”

That got a small smirk out of him. “Cosplay? Babe, I own that look.”

Despite your exhaustion, you snorted, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”

Jason leaned in, brushing his lips lightly over your temple. “Yeah, but you still let me freeload here.”

You gave him a sideways glance. “Only ‘cause I secretly love it.”

That earned you a quiet laugh, and for a long moment, neither of you spoke. He just reached for the throw blanket at the end of the couch, draped it over both of you, and pulled you against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You were asleep in less than a minute, the steady beat of his heart grounding you more than any cup of coffee ever could.

The first thing you noticed when you woke was warmth.

Not just the blanket—though that was still tangled around you like a cocoon—but the steady, solid heat beneath you. The sound of slow, even breathing reached your ears, and when you blinked your eyes open, you found yourself sprawled across Jason’s chest, your cheek pressed to the soft cotton of his t-shirt.

His arm was wrapped around your back, his hand splayed protectively between your shoulder blades, and his head was tilted slightly toward you like he’d fallen asleep guarding you from some invisible threat.

The early morning light streamed through the half-open blinds, painting thin gold stripes across the living room. The clock on the wall read 9:12 a.m., which meant you’d managed just under four hours of sleep—not great, but better than nothing.

You shifted slowly, trying not to wake him, but Jason’s grip only tightened, his voice a low rumble in your ear.

“Don’t move. You’re warm.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, your voice still scratchy from sleep. “You’re warm.”

He cracked one eye open, smirking lazily. “Guess that makes us even.”

As much as you wanted to stay like that, the faint smell of something cooking—eggs, toast, maybe coffee—was making your stomach growl. You gave him a pointed look. “You made breakfast?”

“Made it before you woke up,” he said, finally releasing you and stretching like a big cat. “You were dead to the world, so I figured I’d do something productive before I went back to freeloading.”

You followed him into the kitchen, blinking at the spread on the counter. Scrambled eggs, perfectly golden toast, bacon crisped just the way you liked it, and a fresh pot of coffee already poured into two mugs.

“This is suspiciously domestic of you,” you teased, sliding onto a stool. “Should I be worried you’re gonna propose next?”

Jason shot you a flat look as he set a plate in front of you. “Eat before I decide to eat yours too.”

You grinned but obeyed, taking a bite of bacon that was exactly how you liked it. It was almost annoying how well he knew you.

Halfway through your plate, you noticed the way his gaze kept drifting toward you over the rim of his coffee mug—like he was working up to something.

“Spit it out, Todd,” you said, pointing your fork at him.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the counter. “I meant what I said last night. About the cigarettes.”

You sighed, pushing a piece of toast around your plate. “Jason…”

“I’m not trying to lecture you,” he said, his voice low and even. “I just—look, you can take care of yourself, I know that. But I’ve seen too many people let crap like that get its hooks in them, and I’m not watching it happen to you.”

You met his gaze, feeling that stubborn streak of his radiating across the counter. “I only smoke at work. I don’t do it at home, and I’m not—”

“Doesn’t matter where you do it,” he cut in gently. “You’re still doing it.”

You hated how reasonable he sounded. Hated it because he was right.

He reached over, brushing his fingers lightly over yours. “I just want you around for a long time, alright?”

That softened something in you. You gave him a small smile, squeezing his hand. “Fine. I’ll… try harder.”

His mouth curved in the faintest smirk. “Good girl.”

You rolled your eyes, but your chest felt lighter somehow.

The rest of breakfast passed in easy silence, broken only by the occasional clink of forks and the low hum of the coffee maker. And for the first time in weeks, the thought of heading back to work didn’t feel quite so heavy—because you knew you’d be coming back to this.

The sound of the shower running in the bathroom was faint over the dialogue of the series you’d half-heartedly put on. Some crime drama you weren’t really paying attention to, not after the long night you’d had at the station.

You were curled up on the couch with your laptop balanced on your knees, Jason’s oversized hoodie drowning your frame, the sleeves swallowing your hands as you typed. His sweatpants hung loose on your hips, tied tight with the drawstring, and every time you shifted you caught a faint whiff of his cologne clinging to the fabric. It was distracting—comforting, too—but distracting most of all.

Your report was coming together slowly, the words blurring every so often when your exhaustion caught up with you. You pushed your glasses up the bridge of your nose and tried to refocus, pausing only to sip at the cold coffee beside you.

The shower finally shut off.

Steam curled out from the bathroom as the door creaked open, and you didn’t even look up at first, figuring he’d emerge in sweatpants and one of his endless black t-shirts. But when you did glance up, your fingers froze over the keyboard.

Jason padded into the living room with nothing but a towel slung low around his hips. Water still glistened on his skin, beads trailing down the ridges of muscle along his stomach, gathering briefly before sliding over the sharp lines of his V. His hair was damp, a few dark strands sticking to his forehead, and his chest—broad, scarred, familiar—rose and fell steadily with each step.

Your breath hitched.

It wasn’t the first time you’d seen him like this. Far from it. But tonight, maybe it was the fatigue, maybe it was the way the light hit him, maybe it was just the ache of how deeply you loved him—tonight, it felt like you were seeing him for the first time all over again.

Every scar told a story you knew pieces of, but not all. Some he’d explained in a gruff sentence, others you’d only traced silently in bed, letting the questions remain unasked. They were a part of him now, woven into the man who had somehow, against all odds, stumbled into your life and made himself a permanent fixture.

Jason caught your stare and smirked, running a towel through his damp hair. “You’re drooling, detective.”

You blinked, snapping your mouth shut, heat flooding your cheeks. “I am not.”

“Pretty sure you are.” He tossed the towel onto the back of a chair and leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. The movement only made his chest flex, scars catching the light, muscles shifting beneath skin. “You gonna keep staring, or you gonna say something?”

You swallowed hard, trying to keep your composure. “I was… admiring the battle damage.”

“Uh-huh.” His grin widened, wicked and knowing. “Pretty sure you were admiring something else, too.”

You wanted to deny it, to brush him off with a sarcastic retort, but the truth was written all over your face, in the way your pulse quickened, in the way your eyes kept drifting lower against your better judgment.

Finally, you gave up pretending. Closing your laptop, you set it aside and leaned back against the couch, gaze sweeping over him with open reverence. “You’re—” You paused, searching for the right word, but all that came out was honest, unfiltered. “You’re beautiful.”

Jason stilled, his smirk faltering into something softer, more vulnerable.

Before he could reply, you added quietly, “Every scar, every line… I just want to kiss you everywhere.”

For once, he didn’t have a smart remark ready. His jaw clenched slightly, his eyes darkening as he stepped closer. And in that moment, the air between you felt charged—like gravity itself was pulling you to him.

Paring: Bruce Wayne x Ex-wife

Summary: Six months after your separation from Bruce Wayne, life has settled into a new rhythm—one where you maintain a close bond with the Batkids, who visit daily and keep you tethered to the chaos of Wayne Manor. When Bruce calls you one evening simply to say goodnight, it’s meant to be a brief, routine gesture—part of a playful “trend” the kids have convinced him to follow.

It had been six months since Bruce and you had gone your separate ways. Six months since the echo of your laughter stopped mingling with his in Wayne Manor, six months since the house had shifted from shared spaces to silences and careful avoidance. In some ways, it felt like a lifetime. In others, it felt like yesterday—the way his presence could dominate a room without even trying, the way his voice could make your heart hitch with nothing more than a single word.

You had your own apartment now, modest and cozy in a way that screamed “you,” all soft lighting and bookshelves spilling over with novels, mementos, and a few toys the Batkids had insisted you keep after their visits. The truth was… you and Bruce had ended things amicably. You cared too deeply for him to walk away bitterly, but you also knew that some fractures, no matter how loved, could not be mended overnight.

The Batkids, however, had never gotten the memo that you were no longer living in the Manor. They refused to accept your absence from their lives. Every day, at some point, Dick, Jason, Tim, and even Damian—though he would never admit it—would show up at your door, often with snacks, sometimes with movies, occasionally with homework they needed “supervising” on. You had always been an anchor for them, a constant in a chaotic life, and that hadn’t changed with your separation from Bruce.

Tonight was like any other evening. You were at the small dining table in your apartment, finishing up a simple meal—a salad with too much dressing because you didn’t really care about balance tonight. Your phone buzzed, and you nearly dropped your fork. It was Bruce.

Your hand hovered over your phone as if it might burn your skin. You hadn’t spoken to him in weeks—except for the occasional, tense exchange over logistics concerning the kids or some urgent League mission. You weren’t expecting this.

The screen lit up: “Bruce.”

Your heart stuttered. You answered before you could talk yourself out of it.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” his voice was low, calm, and steady—the same voice that had once lulled you to sleep countless nights.

“Bruce,” you breathed, almost like a warning and a question at the same time.

“Good…night,” he said, almost reluctantly. The words were clipped, but the sincerity behind them was palpable.

You blinked. “Good night?” you repeated, your fork forgotten halfway to your mouth.

“Yes,” he said, a faint hesitation. “I… uh… thought I should call. Say good night. That’s all.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head in disbelief. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” he confirmed. His tone was careful, measured. Like he didn’t want to overstep.

You wanted to hang up. You really did. Because you weren’t ready for this, for the pull of his voice, for the sudden warmth that spread through you at just hearing him. But somehow, you didn’t. Somehow, you couldn’t.

“Well…” you began, twirling your fork absentmindedly, “good night, Bruce. Sleep well. Don’t let the—uh, Gotham chaos keep you up.”

He chuckled softly, a sound you hadn’t realized you’d missed until now. “I’ll try.”

“Try?” you echoed, smirking despite yourself. “You’re Batman, Bruce. Try isn’t in your vocabulary.”

There was a pause on the line. You could practically hear him rolling his eyes, a sound so familiar that it made your chest ache. “I’ll… do my best. You have a good night too. Eat your salad, I see you haven’t given up on it.”

You laughed outright now, and a small warmth crept into your chest, the kind that had nothing to do with the food in front of you. “Thanks. I’ll try not to drown it in dressing. Good night, Bruce.”

There was silence. And then, softly, almost shyly: “Do you… want to… stay on the phone a little? Not talking about anything specific, just… talking?”

Your fork fell to the table with a clatter. “You… want to stay on the phone?”

“Yes,” he admitted, in that rare, vulnerable way he rarely allowed himself to be.

Your stomach twisted. A part of you wanted to say yes and stay on the line all night. Another part of you wanted to scream at yourself for still feeling like this six months later. “I… yeah. I’d like that,” you said, and your heart soared at the simple honesty in your own voice.

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to you, the Wayne Manor had erupted into chaos.

“Guys,” Damian whispered, creeping toward the kitchen with his usual precision, “I think I overheard something.”

Jason smirked. “You mean our dad’s doing the trend again? This one where he calls [Y/N] just to say good night?”

“Trend?” you could imagine Dick asking, probably laughing too hard.

“Yes,” Jason confirmed. “Apparently, it’s… a thing now. Bruce calls you to say good night, and that’s it. Everyone at Manor gets a laugh out of it. But he never, ever admits he wants to talk longer. That’s the fun part.”

Back on your end of the line, Bruce was speaking quietly, hesitantly, like he was testing the waters. “So… how was your day?”

You tilted your head, your voice soft. “It was… fine. The kids kept me busy. Dinner was sad but edible.”

He chuckled. “I imagine it’s not quite the same without us there to critique your cooking.”

“Exactly. But you would’ve been too busy brooding to help anyway,” you teased, a grin spreading across your face.

“Guilty,” he admitted. “And you… you miss it? Miss us?”

Your heart lurched, and you almost dropped the phone again. “Sometimes. More than I thought I would,” you admitted, swallowing hard. “But I’m… I’m okay. I manage.”

“I’m glad,” he said quietly. “I… wanted to call. Not just because it’s the trend or because the kids—well, mostly because of the kids—but… I wanted to hear your voice. Make sure you’re okay.”

You could feel your chest tighten. “I’m… I’m okay. Hearing your voice… it helps.”

There was a long silence. You thought he had hung up, thought it was over, but then he spoke again, softer, almost reluctantly. “I shouldn’t be… I shouldn’t… I just…”

“Bruce,” you interrupted, laughing softly, “it’s okay. You don’t have to do the whole ‘tough Batman’ act right now. You can just… be Bruce with me for a little while.”

He laughed, low and warm. “Alright. Just a little while.”

You stayed on the phone together like that for what felt like hours, talking about everything and nothing. You laughed, teased, reminisced, even got quiet at times, comfortable in each other’s presence without needing words.

Meanwhile, across the city at Wayne Manor, Dick, Jason, Tim, and Damian were huddled around the speakerphone, barely able to contain themselves.

“You think they know how long they’re actually on the phone?” Dick whispered.

Jason snorted. “Oh, they know. That’s the beauty of it. Bruce doesn’t admit it, but he’s enjoying this as much as [Y/N].”

Damian rolled his eyes but didn’t hide his own small smile. “This is… pathetic. And yet… not entirely displeasing.”

Tim, predictably, just sighed. “I told you all. The trend is just an excuse. They both want this. They’ve always wanted this.”

And somewhere across the city, in your small apartment, you and Bruce stayed on the phone, talking late into the night. For once, the distance didn’t feel so vast, the silence didn’t feel so cold, and for a few hours, six months of separation melted away.

-Bruce Wayne x Wife!Reader & Batkids (Age Regression AU)

SUMMARY—When a strange device from a Gotham villain malfunctions inside Wayne Manor, Dick, Jason, Tim, and Damian are suddenly regressed into tiny, clingy, and accident-prone versions of themselves. You and Bruce are thrown into the ultimate parenting challenge—balancing tantrums, sleepless nights, and baby-proofing the manor, all while Bruce still tries to protect Gotham.

You never imagined your night would turn into something like this.

The manor is quieter than usual—just you, Bruce, and the kids testing a strange device Alfred found in the lab. It was supposed to be harmless, a little tech from a villain you’d captured recently. Something that could maybe help with surveillance. But when it powered on, a sudden flash filled the room, and your head spun with a dizzying wave of energy.

Then the silence hit.

You blink, and suddenly, everything looks… bigger. Your heart stumbles as you realize why.

In front of you stand four tiny figures, barely able to reach your knees.

Dick—his usual confident, towering presence replaced by a six-year-old boy with wide, fearful eyes. His arms wrap around your leg without hesitation, as if you are the only solid thing in the world.

Jason—four years old, trying to scramble up your lap before you can even bend down to help him. His little face scrunches up in frustration when he doesn’t make it on the first try.

Tim—three years old, already knocking over a nearby vase in his clumsy toddler gait, looking up at you with wide, apologetic eyes. “Sowwy,” he mumbles.

And Damian—the smallest of all—a baby no older than one year, swaddled in a blanket Alfred has quickly wrapped around him. His tiny hand grasps your finger, his soft cries tugging at your heart.

Bruce stands off to the side, jaw tight, eyes sharp but tinged with worry. The Batman is still there beneath the father’s fatigue, but you can see it’s harder than ever for him to process.

You crouch down, heart aching. “Dick? Jason? Tim? Damian?” Your voice is gentle but firm, trying to mask the shock in your own chest. “It’s okay. We’re here.”

Dick looks up at you, and for a moment, you see the same determination you know so well flicker in his eyes. Then he clutches your leg tighter.

Jason whimpers softly and crawls onto your lap, wrapping his small arms around your waist.

Tim stumbles again, nearly falling face-first into the carpet, but you catch him just in time. “Careful, little guy,” you whisper, pulling him close.

Alfred approaches with steady steps, his face calm but eyes concerned. “Madam, Master Wayne, we have our hands full.” He lifts Damian carefully, who immediately quiets down, his tiny fingers curling around Alfred’s.

Bruce’s gaze shifts between his children and you. “I’ll find a way to reverse this. I promise.”

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. “For now, we take care of them.”

Because they’re your family.

Because they need you.

And because, somehow, you will find the strength to get through this—one clingy, chaotic, heart-melting moment at a time.

The morning sun filters softly through the curtains, but you haven’t slept. Not really.

Dick’s small hand is wrapped tightly around yours as he follows you from room to room, eyes wide and searching like you’re his entire world. You try to sneak away for a moment to get coffee, but before you can even reach the kitchen, his voice stops you.

“Don’t go,” he whispers, almost pleading.

You kneel down, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “I’m right here, Dick. I’m not going anywhere.”

His grip tightens, and you feel the ache of how much he needs you—more than ever. The brave Nightwing you know now is trapped inside this little boy, scared and unsure.

Jason’s no different. Four years old and already an expert at tugging on your clothes, whining softly when you try to put him down. He insists on sitting in your lap during breakfast, babbling about the things he can’t quite say yet.

“Jason, sweetie, you have to eat,” you tell him, gently wiping scrambled eggs from his chin.

He looks up at you with big, trusting eyes and clings to your shirt like you’re his whole world.

Tim, the little whirlwind of the group, is already causing trouble. He’s knocked over three cups of juice, tripped over his own feet twice, and spilled cereal all over the floor before breakfast is even halfway done.

“Tim, please be careful!” you say, scooping him up before he topples again.

He looks sheepish, his three-year-old cheeks flushing red. “Sowwy,” he mumbles, burying his face into your shoulder.

You laugh softly, despite the exhaustion pulling at you. The house is a disaster zone in minutes—cups tipped over, toys scattered, the occasional small tantrum from Jason or Dick when they get frustrated.

Meanwhile, Bruce moves like a ghost through the chaos. His gaze sharpens as his phone buzzes with alerts from the Batcomputer. He can’t afford to drop the mantle of Batman, even now.

“Bruce,” you say one afternoon, “You need to eat. You need rest.”

He shakes his head. “I can’t. Not while this villain is out there.”

You reach out, your fingers brushing his tense jaw. “We’ll protect the kids. You protect Gotham.”

He gives a half-smile, gratitude and worry tangled in his eyes. “I don’t know how you do it.”

You glance down to see Jason climbing into your lap again, while Dick wraps his tiny arms around your leg like a lifeline.

“I just do,” you say, voice soft but strong. “Because they need me.”

The days blur into a whirlwind of tiny footsteps, little voices, and nonstop needs.

Damian, even in his baby form, makes one thing very clear: he wants Bruce. No one else. When you try to hold him, he squirms and lets out a tiny, frustrated cry until Bruce scoops him up with a gentle smile, cradling him close like the fierce protector he always is.

You watch quietly, feeling a pang of bittersweet pride. Damian’s bond with his father is unshakable—maybe even stronger now, when he’s so small and vulnerable.

Bruce rocks Damian with practiced ease, whispering soft words only the two of them understand.

Meanwhile, Tim is chaos personified.

The moment he toddles from room to room, you’re on edge, ready to catch him mid-fall. You’ve caught him tripping over carpet edges, bumping into walls, and nearly tumbling down the stairs once.

Bruce watches one particularly clumsy moment with a rare flicker of humor. “We need to bubble wrap him,” he says dryly.

You laugh, despite the exhaustion. “I was thinking the same thing.”

So, over the next hour, you both carefully “bubble wrap” Tim—not literally, of course, but you pad his clothes with extra layers, cushions on the sharp corners of tables, and little helmets Alfred manages to find tucked away in the manor’s medical kit.

Tim looks at you suspiciously, confused by the sudden fortress of safety around him, but the moment he trips, he bounces harmlessly off a pillow cushion and beams.

“Safe!” he giggles, clapping his hands.

You share a tired smile with Bruce, who nods, a rare softness in his eyes.

Between the clingy six-year-old Dick shadowing your every move, four-year-old Jason refusing to be left out of your lap, baby Damian demanding Bruce’s full attention, and toddler Tim testing every safety measure, the manor is filled with noise, chaos, and endless love.

And somehow, through the exhaustion and mess, you find strength.

Because they’re your family.

And you will protect them all.

The manor never feels quieter than when Bruce slips out the door at dawn, cape folded carefully in hand, heading back into the night as Gotham’s silent guardian.

But inside, the chaos is just waking up.

Dick clings to you immediately, his six-year-old eyes wide and searching for comfort. “Stay,” he whispers, tugging your shirt.

Jason, not far behind, insists on holding your hand everywhere you go. Even Alfred is on high alert, juggling bottles, diapers, and a surprisingly loud Tim who’s somehow managed to find every loud toy in the house.

Bruce’s absence is palpable.

You watch the clock obsessively, tracking every minute until he returns—every moment a mix of relief and worry. The weight of being caretaker, wife, and surrogate mother feels heavier with each passing hour.

When Bruce does come home, exhausted and dark-eyed, it’s a small miracle.

Damian immediately quiets in his arms, and you see Bruce’s guard drop for a fleeting second as he looks at you both—tiny Damian snuggled close, and you, weary but unbroken.

“Thank you,” Bruce murmurs, voice rough. “For everything.”

You shake your head, smiling softly. “We’re a team. We get through this—together.”

The evening is a blur of bedtime stories for Dick and Jason, soft lullabies for Damian, and you wrapping Tim in a mountain of pillows as he giggles, ready for sleep.

The morning sunlight pours through the windows, bathing the manor’s living room in a gentle glow. It should feel peaceful, but today the air buzzes with tension—tiny tension, but loud enough to echo in your heart.

You’re sitting on the couch, carefully balancing four-year-old Jason on your lap, who’s happily babbling and trying to show you the crayon masterpiece he made. His small hands are sticky with colorful scribbles, and he beams when you praise him, pressing a sticky kiss to his temple.

But just a few feet away, Dick’s six-year-old form stiffens, his wide eyes darting between you and Jason. You notice his lower lip trembling as he shifts closer, but you’re caught up in Jason’s excitement and unintentionally give Jason one more hug, one more kiss.

Then it happens.

“Me too!” Dick suddenly demands, voice cracking with emotion.

You look up just in time to see his face scrunch, tears starting to pool in the corners of his big eyes.

“Don’t hug him more than me!” he wails, suddenly throwing his tiny body against the couch cushion and curling into a ball, sobbing.

Your heart lurches, because this isn’t the brave, confident Dick you know—it’s the scared little boy trapped inside, feeling invisible and forgotten.

You quickly reach over, putting your arms around him gently. “Dick, baby, I’m hugging you. You’re so important to me.”

But he shakes his head, tears spilling freely now. “Jason gets all the hugs! You love him more!”

Before you can say another word, Jason’s eyes widen and he lets out a small whimper, his little fists reaching up to you.

“Me too,” he whispers, eyes glistening, desperate.

You’re completely taken aback. You didn’t expect this flood of emotions to come crashing down all at once.

You pull Dick closer, kissing his damp cheek and smoothing back his hair. “I love you both so much. I’m hugging both of you, always.”

Jason melts into your other side, wrapping his arms around your neck, insisting on being hugged and kissed just as much.

The two of them cling to you, tiny bundles of need and love, their sobs quieting into sniffles as they feel your warmth and reassurance.

Meanwhile, on the floor nearby, Damian is happily playing with his little action figures, completely oblivious to the emotional storm unfolding a few feet away. His soft giggles bubble up as he lines up his toys in neat rows.

But then—

Tim, ever the clumsy three-year-old, comes toddling through the living room, eyes fixed on the ceiling as he mutters to himself, completely unaware of Damian’s scattered toys lying right in his path.

Before anyone can warn him, Tim trips over one of the plastic figures.

There’s a sudden, sharp cry as he falls hard onto the carpet, tears instantly filling his eyes.

Damian, watching this from the floor, bursts into giggles, the sound light and pure.

Your heart skips a painful beat as you leap up, rushing to Tim’s side.

“Tim! Are you okay, sweetie?” you ask, voice urgent but calm, gently inspecting his knees and palms.

Tears streak down his cheeks as he sniffles, clutching at your shirt. “Hurts…”

You pull out your phone with one hand and quickly call Alfred. “Alfred, Medkit—Tim’s fallen. He needs a checkup.”

Bruce is at your side in an instant, kneeling down and taking Tim’s small hand in his large one. His eyes are calm but fierce, protective and steady.

Dick and Jason, their tears forgotten for the moment, stand quietly nearby, eyes wide and worried. They watch every movement, ready to jump in if needed.

Alfred arrives swiftly, carrying the familiar green medkit with practiced hands. He kneels beside Tim, speaking softly and beginning to clean and bandage the scrapes on his knees.

You brush a stray tear from Tim’s cheek, your own eyes burning with relief and gratitude.

“He’s going to be okay,” you whisper, more to yourself than anyone else.

Bruce leans in, voice low but firm. “We’ve got him.”

The room settles into a hush, a fragile peace after the storm of emotions and small crises.

You glance down at the four tiny faces looking up at you—each one vulnerable, each one fiercely loved

And in that moment, exhaustion and overwhelm melt away, replaced by something deeper and stronger.

Admiration.

The quiet is almost surreal.

After what feels like a hundred attempts—rocking, singing, reading stories, calming tantrums—you and Bruce have finally gotten every one of the Batkids to sleep.

Dick is curled up on the couch, Jason nestling quietly in his bed, Damian cradled gently in Bruce’s arms, breathing softly. Tim—thankfully—slept through his exhaustion, finally safe and still.

You slump into the couch beside Bruce, every muscle screaming with exhaustion. You barely manage a grateful glance at him before your eyelids start to flutter.

For a moment, just a moment, you think: this is it. The house is finally still. You have some time—just for the two of you.

Bruce leans back, letting out a breath he’s been holding all day.

“Finally,” you whisper, reaching for his hand.

The silence wraps around you like a fragile bubble, a gift after the storm of the day.

But then—soft footsteps.

A small, shaky voice breaks the peace.

“Mom? Dad?”

You both open your eyes, alert immediately.

Dick’s little face is pale and worried as he stands in the doorway, eyes wide.

“Tim threw up,” he says, voice trembling. And then, breaking completely, he starts crying. “Is Tim… is he going to die?”

Your heart shatters.

Before you can respond, Jason bursts into the room, hearing the sobs and words. His little face twists in panic.

“Is Tim going to die?!” he wails, clutching at your leg.

You and Bruce exchange a glance—tired, scared, but steady.

You kneel, wrapping your arms around both boys, pulling them close.

“No,” you say firmly, voice soothing but gentle. “Tim’s sick, but he’s going to be okay. We’re here. We’ll take care of him.”

Bruce strokes Dick’s hair, his own voice steady and calm.

“We’ll watch him all night if we have to. You’re not alone.”

Jason sobs into your shoulder, clinging tighter as the fear slowly starts to fade, replaced by the comfort of your embrace.

You glance at Bruce, sharing a tired but determined look.

The night isn’t over.

After holding Dick and Jason close, calming their fears with soft words and promises, you turn your attention fully to Tim.

Bruce moves swiftly to help clean up the small mess Tim made, his usual calm taking charge in the midst of the chaos. Alfred appears quietly behind him, as if summoned by instinct, carrying a tray with warm water, clean clothes, and a small bowl of ginger tea—the perfect remedy for upset stomachs.

“Allow me, madam,” Alfred says gently, giving you a small, reassuring nod.

You gratefully hand over a damp cloth to him and take Tim’s limp little hand in yours. His cheeks are flushed, and his breaths come in shallow, hiccuping little bursts.

“You’re doing great, Tim,” you whisper, brushing his hair back.

Bruce kneels beside you, offering a steady presence, but you shake your head gently when he offers to take Tim.

“No, I’ll stay with him. He needs me right now.”

Bruce respects your decision, though exhaustion is etched deeply in his eyes. He nods and moves to check on Damian, who’s still peacefully sleeping.

Alfred settles into a chair nearby, ready to assist if needed, while you gently rock Tim in your arms.

The house is silent except for Tim’s quiet sniffles and your soft humming.

Minutes stretch into hours.

You wipe Tim’s forehead, offer him small sips of tea, and hold him close whenever he feels unsettled.

Every now and then, you glance out the door where Dick and Jason are sleeping soundly now, safe in their rooms, finally calm after the earlier panic. You think to yourself, their brotherly love is cute.

Bruce returns periodically, checking on you and Tim, offering tired smiles and whispered reassurances.

Alfred quietly tidies the room, ensuring everything you might need is within reach.

Though exhaustion pulls at you, you focus on Tim’s steady breathing and the small warmth of his body against yours.

This is the moment you were made for—the small, quiet battles of motherhood and family, fought with love and unwavering strength.

And as the first light of dawn creeps through the windows, you finally feel a flicker of hope.

Tim is going to be okay.

The manor feels heavy with the weight of the past few days.

Every moment has been an endless cycle of small voices calling your name, sticky fingers clutching at your clothes, and sleepless nights where your only goal was to keep them safe and cared for. You’ve been running on coffee, adrenaline, and sheer love, but even love can’t erase the exhaustion that sits deep in your bones.

Bruce has been quieter than usual, the crease between his brows never fading. Even as Batman, he’s never had a mission quite like this—protecting Gotham while also protecting four tiny, vulnerable versions of his children.

Tonight, the house is finally calm. Dick, Jason, and Tim are sprawled out in the living room on a blanket fort you helped them build earlier, all drifting in and out of sleep. Damian is tucked into the crook of Bruce’s arm, eyes half-closed as he clutches one of his toy soldiers.

That’s when it happens.

A soft hum begins to vibrate through the room—a warm, golden light that seeps in from nowhere and everywhere at once. You glance up, startled, but Bruce’s eyes are already on the source.

The same strange energy that caused this nightmare is here again, swirling in the air like smoke before rushing toward the kids.

You reach instinctively for Jason and Tim, Bruce pulling Damian closer, and Dick scrambles into your lap. The light wraps around them, blinding for a moment, and your heart slams in your chest.

When it fades, you blink against the afterimage… and then your breath catches.

They’re older.

They’re themselves again.

Dick sits up, blinking at you with the sharp-eyed confidence you’ve missed so much. Jason pushes himself up with a groan, taller and broader than he was just seconds ago. Tim adjusts his shirt awkwardly, already reaching for his phone, and Damian—no longer a baby—steps back from Bruce with his usual guarded expression, though there’s a faint softness in his eyes.

For a moment, you can’t speak. You just stare at them, your mind trying to reconcile the children you’ve been holding, feeding, and protecting with the young men now standing before you.

Then you’re moving.

You pull Dick into a fierce hug, feeling his arms wrap around you with all the strength he’s regained. Jason joins without hesitation, wrapping one arm around you and the other around Bruce. Tim stands still for a second before you grab him too, and he lets out a small chuckle, hugging back. Even Damian doesn’t resist when you pull him into the circle, his quiet sigh brushing your shoulder.

“I missed you,” you whisper, the words catching in your throat.

Bruce is silent beside you, but you feel the way his arm tightens around your waist and his other hand rests briefly on the back of Jason’s head. For him, this is the only confession needed.

After a moment, the kids pull back, their expressions somewhere between relief and quiet embarrassment at the emotional display.

Dick gives you a small smile. “Guess we owe you for… everything.”

Jason smirks, though it’s softer than usual. “Don’t get used to me hugging you this much.”

Tim, ever the matter-of-fact one, says, “So that’s why my knees feel weird. I think they’re remembering being three.”

Damian simply murmurs, “Tt. I prefer this age.” But there’s no venom in it.

You laugh—a sound that feels lighter than it has in days—and Bruce finally speaks.

“You’re all safe. That’s all that matters.”

The words hang in the air, warm and solid. Alfred steps in quietly, his eyes crinkling with the faintest smile. “I’ll prepare something for everyone. A celebration, perhaps.”

The kids scatter toward their rooms, muttering about showers, snacks, and in Jason’s case, a nap he’ll never admit to taking. The moment the last door closes, you and Bruce are left in the empty living room, the blanket fort still sagging in the middle of the floor.

You turn to him, the relief finally catching up to you in a rush that nearly knocks you off your feet. “They’re okay.”

He pulls you into his arms without hesitation. “They’re okay,” he echoes, his voice low and steady against your hair. “And so are we.”

You hold onto him, the familiar strength of his embrace grounding you after days of uncertainty. For the first time in what feels like forever, you allow yourself to just breathe.

The mission is over.

Your family is whole.

And that’s all you’ll ever need.

It’s been a week since the regression incident, and the manor has almost returned to its usual rhythm—almost.

Dinner tonight is unusually lively, the sound of laughter echoing off the high ceilings. You’re halfway through a sip of water when Dick smirks across the table.

“So,” he says, eyes glinting with mischief, “remember when you kissed my cheek and called me ‘sweetheart’ in front of Jason?”

Jason immediately chimes in, grinning like the cat who caught the canary. “Yeah, and then I demanded my ‘equal rights hug and kiss.’”

Tim leans back in his chair, smirking over the rim of his mug. “I still can’t believe you bubble wrapped me. I mean, come on.”

Even Damian allows himself a smirk. “I seem to recall Father carrying me for hours. Tt. I’m certain the position was bad for his back.”

Your cheeks burn, but you laugh despite yourself. “I was just trying to keep all of you alive and in one piece.”

“Sure,” Dick says, his grin widening. “You were supermom. All four of us were practically fighting for your attention.”

Jason winks at Bruce. “Careful, B. If she ever gets her own baby, we’re toast.”

The words hang in the air longer than you expect.

Your fork stills, and for a moment, you picture it—a small baby, tiny fingers curling around yours, a new life in this big, chaotic family. The thought warms something deep in your chest, and you realize you don’t just like the idea.

You want it.

When the laughter at the table picks up again, you glance at Bruce. He’s already looking at you, as if he can read exactly what’s going through your mind. His brow lifts just slightly, a silent question.

You smile softly.

Bruce’s lips curve into the faintest smirk, his hand brushing over yours under the table for just a second before pulling away.

The kids keep teasing—Jason dramatically recounting his “near-death hug deprivation,” Dick insisting he had the most dramatic tantrum, Tim pretending to wobble in his chair for sympathy—but your mind is elsewhere.

Because for all the chaos, exhaustion, and worry of the past week… you miss it.

And maybe, just maybe, you’re ready to do it for real.

FIRST CONTACT pt 1

You’re not from this earth— Wally is and he takes a liking to you but you can’t control your emotions—he loves it, in fact he loves every part of you.

The first thing you remember about Earth is the noise.

It saturates everything — the grind of metal in the air vents, the flicker of humming fluorescent lights, the low static of unfamiliar thoughts humming in nearby minds. Too much. Too fast. Your powers flicker beneath your skin, trying to adjust to this world’s gravitational signature. This reality is out of tune with your body.

You take a slow step forward into the Justice League’s Welcome Bay. You’ve trained for this. Diplomacy. Observation. Restraint.

Then you hear his voice.

“Whoa.”

You turn your head and see him standing in the middle of the room like he belongs to the light. Red suit. Tousled hair. Green eyes that crinkle when he smiles — and he is smiling. At you.

Your thoughts stutter.

“That,” he says, gesturing to you with a dramatic little spin of his hand, “is a look. Not in a bad way! In a comet-sweeping-through-the-stratosphere kind of way.”

You blink.

You don’t know what “comet-sweeping-through” means. You also don’t know why your hair suddenly feels… different. Charged.

“Your hair just turned bright pink,” the man in red notes, delight coating every syllable like honey. “Is that a mood thing or a fashion choice?”

You look up. A strand of your hair floats into view — fluorescent pink.

Your Aura Flare pulses out involuntarily, like your own body is embarrassed for you. A nearby technician stumbles back and drops his clipboard. Someone groans softly, clutching their head.

You flinch and reel it in, hard. The air compresses around your body like a vacuum seal, and silence crashes into the room.

You don’t speak. You’re trying to calculate whether you just created a diplomatic incident.

The red-suited man — he’s still smiling.

“I’m Wally,” he says. “Wally West. Flash. Fastest man alive.” He holds out a hand like you didn’t just psychically disrupt half the room.

You stare at it.

“That name is unnecessarily boastful,” you murmur, not meaning to say it aloud.

Wally barks a laugh. It’s loud. You flinch again, but this time from the sound. Too sharp. Too much. Like a static storm behind your eyes.

“Sorry,” he says, lowering his voice immediately, eyes scanning your face. “Too loud?”

You nod once. He shifts closer with an energy that feels fast even when he’s still.

Your instincts whisper: danger. Not because he’s a threat. Because he is… bright.

“I’ve never seen anyone glow pink before,” he says, gentler this time. “Does that mean you’re happy? Or mortified?”

You’re not sure. “I… do not know yet.”

He grins wider. “That’s fair. Hey — what’s your name, Moonbug?”

You blink. “Moonbug?”

“Yeah,” he says. “You’ve got this moonlight thing going on. It’s fitting.”

You don’t understand why the name softens something in your chest. You also don’t understand why your telekinesis tries to levitate the nearest clipboard again.

You force it down.

“My designation is Lumen.”

Wally leans in slightly. “Well, Lumen,” he says, and the way he says it makes your name sound like something important, “it’s nice to meet you. You’ll get used to the noise. Promise.”

You don’t answer.

But your hair fades from pink to white — stable, calm.

And the clipboard stays on the floor.

You’re sitting across from him in the League’s commissary. The lighting is too yellow. The conversations around you are too loud. Everything on Earth feels like too much — including him.

Wally.

You don’t understand why he insists on joining you. You don’t understand why he keeps talking. Or smiling. Or calling you—

“Moonbug.”

You look up, startled. “You keep saying that name.”

He shrugs, tilting his chair back on two legs. “It suits you.”

You narrow your eyes. “I am not small. Nor insectoid.”

“It’s not literal,” he says with that easy grin again. “It’s the vibe. You know. Glowy. Mysterious. Draws me in and might also wreck my entire circadian rhythm.”

“…That doesn’t clarify anything.”

Wally leans forward, resting his chin in his hand. He’s watching you like you’re fascinating. Not in the way scientists observe anomalies — no. In the way people look at something they want to understand.

And you… you don’t know what to do with that.

You lower your eyes to the tray in front of you. Today’s assignment: food. Another sensory gauntlet you’re expected to overcome. You stare at the items Wally has gathered for you. Most are soft or beige. All smell like salt or oil or… something sweeter. It’s difficult to tell.

“I can’t taste it,” you say after chewing a bite of something he calls ‘mashed potatoes.’ “There is only texture.”

Wally raises an eyebrow. “Nothing at all?”

“It’s like eating silence.”

He leans back and whistles. “Okay. That’s actually kind of poetic.”

You frown. “It is frustrating. Your world obsesses over flavor. Commercials. Recipes. Infused oils. I am entirely immune.”

“Not immune,” he says, reaching into the pocket of his suit. “Just unchallenged.”

He produces a small wrapped item and slides it across the table toward you.

You pick it up warily. “This appears weaponized.”

“Close. It’s candy. Ginger-flavored. Spicy. Sharp. People either love it or run screaming.”

“Why would I ingest something designed to hurt me?”

Wally shrugs. “That’s kind of the definition of most relationships.”

You blink. “That is… concerning.”

“Just try it, Moonbug.”

You do.

At first, there’s the familiar nothingness. Your brain prepares for disappointment.

And then —

A flare.

Like fire under your tongue. Like electricity in your mouth. Like memory and sensation and heat colliding at once. Your jaw tightens. Your back arches just slightly.

Your powers flare outward without warning. Chairs nearby rattle. A coffee cup floats. Your Aura Flare pulses out in a ring of invisible tension, subtle but real — three people look around, suddenly nauseated.

You slam your hands down on the table to anchor yourself. Wally is watching you like he’s just witnessed a miracle.

“Moonbug,” he breathes. “You flinched.”

You glare at him. “It attacked me.”

“You tasted something.”

You hesitate… then nod once.

“It was… lightning,” you say. “Condensed. Controlled. Hot.”

Wally beams, eyes wide. “I knew it. I knew ginger would get through that psionic fog. You just needed a little chaos.”

You glance down at your hands, still shaking. Your hair crackles faintly, lifted by a charge you can’t quite suppress. The edges of your vision are still hazy.

“That was dangerous,” you murmur.

“But worth it?”

You pause. Then — barely, almost imperceptibly — nod again.

He leans forward, smug and gleaming. “Told you I’d find something.”

“You have no idea how much mental shielding I’m employing right now to avoid launching you across the room.”

He laughs, and the sound is softer this time. You don’t flinch.

You just… watch him.

You don’t understand Earth customs. Or Earth food. Or Earth men with fast mouths and faster hands who call you names like Moonbug and smile like you’re something wondrous instead of weaponized.

But when you look at him…

Your hair turns white.

Rain is coming down hard — heavy and fast like bullets from the sky. You’re floating five meters above the Gotham docks, psionic field humming around you in a soft distortion haze. The air ripples under your skin like it’s holding its breath.

You’re holding everything.

The enemy is a hive of energy-leeching constructs, semi-sentient and drawn to your aura like moths to ultraviolet flame. Batman warned you this might happen. “You burn too bright,” he’d said flatly. “You attract things.”

You’re trying not to take it personally.

Below, Aquaman is shouting something into a comm-link while ripping metal cables out of a sea drone. Wonder Woman is hurling crates like paper. Wally — Wally is running across the pier in zigzags, intercepting fire with nothing but speed and sarcasm.

You should be focused.

But he keeps looking up at you.

And then he’s beside you. Literally beside you — standing on a stack of crates that weren’t there five seconds ago.

You jolt. “You are not supposed to be able to reach this altitude unaided.”

“Moonbug,” he pants, eyes bright, hair soaked. “You’re surging.”

You blink. Your powers ripple outward in a ring — invisible but felt — like pressure in the skull. One of the constructs shatters mid-air with a squeal.

Wally’s voice lowers. “You okay?”

Your teeth grind. “No.”

The rain is noise. The static is noise. Your powers are cracking in every direction like glass under strain. You need to release it — a Psionic Burst is building. You can feel it in your bones.

“I can’t anchor,” you whisper. “I’m going to overload.”

Wally doesn’t flinch.

He steps forward.

And then — he kisses you.

Right there. Mid-air. Mid-mission. Mid-meltdown.

His hand curls behind your neck, careful not to startle the current pulsing beneath your skin, and his lips press to yours like a question he already knows the answer to.

It’s fast and hot and completely illogical.

Which, of course, is when everything goes to hell.

Your aura explodes outward — a full flare. The light bends. The air cracks. A glowing shockwave blasts from your body in a perfect sphere.

Aquaman, mid-leap, is launched off the edge of the pier with a startled yell:

“BY POSEIDON—!”

Crates crash into the water. Nearby electronics sizzle. Half the security lights blow out.

Wally stumbles back, hair blown wild, suit slightly scorched. “…Okay, so maybe that timing was a little off.”

You hover in stunned silence. Your breathing is ragged. The field around you flickers erratically. Your hair is glowing violet, tipped with electric silver.

“I warned you,” you say, voice hoarse.

“Worth it.”

“You launched a king into the sea.”

“He floats.”

You press your hand to your mouth, as if that could shove the memory back inside. Your fingertips tremble. The pressure in your chest hasn’t disappeared, but now it feels different.

Brighter. Hotter.

“Wally…”

He straightens, sheepish but grinning. “Look, I just— You were spinning out, and I thought, hey, maybe something human would bring you back down.”

“I am not human.”

“You kissed me back.”

You don’t respond.

You don’t deny it, either.

Instead, you float down slowly. When your boots touch the ruined dock, your hair fades from dangerous violet to shimmering white. Calm. Balanced.

Wally steps beside you, voice softer now. “You okay?”

You breathe.

Then: “I will be.”

He bumps your shoulder gently. “You can launch me across the ocean anytime, Moonbug.”

You glance at him, heart stuttering — not from fear, or overload. Just something… quieter.

Something warmer.

The air in the Watchtower conference room is colder than usual.

Not physically — though it might as well be — but emotionally. Like everyone agreed to turn their judgment up to eleven and the thermostat down to “arctic side-eye.”

You sit with your spine straight and hands folded in your lap, just like J’onn taught you. Minimal movement. Eye contact only when necessary. Keep your Aura Flare suppressed at all costs. No one wants psychic echoes of that moment ricocheting around the room.

Wally, seated to your right, is slouched. Relaxed. Smirking.

Smirking.

“I cannot believe you kissed her mid-combat,” Batman mutters, for what must be the third time.

“It was a strategic emotional reset,” Wally says, deadpan. “Worked like a charm.”

Aquaman clears his throat — a low, grating sound that makes your skin itch. “I was thrown into the bay.”

“It was barely a bay toss,” Wally replies. “More of a majestic arc.”

“You cracked my trident.”

“And I said I’m sorry!”

You stare forward, wishing you could telekinetically erase yourself from the room.

“Lumen,” Wonder Woman says, turning toward you kindly — but firmly — “do you recall what triggered your power surge at that moment?”

Your hair shifts faintly, a pulse of silver-blue sparking at the ends. You force it back to white.

“I was… overwhelmed,” you say carefully. “The noise. The threat proximity. The emotional interference.”

“And the kiss?” she adds.

You blink. “I—”

“Was incredible,” Wally says immediately. “Electrifying. Would’ve knocked out satellites if she’d gone full pulse.”

“Wally,” Diana says, voice like polished steel.

“Right. I’ll be quiet.”

You focus on the table. It’s made of reinforced graphene alloy, impervious to psionic damage. Convenient, because you’re gripping the underside of it to keep from exploding.

Across the table, J’onn speaks for the first time. “Your powers are deeply reactive to emotional stimuli. This incident confirms it. However—” He pauses, looking between you and Wally with the slow patience of someone who’s seen everything. “—we will need stricter field protocols moving forward.”

You nod once. “Understood.”

“Emotions are not a weakness,” he adds, more softly now. “But they must be navigated with discipline.”

Beside you, Wally murmurs, “Guess that means no more mid-battle smooches.”

“Not unless you want to see what happens when I flare fully unstable,” you say without looking at him.

He grins. “Now that’s a threat.”

Batman pushes a folder toward the center of the table with sharp finality. “The mission was technically a success. Minimal casualties. Damage contained.”

“Except to my dignity,” Aquaman mutters.

“And the pier,” Diana adds.

“And my trident,” Aquaman growls again.

“And,” J’onn says, “our collective understanding of personal boundaries in combat scenarios.”

There’s a long silence.

Then Wally — because of course it’s Wally — leans toward you and whispers, “So… still worth it?”

You glance sideways. He looks so hopeful, and so profoundly unapologetic. You hate that he’s making your stomach flip.

You don’t answer out loud.

But your hair turns softly, unmistakably white.

Wally was… excited.

Which made you nervous.

You’ve seen him excited before — when he found your file in the League archive and read it out loud in dramatic voices. When he watched you taste spicy ginger candy and your powers flared. When you accidentally reversed gravity in the Watchtower’s gym and he filmed it in slow-mo.

But this? This was new.

Tonight, you were meeting his best friend. And his best friend’s girlfriend. On a double date.

“You’ll love them,” Wally had said. “Dick’s like my brother — just cooler, brooding-er, more circusy. And Kory’s technically an alien too, so she’s already 70% less likely to judge any accidental psychic meltdowns.”

“They sound intimidating,” you’d replied.

He’d grinned. “They’re like us. Just with fewer explosions.”

You meet at a rooftop restaurant in Blüdhaven.

You land gracefully, heels touching the ledge, hair settled calmly in white. Controlled. Steady. Balanced. You’re wearing the outfit Wally picked out for you — dark blue with silver trim, layered, soft. He said it made you look like “moonlight bottled into royalty.”

Dick and Kory are already waiting.

“Lumen, right?” Dick says, stepping forward with an easy grin. “I’m Nightwing. Wally never shuts up about you.”

Kory beams beside him — tall, radiant, glowing like a second sun. “You are beautiful! I love your hair. I had green hair once. It made people nervous.”

You open your mouth to respond.

Instead, your hair flashes violent magenta and shoots upward like it’s been struck by lightning. The silver tips crackle, and you feel your powers surge.

“Uh-oh,” Wally says under his breath.

Lights across the rooftop flicker — then cut out completely.

A second later, the entire grid below blinks and dies. The whole district goes dark.

“I didn’t mean to—!” you start, floating a few inches off the ground. “I was only— She complimented me and I felt—something!”

Wally casually pulls a chair out for you like the entire city isn’t in blackout. “She gets excited.”

“Clearly,” Dick mutters.

Dinner proceeds by lanternlight and emergency generator.

You sit stiffly while the others eat. You can’t taste anything anyway, so you focus on not breaking any more infrastructure.

The conversation is warm — surprisingly so. Kory talks about Tamaran’s dance rituals. Dick tells a story about Wally getting stuck in a revolving door at superspeed.

You’re starting to feel comfortable.

And then Dick ruins everything.

“So,” he says between bites, eyes twinkling, “have you two made love yet?”

The table falls silent.

You tilt your head. “Made… what?”

Wally chokes on his drink.

Dick blinks. “You know. Been intimate. Done the deed. Had—”

Kory interjects helpfully, “He is asking if you have engaged in sexual congress!”

You blink. “In what?”

The table erupts.

Wally is beet red. “Okay, wow, we don’t need to—this isn’t—Moonbug, don’t panic—”

Too late.

Your Aura Flare detonates again.

Your chair tips backward — but you don’t fall. You float. Upside down. Hair glowing bright lavender, crackling violently, your entire body suspended midair in a wild, spinning hover.

“I do not understand what is happening—!” you cry, trying to right yourself. Your legs kick. The air around you warps and bends. Lanterns flicker. Silverware lifts into the air.

“Moonbug,” Wally says gently, standing now.

“I am inverted!” you shout, flustered. “I cannot reverse orientation! My power is responding to—I don’t even know what emotion this is!”

“Yeah,” Wally mutters, “that’ll be embarrassment.”

You’re spinning faster now, cheeks glowing as bright as your aura. You start to panic.

Wally catches your ankle mid-spin. “Okay, okay—breathe. Moonbug, look at me.”

You do.

And then he kisses you.

Soft. Steady. Right-side up while you’re still upside down. The moment it happens, the spinning stops. Your body drifts downward gently, hair cooling into pale, sparkling white again.

You land in his arms.

He’s grinning down at you, smug. “Told you. Only way to shut it off when it gets out of control.”

Dick sips his drink and raises an eyebrow. “That… actually tracks.”

Kory claps her hands. “Romance is the strongest grounding energy! On Tamaran, we always kiss upside down before battle!”

You bury your face in Wally’s chest. “I do not wish to be perceived anymore.”

He laughs, running his fingers through your now-calm hair. “You’re doing amazing, Moonbug. Citywide blackout and all.”

You mutter something unprintable into his shirt.

He kisses your forehead.

GHIBLIXII’S MASTERLIST

DC COMICS ˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆｡☆

JUJUTSU KAISEN MASTERLIST

SATORU GOJO

coming soon

SUGURU GETO

The White Noise

after a nightmare you cant sleep but he’s there, he’s always there.

POLY SATOSUGU

Sweet Tooth, Sweeter Trouble

never mess with suguru

Smile for the Camera!

DC MASTERLIST

DICK GRAYSON

coming soon

BRUCE WAYNE

Mr & Mrs Wayne

5 years of lies and when the truth spills?

The Littlest Vigilantes

The Batkids age regress, can you and Bruce manage them?

WALLY WEST

First Contact

You’re not from his earth—he takes a liking to you but you can’t control your emotions

JASON TODD

Crutches & Chaos

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader

Summary: Five years of blissful marriage. Five years of lies. Neither knows the other is living a double life — until their worlds collide.

A/N: Insp. from Mr & Mrs Smith but with a twist

Gotham was a city of shadows, and yet your life with Bruce Wayne had always felt like light.

Five years married. Five years of luxury and late-night rooftop kisses. Of charity galas and coffee in bed. Of subtle touches at Wayne Enterprises board meetings, and quiet evenings curled on the velvet sofa in Wayne Manor.

To the world, you were the golden couple. Bruce Wayne’s graceful, kind, beloved wife — adored by the media, loved by the Batboys, and doted on by Alfred like the daughter he never had.

To Bruce… you were everything he’d never known he needed. And he’d kept his secret tightly locked away — not just the mask, but the mission. He was Batman. You were innocent. Gentle. Sweet. You didn’t need the burden of his darkness.

He would never let it touch you.

The irony, of course, was that he had no idea you had your own shadows.

Because when the night fell and Bruce Wayne claimed late-night board calls, you too slipped into something darker.

You were a vigilante. An assassin. A ghost of the underground. You had a code, yes — never harm the innocent — but you were efficient, feared, and never seen. The underworld whispered your name like a curse: Luna.

And Bruce? Bruce had no clue.

“Bruce, stop hogging the covers,” you murmured with a sleepy grin as your husband — six-foot-something of warm muscle and grumpy billionaire — curled tighter beside you in bed.

“I’m not,” he muttered.

“You are.” You laughed softly, nudging his side. “I love you, but I will start a war over these sheets.”

“I’d like to see you try.” He cracked one eye open, his voice rough and deep with sleep. “You’re too sweet to go to war, darling.”

You smiled, kissing his bare shoulder, and rested your head against his chest.

If only he knew.

At the same time, Bruce was thinking the exact same thing. If only you knew. If only you knew what Gotham had made him become. What he still did in the dark when you thought he was just a CEO working overtime.

“Do you think they’ll like the casserole?” you asked, peering into the oven. “I followed Alfred’s recipe to the letter.”

Damian appeared in the doorway with a skeptical glare. “I refuse to eat peasant food.”

“Damian,” Bruce warned from across the room.

“Ignore him,” you said, ruffling Damian’s hair. He recoiled on instinct, but didn’t quite escape the affection. “I made your favorite too. No peas.”

“…I’ll allow it,” he mumbled, clearly struggling not to smile.

Dick came in next, tossing his jacket over a chair. “Casserole night? It’s official. I love you more than Bruce.”

Jason followed, grabbing a beer. “Please, we all do. Sorry, B.”

Bruce just smirked. “I get the honeymoon perks. You all can fight over casserole scraps.”

Even Tim emerged from his cave of tech. “I paused tracking a black-market arms deal for this. It better be cheesy.”

You beamed. God, you loved them all.

If only they knew you’d been tracking that same arms deal… from the other side of Gotham. In full tactical gear. With blood under your nails.

It started small. A mission gone sideways.

You came home with a bruise on your arm.

Bruce frowned, noticing it in the mirror as you pulled off your dress.

“Walked into a cabinet,” you lied easily, smiling. “Don’t laugh. The cabinet won.”

He hummed, unconvinced, but didn’t push.

Later that week, he came home limping. Claimed he twisted his ankle on the treadmill.

You kissed his forehead and didn’t question it.

You both pretended not to notice the blood that didn’t match your stories.

It happened on a rainy Thursday night.

You were chasing a high-level arms dealer through Gotham’s industrial district — silent, focused, blades gleaming. You cornered him. Interrogated him. And just as you were about to knock him out—

Batman crashed through the skylight.

You both froze.

His white lenses locked onto yours. You were masked, but not sloppy — you knew how to shield your presence. He couldn’t see your face. But you felt his gaze drill into your soul.

“You’re not League,” Batman said lowly.

“No,” you replied, voice modulated and calm. “I’m not your enemy.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

You fought.

Hand-to-hand. Strike for strike. Not to kill — just to get away. And as your blade slid against his gauntlet, sparks flying, you realized something horrifying:

You knew that body. That weight. That rhythm.

Bruce?

And then he said it — a quiet mutter under his breath as he caught your wrist:

“…you move like her.”

Your blood turned cold.

That night, you were already home when he returned.

Bruce entered the manor dripping with rain, his jaw tense.

You looked up from your book on the couch, pretending nothing had changed.

“You’re late,” you said gently.

“Got caught up,” he murmured. “You?”

You smiled. “Just a quiet night in.”

You both stared at each other.

Both lying.

Both wondering.

Could it be?

Location: Gotham Docks — 11:47 PM

The rain came down in sharp needles, bouncing off steel containers and slick rooftops.

You were a phantom — black suit, dual blades, mask hugging your face — crouched like a shadow atop a rusted crane. Target: Sergei Markov, arms trafficker. Deal scheduled for midnight. You had ten minutes to intercept and get out.

Easy job. Clean hit.

Except… something felt off.

You weren’t alone.

You could feel it — the tension in the air, like static before a lightning strike.

And then, you saw him.

He dropped from the shadows with no sound. Cape fluttering like wings. Mask smooth. Chest marked with a symbol that made your stomach twist.

The Bat.

He’s real.

You stayed low. Watching.

He moved like a god. Efficient. Powerful. Every strike calculated as he took down the outer guards. You watched him disable three men in five seconds — didn’t even blink.

And something in your body tensed with recognition.

The way he stood. The way he held his weight. The exact rhythm of his movements.

No. That’s impossible.

You’d sparred with your husband a hundred times in the gym — playful, flirty, sometimes leading to breathless make-outs against the mat.

But this? This felt the same. Too familiar.

You moved closer.

He caught your shadow instantly.

Without hesitation, he turned — batarang flying at your head.

You dodged.

Landed silently behind him.

Blades drawn.

He pivoted, fists raised.

“Who the hell are you?” Batman growled.

You tilted your head. “Guess that depends. Who the hell are you?”

And then?

You fought.

It was ballet and brutality. Silent fury beneath the rain.

You came at him with dual knives — feints and spins. He blocked with gauntlets, countered with grapples and knee strikes. You were evenly matched, which was… wrong. No one matched you.

Except him.

You swept his legs. He caught you midair and slammed you into a container wall — hard. You groaned, not from pain, but from disbelief.

“Jesus,” you hissed. “What do you bench? A damn rhino?”

“That voice…” he muttered, holding your wrists against the wall. “Why do I—”

You twisted.

Freed one hand. Flipped him with a grunt.

Now he was pinned beneath you.

Straddling his chest. Blade at his throat.

His hands on your hips.

You both froze.

This position… this grip…

The blade shook slightly.

Your breath caught in your throat.

“…Bruce?” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

Batman’s eyes widened behind the mask.

You bolted.

You beat him home by seconds. Tossed your gear in the laundry chute. Scrubbed blood from your neck and reapplied lip balm like you hadn’t just fought your soulmate on a shipping container.

When Bruce walked in, drenched and disheveled, you were already curled on the couch with a throw blanket and a cup of tea.

“Late night?” you asked casually.

He paused in the doorway.

Dripping. Breathing uneven.

“…Car broke down,” he muttered.

You smiled sweetly. “That’s strange. You took the Rolls.”

He hesitated.

So did you.

The silence between you stretched thin and dangerous.

Then:

“You okay?” you asked, like it wasn’t a war zone beneath your skin.

“I’m fine,” he said, like he hadn’t just nearly killed his wife.

You looked away. So did he.

Neither of you noticed Damian standing on the second-floor balcony above — holding a muffin and squinting suspiciously at your matching bruises.

“…Tt.”

Bruce replayed the fight footage on loop.

He enhanced the image. Slowed the frame. The woman’s stance. Her spin. Her voice, modulated but still soft and sharp.

He couldn’t be sure.

But something in his chest said he already was.

“Alfred,” he said slowly. “Do we have any intel on an assassin codenamed Luna?”

Alfred poured tea without flinching. “Plenty. But I believe she’s off-duty tonight.”

“…What?”

“Perhaps sipping chamomile upstairs and pretending she didn’t just stab her husband in the shoulder.”

Bruce stared at him.

Alfred took a sip. “I did warn you not to marry someone out of your league, sir.”

Wayne Manor Dining Room – 7:02 PM

Roast chicken. Garlic mashed potatoes. Candied carrots. A perfectly normal dinner.

For a perfectly abnormal family.

You sat at the long dining table, posture perfect, napkin in your lap. A faint, polite smile curled on your lips. You were quiet — too quiet — eyes fixed on your plate, cutting your chicken with methodical aggression.

Slice. Slice. Slice.

Each movement was too precise, the blade trembling slightly in your grip. No one had said a word about last night’s “late meetings.” No one had acknowledged the matching bruises you and Bruce wore like wedding rings.

But they felt it.

The tension in the room was electric. Pressurized.

Bruce sat across from you, calm. Silent. A slight smirk at the corner of his mouth like he knew something.

He knows, you thought. But does he know it was me?

You smiled wider. Too wide. It didn’t reach your eyes.

“Isn’t this nice?” you said sweetly. “A quiet family dinner. Where there is absolutely no attacking or threatening anyone?” you stabbed your food emphasizing your last sentence.

Damian’s fork paused halfway to his mouth.

“…She’s going to snap,” he murmured to Tim.

Tim didn’t look up. “Give it a minute.”

Bruce passed the gravy.

You didn’t take it.

You just exhaled… long and slow… and then launched your steak knife across the table straight at his head.

THWIP.

He caught it between two fingers, unfazed.

The table went dead silent.

“Wow,” Jason said, slowly lowering his fork. “That’s one way to ask for more salt.”

You stood, slow and smooth, hands trembling as you gripped the table edge. Your voice was still sweet. Still polite.

But your eyes?

Murder.

“I don’t like being lied to, Bruce.”

“Then we have something in common,” he replied coolly, setting the knife down like this wasn’t the third time you’d tried to stab him in twenty-four hours.

Your breath hitched. “You smug, two-faced—”

You threw a fork. He caught that too.

You picked up your water glass and chucked it at his chest.

It shattered.

He didn’t flinch.

“Is this about last night?” he asked, still maddeningly calm.

“You mean the night my husband tried to put me in a chokehold on a shipping container?!”

“Oh my god,” Dick muttered. “They do know.”

“She’s Luna,” Damian said, smug.

“I knew it!” Tim cried.

“Pay up,” Jason told Alfred, who quietly handed over a folded twenty.

“You stood over me in a mask, Bruce,” you hissed, voice shaking, “with your hands on my throat. You looked me in the eye and didn’t even know it was me.”

“You threw a blade at my heart.”

“You told me you were in finance!”

“You told me you worked at a charity!”

“I DO!”

“You run guns under the Gotham Opera House!”

“I donate the profits!”

You picked up the mashed potato bowl.

Bruce narrowed his eyes. “Don’t.”

SMACK.

Mashed potatoes exploded across his suit.

Jason spit out his drink.

You were panting, chest heaving, hands clenched in fists.

“I cooked for you. I slept next to you. I watched your damn cape dry in the laundry room and thought it was a Halloween costume—”

“You stabbed me in the ribs!”

“I kissed those ribs the same night!”

“You bit me! In a fight!”

“You liked it!”

Bruce stood up, fast.

You both stared at each other — furious. Raw.

And aching.

The Batkids sat in stunned silence.

Jason: “I’m scared and impressed.”

Dick: “I think this is what love looks like for emotionally repressed assassins.”

Tim: “I want to go home.”

Damian: “Earth to Idiot Drake, we are home.”

You and Bruce were still locked in your standoff, chest to chest at the end of the table. Breathing heavy. Glaring.

And then—

You leaned in and whispered: “You wanna go another round, sweetheart?”

Bruce smirked.

Alfred appeared with a towel and a fresh pitcher of tea.

“If you two are quite finished attempting to kill each other over chicken,” he said with the serenity of a man who’d raised four vigilantes and survived it, “dessert will be served in the other room. Far away from sharp objects.”

The Batcave – 1:23 AM

The Batcave was supposed to be sacred.

A cold cathedral of secrets, steel, and shadows — silent but for the hum of the Batcomputer and the occasional flutter of wings.

But tonight?

It was a war zone.

You launched a roundhouse kick that Bruce barely dodged.

He grunted, catching your ankle mid-air and twisting, sending you spinning across the mat.

You rolled. Landed. And came back swinging.

“You’re holding back,” you snapped, panting.

“So are you,” he growled, blocking your knife with his gauntlet. “Why? Scared you’ll kill your husband?”

“I’d make it look like an accident,” you hissed.

Steel clashed. Fists flew. Boots scraped against the cave floor, echoing like thunder.

Alfred had wisely activated sound dampeners.

The Batkids had not been so wise.

“Are they still going?” Tim muttered, poking his head toward the staircase that led down to the cave. A distant crash echoed up through the floor.

Jason was sipping whiskey. “Yup. Forty minutes now.”

“Should we intervene?”

Dick raised an eyebrow. “And die? No thanks.”

“They’re trying to kill each other,” Damian muttered.

“They’re trying to bone,” Jason corrected. “Just with more foreplay.”

Your arm was bruised. His lip was bleeding. Both of you were panting, wild-eyed, and soaked in sweat. Your clothes clung to you, your knuckles raw, heart hammering.

Bruce threw a punch. You ducked. Slammed him against the glass case holding Jason’s old Robin suit.

“Don’t you dare pretend like this is all on me,” you hissed, face inches from his.

“You lied to me for five years!”

“So did you!”

“I protected Gotham!”

“So did I!”

You shoved him. Hard.

He hit the table behind him, knocking over a tray of batarangs.

You stood there, heaving. Hands trembling. Chest rising and falling.

The silence stretched like a wire between you.

Then—

“You drive me insane,” he said, voice low and rough.

You stared at him. “Good.”

And before either of you could think—

He grabbed you.

You kissed him.

It wasn’t sweet.

It was violent.

Teeth clashing. Hands tangled in hair. You pulled him down by the collar of his suit. He crushed you against the edge of the Batcomputer console, hands sliding beneath your shirt, desperate and greedy.

You moaned into his mouth. He groaned into yours.

The cave lights flickered as your back hit the metal.

You tore at his armor, mouth never leaving his.

“You’re infuriating,” he muttered against your lips.

“You’re smug,” you whispered back.

“You threw a knife at me.”

“You caught it.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time. Slower. Like maybe — just maybe — the war between you was all just a prelude to this moment.

2:06 AM

Forty-three minutes after the first punch was thrown, Alfred finally descended the stairs with a fresh pot of tea.

He paused at the edge of the cave when he saw you both.

Half-clothed. Pressed against the Batcomputer. Kissing like it was the end of the world.

He sighed softly, turned around, and went back upstairs.

“About time,” he murmured.

The Morning After – Wayne Manor Bedroom

The sun filtered in through the massive windows of the master bedroom. Soft, golden. Peaceful.

Except you woke up feeling like you’d been run over by a Batmobile. Twice.

Your limbs ached. Your knuckles were bruised. And you were definitely only wearing Bruce’s button-down — half-open — with your underwear missing somewhere in the cave.

You groaned, pushing yourself up on sore arms.

Bruce was sprawled beside you on his stomach, one arm flung across your side, the sheets barely covering him. Muscles slack. Hair tousled.

Smug even in sleep. God you hated it.

You looked at him.

You remembered the yelling. The knives. The screaming. The making out against the Batcomputer.

You sighed and whispered under your breath:

“…I still hate you.”

Then you rolled out of bed, grabbed your robe, and stormed into the hallway barefoot like an angry queen emerging from battle.

Wayne Manor Kitchen – 9:12 A.M

The kitchen was full of Batboys and bad decisions.

Jason was making waffles. Tim had two Red Bulls cracked open. Dick was pouring cereal into orange juice because he had no brain cells before noon.

Damian, sharp-eyed and freshly dressed, turned the moment you entered.

You looked like hell — hair messy, legs bruised, eyes tired. And furious.

“Good morning,” you said, overly bright, tying your robe with a sharp tug.

Dick blinked. “You okay? You look like you—”

“Don’t finish that sentence unless you want this spatula in your neck,” you chirped, grabbing it from the stove.

Jason held up his hands. “Not touching it.”

You cracked eggs. Slammed the pan down. Smiled through gritted teeth as you plated food for everyone — eggs, toast, waffles, even hand-cut fruit — and handed it all out.

Everyone got breakfast.

Except Bruce.

He walked in ten minutes later, half-dressed, limping slightly. His hair was still wet from the shower. There was a faint scratch down his collarbone.

“Morning,” he said, voice rough.

You didn’t answer.

You poured coffee.

Stirred in exactly one drop of a fast-acting laxative and a tiny dose of sedative.

Set the cup on the table.

Made direct eye contact.

And slid it just out of Bruce’s reach.

“Your coffee’s getting cold,” you said sweetly, before sitting on the counter and sipping your own.

Bruce narrowed his eyes.

Damian’s lips twitched.

“She’s still angry,” Tim whispered.

“She poisoned that coffee,” Jason whispered back.

“I hope it hurts,” Damian muttered, sipping his tea proudly.

Bruce finally reached for the mug, took one sip — paused — and set it down.

“Really?” he said flatly.

You smiled like sunshine.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

You crossed your legs on the counter and clapped your hands once.

“Okay, everyone — new rule.”

The Batkids froze.

“If I’m upset, no one’s allowed to be productive.”

They stared.

“No patrol. No missions. No crime fighting. No rooftop lurking. That includes you, Nightwing.”

Dick put down his spoon slowly.

“If I’m emotionally suffering, we all are. You hear me?”

Jason choked on his waffle.

Tim raised his hand. “What if Gotham is literally on fire?”

You shrugged. “Then it burns.”

Damian nodded sagely. “She is correct.”

Bruce dragged a hand down his face. “You’re being irrational.”

You threw a fork at his head.

He caught it. Again.

The Batkids applauded.

The Batcave – 7:13 AM

Bruce stormed toward the Batmobile, jaw tight, cowl in hand. He needed to get out. Clear his head. Escape the five-alarm hellfire that was his wife on a warpath.

Except—

The Batmobile wouldn’t start.

He paused.

Checked the engine.

Tried again.

Nothing.

“Alfred!” he bellowed.

Alfred appeared calmly, holding a croissant and tea.

“Yes, Master Wayne?”

“Why is the Batmobile disabled?”

“I believe someone rerouted the ignition trigger to play an audio recording of Beyoncé’s ‘Irreplaceable’ instead, sir.”

Bruce blinked.

He turned.

Pressed the ignition.

“To the left, to the left…”

“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I assure you, I am not.”

Plan B: the Ducati in the hidden garage.

Bruce yanked the cover off, mounted it, helmet in hand.

The tires? Flat.

The gas tank? Empty.

The seat? Duct-taped with a note:

“You’re not going anywhere, Batsy 💋 –XOXO”

Bruce stared at it.

He turned toward the nearest camera and said.

“…You sabotaged my entire cave.”

Upstairs, in the kitchen, the security feed played as you sipped coffee in silk pajamas.

You raised your cup.

“Checkmate, darling.”

That Night – 9:47 PM

You waltzed into the Manor like a hurricane in heels. Champagne-slicked lipstick. Hair wind-tossed. Laughing faintly as you kicked off your shoes in the foyer.

Selina Kyle’s perfume still clung to your dress. The scent of rooftop rebellion and expensive liquor followed you like smoke.

Bruce was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, arms crossed.

“Where were you?” he asked tightly.

You looked at him — amused, radiant, untouchable — and said coolly:

“Smiling. Something I can’t do around you.”

Then you walked past him. Your shoulder brushed his as you passed.

His jaw locked.

His fists clenched.

And for the first time in years, Bruce Wayne had no idea what the hell to do.

Midnight – The Blanket Raid

You crept into the master bedroom barefoot. Quiet. Intent on a single goal:

Blanket extraction.

Bruce had the good one — the heavy cashmere throw that didn’t itch. Yours was in the wash, and you refused to sleep cold just because he was being a stubborn emotionally constipated vigilante.

You crept across the floor.

You reached for the edge of the blanket.

And a low voice murmured in the dark:

“You’re stealing from me now?”

You froze.

Bruce sat up slowly, shirtless, shadowed in moonlight. Eyes dark. Watching you.

You straightened slowly. “I need a blanket.”

“You need an attitude adjustment.”

“Then get a new wife.”

“I tried.” He stood, slowly. “But apparently she’s smarter than me, trained in seven forms of assassination, and has excellent taste in wine.”

“Champagne,” you corrected coldly.

You turned to leave.

He caught your wrist.

And in one breath, one heartbeat, everything snapped.

He pushed you gently but firmly against the wall, caging you in with his arms. Your eyes met — furious. Unblinking.

“You really want to do this again?” you breathed.

He leaned in. “No. I want to finish it.”

Your pulse thundered.

His fingers traced the inside of your wrist, the same one that had once held a blade to his throat.

“You think I’ll break first?” you whispered.

He pressed his mouth against your ear. “You already did. Last night. Against the Batcomputer.”

Your breath hitched.

“I hate you,” you whispered.

He kissed your throat. “No, you don’t.”

You shoved him.

He gripped your thighs and lifted you onto the dresser.

You bit his shoulder. He groaned.

And then you were kissing again — deeper this time, rougher, his hands sliding under your nightshirt, your nails clawing down his back. Mouths open. Breaths desperate.

You knocked a lamp to the floor.

You didn’t care.

Later, you lay tangled in sweat and sheets, facing each other.

Bruce stroked your hip absentmindedly. “So… are we still trying to kill each other?”

You smirked, breathless. “Only if you leave the toilet seat up again.”

He laughed — actually laughed — and pulled you closer.

You let him.

For now.

The Morning After

The Wayne Manor kitchen was filled with the scent of fresh pancakes, sizzling bacon, and dread.

You stood at the stove — smiling.

Actually smiling.

Cass was the first to notice. She didn’t sign anything. She just stared, suspiciously.

Jason whispered, “Do we think she’s planning a murder again, or is this a post–hookup glow?”

Tim didn’t look up from his tablet. “Why not both?”

You twirled back to the table, sunlit and chipper. “Patrol’s back on tonight, kiddos! Aren’t we so happy?”

Everyone blinked.

You kissed the top of Damian’s head. He immediately stiffened like a cat being touched for the first time, but didn’t stop you.

“…You’re glowing,” Dick said warily. “Did you kill someone or…?”

“Nope!” you sang. “Did something better.”

Jason raised a brow. “Better than murder?”

“I poisoned Bruce’s coffee again,” you said with a little wink. “But this time I told him.”

Bruce sat at the head of the table, stirring his mug calmly.

“She used nightshade extract and trace amounts of zolpidem tartrate,” he said, taking another sip. “It’s mostly sedative. Tastes like vanilla.”

“WHAT.” Tim choked.

“I diluted it!” you protested. “God, I’m not a monster.”

Bruce glanced at you mid-sip. “She sweetened it. I appreciate that.”

You smiled proudly your hands resting on your chest. “Love you, too.”

Jason stared between you both. “This is, like, psychotic. But in a soulmate kind of way.”

Five Minutes Later

Bruce’s eyes blinked slower. His posture sagged.

You casually slid the mug out of his hands.

“Why did you finish it if you knew what it was?” you asked.

He blinked again. “You… said it wasn’t lethal.”

“It’s not, but you’re gonna fall asleep face-first in your eggs.”

“I trust you.”

“…Idiot.”

Bruce slumped forward.

You caught his head before it hit the table.

Cass signed: “Do you want help?”

“No. He’s my husband. He’s my problem.”

Damian stood from the table, wiping his mouth. “You’ll never get him to bed alone.”

“I could, but I’ll throw my back out. Ugh. Fine. Help me.”

Jason cackled as he pulled out his phone. “I gotta film this.”

You and Damian hauled Bruce toward the grand staircase like he was a rolled-up carpet. His arm was around your shoulders, his legs dragging, combat boots thudding every two steps.

“Bruce Wayne, you insufferable tank of a man,” you grunted. “You couldn’t just fall for someone with a yoga instructor’s body, huh?”

Damian exhaled. “Tt. That would never happen. My father has… standards.”

“Great. Standards in women. Zero in coffee decisions.”

Cass followed silently, filming.

“Do not put that on the internet!” you barked.

You flopped Bruce onto the bed with a loud thump.

He landed spread-eagle, hair a mess, dress shirt half-untucked, smiling faintly in his sedated state.

You threw a blanket over him and kissed his forehead with mock venom.

“There. Your royal brickhouse has been returned to his tower.”

Damian leaned against the doorway. “Mother would’ve just left him on the floor.”

You shrugged. “Well, I’m nicer than your mother.”

He frowned. “…That’s not a compliment.”

“It is to me.”

Bruce mumbled into his pillow. “Still love you…”

You rolled your eyes.

“Shut up and sleep, you overgrown Labrador.”

You returned to the kitchen, poured yourself some juice, and sat down at the table like nothing happened.

Everyone stared.

You beamed. “So. Who wants to help me hide the rest of the sedatives?”

Jason blinked. “…I’m calling Selina.”

Tim nodded. “Yeah. Definitely both post-hookup and murder vibes.”

Cass signed: Welcome back.

You winked.

Poly SatoSugu x Fem Reader

Warnings: Spanking, punishment, chasing, brat behavior, belt use , consensual, Suguru in unbothered Dom mode, reader is unhinged, and Gojo is so done.

The silence of the shared apartment was broken by the unmistakable rustling of plastic, followed by an infuriatingly satisfied hum.

You rounded the corner into the kitchen like a storm in designer slippers.

“Gojo. Satoru.”

He was already mid-bite into the final piece of the strawberry daifuku you had explicitly told him not to touch. The one you’d saved. The one you’d hidden behind the rice cooker.

Satoru turned with a bright, powder-dusted smile. “Oh hey, babe! Didn’t see you there.”

You blinked. “That was mine.”

“Was it?” he said, mouth still full, eyes blinking innocently behind those stupid blue eyes. “Huh. Thought it was one of the community sweets.”

Your jaw dropped. “Community—? There is no community in this kitchen when it comes to sweets! I wrote my name on it! With a heart! In marker!”

Satoru licked some of the powdered sugar off his fingers. “Ohh, I thought that was a doodle. You know I don’t read anything before 10am.”

“You’re a menace,” you hissed.

“You’re dramatic,” he replied smoothly. “It’s just sugar. You’ll live.”

Your hands curled into fists as you stomped forward. “You think this is funny?! I’ve been saving that for three days—!”

“You don’t need more sugar anyway. You’re already bratty enough without it.”

The words slipped off his tongue like honeyed venom, and your eyes narrowed to slits.

“Oh, excuse me?”

“You heard me. Princess Brat can’t survive without her sugar fix. What’ll happen next? Crying? Maybe a tantrum? Should I get you a juice box too?”

Your mouth dropped open in utter offense. “You dick! I swear to god!”

You shoved him. Not hard—just enough to rattle his smug balance. He stumbled back into the counter, a cocky grin still plastered across his infuriatingly beautiful face.

“Violence? Tsk tsk,” he tutted, winking. “You really are a menace. Suguru’s gonna love this.”

“Suguru’s gonna take my side!” you declared, crossing your arms.

Just then, as if summoned by your declaration, Suguru Geto walked in—hair tied loosely back, sleeves rolled up, and eyes already filled with suspicion.

“What the hell is going on in here?” he asked, sounding every bit like a tired husband and the only sane adult in a house full of chaos gremlins.

“She started it,” Satoru said immediately, pointing at you like a five-year-old.

Your jaw dropped. “I started it?! You ate my daifuku!”

Suguru sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I was gone for five minutes.”

“She shoved me,” Gojo added dramatically. “Almost cracked my spine in three places.”

“You mocked me!” you snapped. “You said I needed a juice box!”

“You do,” Satoru muttered with a smirk.

You lunged again—only to be caught mid-motion by Suguru, who stepped between you both with the patience of a saint and the exasperation of someone long used to your antics.

“Okay. That’s enough,” Suguru said firmly. “Both of you. Timeout.”

Both you and Satoru froze.

You blinked. “Wait—what?”

“Living room. Corner. Both of you. Ten minutes. No bickering. No talking. No powers.”

“You’re kidding,” Gojo said, deadpan.

“I will duct tape your mouths shut,” Suguru replied.

You gasped. “You’re punishing me?!”

“You’re both responsible.”

“But he ate my daifuku!” you protested.

“You shoved him.”

“He deserved it!”

“Timeout. Now.”

You shot Gojo a death glare as you marched past him toward the living room. He whispered a dramatic “ow” as he passed you, limping purely for theatric purposes.

You both sulked into opposite corners of the couch like pouting teenagers.

Suguru leaned on the doorway, arms crossed. “Ten minutes. Don’t test me.”

You waited two. Just two. Then you turned your head, pouted your lips just enough, and looked up at Suguru with your signature wide-eyed “innocent angel” expression.

“Suuguruuuuu,” you cooed softly, lashes fluttering. “You know I didn’t mean it, right? It’s Satoru. He antagonized me. You know how I get when I’m provoked. I’m sweet. I’d never act out on my own.”

Suguru raised a brow. “You’re literally in timeout for acting out.”

“But you love me more,” you added, voice syrupy.

“Nope.”

You pouted harder.

“Nope,” he said again, turning back into the kitchen. “Still ten minutes. I don’t care how cute you are.”

Your sweet look immediately dropped into a deep scowl, and you rolled your eyes so hard it looked like you might see your own brain. You muttered under your breath, low enough that only Satoru could hear.

“Stupid, smug, six-eyed sugar thief with the emotional maturity of a damp sock—”

“Still hear you,” Suguru called from the kitchen.

You stuck your tongue out behind his back.

Satoru chuckled from his corner. “Still bratty.”

You whipped your head around. “Don’t make me come over there.”

“I dare you.”

Suguru’s voice rose louder. “Don’t make me come in there.”

You both froze.

After a long pause, Gojo glanced your way. “Truce?”

You glared.

“…For now,” you said, begrudgingly.

“But I’m still gonna steal your sweets.”

“Then I’m stealing your sunglasses in your sleep.”

“Gasp— You wouldn’t—!”

“Try me, sweet tooth.”

From the kitchen, Suguru groaned and grabbed two glasses of wine. He was going to need them.

Twenty long minutes had passed and Suguru took matters in his own hands.

Satoru was already bent over Suguru’s knee, a string of complaints leaving his mouth like it might save him.

“This is cruel and unusual punishment,” he huffed. “I’m a public figure. I have rights. You’re not even a real priest anymore—”

SMACK.

“Count,” Suguru said calmly.

Satoru squeaked. “O-One!”

You stood near the wall, arms crossed and eyeing the door like it was your last hope of salvation. Your back was straight, your eyes wide, and your legs just slightly tense — like you were preparing to bolt.

Another sharp smack echoed, and Gojo whined, “Twoooo!”

You cringed. “That sounds like it hurts.”

Suguru glanced up from where he was disciplining his longtime partner, his voice firm. “It’s supposed to.”

You gave your best attempt at puppy eyes. “But I didn’t do as much as he did. I was relatively calm. Shouldn’t I get a reduced sentence?”

SMACK

“Three!”

Suguru looked up again, eyes narrowing just slightly. “No, you tried to manipulate me. That’s extra.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Looked back at the door.

Maybe if you were quiet enough…

You casually reached behind you, fingers grasping for the knob—

Click. Locked.

Of course it was.

You froze.

Suguru didn’t even have to look. “Touch that doorknob again, and I’ll add five.”

You yanked your hand back like it was on fire. “Okay, okay, no door. Got it.”

Satoru yelped again as Suguru’s palm met his backside.

“F-Four!”

You looked on in horror as he continued, squirming dramatically, whining between every count. The worst part? He actually counted each one.

You knew that was expected.

You also knew you weren’t going to do that.

No way.

Suguru finally let Satoru collapse into the bed, face-down and whimpering into the sheets like a dramatic housewife in a soap opera.

“My ass is ruined,” he mumbled. “I’ll never twerk again.”

Suguru stood, glancing toward you now.

“Your turn.”

You backed up a step. “Okay. But I think I’ve learned enough just watching, don’t you? That was very educational. I’m feeling really reflective.”

“Bend. Over,” Suguru said.

You swallowed hard.

“But… my skin’s sensitive… and I have a low pain tolerance… and I’m cute…”

He pointed to the edge of the bed. “Now.”

Satoru snorted into the blanket. “Better get counting, sweetheart.”

You gave him the most betrayed look of your life. “Traitor.”

You finally stepped forward, cheeks already burning in anticipation, and slowly bent over the bed, hands gripping the sheets as Suguru moved behind you.

You tensed.

SMACK.

You yelped—but said nothing.

Suguru waited. “Well?”

You gritted your teeth.

Nothing.

“Did you forget how to count?”

“I… don’t like math.”

SMACK.

“Still not counting?” he said smoothly, tone deceptively gentle.

“Maybe I forgot how numbers work,” you shot back.

Suguru hummed. “Then I guess we’ll do double.”

Your eyes widened. “Wait, what—?!”

SMACK.

“One,” Suguru said for you.

SMACK.

“Two.”

You whimpered. “That’s not fair—!”

“Fair would’ve been you counting like a good girl.”

SMACK.

“Three.”

“I hate you,” you muttered, face pressed into the bed.

“Four.”

Your hands gripped the comforter like a lifeline as Suguru methodically delivered your punishment, cool and calm while you squirmed and whimpered with each sharp swat. You tried to be tough, but by the time he got to ten, you were teary-eyed, breath shaky, and squirming like crazy.

“You still refusing to count?”

You hissed. “No comment.”

“Twenty, it is.”

Satoru was snickering softly, face still buried in the sheets.

You didn’t survive the last ten gracefully. There may have been begging. Whimpering. Some promises to “be good forever” that Suguru definitely didn’t believe.

When it was over, you collapsed beside Satoru with a pathetic groan.

“My butt,” you whimpered.

“Told you to count,” Satoru muttered, clearly smug despite his own pain. “He respects math.”

Suguru chuckled, walking toward the closet like he hadn’t just emotionally devastated both your asses.

“Next time,” he said, “maybe you’ll think twice before stealing sweets, starting fights, and manipulating me.”

You reached behind and gently rubbed your poor sore skin. “You’re a tyrant.”

“A sexy tyrant,” Satoru added.

“You’re both grounded.”

You groaned dramatically into the blanket. “This is emotional warfare.”

Suguru came back with two ice packs.

“Be grateful I love you,” he said, handing one to each of you.

You took yours with a grumble. “You could just love us normally.”

He smiled.

“But where’s the fun in that?”

It was supposed to be the perfect revenge.

You and Satoru had rigged Suguru’s closet with glitter bombs — tiny little traps triggered by motion, ready to explode in sparkly chaos the moment he opened his wardrobe for his post-morning tea outfit change.

Except… you forgot about his sixth sense. The same one that always knew when you were up to something. The same one that had stopped every prank before it could ever truly blossom.

The closet opened.

Nothing happened.

Because Suguru had disarmed it beforehand.

He emerged from the room calm, collected, and covered in absolutely zero glitter.

“Nice try,” he said, unamused.

You blinked.

Satoru blinked.

“Oh no,” you whispered.

Suguru slowly rolled up his sleeves.

You did not wait around to see what happened next.

You ran.

Your socks slipped uselessly against the hardwood floor as you booked it down the hall, adrenaline pounding in your ears, your still-sore ass screaming with every stride.

“I CAN’T DO IT AGAIN, SUGURU!” you shrieked. “MY BUTT’S STILL HEALING—!”

“Then maybe you should’ve thought about that,” his voice called calmly behind you.

You turned a corner—

And your socked feet slid right out from under you.

You hit the floor with a loud thud, hands scrambling to push yourself back up.

“Shit—ow, ow—my ass—!”

You were still struggling to get your footing when the floor darkened under you.

You froze.

Suguru’s shadow loomed.

Slow. Inevitable. Like karma in the form of a six-foot-tall, spiritually enlightened sadist.

“…Suguru,” you whispered.

He crouched beside you, one hand on his knee, looking so calm it was terrifying.

“You ran.”

You nodded. Slowly.

“You tried to prank me. Again.”

Another nod.

“And now,” he said, voice low and utterly unfazed, “you’re going to get the belt.”

You let out a strangled whimper and tried to bolt again—only to immediately remember your entire lower body was still recovering and betraying you.

“I can’t—I’m too delicate for this—”

Suguru grabbed you gently but firmly by the wrist and hauled you up to your feet.

“No more running.”

He led you back to the bedroom like a prisoner to her inevitable doom. Satoru peeked out from behind the doorframe, already lying belly-down on the bed with a pillow under his hips.

He winced at the sight of you.

“Oh no. You ran?”

“I panicked!” you hissed.

“You never run,” Satoru whispered. “He hates when you run.”

“I KNOW THAT NOW.”

Suguru opened the closet with one hand, reached up—and took down the belt.

That ominous leather hiss as it slid from the hook made your stomach flip.

“No, wait, wait—Suguru, darling—”

“You’re getting twenty.”

“T-Twenty?!”

“For the prank. Ten more for running.”

“YOU SAID I WASN’T ALLOWED TO COUNT LAST TIME!”

“Then double it again,” he said with a cruelly sweet smile.

Your mouth dropped open. “THAT’S MATH ABUSE!”

Satoru snorted into the blanket. “Rip.”

The first smack of the belt landed across your backside with a snap like a thunderclap. You shrieked, fingers gripping the edge of the bed, legs trembling.

The sting licked across your skin like fire — sharp, biting, and impossible to ignore.

Suguru’s voice was steady, precise. “One.”

CRACK.

“Two.”

You gasped, squirming, face pressed against the sheets. You wanted to be strong. You wanted to be defiant.

But by five, you were already near tears, every nerve on your backside lit up with heat.

By ten, your legs were jelly, and all pride had evaporated.

“I’m sorry!” you finally choked. “I’m so sorry! No more glitter bombs—!”

Suguru didn’t pause. “You’re only halfway.”

You sobbed into the pillow. “I’m gonna kill you Satoru!”

“Good,” Suguru muttered. “You can crawl to him after this.”

When it was over, you collapsed fully on the bed beside Satoru, both of you lying face-down your faces flushed and groaning like the broken little brats you were.

“Tell… my daifuku… I loved it,” you wheezed.

Satoru reached over and gently bumped your hand with his. “At least we died doing what we loved.”

You smacked his hand and raised your middle finger to flip him off. “Don’t touch me, fucking traitor.”

Suguru stood over you both, calm as ever, setting the belt neatly aside and pulling out the usual two ice packs.

He placed them gently on your aching backsides, kissing each of your temples with infuriating serenity.

“Chaos has consequences,” he murmured.

You whimpered. “So does walking.”