#twin! reader

Tap.

Tap.

You sling your backpack off your shoulders, sighing at the release of pressure on your back, only to hide your wince at the loud sound it makes when it dips lower than expected and makes contact with the floor. Nice going, [Name], you scold yourself. Their utter lack of attention to you has made you lax in your efforts to be stealthy around them.

Tap.

Tap.

You’re hurrying across the hardwood floors now. Anything to get away from all the gazes that are suddenly attached to you. Was one tiny noise all it took to get them to notice you? It had never been like that before. Why now? Why must they choose the most inopportune time? You regret your decision to hide the silence of your footsteps⸺anything to avoid the situation right now, you think a little humorously. Even if they did find it suspicious how sneaky you were. What were they gonna do? Investigate you? [Name], how come you’re silent when you walk?

Tap.

Tap.

“[Name].”

It takes everything in you to slow to a stop, just a step away from the staircase. You’d almost made it. You had been so close. Bruce clears his throat.

“[Name], how come the school called to say you were absent from one of your classes?”

Everyone is staring. You’re not anxious, not yet. It’s embarrassing, but what is something as little as missing one class in the grand scheme of life? Mostly, irritation prickles at your skin underneath your uniform. Of course Bruce has no consideration for your privacy. The whole family probably knew before you even got home from school.

You’re stranded with two choices: quickly apologize and put up a genuine front and then hope it blows over, or put on your best puppy eyes and tell him you’ve got no idea what he could ever mean. Which one will hit your dignity harder?

But then a brilliant idea comes to you.

“Wrong person,” you grunt, and then begin stomping up the stairs. The bluntness, the hard tone, the eagerly leaving footsteps; it’s all Diana. A near perfect imitation of her.

“[Name]. I know It’s you.”

You try to pretend as if you don’t see Dick and Cass nodding. Damn Cass for her freaky hyperfixation on body language⸺as for Dick? You’re not sure whether he’s bluffing or trying to play up into the idea that he knows anything, anything at all, about you.

You close your eyes, releasing a terse sigh before looking down at Bruce. “Father, you must be mistaken. Can’t you tell us apart?”

You won’t give up the act until it’s pried from your cold, dead hands.

You don’t miss the flash of hurt on his face. One, because it’s as clear as day, but also because it means it’s working. He’s beginning to believe he wrongly identified you. You press your palm to your mouth, hiding your smile, grateful for the way the shadows fall over the joyous lines of your face.

You would chide yourself for sloppy acting, but it’s hard because it’s so damn easy to trick them. It makes you want to laugh. It worked out better than you thought it would. Diana could fulfill her part of your play⸺come home, act clueless, smile a little and leave. She was more than used to pretending to be you. You two were two sides of the same coin, as both people and bodies.

The knowledge each of you had of the other was intimate, more than biggest dreams or deepest fears. It was a complete understanding of each other.

You feign a yawn. “[Name] stayed behind to study with some friends,” It’s a quick lie you made up. In actuality, it was Diana who stayed behind so she could take part in the art club. She’s probably putting on a smile, pretending to be you, and wishing she were dead right now. Or maybe that you were dead, so she wouldn’t have to put up with all your intricate schemes.

It’s hard to feel bad, though; you act friendly with your fellow students all the time. Diana can handle pretending to be you for an hour. “If that’s all, then I’ll also go to my room. To study.”

You level a glare at Bruce, before stomping the rest of the way upstairs. And you go to Diana’s room, too, just in case any of them come after you. You could always play it off as wanting to sleep in your twin’s bed if you were desperate to sleep on your own, but to you, it just seems more trouble than It’s worth. Besides, the opportunity to sleep on Diana’s bed⸺without prompting⸺doesn’t come every day. Just on the days where she needs help handling her nightmares.

You’re familiar with Diana’s room. Cozy, even. You don’t look around, just close the door behind you and flip the lights off. You said you were gonna study⸺but what self-respecting person actually studies after getting home? Not a chemistry genius like you.

You dive onto her bed face-first. The wrinkled sheets and haphazardly placed blankets⸺as if a wild boar had slept on the bed and then ran away⸺don’t bother you in the slightest. You and Diana share a lot of habits, after all, but if there is one thing different about the two of you, it’s scents.

Diana’s scent is sweet, like the nectar of a fruit, and you’re completely happy to breathe in her scent of honeydew drops and freshly sliced apples. Her scent of sugar is so sweet and calming, it completely lulls you to sleep.

You wake up to a cat sitting on your face.

You sputter, removing the cat with a quickness.

“Oh, good afternoon. You’re awake.” Diana’s sitting near her TV, scrolling through her Netflix catalog.

“Yes, but I wouldn’t wake up ever again if I was more unfortunate than I happened to be,” You cough up a few hairs. Being out done by an overly fluffy cat would be quite the humiliating way to go. “You were complicit to just allow the cat to choke me to death?”

“It is not my cat,” Diana shrugs.

“You’re so cruel.”

“She cried when I attempted to move her!”

“Get my backpack for me? Because, you know, you did just almost let me die on your bed…”

“You could have just asked,” Diana huffs, grabbing your bag and tossing it at you. You don’t miss the way her eyebrows raise. “Why’s your backpack so heavy?”

You grin, unzipping it. “Just wait and see, sister,” you pull out a metal case. “You know where I was, right?”

“Yes. With Jake’s dad.” She scrunches her nose, “He didn’t do anything to you, did he? That man is a creep. Unfaithful and unfilial. He didn’t?” And then she’s grabbing your wrist, crowding you as she moves closer, her presence becoming oppressive. Her grip is tight enough to break your wrist. It’s hard to breathe at the sight of her dark, threatening expression. “Did he?”

You smile at your sister’s overprotectiveness. It’s one thing that hasn’t changed over the years. Sometimes, you forget she’s just as trained in combat as you. You twist your arm out of her grip, “No, I’m alright. We were in public the whole time.” You push the case to her chest, “Here. Take a look.”

Diana takes it with a healthy dose of suspicion, still glancing at you as if to quickly check for physical evidence of a misdeed against you. She doesn’t find anything, of course, and so she obediently opens up the metal case⸺only to gape at all the trinkets that fall out.

“Is that a golden valve? And metal gears? A crankshaft⸺fuck, is that a motor?” Her eyes are positively sparkling. You think you’re allowed to take credit for the heartwarming sight. Or the feeling, at least. Making your sister happy is nothing short of an achievement for you.

Her excitement comes to an end eventually, of course, and she narrows her eyes as she scoffs.

“I didn’t know he was willingly giving away all his shit. If I had known, I would’ve staged a break in a long time ago,” beneath her sharp words, there’s a curl of satisfaction⸺and she wolf-whistles right after, so it’s no mystery how she feels. Diana is pleased with your gift.

You laugh, short and quick. “I wouldn’t say for free. I had to pull a lot more strings than I thought I would in order to accumulate these.”

(He may not know just how many parts are missing from his collection⸺but It’s not thievery. No, it was all willingly given to you! Even if you had coerced Jake into giving you some spare parts.)

“How did you get these?” Diana asks, though you can tell she’s only half listening, immersed in observing her motor.

“Horse racing,” you answer. “Jake’s father was surprisingly into it. We placed bets on the horses. If I won, he would give me machine parts.”

“Rich men,” Diana sighed, then smirked. “I bet you beat him by a long shot.”

A matching smirk curves your lips. “You bet I did.” You leaned a little closer, “And I had Clevian rig the whole thing. Mr. Leron didn’t see a single penny.”

Diana shakes her head and laughs gleefully. “How much money did you win?”

You whistle, then pout, “You’re asking the good questions, but I wanted to surprise you with it, my good sister.” You say, tone sulky.

Diana rolls her eyes. “You can keep all the money if you wish,” she says, dryly, “But that fucker better have reimbursed you properly for your time.”

“Language, love,” you sigh wistfully, but dutifully pop open another case, watching as Diana’s eyes widen in wonder.

“So I guess he wasn’t a complete waste of time. This is more than I expected,” she relents. “But not enough to forgive a fool like him for hanging out with a schoolgirl.”

Seemingly over your sin of throwing him off Diana’s bed, Mr.Cuddles brushes up against your leg.

“Is that what you’re angry about?” you muse, smiling, “Say, do you think you could pretend to be me and go out with Jake’s dad this Thursday?”

“What?” Diana shrieks, appalled. She crosses her arms, one eyebrow delicate raised, jaw slack.

“Please? All you must do is laugh at his bad jokes. I can give you which bets to place.”

You already knew you had Diana, even without the please. But you still slip in a little incentive⸺it’ll be a slice of cake for Diana. You let her know that, eagerly. Lord knows she’s pretended to be you in higher stake situations.

“Ugh, for one afternoon, I suppose I could.” But Diana’s begrudging acceptance is quickly replaced by anger, “That man wants to take you out again this Thursday? Shouldn’t he focus on his own wife? Or is even his own son too much to ask for?” She’s practically vibrating in place, “I should remove his fingers one by one and then sodomize him with it. He is undoubtedly lacking in the department of both father and husband⸺or even human decency.”

You withhold your laugh with such an ability that it is impressive, even for you. You don’t wish to enable this behavior, but you don’t wish to squash it, either. You know that the only place Diana can dump the burden that is her emotions off her chest is with you, in private. Even if it’s anger or comments too inappropriate to share in public spaces. Only with you can she be the girl with a glass heart and clumsy feet. Only with you can she be the lost girl who is stuck in the shadows while everyone else is found.

To others, she may be judgemental and cold. Jaded and cruel. But to you she has always been your little sister, the small thing bruised and crying as she tucked herself into a little ball, the missing part of your rib. Diana is your own. And you’ve always protected your own with the fierceness befitting the heiress of the Rhodendron family.

To others, Diana Wayne she may be, but she has always been Diana Rhodendron to you.

Your one and only twin sister, bound by both blood and flames.

“Hey,” you click the case shut, smiling⸺her quip had been funny, after all, and you are not immune to humor, despite your aunt’s best efforts⸺and set it to the side. “Why don’t we take down all your new parts to your workshop?”

“But you’ll get bored there,” Diana murmurs after a moment. “You don’t know the first thing about machines. And I need to finish an old project first.”

“Rude,” you tut, “And I can sit there long enough. I’ve got new ballet shoes to break in. They’re in here, aren’t they?”

Diana gestures toward her dresser, where a pair of hard vermillion ballet shoes, still laced together, sit prettily.

“Perfect,” you hum, sweeping them up by the laces. “I knew I had forgotten something here yesterday. Let’s go.”

The whirr of machines scraping hardly cracks your concentration. It doesn’t even chip it. Instead, it serves as background music⸺you’re completely zoned in on your shoes, which you bend over your knee and slap against the floor with all your might before you slip them on and begin to slowly bend your feet to different degrees.

Diana doesn’t say anything, also focused on her work, where she’s elbow deep in a car engine. Car grease streaks her arms and practically paints her hands. She’s wearing a jumper and some bright camp t-shirt, which you know she isn’t scared to get dirty because it already is.

Finally, when you begin hesitant pliés, Diana’s eyes flicker over to you. “You’re going to get your pointe shoes dirty, you know. You should go to the studio Bruce built for Cass’s ballet.”

“I know. But this corner is kind of clean⸺you haven’t gotten your robot juices on it. And it cannot be worse than when Clevian bled all over my white heels,” you wrinkled your nose. “Nothing can be worse than that. I had to throw those away in a dumpster and come home barefoot. I had to say I got mugged and wasn’t allowed to go anywhere unsupervised for a month...,” you took a breath, “do you wonder if Bruce knows about your little workshop?”

“I don’t think he cares,” Diana answered flippantly. “Beyond maybe that I received one of his cars that he thought was too old to work anymore. He probably thinks I keep it sitting here to look pretty.”

You smile. “I remember having to beg Alfred for that car⸺he had looked at me as if I had lost my head. It took all my charm and more to get him to agree.”

“Yes well, he probably doesn’t know you handed it off to me the second he turned around.”

“Yes, well, what’s mine is yours,” you shrugged with a chuckle, before moving your arms for balance. The shoes were a little stiff, but that was a problem that could only be solved with time. You guided your feet in the familiar pattern, ignoring the itchy tightness on your feet.

There was a grunt from Diana, the growly, frustrated one.

The kind you were familiar with, that didn’t mean any good. You stopped dancing and removed your pointe flats⸺not wanting to actually dirty your shoes⸺and opened one of the cabinets, the one not filled with metal, and grabbed a black towel, clothes, a water bottle, and an energy bar out.

“Alright, Einstein,” you said, a dry humor in your tone, “Time for a break. You’ll end up breaking your delicate pieces if you keep working with so much anger. You know how it is, for us. An unfortunate side-effect. Tone it down a little. You are aware the pieces are expensive to replace.”

Diana exhaled. The pent up tension in her frame leaving with it. You watched as she calmed down from her angry state, deflating. “You’re right,” she let her wrench drop to the ground. “Yeah.”

“Having difficulties?” You asked, already wiping her down without asking. She would still need to change, but at least after washing her down with the bottled water, she wouldn’t be stained a dark muddy gray. Still a little gray until she showered, but still.

“Yep…” Diana huffed, “A lot of this engine is obsolete if i modify it, and I just⸺why didn’t he take better care of it? No wonder it broke down. Of course, he’s a billionaire, so he can get a new car whenever he pleases, should he please⸺but still. If he had cared about it, even at all, it’d be a lot easier to modify. As it is, the old engine won’t work with modified parts. Ugh.” She scrubbed at her face, leaving a dark streak, “It’s annoying, but I can figure it out. Maybe I can modify the old parts, too⸺but I might need to switch out the gas tank and the tubes…yeah.”

You waited a beat once she finished. “Wanna go fire guns?” You asked, smiling.

Diana smirked at you sideways. “I remember archery to be more up your alley,” she jabbed.

“I’m proficient at both,” you huff, wiping her face. “C’mon. We have an emergency stash of clothes for this reason⸺look at your mess,” you chide.

“Sorry,” Diana says, sheepish. “I can shower before we go.”

You consider it. “Don’t worry about it, sister.” you reply, “No one goes down there besides Alfred. No one will notice.”

Diana nods mutely. You smile, finished wiping her face.

“Yeodongsaeng, gin-jang pul-eo.”

(Sister, at ease.)

Diana huffs a little. “Ce n’est pas un problème,” a beat, “Sœur.”

(It’s not a problem…sister.)

You laugh.

“Hold steady.”

Diana huffs, short, a little exasperated. “I know, sister.”

Your lips curl, cheesy, unrepentant. “I know, too. But each time still feels like the first time.”

Diana looks up to the sky; probably praying for patience. “Well, it is far from my first time. I’ve come a long way since then. Many years have passed.”

“They have,” you agree, easy, narrowing your eyes onto the sight of your gun. You align the sights with your target, and after a moment, you fire.

“Bullseye,” you declare. Not a boast, but definitely not humble. Pride simmers beneath your nonchalant facade. It’s what you’ve been trained for since you can remember⸺you’d be a disappointment if you weren’t good at it. Your eyes flicker to your gun, just freshly fired, and a sense of nostalgia itches at the edges of your skull. There used to be a sense of excitement about it⸺firing a gun, hitting the bullseye⸺underneath the pressure to be perfect, to be the best. Now, it’s a necessity⸺this is something you need to survive. It’s not a class you can ace or get praise for.

But still, it’s something, and you’re fucking good at it. What isn’t fun when you’re good at it?

Diana doesn’t even blink. She fires her gun, once, thrice, all shots landing exactly in the Bullseye territory. Your pride comes back threefold. You beam at Diana, almost dropping your gun to hug her. She’s come so far from the little girl who couldn’t hold her gun longer than thirty minutes or line her sights up to aim. “Tu as un grand talent, sœur.”

(You have great talent, sister.)

Diana blushes, the delicate color crawling from her cheeks to her forehead. “Danke.”

(Thank you.)

You roll your eyes, equally peeved as you are amused. Diana has always had this unwritten rule where if you speak to her in a foreign language, she will always reply in a different one, no matter which language you speak to her in⸺so you switch to her favorite one. It’s fair game: after all, she already switched to your favorite, German. “Como siempre has hecho, hermanita.”

(As you always have, sister.)

“Grac⸺Bedankt,” Diana’s soft voice takes a sharp curve, nearly tripping over her words. She glances at you, as if checking to see If you know that she knows that you know, before going back to her gun with fumbling fingers. Cute.

You’re about speak again, not quite formed or thought-out words on the tip of your tongue, when the tell-tale hiss of the elevator⸺the secret elevator that leads to the underground firing range⸺nearly shocks your soul out of your body.

Someone is coming. Someone was going to be here, in a matter of seconds, going to stumble upon Diana and you each with a gun in hand.

Fuck.

You chuck your gun towards Diana, who catches it with something a little less than grace and ducks behind the display case. The not glass one.

“Young Master Diana?” Alfred’s polished shoes click across the floor. “Pray tell: what’re you doing here?” He sounds a cross of confused and concerned. He doesn’t know you were firing guns down here just a second ago.

“I’m so sorry, Alfred!” It bursts out your mouth, like a bubbling shame finally popping. “I got lost by my own accidental mistake. I, um, meant to grab Diana something while she was in the shower⸺but I… lost my way? I’m really sorry, I thought I should just leave, but then I got distracted and came in here, I⸺I never meant to snoop! But what is this place anyway, Alfred? Wait, no, you don’t have to tell me. I deeply apologize, Alfred! I had no intention of ending up here…” Forced tears spring to your eyes as you blink at Alfred.

“Please calm yourself, Young Master [Name],” replies Alfred, having realized which twin he was talking to, a mixed expression of exasperation and relief⸺which sets off your red flags⸺as he retrieves a handkerchief from his suit. “I understand you got lost. I am not mad. I won’t say anything. Here, do not cry,” he hands you the handkerchief with the gentlemanliness expected from a butler. Truly, it almost makes you smile: had he been born into your family or hired as a servant, he would’ve made a stellar confidant. A shame, really.

You dab at the fake tears in your eyes. You could stop crying in as little time as 1.37 milliseconds, and it took around 8.157 seconds for your face to lose the signature flush of someone freshly sobbing. “Thank you, Alfred,” you sniffle anyway, because to stop crying suddenly would put your whole act in jeopardy. You need to get Alfred out of here, and as soon as possible. Alfred nods. “I only came to search for you. Young Master [Name], there is a gala invitation addressed to you. There’s one for Young Master Diana as well.”

Fuuuuuuuck.

Your eye twitches, despite your best efforts. Galas are a waste of time. Time is not something that has ever been on your side, not now and not for the foreseeable future.

Net-working potential, you try to remind yourself as you smile. “Oh, how splendid! I’ll make sure to attend. I will give Diana hers, as well.”

The cards have a showy font and are trimmed in gold. Kind of tacky.

“Shall I escort you out?” asks Alfred, ¾ away from the elevator. You remember to smile as you shake your head.

“Oh, no, Alfred. Give me a moment to read these, please. You can tell father we will both attend⸺and oh, please, Alfred. Do not mention anything to father, I would simply die!”

Not really. You don’t care what the old man thinks of you firing a gun⸺It’s just that he isn’t supposed to know. Alfred doesn’t know you were firing a gun, which is a relief, but you’ll explode in anger if Bruce somehow connects the dots. He was already too close to seeing through your disguise as Diana earlier.

“Everyone makes mistakes,” replies Alfred before boarding the elevator. Whatever the hell that means. But you take it as meaning he’ll keep his trap shut.

“Good grief, finally,” groans Diana, voice laden with irritation.

A/N: im soooo sorry it took me this long to get this out, I really have no excuse other than me not liking it and obsessing over for it for weeks before I js told myself fuck it. I just write for fun so im gonna put it out even if the timeline is sloppy and the characters have no depth and inconsistent writing. The good thing is that the next part should come out fairly soon🫡 and yes I did change the header, because i wasn’t being completely unproductive during my away time

love, chrrybbye

Imagine your reaction to seeing Izuku use his quirk only for it to break his body

You two have lunch together a lot, sometimes just sitting in comfortable silence

Either way, you’re most likely dealing with daily fits of anxiety over your brother

On the one hand, you’re his biggest supporter and want to see him achieve his dream, but when you see the potential cost of that dream, you’re torn

Don’t get it wrong, you’re so happy and proud of him, but at same same time

especially if you’re is quirkless and just feel all the more helpless to do anything

this is why you sit his classmates down and ask that they please look after him for you

but Izuku never leaves any room for doubt that he’s glad to have your support, even though it’s tough for you sometimes

and he tries his best to avoid getting too hurt so you have as little to worry about as possible

“So I’m thankful for my sister even though sometimes we fight. When high school wasn’t easy, she’s the reason I survived.”

Izuku’s letter to you was the hardest to write when he left UA

he knew how much this was going to hurt both of you, but he’d rather do this than put your life at risk

the whole time he was away, he had to fight through the pain of being away from you for so long