ăăăăăăăăăăăăăătyler the creator.
â ďšâśďš â đ đ đ đ â
â đ§đđŚđ đĽđđŹđđ§đđŚđ ⧠đđŤđđ§đŹđŚđ˘đ đŤđđđ¨đŤ  â
âââââ ⪊ ďš ďš anomaly neglected one ⧟
ăăăăăăăăăăá˘đŠ ďš â˘â˘ deslocado â when a reader possesses the body main character whose inevitable fate is to die due to the hands of her family , yet who is truly the tragic character ? the one who is fated to die or the one who is fated to change the inevitable â¸â¸
â đ°ÍđÍđĽÍđĽđ˛ đ°đÍđŹÍđÍ â§ đÍđĽÍđÍđŹđĄ  â
âââââ ⪊ ďš ďš mere blur ⧟
ăăăăăăăăăăá˘đŠ ďš â˘â˘ wait a minute â the world has told him he is too fast , too much and he believes every word of it . it was no praise , he notes down â¸â¸
ăăăăăăăăăăá˘đŠ ďš â˘â˘ black water lilies â he does not believe that he deserves love or respect , he fears he will return to his old ways and will disappoint the only good things in his life â¸â¸
ăăăăăăăăăăá˘đŠ ďš â˘â˘ just the two of us â replacement , clone , abomination . he has heard it all and there is no doubt that he is in fact all of those terms â¸â¸
â ďšâśďš â đ đ đ đ đđ â
ăălanding into the vast world of riddles and
ăămysteries that are thinly veiled as cry for
ăăhelp , lady gotham gives you a variety of
ăăvigilantes to explore even though you
ăănever asked for it .
ăăor . . .
ăăsupposed to fit nice and clean into the
ăărole of the black sheep yet you cannot
ăăhelp but take a different route entirely ,
ăăyou will create an identity for solely yourself
ăăbut for now , letâs settle in your new life first .
The Batcave was never truly silent. It breathed. The distant drip of water from stalactites older than Gotham, the subsonic hum of the supercomputer, the chittering of bats far above in the endless dark. But tonight, the silence was a living thing, a predator that had devoured all other sound. It was a silence of absence.
The Batcomputerâs main screen was dark, but a single, smaller monitor on the desk glowed with a frozen image: a girl, mid-laugh, flour on her nose. Her eyes were squeezed shut in joy, a streak of purple in her hair. The cursor hovered over the play button, trembling as if the hand guiding it was caught in an earthquake.
Bruce Wayne, stripped of the cowl but still wearing the armor, sat in the chair. He wasnât Batman. He wasnât Bruce. He was just a man made of fractured bones and a heart pumping pure, unadulterated agony. He hadnât slept in seventy-two hours. He hadnât spoken in twenty-four. On the floor, slumped against the base of the massive computer, was Dick Grayson. The first Robin. The golden boy. Now, his eyes were red-rimmed craters in a face the color of old ash. He held a small, silly-looking stuffed bat youâd won at a rigged carnival game. The one heâd complained about buying, but secretly loved seeing you clutch when you watched scary movies.
In the shadows, beyond the circle of light, Jason Todd stood with his arms crossed, a statue of rage barely contained. The white streak in his hair seemed to glow with its own furious light. He refused to sit. Sitting meant accepting this, and he would burn the world down before he accepted this. Tim Drake was curled in a chair, a laptop with a cracked screen open but ignored on his knees. He was looking at nothing, his brilliant, tactical mind having finally found an equation he couldn't solve: a world without you.
And Damian. Damian Wayne, the son of the Bat, the heir to the Demonâs Head, was sitting cross-legged on the cold stone floor directly in front of the monitor. His katana lay across his lap, unsheathed, his small, calloused hands resting on the blade. His eyes, usually so sharp and defiant, were glassy and vacant, fixed on your frozen, laughing face. A single tear, perfectly formed, traced a path through the grime on his cheek, but he made no move to wipe it away. He was waiting. They all were.
You, Y/N, had been the sun. And suns, by their nature, make everything orbit them. They didn't realize it until you were gone, collapsing into a black hole of your own making, and their orbits were failing. You were only sixteen. And you were the only one who ever insisted on making these stupid videos. The videos Bruce was now, with a breath that sounded like a death rattle, about to play.
///
Your life with them wasnât normal. âNormalâ was a fairytale told to children who didnât have to check their Christmas presents for Joker toxin. Youâd been taken in by Bruce Wayne after a mission gone sideways, a dark night where your own familyâs lawlessnessâa small-time crew whoâd tried to pull a job on a Falcone shipmentâhad put you in the crossfire. You were twelve, a feral, observant thing who could pick a pocket faster than a starving raccoon and lie to a cop with a cherubâs smile. You werenât a sidekick, not in the traditional sense. You were⌠you. The glue, as Alfred would later, with trembling hands, call you.
Breakfast at Wayne Manor was a warzone before you. Bruce, silent behind the newspaper, a specter of exhaustion. Dick, glaring at his cereal for the crime of being in the same room as Bruce. Jason, provoking Damian, who would respond with threats of unspeakable violence. Tim, trying to mediate while simultaneously reading a case file on his tablet, his coffee growing cold. It was a cacophony of clashing egos, a collection of broken, brilliant individuals sharing a roof but not a life.
You changed the physics of the house. You didn't do it with grand gestures, but with a gravitational pull that was uniquely your own. A lawless, chaotic, loving gravity.
It started with you stealing Bruceâs newspaper.
âYouâre not even reading it,â youâd said at thirteen, sliding it across the mahogany table. âYouâre hiding. Your brooding has a physical presence, you know. Itâs like a seventh person at the table, and itâs very rude. It never passes the salt.â
Jason had choked on his orange juice. Damian had stared, aghast at your audacity. But Bruce, after a stunned moment, had let out a low chuckle, a sound so unfamiliar it made Alfred pause in the doorway, a silver platter tilting precariously.
âAnd what do you suggest?â Bruce had asked, his voice a low gravel.
âWe start a tradition,â you declared, ignoring Timâs wide-eyed look of warning. âTell me something about your patrol. Something weird. Not dark, not gruesome. Weird. Like⌠did you know Condiment King has a carefully curated collection of vintage mustard jars? I saw it when I was hacking the traffic cams for you last night.â
A new ritual was born that day. Weird Patrol Stories became the morning anchor.
That was your genius. You understood that a family of lawless, traumatized vigilantes couldn't be stitched together with heartfelt conversations. They needed a shared language, and your language was beautiful, calculated, affectionate chaos. You were the only one who could touch Jason when he was in a pit-madness haze, not with fear or pity, but with a blunt, âYouâre being a theatrical ass. The brooding corner is taken. Bruce is already there, communing with the shadows. Go brood in the library, youâll clash.â Heâd be so offended heâd snap out of it just to argue with you.
You were the only one who could get Damian to be a child. Not by forcing him, but by challenging him to a rooftop parkour race, the loser having to groom Titus with a glittery pink brush. Youâd lost on purpose half the time, not that he ever knew. Youâd sit for an hour, carefully brushing purple glitter from a massive Great Dane, while Damian lectured you on proper stance and the disgrace of your defeat. The video was your idea. âWe need to document this, Dami! Proof youâre not a total gremlin!â Heâd grumbled, called you an imbecile, but heâd sat perfectly still as you both, faces covered in dog glitter, smiled for the camera.
You were Timâs anchor to reality. When heâd go three days without sleep, chasing a digital ghost through the dark web, you wouldnât plead or lecture. Youâd simply sit on the floor of his room, back against his desk, and start reading aloud from the trashiest, most absurd romance novel you could find in the manorâs vast library. The sheer, weaponized cringe of the prose would eventually break through his hyper-focus. Heâd uncurl from his screen, a faint, exhausted smile on his face. âYouâre a menace, Y/N.â âAnd you need to drink this,â youâd say, pushing a glass of water into his hand, the video camera on your phone already recording the rare sight of a caffeine-free Tim Drake. âTell the camera the title of the chapter. âPirates of the Pleasure Lagoon.â Say it, Tim. This is blackmail material.â
And for Dick, you were the little sister who saw past the performance. You saw the pressure of being the first, the gold standard, the emotional caretaker who had no one to take care of him. Youâd find him on the roof of the manor after a bitter argument with Bruce, staring at Bludhavenâs distant skyline. Youâd just sit with him. Then, youâd bump your shoulder against his. âFor a guy made of elastic, youâre really bad at bouncing back from feelings, Grayson.â Youâd always use his last name, like a teammate. Heâd sling an arm around you, his sadness a tangible weight youâd willingly share. âLetâs take a video,â youâd say, pulling out your phone. âA message for future-us. Whatâs one good thing from today?â It was your thing. One Good Thing. A video diary for a family that forgot to remember the light.
You were Bruceâs unexpected mirror. You, with your lawless past and your sharp, thieving instincts, understood the darkness he was afraid to show. You never flinched. You called it like you saw it. âYouâre not their general, youâre their father. The Bat may command, but Bruce has to love. Those are different operating systems, and you keep using the wrong one.â Heâd look at you, this small sixteen-year-old who had broken into his heart as easily as you used to break into safes, and heâd feel a terrifying, unfamiliar hope. Youâd pull him into the videos too. âSmile, Dad-Man. Itâs not a toxin, itâs a facial expression.â Youâd forced him to wear a party hat on his birthday, a video Jason still cackled about.
You were the gravitational center of their entire universe, the sun they orbited. And the sun, on a rainy Tuesday in October, went out. The Joker, in his relentless, nihilistic war against Batman, finally understood a truth the Dark Knight himself had missed: to break the Bat, you didn't target his body, or even his Robins. You targeted the one who held the broken pieces together. The laugh, the videos, the glitter, the lawless little ghost whoâd stolen their heartsâyou were the single, irreplaceable point of failure.
///
The alert didnât come through the usual channels. It erupted on every screen in the Batcave simultaneously, a hacking so invasive it felt like a hand reaching into their sanctuary. The feed was grainy, saturated in a sickly yellow that bled the world of color, transforming it into a jaundiced nightmare. Rain slanted through the frame in silver needles, striking a lone bulb that swung on a bare wire, making the shadows lurch and sway like drunken mourners. And there, in the center of the frame, was you.
You were tied to a rusted metal chair, the kind pulled from a derelict warehouse, its paint peeling in leprous curls. Your reinforced jacket was torn at the shoulder, the dark fabric glistening wetly. Blood traced a slow, deliberate path from your hairline down the plane of your cheek, diluting in the rain before dripping from your jaw. Your domino mask was cracked, a jagged fissure bisecting the left lens, but your eyes behind it were not wide with fear. They burned with a quiet, furious contempt. Your chin was lifted, not in defiance for the camera, but as if the monster holding it was too boring to merit your full attention. You looked not like a victim, but like a captured sun, still radiating heat in the face of an endless, hungry void.
Bruceâs hand stopped an inch from the console, his body turned to stone. The caveâs ambient hum became a roar in his ears, the sound of blood rushing, a tidal wave of dread. He couldnât look away. Dick was already moving, his chair clattering to the floor behind him, but his eyes were nailed to the screen, his pupils blown wide. Timâs fingers flew across a secondary keyboard, his lips moving in a silent, frantic prayer of code, tracing the signal. Jason, who had been cleaning his guns in the corner, stood so abruptly the table overturned. He didnât make a sound. He just stared, the color draining from his face until the white streak in his hair seemed to glow against a mask of ash. Damian, small and rigid in the doorway, had come to deliver a report and instead walked into a mausoleum.
The Jokerâs voice oozed from the speakers, a sing-song, intimate poison. âSaaay cheese for the birdie, little sunbeam! No, wait, youâre not the sun. Youâre just a black hole pretending. Letâs see if the big bad Bat can find you before the punchline lands!â
A crowbar, slick with rain and something darker, swung lazily into the frame, held by a gloved hand with theatrical nonchalance. It tapped your cheek once, a mockery of a caress. You didnât flinch. You spat at the lens. The feed dissolved into static with a high, keening laugh that seemed to claw its way into their skulls and refuse to leave.
The cave erupted. Not into chaos, but into a perfectly orchestrated nightmare ballet. Bruce was in the Batmobile before the static cleared, the engineâs roar a primal scream. Jason was already gone, the squeal of his motorcycle tires leaving burnt rubber ghosts on the stone floor. Dick launched himself upward into the dark, grappling through the manorâs clock entrance, his body a projectile of pure terror. Tim stayed, his face illuminated by the cold blue of his screen, his voice a monotone crackling over the comms, feeding coordinates even as his hands shook violently enough to make typing a battle. Damian, ignored, forbidden, left behind by a single wordless glance from Bruce, waited exactly three seconds before mounting his own cycle and tearing into the night. No one would order him to stay. Not tonight. Not when his sun was in eclipse.
The alley was a wound in the cityâs side, a narrow, forgotten artery tucked between condemned buildings that sagged toward each other like exhausted giants. The rain here fell harder, funneled by the brick walls into a deluge that filled the air with the sound of a hundred tiny drums. The scent of ozone, rust, and something coppery and warm clung to the shadows. A speaker, cheap plastic molded into a grinning face, was still mounted crookedly on the wall, spilling a looped, mechanical laugh into the storm. It was the first thing Jason saw. The second was the crowbar, lying abandoned in a puddle that was more crimson than water.
Then he saw you.
His world collapsed into a single, silent point. The laugh, the rain, the roar of the distant Batmobileâall of it fell away. There was only the stillness of your chest, the wrong angle of your body against the chair, your head tilted slightly to the side as if you were simply resting. But your eyes were open, half-lidded, and the fire that had blazed through the cracked lens was gone. You were no longer looking at the monster. You were looking at nothing.
Jason Todd, , the man who had crawled out of his own grave and taught his heart to beat again through sheer, bloody-minded rage, walked forward on legs that felt like fractured stone. He didnât run. Running meant there was hope, and the pit of his stomach had already filled with an ice so absolute it froze every nerve. When he reached you, he sank downânot a controlled kneel, but a collapse, his knees hitting the flooded asphalt with a splash that sent ripples through the blood-tinged water. His hands, the hands that had held guns and thrown punches and rebuilt himself from shattered bone, reached for the ropes that bound your wrists. His fingers were clumsy, thick with a tremor that made the simple act of untying a knot an impossibility.
âCome on, kid,â he muttered, his voice a ragged, unfamiliar thing. âJokeâs over. You win. You always win, you little menace. Get up.â
The ropes fell away. Your arm slid limply into the water. He caught it, cradling it as if it were made of glass, and pulled you against his chest. Your head lolled against his shoulder, the purple streak in your hair plastered to his jacket. The cold of your skin was a physical blow, a truth his mind refused to parse. He rocked forward, his forehead touching your temple, his massive frame curling around you as if he could shield you from a threat that had already passed, as if his body heat could reignite the sun.
âDonât do this,â he whispered, his voice cracking. âIâm the one who dies. Thatâs the deal. Youâre the one who drags me back. Remember? On the roof. âOne good thing.â You said it. You promised. You donât get to break the promise.â
The laugh from the speaker jeered on, a relentless, tinny soundtrack. Jasonâs head snapped up, and the grief that had softened his features an instant before twisted into something monstrous. A sound tore from himânot a word, not a roar, but a raw, guttural scream that scraped his throat bloody. It was the sound of a man who had already died once and now understood that resurrection was a curse, because he had survived only to bury the one person who made survival feel like something other than penance. The scream echoed off the wet brick, swallowed by the rain, and Jason held you tighter, his body shaking with sobs that seemed to originate from the very core of the earth.
Bruce arrived to that sound. He moved through the alleyâs mouth like a specter, the rain sheeted off the angles of his cowl. He saw Jason on his knees, saw the slack, grey-white hand trailing in the water, and the world tilted on its axis. For one suspended heartbeat, the Batman disappeared. In his place was a father confronted with the unthinkable, a man whose every contingency, every protocol, every sleepless night spent planning for catastrophe had failed to account for the simplest, most devastating variable: the universe did not care for his preparation. It had taken you anyway.
He crossed the distance and crouched, his cape pooling in the bloodied water. His gauntleted hands closed gently but firmly over Jasonâs shoulders. âJason,â he said, and his voice was not Batmanâs. It was Bruceâs, a low, broken gravel that had no authority left. âLet me see her. Please.â
Jason wrenched away, his face a mask of grief and fury. âDonât touch her. Donât you dare touch her.â His arms tightened possessively, as if giving you over would make it real. But his strength was gone, hollowed out by a sorrow too vast for anger to fill. Bruce didnât pull. He simply waited, his own hands trembling, until Jasonâs resistance crumbled and he let go with a sound like a wounded animal. Bruce gathered you then, lifting you as if you weighed nothing, as if you were made of spent light. Your head fell back, rain washing the blood from your still face, and for a moment you looked peacefulâa cruel, unbearable illusion.
Dick landed on the fire escape above, his breath a ragged knife in his lungs. He had run across the city with his heart pounding a desperate mantra: Not her, not her, not her. He saw Bruce holding you, and the mantra died. His hand flew to his mouth, pressing hard against a sound he couldnât allow to escape. His world narrowed to a single, impossible detail: your chest, which should have been rising and falling with that stubborn, chaotic life you carried everywhere, was still. Utterly, horrifyingly still. He slid down the brick wall, his suit scraping against the mortar, and sat in the pooling water, his legs refusing the command to stand. The Golden Boy, the acrobat who had laughed at gravity, had finally fallen.
Tim arrived not on his feet but doubled over, his stomach rejecting the reality before his mind could process it. He vomited into the gutter, his body wracked with spasms that had nothing to do with physical exertion. His mind, a cathedral of logic and pattern recognition, slammed against the walls of a problem it could not solve. There was no algorithm to rewind time. No code to rewrite this moment. He straightened, wiping his mouth with a shaking hand, and his eyes, usually sharp and calculating, were blank with a kind of intellectual horror. The data was in, and it was unacceptable.
And then there was Damian.
He came last, a small, dark figure slipping through the shadows that the rain couldnât touch. He moved with a mechanical, deliberate gait, his katana already drawn, the blade gleaming wetly. He didnât look at Bruce or Jason or the body. He walked past them all, his eyes fixed on the grinning speaker, the source of the laugh that still mocked them with its mindless, looping glee. He raised his sword. The blade sang through the rain, a high, keening note, and bisected the speaker in a single, perfect stroke. The laugh died with a pitiful electronic squeal, leaving only the drumming of the storm.
Damian turned. His face was a porcelain mask, utterly still, but his eyesâthose sharp, defiant eyes that had learned to soften only for youâwere swimming with a grief so immense it had no outlet. He saw you in Bruceâs arms, and the mask shattered.
âYou cannot be dead.â His voice was small, a childâs voice stripped of all its armor. He took a step forward, then another, his sword lowering until the tip scraped the ground. âYou are intolerably stubborn. You would not concede to this⌠this clown. Get up, Y/N. Get up right now.â The command wavered, cracking around the edges. âThat is an order.â
Silence. Rain.
âGet up!â The word became a plea, the plea a sob that ripped from his ten-year-old chest with a force that doubled him over. The sword clattered from his fingers, splashing into the water, forgotten. He crumpled, not like a warrior, but like a little boy whose world had just been extinguished. Dick moved then, crossing the space in three staggering strides, and wrapped his arms around Damian, pulling the child against his chest. Damian fought him, small fists beating against Dickâs shoulders, his screams wordless and raw, the cries of a soul being forged into something harder and colder. Dick held on, his own tears mixing with the rain on Damianâs hair, and said nothing. There were no words for this.
There was no debriefing. No strategy. No stoic return. They brought you home through the secret passages of the manor, a silent procession of the shattered and the damned. Alfred was waiting in the medbay, his posture as impeccable as ever, but his face was the color of old parchment. When Bruce laid you on the examination table, the old butlerâs hand went to his chest. He let out a single, choked soundâa dry, splintering gaspâand for a terrible moment, his knees buckled. He caught himself on the edge of the table, his gloved fingers inches from your cold, still hand. This was the child who called him Alfie. The one who stole biscuits and left clever, silly notes that made him laugh when no one was looking. He did not weep. His dignity would not permit such a display. He simply turned away, his shoulders quaking with a silent, ocean-deep grief, and began preparing the room for a vigil that would never end.
In the days that followed, the family did not simply grieve. They atomized. Bruce retreated into the cave and became a ghost of computation, replaying the Jokerâs ten-second video on a loop, searching for a frame he had missed, a shadow, a soundâanything that could be transformed into a target. He did not eat. He did not sleep. The Bruce Wayne persona was abandoned like an outgrown skin; only the machine of vengeance remained, and it was calibrated to a single, blinding purpose: find the clown.
Jason shattered the armory. He smashed workbenches, threw a crowbar through a monitor, and screamed at Bruce with a fury that seemed to shake the stalactites. âYour rule! Your precious, stupid rule! He keeps coming back and he keeps takingâand you just put him in a box! This is your blood on the ground, Bruce! Yours!â Bruce absorbed it all in silence, each word a lash he believed he had earned a thousand times over.
Tim vanished into a digital necropolis. He didnât hunt the Joker. He hunted the ghost of you, building a vast, sorrowful archiveâevery video, every text, every security frame of your faceâfeeding it into a post-cognition algorithm that, in his feverish logic, might reveal the single variable he could have changed to save you. He was trying to solve the unsolvable, to find an equation that would give his guilt a shape he could bear.
Dick stayed in BlĂźdhaven for two days before the silence became unbearable. He came back to the manor, but he didnât stay in the common rooms. He couldnât. He started finding his way to your room, sitting on the floor with his back against your bed, a bottle in his hand that he never seemed to finish and never let go of. Heâd pull out his phone and stare at your contact photoâa silly selfie with flour on your noseâuntil the screen blurred. Then heâd type out a text he would never send: One good thing today? I need one, Y/N. Please. Every unsent message was a fresh, bleeding wound.
Damian stopped speaking. Words were inadequate; they belonged to a world where you existed. He took up residence in your room, which Alfred, with a reverence that bordered on sacrosanct, left untouched. The half-empty can of soda. The books on forensic science beside a worn copy of a romance novel Tim must have planted as a joke. The wall of printed photographsâsnapshots of the videos you had made them film. Damian would sit in your desk chair, Alfred the Cat curled in his lap, and stare at the corkboard for hours. His rage had cooled into a cold, absolute nihilism, a planet-sized why that had no answer. What was honor? What was legacy? What was Robin, if the sun could be blotted out so easily and so senselessly?
The only thing they all shared, in their isolated, soundless orbits, was an unspoken, collective avoidance. The folder on the Batcomputer. The one with the string of emojis: a sun, a bat, a bird, a sparkle heart. Inside was a sub-folder labeled in your handwriting, recorded for the camera youâd propped up on the console: âFAMILY PROOF (watch together!!).â
It waited there, a repository of voices and laughter and a love so fierce it had once held their fractured solar system in perfect, golden alignment. They avoided it like a black hole. Because to open it was to hear your voice again, and to hear your voice was to admit that you were gone. And none of them, not a single one, was ready to admit that the light had truly and irrevocably gone out.
///
The cave had become a tomb.
Not in the physical senseâthe stalactites still dripped, the bats still chittered in their distant perches, the supercomputer still hummed its endless, patient humâbut in the way a church becomes a tomb when the god it worshipped has abandoned it. The air was thick with a stillness that felt deliberate, as if the cave itself understood that something sacred had been extinguished and was holding its breath in deference.
Three weeks had passed since the alley. Three weeks of silence that was not silence but a cacophony of absences. The absence of your footsteps on the metal grating. The absence of your voice calling up the stairs for someone to taste-test a recipe you'd stolen from Alfred's private collection. The absence of your laugh, which had always seemed to find the cracks in their armor and slip through, warm and unexpected as sunlight through cloud cover.
Bruce had not left the cave in seventy-two hours. He sat at the console like a gargoyle misplaced from its cathedral, the glow of the monitors carving hollows beneath his cheekbones, turning his face into a landscape of exhaustion and grief. He had stopped reviewing the Joker's video. That particular form of self-flagellation had yielded nothing but a deeper, more intimate acquaintance with madness. Now he simply sat, his hands motionless on the armrests, staring at a screen that displayed nothing but the Manor's security feeds. Your room. Your door. Closed. Unchanged. A shrine of pixels.
Dick had returned to the Manor two days ago, though "returned" was a generous word. He had washed up like flotsam, deposited on the Manor's doorstep by tides he could no longer navigate. He stood now at the edge of the cave's main platform, one hand resting on a stalagmite as if he needed its cold, mineral certainty to keep himself upright. His eyes were bloodshot, the kind of red that came from too little sleep and too much of the whiskey he thought no one noticed. He hadn't changed out of his civilian clothes in two days. The fabric smelled stale, a faint note of bar smoke and something sourer beneathâthe scent of a man slowly dissolving.
Jason was a statue of contained violence in the shadows beyond the computer's light. He had refused to come closer, refused to sit, refused to acknowledge that this gathering was happening at all. His arms were crossed over his chest, the muscles beneath his jacket coiled with a tension that had not released since he'd held your body in the rain. The split knuckles from punching the cave wall had scabbed over and been split again, a cycle of wounding and re-wounding that he pursued with almost liturgical dedication. He spoke to no one. He looked at no one. He was a planet that had been flung from its orbit and now drifted through an endless, freezing void, burning with a cold fire that illuminated nothing.
Tim was already seated, but the word "seated" implied a degree of voluntary presence. He had been welded to that chair for hours, maybe longerâtime had become a foreign concept, a measurement system from a universe that no longer existed. His laptop was open before him, but its screen was dark. This was unprecedented. Tim Drake did not sit before dark screens. Tim Drake filled dark screens with light and data and purpose. But the purpose had drained out of him, leaving behind only the shell of a boy genius who had finally encountered a problem that could not be optimized, only endured.
And Damian.
Damian sat on the floor directly before the main monitor, his katana laid across his knees like an offering. He had not spoken a single word in six days. Alfred had attempted to coax him with tea, with food, with the quiet, dignified presence that had soothed so many broken birds before. Damian had looked through him as if he were made of glass. The boy who had once declared himself the heir to empires now sat with the hollow, distant gaze of a child who had discovered that empires were built on sand and blood, and neither substance could bring back the dead.
It was Tim who broke first.
Not with words. Tim had no words left. But his hand movedâan involuntary spasm of muscle memoryâand touched the trackpad of his laptop. The screen blazed to life, and there it was. The folder. The one he had found three days ago in the depths of his search for your digital ghost, the search that had consumed him so completely he had forgotten to eat, forgotten to sleep, forgotten that the ghost he was chasing was not a puzzle to be solved but a wound to be survived. He had opened the folder then, seen the thumbnail of you and Bruce covered in flour, and slammed the laptop shut with a violence that had cracked the screen. But he had not closed the folder. He had left it there, a bright, toxic sun burning in the cold digital architecture of the Batcomputer, waiting to be noticed.
Dick noticed.
He had drifted toward the console not out of curiosity but out of the gravitational pull of old habitsâthe big brother checking in, the caretaker making his rounds. His eyes skimmed the open folder, the string of emojis that you had chosen with such deliberate, ridiculous care, and his breath stopped in his chest. A sun. A bat. A bird. A sparkle heart. He understood instantly, the way a man understands he is about to be shot the moment before the trigger is pulled. These were not files. These were your memories. Your voice. Your laugh. The sound he had been trying and failing to recall with perfect clarity for three weeks, the sound that slipped away every time he reached for it like water through desperate fingers.
He stumbled backward, one hand flying to his mouth, the other grasping for something solid and finding only air. The nausea hit him in a waveânot the nausea of disgust but the nausea of standing at the edge of an abyss and feeling it call to you, whisper to you, promise you that falling would be so much easier than standing.
"Bruce." His voice cracked on the single syllable. He swallowed, tried again. "Bruce, you need to see this."
Bruce turned his head with the slow, mechanical precision of a man who had forgotten how to move his body and was re-learning the process through sheer will. His eyesâthose dark, hollowed eyes that had seen cities burn and friends fallâflicked to the screen, and something in him that had been frozen solid for three weeks began, horribly, to thaw.
Within the hour, they were all assembled.
It was the first time since the alley that they had been in the same space without the buffer of a mission, without the excuse of strategy or the anesthesia of violence. They did not look at each other. They looked at the screen, at the folder, at the sub-folder labeled in your voice, your cadence, your impossible, irreverent joy: "FAMILY PROOF (watch together!!)."
Bruce's hand moved to the mouse. It was trembling againânot the tremor of age or exhaustion but the tremor of a man holding his own heart in his hands and preparing to squeeze. The cursor hovered over the first thumbnail. You, beaming, your arm slung around a stiff, furious Damian. "Dami's Glittery Defeat (Feat. Titus)."
He clicked.
Your voice filled the cave like light flooding a catacomb.
"Okay, for the record, this is not my fault."
Damian flinched. It was a small movement, barely perceptibleâthe tightening of his fingers on the katana's sheath, the sharp intake of breath that he immediately suppressed. But it was the first sign of life he had shown in days. Your voice was a key turning in a lock he had welded shut, and the door was beginning to open whether he willed it or not.
On screen, you were alive. Your face filled the frame, your eyes gleaming with that particular mischievousness that always brought Damian to the brink of murderous rage and back again. You were explaining the terms of the race, your voice mingling with barely suppressed glee, and then the camera turned and showed Damianâsmall, angry, self-importantâsitting on the library floor with Titus's enormous head in his lap and a pink glittery brush in his hand.
"You cheated, L/N," the Damian on the screen snarled.
Your laugh answered himâa bell-like, cascading sound that seemed to resonate in the cave's vast darkness, finding every corner, every shadow, every heart.
The Damian on the floor did not move. But his eyesâthose sharp, hawkish eyes that had learned to see threats in every shadowâwere fixed on the screen with an intensity that bordered on violence. He was watching himself. The self that had existed in a universe where you were still alive. The self that had scowled and complained and secretly, desperately, treasured every moment of your attention. The self that had not yet learned what it meant to lose something irreplaceable.
"See?" your voice came again, soft now, gentle in the way you always were when you'd finished teasing and wanted to make sure the joke hadn't drawn blood. "Good things come in weird packages. This is a good thing, Dami. One Good Thing."
A sound escaped Dick's throatânot a sob, not yet, but the precursor to one, the tectonic shift that heralds an earthquake. One Good Thing. The ritual you had built, day by day, video by video, until it had become the foundation upon which this fractured family had learned to stand. You had given them a language for hope, and they had not realized until this moment that they had forgotten how to speak it.
Damian's tear was silent. It traced a path from the corner of his eye to the line of his jaw, a single silver thread in the blue glow of the monitor. He did not wipe it away. He did not acknowledge it. He simply watched, and remembered the feel of glitter on his fingers, the weight of Titus's head on his knee, the infuriating, irreplaceable sound of your laugh. He wanted to crawl into the video. He wanted to live inside that moment forever, a bug trapped in amber, frozen at the exact instant before the world ended.
Bruce did not pause. He could not pause. To pause was to feel, and to feel was to drown. He clicked the next video with the mechanical precision of a surgeon, or an executioner.
"Tim vs. The Pleasure Lagoon."
The thumbnail was absurdâTim, bleary-eyed and horrified, holding a romance novel with a cover so lurid it seemed to glow. On the screen, the Tim of the past was hunched over his computer, lost in the labyrinth of code, while your voice, disembodied and theatrical, began to read prose so purple it was practically ultraviolet.
"Chapter fourteen. Rodrigo's cutlass was not the only hard thing pressing against Lady Seraphina'sâ"
"STOP!" the on-screen Tim shrieked, spinning with an expression of pure, primal terror.
The Tim in the cave did not smile. The Tim in the cave had buried his face in his hands the moment the video began, his cracked laptop forgotten on the floor, his shoulders hunched as if bracing for a blow. But the blow was not external. It came from withinâthe memory of that night, the exhaustion that had felt so monumental and now seemed so trivial, the way you had weaponized absurdity to pull him back from the brink. The parrot joke. God, the parrot joke. It was theirs, a secret stupid beautiful thing, and he would never hear you tell it again.
"It's the filth I'm subjected to," your recorded voice declared, "in order to get you to look away from a screen for five seconds. What's it gonna be? Sleep and a glass of water, or do I read the part with the parrot? Trust me, nobody wants the parrot part."
The video ended on your villainous cackle. The cave was silent. Tim's shoulders were shaking with a grief he could not voiceâa grief that had no algorithm, no solution, no elegant code that could make it run cleanly and terminate. The failure, he understood now, was not in the data. The failure was in the world. The world that had allowed this. The world that had taken a girl who weaponized bad romance novels and left behind a silence that no amount of brilliance could fill.
Bruce clicked the next file. His hand was steadier now, but it was the steadiness of a man who had moved beyond feeling into a realm of pure, mechanical endurance. He was a diver descending into the wreckage of his own heart, and he would not stop until he reached the bottom.
"Jay and the Shakespearean Brood."
The setting was the Manor roof at dusk. Gotham's skyline jutted against a sky the color of a bruise, and you were leaning your head on Jason's shoulder, your legs dangling over the edge. Jason was smoking. The tip of his cigarette flared orange, a tiny sun in the gathering dark.
"So," your voice was gentle, stripped of the chaotic energy you brought to the other videos. "You've been in the brooding corner for three days. Bruce is getting worried his spot's been stolen."
Jason, the Jason on the screen, took a long drag. The silence stretched like a wound. "He's not worried, kid. He's just pissed I went too far with those dealers in the Narrows."
"Did you go too far?"
Another pause. Then, quietly: "Probably." He looked at youâthe real you, the you who was holding the camera and asking questions no one else dared to askâand his eyes, even through the screen, were full of a pain he had never learned to name. "Why do you do this? These videos."
You were quiet for a moment, and the quality of your silence was different from hisânot a wound, but a lullaby waiting to begin. "Because⌠one day, it might all go to shit. It always does, doesn't it? We're the Wayne family. Chaos is in the job description. And I just⌠I want proof. Proof that we weren't just a war council. That we were⌠this." You gestured, a small, sweeping motion that encompassed the sunset, the skyline, the two of you. "A grumpy crime lord and a reformed pickpocket, watching a sunset and not killing anyone. That's a Good Thing, Jason. A really big one."
On the screen, Jason didn't answer. He just ashed his cigarette and put his arm around you, pulling you closer, and kissed the top of your head with a tenderness that seemed almost furtive, as if affection were a language he was still learning to speak. "You're a sap, Y/N," he murmured into your hair.
"One of us has to be," you whispered back. "It's a hard job, but someone's gotta do it."
The video ended on that image: the two of you, small and dark against the dying sky, holding on.
The sound that came from the shadows was not human.
Jason had not cried when he found you. He had screamed, a raw animal sound that had torn through the rain and echoed off the brick and offered no comfort, no release. But now, in the darkness of the cave, watching the ghost of a sunset he would never see again, he broke. It was not a quiet breaking. It was a rupture, a cataclysm, a sound that seemed to originate from somewhere deeper than his bodyâthe sound of a soul that had already died once and now understood, with terrible clarity, that the second death was so much worse.
He turned and drove his fist into the wall. The rock split his knuckles, fresh blood welling over the half-healed scars, but the pain was a distant star, a pinprick of light in a void of agony. He struck the wall again. And again. And then his strength gave out, and he slumped against the cold stone, his forehead pressed to the rock, his shoulders heaving.
. The video had ended, and your ghost had receded into the machine, leaving behind only the echo of your words and the unbearable silence that followed.
Bruce had not moved. He had absorbed Jason's words the way he absorbed everythingâin silence, without deflection, without defense. But something in him was shifting. The mask of the stoic general, the armor he had worn for so long it had fused to his skin, was cracking. His hand moved to the mouse with a deliberation that was almost ceremonial.
The final video. "Brucie's Birthday."
He clicked.
The sitting room at Wayne Manor. Firelight. Alfred behind the camera, his dignified presence steadying the frame. And youâyou, alive, radiant, your purple streak catching the firelight, a pointy party hat in your handsâwrestling it onto Bruce's head while he sat in his sweater, looking for all the world like a man who had faced down gods and monsters but was utterly defenseless against a sixteen-year-old girl with a party hat.
"Y/N, this is undignified."
"It's a party hat, not a tiara, you big baby! See? He looks human!"
Alfred's laugh was a soft jiggle of the camera. You produced a cupcake, a single candle flickering in the dim room.
"Okay, Dad-Man. Make a wish. And don't say 'for a quiet night in Gotham.' The universe will laugh at you. You have to wish for something⌠good. For you."
The Bruce on the screen looked at you. The firelight caught the purple in your hair, the earnest command in your eyes. He closed his eyes. He wished. He opened them again, and the look he gave you was not Batman's. It was not the general's. It was a father'sâraw, unguarded, full of a desperate, hopeful gratitude he had never been able to articulate. He blew out the candle. You whooped and lunged forward to smear frosting on his nose, and his laughterâhis rare, full-bodied, human laughterârumbled through the speakers like a benediction.
The video ended.
The cave was silent.
And then Bruce Wayne, the Dark Knight, the man who had built an empire on the unshakable foundation of his own will, placed his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands. His shoulders began to shake. The sobs that came were silent at firstâgreat, heaving convulsions that he tried to suppress, tried to contain, tried to armor against. But there was no armor for this. There was no protocol, no contingency, no strategy. There was only a father who had lost his child, and a wish made on a birthday candle that the universe had answered with the Joker's laugh.
Dick moved first. He crossed the space between them and placed a hand on Bruce's backânot as a soldier, not as a protĂŠgĂŠ, but as a son who understood, finally, that his father was not a monument. He was a man, and he was breaking.
Tim looked up from his hands. His face was wet, his eyes red, but something in the rigid architecture of his grief had shifted. He did not move toward Bruceâhe was not ready for that, might never be ready for thatâbut he did not retreat either. He stayed. In the rubble of his shattered equations, he stayed.
Damian had not taken his eyes from the screen. The video was over, but your face was still thereâfrozen in the final frame, mid-laugh, frosting on your thumb. He reached out, slowly, and touched the screen with his fingertips. The glass was cold. Of course it was cold. What had he expected? Warmth? Life? You?
"Tt." The sound was barely audible, a ghost of his old disdain. But his voice, when he spoke, was not disdainful. It was empty. "You told me to find the good thing. But you took it with you. How am I supposed to find what you took?"
No one answered. The bats chittered in the distant dark. The stalactites dripped their slow, mineral tears.
Jason did not leave the shadows. He stood with his back against the wall, his bloody knuckles dripping onto the stone floor, his eyes fixed on the frozen image of your face. He had stopped crying. The well was dry, and what remained was a cold, adamantine fury that had no target and no outlet. You had told him not to let this send him back to the pit. You had told him to avenge you by remembering. But memory was a blade, and every moment of it cut.
The folder remained open on the Batcomputer. A sun, a bat, a bird, a sparkle heart. FAMILY PROOF. You had built it for them, a digital testament, a time capsule of light to be opened in the event of darkness. You had knownâof course you had known, you had always seen more clearly than any of themâthat the darkness would come. You had prepared for it. You had left them a map back to themselves.
But a map is only useful if the travelers are willing to follow it.
The Bat Family sat in their separate silences, bathed in the blue glow of a screen that held the last, fading echoes of your voice. They had come together to honor you. They had come together to find you. But grief is not a reunion; it is an archipelago. Each of them was an island, and the sea between them was rising.
Somewhere in the depths of the cave, a single bat detached itself from the ceiling and flew into the dark. The sound of its wings was soft, rhythmic, a heartbeat fading into silence.
And the sun did not rise.
///
When the sun goes out, the planets orbiting it continue to hurtle forward for a while, unaware of its absence. But the light does not return. The warmth does not return. And what was once a system turns into a graveyard; each planet in its own darkness, its own silence, its own endless winter.
When you died, you left them a map. But maps only work for those who have the courage to follow them. You had loved them. You had understood them. You had reminded them of one another. But remembering is not living. Remembering is a ghost. And ghosts cannot embrace, cannot comfort, cannot hold a family together.
The Gotham sky was as gray as ever. Wayne Manor was as silent as ever. Alfred was waiting in the kitchen, just as he always did. But the breakfast table was empty. The chairs were empty. And a world waiting for the sun to rise was frozen in an eternal twilight.
You had once told them to find "one good thing." But some darknesses are too deep to harbor even a single star. And some families, unfortunately, are too fragile to be saved.
All that remained was your voice in the videos, your laughter echoing in a dark cave, and a question that would never be answered again:
"What was today's good thing?"
The answer, forever, was silence.
///
The sun went out. The planets were lost. And the constellation never came together again.
relationships; platonic!batfam x neglectedbatsib!reader, Harry Osborn x neglectedbatsib!reader
â.Ësummary; A freaky spider bite incident made your life a whole lotta messier.
tags; spidey!reader, angst, gender-neutral pronouns, not proofread, reader is Tim's age
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Harry Osborn had only three priorities throughout his entire life.
One: make his father proud.
Two: be the best CEO he could be of OSCORP.
Three: be a good son.
Those three priorities defined him. Without them, he wasnât sure what would be left.
Then again, they were never really different. They all led back to the same thingâmaking his father proud. Proud to call him his son, his only heir.
So, he was a bitâno, more than thatâconfused when you slowly began climbing his list of priorities.
If anyone asked how the two of you met, you would say he came to your rescue like a knight in shining armorâand even fixed your camera.
If they asked him, it was a completely different story.
Harry looked into the tall mirror, letting his childlike mind wander. He wondered how he would soon outgrow this version of himselfâand how he would become the boss of everything, just like his father said he would.
The boy imagined what he would do once he was older: eating candy whenever he wanted, going on random vacations, and being regarded as a genius for his future inventions.
He adjusted his bow tieâone of the maids had put it on him earlierâwanting to look picture-perfect, even though he already did.
It was his first charity gala, and his father had drilled into him that first impressions were everythingâeven if it meant enduring annoying questions from adults.
The door opened slowly, revealing his father in a suit tailored specifically for him.
âHarry, my boy,â Norman said, smiling down at his son.
Harry blinked, shifting his gaze from his reflection to his father. âYes, Father?â
With an exaggerated, heavy sigh, Norman knelt down to his sonâs height. He removed the bow tie and pulled a small necktie from his pocket.
As he tied it neatly under Harryâs collar, he began, âFirst impressions are evââ
âFirst impressions are everything. I know, Father,â Harry interrupted, already tired of hearing it.
Norman paused, his hands stilling against the fabric. For a moment, Harry thought he had said something wrong. The maids had told him before that he had a careless mouth.
Then his father chuckled lightly, though it didnât quite reach his eyes. Harry let out a small sigh of relief, staring at his fatherâs gel-slicked hair and wondering if his own looked good enough.
âGood,â Norman said, smoothing down the tie. âThat means youâve been listening.â
He gave the knot one final adjustment before standing to his full height, immediately looking more imposing. Then his phone buzzed.
Norman glanced toward the door, then back at Harry. âWeâll be leaving in ten minutes.â
Harry straightened at once, nodding. âYes, Father.â
âMake sure youâre presentable and polite,â Norman added, his tone sharpening slightly. âThere will be important people tonight. I expect you to behave accordingly.â
âI will,â Harry replied quickly. A small thrill of anticipation slipped through himâthe gala was being held at that massive manor everyone had been talking about.
Norman studied him for a moment, as though inspecting something Harry couldnât see, before giving a small, satisfied nod and closing the door behind him.
Harry recited his introduction in his head (that was six words, mind you) while pacing around the room, checking his wristwatch every few seconds. Three more minutes.
He could feel the pressure settling in his chest, tight and familiar. He exited his room and headed for the stairs.
Father would kill him if he arrived late. Not literally, of courseâbut close enough.
Norman had always taught him that there were rules every man should follow, and punctuality ranked somewhere near the top.
Harry stopped mid-step, noticing his father by the door, still on the phone. He descended the stairs slowly; from the tension in his posture alone, it was clear his father was more irritated than usual.
He only caught a few wordsââParkerâ and âDonât let them knowââbefore the older man hung up and turned to him, the scowl on his face vanishing as if it had never been there.
Harry remembered moments like this clearly. They meant his father could still softenâfor him.
Even if the smile he wore was a little too perfect.
âYouâre on time, son.â
Just like Harry expected, the party was boring. Heâd imagined something like in the booksâpeople laughing too loudly, splashing red wine on each other.
But this wasnât that. The businessmen and women spoke in low voices, each word slipping out like it had a snakeâs tongue.
When he and his father entered, the adults did swarm him with questionsâNorman helping him here and there.
I mean, who wouldnât have questions for the kid genius that Norman plastered on every front page of the newspaper?
The excitement around him died down, and he ended up on the sidelines, right by the food section.
The boy watched his father charm potential investors effortlessly. Honestly, he should have been right by his fatherâs side, learning the tricks of the tradeâbut he was hungry. (And didnât feel like it.)
Harry reached out for a pastry when a small hand tugged at his ankle from underneath the table.
Goosebumps prickled across his skin. Heâd thought the manor looked slightly haunted before, with all its Renaissance portraits and antique relicsâ
Oh gods.
The hand retreated beneath the table, the long tablecloth falling back into place as if a hand hadnât just slipped through it.
Harry gulpedâthe phrase âcuriosity killed the catâ repeating in his head like a mantra.
He looked around. Everyone was in their own bubbleâand his father was still too busy conversing to notice.
The uneasy boy circled the table and dropped to one knee, reaching to lift the cloth. His heartbeat thrummed like sirens, his mind scolding him even as his body moved anyway.
Harry blinked. Underneath the table wasnât an ogre. Nor a ghost-person.
It was an ordinary person. Wearing pajamas. Underneath a table at a gala.
His eyebrows raised, and after three disbelieving blinks, he opened his mouthâonly to close it again.
You were curled up, knees pulled to your chest, a dopey smile on your face as you absentmindedly brought a finger to your lips, trying to find the right wordsâsomething that wouldnât scare him off.
âI live here. Donât worry.â
Harry found that hard to believe.
A crease formed between his brows. âYou⌠live here?â
He paused thoughtfully. âUnderneath the table, or in the manor?â
Harry was torn between the possibility that you might be a faeâor a Wayne, a name he had recently heard thrown around a lot.
âIn the manor, silly. Can you get me one of the pastries?â you asked, pointing upward.
âWhat theâwhatever, fine.â He stood, giving the room a quick once-over before swiping two pastries (might as well have one himself), then bent down again and lifted the cloth.
Is this what pillow forts feel like? he thought absently.
âHere.â Harry handed you the pastry, eyeing you suspiciously. A million questions raced through his head.
You gestured for him to come under the table, patting the space beside you.
Harry bit his bottom lip, hesitating. Was it really safe? What if you were dangerous?
But you didnât seem like it.
He sighed, shifting upward just enough to peek out from beneath the tableâonly his eyes visibleâas he made sure his father wasnât looking.
Then he ducked back down and crawled into the space. You shifted to make room, and he settled cross-legged beside you, your shoulders lightly touching.
The boy cleared his throat. âIâm Harry. Harry Osborn.â
He took a small, half-hearted bite of his pastry, as if it might quiet his nerves. Part of his mind scolded him, but another clung stubbornly to his maidâs wordsâthat it would do him good to make friends.
Even if it meant befriending a weirdo under a table.
You licked the frosting off your lips. âCool, nice to meet you, Hare.â
âHare? Itâs Harry,â he scoffed. He wasnât some dumb, scary-looking rabbit.
He was Harry Osborn. Son of Norman Osborn. Heir to Oscorp. For Godâs sake.
You shrugged, that same dopey grin turning teasing.
He couldnât help but stare at the apples of your cheeks and the crinkle of your eyesâyour expression warm enough to make it hard to focus on anything else.
For a moment, he wondered when heâd last seen a smile so⌠real.
He snapped out of it, noticing the silence between you. âRight⌠so youâre under the table becauseâŚ?â
âIâm not supposed to be hereââ he raised an eyebrow at that, âbut I wanted some pastries, soâŚâ
Whatever. He could work with that.
âOkay, um. Howâd you know that I, uh⌠that I was good?â His mind scrambledâgone was the perfect, composed Harry from an hour ago.
âLike, yâknow⌠you couldâve tugged some weird old manâs ankle.â He shrugged, trying to play it cool.
You laughed, which tugged the corners of his lips upward too.
âThereâs a small hole in the cloth, big enough for me to peek through. I thought you looked about my height. I donât know any grown-ups that small.â
Harry huffed out a quiet breath, something between a scoff and a laugh. âIâm not that short.â
The two of you talked a while longer, until his cheeks ached from laughing and both your pastries were gone. He hadnât expected to grow this comfortable with you so fast.
You went on about a book youâd read with your older brotherâwho, from the way you spoke about him, sounded annoyingly doting, even if he hid it behind crude remarks like older brothers tend to do.
Then again, maybe Harry shouldnât judge. He didnât have any siblings.
He found himself hanging onto every word, like thereâd be a test afterwardâand he really needed to pass.
ââand then he tried to explain the ending, but I think he just made it more confusing,â you finished.
Harry blinked, like heâd been pulled from somewhere else. âWaitâno, uh, go back,â he said quickly. âWhat do you mean he wasnât actually the villain?â
You tilted your head, amused. âHe was the villain. He just didnât think he was.â
Harry frowned, trying to piece it together, brows furrowed in that serious way of hisâlike he was solving something important.
ââŚThatâs stupid,â he decided.
After all, what kind of person doesnât know theyâre hurting people? An idiot, that's what.
You laughed softly, nudging his shoulder. âItâs layered, âs all. Or at least thatâs what Jay told me.â
âIt sounds stupid,â he insisted, though there wasnât much bite to it.
You narrowed your eyes at him, smiling. âYou just donât get it.â
âI do get it,â he said quicklyâtoo quickly.
You gave him a look.
Harry faltered. ââŚOkay, maybe I donât.â
That made you laugh again, softer this time.
He didnât realize how quiet heâd gone until the sound of it filled the space. Talking to you was easy.
âSo,â you said after a moment, tracing shapes into the carpet, âwhat about you?â
Harry blinked. âWhat about me?â
âYouâve just been listening,â you pointed out. âWhat do you like?â
He opened his mouth, reaching for something polishedâsomething neat, something his father would approve of.
His gaze dropped to his hands instead.
ââŚI like building things,â he said quietly.
He fiddled with his cufflinks, unease settling in his chestâthe kind that usually came with his fatherâs presence. But this time, it wasnât as suffocating.
Harry hesitated. His fingers stilled for a moment before resuming their slow, absent movements against the cool metal.
What if you thought he was one of those rich know-it-allsâjust bluffing his way through everything?
ââŚJust stuff,â he muttered. Then, âThings that work. Or donâtâand then I fix them.â
You hummed, like that made perfect sense. âThatâs cool.â
He blinked. ââŚIt is?â
He knew it was. His father had always praised him for itâalways said it meant he was smart, useful, worth something.
âYeah,â you nodded. âYou make things better.â
Harry didnât respond right away. His grip loosened, thumb tracing the edge of his cufflink.
ââŚI guess,â he said, softer now.
You smiled at him againâwarm, easy, realâand Harry found himself looking away first this time, suddenly very interested in the pattern of the carpet beneath you.
Out of habit, he checked his wristwatch.
Harry straightened slightly, the small, quiet space under the table suddenly feeling a little tighter. âIâuhâŚâ He glanced toward the edge of the tablecloth, âI think Iâve been gone too long.â
You tilted your head. âTrouble?â
He huffed softly. âSomething like that.â
Harry hesitated. He wanted to say one last thing, but didnât know what.
ââŚI should go.â
You nodded easily. âOkay. I have to go too. My brotherâs probably looking for me.â
There was a hint of disappointment in your voice, which made it harder for him to leave.
Harry lingered a second longer before ducking out from under the table. The noise of the party rushed back all at onceâvoices, laughter, the sharp clink of glass.
He stood, brushing imaginary dust from his suit, schooling his expression into something composed.
He hoped to see you again.
Past the cluster of guests, weaving through the crowd, past the glow of chandeliersâuntil the table became just another blur behind him.
By the time he reached his fatherâs side, there was no sign of where heâd been.
âThere you are.â
Harry straightened immediately.
Norman didnât look at him at first, still mid-conversation. When the other man left, his father's eyes settled on Harry.
âI was wondering where youâd gone,â Norman said smoothly.
âI was just⌠speaking with someone,â Harry replied carefully.
âOh, I see. Stay close.â
His father didnât question it. There were other boys at the galaâolder by a year or twoâand Norman assumed his son had been speaking with them.
Another man approached, smile too practiced. Their conversation went over Harryâs head as he stood stiffly beside his fatherâphysically present, but with every thought circling one thing.
Harry hadnât gotten your name.
âđ°
It was the first day of middle school when he saw you again.
He remembered his father suddenly joining him for dinnerâwhich was a rare occurrence.
Norman sat at the head of the table, a slice of steak already cut into neat portions, with some greenery on his plate.
âYouâll be attending a private school this year.â His father stabbed a fork into the steak, the motion sharp and deliberate.
Harryâs heart sank, his earlier excitement at his father finally joining him fading just as quickly.
It returned slowlyâa mix of nervousness, dread, and, if he was being honest, excitement.
Would he finally make new friends? Would he see you again?
You were at a galaâunder a table, in pajamas, and uninvited, but nonetheless⌠at a gala.
Which meant there was a chance youâd be attending whatever prestigious school his father decided on.
Heâd gladly take those odds.
âYouâll start next week. Is that clear?â
Harryâs body moved on autopilot while he was lost in thought, a piece of steak hovering in front of his lips.
âYes, Father.â
In the past two years, you looked more content. Happier, even. Harry sat a few rows behind you, watching quietly.
He was glad heâd taken those oddsâmore glad to be seeing you again, this close.
One by one, the students introduced themselves.
Your introduction was brief, but everyoneâs eyes widened slightly in surprise when they heard your last name.
He already had a suspicion, of courseâbut hearing it from you made it feel somehow different.
A quiet ripple moved through the roomâwhispers just low enough to pretend they werenât happening.
Harry made a quiet mental note of your interestsâthe teacher had insisted everyone name at least four. The ones that stood out to him were photography and science.
When it came to his turn, he felt unexpectedly nervous.
He impressed people older than himâwhoâs to say people his age wouldnât?
âGood morning. Iâm Harry Osbornââ The boy immediately glanced your way, searching for your reaction, but you were busy drawing on a piece of paper already filled with doodles.
Whispers rippled through the room again, hushed voices buzzing about having two âhotshotsâ in the same class.
You didnât remember him.
Harry swallowed the disappointment and carried on.
When he finished, he made his way to his seat, passing by youâstill focused on your drawings.
He dropped into his chair with a quiet thud, folding his arms on the desk and resting his head on them, his cheek squishing slightly against his wrist.
How could you have forgotten him?
You were his first friend. But that didnât mean he was yours.
Harry spent the rest of the class period sulking, only snapping out of his thoughts when the bell rang.
Heâd make you remember then. Simple.
The boy was about to go stomping over to your desk, but a crowd of classmates surrounded youâand himâmaking the distance between you even greater.
âExcuse meââ he tried to weave through the crowd, but the barrage of questions and overexcited middle schoolers was too much.
Harry sighed, smoothly putting on a strained version of the Osborn smile (not like theyâd notice the difference) and patiently socialized with his classmates.
His father would approveâthe kids here were from the right kind of families.
He stared past the shoulder of some blonde boy, watching your faceâone that clearly wasnât used to this kind of attention.
Harry was confused. Werenât you a Wayne?
Then again, youâd had to sneak into one of the galas⌠and you had no media presence whatsoever.
âSo youâll sit with me for lunch, right?â
Harry hummed in absent-minded agreement, still watching as you nervously adjusted your glasses.
He supposed heâd have to watch from afar for now.
â đ°
âYou should be more careful,â Harry said coolly.
It didnât matter how put-together he lookedâit didnât change the fact that his ears were tinged red.
Either from irritation that Flash had the audacity to shove you to the ground, or because he was standing so close to you.
It had been six months and twelve days since the first day of school. Harry wasnât counting. Definitely not.
Every time he tried to talk to youâactually talk to you, instead of just staring like some creepâheâd back out at the last second.
You were a stellar student, naturally. But you didnât quite fit in with the rest of the schoolâs crowd. Not like he did. Not like he was expected to.
Heâd heard the rumors about you, but he paid them no mind.
You were also the school photographer for the newspaper, and Harry found your photos charming.
He definitely did not sign up for the debate team just because he heard youâd be taking their picture.
Nope.
Of course not.
Harry felt his heartbeat thrumming in his earsâtime to leave. Now.
But then you did something he didnât expect.
You tugged on the sleeve of his blazer, pulling him back before he could take another step.
âDo you wanna, um⌠have lunch together?â you added hastily. âAs a thank you. For standing up for meâand fixing my camera.â
Harry turned around slowly, watching your hand fall back to your side. He cleared his throatâhe really didnât want his voice to go all falsetto just from talking to you.
âYes, of course.â
â đ°
To say Harry was worried would be the understatement of the century.
You hadnât gone to school for a week.
You also hadnât answered his messages or calls.
It had only been a year since you two became friends, but youâd grown closer faster than he ever expected.
His brows creased as he bit the tip of his pen, staring at his math homeworkâwhich was the least of his concerns.
He hated how he couldnât be by your side. Especially during a time like this.
Harry could never imagine losing a sibling so abruptly.
But he knew what it was like to watch someone slip away, piece by piece.
The boy swiped a hand across his face before standing up and grabbing a coat.
He slipped out of his room and hurried down the stairs. He passed a maidâthen paused, turning back.
âVeronica, tell Father Iâll be out!â
Veronica stopped in her tracks, eyes widening as the twelve-year-old was already sprinting toward the door.
âYoung master! At least bring a bodyguard!â she called, but it was to no availâhe was already through the door.
She hurried after him, stopping at the frame of the grand, heavy doors.
âIâm fine! Iâll be in the safe parts of town!â Harry shouted back as the gates opened automatically for him.
âPleaseâat least call!â
The middle-aged woman sighed. âThat boy, reallyâŚâ she muttered, shaking her head.
Harry raised a hand to hail a taxi, a yellow cab pulling over almost immediately. He slipped inside without a second thought.
âMister, Gotham Heights, please.â
The driver, a man with a newsboy cap and a mustache, nodded. âGot it, lad.â
Harry hummed thoughtfully, looking out at the Gotham sky that never seemed to brightenâstuck in a dull monochrome.
He thought of a gift that might lift your spirits. Not a lavish one, surely. You were always against him using his money to buy you things, even something as simple as a snack.
The driver glanced at him through the mirror. âWhatâs a young lad like you doinâ out alone?â
The âyoung ladâ scoffed. âWhatâs it to you, mister?â
The older man looked amused, keeping his eyes on the road. There was something haunting behind them, like he had seen things no one should.
âJusâ askinâ. Gotham ainât exactly safe, but at least youâre headinâ to the better parts.â
Even then, Harry didnât sense any malicious intent from him. Or maybe he was just being a trusting idiot.
âSay, mister, you donât sound like youâre from around here?â
âMoved to Gotham not too long ago. Big difference, but it is what it is,â the man shrugged.
Harry found it odd that he already seemed to know every road like the back of his hand.
He shook his head. He was getting distracted.
A gift⌠music? No, you had enough of those.
âMister,â Harry started, then hesitated.
The driver glanced at him through the mirror. âYeah, lad?â
ââŚWhat do people usually get someone whenâŚâ He trailed off. âWhen theyâre not doing so great?â
The man hummed, thoughtful this time. âFlowers are the usual. Food too. But that ainât really it, is it?â
Harry frowned. âNo.â
There was a pause, the quiet hum of the engine filling the cab as Gothamâs dim skyline slid past.
âBest thing I ever got,â the driver said slowly, âwasnât expensive. Just someone lettinâ me know they werenât goinâ anywhere.â
âThatâs it.â He shrugged. âPeople remember who stayed. Not what they bought.â
Harry leaned back into the seat, staring out the window again. Your face crossed his mindâsmiling, tired.
His fingers tapped against his knee as an idea formed.
â đˇď¸
âGo away,â you sniffled, pulling your legs closer to your chest.
The butler outside the door sighed. âAs you wish, young master.â You heard a soft thud against the floor. âIâll leave the package your friend got you outside.â
You waited until his footsteps faded.
You stood up from your nest of blankets, opening the creaky door and taking the box into your hands.
It wasnât very big.
Light, too.
You opened it.
Inside was a bracelet with a charm hanging from a small silver chain, and a tiny hand-sewn Superman plushie.
Your lips trembled slightly as you carefully took the letter tucked behind the trinkets.
Dearest [Name],
I tried my best. My hand got pricked numerous times making Superman (if you like, Iâll make Batman so we can match). I hope you liked the charm.
Iâm not very good with words, like you said, Iâm only good at bad jokes and senseless mumbling.
But I wanted to give you something anyway.
Itâs not perfect. And the eyes look uneven if you stare at it too long, but I figured you wouldnât mind that much.
You say things donât have to be perfect to be good.
I think youâre right.
Anyway, you donât have to wear it or anything. Just keep it, I guess. Or donât. Thatâs fine too.
My days at school are boring. Come back soon. I miss you.
â Harry
You blinked away the tears, only for them to spill down the swell of your cheeks.
You picked up the bracelet and slipped it onto your wrist, turning it slightly to admire the beads and charm.
Then you leaned back into your pile of blankets, hugging the Superman plushie tightly to your chest.
â đ°
âItâs okay. Flash is just an asshole.â Harry carefully swept away the strands of hair clinging to your foreheadâsomething his mother used to do to comfort him.
You continued crying. âHeâmy hair!â
He sighed, leaning back against the wall as he kept an arm around you. Youâd had to get your hair cut because Flash chucked gum at it during fifth period.
It was the last year of middle school, and Flash didnât seem to be changing anytime soon.
âWhat do you say we get back at him?â
You rolled your tearful eyes. âWe already got in trouble for getting into a tussle with him.â
âThat we won?â
âIt was two against one. What did you think was going to happen?â
Harry scoffed. âHeâs training for the football team! I expected betterânot getting beat up by two nerds."
âIt was barely a win. We threw pens at him.â
âWhatever, schmatever. The point isââ His eyes gleamed, and you immediately knew he was thinking of trouble. âHe needs to grow up. And this is around the time heâs in the showers after practice.â
You didnât comment on how the two of you also needed to grow upâor how he knew Flashâs shower schedule.
ââŚSo what do we do?â Your eyes were no longer glossy, now glinting with mischief.
You sat on Harryâs shoulders, his legs wobbling slightly under your weight.
âEugh.. You could lose a few,â he whispered.
Good thing Flash was busy singing about the blue skyâthe loud rush of the showers drowning out your hushed voices.
âShut up, you said my legs would break if you sat on my shoulders!â you whisper-shouted, fumbling of trying to open the bottle of shampoo Harry got from God-knows-where.
âITâS A BEAUTIFUL NEW DAY! HEY!â
Harry grimaced at Flashâs horrendous singing. âHurry up!â
Your eyes squeezed shut as you clung to the top of the shower divider.
âHow do I even know where to aim it?â
Harry scoffed, tightening his grip just above your knee. âHis head, duh.â
You decided to let whatever higher power existed take the wheel and squeezed the bottleâshampoo spraying everywhere.
You did not want to know what a naked Flash looked like.
âMR. BLUE SKYâ! ugh, whââ
Looks like it worked.
Harry giggled from below, his shoulders shaking.
âWHY WONâT THIS SHAMPOO GET OFF?!â
The bottle was now empty, and you heard Flashâs frustrated groans echoing over the steady rush of water.
âLetâs go, letâs go!â you urged, about to slide off Harryâs shoulders and tossing the empty bottle at Flashâs head for good measure.
âAUGHH!â
The two of you bolted out of the boysâ showers, hands clamped over your mouths, trying not to burst into laughter.
â đ°
Harryâs gaze lingered on your features, your brows slightly furrowed in concentration, your eyes fixed on the paper filled with scattered formulas.
âSo here, you have toââ you started explaining again, probably using your pen to point at the numbersâHarry wouldnât know. He was too busy staring at you.
At times like this, he didnât know whether to be jealous or to admire you.
With his father constantly breathing down his neck about college applications and internships, he couldnât help but feel⌠something.
You, who were always smarter than him.
You, who seemed better than him in almost every way.
You, who had people who cared about you.
You, who had always been genuine.
Harry could almost turn green with envy.
But it never twisted into something as distasteful as hate. That was an ugly, ugly wordâone he would never place beside your name.
He was just stressed about his father and everything going on right now. Thatâs all.
That had to be why he felt this way.
He swallowed. âI think⌠Iâve got it,â he said, nodding at his notebook now filled with circled notes.
You smiled at himâa smile full of fondness.
There was a very thin line between being impressed and feeling like he was falling behind.
Harry wasnât quite sure which side he stood on whenever you looked at him like that.
âYeah, you learn fast.â
He looked away bashfully. âNah, itâs because youâre a good teacher.â
It was true. Whenever he was confused about something or needed someone to bounce ideas off, his first choice was always you.
Not like there was anyone else.
You sweatdropped. âI wish people thought the same.â
âHuhâwhat are they sayingââ
âAlright, take your pens out,â the teacher cut in.
While writing down his answers at an almost abnormal speed, his thoughts swirled.
Harry knew you were unpopular for some godforsaken reasonâyou were kind, you were pretty, and a little hotheaded sometimes, but still!
Worst of all, their words actually got to you sometimes.
But maybe it was better that they didnât.
That way, he got to keep that part of you to himself.
â đ°
âOsborn, Iâd like to discuss one of the academic competitions coming up soon.â The teacher pushed their glasses back up the bridge of their nose.
Harry had been entered into far too many contests to count on his fingers this year, and he honestly just wanted to tone it downâespecially with the year almost over.
And then there were the lessons his father insisted onâabout how to run a company. (Seriously, how hard could it be? Apparently very, if his stoic mentor making him write reports every night was anything to go by.)
âSorry, miss, but Iââ
Then his fatherâs words rang in his headââA good businessman never misses an opportunity.â
Harry sighed, scratching the back of his head. âOkay, miss. Iâll see to it when I get home.â
The teacher smiled at him, then looked past his shoulder. âCan you tell Wayne to come over? Iâd like to see the photos for the paper.â
Harry was about to ask why she couldnât do it herself, but the rasp in her voice answered the question for him. Teaching privileged high school kids all day would do that to anyone, he figured.
â[Name]! Teach wants to see the photos!â
He watched your form in slight curiosity fumble for a bit, a slight wobble in your step as you walked over.
â
The field trip ended a little early after the spider labâsomething about an emergency. The class was disappointed, but it was nearing nightfall anyway, so they made their way back through the building toward the bus.
Harry, however, watched youâa dazed look lingering on your face. He frowned.
âAre you sure youâre okay?â
You tossed the wrapper of the sandwich heâd given you earlier into the nearest trash canâthe same one youâd initially refused.
âFine. Just⌠hungry, I think,â you replied, your hands buried deep in your jacket pockets.
âYou ate two of my sandwichesâŚâ Harry grumbled.
You nearly bumped into the two girls walking ahead of you, but Harry caught your arm just in time, steadying you before you could knock into them.
âUh, youâre really out of it,â he said, studying your faceâcold sweat beading along your forehead, your lips drawn into a tight frown.
You shrugged off his hand. âIâm fine, I swear.â
â
You werenât fineâjudging by how you nearly fell stepping off the bus when they dropped you off at the stop.
Harry scoffed. It was ridiculousâdumping a bunch of high schoolers at a bus stop this late.
Though, judging by the number of sleek, expensive black cars already lined up nearby, most of them had rides waiting.
He pulled you closer, an arm around your shoulders. You were strangely cold despite the sheen of sweat on your skin, and this was the best idea he had to help.
âSâcold,â you murmured, your voice breathless, like even speaking hurt. Your eyes were squeezed shut, a crease forming between your brows.
âYeah? Only just a bit more, and youâll be home,â Harry reassured, gently brushing the hair stuck to your face aside.
His chauffeur, Jake, glanced at them through the rearview mirror. âLad, wouldnât it be better if we brought them to the hospital?â
You whined at the word hospital, shooting Jake a look that said, See?
The older man huffed. âYa should message their family. Probably worried sick by now.â
Yeah, right.
Nevertheless, his other hand fished your phone out of your pocket. Harry punched in your password, then opened your messages app.
The only people pinned were your aunt and uncle, Alfred (with a monocle emoji), and him. In any other situation, he wouldâve found it endearingâbut you were sick. Horribly sick, even.
He pressed Alfredâs contact.
[You]
Good evening, sir. This is Harry Osborn, [Name]âs friend. Theyâre not feeling well, so Iâll be dropping them off at the front gates of their home.
The butler replied surprisingly fast.
[Alfred đ§]
Good evening, Master Osborn. Iâll open the gates at once. Thank you for bringing [Name] homeârest assured, theyâll be alright.
- Sincerely, Alfred Pennyworth
He turned your phone offâit had been on the verge of dyingâand slipped it back into your jacket pocket, pulling you a little closer to him in the process.
When the car pulled up to the front of your manor, Harry opened the door and helped you out.
âGood evening, sir,â Harry said, offering a polite smile to the elegantly dressed butlerâhis hand resting at the small of your back as he gently guided you toward Alfred.
âAllow me, Master Osborn,â Alfred said, draping a coat around your shoulders as you blinked a few times, still trying to process who he was.
âPleaseâjust Harry,â he added.
Alfred smiled softly. âThank you again, Master Harry. Iâm sure your father will be worriedâyou should be on your way.â
Harry looked over at you, your eyes struggling to focus on any one thing.
âItâs really no problem, sir. Good night,â Harry said with a small nod, stealing one last glance at you before returning to the car.
Jake drove in silence, leaving the teenager alone with his thoughts. He was worriedâobviously. But youâd been out of it even before the field trip.
You were more paranoid than usual-going as far as nearly screaming his ears off when he snuck up behind you.
Normally, you'd just shriek or something.
The dark circles under your eyes were becoming more noticeable.
Were you stressed about academics? Or something going on at home? Was it about him?
If it was about him⌠you wouldâve said something, right? You were always understandingâespecially when he couldnât make it toâ
âSo are ya two, likeâyâknow?â
Harry flinched, only then realizing heâd been tapping against the car door for a while.
âWhat?â he asked, glancing up to meet his driverâs eyes in the rearview mirror.
âIn a relationship? You two are around that ageâI wouldnât be surprisedââ
âNâNo. Nope, just friends,â he stammered quickly.
Jake just shrugged, his gaze returning to the road.
Harry would be lying if he said the thought had never crossed his mindânot even once or twice.
â đ°
Harry's forehead rested against the emergency door, his usually well-styled hair a mess, strands sticking out in every direction.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
His heartbeat pounded in his ears. His pupils were blown wide as he tried to calm himself down, counting the seconds that crawled by.
His phone felt unusually heavy in his jacket pocket. He'd had to end the call with your aunt and uncle early, convinced he was going to throw up if he listened to their distorted voices over the line for even a second longer.
Had it not been five minutes yet? Why were you taking so long? Why were the police taking so long?
Fucking Gotham and its shitty criminalsâ
Thwack! and another loud Thump!
Was that you?
You could be dying in there while he stood outside like a worthless dumbass. Why did he even listen to you?
Leaving you to die aloneâ
He jerked his head away from the door, pounding his fist against it twice before reaching for the handle.
Bile climbed up his throat as his breathing grew more erratic.
Harry wouldn't know what to do if he ever found your lifeless body lying in a pool of blood.
The emergency door burst open and pure adrenaline made him instinctively step back to avoid getting hit.
The weight crushing his chest vanished in an instant.
Harry didn't think.
He closed the distance and threw himself at you before you had any chance to react.
The young man held you as close as he possibly could, his face buried in the crook of your neck.
His hands trembled where they rested on your waist, still unable to believe you were really there.
His eyes fluttered shut as he held you close, content just to have you in his arms.
He would've been crying by now if not for the words his father had drilled into him since he was youngâ
"Boys don't cry."
You patted his back.
âI'm sorry.â
You were sorry?
For saving him? For being a hero?
He'd save the gentle scolding for later.
For now, Harry only shook his head, his hand moving in slow, comforting circles across your back.
Eventually, he pulled away, though his hands remained on your armsânot ready to let you go just yet.
âSo much for a quick errand run, huh?â you joked.
Harry was not in the mood.
You'd risked your life, and you were quipping?
Harry would've been lying if he said it didn't ease the knot in his chest, even if only a little.
âDon't ever do that again, moronââ Harry started, ready to lecture you about how reckless that had beenâhow he genuinely didn't know what he'd do if you died.
Before he could finish, a police officer approached, cutting him off.
â đ°
âYa weren't hurt, kid?â Uncle Ben asked, patting his shoulder.
Harry smiled softly. Even though he and Uncle Ben had gotten off to a rough start because of the old man's distrust, Ben had come to regard Harry as family.
âLuckily, just sore feet, sir.â He'd accidentally stepped on his own foot while running to the emergency door earlier. It was pure luck he hadn't tripped over himself.
Uncle Ben chuckled softly, though concern still lingered in his voice.
âAlways so polite, huh? I told ya to call me Ben. How many times has it been nowâa million? But ya seriously not hurt?â
Harry laughed. âYes, sir. Don't worry.â
He cleared his throat, his gaze drifting toward you.
âActually⌠I have your grandchild to thank for that.â
Coincidentally, you caught his gaze.
Harry felt his breath catch in his throat.
He quickly turned back to Uncle Ben, only to find the older man smiling at himâlike he knew something Harry didn't.
The ride to your house was suffocating. For Harry, at least.
He couldn't stop thinking about what you'd done and your words from earlierâ
"I know you would've done the same thing for me if you were the one in my situation."
Would he have?
Would he have had the courage to save your life the way you'd saved his?
His hands rested loosely in his lap, already itching to fidget.
He stole a quick glance while you were looking out the window, as if you hadn't just faced a group of men carrying guns bigger than you.
You're so amazing.
He wasn't.
ââŚHey,â he said after a brief pause, his voice low enough that only you could hear.
You turned your head slightly. âYeah?â
âI just wanna thank you... for what you did for me back there. You were really brave, and...â He looked away for a moment, as if the words had suddenly become harder to say. ââŚI don't think I could've handled that the way you did.â
It was true.
He couldn't have done what you just did.
His fingers tightened together in his lap before he finally looked back at you, his expression more earnest than before.
ââŚYou didn't have to put me first. But you did.â
All his life, he'd been taught to be selfish. To take, and take, and takeâuntil there was nothing left to take.
Kindness, according to his father, was a weakness people exploited. Trust was a liability. Love was something to be earned through usefulness, not freely given.
So why...
Why had you chosen him?
He wasn't the smartest person you knew.
He sure wasn't the strongest.
He wasn't even particularly easy to be around these days.
Half the time, he was stressed, snappish, or too caught up trying to meet expectations that never seemed to end.
There had to be someone more deserving of your loyalty.
Someone kinder.
Someone easier to love.
Yet every time Harry looked over his shoulderâ
It was always you.
And every time he stumbled, somehowâyou were still there.
He didn't know what he'd done to deserve that.
Part of him wondered if one day you'd realize you deserved better.
You studied him for a moment before responding, your voice just as soft, âYou're my best friend. I'd always choose youâno matter what.â
He went quiet.
Of course you would.
His gaze fell to his hands again, trying to stop the grin threatening to spread across his face.
Those words, they're so you.
You always believed there was something worth choosing in him.
That, that made him want to become someone who deserved it.
Someone better.
Better, for you.
ââŚYeah,â he said softly after a beat.
â đ°
Norman turned back his gaze to his son. âHarry, it amazes me that you havenât invited your fiancĂŠe to dinner.â
The young man fell silent.
Ever since the phone call, it was clear his father had held some sort of interest toward you. Not the weird kind, obviously.
Norman joined him for dinner more often, asking how his day went. Asking what you did.
Harry sputtered, âDadâwhat? How?â
It wasn't like he explicitly told his father, âHey! Me and [Name] are engaged!â
So, how could he have come up with that? As a matter of fact, a lot of people had been assuming. Jake was just one of the first ones.
His father looked even more confused than before, a crease forming between his brows.
âMr. Norman, Harry and Iâweâre just friends, sir.â
Then, Norman laughed. Like, loudly. It sounded so real that Harry almost shivered in fear.
When was the last time he heard his father laugh like that? Maybe it was when Harry made a mess of his hair when he was five or something.
âOh! Iâm sorry for assuming then!â He still looked amused, wearing that picture-perfect smile.
Norman shook his head with a grin, looking younger. âI just assumed that if my son doesnât call you his partner, then you must be his fiancĂŠe. He can be rather formal sometimes.â
Harry scoffed. In hindsight, all he'd ever done was tell his father stories about youânever once mentioning that the two of you were just friends.
Harry rolled his eyes. âUgh, Dad. Seriously?â he muttered under his breath, embarrassed.
âBut still. Come by for dinner sometime.â He gestured to the sleek black car. âWould you like us to drive you home?â
Dinner and being with you instead of being stuck with his dad? Sounds like a gold mine.
Harry still doesn't know what the hell his dad is doing at his school. Norman had never personally picked up his own son.
It raised some alarms in his head. Maybe he had done something stupid again.
âNo thank you, Mr. Norman, sir,â you smiled. âI have my own rideâjust got caught up in traffic.â
Ugh. Of course. Harry doesn't get why you can't just ditch your siblings.
The older man nodded. âI see. It was nice meeting you, but we have to get going now.â
âIt was nice meeting you too, sir.â
The older man nodded again and finally retreated into the passenger seat.
Harry looked downcast as he heard your refusal. âIâll see you next time, [Name].â
You rolled your eyes. âOf course you will. Donât make your dad wait up.â You lightly pushed him toward the car door.
The next conversation that ensued was far too embarrassing for his liking. What the hell had gotten into his dad?
â
You were being weird again, but it went away quickly.
By weird, he meant staring off into the space next to himâbeing paranoid around him.
Then, as if a switch had been flipped, you became normal again.
Normal as in, the way you act after the field trip sickness incident. You've been out of it for a while now.
Things that never used to bother you before bothered you now. Like how loud everything was, the weather, and sometimes you'd point out something that couldn't even be seen from that far away.
Why was everybody so weird lately?
You had been ranting about your brother who used to have a bowl cut. Tam? Was it?
He had broken your project, and Harry was angry on your behalf. Who bumps into a person, ruins their project, and doesn't say sorry? An asshole.
Suddenly, you walked in a different direction. Harry was about to redirect you, pointing you toward the cafeteria. Maybe you'd gone crazy from your siblings.
Then, he heard loud cheering and noises.
You continued walking toward the loud cheers, while Harry wondered how you had heard it from so far away.
The thought was pushed to the back of his mind as he saw the situation in front of him, though.
âFlash! Cut it out!â Harry yelled, his brows furrowed.
That blond idiot just doesn't know when to stop. Seriously, what pleasure does he find in this?
Before he knew it, and before he could stop youâyou were already face to face with Flash. The roughed-up kid took this chance to flee.
Harry's eyes widened. You're gonna do something stupid.
âPuny Wayne! Just what we needed!â He made a show of arrogantly spreading his arms.
âCame to play hero?â Flash tilted his head, stepping closer to you. Harry couldn't even imagine the diabolical stink.
Crap, you're gonna get beat. Two against one big, burly football player seems fair enough.
âBack off, Flash.â Harry barely made it a step forward before two of Flashâs goons slipped behind him, grabbing his arms and yanking him back.
Gods, he's gonna have to stand here and watch you get punted by Flash.
âHeyâwhat the hell? Let go!â Harry struggled, twisting against their grip, but they only tightened it, laughing under their breath.
âStay out of it, rich boy,â one of them muttered.
Shit, shit, shitâ
Without warning, he swung. A wide, cocky punch meant more to impress the crowd than land clean.
You dropped low, leaning your upper body downward as the punch cut through the space above you.
Harry looked down at your upside-down, surprised eyes. He could feel his jaw slacken.
What?
Flash tried to land another punch on you.
And you dodged every single one of them.
You were moving too fast for Harry's eyes to track, Flash getting more and more frustrated by the second.
Harry smiled, the concern he had felt earlier fading into pride and giddiness.
Then, you punched Flash. Square on the nose.
It was so hard that he could hear the bone crunch.
Harry's smile faded into a jaw drop. â[Name]!â His voice went unheard beneath the crowd's shouts.
What was that? The strength looked madly unnatural for someone like you to possess.
Flash's henchmen released Harry from their hold.
The young man's incredulous gaze remained fixed on you as you were dragged to the guidance counselor's officeâcompletely desensitized to the chaos happening around him.
Something's going on with you.
And Harry plans on finding out what.
A/N: SORRY FOR TAKING SO LONG OMGG.. Yay! Harry POV hope yu guys dont scream at me with pitchforks
â trying my best â no current romantic love-interest â non-story compliant storyline â reader is nonchalant about a lot â gender-neutral â reader is around 17 years old â reader is not a hero â this'll probably be very boring â not proofread
⍠currently playing: To Regret - Mother Mother
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
D I R E C T O R Y
chapter 3 <- you are here -> chapter 5
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
Was it his best idea to stalk around outside your school the next day, waiting for the opportunity to catch you doing whatever and confront you? Well if you asked Damian heâd say yes, of course!
On the other hand, if you were a normal person youâd say no, what the hell compelled someone to do such a thing.Â
Itâs pretty obvious who.
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âRemember, if Isla clenches her fist it means she is probably about to hit you, and just be nice and polite and Iâm sure Oli will like you too, okay?â You said, coaching Duke after school before your friends came out, making sure it didnât do anything to warrant a punch to the nose.Â
This did not encourage him anymore, Duke even just breathing around Isla made him a target, you told him that Oliver and you would make sure she didnât hit him, so that was.. vaguely reassuring.Â
Neither of you noticed the figure perched up on the nearby ledge of the entrance, listening to your every word with a worsening glare aimed at you both. âThomas, that traitor..â he thought to himself, hand clenched on the edge to prevent a fall.
Soon your two friends joined you and Duke, âone glaring at Duke like he owed them some kind of favor, and the other shaking in his boots like a cowardâ is how Damianâs thought train basically went.Â
âHey, Iâm Dukeâ he greeted with a hand out, the shyer one of the two shook his hand, responding in kind.
âIâm Oliver, it's nice to meet you properly- Isla, no!â He said, grabbing her clenched fist while looking at Duke with an apologetic smile, not missing the nervousness in his eyes.Â
Isla shook him off, glaring at Duke through the narrow slits of her eyes, âI want it to be known-â she began, â- that I donât like you, and I probably never will, just get that straight."
Duke gulped at the threat, which was funny because Isla chose to fully deck herself out in rainbow beaded bracelets and charm necklaces. Rattling around like an instrument, surely if she shook her fist you'd hear the little jingles from her handmade jewelry.
"Noted.." he said, voice tinged with uncertainty as he took a step back from the duo, closer to you, "Am I safe yet?"
Your face tensed as you considered it, "Uh, if we go out for food and you pay I think we'll be good."
'Ah, a bribery I see..' Duke thought, nodding as he touched his wallet through his right pocket, "I can do that!"
From above them Damian scrunched up his face, "tt.. coward" he whisper under his breath, watching your little group walk towards the bus stopâ the bus of all methods of transportation, are you serious?
You four pushed your way onto the bus, squishing through the crowd to whatever free seats were available, to your dismay there was only two with an empty status, so Isla and Duke bit the bullet and sat on the ground.
She didn't mind, neither did he, what he did mind was the elbow being jabbed in his side. You and Oliver laughed as they pushed one each other back and forth, slowly Duke became more comfortable with pushing back after you and Oli encouraged them.
You cackled behind your hand, entire body shaking with laughter, it was after that single moment when your body angled itself against the window to keep still when you took view of a very, very familiar vehicle.
One of the many vehicles that came courtesy of Wayne Manor, you flipped back around to the others eyes wide with suspicion, hastily you whispered to them.
"Guys, don't panic but I think someone from the manor is following us.." Duke's brows raised immediately, perching on his knee to glance out of the window.
"That.. definitely looks like something a Wayne would drive" he said, observing the car that drove closely by the bus, "a certain one at that."
"You know who it is?" You questioned, leaning over his shoulder while simultaneously using his back as a shield, out of fear Oli had entirely hunched over in his seat clutching his head.
Duke hummed in thought before nodding, "Yesterday, Damian saw me when I got back to the manor, maybe he got suspicious?"
"Dammit, I always hated that one.." you snared, it was a lie actually, found him annoyingâ most definitely, but you never hated him. Yet.
Isla clambered over you three, looking out of the window, her earlier playfulness evaporating instantly. "If that's someone from your family I'm gonna burn down the manor, Damian you said?"
"Isla, I love you and what you're willingly to do for us, but tone it down, I like you outside of prison bars." You said, still watching out the side of the bus at the sleek car which likely cost more than your tuition.
Part of you already somewhat knew that if someone was in the car, then they probably spotted you and the others watching them. But that didn't mean you couldn't act oblivious.
You grabbed Duke and Oliver's shoulders, pulling them back with Isla slumping into the ground off their backs. "Okay, here's the planâ" everyone began to listen intently, "âwe do nothing." Isla's protest began very quickly, you shushed her, pointed finger shushed against her lips, "LISTEN, I mean we act entirely normal, like annoyingly so, he's obviously spying for something to let's make it so he doesn't find it."
"You really just prefer to be petty, don't you?" Oliver said, giving you a not-so-disapproving look, small tilt of his lips meaning he was definitely going on with your little scheme.
"Is this normal?" Duke asked, looking at the evil grins you three gave each other, Isla turned to him with her finger pointed at his face, "If you go along with this, we'll be alright, and I will stop trying to hit you."
"Done." He said, no hesitation, you giggled to yourself, the thought of a heroâ the signalâ being wary of Isla, was hysterical.
Soon after the bus came to a stop, you four waited for the crowd to start moving before heading out with them. No, you weren't provoking Damian, he was the one choosing to subject himself to your antics without thinking clearly.
"Where's he?" Isla whispered as you four walked down the street, your steps out of sync, Oliver the slowest with hesitation.
Duke clicked his tongue, the best at seeming natural apart from yourself. "Knowing Damian, he's pretty good at being sneakyâ" leaving out the part where it's because he was born and raised an assassin "âwe just have to stick to the plan."
"The plan being hardly a plan at all" you corrected, "all we do is act all cool, like we usually are!" Isla chuckled under her breath, hand grabbing onto the side of your bag.
"Like we usually are?" Her tone was amused and partly sarcastic, playful as her steps fell into sync with your own.
"I'd say we're pretty cool, right Oli?" you turned part way to him, he nodded, still a bit tense but there's no reality where he'd back out.
"Hey, what about me?" Duke asked, walking up to you and Isla with his mouth down turned at the corners in a frown, borderline pouting.
You couldn't help but laughing, surprised you still had any laughter left after how much you'd been giggling that afternoon. "Yes yes, you're obviously included too now Duke, welcome to the group."
Isla pinched the skin of your arm with a frown, head faced away from Duke, frowning very clearly to you, you patted her shoulder and kept walking, Oliver catching up to you three as you started talking.
Your words were easing into the air, not forced, even Duke mixed in perfectly well with your banter despite this being the first time he was apart of your group.
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Meanwhile, Damian was feeling his patience ticking down like a bomb as he watched you four walk down into a greasy Batburger, taking up one of the booths beside the window and picking up the germy menus.
He winced at the look, watching you and your friends so happily peruse through the diseased filled pages, scowling as he continued to observe.
"What are they doing.." he snarled, soon you left the table after a short game of rock-paper-scissors, you being the one who loss.
From where he peered around into the window, Damian observed a few things, one of your friends looked like a scared wet-cat half the time, and the otherâ a random girl he'd seen around school, was much more bright and lively, reminding him of Stephanie. Duke seemed to banter with her despite acting like he was scared of her earlier, and it made him even more confused.
You came back to the table quickly, holding a long receipt that he couldn't read from the distance. "Spending fathers money on such.." he was unable to even think of a word for the gross food you were going to consume.
Sliding next to the girl, you started talking with the group, and it annoyed himâ how much you were having fun. Laughing so hard your fist had to hit the table repeatedly, legs kicking into each other from below as you four bantered. Damian zeroed in on you specifically, he watched everyone the same, you weren't special.
But when he saw you well, you were always so.. 'chill' as Dick would've said, back when he first arrived at the manor and he threatened you, you quite literally just said "welcome" with a sword to your throat.
That's when Bruce stepped in and scolded him for doing so while you walked away to some part of the house, later he found out that you weren't that much more than but a footnote in the family tree. So he didn't bother with you.
Until you decided to lash out at everyone that night. It was the most emotion he'd seen out of you in all the time he'd known you, which was only a year or so, give or take.
Watching you laughing with your friends and Duke like a bunch of childrenâ it was too foreign. That's when his pocket buzzed, quickly taking out his phone from it he looked at the alert from Tim, a simple 'ready for patrol tonight?'
He scoffed, it was insulting, he was always ready. And that's exactly what he sent before going back to his stalking, or rather recon of you and Duke with these strangers.
After ten minutes your group had gotten up and came back to the table with two trays full of food, a couple of bat burgers, some jokerized fries, all the things Damian sworn against since the day he was born. The way your face crinkled as you took a bite, you⌠irked him for a reason he couldn't place.
Thirty minutes later he watched you and the rest walk out to the bus stop and decide that he wasn't going to get you doing anything today, whatever that anything was.
So he got back into the sleek black car which was definitely garnering a few looks because who drives this kind of car near Batburger of all places. Tapping the back of the drivers seat, he said "manor" before brooding out the window.
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Duke glanced around the parking lot, not a single sign of Damian present, "Think he's gone yet?" He asked, looking at you three, Isla looked around, not seeing any sign of him.
"Maybe?" She turned to you, "Did we succeed or what?" Isla joked, tugging at your ear playfully while Oli sipped on his drink.
You smiled, "I think we won for today?"
They cheered, Isla squealed and hugged you tightly, Oliver whooped and jumped into the air with a hand in the air before stomping back down onto the gravel, Duke chuckling at the enthusiasm. He looked up at the sky, clouds slowly disappearing against the soft blue, a sign that it was going to get dark. Nudging your arm he tilted his head, pointing at the bus.
"We should get going?" You questioned, in response he nodded. Isla frowned, bottom lip pushing out the front of her lip in a pout.
"It's only four though?"
"Four thirty" Oliver corrected.
"Right, four thirty, why are we leaving?" You took a look at Duke and sighed, you had to come up with an excuse quickly because you were not explaining that your friends favorite heroes were the family they hated. Also it wasn't your secret to spill.
You cleared your throat, "Well you see, unlike my dinners, the rest of the family usually eats together. And sometimes Alfred serves it early so, Duke's gotta go otherwise someone will ask questions."
"OhâŚ" Isla replied, fists clenching as Duke began to back away, her anger broiling up again. "I see, you better be going then⌠Duke." The way she said his name sent a shiver down his spine, he looked at you quickly.
"Are you-" he was cut off.
"I'm staying with Isla." You said, no hesitation with your arm looping around her own, stepping back a little to stand beside Oli.
"Gotcha, I'll see you uh.." he was going to say tomorrow but; well it was Friday. He fumbled over his thoughts, "next week?" His words filled with uncertainty.
Part of you felt bad, so you pitied him. "Yeah, probably, I'll text you if we have plans to hangout though." As awkward as he was, you all actually had fun from what you saw, Isla pulled at your arm, shaking her head like Duke couldn't see her. Mouthing an over exaggerated 'no' to you.
But Duke smiled, brightly so. "For real? I'm holding you to that!" He said before running off while waving with his hand behind his back, "see you guys later!"
Your mouth curved up, 'I knew he was cool' you thought, before turning to Isla and Oliver. "Hope you don't mind, but he seems cool right? Better than stalker Damian."
Isla still frowned but Oli smiled, "True, Isla don't act like you having fun" he said, messing up her hair as she flung her arm around to get him to stop.
"I guess! I still don't like him a hundred percent alright? But if you invite him, I will try my best to be fine with it!" She declared, hand raised high into the air, the blue sky gradient with the colorful beads of her bracelets. "Anyways, let's go to my place!"
Her hands grabbed your and Oli's hand, pulling you both along, running across the streets of Gotham and down to a different bus route that headed to her place.
And you chuckled a little with every step, Oliver smiling shyly at the passersby who watched with amusement at the three teens running freely around the city.
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"Damian? Why're you sulking more than usual?" Steph asked, poking fun at him and his solemn while her legs laid off the side of the couch.
He grimaced, "what are you doing here. You don't even reside here." Steph chuckled, sitting up, using her legs to pull herself forward to sit of the arm rest of the sofa.
"I live here half the time Damian, I live here." She deadpanned.
"You can't live somewhere half the time.. you either do or don't!" He refuted, clearly irritated, any other day he'd just walk away while grumbling. But something made him much more irritable, and Steph immediately tied it to you.
"This wouldn't be about that night right?" Steph asked, hesitant because she did not feel like fighting Damian today, it was too early, and she was not in the mood.
Safe to say she didn't get an answer, he just growled at herâ mentally she giggled, thinking he was acting like Titusâ then headed to his room, bag heavy on his back. She watched him disappear, nail tracing against the stitching of the leather sofa.
Huffing out a breath, she flopped back down onto the cushions, groaning. Her phone buzzed against the table, she turned her head lazily to it, hand reaching up and slapping the screen to turn it on. Picking it up, she unlocked it and raised her brows. Just a single message from Cass, about you.
CASSANDRA: I texted them.
She shot up, eyes shot out of her sockets with absolute disbelief.
[ME]: WGAT. WHAT
[ME]: SAY YOUR KIDDING
CASSANDRA: I'm not?
[ME]: WHY DID U DO THAT, Cass, I love u, but WHY
CASSANDRA: Last night, you texted me that you felt bad.
CASSANDRA: So I reached out, they haven't replied yet [STICKER]
[ME]: U can't brush this off with a cute sticker Cass
CASSANDRA: Dick does it whenever Bruce texts??
[ME]: I CANT RIGHT NOW, BYE
CASSANDRA: OK, coming over tonight anyways
[ME]: SHUSHHHH
Yeah, sure. She was venting to Cass about feeling bad for how she ignored you, and she may have brought up wanting to fix things but that didn't mean she wanted it to happen!
It was just one of those things that you say you'd do but never actually follow through, Stephanie did not realize how bad that sounded at the time.
Cassandra did, and she acted, no time to backtrack because thatâs neither how she was raised nor trained.
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"Oh shit..?" You said, hand clutched in your phone as you sat by Isla on her bed while Oliver sat nearby on her beanbag. She looked at you with worry.
"What? Did something happen?" Her words caught Oli's attention, both now turned entirely to you, waiting for an answer.
You grimaced at your phone before turning the screen to them, "Cain texted me-" "CASSANDRA?? THAT CAIN?" Isla screamed, grabbing your phone to read the message.
CAIN: I took your number from Steph's phone.
CAIN: I'd appreciate it if we could talk, me, you and Steph, reply when you see this please.
"How formal.." Oliver whispered, hand raised to his chin, bottom lip resting on his pointer finger. "I mean.. are you going to..?" He asked carefully, looking at you while you looked like you just ate the sourest lemon.
"Ugh.. I probably should, but I don't feel like it." You wallowed in the avoidance of it all, so badly you wanted to just step away from everything.
Part of you was convinced you had that right, the right to walk away from the people who didn't care. To Damian whose first words to you were threats and degrading comments about your self worth. To Dick who acted around you more than he did with the press, or how he would ask you three questions like clockwork before ditching. To Stephanie, who gave up trying to connect with you, and Cassandra who didn't try in the first place.
To Tim, who never even considered you someone to listen to despite being the one whoâs always supposed to hear everything, the informant second to Barbara who couldnât hear you. To Jason, who wasn't the same person he was before, who you tried to understand but purposely kept confusing you. And to Bruce, the man who took you in because he had to, who never wanted to be anything more than the man who provided yet never cared.
But then, there was the part of you that resented that logic. To be like them, and walk away without even trying to fix it, you hated it, you thought you deserved betterâ and you did. Not to apologize to keep the peace after breaking it, but the idea of even being remotely similar was grimacing.
You were always one who could compartmentalize what other people couldn't, to put the pieces together that the other threw away, and kept them safe for the day they might ask for them back.
When you were a kid, before Isla and Oliver. That loneliness, watching things that you hoped the others would be interested in even if you hated watching, from horror to romances, documentaries to sitcoms. Hoping they'd walk by and at least take two seconds to pay attention, not even to you, just to see if they would.
When you spoke about your day, when you kept quiet, no matter what you did, no one questioned, no one asked, no one cared. It was so embarrassing how hard you used to try, thinking about it made you tear up.
And before you realized, your sides were squished by two bodies, Oliver on your right, Isla on your left, hugging you tightly while your salty tears dripped down the curves of your cheeks, some leading to your lips, making you taste it, and the rest staining Isla's freshly cleaned blanket. "Fuck" your voice croaked.
Your friends knew not to ask, or pressure, because this has happened before. Times when your emotions came back to you, not because you lost them, never. You felt happy, angry, everything but never could you burst out into tears by choice, that mental reset of crying until you suffocated.
When your cries tightened your throat, and your face turned red, those times became rare, and when they hit? Fingers twitched and tensed, shoulders stretching forward and backward, ear ringing.
You wailed loudly, leaning into Isla, sobbing into her shoulder. Senses picking up what was happening around youâ Isla's room door opening, Oliver trying to explaining you were not hurt, leaving and shutting the door behind himself while Isla rubbed your back gently, her bracelets rolling over your skin satisfyingly.
Time wasn't a concern, at some point he came back with a cold glass of water, just waiting patiently by your side, hand on yours to comfort you silently. After you managed to calm down, breaths still shaky, you sat up.
Back aching from having been hunched over, you looked at Oliver who pressed the glass against your cheek. The coldness was refreshing from how warm your skin was, you took it from him, relishing in the condensation around the surface. You drunk it slowly, still hiccuping over your breaths, Isla left the room and later came back with a brand new fluffy blanket, from the laundry room, warm still from being dried. She draped it over you, rubbing your shoulder and hugging you, Oliver quickly scrolled through his laptop and put on your favorite movie.
If asked, you couldn't answer whether or not anyone even spoke after that or if you three just relaxed into the quiet. Nothing but the sound of your favorite script, the rattling of Isla's window and the faint buzzing of her space heater in the living room.
That night, you stopped thinking, and simply rested in the presence of people who cared. You'd decide what to do when you were in the right space to do so.
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Another chapter finished, released this a bit earlier than intended so I apologise for any mistakes. I had a bit more I wanted to write, but I figured if I did then itâd be put out much later which I wouldnât want after how much I made you all wait before.
-> thank you for reading, Iâve had much love over time and itâs more than I can handle so I appreciate everyone. Thank you so very much.
⍠NOTE: If youâd like to be added to the taglist then please check your settings prior to asking, to make sure youâre able to be tagged in the first place, if youâre added, I will reply with âđŠśâď¸â.
ďźprevious chapter <- -> next chapter [unavailable.]
what if i told yall readers of Somewhere In The Past that Iâm writing the pov of someone u would never expect for the next chapter? Who is your guess?
The thing about dying, you discovered, was that it was simultaneously more dramatic and more boring than you'd expected.
There were machines beeping, bright lights overhead, people in scrubs moving with purposeful urgency. Very medical drama. Very exciting.
But there were also long stretches of nothingâwaiting for test results, waiting for doctors, waiting for your heart to decide whether it was going to keep beating or just give up entirely. That part was boring. Tedious, even.
You drifted in and out of consciousness, catching fragments.
"âsevere dilated cardiomyopathyâ"
"âwhy wasn't she on a transplant listâ"
"âGuardian? We need to contactâ"
"âBruce Wayne, apparently, but no one's answeringâ"
That tracked. Of course no one was answering. It was gala night. The Waynes had more important things to do than answer calls about their dying daughter.
Except they didn't know you were dying, did they? Because you'd never told them. Because Bruce had kicked you out of his office. Because no one had cared enough to notice.
"We'll keep trying," someone said, and you wanted to laugh. Good luck with that.
At some pointâhours? minutes? time was weirdâyou surfaced enough to find a doctor standing by your bed. She was older, South Asian, with kind eyes and tired features.
"Hello," she said gently when she noticed you were awake. "I'm Dr. Kaur. You're at Gotham General Hospital. Do you remember what happened?"
"Bus bench," you croaked. Your throat was raw. "Couldn't breathe."
"You had a cardiac event. A very serious one. Your heart isâ" She paused, choosing her words carefully. "Your heart is very sick. You have dilated cardiomyopathy. Were you aware of this diagnosis?"
"Yes."
"And you were being treated?"
"Was. Ran out of medication."
Her expression shiftedânot quite anger, but close. Frustration, maybe. Disappointment in the systems that had failed you. "How long have you been without your medication?"
"Day and a half."
"And before that? Were you taking it regularly?"
"When I could afford to refill it."
Dr. Kaur's jaw tightened. "You're sixteen years old. You should not be managing a life-threatening heart condition on your own." She pulled up a chair, sat down like she had all the time in the world even though you could hear the chaos of the ER beyond the curtain. "We've been trying to reach your father, Bruce Wayne. We've called multiple times, butâ"
"He won't answer." Your voice was flat. "He's at a gala tonight. Important people, important causes. He won't answer."
"We'll keep trying. You're a minor. We need parental consent for treatment, and we need medical history, andâ"
"I can consent," you interrupted. "Emancipated minor laws. If my guardian is unavailable and it's an emergency, I can consent to life-saving treatment. I looked it up."
You had, actually. Months ago, when you first got diagnosed and realized you were on your own. Just in case.
Dr. Kaur looked at you for a long moment, something sad and angry warring in her expression. "You're sixteen," she repeated, softer this time. "You should not have to know those laws."
"Yeah, well." You tried to shrug, but moving hurt. "Here we are."
"Here we are," she echoed. She pulled out a tablet, started pulling up screens. "All right. Let me tell you what's happening. Your heart is functioning at about thirty percent capacity. That's dangerously low. We've started you on IV medications to help support your heart function, and we're running tests to determine the full extent of the damage. But I need to be honest with youâthis is very serious. You should have been in treatment months ago."
"I was trying," you said, and hated how defensive you sounded. "I went to a clinic. Got diagnosed. Got medication. I was taking it. I justâran out."
"Why didn't you get a refill?"
Because you were alone. Because you had no money. Because asking for help meant admitting how bad things were, and you'd been so sure you could handle it yourself.
Because you were tired of being a burden no one wanted to carry.
"Complicated," you said finally.
Dr. Kaur's eyes were too understanding. "I'm going to keep trying to reach your family. In the meantime, is there anyone else we can call? Other family members? Friends?"
Your friends. God, your friends. You were supposed to be at Dani's house right now, eating tamales and watching movies. They were probably wondering where you were.
"My phone," you said. "Where's my phone?"
"The paramedics brought your belongings. Hold on." She stepped away, returned with a plastic bag containing your waterlogged phone, your wallet, your keys. The phone screen was more crack than glass now, but when you pressed the button, it miraculously turned on.
Seventeen missed calls. Thirty-four texts.
Dani: where are you???
Marco: yo you were supposed to be here an hour ago
Jas: this isn't funny anymore. call us back
Dani: im actually worried now. please respond
Marco: if youre dead im going to kill you
Jas: we're calling the police
Dani: no wait marco found your location. your phones at gotham general. WHAT THE HELL
All three: OMW
The last text was from fifteen minutes ago.
"My friends are coming," you told Dr. Kaur. Your voice cracked. "They'reâthey'll be here soon."
"Good. That's good." She made a note on her tablet. "I'll let the nurse know to send them back when they arrive. But sweetie, we really do need to reach your father. There are decisions that need to be made, andâ"
"He won't come." You said it with certainty, with the weight of sixteen years of evidence. "You can keep calling. But he won't come. Not for me."
"Let's try one more time." Dr. Kaur pulled out her phone, dialed the number the hospital had on file. You could hear it ringing on speaker.
One ring. Two. Three. Four.
"You've reached Bruce Wayneâ"
She hung up, tried another number. "Is there an alternate contact? An assistant, maybe?"
"Alfred Pennyworth. He'sâ" What was Alfred, exactly? Butler felt reductive. Guardian felt inaccurate. "He takes care of things at the house. He might answer."
You didn't have Alfred's number. You'd never needed it. But Dr. Kaur got it from the hospital recordsâapparently it was listed as an emergency contact, which was more than Bruce had managedâand dialed.
It rang once before a familiar, cultured voice answered. "Pennyworth speaking."
"Mr. Pennyworth, this is Dr. Kaur at Gotham General Hospital. I'm calling aboutâ" She glanced at you, and you nodded. "About yourâabout Miss Wayne. She's been admitted with a cardiac emergency."
There was a beat of silence. Then: "I beg your pardon?"
"She collapsed earlier today. She's stable now, but her condition is very serious. We've been trying to reach Mr. Wayne, butâ"
"He's at the gala. They all are. I'llâgive me ten minutes. I'm on my way."
He hung up. Dr. Kaur looked at you. "He's coming."
"Yeah." You felt something loosen in your chest. Alfred was coming. It wasn't the same as your father, wasn't the same as the family you'd wanted your whole life, but it was something. "He's good like that."
"I'll be back to check on you in a bit. Try to rest." She paused at the curtain. "Your friends are lucky to have you. I hope you know that."
"I'm lucky to have them," you corrected.
She smiled, sad and knowing, and left you alone with the beeping machines and your failing heart.
You closed your eyes, just for a moment.
You woke to the sound of barely contained panic.
"âjust found her like this? On a bench? In the rain? What the actual fuckâ"
"Marco, you need to calm down, they're going to kick us outâ"
"I don't care! She could have died! Sheâ" His voice cracked. "She almost did die, Dani."
"I know. I know. But she didn't. She's okay. She'sâ"
"She's awake," Jasmine said quietly, and three faces swiveled toward you.
They looked terrible. Dani's eyes were red and puffy from crying. Marco's jaw was clenched so tight you worried about his teeth. Jasmine's usual composed mask had cracked, revealing raw worry underneath.
"Hey," you said weakly.
"Hey?" Marco's voice pitched up. "Hey? You almost die and that's all you've got? 'Hey?'"
"Marcoâ" Dani warned.
"No! No, she doesn't get to justâ" He was pacing now, all nervous energy and unleashed fear. "We've been terrified! You sent that textâjust 'help,' that's it, that's all we gotâand then nothing! Your location showed the hospital and we thoughtâwe thoughtâ"
"I'm sorry," you said, and your voice broke. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."
"What happened?" Jasmine asked. She'd pulled a chair up to your bedside, was holding your hand like she was afraid you'd disappear. "The truth this time. No deflecting."
So you told them. About the diagnosis three months ago, about the medication you'd been managing alone, about running out of pills and not knowing how to get more. About trying to tell Bruce and being dismissed. About the texts from the mysterious stalker. About collapsing on a bus bench in the rain.
By the time you finished, Dani was crying again, and Marco had stopped pacing to grip the rail of your hospital bed so hard his knuckles were white.
"You should have told us," Jasmine said. Her voice was steady, but her hand was shaking. "We could have helped."
"How? You're seventeen, sixteen, and seventeen. What were you going to do?"
"Literally anything!" Marco exploded. "We could haveâI don't know, helped you pay for medication, or made you go to the doctor, or told your family, orâsomething! Anything would have been better than you handling this alone!"
"I didn't want to be a burdenâ"
"A burden?" Dani's voice was sharp. "You thinkâGod, do you really think that's how we see you? As a burden?"
"You have your own problemsâ"
"So? Everyone has problems! That's life! That doesn't mean you have to face everything alone!" She was crying harder now, ugly-crying in a way that would have been embarrassing in any other context. "You're our best friend. You matter. You matter so much, and the fact that you don't know that isâit'sâ"
"It's fucked up," Marco finished. "It's completely fucked up. Your family doesn't see you, fine, they're emotionally constipated billionaire vigilantes, whatever. But we see you. We've always seen you."
"You're not invisible to us," Jasmine added quietly. "You never have been."
Something inside you broke. Not your heartâthat was already broken, literally and figuratively. Something else. Some wall you'd built to keep yourself together, to keep the pain manageable.
You started crying, and once you started, you couldn't stop. Great, heaving sobs that made your chest hurt worse but felt necessary, like lancing a wound. All the fear and loneliness and exhaustion you'd been holding in for monthsâyears, reallyâcame pouring out.
Your friends held you. Dani on one side of the bed, Jasmine on the other, Marco standing at the foot, all of them anchoring you to the world, reminding you that you weren't alone even when it felt like you were.
"I'm scared," you finally gasped out between sobs. "I'm so scared. My heart isâthey said it's really bad. And I don't know what's going to happen, and my family doesn't care, andâ"
"We care," Dani said fiercely. "We care so much."
"We're not going anywhere," Marco added. "You're stuck with us."
"Even if you want to get rid of us," Jasmine said, attempting lightness. "Especially then."
You laughed, wet and messy. "I don't want to get rid of you."
"Good. Because we're going to be super annoying about this. We're talking daily check-ins, medication reminders, doctor's appointment escortsâthe works."
"You don't have toâ"
"We want to," Dani interrupted. "Let us be here for you. Please."
You nodded, not trusting your voice.
A nurse poked her head in. "Sorry, visiting hours are technically over, butâoh." She took in the sceneâyou crying, your friends clustered around, all of you holding onto each other like lifelines. "I'll give you a few more minutes."
"Thank you," Jasmine said.
The nurse left, and you settled back into the terrible hospital pillows, exhausted from crying but feeling lighter somehow. Less alone.
"Did they reach your family?" Marco asked after a moment.
"Alfred's coming. He should be here soon."
"And your dad?"
"At the gala. Won't answer."
"I'm going to key his car," Marco announced.
"You don't even know which one is his."
"I'll key all of them. Every single Batmobile or whatever the hell he drives."
"That's the Batmobile," you corrected automatically. "His regular cars areâ"
"Don't care. Keying them all."
Despite everything, you smiled. "I love you guys."
"We love you too," Dani said. "So much."
"Even when you're being stupid and self-sacrificing," Marco added.
"Especially then," Jasmine agreed.
You closed your eyes, feeling their presence, their warmth, their fierce protectiveness. Your family might not have shown up, but your people had.
That had to count for something.
Alfred arrived twenty minutes later, and the change in energy was immediate. He swept into your room like a force of nature, all British composure on the surface but with worry radiating from every line of his body.
"Miss," he said, and his voice was rough in a way you'd never heard before. "My dear girl."
Your friends stepped back, giving him space. He took Jasmine's vacated chair and immediately took your hand in both of his, studying your face with those sharp butler's eyes that missed nothing.
"I'm okay," you said automatically.
"You are decidedly not okay." He glanced at the monitors, at the IV in your arm, at your pale face. "How long have you been ill?"
"Three months. Diagnosed, I mean. Probably longer than that."
His expression did something complicatedâpain, guilt, anger, all carefully controlled. "And you didn't tell anyone."
"I tried. Bruceâ" Your voice caught. "I tried to tell him. He was busy."
Alfred's jaw tightened. "I see."
"It's not your fault," you added quickly. "You have so much to manage. I didn't want to add to it."
"My dear child." His voice was gentle but firm. "You are never an addition to my burdens. Never. Do you understand? You are part of this family, whether they remember to act like it or not."
"They're at the gala," you said. Stating the obvious, but it felt important somehow. "All of them. Together. Being the perfect Wayne family."
"I will call them immediatelyâ"
"Don't." You grabbed his hand tighter. "Please don't. Not tonight. Let them have their gala. I'll still be here tomorrow."
"This is a medical emergencyâ"
"I'm stable. The doctor said so. And if you call Bruce now, he'll be angry that I interrupted his important event. He'll come because he has to, not because he wants to. I don'tâ" Your voice cracked. "I don't want that. I'd rather be here with Alfred, who actually cares, than have Bruce show up out of obligation."
Alfred looked at you for a long moment, and you saw the war in his expressionâduty versus compassion, protocol versus your obvious pain.
"Very well," he said finally. "But first thing tomorrow morning, I will inform them. This cannot continue."
"Okay."
"And I will be staying here with you tonight."
"You don't have toâ"
"I am staying," he repeated, in a tone that brooked no argument. "End of discussion."
You nodded, too tired to fight.
He turned to your friends, who'd been watching the exchange with interest. "And you three must be the friends she speaks so highly of."
"She speaks about us?" Marco looked surprised.
"Occasionally. Usually when she's trying to avoid discussing her own wellbeing." Alfred's expression softened. "Thank you for being there for her. For seeing her when others did not."
"She's our best friend," Dani said simply. "Of course we're here."
"Yeah, you couldn't get rid of us if you tried," Marco added.
"I have no intention of trying. In factâ" Alfred pulled out his phone. "I would like your contact information, if you're comfortable sharing. Someone should know how to reach her support system."
They exchanged numbers, and you watched through heavy eyelids, feeling a weird sense of worlds colliding. Alfred and your friends, the two parts of your life that actually cared, coordinating.
Maybe tomorrow would be terrible. Maybe Bruce would show up angry or indifferent. Maybe your brothers would be uncomfortable and distant. Maybe this whole thing would just reinforce how little you mattered in the grand scheme of Wayne family dynamics.
But tonight, you had Alfred and your friends, and you were alive, and that was enough.
Dr. Kaur returned, ushering your friends out with promises that they could visit tomorrow. They hugged you goodbyeâcarefully, mindful of the wires and IVsâand left with backward glances and worried expressions.
"I'll text you," Dani called from the door.
"Constantly," Marco added. "Like, annoyingly often."
"We'll coordinate a schedule," Jasmine said, ever practical.
Then they were gone, and it was just you and Alfred and the steady beep of the heart monitor.
"Rest," Alfred said, still holding your hand. "I'll be right here."
"Don't you need to get back? The galaâ"
"The gala will manage without me. You will not."
You wanted to argue, but exhaustion was pulling you under. "Alfred?"
"Yes, Miss?"
"Thank you. For coming. For caring."
"Always," he said quietly. "I am sorry I didn't see this sooner. I am sorry you felt you had to face this alone."
"Not your fault."
"Perhaps. But I should have looked closer. Should have noticed. That is my failure, not yours."
You wanted to say more, wanted to absolve him of guilt he didn't deserve, but sleep was claiming you. The last thing you heard before you drifted off was Alfred's voice, quiet and determined:
"I will make this right. I promise you, my dear girl. I will make them see."
Pairing: RE9!Leon Kennedy x isekai'd!fem!Reader (ft. Grace Ashcroft and Victor Gideon)
Summary: Whenever you play Leon's part in Resident Evil Requiem, Leon hears everything you sayâfrom your curses, to your praises, to your reaction to seeing him break open a warped door with his hatchetâhe hears it all. Even when you get thrown into his universe, you're just as shameless as you were before you arrived.
Note: It ain't a Genshinluvr fic if I don't write at least one fic with an isekai plot. There are snippets of the actual game in this fic, and as the fic progresses, once you/the reader gets isekai'd into Resident Evil Requiem. I had the time of my life typing this out, not gonna lie. It was fun as hell. Anyway! I don't post anywhere else but on Tumblr (Genshinluvr) and on AO3 (Aaliah_exo).
Warning: Violence (the usual), Victor Gideon caressing Leon (is that a warning itself?), The Girl, you'll probably get secondhand embarrassment from this fic.
Word Count: 9.8k
You're buzzing with excitement, knowing you're going to see the 49-year-old Leon S. Kennedy in his glory after playing Grace's part at the Wrenwood Hotel. You have been anticipating the release of Resident Evil Requiem ever since you saw the trailer for the game. Now that it's in your Steam library, you have been itching to play the game after work.
You're sitting at your desk, knees pressing against your chest as the cut scene plays before you. Your heart is still pounding against your chest after you manage to escape from the infected police officer, Cole. You watch Grace collapse in the strange man's iron grip, her body slumping to the side, and the screen goes black.
"Is it finally happening?" You whisper, leaning forward towards the monitor, and watch the series of police cars slowly appear on the screen, before cutting to a scene where it shows a dead body with strange blotches on the palm of the deceased's hand. Your eyes light up. "It is! It is it is it is!"
The manâobviously, it's thee Leon S. Kennedyâgets up from where he was kneeling and leaves the area that is blocked off with crime scene tape.
"Talk to me. Is this one like the others?" A woman's voice breaks through the sound of pouring rain as the man walks towards the CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS and POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS tape.
"Same black blotches." He ducks under the tape and continues to walk past the police cars at the crime scene.
"And it's not postmortem lividity?" The mission coordinator asks.
"No." He turns toward the area where his car is parked. "No, this is different. That's six now. Six survivors of Raccoon City, all dead from the same thing." The scene switches to the inside of the car.
"Yeah, that's⌠not good."
"No⌠No, it's not." The car door opens, and the investigator gets into the car before closing it.
You lean in your seat, biting your bottom lip. God, his voice is so husky. You continue watching the cut scene, completely immersed and enamored by the sight of the man you will be playing as very soon, once the cut scene is over. The mission coordinator proceeds to give additional information to the mysterious man.
You already know who this mysterious man is behind the wheel. But when the bottom half of his face is shown in the rear-view mirror, you audibly gasp and continue to watch the cut scene, watching the man grab his gun and pop out the cylinder, spinning it around before popping it back in, while the mission coordinator continues to speak in his intercom.
The minute the game finally reveals Leon's face, you gasp. "Oh myâLeon, you're so handsome."
For about thirty seconds, Leon doesn't respond to the woman on the other end of his intercom. His eyebrows slightly furrow, his eyes scanning his surroundings. Did he just hear someone else's voice? It's certainly not the mission coordinator. What the hell?
"You there, Leon?" The mission coordinator asks, bringing him out of his thoughts.
Leon nods. "Yeah. I'm here."
"You okay?" Leon can hear the woman raise her eyebrows as she waits for his response.
Leon doesn't respond to her question. Leon glances in his rear-view mirror, checking to see if a random woman may have sneaked into his car, but he sees no one. Leon pushes the start button of his Porsche Cayenne Turbo GT, and the black luxury car purrs to life.
"Send me the address," Leon says, putting his car in reverse and turning halfway. "I'll check it out." Leon puts his gearshift into drive before he drives off into the night.
You stare at the dark screen after watching Leon's car disappear into the nightâyour mouth agape. You're so glad that you spent $69.99 for this game. You could spend additional money on the deluxe version, but you wanted to finish the game first before deciding whether a deluxe version is worth buying.
You end up playing the game for a little over an hour. You're now on Grace's part of the game, where you need to find a screwdriver for the fuse box in Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Center. You didn't know what got into you when you chose to play the standard classic mode rather than casual or standard modern mode.
"God, I'm so stupid. Why am I doing this to myself?" You mutter after Grace grabs the ink ribbon in the room that you unlocked with the Cherub Key. "Limited autosaves, and I need to save my gameplay wisely. Why did I choose this mode again?"
You're roaming around the area as Graceâyou're playing in first-person point of viewâtrying to gather the courage to go to the nursing station. It's so dark that you have to squint to see in the darkness. As much as you want to change the setting to make it a little brighter for you to see in the dark, where's the fun in that?
"It's okay! I can do this! Everything will be okay, and nothing will happen!" You try to give yourself a pep talk, having Grace walk to the nursing station with a tiny lighter in her hand, illuminating her path. Just as Grace approaches the door, a cut scene is triggered, and an infected corpse falls through the door, scaring both you and Grace.
Grace leans down and touches the corpse's neck. "He's dead." Grace states the obvious.
"I would hope so." You mutter, mentally preparing for what's to come.
After Grace moves the man's head, a large hand emerges from the darkness and grabs the infected corpse. Grace lets out a choked gasp, watching in horror as the grotesque monster brings the dead body up to her mouth and bites off the head.
Its eyes lock on Grace, mouth and teeth stained with blood, and it leans towards Grace. You flinch back from your monitor, questioning your choices on playing the game in the dead of night. After the cut scene ends, you immediately turn around and leave the nursing station with the monster at your (Grace's?) tail.
"Come on, come on, come on! Can you please run any faster, Grace?" You panic, shaking your legs as you run to the nearest room that has lights. When you successfully run to Room 203, you turn around to see the grotesque monster at the entrance of the room.
The monster steps into the room, causing Grace to fearfully yell out, "Don't come any closer!"
The monster's gray skin starts sizzling and burning from the lights in the room. It shrieks and steps outside the room. You and Grace watch the monster climb up a hole in the ceiling, leaving Grace alone at last. Just when you thought you were safe, the lights in the room went out, sending chills and shivers down your spine.
You run out of the room, heart pounding against your chest. After you make it back to the nursing station, you grab the med injector and start searching for the screwdriver for the fuse box. You can hear blood pounding in your ears, listening to Grace's shaky breath.
You search around the room and eventually have to move the cart. But before you do that, you move it slightly and open the locker to see a green herb.
"This could be useful," Grace mutters, grabbing it.
You climb onto the cart, grabbing the antique coin from the top of the locker before getting off. You grab the cart and start pushing towards the shelf where you spotted a red toolbox perched on top. Just as you're halfway to the shelf, a metal tray slides off the cart and clatters loudly to the ground, causing you and Grace to freeze momentarily.
You hear chains and shackles dragging on the floor, followed by heavy footsteps that are heading towards the nursing station where Grace is. Out of sheer panic, you grab the cart and move it closer to the shelf, ignoring the other items falling off and crashing to the ground.
You catch a glimpse of the creature through the window, slamming her hand against the glass while walking towards the nursing station. At this point, your heart is in your throat, and you're close to pausing the game and ending it there for the night, but the issue is that you still need to save the game, and if you don't, you have to redo where it last auto-saved.
Once the cart is close enough to the shelf, you climb onto it and grab the red toolbox, unlatching it and taking out the screwdriver. You sigh in relief, hopping off the cart and running to the nearest hiding spot. You extinguish the flames of Grace's lighter, staring at the door while listening to the monster getting closer to where you're having Grace hide.
The monster's hand suddenly appears, grabbing onto the doorframe before walking into the room. It sniffs the air, walking further into the room and looking around. It gets close to where the cart is and lets out a frenzied growl, swiping at the cart, causing it to fly to the desk. Grace whimpers.
You take it as a sign to start running. Before the mutated creature can turn and look in your and Grace's direction, you have Grace leave the hiding spot and start sprinting in the darkness. Since the creature turned the lights off in Room 203, you start running to the room where the typewriter sits. Before you pass the nursing station, the door bursts open, and the monster appears.
You briefly pause the game, staring at the menu in horror. Your heart is thudding painfully against your chest as you try to calm down. You lean back in your seat, heavily debating if you should just stop there.
"But I made so much progress. I have the screwdriver. I just need to find a way to get Grace to go around the monster, run to Room 201, get the fuse from the fuse box in that very room, and run to the other fuse box where I got the Cherub Key."
You take a deep breath and close your eyes. God, this is horrifying. Playing the game in first person point of view makes it even scarier than you anticipated. You give yourself a pep talk before unpausing the game. Grace cries out in fear, freezing in fear when the monster fully reveals itself in front of Grace.
You start mashing the buttons, begging for Grace to start moving or else she's dead. "Come on, come on, come on! We gotta go, or else we're next, Grace!"
As if she heard you, Grace turns around and starts running to the other entrance of the nursing station where the two of you came from. Grace hides near the desk in the nursing station, panting as the two of you wait and listen to the monster walk past the nursing station over and over.
"This is horrifying." You mutter, hands trembling on your mouse and keyboard. "Is the empty bottle even going to work in this situation?" You creep towards the door where the monster burst from, trying to see where it is.
You take the empty bottle out of Grace's inventory and aim for the furthest part of the hallwayâclose to where the plant was knocked overâand toss the bottle. The bottle shatters, grabbing the creature's attention. It shrieks and charges towards where the bottle landed, giving you and Grace a small window to escape your hiding spot.
You have Grace sprint to Room 201 as fast as she could, but it feels like Grace wasn't running at all from first person perspective. It feels more like a power walk rather than Grace running for her life. Halfway down the hallway, you and Grace hear the monster shrieking and charging towards where you're heading.
"Hurry, hurry!"
Grace pushes the door aside and makes it to the room where the typewriter sits. You sigh in relief, blood pounding in your ears. Grace takes a few steps towards where the fuse box is, only for the entire building to shake and the lights to flicker and turn off.
"We need to get that fuse and get the hell out of here as soon as possible," You say, making Grace go to the fuse box inside the closet. You unscrew the fuse box with the screwdriver, and Grace takes out the fuse, triggering a cut scene.
Grace stares at the fuse, "Alright," she mutters. Grace turns around, and just when she can leave the closet, you and Grace hear a faint thud coming above her. Grace gasps and looks up at the gaping hole in the ceiling of the closet in horror.
Grace takes a step back, eyes still locked on the hole. "Oh my god," Grace whispers.
The monster starts climbing into the room where Grace is, causing Grace to gasp and start panicking. The cut scene suddenly ends, and now you find yourself forcing Grace to turn around and make a run for it to the fuse box where the Cherub Key was located.
The lights shatter, and the building rumbles as Grace runs through the dark hallways of Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Center. When you press 'F' at the fuse box, a cut scene is triggered, showing Grace shoving the fuse into the fuse box, pressing the button, and quickly looking back as the security gate slowly pulls up.
You watch Grace drop to the ground and quickly crawl underneath the moving gate. "Come on, come on, come on, come on, come on!" Grace pleads as she crawls through the gate, and the monster appears where Grace came from. You collapse in your seat, sighing in relief, happy that you have gotten through the first (among many) difficult parts of the game.
The monitor goes black before switching to another cut sceneâbut it starts with showing Leon's Porsche driving through the gate of Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Center and to the front. Leon exits the car, and you gasp in awe, completely enamored by the mere sight of Leon S. Kennedy.
"God, he looks so good." You whisper breathlessly as you watch him walk to the door of the facility after closing the car door. "Why can't you be real?" You lament, resting your chin on your knees as you continue watching the cut scene unfold.
Leon stands in the central hall, his eyes scanning his surroundings. It's quiet, too quiet. But despite how quiet it is in the facility, Leon still hears the same voice he heard earlier near the crime scene he left before arriving at the sanatorium. Maybe he's going crazy, and the side effects of the T-virus are starting to get to him.
You watch the nurse appear behind Leon, calling out to him and informing him that Dr. Gideon was expecting him.
"Funny. I don't remember getting an invitation," Leon's sarcastic response makes you snort, shaking your head. Leon hears the faint snort, the corners of his lips barely curving up into a smile.
The nurse continues speaking to Leon, telling him that Dr. Gideon is waiting for him. Leon soon follows after the nurse as she guides him to who knows where. The cut scene continues a little longer, only for the nurse to lead Leon to the rehabilitation ward. The door closes behind Leon, making him turn around. Then the cut scene ends there, and now you're in control of Leon.
You don't move Leon, watching him on the screen and admiring his design. God, the developers at Capcom really went all out for Leon. You spin the camera around, continuing to admire him. Leon looks around the facility, wondering why he couldn't move despite trying to. It's like he's locked in place until someone commands him to move. The nurse is waiting at the end of the hallway, waiting for him to follow.
"Okay, I need to get moving and stop getting easily distracted by Leon," You say to yourself, finally controlling Leon's movements and proceeding to follow the nurse as Leon.
The nurse explains about the facility and what they do at the sanatorium as both Leon and the nurse continue walking down the hall. Leon has no idea where the nurse is leading him, and neither do you, but judging by the map, it's probably to your (mainly Leon's) doom.
"The facility keeps a low profile due to the sensitive nature of the research," The nurse says, walking to the rehabilitation center of the facility.
"Oh, I bet it does," Leon replies, as he follows the nurse throughout the facility.
You hum, eyebrows furrowing at the conversation between Leon and the nurse of the strange facility. "That's something someone suspicious would say," You mutter, face scrunching up. You're so glad that you haven't dealt with any horrors as Leon just yet. "You have a mutated monster stomping around your facility right now, too."
Leon raises his eyebrows at your comment, still questioning if he's going crazy. Leon glances around, then at the nurse, but she doesn't seem to notice anything strangeâor hear a woman's voice for that matterâand continues making her way to the room at the end of the rehabilitation ward. Once Leon gets closer to the room and the nurse, a new cut scene starts for you.
You yawn, stretching in your seat, watching the nurse leave Leon alone in the room and closing the door behind her as she leaves. The camera zooms in on Leon, making your face scrunch up.
"God, this Dr. Gideon guy is way more obsessed with Leon than I am," You comment, watching Leon peek at every little thing in the room.
Leon raises his eyebrows at your comment. "Almost as you are? What do you mean by that?" Leon wants to ask. Instead, Leon chooses to stay silent, as saying things out loud would earn weird looks from whoever passes by the room he's in, or could land him in this exact facility.
Little did you know, Leon's searching around for where the voice is coming from. The woman's voice is loud and clear to him, and yet he sees no one. He's alone in this room, but he's been hearing voices in his head every now and then. The voice comes and goes, gushing over him and his skills; other times, the same voice would chime in after someoneâwho's conversing with Leonâsays something.
Leon rests against the desk, reaching for the photograph of Victor Gideon and his medical team that runs the facility. Leon subconsciously furrows his eyebrows as he scrutinizes the image in his hand before setting it back down where he found it. Leon checks the time on his watch, his expensive watch appearing on your monitor.
"That looks expensive, but I shouldn't be surprised. You drive a Porsche Cayenne Turbo GTâthat's probably the most expensive thing I've seen you own." You comment, watching the time tick away on Leon's watch.
Much to your disappointment, the cut scene soon comes to an end after the nurse is killed by the chainsaw-wielding doctor. You're soon in control of Leon again and have to kill every infected person in the surrounding area with a chainsaw, which you're not a fan of.
"This thing is a bit hard to wield around. It kind of slows me down, and after Leon plunges the chainsaw into a zombie, I would need to retrieve it again from said zombieâŚ" You sigh, shaking your head. "Oh, shit." The chainsaw drops to the ground and starts spinning out of control.
You force Leon out of the way, trying to avoid getting hit by the out-of-control chainsaw. A zombie nurse charges at Leon with her arms outstretched, trying to grab him. You try shooting the nurse with the requiem gun, but miss.
"Fuck. My aim is atrocious. I am so sorry, Leon. You're supposed to be cool, but I'm making you look like an amateur loser." You frown.
Leon frowns. "Amateur loser? Who are you calling an amateur loser?" Leon mouths to himself, continuing to aim his gun at the infected nurse.
You try shooting the nurse as she gets closer to Leon, but before you can shoot, the nurse lunges at Leon. You let out a choked gasp, assuming Leon is done for, but he ducks underneath the nurse's grasp and shoots her at the back of the head, blood spewing all over the place when her head explodes.
"Whoa!" You gasp, eyes wide in awe. "How did you do that?!" You exclaim, pausing briefly to look at what buttons you've pressed, but you're too busy mashing different buttons to know the actual controls of the dodge he just did.
You unpause the game. "Leon, can you do that again?" You ask yourself, shooting every zombie that's charging at Leon at full speed. How the hell did you do that again? You really need to know what the controls are, or else you won't be able to pull that cool move ever again.
As more zombies emerge from the other rooms in the rehabilitation ward, you shoot every zombie in the head successfully despite having bad aim. An infected doctor lunges at Leon, causing you to panic momentarily, miss your shot, and giving the zombie an opportunity to grab onto Leon and bite down on his shoulders.
"Ah, fuck! I'm so sorry, Leon!"
Leon cries out in pain as he thrashes around, trying to get the zombie to release. You press on your mouse frantically, watching Leon's health bar rapidly deplete at a dangerous pace, the longer the zombie bites down on Leon's shoulders. Leon reaches for his hatchet and attacks the zombie, causing it to back away.
"I really need to learn how to properly parry and aim." You grumble, aiming Leon's requiem gun at the zombie and shoot, only to miss again. "Man, I'm making Leon look uncool, what the fuck."
The zombie lunges at Leon again, and before you can panic, Leon dodges under the zombie's arm and shoots it at the back of its head. The adrenaline dies down, and Leon is left alone in the rehabilitation ward, surrounded by headless zombies.
The only sounds you hear are the sounds of the chainsaw and Leon's heavy breathing, his health bar yellow rather than green. Before escaping the ward, you have Leon search around the room for a healing item. You could use the green herb in your inventory, but it's not enough to fully heal Leon.
"It's okay, Leon! You're going to be okay! You're not going to die under my watch, no matter how bad I am with aiming and parrying." You reassure the DSO agent, picking up the mixed herbs from the glass cabinet that Leon broke. After picking up the mixed herbs, you immediately use them, watching Leon's health bar slightly go up.
You continue playing the game until almost four in the morning, only having to end your gameplay after Leon's cut scene with Victor Gideon after your Mom peeks into your room, scaring the shit out of you.
"Why are you still awake?!" Your Mom asks, staring at you in horror.
You point at your monitor, a cut scene of Leon tied up to a chair playing on your screen. Your Mom peeks at your computer and sighs, shaking her head before leaving your room, muttering under her breath about how you need to stop staying up so late.
You turn back to your monitor, taking multiple screenshots of Leon tied to the chair while Victor Gideon is almost sweet-talking to the DSO agent. You stare at Leon in awe, mouth agape. The side view of Leon on? Whew! His biceps are looking extra delicious.
You bite your bottom lip. "God, I would love to sink my teeth into those biceps of his." You lean back in your seat, groaning. "The ladies at Capcom did a fantastic job at designing Leon."
You watch Victor Gideon touch Leon, almost oh-so intimately. The way his gray fingers brush the strands of Leon's brown and silver hair. Ugh. You're so envious of Victor's privilege to even be in the presence of Leon Kennedy. You make sure to take multiple screenshots of Leonâframe by frame.
Leon can hear the camera shutters, raising an eyebrow. It's strange how Victor Gideon is touching him, and yet this voice in his head is swooning over him being tied up and touched by the former T-Virus researcher. Of course, he doesn't hear you mention a single thing about Victor, only about wanting to sink your teeth into his (your words, not his) beefy biceps.
"I don't like how he's touching you, Leon. He's practically fondling you." You grumble. "I should be the one to do that, not him. Just like how I should be the one to lunge at you and sink my teeth into your biceps, not those greedy zombies."
The camera cuts to Leon looking down while Victor Gideon softly says, "Are the answers to your disease here?" after pulling down Leon's shirt collar. Victor leans down, his face not far from Leon's. "YesâŚ." Victor whispers.
Leon flinches, his face pinching up with disgust. "You know, I do have a question," Leon says, looking at Victor, deadpanned. "When was the last time you brushed your teeth?"
Leon hears immediate laughter coming from you after asking. Leon's tempted to laugh as well, but because of the predicament he's in, he doesn't smile. The smile on Victor's face slips off, and he backs away from Leon and takes a few steps in front of Leon.
Mechanical whirring can be heard from Leon's end as Victor stares at him, zooming in on his face and his eyes. You take a quick screenshot, thanking Victor for being oddly meticulous when it comes to Leon. If it weren't for Victor, you wouldn't have a lot of screenshots of Leon added to your new collection.
The cut scene soon ends with you taking over fifty screenshots (you're pressing down on the screenshot button, taking screenshots of every frame), and you find yourself back in control of Leon. You frown, letting out a wistful sigh. "I'm going to need to find a stopping point and go to bed. Let's trigger an auto save somewhere, and I'll continue when I wake up." You say to yourself.
You make it to where Leon needs to go and stop in front of a metal cabinet storage that's blocking a doorway. You poke the inside of your cheek with your tongue, approaching said cabinet storage with a cheeky smile. Oh, you are going to enjoy this!
You press 'F,' and Leon starts lifting the cabinet to move it out of the way, his biceps and back muscles flexing as he lets out a grunt. Before Leon successfully moves the cabinet out of the way, you suddenly release the 'F' key.
"Oh, fuck, my hands slipped." You say to no one.
It's a good thing Leon's back is facing your monitor because if it were facing his direction, you would've seen an eye roll from him along with a shy smile. Leon knows what you're doing; he's not stupid. You press the 'F' key again, watching Leon lift the cabinet, his biceps flexing underneath that tight shirt of his. Again, before Leon can fully move the obstacle out of the way, you release the keys.
You huff. "Man, my keyboard is messed up. I really need to get a new one because for some reason, it's not lasting long," You say with a shit-eating grin on your face. "I have a bad feeling that this keyboard is going to give me⌠issues the longer I play this game with a broken keyboard."
"Oh, yeah?" Leon mutters, shaking his head with a small smirk, his shoulders shaking from his quiet laughter. He can get used to hearing your commentary while he's handling the shit show that's happening at Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Center.
Finally, after some time, you finally have Leon move the metal cabinet, relishing in the sight of his muscles flexing underneath his shirt, and the sound of his grunts as he does so. Leon S. Kennedy, the man that you are! The autosave button appears in the top left corner of the screen, signaling you to go to bed.
With a heavy heart, you bid Leon goodnightâas if he could hear youâbefore pausing and exiting the game. You plop onto your bed after the game closes and roll on your bed, eyelids feeling heavy after staring at your monitor for who knows how long. You close your eyes and drift into a dreamless sleep.
A few hours into your sleep, you wake up to the feeling of your bedroom shaking, forcing yourself to crack your eyes open briefly and stare up at the ceiling, still groggy from your slumber. You rub your eyes, mumbling to yourself, and turn over on your right side before going back to sleep. Earthquakes are common, so waking up to one isn't out of the ordinary. Nothing seems out of the norm, but little did you know, this isn't any other earthquake you've dealt with in the past.
That is, until you wake up to someone shaking you nonstop. "Hey, can you hear me? Wake up!" The voice says as the shaking continues.
You groan, trying to turn over and ignore whoever is shaking you. "Not now." You mumble, eyebrows furrowing.
Whoever is shaking you is very persistent, as they continue to do something to try to rouse you from your sleep. The person starts lightly patting your cheek, muttering about how you need to wake up and stop ignoring them. You finally crack your eyes open after a while, vision blurry from your sleep. A blurry face is hovering above yours, but as your vision gradually clears up, your heart nearly falls into your ass.
"Leon?" You whisper in disbelief, mind still foggy from your sleep.
Leon chuckles, sighing in relief. "Hey, Sleeping Beauty. Good to see those eyes of yours," Leon says, his eyes scanning the littlest details on your face. "I was worried you weren't going to wake up, but it seems like you're not a morning person, huh."
You don't respond to Leon as you slowly reach up and cup his face with both your hands, still trying to comprehend what's happening. Surely this is a dream, right? You did play Resident Evil Requiem for hours before going to bed, and Leon's the last thing you were thinking about before drifting to sleep.
"This is the most vivid dream I have ever had," You mutter, still holding Leon's face in your hands. "Man, it's going to be so disappointing when I wake up."
Leon stares down at you, confused. "What are you talking about?"
You shake your head, head falling to the side before sighing sadly. "This is the best dream I've ever had, and yet I'm going to get a rude awakening very soon once this ends." You lament.
"Aw, man. I think you hit your head pretty hard when you fell," Leon mutters, feeling around your head for a possible concussion.
You blink at Leon. "Of course, I fell for you. Who wouldn't fall for you?"
Leon shakes his head, the corner of his lips curling up. Despite everything, you still manage to be a sweet talker, much to Leon's amusement. Then again, you do think that this is all a dream. Leon's fingers brush a certain area on your head, earning a hiss from you. "I can feel a goose egg forming."
Now that your mind clears up and you're more awake than you were, you come to the realization that Leon is cradling you in his armsâhis beefy arms. Wait, that means that his bicep is your pillow. You rub your eyes again, sitting up and looking around to see that you're not in your room. This dream is a bit too realistic for your liking, because why are you in the attic of Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Center?
Panic hits you like a train. Your head snaps towards Leon's direction. "This is a dream, right? I'm still asleep in my bed, right?" You start pinching yourself, but nothing is happening. "Oh, my god. This can't be real. This has to be a dream."
Leon doesn't say anything. Instead, he continues to stare at you, taking in every detail of your face, your hair, and your clothes. The longer Leon listens to you ramble, the more he realizes something.
His eyes light up. "You're the voice I've been hearing," Leon says, his arm still holding you up.
His comment makes you go silent. "Pardon?" You press your lips into a thin line. "What do you mean?"
Leon's lips curl up into a smile, shaking his head. "I don't think now is a good time to tell you when you're having an inner turmoil."
Maybe a hug will help you calm down a little, but given the things he heard you say a few hours before your arrival, it probably won't help. But it won't hurt to try, right? Leon pulls you into his arms, hugging you. Your cheek is cushioned against his chest, his beefy arms around your torso, and his chin is resting atop your head.
You wrap your arms around Leon's neck, feeling yourself melting in his arms. God, it feels so nice to hug him. You can't describe what it's like to hug Leon, but you can live in his arms if it's possible. You and Leon sit like that for a while. It doesn't feel weird or uncomfortable to be hugging someone you don't knowâa fictional one, to be specific.
It's comforting and gives you a small window to collect your thoughts. You went to bed, but woke up to an earthquake before falling back asleep. Then you're roused from your sleep by Leon, who claimed that you hit your head when you fell. This is all so strange.
"How the hell did I get isekai'd into Resident Evil Requiem? I didn't get hit by a truck." You mutter to yourself, but it's loud enough for Leon to hear.
Leon raises his eyebrows, leaning down to look at your face from the side. "What does 'isekai' mean? And what do you mean by getting hit by a truck?" God, the creases between his eyebrows are so cute. You'd love to smooth the wrinkles over with your fingers.
"I will explain that to you after you tell me what you meant by 'you're the voice I've been hearing,'" You reply, looking up at him.
Leon stares at you for a moment, chuckling to himself. "Alright, alright, I'll tell you what I meant when I said that," Leon caves in.
Leon's not sure if he should look forward to your reaction after he explains everything to you. But hey, you did say that you want him to explain what he meant by what he said, so who is he to deny you? As Leon explains everything, he watches your reaction and body language closely.
The way your face fell was both comical and endearing because now you're covering your face out of sheer embarrassment, but you didn't cover your ears, letting him know that you're still listening despite your reaction. By the time Leon is done explaining, he has a wide smile on his face, the crow's feet at the corner of his eyes becoming noticeable.
You take a deep breath, trying not to have a mental breakdown after hearing Leon's explanation. "You heard everything." You say. Suddenly, you feel faint, but you can't faint in front of Leon. You can't embarrass yourself in front of Leon for the umpteenth time in a row.
Leon nods, still smiling. "That is correct."
"My cursing whenever you get bitten by a zombie."
"You curse like a sailor, but also like a child who was granted permission to curse by her parents." He replies.
You immediately protest. "What! No, I don't!" Do you? Man, this just keeps getting worse and worse for you. "⌠You also heard my thirst over yourâŚ"
"Beefy biceps, me using my hatchet to crack open a warped door, and you claiming that your keyboard is broken when I need to move the fallen metal cabinet in front of a doorway. I can go on, but I'm afraid that you'll have a heart attack if I continue." Leon says.
You hug your knees to your chest. At this point, you're more likely to die from embarrassment than from a zombie bite. You didn't know that Leon can hear everything you say! Does that mean Grace and Victor hear the things you say, too?
You peek at Leon, "Please tell me that no one else hears the things I say." You whisper.
Leon gives your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "You don't need to worry about that. As far as I know, I was the only person who heard your voice. It doesn't seem like Victor heard your voice, and as for that FBI agentâGrace Ashcroft, I'm not entirely sure."
After Leon's explanation, you choose to stay quiet. There's no need for you to embarrass yourself again in front of Leon, right? Leon checks his watch, and when he looks up, you're staring at him with stars in your eyes. Leon is even more beautiful in person. His hair looks so soft and healthy for someone who bleaches his hair often. God, the stubble⌠You love the scratchiness of it when you cupped his face in your hands.
Leon doesn't say anything; instead, he lets you do what makes you happy and stay sane. His eyes are blue, but they're not nearly as blue as it was when he was in his early twenties. Maybe they're still the same blue, but you would need to get a closer look at itâif he catches your drift.
"I love how you kept your signature hairstyle after all these yearsâŚ" You murmur, leaning side to side as your eyes continue taking in every detail of him.
"Now it's your turn to explain to me what 'isekai' means," Leon comments, crossing his arms over his chest.
You quickly glance at Leon's bulging biceps before looking back at him innocently. His biceps looked at you first, so it's only fair for you to look at them in return. "Where do I startâŚ" You trail off, tapping on your chin.
So you start explaining to Leon what isekai means, giving him a rundown on it, its origins, and how there's a handful of animated shows (specifically anime) that have this concept. Leon is intrigued, but also confused. The look of confusion on Leon's handsome face is cute. His eyebrows are furrowing, his head tilting to the side while not taking his eyes off of you for one bit.
You subconsciously reach forward and gently press on the space between his eyebrows, smoothing the creases between his brows. Man, even Leon has soft skin for someone who goes through hell. You meet Leon's eyes, causing you to quickly retract your hand before apologizing sheepishly.
"After explaining to me what 'isekai' meant, it makes sense. Is there a way for you to return to your world?" Leon asks.
You frown dramatically. "Aw, you want to return me to sender already? I'm hurt." You joke, clutching your chest playfully. "I thought you would enjoy my company after going through the horrors of having to deal with Victor Gideon caressing you lovingly."
You turn around and face the wall, pretending to be offended by what he asked. Leon shudders at the memory of Victor's fingers brushing through his hair, fingers ghosting over the dark blotches on his neck after lowering the collar of his shirt. That is not a pleasant memory, and he certainly wishes he could erase it.
"Your presence is a breath of fresh air. I'm merely asking because I don't think you would want to stay and deal with what's waiting for us," Leon replies, reaching forward and grabbing your forearm and turning you around to face him.
You can just melt in his arms right now. You've imagined this very moment, but in a different scenario. Leon Kennedy grabs your arm to stop you from leaving, gazing at you with those dazzling blue eyes of his, his eyebrows knitting together as he pleads for you not to leave. And the way he says it? It'll be soft, making you weak at the knees.
"By the way, you never introduced yourself. You know my name, but I don't know yours." Leon adds, pulling you out of your thoughts.
Your eyes widen. "Oh, crap! You're right! How could I forget?" You smack your forehead before introducing yourself to Leon. After telling Leon your first and last name, Leon stares at you while muttering your full name to himself. Heat rushes to your face the longer he does it.
After what feels like forever, Leon smiles and nods. "Your name suits you. I like it. Your parents must've put a lot of thought and love into naming you."
You stare at Leon, mouth agape. Why did he have to say that? Leon raises an eyebrow at you, smiling in amusement. Without saying anything, you cover your face with both hands as heat continues rushing to your face. This man can effortlessly make you blush like a schoolgirl.
You groan behind your hands. "What are you doing to me?! It's not fair. You know you have this effect on me! Damn you, Leon Scott Kennedy!" You whine.
If only you could evaporate right now. Maybe Leon was up to something when he asked if there was a way for you to return to your world, because how much longer can you handle being in the presence of Leon S. Kennedy? The only thing you hear is laughter coming from Leonâhis laugh is soft, very gentle. You peek between your fingers to see him shaking his head, a wide smile on his face as he gazes at the wooden floor.
Realization hits you. You're so fucked. There's not a single man in your lifeâreal and fictionalâwho has made you feel this way before. Until Leon S. Kennedy happened. You love every version of Leon, but there's something about forty-nine-year-old Leon Kennedy. Aside from his looks, there's something that makes you feel so warm and gooey inside when he shows up on your screen.
You look at an imaginary camera, hands falling on your lap before sighing. "I'm so fucked." You whisper, shaking your head in disbelief. "Okay, let's kill some zombies and get the hell out of here."
You push yourself off the ground, feeling around for the so-called goose egg Leon felt on your head, while Leon gets off the ground and brushes the dust off his ass. Leon grabs your wrist, preventing you from finding this goose egg. You look at Leon, frowning.
He wags his pointer finger at you, shaking his head. "Don't search for it."
"Fine." You mumble, lowering your arm, but Leon doesn't let go of your wrist.
You blink at him, looking back and forth from your hands to Leon's face. Leon doesn't say anything and starts looking for an exit with you in tow, his hand still wrapped around your wrist. You will take that as a win because Leon is holding your hand, kind of! You peek at Leon and wiggle your wrist to hold his hand.
You and Leon soon come across the familiar metal cabinet that's blocking the entrance. Your heart nearly sinks into the pit of your stomach when you realize what you're about to face soon. This is strange; you could've sworn that you moved the cabinet before ending the game right there.
"Step back. I don't want you to get hurt." Leon says, gently nudging you to the side, and starts lifting the cabinet.
You press your lips into a thin line and cover your mouth, watching his back muscles and biceps flex under the fabric of his shirt. Leon grunts and starts lifting the metal cabinet. You bite your lower lip, enticed by what you're seeing and hearing.
After a few minutes, Leon successfully moves the cabinet out of the way. He fixes his shirt before pulling out his gun from the holster. Leon turns to you to see you staring at him in a daze, earning an eyebrow raise and smirk from him. You quickly snap out of it, acting like you weren't ogling him just now.
"So, do I follow you into that room or do I wait out here until you finish your, uh, duty?" You ask, rubbing the back of your neck.
You don't know how much has changed since your sudden arrival in this universe, but you're hoping it's not much change, but who knows?
Leon holds his hand out and gestures for you to follow him. "I'm not leaving you behind, are you crazy?"
"For you? Yes." Is your automatic response. You slap your hand over your mouth and squeeze your eyes shut. "I mean, let's go and get this over with!" You say, grabbing his hand and walking through the entrance with Leon in tow.
You're always amazed by your ability to humiliate yourself. This has got to be a new record for you. Once you and Leon step through that door, everything shifts. The atmosphere, the mood, the air, and the sound. You hear squelching coming from the other side of the room.
Think of someone chewing with their mouth open, but multiply that by a thousand. That's how loud it is in person. The squelching is accompanied by deep rumbles. You and Leon trade looks with each other before slowly making your way through the room, making sure Leon picks up ammo for his guns.
Leon stops in his tracks, holding his arm out in front of you before looking over his shoulder at you. "You're going to have to trust me on this, alright?" Leon murmurs.
You look at him, confused. "What are you planning? Should I be worried?" You whisper.
Leon doesn't respond and continues walking towards where the disturbing sound is coming from. You swallow the lump in your throat when you eye the grotesque creature towering over a dead body, feasting on its rotting flesh. The smell is rancid, making your stomach churn.
You grip the back of Leon's shirt, lightly tugging it. "How can you handle a smell like that when you're dealing with these things?" You mutter to him, tempted to bury your face into his back to block out the smell of decomposition and blood.
"When you're constantly out on the field dealing with these things, you'd get used to it."
You raise an eyebrow at his response. "But you recoiled when you caught a whiff of Victor's breath." You point out.
Leon snorts. "Smelling rotting flesh and bad breath are two different things. Besides, who knows how long it's been since he has brushed his teeth?"
"Can't argue with that."
You continue following Leon around the room while he collects ammo for his guns, occasionally peeking from behind him to get a look at the mutated being. For something that large, you're shocked that it hasn't heard you and Leon walking around the vicinity.
"Do you trust me?" Leon asks suddenly, turning towards you.
You falter. "Uh, yes, I do trust youâeven though we met not long ago. I'm surprised you trust me despite the things I put you through." You refer to your failed aiming and parrying before you were isekai'd into Resident Evil Requiem.
Leon chuckles, shaking his head. "Of course, I trust you. You're the only one who kept me sane at the start of this shit show." Leon replies.
Leon turns around and aims his gun at the ravenous, mutated creature and shoots it in the head with his shotgun. You flinch at the sound, gripping his shirt hard as you watch the creature stop munching on the corpse and turn towards your and Leon's direction.
Fueled by rage and anger, the chunky zombie roars. "Food! Food! Food!" He growls, getting ready to charge towards you and Leon.
"Hope I'm not next," Leon mutters.
Before you can say anything, Leon quickly turns around, grabs you by the waist, and tosses you over his shoulders before making a run for it. Upside down, you wrap your arms around his waist, whimpering as the monster gets closer to you and Leon. You certainly didn't sign up for this when you got isekai'd, but hey, you didn't sign up to be isekai'd in general!
"Leon! He's getting closer!" You whimper, patting his lower back.
Leon loads his shotgun, making sharp turns to avoid getting grabbed by the ravenous creature. Leon picks up a med injector from a wall that was broken by the monster, along with the shotgun shells and handgun ammo. Leon quickly grabs onto the ladder and climbs up. You nearly flip over if it weren't for Leon's quick reflexes and your iron grip around his waist.
"Are you sure I'm not getting in the way?" You ask, lifting your head to look at Leon. "I feel like I'm adding more weight on you. Metaphorically and literally."
Leon pats the back of your thighs. "You're fine, you're not getting in the way or adding weight on me," Leon reassures you.
Leon quickly puts you down on the platform, fixes his gear, and gestures for you to get on his shoulders by squatting in front of you. You climb over Leon, stomach resting on his shoulders, while your arms are wrapped around his waist. Leon wraps one arm over the back of your thighs, checking to see where the mutated monster is.
On cue, the chunky mutated monster, which you found out is named Timothy from the note Leon read to you, appears at the bottom of the platform. Timothy growls and tries reaching for you and Leon, but Leon shoots him in the face with his shotgun, but Timothy's not phased by it.
Timothy starts climbing up the platform, causing you to involuntarily flinch. "LeonâŚ" You plead, patting Leon's thighs. "We need to move, or else we will be on Timothy's menu!"
Leon tightens his grip on your legs. "Brace yourself."
Before you can process what Leon's doing, you suddenly feel airborne. Your heart is in your throat as you cling to Leon for dear life. Leon lands on the ground with a grunt and shoots Timothy a few more times before making a run for it, loading his shotgun.
The chase lasted five more minutes because Timothy was very motivated to get both you and Leon. Finally, Timothy stops, and blood starts spewing out of the holes and gashes on his body that he received from the shotgun shells and Leon's hatchet.
While Timothy is gushing all over the place, Leon walks to the other end of the room to collect extra items that are lying around before putting you back on the ground once Timothy explodes. You brush off your clothes and turn to Leon, propping your hands on your hips and watching him reload his shotgun before switching to his other handgun.
"You know, when I said that I wanted to be manhandled by you, this isn't what I imagined." You comment.
Leon shakes his head, chuckling. "Don't worry, there will be plenty of time for that. Come on, let's get out of here." Leon gestures for you to follow him as he walks towards the door where the rotting corpseâTimothy's final mealâis lying.
You stare at Leon, mouth agape. What does he mean by that?! Wait, Leon is probably implying other boss fights that are waiting for both you and Leon. You really need to get your head out of the gutter. You follow behind Leon, shuddering when you step in the pool of blood that was once Timothy.
Leon grabs the hand grenade from the puddle of blood and continues walking to the exit. Finally, you and Leon will get to leave this place and face more horrors waiting for both of you. Leon unlatches the door and pushes it open, occasionally looking over his shoulder to make sure you're still following him.
You and Leon come across a wooden closet with a warped door. Leon walks to it, grabs his hatchet, lodges it between the doors, and starts prying them open. You bite your bottom lip, watching his biceps flex as he tries to open it. Once the door bursts open and Leon grabs whatever is inside, you look away, trying to act like you weren't drooling over him.
"Ready to go?" Leon asks, turning to you as he puts the mod on his handgun.
You nod, tucking your hair behind your ear. "Yeah! Are you ready to go?" You ask, looking at him from the corner of your eyes.
"Of course, I am. I'm always ready." Leon says softly, walking past you while gently nudging you to follow him by patting your lower back.
You bite the inside of your cheek, screaming internally. You really need to get yourself together because you're acting like a cat in heat. Leon pushes the red button, and the attic opens; the metal ladder slides down, and Leon starts climbing down.
Once Leon gets off the ladder, you start climbing down, shuddering when you see the amount of blood in the office. The whole time while you're climbing down the ladder, Leon's keeping an eye out while holding out his hands to catch you just in case you slip. You step into the puddle of infected blood, groaning with disgust.
"You'd get used to it," Leon says. "Come on, we need to find Victor Gideon's office."
You follow Leon out of the Chairman's office, on edge about whether zombies are roaming around or not. You don't think there's any zombies roaming around cause you killed most of them when you were playing as Grace. You come across another warped closet outside of the Chairman's office, and you sit back and watch Leon do his thing.
"You're really enjoying this, aren't you?" Leon asks, turning to you after taking the handgun ammo and shotgun shells.
You look at Leon, flabbergasted. "Whaâis a lady not allowed to admire a total eye candy in front of her?" You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. "I have had enough of your teasing! Let's find Victor's office." You stick your nose in the air and walk towards the bar and lounge room.
Leon pinches the bridge of his nose, chuckling. "You truly do make this more entertaining than it should be."
The minute you walk into the bar and lounge room, a zombie in a white button-up starts contorting violently while screaming in agony. You walk backwards frantically, bumping into Leon as the zombie gets off the ground and his head morphs into something more horrifying.
"This place is infested," Leon mutters, shaking his head, and aims his gun at the blister head that's running towards both of you. Leon shoots, and the bullet penetrates the zombie's head, causing it to burst, and blood spews everywhere like a water fountain.
You sigh, turning to Leon. "Can you teach me how to shoot one day? You know, in case I have to fight for both of us."
Leon chuckles, shaking his head. "Of course. I can show you when we come across another zombie."
You and Leon continue searching for Victor's office. Instead of having you walk behind or in front of him, Leon makes sure you're by his side at all times because you'd never know when a zombie will sneak up from behind or jump out of nowhere.
As you're both walking up the stairs to the third floor of the sanatorium, you and Leon hear a faint beeping and gurgling from a zombie. Leon hands you his handgun and gestures for you to follow him quietly. Once the zombie is in your and Leon's line of sight, Leon quickly adjusts the gun in your hand, angling your arms a certain way.
"Make sure to have a firm grasp on the gun so it doesn't recoil and hit you in the face," Leon murmurs, his chest pressing up against your back. "Okay, now, you can either shoot the zombie or the red propane tank. I would go for the explosive canister because it's quicker, and who knows how many shots it'll take to kill the zombie."
Taking Leon's advice, you point the handgun towards the red gas tank and shoot. The red canister in the zombie's hand explodes, taking the zombie out with it. You tilt your head up and see Leon's smile as you lower the gun.
Leon pats your shoulders, "Not bad."
"But not good either." You pout dramatically. "Okay, let's go kick Victor Gideon's ass, Leon!" You grab his wrist and drag him up the stairs to another warped doorâmuch to your delight.
Leon shakes his head as he pulls out his hatchet and starts prying the doors open. Once Leon successfully opens the door, you and Leon enter the room and look around to see many bodies with no heads. You immediately latch yourself against Leon, trembling as Leon picks up the paper on the ground.
"Burst their heads if you want to survive."
On cue, you and Leon hear the familiar screams of agony close to the entrance where you and Leon came. This is not what you expected when you got isekai'd into Resident Evil Requiem. Leon shields you from the blister head and starts shooting the head over and over until the zombie finally dies. He leads to the corner of the room where the other zombie lies and takes the shotgun shells and handgun ammo from the vase.
"Do you trust me?" Leon asks, loading his shotgun and handgun.
You nod. "Of course, I do." You answer.
"Good, cause you're going to need to trust me on this." Leon leans down and tosses you over his shoulders just when another blister head bursts through the door to the meeting room.
You squeeze your eyes shut and cling to Leon's torso as he shoots the blister heads and storms the meeting room, where another blister head is getting ready to charge at Leon. This is going to be a long night, and the worst thing is that you're not even sure if you'll return to your world after all this.
Note: I love how in almost every Leon fics I've typed out, I would be kicking my feet and twirling my hair cause I'm having the time of my life typing Leon fics. I completed insanity mode for RE9, and I feel like I've been through hell and back; I finished that game one minute faster than the standard classic mode, somehow. Every time I write a new Leon fic, I replay RE9 because I miss Leon and want to see him tied up. Anyway, to all my new and returning readers, keep in mind that I ONLY post on my Tumblr (Genshinluvr) and my AO3 (Aaliah_exo)! Nowhere else except Tumblr and AO3!
Read more of my works on my Grand Masterlist, which contains every masterlist I have created! | Maybe support me by tipping me on Ko-Fi or by reblogging my fanfics! ^^ I will also be posting exclusive fanfics on Ko-Fi as well very soon! I might post all of my stories there, too, but who knows? You can also tip me on Tumblr if you'd like, as a way to show support! ^^
Join the Discord to get future fic updates and connect with other readers, maybe?:) Raccoon City Sanctuary
Pairing(s): Zoro x reader; Ace x reader; Law x reader
Genre: Smut, fluff
Warnings: This content is for a mature audience. All characters in this fic are 18+; they just have strict/controlling parents.
Synopsis: "Run away with me."
Author's notes: It's been a while, but between depression and work things haven't been as easy. Sorry. I decided to post this one in two parts because I knew I'd never post it if I didn't divide it. We'll say this one is just Author's favourites, 'k? Would you guys like to see Luffy, Sanji and Sabo in this scenario? Please let me know in the comments. Enjoy! I've been sketching this one for some time.
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Zoro
Sanji still cannot believe heâs the reason you and Zoro are together.
Why in the fuck did he think it was a good idea to take you to the same gym Zoro trains?
âHey, Ji. Is your green friend single?â
Well, fuck him.
What he hates even more is that Zoro is usually completely aloof with this kind of thing. Hiyori had flirted with him for a year before he even noticed it.
But now here you were. At an underground fight, cheering your boyfriend's name in the crowd. Your heart is beating loudly, and worry is filling your head.
He always wins, yeah, he does, but what if this time he doesnât?
Heâs going against a taller, blonde guy whose face is covered in bandages. They call him Killer, and that does nothing to ease your poor heart.
But Zoro fight is quite the view, the way his muscles flex, the passion and concentration on his face, how strong he is. Ugh, you love it so much.
And while you may be worried, you never fail to be on your knees in his dressing room every time before a fight.
Mascara tears running down your face, lipstick smeared all over your cheeks, and saliva covering your chin are the kind of motivation Zoro needs to win.
âJust like that, girl. Come on, keep sucking that cock. You are my lucky charm, baby girl.â
Your dad is not stupid. He knows Zoro is an athlete, but he finds it weird how your green-haired boyfriend shows up with random bruises, yet heâs never heard of him fighting anywhere. So, he quickly figures out that Zoro is fighting, just not within the law.
He forbids you to continue seeing him. He didnât like him before; he didnât like anyone who was friends with that Luffy kid, but now he has an excuse to keep you away from him.
âHeâs going to get you arrested!â âDad, I donât know what you are talking about. He just likes boxing as a hobby.â âDonât lie to me, young lady. Heâs trouble, and I want you away from him, okay?â âBut daddy, I love him!â
Perona helps you sneak out. Her looks might not be to your fatherâs approval, but he thinks sheâs a nice, responsible girl. The one child of Mihawkâs he can trust. (Why? Gods know. Perona might be worse than her brother.)
But after some time, your dad starts growing suspicious. And so he decides other measures need to be taken.
So, he sets you up with a guy he deems worthy of you. Yonji. Sanjiâs younger brother.
âHe comes from a nice, respectable family. You like green so much, this one you can have. Iâm sure Judge will also approve of your relationship.â
(If you are quiet enough, you can almost hear Sanji screaming in the background.)
You feel like throwing up every time Yonji looks your way. You hate him; heâs an asshole.
But donât worry. Your man would never allow it.
And thatâs how you end up hiding inside one of Frankyâs boats.
You and Zoro are running away. Well, that was the original plan until Luffy decided he wanted to come along and then Nami, Usopp, Sanji and Chopper tagged along. And Robin, of course, but thatâs cause Franky would never leave his wife behind. (Also, she has a thing for danger)
You are bent over the window. Your head and tits are poking out. And Zoro is behind you fucking you with no mercy. You tried hiding your moans and cries by holding your breath and biting your lips, the taste of iron filling up your mouth, but itâs useless.
âShit, Zoro! Slow down!â Tears run down your face, and your legs threaten to give up; you are holding onto dear life to the windowâs frame.
Earlier, he left hickies and scratches from your neck to your lower back, and now heâs admiring his work. His marks on your body. Heâd never allow anyone else to have you.
âYou are mine. You are mine. Mine, mine, mine...â He repeats in your ear like a mantra.
The grip on your hips gets tighter, the rhythm of his thrusts becomes desperate and harsher, the tip of his cock bruises your cervix and makes you clench harder around.
âCome on, baby. Give it to me. Cum for me.â And you do. Juices splash against his belly and thighs, you cry out in ecstasy, and your knees give out. You are trying to catch your breath when he pulls your chin between his fingers.
âOpen your mouth, baby.â
No hesitation. You let him fuck your mouth, rough, urgent. His cock hits the back of your throat, and your cheeks are swallowed in as you try taking him deeper.
âFuck!â The moan he lets out is guttural and louder than youâve ever heard him before. His seed fills up your mouth, âSwallow.â He says in between gasps, and you just do as he says, showing him your clean tongue after. Then, he took you into his arms.
He feels content with the decision heâs made. He loves you. And he may not say it, but he was scared. He feels like he almost lost you. And he never wanted to go through that feeling again.
âLove you, woman.â He whispered against your temple before kissing it.
âGoddammit, mosshead! Iâm trying to sleep here!â Sanji will never be a fan of your relationship.
Ace
From the very first time you heard his cherry red motorcycle roar, you knew you were done for.
He appeared one early morning at the coffee shop where you worked. Sweaty skin, freckles, and blushed, chapped lips; leather jacket, shirtless and black jeans. He took off his cowboy hat and ruffled his hair as he approached the counter, looking at the menu. Thank the gods above, he didnât hear the gasp you let out; the blood in your cheeks was incriminating enough.
âYou wouldnât happen to also sell beer, would you?â He said, lowering his eyes to finally look at you. His eyes widened, his heartbeat went crazy, and a bright bloom appeared beneath the small dots on his face.
And the rest is history. Not even a week later, you were riding on the back of his bike, holding onto dear life by his strong belly and the sides of his jacket.
Then at his place, you were riding him, bouncing on his cock, hands against his chest and legs aching. Throwing your head back every time the tip pushed against your G-spot.
Danger and freedom seemed to be Ace´s life mottos, but he did slow down a bit just for you. He didnât want to harm you in any way.
Drinking and parties became part of your life. His brothers and friends are quite nice and fun. And Whitebeardâs booze barrels make for a damn good time.
Sneaking out became easier. Guilt abandoned your mind after the third time. Aceâs dick and arms ease the anxiety.
The word quickly spread around about how you were hanging off his arm everywhere he went. And while opinions were mixed, your dadâs was certainly clear; he didnât like the idea. Not. One. Bit.
âI wonât allow my daughter to date that good-for-nothing brat!â âBut daddy, I love him!â
In your dadâs eyes, whoâs a marine, everything about your narcoleptic lover was a red flag. The fact that heâs Whitebeardâs kid, Luffy and Saboâs brother, owns a motorcycle, works as a firefighter/mechanic/handyman/and-whatever-he-seems-to-want-to-do-that-day (Ace would say heâs just a firefighter with a few extra tricks) and is strongly against authority and the government. Your dad still canât believe heâs Garpâs grandson (neither can Garp tbh).
âGet off my property, you punk!â Your dad said as he opened the door with a kick and pointed his gun at your boyfriend.
âDad, stop! What the hell are you doing?â
âCome on, sir... Gramps threatens me with a rifle every weekend. Your gun looks like a toy to me.â
âAce!â
Your dad had made you quit your job at the coffee shop because he knew Ace would visit you there. Kept you from going outside or seeing anyone he didn't approve of, changed the door locks, and kept an eye on you 24/7. Every day, he would lecture you about your decisions, how irresponsible you were and how you should one day marry someone like Koby or Helmeppo. Each day, it got harder to see Ace.
But the fact that it was difficult didnât mean impossible.
This is where his extra tricks became especially handy. Climbing up the window, picking the ten locks that secured it and shutting off the alarm was as hard as it may seem (not when your love and pussy seemed to be the reward).
You were making out on your bed. Him between your legs, your hands on his hair and his on your bottom. Grinding against each other as his lips slide from yours down your neck and even lower.
You moaned, âI miss you, Ace.â
âI know, baby. I miss you too.â He said in between kisses.
You pulled him closer, desperate to feel him against you. You needed him, not just right now, every day, everywhere, you felt like you were drowning, and heâd become your oxygen.
One of his hands made his way into your panties, rubbing your clit with his thumb and thrusting inside you with two fingers. Your entire body buzzed with pleasure, your hips pushing against his hand and your lips letting out small whimpers.
âYou feel so fucking good, Babygirl. Fuck, Iâve missed your pretty pussy so. so much.â
âAce...â You whimpered, gripping his arm to keep you grounded.
His rhythm grew faster, harder. His fingers worked expertly, knowing every single spot that drove you crazy. The words that he whispered in your ear kept you on the edge.
âGive it to me, baby. Come on, I know you want to. Give it to me, and Iâll give you my cock.â
He pushed himself deeper inside you and drew tighter circles on your clitoris. His lips sucked on one of your nipples, pulling on and biting it, leaving marks on the skin around it.
Your climax came fast and hard, every nerve on your body tingled, sparks appeared in your eyes, and a moan, which was quickly covered by Aceâs hand, announced the pinnacle of your pleasure. Your lungs gasped for air, and your hands held onto Ace as you tried coming back to Earth. He pressed small kisses and words of affirmation against your temple.
Locking eyes in the dark, you shared a kiss. Thatâs where he finally made up his mind.
âRun away with me.â
Law
After days and days of your friends begging you to come to this underground party, you decided to give in.
Lying to your dad isn´t something you usually do, but there´s no other way.
You are there, between a hundred other people, a red cup in your hand with God knows what inside of it and sweat in the back of your neck.
The only thing you can think of is how badly you want to go home.
But then your friends pull you through the crowd until you are in front of the stage. And thatâs where it all starts.
A white shirt with the chest buttons unbuttoned and rolled up sleeves. Allowing you to see in all its glory the heart tattoos that covered his skin, and just how toned his muscles were. Black pants covered his thick thighs, and black boots were on his feet.
All air abandoned your lungs; your mouth went dry, and your eyes went wide.
You made eye contact. Your heart threatened to come out of your chest. His eye bags made his eyes appear even darker. A second ago, he looked distant, cold, annoyed even, but now, now he looked slightly intrigued.
Ikkaku shook you by the shoulders as the âHeart Piratesâ began playing, screaming the name of one of the other members, but for the entire set, you could only look at him.
That night ended with you making out in the back of his car. There you learned his name, his number and about the piercing he had on his frenulum (didnât see it, but touching it gave you a pretty clear idea)
You showed up to rehearsals, shows and random hangouts. You got high and drunk and slept on the back of the bandâs van. (You told your dad you were staying with Ikakku, which technically wasnât a lie since she was sleeping beside you).
He tried teaching you how to play the bass, but it always ended with you riding him on the couch or bent over it. He did manage to learn how to smoke pot without coughing your lungs out.
Law didnât usually do this. He never got attached, hell, he didnât even do casual hook-ups, but in his eyes (and heart) this was different.
You helped him practice and write lyrics. You convinced him to give medicine another chance. Gods, even Cora loved you already.
But there was someone who wasnât a fan of your relationship.
Your dad respected Sengoku and Rosinante. He thanked them for their service. But that didnât mean he liked Law.
âHeâs a lazy lowlife! Always disrespecting everything his dad and grandfather fought for! âHe is not! He just points out injustice and corruption; Cora does the same exact thing! âYou are not to see him anymore! I don´t want you to throw away everything I've given you for someone like him. âBut daddy, I love him!â
He threatened to send you away. And when you didnât listen, he began making plans. You heard him on the phone talking to someone, Uncle Kizaru, probably. You being an adult didnât mean anything to him; he would find a way, he always did. That night, you ran to Law with tears in your eyes and begged him to do something.
You grabbed onto each other with desperation. Kissing, sucking and biting every inch of skin so as not to forget what it feels like, tastes like. Your heart is beating faster than ever. Law´s hands gripped your hips, helping you bounce up and down on his cock. His lips attached to your breasts. You pushed his head closer to your chest.
âLaw...â You moaned, pulling on his hair.
âYou feel so fucking good, baby.â He moans against your skin.
You can feel everything. How much heâs stretching you, the small silver piercing sliding against your walls, the smacking of your bottom against your thighs, the way his experienced fingers toy with your clit.
When you met, Law expected him to be a groaner, more on the silent side. But you were nicely mistaken. Heâs a full-on moaner; he sometimes tries to hide it. But in moments like this, where heâs too far gone, too pussy drunk, his brain can no longer fight it.
âOh fuck, love! Fuck, you have the prettiest pussy ever.â He says, looking down to where you are joined. His lips opened and closed, his throat letting out all kinds of noises.
âI love you, Law.â
âLove you too.â He moans against your mouth.
His hips push against yours as he begins trying to match your rhythm. Sweat runs down his neck and chest, and with every second that passes, you both lose more of your composure.
You can feel like it. You are close, your belly is getting warmer, your legs are shaking, and your core is crying out.
âFuck!â
You both come with a gasp. His seed fills you up until it overflows, making it run down to his thighs. You continue moving for a few moments before the overstimulation becomes too much. You tremble in his arms, and your lungs are gasping for air, and your brain still hasnât come back down to earth.
Love fills the air, but so does uncertainty. You cling to each other but know you can ignore reality. Law feels helpless, frustrated, and though he hates asking for help, he knows thatâs the only way.
***
Rosi sat in front of the TV. A plate of burnt, heart-shaped cookies, a warm cup of tea and a small (very poorly rolled) joint (for medical reasons, of course), in front of him. Yeah, tonight is going to be a good night. Thatâs what he thought before he saw you two appear on his porch at one in the morning. You told him everything, you trusted him with your life, but still had a small doubt that he would send you right back to your dad, just as Sengoku would.
He stared at both of you for a couple of seconds, thinking, then he sighed and got up to look for his phone. âYou kids are going to make me age even faster.â He went out to make a phone call.
Still not nearly done with skin rendering and even this needs a lot of editing, but I'm exhausted so I'm done for tonight and considering this my birthday present to myself.
he's so unnecessarily pretty this should be ILLEGAL someone please arrest him
summary: The world moves forward, but ghosts never rest. A familiar ship on the horizon. A name she has not spoken in years. A storm long overdue. Some things were meant to stay buried. Some things refuse to be forgotten.
c.w. : MAJOR SPOILERS for One Piece Film: Red, angst, mentions of violence, plot-centric, metaphors to rot
Disclaimer: Reader is called "Saram" meaning "Human/Person"
part 5
Uta had been found in a chest like a gift, treasure, and adopted immediately but there once was a timeâŚ..
âŚ..when there was only Saram.Â
Shanks would always keep his eyes on Saram. Always, carmine eyes, always drifting during the days on deck looking for the young child. Seeing her made him smile, seeing her made him feel like he was someone more than a pirate, a filthy criminal.
He paused to see little Saram sitting on a barrel, her hair wild and open, behind her sat Beckman on another barrel, a hair brush in his hand as he combed through her hair. Shanks stopped and watched, a smile blooming on his lips at the sight, Saram was grinning and chattering away as Beckman combed and tied her hair while sitting behind her.
âSeas, seas, wavey wavey we gooo~â Saram would sing as Beckman parted her hair.
He smiled, Beckman always got these cute little bows and hairpins for Saram whenever they docked, trying out new hairstyles on her while at sea â and Saram always enjoyed it, always running to Beckman to tie her hair, to comb her hair. He could not remember the last time she had let someone else touch her hair without protesting or complaining.
âToo harsh!â She would pout if anyone other than Beckman ever touched her hair to work with.Â
Shanks chuckled at the memory; Saram was as much like Beckman's child as she was Shanks' and everyone knew it. Saram was closer to Lime Juice, but she could never hide her feelings and silent favouritism towards him and Beckman, he knew because he saw, saw how Saram always watched with admiration and awe whenever Beckman would speak.
The crew sometimes would steer clear when Beckman was scolding Saram because only he could get her to listen properly. Because Saram saw Beckman as a parental figure too. Because Beckmanâs stern voice was the same soft one that would listen to her stories when he would do her hair. Or the same softness of his eyes when she would hold spoonfuls of food towards Benn, garnering jealousy from Shanks and amusement from the crew.
Beckman loved Saram as his own child, and everyone knew it.
Everyone saw it.
Everyone felt it.
That's why when she was presumed dead, no one questioned why he still bought those bows and hairpins, storing them away in a box.Â
For all they knew, the First Mate had not done Saramâs hair in years since he began doing Utaâs hair.
For the first time in a long while, Saram felt something stir beneath the surface. She could feel the faint echoes of when he had once looked at her like she was the only person in the room. But those days were gone. He wasnât that man anymore and neither was she.
His eyes held hers for a long moment, and then, like an invisible string snapped, he shifted. He blinked, once, and turned his gaze elsewhere, back to the conversation he had been having with Beckman.
The quiet returned.
You are dead.
Saram exhaled softly, her fingers tightening around the edge of her plate. She pretended to not notice the burning at the back of her throat. Pretended to not notice the dryness of her mouth. Pretended to not notice how the backs of her eyes ached ever so slightly. Saram looked down, eyes trained on the slight redness of the meat she cut into, red, rouge, carmine. The carmine of blood, the carmine of meat, the carmine of his eyes.Â
Her throat caved in, instinctively swallowing dryly and harshly as she drank water from her glass. Her ears were ringing, cold seeping her bones, chest aching, her eyes burned slightly. There were no tears, there hadn't been any for twelve years. No one had noticed. They never did. The crew, wrapped up in their own conversations, laughed and ate like nothing had changed.
Licking her lips, she swallowed, ignoring the taste of rot in her mouth. Saram smiled as she excused herself calmly from the table with a small smile, acting as if a simple look from Shanks had not just caused her nervous system to go into overdrive. It reminded her of when she was ten again, when she was twelve again, when she was a child again. She inhaled and exhaled slowly as she headed towards the grooves of trees on the ship, practically hiding her figure as she leaned against a tree, crossed her arms and stared out at the sea.
Staring at the horizon, Saram let her mind unfurl. Disassociating from her thoughts of her father, his gaze and how it completely dismantled her, she spoke to him yesterday and had no problem yet one gaze, one look sent her crumbling. It was laughable how much control Shanks still held over her even though he didn't know, how could he? Shanks believes that Saram hates him, that she does not see him as her father, that all she wants to do is never see him again.
That fool does not even know that every night she would stand on the burned and destroyed roofs of the castle of Elegia, staring at the seas and praying for his safe journey. Didn't know that she always kept updates on the crew. Didn't know that she was the one who made sure that Uta never put up a barrier around the island when she held the concert.
That fool does not know how much she would break if he even held her with a moment of love.
Not as an obligation.
Not as a duty.
Not as a Guardian.
Not as Shanks.
If he ever held her just as her father, Saram feared that she would crumble. Even at twenty four years old, all she craved was for a sliver of love that Shanks so easily gave Uta. How can she still chase after him despite blatantly knowing the truth of her birth?
What Yasopp told her that night, twelve years ago, still echoed in her ears, in her brain, in her sleep.Â
"You were never supposed to exist.â
Those words had carved themselves into her bones, sunk their teeth into her heart and soul, never letting go.Â
âBenn! Can we go to the night market tonight?â
Saram tilted her head to the side, watching the seven year old Saram run after Benn with an expectant gaze in her eyes, hair wild and free. She always called him Benn, that name that was something so easy for her. A tie that bound her to him. She was so small, so short, so kind.
âSure kid. Finish your chores first, then we'll go.â Beckman had a smile, ruffling her hair as she smiled and nodded, running off.Â
Saram watched as night fell and the little girl walked up to Beckman, eyes excited about going to town only for him to smile regretfully, ruffling her hair, âNext time kid.â
Next time never came and Saram never asked again, because even as a child, she saw it, that flash of something alike to annoyance that glimmered in his eyes before he had ruffled her hair. Because that's who Saram was â she watched and learned, and when she learned something, she remembered it forever.
Saram smiled and the phantoms were gone, at that corner she had learnt to not bother Beckman with going out to town at night. Her smile slowly faded away as she slid down, eyes on the horizon and her head back against the tree, to the deck. With a sigh, she quietly closed her eyes and composed her thoughts before opening them and whispering quietly to herself.
âWelcome home, Saram.â
She had adapted over the course of days, Saram mainly kept to herself, tinkering with her vials in Hongo's infirmary while he worked â Hongo had given a small area to work and she had utilized it pretty well, making potions and medicine, concoctions and some. She spent her days in the infirmary in her quiet little corner, with Uta on and around the deck, staying in her room or in some secluded area of the ship. It would not be a far reach to say that she was actively avoiding direct conversations or contact with the crew, especially her father and Beckman.
If she was not doing anything, then Saram was slipping away in corners and nooks of the ship, in the shadows or places where she had figured out the crew did not patrol as much, not that it bothered her. Her father may seem pretty laid back but his management of his ship was precise, all, if not most, places on deck were arranged in a way that the executives could access them and patrol them while simply walking around. It was simple but meticulous. It reminded her yet again that Shanks was a formidable Captain and Pirate.
Currently, Saram was sitting in the palm tree groove, back against one of the trunks, quietly messing around with her knife lazily, staring at the way she uses her arm to swing the blade. Saram tilted the blade just slightly, the metal catching the sunlight in a flicker, a glint of silver against the warmth of the wood beneath her thighs. She wasnât even holding it in a combat-ready grip, just letting it roll around her knuckles, flipping the flat of it against her palm, then catching it again and repeating. A muscle memory more than anything.Â
It was so sharp. Not just in blade but in purpose. In implication. There had been a time when she used to swing it because it made her feel powerful. When her muscles burned from training and her calluses split from overuse, she told herself that if she got good enoughâfast enough, precise enoughâthey would see her. And then there was a time when she swung it simply because it was the only thing she knew how to do.Â
Because all Saram ever knew back then, was that wielding a blade would get her looks, and she craved those looks.
Her thumb brushed the edge. Not enough to bleed, but just enough to feel the bite. She didnât fear pain. Not anymore. Not for a long time. Pain had been her constant companion, right from the moment sheâd been left behind. Not just the flamesâthough that was the kind of pain that left a mark even beyond skinâbut the kind that sat in your chest like lead. Heavy and unmoving. The kind of pain that made you quiet.Â
Her gaze flicked up lazily, eyes scanning the ship from where she sat. She could see a portion of the open deck from hereâjust enough to catch movement. Utaâs laugh rang out faintly from above, probably near the helm again. Lime Juiceâs voice boomed in response, lighthearted and warm. A few othersâGab maybe? Or Monsterâchuckled as well. Their voices were like wind chimes: soft, familiar, distant. They had all moved on. She had no place in their present, not truly. Not the way Uta did.Â
The blade flipped again.Â
No place in their present.
The tip tapped softly against the tree bark beside her thigh.
But then again, she never had much of a place in their past either.
She could still remember the old routes, despite not being on this ship for twelve yearsâwhere the crew avoided walking, where Beckman tended to turn left instead of right, the places where Shanks used to stand and lean against the rail with a bottle in hand. None of them had changed much. And it was terrifyingly easy to slide into the shadows they left behind. For how could the memory of her childhood that was seared into her memory ever be thought to be separated from her muscles and habits, from her instincts.
Saram took a breath in. The sea salt burned in her nose just slightly. The wind carried the cry of gulls far overhead, and the sails flapped against the pull of the horizon. The ship was moving. The world was moving. Only she was still. Always watching. Always just outside of the center. She dragged the flat of the blade down her arm â just to feel the smooth metal slide against her skin. She liked knowing it was real. That she was still real. Her voice was quiet, nearly inaudible beneath the wind, ââŚwhat a mess, huh?â
Everybody moved on, but Saram was still stuck at the start line, she was too slow to catch up. They were too fast and busy moving to look back. Like a memory long gone, she closed her eyes and thought back to her younger days. They werenât all bad. If they were, she would not have been alive. Shanks had been kind, She knew he had been. She knows because he had taken her in â a child he had no obligation to raise â people, pirates, men, women, family always left behind their kids or family, he, too, could have done the same.
But he had not and that was why despite the scars marring her skin, the pain in her childlike heart, the ache in her bones â Saram never could quite hate Shanks or blame him, for he had been a father to her once, had shown her the view of the world above his shoulders, held her in warmth and in the cold. Saram would never say it out loud, yet, her bones knew that despite the pain, despite the things she went through â Saram would choose Shanks as her dad over and over, again and again, in every lifetime.
âWell, nothing new.â
Saram frowned, holding the pair of scissors in her hand as she sat on a crate, sighing. Her hair would be a problem, it was already tangling up and any more salt air and water spritz, it would coil into a mess of tangles. And she was not the best at tying her hair, so she came up with one solution, to cut what was there. Plus, it's not like she knew how to do hair anyways.
She paused at the thought, âDo hair, huh?â because there once was a time when large calloused hands would hold her hair and caress and brush and do them with the softest of touches. Saram ponders for a few moments, back at Elegia it was easier to maintain her hair due to the products that Gordon would get her and Uta, well, easier for her because as far as she could remember Uta never really had trouble maintaining her hair.
Saram sighs, now that she thought about it, she never really took much care of her appearance, except her hair, she always wore practical clothing because she always had to be on her feet, moving or working in her workshop, white was always out of the question because she thought it was pointless. She did try wearing dresses, she really did like wearing dresses but then eventually just stopped.
Unlike Uta, Saram didn't have any special abilities so wearing a dress on Elegia hindered her movements. She could almost laugh, so many dresses lay at the back of her cupboard back at Elegia in her room, never to be worn again, never to be seen. The thought felt strangely bitter to her.Â
It was strange, because, Saram could swear that there was once a time when she enjoyed dressing up, wearing bright coloured dresses and patterns. Pretty bows, clips, pins, bands â everything, pink or blue, every colour. Once she used to take pride in dressing up, maybe when she was young, when she still believed that she was a little girl who could play dress up on a ship. Who could pretend to be a princess.
The thought caused her to let out a small chuckle, âA princess? Perhaps an ogre would be more befitting.â The thought was just there, because Saram didn't see anything princesslike in her. Not with her dull hair and eyes, or her unkept attire and worn out clothes, unlike Uta. Uta was more of a princess, it was her moniker too. Princess Uta. Pretty eyes, hair of white and red, beauty that followed her.
Saram didn't think she was anything like that. Nothing fancy about her, just plain old Saram. Ordinary, forgettable.
A small smile came on her lips as she stares at her worn out leg warmers, as of now she had only the clothes on her back and the extra pair of clothes she always kept with her, stashed away in the sub-space she created from Uta's devil fruit powers stored in her wrist mechanism. For the days she's been here, she was either wearing this or that, one of the two pairs. On the other hand, she smiled whenever she saw Uta wearing a new outfit made from her devil fruit powers, the young girl had offered her too, but Saram refused.
She didn't have a reason to dress up or have another pair of clothes. She wasn't upset either. This was just her being her if she was being honest. Saram, afterall, never needed more than absolutely required. Whether it be clothes or things or even love.Â
Saram shook her head out of her thoughts and brought the scissors to her hair, maybe, cutting what she had, off, would be better. Besides, she didn't have any attachment to it either so cutting it off wouldn't really affect her.
Bringing the scissors closer she paused, not knowing why, before positioning it so that she would cut off a huge chunk at once, just like always. It was just hair after all.
âYou have beautiful hair, Saram.âÂ
It was just hair.
It didnât mean anything.
Saram had taught herself to not get attached. Never get attached. Not because she was afraid but because getting attached meant having something to lose. And Saram had lost too much already to lose anymore.
Just as she was about to snip off the entire portion up to her ears, a hand engloved her own, her eyes snapping to her side, as her heart ran like a race horse. Large. Calloused. Warm. She turned her head and met Beckmanâs stormy eyes, smoke curling from his cigar.
âWhat are you doing, Saram?â
Suddenly, the hair in her hand felt heavy, no longer light and nothing. Now, it felt like lead and something.
âJust cutting it off.â She said softly, voice firm but quiet, moving her wrist away from his hand, the warmth of his calloused hand that weathered away at sea.
âWhy?â
âHuh?â
Why was Beckman suddenly so questionative? She blinks and turns towards him, slightly frowning, she was rather confused.
âWhy are you cutting off your hair? Itâs nice and doesnât seem bad.â
âIts not exactly practical.â
âPractical?â
She almost wanted to yell, hair at the sea was not practical, not to mention, she didnât want to bother herself with tying it again and again.
âYeahâŚ. I donât really enjoy messing with my hair or tying it again and again. Itâs annoying to comb and brush it. Plus, it's different from back on Elegia.âÂ
There was a moment of silence. So silent. Only the sounds of the seas and the seagulls, the creaking of wood and voices of the crew. Beckmanâs eyes felt like they were piercing through her, so she looked away, like always, the first to look away.
âCome on.âÂ
Saram didnât get a moment before she was guided by Beckman to sit on the barrel, she frowned, about to protest but the hand on her back, so warm, so strangely familiar and new, prevented her from doing so. So, she let him. Let Beckman guide her to the wooden barrel and sit on it. He said something about coming back, she probably nodded, her mind fuddled and all muddy. She didnât even know why her body had gone into autopilot again â it was almost ironic how around Beckman or Shanks, her body just stopped resisting and went on autopilot.Â
She stiffened, spine rigid and straight as she felt him sit down behind her, his warmth so close, too close. It frightened her. Swallowing the lump in her throat, the heavy lump that always lingered whenever she talked to this crew, fingers clammy, ears slightly heavy with the beginnings of a ringing in them.
âWhat⌠are you doing, Beckman?â
There was a moment of silence, a moment too long.
âYou used to always run to me early mornings to do your hair when you were young.â
Her world hands clenched as her eyes widened, all her thoughts coming to a standstill as she stared up, ahead, heart hammering against her ribcage.
WhatâŚ. was he talking about?
âEvery morning, before doing anything, you would run to me to get me to do your hair.â
Why was he saying that now?
âWhenever we docked at islands, you never left the ship without me fixing your hair.â
Saramâs ears rang, her vision tunneled, memories she had locked away. The time of her life that only she was privy to. her most precious memories. He⌠why was Benn Beckman telling her all this? Her mind jolts up memories from years ago, memories that she had locked away, just as he slowly starts untangling her hair with his hands.
And Saram goes still.
âSaram! At least wear your shoes!â
A frantic LimeJuice runs after a young Saram as she bolts across the damn ship like a rabbit, cutting across the men who watch in amusement as she makes a straight line for the man by the mast, smoking and reading the newspaper. He looks over the paper as the sound of feet appear before the kid in a blue dress turns the corner, barefoot and runs towards him, LimeJuice following close, a pair of white shoes in hand.
âBeck! Hair!â
The man raised an eyebrow in amusement, putting out his cigar and placing the paper down to lean forward to pick her up. She grins widely as she looks up at him, now in his lap, a bright smile on her chubby face. LimeJuice pauses and sighs, slightly out of breath and an irritated look on his face, but everyone knows he could never be mad at Saram.
âTo what do I owe the fortune of you so early morning kid?â
âHair!â She holds up the small box that usually held her ribbons and clips and other hair accessories.
âYeah, of course.â LimeJuice adds in, âShe ran across the whole ship, barefoot, just so you could do her hair. Can you believe this kid, Beckman?â
Beckman cracks a smirk as he ruffles her hair, âYeah, I can. Kidâs a riot but its a routine.â
Lime Juice only groans.
Saram chuckles.
Saram flinched.
Beckman froze.
She abruptly stood up, her ears ringing, throat constricted, almost unable to breathe, she couldnât breathe. Her hand went to her chest and rubbed hard as she slowly began walking forward, away from him. The world was caving in as she took sharp breathes in. Beckman called her, frowning slightly and catching up to her with long strides. He reached out his hand towards her to hold her arm but the moment his calloused fingers even brushed against her skin, she flinched away.
âNo!â
He froze.
She was facing away but her shoulders were shaking, trembling so slightly that he almost missed it. His eyes narrowed. A pit forming in his gut.
Almost.
âSaram?â
âDonât do this⌠whatever you are trying to do. This kindness, this rejogging of memories, you have no right.â
Beckman paused, physically, he could not move. His chest ached, the way he could feel her fear, her anxietyâŚ. It was startling. Beckman could not ever recall Saram being so fearful of him. Ever so afraid of his touch.
âSaram, I just wanted toâŚ.â His words died in his throat the moment he caught a glimpse of her eyes, as she turned her head slightly over her shoulder to look at him. The pure rawness in her irises froze him. The numbness of her eyes chilled him.
âDonât cling to ghosts, Beckman. The Saram you knew, you already mourned her death, did you not? I am not her.â
And she was gone, almost running away, Saram left his sights and went below deck.
âSomeday, I will be the worldâs best singer!â
Young Uta grinned, her proclamation echoing the walls of the castle as Saram quietly attempted to do her hair, Gordon fed into Utaâs dreams, teasing and joking.
âWell for that you will have to grow up to be a nice lady.â
âHey! I am already a nice lady!â
Saram simply smiled as she tried to braid her dual toned locks. Uta warmed her hands by the fire as Gordon read the music notes with her.Â
âYou suck at this Saram.â Uta laughed and Saram simply chuckled, âI guess I am.â
âYou know Gordon? Saram never, never does her hair! Such a shame, she has such pretty hair too!â
Gordon simply listened, the old King never knowing how to deal with the young singer.
âI like my hair plain, thank you very much.â She tugged her strand intentionally.
âOw! Mean!â
âThen stop moving!â
âWhy don't you ever let any of us do your hair?â Uta whined but was quickly distracted by another music sheet.
Saram didn't answer. Uta and Gordon went back to talking about music sheets. For a moment Saram paused and simply stared at the haphazard braid and then at her own hands. Her thoughts were just flowing and circling in her head as she plays with Utaâs hair.
âBack then, I never felt the need to learn. I always had Beckman doing it for me. And then you had him. And somewhere along the lineâŚ.â Her grip on a clip tightened, the purple of it too similar to his choices of accessories for her, ââŚ..I stopped caring for my hair.â
âWhat design would our bunny like today?â
âMaybe, because I knew that if it wasnât him, I never wanted anyone elseâs hands in my hair.â
Saram locked the door to her room behind and leaned against it, breathing heavily, her throat constricted as she slid down the door, rubbing her chest. Her ears ringing, vision unfocused as memories, stupid, warm, memories kept appearing and appearing.
âShut up.â She whispered.
âShut up.â
âShut up. Shut up. Shut up.â
She squeezed her eyes close as she leaned forward, forehead against the floor as she tugged at her hair in frustration, anger, pain.
âShut up. They are all gone.â
Soft tugs on her hair, her pouts as Lime Juice teased her, Beckmanâs hands separating sections of her hair.
âIts all in the past. Stop it.â
Shanksâ smile, Lucky suggesting to use skewer sticks as rollers.
âStop. Stop it. Its all gone.â
Flames. Shanks. Beckman. The smell of burning flesh. Her death.
âThatâs enough!â
Silence.
A ringing in her ears. The smell of the sea. The smell of the wood. The sting in her palm from her nails.
Drip.
Saramâs hands trembled as she covered her mouth, muffling her voice, hunched over on the ground.
Her childhood.
âIâŚ. I don't want this....â
âSweet bunny, youâll always have a home here as long your crew is alive.â
Saram hunched over, body trembling, her chest tight, as if rot and thorns growing in the crevices that remained unburnt. She screamed into her palm, muffled, body shaking, aching. The burnt, scorched parts of her skin felt as if they were burning again, felt as if she was once again under that debris; once again, she was a child.
âSaram.â
Once again she was alone on the ship of her dead childhood that was burnt away.
THAT WAS A ROLLER COASTER!! I AM BACKK!! If you see typos, no you did not.
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