BREAKING: The massacres committed by israel from Tuesday’s dawn till now - 84 Palestinians killed!
14 martyrs, including the sister of the head of the political bureau of Hamas, in the bombing of a house in the Beach camp, west of Gaza City.
12 martyrs, most of them children and women, as a result of the occupation bombing of a school to shelter displaced people in central Gaza City.
More than 30 martyrs, most of them women and children, in 3 massacres committed by the occupation by bombing two homes and a shelter center in different areas of the Gaza Strip.
3 martyrs after the occupation bombed a group of Palestinians on Al Wahda Street in Gaza City.
Gaza Civil Defense: Our crews recovered 13 martyrs as a result of three attacks in Gaza Governorate.
The number of victims of the massacre in the Bani Suhaila roundabout in the center of Khan Yunis rose to 10 martyrs and dozens of wounded.
Two martyrs in an Israeli bombing that targeted a house in the Shujaiya neighborhood, east of Gaza City.
BREAKING: 15 Killed in Al Shati’ camp including 9 from Ismail Hineyah’s Family.
The Haniyeh family members were killed after the bombing of their home in the shati’ camp, west of Gaza, included the sister of the head of the Hamas political bureau Ismail Haniyeh and his wife, their names:
Zahr Abdel Salam Haniyeh (Nahed’s mother)
Nahed Ghazi Haniyeh
His wife, Iman Ahmed Haniyeh
Muhammad Nahed Haniyeh
Ismail Nahed Haniyeh
Moamen Nahed Haniyeh
Zahr Nahed Haniyeh
Shahad Nahed Haniyeh
Amal Nahed Haniyeh
A number of them are still under the rubble
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an organization that allows you to click daily to help support and donate to multiple causes (palestine, children in need, women, the environment, etc+) !! its completely free and you can choose and click to help; quick and easy.
Human Concern International
an organization thats been providing aid to the people of gaza for over 20 years, they consistently visit palestine and many other muslim countries to help; like providing necessities such as water, medical aid, food, etc+ and they have gotten 3 aid trucks through the border; donations to their cause to help support transfer of aid trucks is highly appreciated to help those in need.
the palestine academy
incase of misunderstanding, uneducation or general confusion over the situation happening in gaza, this website is a free resource, its a class that you can take that’s completely free to learn about the situation, they have an entire resource section on their page, and it also includes places where you can donate to help those in need. The class is an overview of the history; whats happening, why its happening. There is also a tab [Gaza emergency] which gives updates and a walk through on what is currently happening.
please continue to spread awareness on this situation, i refuse to stay silent about this, always and forever stand with Palestine.
bless those who are risking their safety to help those in need and spreading awareness, Palestine will be free 🇵🇸‼️
A/N: fun fact I originally wrote this last year it was VERY ooc. I’m very happy with it now tho :D
After trying desperately to catch the attention of the school’s mohawked delinquent you manage to become friends. Now that you have, you decide it’s time to confess your feelings! However it seems all your attempts end up being pointless when you catch snippets of his conversations about you.
‘Them? As if. They’re weird on a whole ‘nother level. I’d never date someone like them.’
Before you can get yourself rejected you spare yourself the heartbreak and cut yourself out of his life, Pretending nothing ever happened between you two. But strangely, despite the words he said before he seems to miss you.
They say love is blind, and oh how you were so blind to not see that this would happen. How foolish you were to ever have a crush on Genya Shinazugawa. Not even your friends understood why you fell for him in the first place.
He was scarred and intimidating, always sticking out in a crowd and failing to fit in among the body of students. You knew as much about him as the person to the left. Whenever you caught a glimpse of Genya he was always by himself. From sitting in the back of class, crouched over his desk and staring into space to leaning against the lockers with the same expression on his face. His lips thinned into a line, looking annoyed with his eyes narrowed and deep in thought.
You shared a few classes with him. Seeing his figure among the crowd was something you grew familiar with. He was always in his own world, separated from what everyone else was doing. It was normal to learn about the people in your class, right? You reasoned it out and continued to watch Genya from afar, taking note of small details about him.
Then, as if the universe heard you, your paths met. Literally.
You slammed straight into him, his elbow hitting your nose as the two stumbled backwards and objects falling. You looked up to be met with his eyes, staring into yours.
The hallways were full to the brim, students pushing and filling in. You didn’t notice Genya exiting class right in front, struggling to stuff all his things inside his bag while merging with the crowd.
“Shit,” he grumbles to himself, trying to gather loose papers that are scattered around you both.
You blink, snapping out of your dazed state. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going-” You blurt. “Is this yours?” You hand him a blue notebook.
“Be more careful next time. And thanks I guess.” The gruff weight in his voice lifted and you could hear a flicker of gratitude.
He quickly zipped his bag shut, entered the moving crowd. You were left there, surprised to see something other than the tough side Genya usually presented.
What would he look like smiling for a change? What would his laugh sound like? Why was he always alone?
Starting from that small interaction he completely took over your brain, your thoughts being constantly filled by him. You were disappointed whenever he was absent, and if he were here you’d spend the class stealing glances at him. Memorizing the way he’d clench his jaw when he was stumped on a question and would tap his foot when feeling impatient. You had special hearing for Genya and would catch every small witty quip he’d say under his breath.
Knowing math wasn’t his strong suit, You’d whisper to him the answers and help him out whenever he struggled. You ranked above Genya and excelled in math. You always carried spare pens and pencils and even those eraser heads things because you noticed he always seems to use up his eraser, making sure not to waste a second of this opportunity.
Tap, tap….
He didn’t notice the first time.
Tap, tap!
Glancing up from his notes, he spies you tapping the edge of his desk. He raises his brow at you, confused at what you could want. Your hand moves to point at what he had written. Genya had written the equation wrong, almost causing him to get the wrong answer. When he notices he quickly erases and fixes it.
He looks back at you. You’re still watching him with a small smile on your lips.
“…thank you.” He whispers quietly.
You give him a thumbs up, smile widening before going back to your own notes.
Those small conversations brought the two of you closer together, connecting your worlds. At least that's what you thought at the time. From what you’d seen he seemed to be a very quiet person so you often started the conversations. You’d arrive to class early because Genya did too, with his older brother being the teacher and all.
Slowly but surely he started to warm up to you. And as the month went by you unlocked the other side of Genya you’d only heard of. He’d make jokes around you and rant about stupid things that would happen to him. Making progress with him filled you with hope and made butterflies dance in your stomach whenever you shared an interaction with him. You always looked forward to your classes with Genya in them.
You were happy when he started catching more attention and making more friends. Hearing him talk about his chaotic day with Tanjiro, Zenitsu, Inosuke and others made you feel so proud of the progress he’d been making. Looking back, you wonder if the reason why he mentioned them so much is because he preferred them.
After enough time had passed and you finally gained the courage, you were finally ready to confess to him. ’Today is the day!’ You thought. The day you’d finally confess your love for him. After writing a horrendously sappy love letter, you felt incredibly giddy. This was it. The moment of truth. You were going to slip the letter into his locker and wait for his reaction the next day. You figured he wouldn’t do well with a face to face confession with how shy he can’t get at certain times, especially around women.
You felt like you were floating as you walked around. As you made it to his locker you could hear voices. Genya was still at his locker, with two of his friends. You stopped, hiding around the corner out of their sight. Waiting for them to leave so nobody would catch you slipping the letter in.
“Did you finish the math homework?” Tanjiro asks, smiling.
Zenitsu groans. “That’s not due today, is it?!”
“Yup. Should’ve worked on it sooner.” Genya says.
“No fair! You’re in math with (name), they’re super smart.”
The blond grumbles. “Bet they help you with all your homework…”
“You and (name) are really close, huh? Are you two together?” As soon as the words come from Tanjiro’s mouth Genya freezes.
Zenitsu perks up. “Oooo~ has the big meanie got a crush on the nerd?”
“Shut up.” Genya hissed, before slamming the locker door shut.
“Them? As if. They’re weird on a whole ‘nother level. I’d never date someone like them.” He says, shooting Zenitsu a sharp glare for suggesting the idea.
Your heart shatters.
You’re standing there, shocked while accidentally eavesdropping on a conversation about you. You can’t breathe properly, your throat tightening in on itself as it’s a fight for air to get in and out of your lungs. One thing for sure, you can’t stay here any longer, and you sure as hell can’t give him the letter.
Twisting on your heel, you bolt in the opposite direction. Running as fast as your legs will take you, so fast that maybe you should sign up for the track team. You ignore all the noises going on around you and that one teacher yelling “be careful!” at you. It’s too late to be careful now, you dived into the deep end only to come out heartbroken.
The rest of the day was miserable, and when you got home you cried your heart out. You don’t know what you did wrong. You shouldn’t of thought you could be the one to soften the outcast. You shouldn’t have gotten your hopes up or tried so hard. Genya ended up using you because you were so desperate to get on his good side. He had you wrapped over his finger and you hadn’t even noticed.
You were just a tool to him.
A pathetic weirdo.
You ended up crying so badly your parents mistook your flushed cheeks and sniffling nose as illness and let you stay home from school. If you told your friends they would only say “I told you so,” so for now you kept the information all to yourself. You abandoned the letter and ripped it to shreds in your trashcan. You don’t know what you’re going to do now.
Did you even mean anything to Genya? After everything you learned you don’t know if you could bring yourself to face him. You think over your options. Genya has plenty of friends now, if all you were was a tool for him you’re sure you could easily fade out of his life. You doubt he’d even notice your absence. You’d pretend nothing had ever happened, and save yourself the embarrassment and shame you would’ve gone through.
calm!reader and her loud and dramatic boyfriend, tengen uzui ˚.✦
“I am NOT going,” Tengen comes back from his wardrobe still in just boxers and half painted eyeliner. He sits on the edge of the bed, arms crossed over his chest and a pout.
“Mm?” you lift your head from your book, you finish getting ready for this party about twenty minutes ago, full make up, hair and outfit, everything ready. “What happened, my love?”
He looks at you from over his shoulder, the pout growing bigger (definitely not to pity him). “I can’t find a good outfit. Nothing worthy of standing beside you tonight. Nothing!”
You tilt your head, pressing your lips in a kind smile and scooting over behind him. You rub his chest, your nails raking through it and him melting into it. “Go search a little more, c’mon. You have a lot of clothes.”
“Hm…” He pretends to think about it, although he’s just trying to keep himself in your arms, when you pat his chest, he gets up instantly. “Okay, I’ll go!”
A few moments later he finds the perfect purple shirt for his outfit and asks you to help him finish his make up only to have you in his lap, as close as possible.
You and him always arrive to parties late (his fault) and leave parties early (your fault). He’s the center of attention every goddamn time, telling stories to people he just met, his arms slash through the air, people crowd around him, laughing, gasping at every exaggerated detail.
But when he sees you sitting on a couch not too far away from him (for him it feels like miles away), sipping on your drink while you stare at his ass, he shushes all the people, announcing that he has to go back to his partner because he can’t function well without you.
“Oh my god, Tengen,” you say, with a flustered laugh because you could hear him perfectly. He’s already sat by your side, arm around your waist and pulling you closer. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“But I want to,” he says, close to your ear as he leaves kisses on your cheek. “I love the look on your face when I talk about you.”
“You scream about me,” you remind him, squeezing his arm and laying your cheek on his shoulder.
He notices your little sigh and how your body relaxes when he’s pressed to you. He draws little patterns on your arm, letting you a few moments of physical contact before saying: “Do you wanna go home? These people are boring.”
You lift your gaze, blinking slowly. “You were laughing a few moments ago, Tengen.”
“I was laughing at my own jokes, let’s get out of here.” He grabs your hand, lifting you easily and pulling you across the dancefloor.
He always knows when you’re done for the night, and when you’re done, he is too.
Tengen has this burst of love and intensity where he lays on top of you, purposefully trapping you below his body because he’s way taller and stronger that you and makes you look straight into his eyes while he tells you:
“I would die for you,” he declares. “I would burn down entire cities, shatter the heavens themselves if it meant keeping you safe. You are my goddess, my everything. Without you, I am nothing but noise in an empty world.”
You lie there beneath him, used to these sudden storms of his affection. Your hands rest calmly on his back, fingers tracing slow circles over his muscles as he keeps talking, eyes never leaving yours.
“Every breath I take is for you,” he continues, voice rising with passion. “I worship the ground you walk on. You calm the chaos inside me. I would kneel for you, fight for you, live every second like it is my last just to see you smile. My love, my partner, my only peace. Tell me you know how deeply I adore you. Say it.”
A warm flush creeps up your neck and across your cheeks, he is so intense, so extra, turning a simple moment on the couch into something epic and overwhelming. Yet you cannot help but adore him for it.
You meet his eyes without looking away, your voice soft and even. “I know, Tengen. You tell me every day.”
He groans dramatically, burying his face in your neck for a second before pulling back to trap you with his stare again. “Not enough! Words are never enough for what I feel. I want to shout it from the rooftops until the whole city knows you own me completely. You are the silence I crave after every battle. I would lay down my swords, my pride, my life for one more moment like this with you.”
You smile quietly, sliding your fingers up into his silver hair and tugging gently to settle him. Even pinned under his massive frame, you feel safe, loved in the loud, all-consuming way only he can give. “I love you too, by the way,” you whisper into his hair. “Even when you’re loud as fuck.”
He lifts his head fast, gasping and leaning to fill your face with kisses. You burst out laughing because it tickles, “Tengen!”
“Mm, I love you tooooo,” he sings, now licking your cheeks between kisses.
“Ew! Tengen, you’re gross!” You try to push his face away except you’re not really applying any force, you’re just giggling as he hugs you tighter and kisses you slower, now trapping your lips in a soft and wet kiss.
Rick Grimes x F!Reader x Daryl Dixon Smut: And There was only One Bed
Warnings/Mentions: Smut, unprotected sex, jealous Rick, awkward inexperienced Daryl, dry humping, spooning sex, oral, handjobs (Daryl receiving), staying quiet/fear of being caught, Daryl pretending to be asleep
Summary: Rick, Daryl, and reader get caught out on a storm and take shelter in a small cabin. They're stuck there for the night, and you'll never guess what happens next. THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED
Notes: God this is so hot I don't care that the morals are questionable!!!! I need it more than anything I've ever needed before thank you for requesting anon
Being squished between a snoring Daryl and Rick's hard-on was not how you imagined your night going when you set out that morning.
It was supposed to be a cut and dry intel run. Scope out the new group nearby, learn a few things, maybe grab some supplies on your way back, but no, it's never that easy.
First off, you couldn't find the group. Aaron claimed they were composed of maybe forty people living in the nearby school, but the place was quiet when you'd checked it out.
Then, Rick's truck broke down. Dead battery. Daryl set out looking for one with enough juice to get you home when the first signs of a storm rolled in. Angry dark clouds and cold fat raindrops.
The only place nearby in walking distance was down a long gravel road. It was the smallest, but also the cutest, cabin you'd ever laid eyes on. It only had three rooms, one bedroom with a bathroom, and a large open living area that held a tiny kitchen and a couch with a fireplace.
“Get those windows boarded up.”
Rick was quick to spew out commands after the three of you busted through the front door, all wet and shivering. The wind was so strong it slammed the door closed behind you, blowing the curtains and causing stray paper to fly off their tables.
“Can't!” Daryl shouted. He stood behind you shielding his face from the rain shooting through the broken windows.
That's how you ended up in the bedroom. You sat shivering on the foot of the bed as Rick went through the dresser, looking for clothes to replace the soaking fabric you all wore.
Daryl slid the bedroom vanity in front of the door. He even went as far as to set the armchair on top of it.
“Can we just wait it out?” Your teeth clattered together as Rick tossed you a towel from the closet. You ruffled it in your hair and watched Daryl.
He was standing in front of the only window in the room, his arms crossed and his thumbnail between his teeth.
“Yeah, should ease up soon.” Rick sat on the bed opposite from you, drying his arms and hair with his own towel.
“Naw.” Daryl muttered. He finally turned away from the window and began drying himself. “Gonna be a few hours, at least.”
You furrowed your brows, looking down in your lap. This was quite the predicament. Stuck in a bedroom with two men, one you barely knew and were pretty sure hated you.
The other… Well, you weren't sure what Rick was to you.
Daryl wasn't right, but he wasn't wrong either. The storm did continue for a few hours, but it also didn't show any signs of stopping.
You glanced down at your watch and felt your heart drop. It was seven pm, and the sun would be setting very soon. Not that you could see much outside anyways, the clouds were thick and covered a majority of the sky.
Your voice broke the long streak of silence.
“Are we gonna have to stay here tonight?”
Rick and Daryl had known the answer to that question two hours prior. Neither of them wanted to be the ones to say it, but their lack of direct answers filled you in enough. Rick looked down at his revolver and Daryl continued staring out the window.
“Fuck.” You groaned, sitting back down on the bed. “I promised Maggie we'd watch season two of True Blood tonight.”
“That dog fucker show?” Daryl muttered around his cigarette. He was leaning against the wall next to the window, legs crossed at the ankles, cleaning under his nails with the blade of his knife.
“No Daryl, there's no dog fucking.” You sighed and he just mumbled in response, not looking up from his fingers.
Rick had made himself busy trying to prepare the room for the night.
He'd found a few hurricane lanterns and set two up on the bedside tables, and began anxiously ‘cleaning’. The room only had the bed, dresser, and bedside tables, so there wasn't much he could do besides look in the same drawers over and over.
At some point he went into the small bathroom and shut the door. He stayed there for a couple minutes, doing god knows what.
There were a few clothing items left by the previous owners. Daryl and Rick got some raggedy sweatpants, shirts full of holes that were a little too small for them. You were stuck with a massive piss yellow sweater and the ugliest pair of basketball shorts.
Anything was better than your soaking rags.
The storm had eased up a bit, but that didn't do much in terms of easing your boredom. The sun had long since set, your watch read ten-thirty, and neither man was very talkative.
“I'll take first watch.” Daryl was the first to speak in a while.
“No. I'll do it.” Rick protested. He'd been cleaning his revolver for the last thirty minutes. “I can't sleep anyway.”
“Yeah, well. Neither can I.”
You'd found a box of random items under the bed and had been looking through them while they bickered. A dead Gameboy, random PlayStation controllers, a few comic books, pieces to Monopoly, and an array of broken crayons. There was a pen and a notepad though, so you started drawing a caricature of Daryl.
Angry eyebrows, a cigarette that was half his height in his frowning mouth, and a speech bubble filled with hash tags for explicatives.
“Hey.” You nudged Rick's knee with your elbow. He sat on the bed above where you were, cross-legged on the floor next to your box of bullshit.
He looked down at the paper you showed him, and for the first time that day you saw his lips twitching up into a smirk. His eyes trailed over the paper and he grabbed it from you, bringing it up closer to his face.
“Is that Daryl?” He questioned, and you nodded, a grin splitting across your face.
“That's good.” Rick nodded, shrugging his mouth. “You got a real talent. Looks just like him.”
Daryl was too bored to hide his interest, so he stood from his spot under the bedroom window and walked over to you. He grabbed the notepad from Rick, and you could see his eyes narrowing as he tried to make out your scribbles in the dim lighting.
“Yeah?” Daryl looked up when he heard the two of you stifling giggles and laughter. “Think that's funny? Gimme that.” He snatched the pen from your hands and flipped the page, sitting down on the dresser and scribbling furiously.
The pad was tossed in your lap a minute later. Your eyes widened on the drawing.
It was obviously you. You had on the same sweater, but it went down to your feet instead of your knees, and you were standing beside a cat. The only problem was, the cat was three times taller than you, and you had the ugliest expression on your face. Your mouth hung open and you were nagging the cat about scratching up the furniture. It was based on a scenario that had happened the day before, with your cat back home, Daisy, who you had caught shredding the living room couch.
“Dude, what am I? Two inches tall?” You laughed, handing the paper to Rick. He covered his mouth to hide the smile, but you saw it through his fingers and stood to give him a shove.
“Right, sorry. Drew ya too big. Hold on.” Daryl came over and drew a new stick figure of you so small that it was the size of a real ant.
“Ooookay, fuck you.”
Daryl dogged the small notepad you'd tossed at his face, and started laughing. Actually laughing. Your smile grew softer as he and Rick began to joke. It had been a while since you'd seen either of them behave in such a lighthearted manner. It made the bare bedroom seem not so cold.
Eventually the curtains were drawn and the lanterns dimmed considerably. You'd claimed the only spot on the bed that wasn't lumpy or sunken, which just so happened to be the middle.
No other reason, promise.
For the sake of his joints, Daryl had given up trying to sit on the hard floor and joined you on the bed, claiming the side closest to the window. He'd made sure to put distance between you, so much so that he was nearly hanging off the edge.
Rick had a little more resolve than the other man and stood by the window for a bit, occasionally peeking out the heavy curtains to see the same amount of darkness as before.
“Thank god you showered this morning.” Rick grunted as he sat down on your left, knocking his boots together before he brought his legs up on the bed.
“Me?” You blurted immediately, already feeling the tiniest but of anxiety, Rick never teased you like that. He saved that for the men.
He gave a toothy grin and shook his head. “No. Him.” He pointed over your body to Daryl, who was smoking his third cigarette of the night. “Carol made him take his monthly shower after he came home covered in coyote blood.”
You giggled, glancing over at Daryl.
“Yeah. Laugh it up.” Daryl took a deep drag.
You kicked off your shoes and sat upright, taking off those god awful shorts while the two men continued to playfully insult each other.
Rick caught himself going quiet when he saw you pulling the shorts down your thighs, his mouth drying at the sight. Daryl quickly shot him a look, dragging his attention away from your now bare legs and back onto him.
You didn't notice a thing, but you wished you had. Maybe you'd have started grinding against him earlier that night.
You were the first to fall asleep, to no one's surprise. There were little things that you loved more in life than sleeping.
Curled up underneath the sheets that you'd checked twenty times for bugs, sleep came quick and easy for you.
The sweater you were wearing had become incredibly uncomfortable so you swapped it for Rick's hole ridden T-shirt, leaving him shirtless. The image of his bare chest and the muscles in his back almost gave you enough adrenaline to stay up the entire night, but Daryl's soft breathing and Rick's body heat beside you tugged you unconscious.
Rick was next to give in, he'd kicked his boots off and climbed under the sheets with you, not before sliding a pillow between your bodies, more for your consideration than his modesty. He didn't give a shit, but he was worried you might.
Daryl was last, and by complete accident. He'd meant to take the first watch but the sounds of rain on the roof, gentle thunder outside, and your soft breathing beside him had him out like a light.
Two hours went by before something woke Rick up. The feeling of pressure against his crotch.
He opened his eyes, blinking a few times in a struggle to see, but the room was too dark to immediately recognize his surroundings.
Once he remembered where he was he relaxed. He closed his eyes again and almost fell back to sleep when he felt it.
A gentle nudge of something soft and plush against him, something that made him well aware of the situation in his sweatpants. He was painfully erect.
His eyes opened again, but the room was no easier to see in. He could still hear the sounds of quiet rain and wind, and the new sound of Daryl's soft snoring.
Then you whimpered.
It was quiet, barely audible, and whiny. You were squirming in your sleep, the pillow between the two of you now between your knees, separating them to prevent the annoying feeling of bone on bone.
Your ass moved back against him again. He pulled his hips back, his dick immediately complaining about the loss of contact with a slight twitch. He clenched his teeth together and closed his eyes, willing himself to fall back asleep.
Think about cold showers. You're taking a cold shower, he thought, taking deep breaths. Cold cold shower. She's in a cold shower--- raw potatoes, grub worms, rotten walker flesh, her flesh, her ass is only a few inches away, snug in those cute boyshort underwear-
Daryl let out a sudden louder snort, startling Rick out of his thoughts. His eyes snapped open, only closing once he heard the earlier gentle snores return.
Your movements stilled and he was able to sleep once again, not without an iron will mindset.
You weren't sure how long you'd been sleeping when you woke up. You checked your watch, seeing the green glowing hands pointed at the twelve and nine.
It was only twelve forty-five.
You sighed.
The room had grown colder as the night went on, cold air seeping through the thin cracks in the walls and floorboards.
As a result of said colder temperature, Daryl had moved closer to you, be that in his sleep or on purpose, you didn't know. All you knew was he was there on your right side, his bicep warm and pressed against your upper chest.
Rick had also moved closer. So close, in fact, that his hand was on your waist, resting there like it was the most natural thing in the world to do. Your heart sped up when you realized this, and when he pulled you closer in his sleep you almost gasped.
He was hard.
Like, really hard.
You could feel it behind his sweatpants pressed right into your ass. His breathing was slow and deep, letting you know that he was definitely asleep, not that the knowledge did much to stop the arousal filling your chest.
You couldn't stop the whimper that sounded deep in your throat. Daryl's snoring covered it, or you thought it did. Rick stirred behind you and you heard the sound of him sniffing sleepily.
He had to be awake, you were sure of it. His breathing had become quiet, much different than the sounds of someone who was deep in sleep. He made no move to pull his hand away from your hip, confusing you even further.
Maybe he wasn't awake.
A lightbulb went off. You wiggled your hips, very slightly, only a few millimeters side to side. It was enough to gain a reaction from him, which let you know that he was definitely awake.
Rick's grip tightened on your hip.
Then he pushed into you.
There was nothing you could've done to prepare yourself for that kind of response. You sucked in a breath and felt your pussy throb. It was such a faint and quick movement, but you could vividly feel the shape of his dick pressing against your ass.
You heard movement behind you, the sound of his stubble scraping across his pillow as he moved his lips to your ear, speaking barely above a whisper.
“Stay still.”
Your eyes flicked to Daryls face.
You could barely see the outline of his head illuminated in moonlight thanks to the parting clouds. His nose pointed up at the ceiling, his lips parted as he breathed.
A wave of heat traveled through your body, starting in your chest and shooting down to your core. You felt that flipping sensation in your lower stomach and you whimpered again, rubbing your thighs together.
Rick inhaled deeply through his nose at the action. His hand shifted upwards, moving over your hip and splaying over the curve of your waist. He could feel you pressed against him, even if you weren't moving, and it made him groan faintly.
The sound of him groaning sent another spark through your core. You couldn't help it, you arched your back just enough to feel friction. You were too weak willed.
“Sweetheart.” He breathed, his forehead resting against the back of your hair to try and steady himself. “You gotta stop, please.”
He hated how desperate and wrecked the whispered words came from his lips. Hated how his dick was aching in his boxer briefs.
Hated how he was just as weak willed as you, his hips moving forward in a way that betrayed his words and stomped them in the mud.
You couldn't understand why you were so unbearably aroused. You weren't a teenager going through puberty. You've had partners.
Sure, you had a little admiration-fueled crush on the two men, but the way your body was behaving was animalistic. Your heart felt like it was going to burst through your chest and your pussy was soaked.
If only you had your vibrator that was back in Alexandria, you'd orgasm in five seconds, you knew that for a fucking fact.
Daryl muttered a nonsensical sentence in his sleep, his head lolling over in the direction of the window. His right arm rose to lay over his chest, and his left leg spread out in your direction.
His knee bumped against the top of your thighs, almost slipping between them.
You could've screamed.
You tried to stay still, really, you did. But the feeling of Rick pushing against you again, Daryl's knee nudging between your thighs, it was impossible. You moved your hips, intending on just pushing back against Rick but your action also succeeded in grinding down right on Daryl's knee.
Rick could feel resistance in your movement but his mind couldn't focus on anything but the feel of your plush ass pressing against his dick.
His blood ran cold at the sound of Daryl mumbling in his sleep again. He held his breath, waiting with baited breath to see if he'd stir awake.
Relief flooded his body after a moment of silence, and he pressed his face back into your hair. There was still a faint smell of shampoo or conditioner despite the earlier rain. The feminine smell made his dick twitch and he flexed his jaw.
You were caught between excitement and horror. Daryl's knee was wedged right between your thighs, and occasionally it would jerk up against you. Each time it would make you fight away a gasp, and make your clit throb.
Daryl was definitely asleep, right? If he woke up he'd roll over on his side, right? There was no way he was awake, pushing his knee right up against your pussy, right?
You reached down to grab Rick's hand, which was still resting against your waist, gripping onto his fingers for support. His fingers curled around your own and sent butterflies in your stomach at the feeling of comfort.
He hated himself for all of it, but in the moment, he felt like he didn't care. His hips rocked against yours, once, twice, the need to get relief clouding all judgment he was capable of having.
You couldn't help yourself either. Your eyes fluttered shut and you rolled your hips, soft and slow, against Rick's bulge and Daryl's knee. You'd tried several times to push it away, wiggle back further into Rick, but it was like there was a goddamn super magnet attached to your clit and his knee cap.
You bit down hard against your lip, trying to keep your voice from escaping. Everything felt so good, Rick dry humping his heart out, your clit buzzing, it all felt so overwhelmingly amazing that you hadn't even noticed Daryl's snoring was no longer present.
In the end, it wasn't enough, Rick was being too cautious. You needed more, just a little bit. You pushed back hard against him and heard his breath hitch in his throat. His hand gripped yours so tight it almost hurt, and he leaned into your ear.
“Movin’ too much. Stop.”
You squeezed your eyes shut. You shook your head, your lip trembling between your teeth.
“Can't.” You breathed. You physically couldn't stop, you knew that and Rick knew that. You were both so close to relief, you'd already gotten this far, there was no point in stopping now. No going back.
Rick swallowed hard as he felt his resolve break at the way you and your body pleaded. It was all he needed. His hips moved a bit faster, a bit rougher. His hand left yours and grabbed the string of his sweatpants, fingertips pinching the ends, hesitating only for a second before he pulled.
Time seemed to literally freeze when you felt him digging his cock out behind you. Your heart stopped, your breathing stopped, and so did the grinding of your pelvis. You couldn't think. It was suddenly all too very real.
You didn't expect Rick to do something like this. The dry humping, sure. He was horny and it wasn't really that big of a deal. But this? Tugging down your underwear? Spitting on his hand and stroking his dick to get it wet for you? It felt like a dream and way too terrifying at the same time.
“Sweetheart…” His hot breath against your ear snapped you back to reality. “You… you gotta be quiet, okay? Promise?”
You'd never nodded so quickly and eagerly in your life. Your heart felt like it was literally up in your throat. The tight knot in your core became more and more taut, and it trembled when you felt the hot tip of his wet dick bump between your folds.
Rick nearly came when he felt how wet you were. It was mind blowing, you were fucking soaked. The hot lube was covering your pussy and trailing down the side of your ass, reaching his hip bone.
You inhaled deeply when you felt him start to push in. You'd think with how wet you were it would be easy, but your muscles were wound tight due to the nearly paralyzing fear of possibly waking Daryl.
There was a bit of self disgust when you felt the weight of reality sinking in. The absolute pathetic degeneracy of what you were doing with Daryl right next to you.
That self disgust faded when Rick pushed into you.
Rick swallowed a groan as his cock dug up into you, your walls hot and soft and squeezing the life out of him. He could feel how nervous you were so he slipped an arm over your side, his hand reaching for your own again.
You moaned.
His hand broke from your grip and clamped over your mouth. Neither of you moved for a solid minute.
It was the longest minute in history. You could feel his dick twitching inside of you, your clit throbbing so hard you thought it was going to have its own little heart attack.
Your thighs absentmindedly squeezed against Daryl's knee, and you were sure you'd start crying.
Finally, Rick began moving. His breathing was growing heavy behind your head, his face burying back into the mess of hair in front of him.
His movements were slow at first. Tantalizingly slow. He waited until he was sure you could stay quiet before picking up the pace.
Your eyes had adjusted a fair amount in the darkness. You looked up to Daryl, finding comfort when you saw his eyes were still closed, but he'd stopped snoring long ago.
You dismissed it and grabbed onto the wrist of the hand covering your mouth, gripping tight for support.
Your right hand slipped under the sheets to rest on your thigh, but instead landed on Daryl's lower thigh. He must've been a very heavy sleeper, because he didn't react to it beyond the muscles tensing under your palm.
The sound that escaped Rick's lips had your eyes rolling back into your head. A trembling whimper. His movements grew quicker and deeper, his dick dragging your walls against him, pulling out every drop of arousal he could and thrusting it back in.
Your mind spun as all thoughts left your brain. There was nothing going on up there anymore, just dark blackness, the feeling of Rick fucking you taking over your conscious body.
His hand grabbed yours, the one on Daryl's knee, and pulled it away from you, to the right.
When your fingers brushed up against something warm and soft, you didn't question it. You didn't even question his fingers moving yours to wrap around his dick.
Your eyes shot open.
Rick's dick was still inside you. His right hand was still on your mouth, his left on the small of your back.
Daryl's eyes were open, and looking right into yours.
You went to jerk your hand away out of reflex, but his grip was tight, forcing your fingers to stay wrapped around his thick cock. Your eyes flew over him, fighting to understand what was happening, when had he woken up? Just then? Or was he awake when he pushed his knee between your thighs?
The orgasm that came out of nowhere pushed all those questions aside.
You moaned against Rick's hand as you came, no longer trying to be quiet, no longer trying to keep your hips still. Your thighs clamped down on Daryl's knee, grinding rough and quick.
Much to Rick's absolute heart-stopping horror.
He tried to muffle your moans, forcing his hand down painfully hard on your mouth, but it did little. He bared his teeth near your ear and hissed for you to stop, the sound sharp and jarring as it came through his clenched teeth, but then his eyes landed on the scene over your body.
Daryl using your hand to stroke his dick. Daryl with his other arm bent behind his head, his face tilted to the side to watch your expressions with parted lips.
It took Rick a few seconds to recover from the near heart attack. He almost lost his boner from the heart dropping adrenaline, but your wet walls spasming around him coaxed his hips forward.
Now that you didn't need to be quiet you pulled Rick's hand off your mouth and gasped down a lungful of air. Your mouth was hot and dry, and it was hard to swallow.
You couldn't take your eyes off Daryl, his eyes, the eyes that hadn't left your face since he woke up.
God, he was unbelievably sexy. The way he was so responsive to your touch led you to believe your hand might possibly be the first hand to touch his dick other than his own.
He grunted softly, his eyes finally falling shut after you gently squeezed the base of his dick. You'd be content to get him off with one hand like you had been for the past few minutes, but you couldn't resist the urge to give him his first hand job and blowjob.
“Up.” You panted. You curled your finger at Daryl, pointing up. He happily obliged and sat upright, scooting up towards the headboard until his lap was right in front of your face.
He seemed absolutely thrilled, ecstatic even. His once heavy eyes were now wide open, watching every move you made as you shifted your upper half so your mouth could reach his dick.
Rick was still thrusting with hesitation when you moved. He watched you lick broad stripes on the underside of Daryl's dick, and he couldn't help but glance at his face to see his reaction.
Mouth hanging open, eyes clenched tightly shut, his expression almost looked pained. His hands had found their way to your hair, gripping two handfuls as he began trying to move your head for you.
You slapped his hands away and grabbed his wrists, an action that had his eyes opening and looking down at you.
“Don't.” Your hot breath tickled the sensitive skin of his tip. He pinched both his lips shut between his teeth, nodding quickly, a shaky closed-lip moan rattling in his throat.
Rick finally got ahold of himself and grabbed your hips to turn your lower half on your stomach. He kept his dick inside you as he slid on top of you, his knees spreading to rest on either side of your thighs.
You were taking Daryl's head past your lips when Rick suddenly fucked you like he'd been wanting to the entire time. Both his hands rested on the small of your back, pushing your hips down into the mattress with all his weight to keep them firmly in place.
You gasped around Daryl at the feeling of Rick pounding into you from above. It was a comically drastic change from only five minutes before when he thought Daryl was asleep.
Daryl's wrists flexed in your hands where you had them pressed against his lower stomach. You knew he was only keeping them there in your grasp because he allowed it, and not because you were somehow strong enough to keep even a single wrist of his in your fist, let alone two.
It took a lot of effort on Rick's part to actually finish. Having Daryl in the room when you fucked was one thing, but having him making all that noise just from your mouth was another.
He was honestly more surprised that Daryl actually enjoyed sex acts than the fact he was engaging in them with him in the room. With no one other than you, a girl he almost never saw him interact with.
Rick had assumed Daryl simply wasn't interested. Incorrectly assumed.
Either way, having Daryl only a few feet away from him while he had his dick inside you was something he wasn't sure he enjoyed. But the way you clenched around him every time he pulled back was enough to make him forget about it.
Daryl was struggling to keep himself together. He had no point of reference, but he thought you were incredibly talented at giving head. You were giving it your all, sucking and licking like your life depended on it. It was impressive how well you were managing to concentrate on blowing him with Rick making such a mess of your pussy.
You couldn't be happier. You knew there were so many women back in Alexandria that would kill to be in your position, lying in front of the Daryl Dixon, lying under the Rick Grimes, both of their dicks inside you.
“Wa-wait.” Daryl suddenly sputtered and ripped his wrists from your hands to cup the sides of your face, giving a few gentle slaps with the tips of his fingers.
You looked up, not taking your mouth off of him. His expression made your pussy clench around Rick and he groaned behind you, the sound raw and deep. He shifted his hips and ground down against you, quick and rough, his tip jabbing deep inside you.
The ragged moan you let out reverberated through Daryl, and the hand you had around his base gave a trembling squeeze.
“M’boutta, Jesus! Hey, oh, godfuckindamnit-” Daryl's jaw dropped and his eyes rolled back, his head tipping backwards as he made that same pained expression and came down your throat.
Your hips were roughly jerked up from the bed, shoving you back on Rick's dick, and then his hands slipped under your armpits to pull up your top half.
It was hard to stay upright, but thankfully Rick was generous enough to provide you the luxury of his hands tight against your tits, keeping your back flush against his chest.
Oh, it was a goddamn shame Daryl had just come. The sight in front of him was something he knew millions would pay- no, kill- to see. You looked breathtaking. Rick had taken your shirt off some time ago, leaving you completely bare as you kneeled in front of Daryl.
He forgot to breathe as he watched your face, slack in pleasure. You were struggling to keep your eyes open and on him, something that made his softening cock twitch. All that struggling just to look at someone like him? The hell did he deserve to have someone like you looking at him like that?
Rick deserved praise for the way he supported your weight with just his hands, keeping your entire upper half pressed against his chest while he fucked you in desperate effort to finally get off. His dick felt raw from how long he'd been at it, his balls throbbing from the delayed orgasm, it was a wonder he was able to keep himself upright, let alone you.
“Daryl.” The way you whimpered his name made his cock jump back to life, and he pushed himself up on his elbows to look up at you, eager to obey whatever it was you were about to ask.
“Yeah?” He rasped as he stared up at you.
You'd placed your hands over Rick's and moved his fingers over your nipples, which he was pinching and rolling, something he understood without you even needing to ask.
“Touch me, please.”
You didn't need to ask twice. Daryl inched down the bed and kept himself propped up on one elbow, his other arm sliding over his chest to reach your clit.
Rick decided at that moment he definitely didn't like threesomes. Feeling you twist and hearing you moan due to Daryl's thumb rubbing against you made his chest and face hot, a childish reaction considering you and Rick were not a thing, and certainly not an exclusive thing.
He just wasn't good at sharing.
The silly jealousy led to him putting his all into pleasing you. His thrusts became slower but deeper, more forceful, knocking out a gravely groan from your throat with each one. His hands left your breasts to tangle in your hair, pulling it up into a makeshift ponytail with his fist being the hair tie.
Your skin buzzed when he pressed his face into your neck to plant sloppy kisses. He bit down and you whined, arching your back against him and tilting your head to the side to provide him better access.
Unlike Rick, Daryl didn't have a care in the world. His mind was completely blank as he stared up at you above him, oblivious to the way his thumb cramped from the constant circles he rubbed into you.
“C'mere.” You breathed, wrapping your fingers in Daryl's hair to urge him up and guide his mouth to your nipples.
Daryl's eagerness to please was one of the hottest things you'd ever witnessed. He took your right nipple in his mouth and went to town like his life depended on it.
He flexed his tongue, digging the firm and wet muscle around your bud, circling it the same way his thumb now circled your clit.
Your orgasm came screeching out of nowhere.
You cried out and gripped Daryl's head tighter, pulling his mouth firm against your breast as you came.
The feeling of your walls squeezing the life out of his cock finally brought about Rick's own climax.
He wrapped his fist around the hair bundled in his grasp and tugged your head to the side, baring your neck to his itching teeth, and clamped down as he gave a rough thrust.
You'd failed to notice that at some point Daryl had grown hard again, only noticing when he let out a ragged moan into your wet chest.
Your bleary eyes found him and caught sight of his hand quickly jerking himself. There was the flash of thick cum spurting out, long ropes coating the inside of your thighs.
“Fuck.” You slurred. Now that was the new hottest thing you'd ever seen.
Rick's teeth released their grip on your neck. He pulled back and let his head droop back as he caught his breath, his shoulders heaving with deep and ragged pants. He became aware of how uncomfortably sweaty he was. His chest and back felt soaked, and he dropped your hair to pull away from you.
You heard Rick plop down on the bed behind you, the springs creaking from his sudden weight dropping on it all at once. You were too busy admiring Daryl to pay attention to it.
There was a lazy smile on your face, your eyes half lidded and glued to his face. Even though the room was dark you were sure you could see how red his cheeks were. His lips were glossy and parted as he took in deep breaths, still wet from drooling all over your tits.
He could barely keep his eyes open, and with the way you had one hand cupping his face, the other brushing back his sweaty hair, he wasn't sure he wanted to. The sweet way you were looking down at him was just too hard to look away from.
The next morning wasn't as awkward as one would think, even though it was obvious Rick was having some internal battle on the ethics of what he'd done the night before. He'd never been in a situation where he knew he really shouldn't be doing something like that, so his lack of restraint was new knowledge he'd have to ponder over.
Daryl couldn't give any less of a fuck, that morning he gave you the whole princess treatment. Grabbing your now dry clothes, your bag, your shoes, and bringing them to you. Offered you the last of his water and opened every door you came across for you. He didn't say much at all, much like Rick, but his mood was clearly the exact opposite.
It was so sweet it made your heart ache.
“Hey.” Rick pulled you aside after you finally got back home, shooting Daryl a look to give the two of you privacy.
“Hi.” You smiled. The stern look on his face was cute.
“What we did-”
“Don't.” You stopped him, giving the man a tired smile. “It was the sexiest thing I've ever done and I'm fine with it being a one time thing, but don't ruin it and tell me it was wrong.”
“I wasn't going to say that.” His gaze had softened, but he still looked down at you with his hands on his hips like a disappointed authority figure. “I just don't want you to think it's okay to bring up if we're all alone again.”
“I'm not stupid.” You snorted, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. “Won't bring it up again.”
He sighed in frustration, trying not to roll his eyes but failing. “No, it ain't that either. Let's just- next time,” your eyes widened, “not be as spontaneous.”
You grinned. “Alright. You got it.”
Daryl was nowhere near as reserved about the experience. You could understand Rick's point of view, conservative family man, that was probably the most extreme thing he'd ever done in bed. But Daryl, oh, you'd just changed his fucking world.
“Pst.”
You stopped in front of the bathroom to see Daryl nodding you over, lighting a cigarette as he stood near the door to his room.
“Hi.” You smiled after approaching him.
“You okay?”
You beamed at the question, shifting your pile of clothes in your arms. “Yeah, I'm okay. Are you?”
He nodded as he took the first pull, turning his head to blow the smoke away from your face. “Is, uh…” He nodded his head to the front door, where Rick still stood on the porch talking to a few people. “He alright?”
“He's fine.”
“Alright. Good.” He shifted awkwardly. He cleared his throat, looking down at the cherry on his cigarette before bringing it back up to his lips. “That somethin' you wanna do again?”
You pursed your lips in an attempt to hide the ecstatic smile that threatened to embarrass you, and nodded.
He let out a breath that sounded like a laugh of relief and disbelief. There were a few seconds of silence, his eyes darting between his cigarette and your face. “With me?”
“Of course. Maybe next time just you.” You turned to head back to the bathroom but quickly turned on your heel and walked back to him. “Daryl? When did you,” you struggled to get the words out, ironic considering how bold youd been the night before, “you know, wake up?”
“Oh.” He grunted, his ears burning. “Dunno. While before.”
You felt a mix of embarrassment and relief. So he had pushed his knee between your legs on purpose. The thought had your stomach flipping and your face getting warm, so you gave a quick and polite smile before running off to the bathroom.
𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆 Neteyam and you had grown up togther, played and trained like dangerous thanator cubs until his iknimaya came and he suddenly began to believe himself better than you. So why, now that it is mating season, does he suddenly take an interest in you again?
ᶜʷ cannon divergence, aggressive(?)reader, smal misunderstandings, sexual comment made towards reader, angst?(happy ending)
ʷᶜ 13.7k
You remember the days when you were little, as if they were yesterday.
You remember when you first began to acknowledge Neteyam's presence. His face started to form features, instead of just being glossed over. His body began to take a shape, instead of being a blue blob in your periphery. The high pitched gurgles and giggles that he let out now reached deeper parts of your brain, and hearing them made you release your own in turn.
You remember when the two of you began to explore the forest. Learning of Eywa's beauties and strengths. Deciding upon your favorite creatures and flowers. Becoming unafraid of the ambiance that it held, and learning awareness of what sounds led to danger and what was alright to stay around.
You remember when your fathers began teaching you the ways of the warriors. Teaching you how to track, to nock an arrow, to achieve a clean kill, and to sharpen your knives. The two of you were always sparring partners in these early days – you learned the traditional ways of battle, before adding your own flares to it.
But then Neteyam completed his iknimaya.
He was the youngest of the Omatikaya to ever do it. His fathers expectations of him pressing him to become better, to be the best he can be, to be the symbol of the strength of the people.
When he had told you that he was going to attempt his iknimaya, you were surprised. It was not that you believed he couldn't complete it, but he was so young, had so much time left in his life and there was no need to rush things.
Nonetheless, you were excited. Over the moon for your best friend. Before he ventured out you had crushed him in your arms, pressing a swift kiss on his cheek to wish him good luck.
You weren’t surprised to see him arrive home unscathed. The celebration that night was loud, the clan's excitement at an all time high for the Olo’eyktans son. It was then that the young hunters approached Neteyam.
They were a few years older than the two of you – slightly jealous at the fact that Neteyam had accomplished so much when he was so young. But instead of teasing him, pushing him, even bullying him into submission, they took to praising him.
There was no doubt that Neteyam would become Olo’eyktan. No doubt that he would lead the people when his time had come. So it was best to start making friendships now, to start fostering their relationships and secure their future positions in the clan while Neteyam was still young.
You and him had been dancing when they approached. Moving your bodies to the beats of the drums, laughing freely, simply basking in the celebration. But then Teylun taps on Neteyam's shoulder, dragging his attention away from you.
Over the music you can faintly hear something about ‘join us,’ and ‘welcome you,’. You miss most of what Teylun says, but from what you did catch it seems as if he and his friends want to congratulate Neteyam personally.
The two of you were attached at the hip, everyone in the clan knew you both were inseparable. So when Teylun begins to lead Neteyam away you move to follow. But for the first time, possibly ever, you aren’t allowed to go.
Teylun pushes Neteyam’s shoulder blade urging him forward, before turning back to face you. “I’m sorry ‘eveng, we will be discussing warrior things. It is best if you stay back, converse with people your own speed.”
He is calling you a child? Just because you didn’t want to rush your iknimaya, did not mean that you were a weak child. That you couldn’t complete it if you really wanted to. Before you get the chance to retaliate, to say your piece, Teylun has already guided Neteyam the rest of the way to where his friends reside.
You wouldn’t disrupt. It was Neteyam’s night, his celebration, and he could be in whoever's company he wished. You would see him in the morning anyway, then you could tell him how rude Teylun was to you.
When morning arrives you begin your way towards the Sully kelku. Normally Neteyam would meet you halfway, then the two of you would head towards the training grounds or the forest together. He didn’t today though, maybe he was just tired. So you keep moving, you could just meet him at his home.
Maybe you could even steal some fruit or meat under the guise that your parents hadn’t fed you. Yes, that would be nice. A second breakfast to set you up for the perfect day. As you poke your head into their kelku, you don’t see Neteyam.
It still doesn’t phase you. Pushing past the hides that cover the entry way you make your way towards where Neytiri and Lo’ak sit. “Good morning auntie, Lo’ak.”
The human word felt odd coming from your throat, but Jake had taught it to you when you were young. He said that the word meant close, almost motherly figure; and Neytiri was always like that to you.
Lo’ak stands, crashing into your chest with a tight hug. He acts as if he had not seen you just yesterday, had not danced with you after Neteyam left with Teylun.
“Would you like something to eat, child?”
When you nod, Neytiri hands you a leaf holding fresh fruits and roots. The perfect way to start your day. You begin picking at the meal with your fingers, picking the best pieces for yourself, and giving the slightly less best pieces to Lo’ak.
After swallowing a few bites you begin to look around. Where is Neteyam? He is usually an early riser, and you had expected him to be up by now even with the late night he had.
As if sensing your curiosity Lo'ak speaks. “Big bro left.”
He doesn't acknowledge the look on your face, doesn't even look up from where he's deciding what piece of fruit he wants from your leaf. You only come out of your stupor when he points at a particularly juicy piece of fruit and asks if he can have it.
“Where did he go?” You hand Lo'ak the fruit, leaning your head against his as you ask.
You can feel him shrug, feel his jaw work as he chews before he responds. “Dunno, I think he said something about going with Teylun.”
Neytiri snaps at Lo'ak, telling him to mind his grammar. She didn’t like how much English he included in his daily life, much less when he began creating Na'vi slang that matched with words his father had used when he was a human.
You tune her out. Instead focusing on how Neteyam is off with Teylun again. You could understand last night, it was important to show camaraderie. That must be what this is.
Allowing Neteyam to follow along with their hunt, or training, or whatever it was that they were getting up to. Allowing him to establish himself with the others who have completed their iknimayas.
So you thank Neytiri for the food, ruffle Lo'ak's braids, and head out to train yourself. You don’t manage to catch a glimpse of Neteyam for the rest of the day. It’s odd, and it places what feels to be a rock in the center of your chest. But you knew you would see him tomorrow. These new friends would ebb and fade, and even if they didn’t Neteyam wouldn’t abandon you for no reason.
The next day as you approach the Sully kelku, there is distinct chatter. You can hear Teylun’s voice, is he ever going to leave Neteyam alone? Then Li’ral’s voice filters in too. Neteyam’s voice is the first clear thing that you can hear.
“Are you sure that I cannot join you later? I have not seen ma txeylan in nearly two days.”
Teylun laughs. You assume it is because he sees you as a child. Li’ral pitches in, confirming your thoughts, “The girl who has been attached to your side since the two of you were toddlers?”
“Yes, that is her.”
“She is a ‘eveng. You are a warrior now.”
Neteyam sighs, “She is not a ‘eveng. Just because she did not complete her iknimaya yet doesn’t mean-”
“But has she not trained as long as you?”
“She has. What does that have to do with her being a child?”
Thank Eywa he was standing up for you. You knew you could trust him.
“It means she should have trusted herself, her training and attempted her iknimaya as well. It is childish fear that held her back.”
Most Omatikaya didn't complete their iknimayas until they were a minimum of fifteen years of age anyway. You were not behind, Neteyam was just leagues ahead of everyone.
You think Neteyam would retort again. Come to your defense as he always had – but instead you can hear the familiar patter of footsteps. A faint conversation discussing the best way to roast a yerik, wafts over to your ears before you lose the ability to hear them.
Maybe he had defended you again when you were out of earshot. There was no way he allowed the conversation to change so easily, still wanting to defend the person he spent so many years beside.
The opportunity to confront him never comes. To ask for some comfort about the situation, for him to quell your fears that he truly did see you as a child.
Just a short week after his iknimaya, Neteyam was to complete his dream hunt. You would not let him evade you before this event. The possibility of him dying was too great to not at least wish him luck.
Not because he needed it, you knew how strong and determined he was. But because you wanted to show that you still cared, still considered him your best friend even with the distance of the past week.
When you approach the small group he's settled in, they go silent. Their eyes flit from Neteyam to you hastily.
“Ma txeylan, do you have a moment?” You keep your voice light, trying to block the nervousness from seeping into your tone.
Neteyam's ear flicks. The young hunters he's began to associate himself with eye him, smirks and grimaces adorning their features. His beads clink as he allows his head to nod slightly, “Of course.”
He lets you drag him a few feet away from the group. Positions himself with a view of the group he was sitting with over your shoulder.
“I've missed you.” A polite smile graces your features as you speak.
Once again he only nods to show any sign that he has heard you. But you don't let him get away with it; instead taking to staring into his eyes with your bright ones. So he grants you a small, noncommittal sound from the back of his throat.
When you realize that you won't be getting a vocal response you continue, “I just wanted to wish you well. To tell you I am hoping for good luck on your dream hunt.”
“Why?”
Your eyebrows raise in surprise at his odd question, then they furrow, “What do you mean why?”
Neteyam’s eyes flick over your shoulder, making contact with the new friends he’s solidified himself with. Then he breathes a deep, annoyed breath, “Why do you feel the need to wish me luck. I am not a ‘eveng, like you,” For the first time in days his eyes meet yours, “I can handle myself.”
Oh. So that’s how it was going to be. You stuck with him for years, and now he wants to cast you aside because he has some new and shiny friends.
How unfair.
Laughter bubbles up behind you. When you look up you can see Neteyam’s lips quirk into a smile at the sound, can see the way his chest puffs slightly in pride. You don’t need to look at the group to know they were staring at you, that their amusement was due to your embarrassment.
The sound burns into your memory. Sears painfully into the deepest parts of your brain. It must have changed the chemistry in your brain with the way that it now triggers your fight or flight response.
That same laugh drags your attention from your friends. It brings a twinge to your chest – one that quickly places a scowl on your face. It’s bringing the urge to fight. To cross the cookfire and pour a full waterskin over Li’rals’s head. To shove Teylun over the log he’s sitting on and cave his nose into his face. To grasp Neteyam’s tail and attempt to dislodge it from where it rested on his spine.
But you take a deep, steadying breath. Take a loving glance at the friends you’ve surrounded yourself with; the ones who adopted you after Neteyam abandoned you. And you decided to take it out on him tomorrow during training, there no one could judge you for seeming bloodthirsty.
The adults of the clan haven’t seemed to get the memo that you and Neteyam are not friends.
Well, more that you cannot stand him. Anytime he speaks, you grunt to reply. When he looks in your direction, you make sure to avoid your eyes. If he approaches your friends to discuss what they’re weaving or how the hunt went, you make it a point to act as if he does not exist.
When you’re in the same hunting party, not much is achieved. Formations are broken, twigs are snapped, prey is lost. No one can decide who to blame; Neteyam for putting you in the most useless part of the formation, or you for storming off and hunting by yourself.
And sparring together always leads to more scrapes and bruises than when you spar for anyone else. So you’d think that Jake and your father would avoid placing you two together. That they’d want two of the clan's best warriors to stay in formidable shape.
Their wiseness should have been able to influence their decision. To prevent them from ever even thinking that the two of you could be applicable partners. That you could ever go back to how it was.
Instead, at least once a month, the two of you end up partners.
Unfortunately it is the most entertaining part of the session. Watching the two of you be forced into the circle; him smiling as he scratches the back of his neck, you huffing before shoving yourself off the tree you were leaning against. They’d watch in anticipation as Neteyam watched you, assessing your stance, trying to make eye contact.
Then their eyes would flick to you. Watching how you’d toe at the ground, roll your knuckles till they crack, bite your lip as you stare at your father like he personally offended you. It was obvious that you were wound up, like a cord ready to snap.
You’d wait until the last moment, until your father or his would call for the start of the spar, to even glance in his direction. Rarely looking at his eyes, instead learning the movements of his muscles so you could determine his movements from that. Anything so that you wouldn’t have to look at his stupid face.
At the beginning of the spar, everything would be cordial. Proper stances, dancing around each other before taking light jabs, ducking and dodging until you were inevitably told to ‘push your opponent!’. It was then that Neteyam would start lunging a bit more seriously, reaching his hands out to grab at your thigh or push your shoulder; something to tip your center of gravity, allowing him to pin you down.
You’d retaliate with shoves of your own, letting your nails scrape a lot more than necessary. It was low, a bit dirtier than should be allowed in spars, but it wasn’t explicitly against the rules. Plus, who's to say the scrapes didn’t come after the two of you had started rolling around?
It didn’t matter how it happened. Didn’t matter who shoved who, who’s hips pinned the others down, who celebrated their victory a bit too early; the two of you would always end up tousling on the ground.
Provoked, enraged, by the others misplaced confidence, whoever was pinned would buck and thrash until they had regained a bit of control. Then the two of you would be wrestling, throwing insults back and forth among the punches, grabbing braids, tugging tails, hell you’d even taken to some below the belt kicks a few times.
With how last night had gone, today was shaping up to be one of the worse spars the two of you have had. Neteyam had pinned you, somehow still in top shape after all the rumaut wine he had had yesterday. It would be fine, everything would be okay, but then Li’ral had to open his big fat mouth.
It wasn’t loud, not wanting the elders, especially the Olo’eyktan, to hear him. But it was loud enough to drift over the edge of the circle to where you laid beneath Neteyam. You heard his voice float over you as your ears were just recovering from their ringing, ‘I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if he mounted her like that again after eclipse one of these nights.’ Just who, on Eywa’s green planet, did he think he was talking about?
And if that wasn’t insulting enough, you could hear the faint laughter follow from Neteyam’s friends. On a better day, you’d take your eyes off Neteyam, angle your head back so you could tilt the yellow orbs to assess who specifically was laughing. You’d catalog them into your brain, prepare to treat them a little harsher the next time you sparred. But today was not a better day, and it was just in Neteyam’s luck that he also heard the joke, and was allowing himself a few huffs of laughter from where he rested above you.
Your vision fades black at the edges, sole focus being on the boy atop you. With sudden, aggressive thrusts, you launch him from the seat he was claiming. He falls, landing on his back with a rough exhale. While he’s disoriented, you rotate off your back and hastily crawl towards him.
Before you can settle yourself into a position that allows you to hold Neteyam down, you swing. Your fist collides with his cheek, the force splitting his lip and sending you falling over until you’re laid out on top of him. From there you swing your leg over his torso, taking a firm seat before you continue your onslaught.
Surely, this had led to another joke to bubble from his friends. Something about how eager you were to mount him. You couldn’t hear it though, too busy thrusting your fist towards Neteyam’s face. Too busy ripping his arms away from where they came up to block your assault. Too busy pulling at those damn braids that he loved to swing around.
At some point Neteyam had tried to push back. Thrusted his hips up hoping to displace you, but you were too far up on his chest for it to do anything. Tried to grab your arms when you swung, yet you managed to dislodge them. Attempted to even roll his body under yours, to lay on his stomach and get some leverage to stand and force you off. But nothing worked, something had snapped in you – something that gave you insane strength that you were using to the fullest.
The rage you had felt forcing your blood to boil, for it to rush so fast through your veins that you were rendered unable to hear anything else. You couldn’t hear the gasps. Couldn’t hear the concerned murmurs. Couldn’t hear Neteyam saying he yielded. Couldn’t hear the Olo’eyktan telling you to get off of his son, nor your father reprimanding your sudden rampage.
Suddenly – well suddenly, for you, – you’re hoisted off of Neteyam. As you raise into the air you get a perfect view of him. Laid out on the dirt, chest rising in heavy breaths, lip busted and bleeding down the side of his face, cheek already gaining an indigo tint, braids misplaced from the wrap he had them in; it brings a maniacal grin to your face.
Yeah, his friends and him could make fun of you all they wanted. But at the end of the day, you’d be the one laughing. That was one thing you’d made sure of ever since that night so many moon rotations ago – they’d never be able to call you a child again.
Slowly a voice fades into your head. Vowels and consonants forming into syllables that you can finally piece together into words. It’s your fathers voice, he’s whispering a scolding, ‘I cannot believe you did that’, ‘ma’ite, I know he aggravates you, but he is still the Olo’eyktan’s son’, ‘How will it look to the elders’, ‘You’ll scare off potential mates if you keep up with this,’. You weren’t embarrassed at your actions, but being hauled away while everyone knew you were getting scolded brought a slight flush to your cheeks.
You’re sure to be scolded more intently when safely tucked into your kelku. Sure that your mother will force you to spend more time with the weavers and the gathers, saying that it’ll soften your demeanor. Sure that your father will remind you of how he fought with Jake Sully and Neytiri, how their union was strong and Neteyam and yours should be similar especially with your mature ages.
So when the conversation happens you let it. Nodding dutifully as they chatter; agree to chaperone the gathers as they forage, agree to weave with the elders so you can soak up their wisdom, even agree to stay in formation next time you go for a hunt.
It’s only when they mention apologizing, that you deny. A grimace overtakes your features, brows creasing as you speak, “I will not do such a thing. I cannot do such a thing.”
“You will. We must be united as a clan,” Your father speaks, tone harsh, “Today you showed everything but unity. You showed the fierceness of the clan, and our unwavering determination. So you must tie the whole thing together with our camaraderie, this can only be completed with an apology.”
You frown, ready to plead, to beg for any other punishment, “Father please. I cannot do it.”
“You must.” He frowns back, not wanting to debate the matter any longer.
“If you were to have heard what his friends were saying about me, then you would understand!”
“It does not matter. We must take the high route.”
You stand, slightly moving towards the entrance flap of the kelku, “It was disgusting, bordering vile, father! And he – Neteyam, he was laughing right along with them!”
“What did they say?”
Fantastic.
You weren’t going to repeat their words. It would only make the situation worse. Your father wouldn’t stand for it, ready to defend your honor even if it put your family at risk of shame.
“Can I not just avoid him? You and the Olo’eyktan do not have to place us to spar any more, and we can coexist just fine as long as we aren’t forced to interact.”
It must have gotten to him. Your father seems to be pondering the idea. It’d be much simpler that way, changing schedules and ensuring that the two of you don’t spar together would prevent most of their issues. But it would also mean that two of their best warriors wouldn’t have their best competition, and it would risk their skills dulling.
A small grin graces your face. You could do this, could avoid Neteyam and his group of friends for the rest of your parents' days. And you’d never have to apologize for something you weren’t sorry for. But then your mother speaks, “You must apologize.”
“Mother! I cann-”
“You must! I will not have the elders shame our family at the weaving circle, will not have others whisper our names with disgrace on their tongues. Please daughter, swallow your pride this time, after you may avoid him, yes?”
Your head falls. Sure you may not have minded what the elders had to say, didn’t mind when people spoke ill of you; but that was because you knew they didn’t know the full story. That they would probably have your side if you had voiced your side too.
So instead of rebuking again, you allow your head to nod. A soft hum of agreement leaves your throat before you depart through the flaps of the kelku. You storm through the clan, rushing to the ikran rookery; a nice flight to clear your head before your inevitable apology.
It’s a calming mechanism you’ve used since you passed your iknimaya. The clear air and loads of open space allow you to think through all your problems easily. Small tricks and flips bring you confidence. Your skills in the air remind you of your skills on the ground; and a smile is brought to your face as you remember Neteyam flat on his back earlier today.
You fly for hours, watch the sun reach eclipse atop your ikran. Observe as the bioluminescent glow overtakes the forest. Eventually, your racing heart slows, and your breaths come more regularly, and it’s then that you decide you can apologize.
The Sully kelku has its entrance flaps open when you arrive, typical as the Olo’eyktan is expected to be available until the last clan member goes to sleep. You don’t walk straight in however, instead sing-songing a soft “Kaltxì.”
It is Lo’ak who comes to the entrance, “Oh shit.” He laughs out your name, “Dude, the way you beat Neteyam’s ass today was crazy!”
“Yes,” a tight lipped smile adornes your features, “I am here to apologize. Is Neteyam around?”
Lo’ak gazes at you curiously, even though you put distance between you when you stopped talking with Neteyam, he had never let you fully seal the door. Normally when he’d praise your skills, you’d at least laugh a bit with him. Nonetheless, he nods, “Yeah. Yeah he’s on the sleeping mats.” He jabs a thumb over his shoulder, pointing to where you could find him.
“Where is everyone else?”
“Mom and dad are out, and Kiri and Tuk are weaving.”
Good. This was good. You didn’t want to have anyone in the family hearing the conversation, but you also didn’t want to have it outside where anyone could hear. “Can you just come back in a little bit Lo? I must apologize to your brother in private.”
“In private?” Lo’ak’s eyebrows waggle, “Aloneee?”
You shove past him before turning and lightly pushing his shoulder to urge him into taking a few steps out the kelku. “It is not like that and you know it.”
As you move deeper into the home, you call out to Neteyam a few times. Eywa forbid he was improper when you finally saw him. When you finally hear his voice ring back, you allow yourself to duck into the area that held their sleeping mats.
Letting your eyes rove over him you can see the damage you did. You look at the way he winces upon sitting up, how his lip is still swollen, the indigo finally setting on his cheek, even the faint scratches that rest upon his pectoral muscles. He looked bad, it takes everything in you to not allow a smile to grace your features.
You allow yourself to kneel, not wanting to seem higher or more important by towering over him.
“I am here to apologize. My earlier actions are inexcusable and I hope you can forgive me.”
Neteyam nods a bit. Lets your words linger in the air before he responds, “It is fine. We all get overcome by our emotions sometimes.”
“It is not fine.” Your head shakes, beads clinking to accentuate your point, “Please accept my apology, do not brush it off.”
“Okay.” His tongue darts out over his lips, bringing the bottom one between his teeth before he hisses from how tender it is, “I accept your apology.”
Good. He will no doubt tell his parents about your change of heart, and it will spread from there. Your family will be cleared from any possible shame and you can go on with your lives. As you move to get up Neteyam’s hand wraps around your wrist.
Your eyes flick over to his, “What is it?”
“I’ve just been thinking. I miss you, we used to be so close, you know?” His hand falls, but his eyes keep peering into yours, “What happened to us?”
“What do you mean, ‘what happened to us,’?” You scoff, all semblance of being friendly disappearing, “Trust me when I say this. You are not important to me. You may have been, but you never will be again.”
Fast, jerky movements lead you out of the Sully kelku. How dare he say something so preposterous? How dare he act as if he’s not the reason the two of you are here?
Unbelievable.
At least you wouldn’t have to interact with him again. Thank Eywa.
Neteyam did not know what had gotten into you today.
Last night you had seemed pleased, happy to drink rumaut wine with your friends as the cookfire reduced to embers. He’d been watching you, allowing his eyes to roam over the people, but lingering on you for a bit longer than everyone else.
This morning however something was off. You were on edge, nearly strung your bow too tight before archery practice. When the time for sparring finally rolled around, instead of meandering near the edge, you were bouncing on the balls of your feet – like a thanator ready to pounce.
It was his luck that the two of you were paired together today.
The dance you’d fall into was familiar, he was prepared for it. Ready to dance around and trade dominance until one of you became too tired to continue. But today, you’re hyper-aggressive; your moves are harsher, punches are harder, jabs are faster.
He hisses the first time your nails make contact with his chest; it’s almost as if they’ve been sharpened, prepped to cut just for this. The sting urges him to take you down, to put some real use to his larger muscles thanks to his father's avatar DNA.
He ducks down, using his right hand to grab at your left thigh. His hand slides down the smooth skin until he can grab at the flexion of your knee. Then he tugs it towards himself, tilting you backwards.
Instead of letting you fall alone, he follows. Neteyam lets his left hand move to the back of your head, preventing it from hitting the ground too roughly. But once you’re settled on the ground, he clambers over you, settling most of his weight on your hips.
At first you try to hit him, fruitlessly using your arms to displace him. It doesn’t work, but it does get annoying. Neteyam moves to pin your arms, now he can secure his win without any other lesions to his body.
He smiles, huffing a little laugh at how angered you are today. He wants to ask what was up with you, wants to ask what crawled up your tewng today. But then something happens – something otherworldly takes over you.
Unnaturally bucking overtakes your hips, your whole body is being used. Shoulders pressing into the ground beneath you, legs bent at the knee to grant extra force, even your arms slide across the ground to displace his grip.
The shock overtakes him, forcing him off your body. His back roughly hits the ground, and the breath is knocked from his lungs. And before he can even acknowledge that he’s off from where he once sat victoriously on you, you’ve launched a punch into his cheek.
From there it’s only downhill. You’ve taken a seat upon him and begin laying into his face, his chest, his arms, really anything you can.
Neteyam tries to fight it at first. Tries to defend his face, to force you off of him, to flip the two of you over, but nothing works. He tries to ensure your win, to yield, but his voice goes uncared for or unheard.
It’s only when your father hauls you off of him that he gets some room to breathe. The break allows the ache to set in his jaw, and his cheek, and his lip, and his scalp. Eywa, did he hope that his grandmother would use the yalna bark salve today.
His father hauls him up from the ground. Gives him a once over as he questions, “You good boy?”
Neteyam nods, braids falling over his face when he doesn’t move to raise his head again.
“Good. Go get patched up.”
With a pat and light shove to his shoulder, Neteyam is off. When he arrives to the Tsahik’s tent, he’s pleasantly surprised to see that it’s only his mother and grandmother inside.
He can hear them chattering about something. The words ‘of age,’ and ‘best time to train a tsakarem,’ float to his perked up ears before he realizes they’re speaking about him.
So he delays making his appearance known for a little longer, taking post behind the tent where the hides are thin. Their words come softly muffled through the hide, his grandmother’s voice ringing through first, “Many will seek him out during the upcoming mating season.”
“Yes,” His mother hums, “I can only imagine how many gifts will swarm our kelku.”
The two of them chuckle and it brings a smile to Neteyam’s face. But then he remembers how soon the season is, just a few short weeks away. Sure his siblings had teased him plenty about how many girls would throw themselves at him – but that was useless teasing, this was his mother and grandmother. If they’re speculating it must be serious.
“It will all be for naught if he does not reciprocate. Has Neteyam spoken of anyone who has piqued his interest?”
“No, he has not. There are many near his age this season though.”
His mother was right, there were many who’d be his age this mating season. Even though Neteyam could think of the prospects himself, his mother and grandmother began to list off the girls that would be participating this season, allowing him to mull over their attributes himself.
“Pxule…” She is one of the singers. Soft spoken until she needs to voice the hymns of the ancestors and she finally allows her voice to raise. A kind girl, but not one he could see himself being mated to for eternity.
“To’lei…” A gatherer. Her nimble fingers always grant her perfect harvests. It would seem as if Eywa herself loves when To’lei heads into her forest, always granting her the best materials from whatever area she’s decided to forage in. Her skills would eternally be useful to the clan, but she engages in constant babbling as she gathers, rarely taking moments to embrace the natural noises of the flora and fauna.
“Mekani…” One of the hunters. She was able to flawlessly lead a hunt among the younger bunch; her stern tone leaving no room for discussion or pushback. Her shoulders were never bare when she arrived back at hometree, making sure to share the burden of such a success with her fellow hunters. A formidable mate, someone who knew how to lead and the importance of being strict, but she never seemed to let up, never showed a softer side that would be important for raising children.
Maybe Neteyam would need to take some time to sit and think when he got home. All of the options that were being listed were good options; just not for him. He needed someone who matched him, someone who questioned when he was making a bad decision, someone who could be soft when he didn’t know how to be.
If he could take a trait from each of the girls listed and place them into a mold, he’d end up with the perfect mate. The one who would make him confident when he took the role of Olo’eyktan over. But that wasn’t possible, he couldn’t force any one of them to fit whatever mold he’d created in his head. Just as he’s about to push out of his kneel and approach the entrance of the tent his mothers voice cuts in again.
She spoke your name, “For a time, when they were little, I believed that they would end up together.”
“Hm. Why is that?”
“They were always together. You cannot be that close for so long and never grow any feelings – it is how I came to see Jake in another light.”
Neteyam hadn’t even considered the fact that you would be participating this year. Sure you were the same age, and had long since passed your iknimaya. However the thought of you getting dressed up in brightly colored loincloths and chest coverings just to dance around the cookfire with potential mates made him sick.
His brain ran through the list of men who’d be eligible this year. Sure there were plenty of options, but none of them would be good enough. Korvyn was too timid. Sa’nel was too immature. Rikutu had many adventures with girls already.
The thought of you ending up with a courting gift adorning your body by the end of the season soured his mood.
He knew it was wrong – to be this protective over you, even though he hadn’t spoken properly to you in years. But that wasn’t his fault! He had tried; joined your friends as they weaved, taken the position of lead in your hunting parties, and he’d made sure to never take it easy on you during spars not wanting to undermine all the training he knew you did.
You were the one that refused to speak to him after he came into his own.
After his dream hunt, he’d begun getting more responsibilities. It was around that time that you stopped talking to him. When he called across a clearing, your head would turn in the opposite direction. He’d sneak up on you and Lo’ak as you helped him with his aim, only revealing himself to give some advice of his own, but instead of sticking around you’d mention that he could take over before leaving.
No matter what, it was a deflection, and it was you who influenced the distance. Not him. So why does it matter if you’ll probably be ending the mating season with a serious prospect courting you. Who cares that in the next few months you’ll mate before Eywa with some skxawng. It makes no difference that sometime in the near future there might be a child running around hometree with your eyes, your mates nose, and tiny loincloths weaved by your own fingers.
The thoughts wound Neteyam up tightly. As if he was twine woven around a tree to stabilize a kelku. It made his treatment rougher than necessary; his grandmother moving to massage the tensed muscles more than needed.
Even though his muscles had been worked out, stretched and prodded until they were spongy and soft again, his brain was still a mess. What could he do to prevent such an outcome? How could he implement himself back in your life in a way that would put him in a perfect position to determine who you decided to spend the rest of your life with?
Hours passed as he laid on his sleeping mat and pondered. Eventually his thoughts were interrupted by your voice calling out to him. At first he had assumed it had been a figment of his imagination – that because his thoughts were all consumed by you, his brain had decided to play a trick on him. But then the voice came again, and again, and it only stopped after he had responded.
It was you, really you! Sitting next to him, poised upon your knees as you spewed something about an apology. Truly, he did not care. Everyone has bad moments, maybe not him, but now wasn’t the time to say that.
You hadn’t liked that. Forced him to not just brush off your apology. And that’s fine, it’s the first time in nearly half your lives that you’ve said more than ‘okay’ or ‘I heard you’ to him. So he accepts your apology all while silently hoping that you’d stick around, say something else to continue the conversation. You must’ve missed him as much as he’s missed you. Must have been wondering what his daily life looked like now.
Instead, you move to rise. Hands plant on your knees as you let your center of gravity shift to allow your knee to come up from beneath you. It’s then that Neteyam realizes Eywa’s delivered you to him. Here, on a shining platter (your knees so you’re level to him), and he’d be a fool to not take the opportunity to talk.
He lets his hand rest upon your wrist for a moment. Allows his calloused fingers to feel over your pulse point until you question what he needs. It takes him a moment to find his voice, to gather his thoughts into a proper sentence.
“I’ve just been thinking. I miss you, we used to be so close, you know?” Neteyam lets his hand drop, believing that you’ll stick around without him tethering you, “What happened to us?”
For a moment he thinks that you will give him an answer. Something about how you wanted space to grow into your own, but now that you’re both old enough you’re willing to become friends again.
“What do you mean, ‘what happened to us,’?” A scoff falls from your lips, face falling into an unimpressed scowl, “Trust me when I say this. You are not important to me. You may have been, but you never will be again.”
What?
What were you saying? Implying?
He supposes that he didn’t have to be important to you. But he never thought you’d say such a thing. Never thought such a statement would leave your lips when regarding your future Olo’eyktan.
Not that he needed to mention his rank. It was something that followed him as a child, something that lingered in the back of all the friendships that he held. You had never acknowledged it though, he was ‘just Neteyam’ and he couldn’t be happier for that.
Before he can move to grab you again, to try and force you to explain your rash statement, you’re up and out of the kelku. He moves to stand but his body aches and he can’t move fast enough. By the time he calls out to you, he knows you’re gone.
How strange.
No matter. Neteyam’s sure that he’ll have plenty of opportunities to talk with you before the mating season begins. Everything can be straightened out and he can claim his rightful position by your side and influence your final decision.
If you were hard to get a hold of before, you were impossible now. Neteyam could rarely catch sight of you. When he did you were promptly out of his vision a moment later, as if you were a phantom of his imagination.
He tried speaking to your friends. Urging them to spill the secret of where you were spending your time. When that didn’t work he tried bribery, offering them an uninterrupted dance with him during the season.
They hadn’t given up where you were spending all your time, but they had told him how you never stayed in the same spot for too long. That you allowed your schedule to rotate frequently to prevent being seen. This was not useful, but he had already pressed his forearm to theirs and grabbed their elbow in the traditional signal of a deal before they gave the information.
When there was only a week left until the start of mating season, he took to more desperate measures.
Neteyam begged his father to place you in his hunting party again. Jake's reply was less than pleasing, “No can do son. Strict orders to keep the two of you out of each other's hair after that last spar.” Who cared how that ended up?! The two of you were adults and could move past that if they gave you the opportunity.
He asked his grandmother to speak to you when you went to her to be patched up. Mo’at sighed as she responded, “I will not get involved in your frivolous situation grandson.” Neteyam had scoffed, spewed something about how it clearly wasn’t frivolous to you, before he departed from the tent.
Next to suffer was Lo’ak. Despite how you had pushed him away, and refused to be seen around hometree with him, Neteyam knew that the two of you still hung out. As Lo’ak had been leaving the village one day Neteyam had stopped him, asking to tag along. “Sorry bro, not blowing up my spot for you.” had been Lo’ak’s carefree reply. What did he mean ‘blowing up his spot’? One would think that after all the heat Neteyam took for him, Lo’ak could do his big brother this one solid, but no matter there was still another path to try.
The final person he dared try was your mother. She was always nice to him, loving and caring whenever he stopped by the weavers circle. Neteyam knew it would be a long shot, but it was still important to try all his options, to just implore her to tell him what had gotten under your skin. But she denied him too, “Ma’ite’s business is her business. You will have to find out from her yourself.” At least she was nice enough to pair her words with a soft tone and a light smile.
What a shame. How did they expect him to solve this situation if you wouldn’t speak to him! How was he supposed to ward off potential mates if he couldn’t be in your vicinity!
The thoughts consumed him all throughout the first week of the season. Sure Neteyam had his fair share of suitors approaching him; plenty of young women, even some men, approaching him to converse and delve into their lives. He still made sure to keep an eye on you however, glancing over the shoulder of the person in front of him, turning his head in your direction as he itches the back of his neck, a few times even excusing himself as he sees you walk off.
The second week is when small gifts begin to be exchanged. He begins to get cuts of meat from Mekani. She delivers him the best, fattiest, pieces of sturmbeest and yerik meat. At first she delivers it raw, but as the week progresses she begins to cook it, glazing it in nectar, or roasting it with fruits.
Neteyam’s not interested. To eat the meat is to show signs of interest, but it’d be rude to just discard. So instead, he takes it to his friends, distributes it between Teylun and Li’ral; and he only slightly regrets it when they begin to sing Mekani’s praises.
Korvyn has been taking up your time. Not all of it, still allowing you to seek out other potential suitors, but he has certainly become bold in the last few weeks. He allows his tail to find your waist, to run it along the base of your own as the two of you talk. Tilts his head appropriately to show his interest in your stories.
There wouldn’t be any worry from Neteyam if you hadn’t been smiling so happily at him. Hadn’t inched closer where you sat perched against the log. Hadn’t presented Korvyn with a fresh harvest of rumaut that you had cut up yourself.
So the next morning Neteyam sets out, before the sun has risen over the horizon. He will bring back the best piece of sturmbeest meat, and then he is going to roast it slowly over the fire. When it is nearly done he is going to wrap it in a leaf with some fine roots, and glaze them both with honey, before allowing it to steam to perfection.
It would be perfect. A meal that he knew you consumed from childhood, perfected by his hands as the perfect distraction from other suitors.
Wait.
Wait.
What was he thinking? From other suitors? He was not trying to court you. Wasn’t trying to take a permanent, romantic, spot in your life.
Well. It wouldn’t be that bad.
He’d known you all your lives anyway. Been close until you were twelve. Your families liked each other, parents supporting each other in the war against the sky people. It wouldn’t be the worst scenario if he were to court you.
Plus who would challenge the future Olo’eyktan for someone's hand? It would be stupid, they wouldn’t have a chance. Who would want a simple hunter, a weaver, a gatherer, or a carver, instead of the future leader of the Omatikaya?
Teylun had said something similar to him just before mating season had started. Boasted that because of his title, he could obtain anyone he wanted, that he could probably get an older woman if he really wanted. Someone with more experience on everything, especially how to make him see stars in the privacy of their own kelku.
He was always more focused on the sexual part of things. On the physical level of affections, not on how they start, on the emotional base that makes everything more intense. But nonetheless, it was a great idea. He’d be able to ward off other suitors and maybe even encourage you to start seeing him how you once did again.
So Neteyam spends the entire day preparing the meal. Kneels over the roast until his back gains a twinge. Ensures that the glaze covers the entire meal nicely, in a perfectly even layer before setting it to properly settle into the meal.
And when he’s finally settled, finally believes that the meal is perfect, he wraps it tightly in woven cloths to seal the heat. Then he’s off to the cookfire. He steps past where his friends reside, faltering for only a moment until he sees that Korvyn has yet again taken the seat next to you, then he is back on his mission.
When he steps into the little bubble the two of you have cultivated neither of you pay him any mind. Your conversation flows, smooth despite his presence lingering in front of you both. Korvyn is in the middle of recounting how he learned to swim when his brother cast him into the river when Neteyam clears his throat.
The two of you turn towards the source of the noise. Korvyn lets a smile grace his features, always so friendly, but you just peer up at him. Your eyes go from the wide orbs that he’s used to, to half lidded at your disinterest.
Neteyam’s eyes are only on you, watching the subtle sway of your tail, the way the furry tip brushes against Korvyn’s. He observes how your chest covering leaves very little to the imagination, it makes his throat dry up until Korvyn’s voice rings out to his left.
“Neteyam, what can we do for you?”
So he clears his throat, lets some saliva coat his tongue, then speaks. “I wish to speak with her.” When no movement is made to leave the two of you alone he opens his mouth again, “Alone.”
“Oh. Right, of course!” Korvyn turns to you as he moves to get up, “I will see you later, kalintu.”
You let your hand grasp his bicep as he stands, allowing it to ghost over his skin until your hand rests in his. Neteyam can see the way your fingers flex as they hold Korvyns, can see the way his thumb rubs over your fingers before he inevitably steps away.
When he departs your face falls more than it already had. Even more so when Neteyam sits next to you. Your brow creases, frown tilting your lips downwards. And finally, he’s granted with your voice being directed at him, “What is it?”
“I prepared this for you.” Neteyam begins to uncover the food, neatly unwrapping the cloths from around it before he hands you the leaf. You stare at it, lifting it in your palms to test the weight before raising your head again.
“Thank you.”
“Open it.”
So you do, maneuver your fingers deftly to untie the twine that secured the leaf before beginning the actual process of unwinding the leaf. As you do a familiar sweet scent begins to flood your senses. You can tell what it is before it even comes into eyesight.
When it is finally revealed you can feel your mouth water. The delicious smell paired with delectable view sparks a hunger that you didn’t have before. But you couldn’t eat it, wouldn’t eat it, the implications were too great especially as anyone could see.
You mutter a soft, “Thank you,” before moving to rewrap the food. Neteyam shoots his hand out though, halting all movement from you.
“I wish for you to try it.”
It was dirty. A play that he shouldn’t be forcing right now, but Neteyam can feel Korvyn still lingering. He knows that he’s watching this whole interaction and Neteyam wants him to know that there’s competition. Worthy competition at that.
“You know I cannot. That we are not prospects for each other.”
“Just try it. I wish to know if I’ve improved on the taste from when we were children.”
A huff leaves your nostrils. Heavy and harsh, as a clear sign of your distaste for Neteyam’s methods. But the slight grumble in your stomach does just enough to convince you. You raise the meat to your lips, parting them just wide enough for a bite before tearing off a piece with your teeth.
You let it rest on your tongue for a moment. To let the glaze flutter over your tastebuds before the tender richness of the meat joins it. It’s good. Very good. Unfortunately, Neteyam had mastered what herbs and spices went best with the meat and honey.
Swallowing your pride you allow a quick, “It is good.” Before you move to wrap the meat again. This time Neteyam lets you, pleased that you’ve tried his food in front of the whole clan. Even more pleased that you couldn’t deny that it was delicious – you may not have verbally said it, but he could tell from the way your eye sparkled and the upward flick of your ear that it was just as you liked it.
The next few weeks went smoothly. Well, as smooth as they could in Neteyam’s eyes.
It had become clear to the clan that he and Korvyn were dueling for your attention. He had thought it would work in his favor, if everyone knew he was trying to court you, then they would encourage Korvyn to back off.
Instead, Korvyn's friends seemed to step up their encouragement. Neteyam heard whispers from them about how good of a pick he had made, how if the Olo'eyktans son wanted the same woman then she must've been the perfect choice. If Neteyam wanted to take a page out of Li'ral's book, then he would have used the statement to his advantage.
Ran to you and told you that Korvyn only spoke to you because he wanted to stake claim over something that Neteyam wanted. But before he could even let the thought form he heard Korvyn’s voice drift over, ‘that does not matter to me. I thought she was perfect before he decided to intercept.’ Great. He was a great, honest guy.
Neteyam really hopes that they can get along afterwards. That there wouldn't be any hard feelings when he took his rightful spot by your side. But he wouldn't be too upset if it didn't work out – the more distance between you two, the better.
As the time passed he began to appreciate you. At first it had been a distraction, to encourage others to stay away. But as he spent nights bringing you meals, rare flowers, dyes from rare fruits, even a couple of carved bone jewelry pieces, he got to know you again.
He relearned the sound of your voice – not the one he usually heard, the blunt, uninterested tone. But instead the light airy tone that you held in casual conversation.
Relearned how your outer eyelid begins to droop when you're tired. How you refuse to sleep when there's much left to do, and how your eyes begin to tear up in protest to your stubbornness.
Relearned how you'll allow your bare foot to scrape against the dirt when you find a pebble. Most would move their foot, kick the pebble away, or if they must, plant their foot on top of it and try to ignore the sensation. You instead, embrace it.
Relearned how observant you are. Even if you look to be immersed in a conversation, you're still tuned into everything around you. Your ears will flick back at particularly loud laughs, eyes will steal glances when people begin to move in your vicinity.
He feels as if he’s relearned you entirely. Cataloged every piece of you that was missing in the past twelve years.
You must have felt the same. Felt as if you came to understand him better. That every missed moment was now known and that you were as close as before.
Neteyam’s drifting thoughts led to him messing up his weaving. He had switched stitching styles midway and now the armband looked crooked and mangled. He grunts in anger before putting his fingers into motion to fix his mistake.
“What is wrong?”
His mothers voice rings out behind him. She was preparing for dinner, carving the roots and slicing the meat while Neteyam sat a few feet away. She was always so observant, her oldest son the easiest for her to read.
“Nothing is wrong mother.”
He can hear the knife she held being placed down on the stone she was cutting on. Can feel her body heat shifting closer to his. “Something is wrong. You are tense, hunching over your craft as if it must be shielded from the world.”
Neytiri's palm presses between his shoulder blades. It urges him to sit up straight.
“I want it to be perfect.”
He can feel his mother peering over his shoulder. It brings tension back into his body as he holds his breath. If his mother didn't like it he isn't sure what he would do.
“It will be.” Neytiri nods approvingly, “You do not need to rush.”
He did need to rush. Teylun told him this morning during training that he overheard that Korvyn had finished his courting gift. That could only mean that he would be presenting it to you tonight at the gathering, which meant that Neteyam had to finish his courting gift before then.
The two of you had been close last night. Closer than usual, dancing next to the fire with other couples. Body's swaying and twirling around each other, never straying far enough for someone to slip between you two. If Korvyn got to you first tonight, Neteyam was nearly sure that you would accept his gift, that he would lose you to him.
So he just smiles tightly at his mother. Nods in faux agreement that he had time to complete it, that he could be patient. He knew better though, and he knew he could complete it. Hours spent training in the ways of his people meant that he was well versed, he would complete this easily before the festivities tonight.
Normally armbands were fashioned with feathers as accent pieces. Two or three that would hang down the wearers bicep, usually of a color that meant something to them. He wants the feathers to be something that stand out; a nice rich orangy-red. Not only would it stand out against your blue skin, but it’d also draw attention, garner questions about who made it for you.
The thought brought a small smirk to his face. You, confirming the suspicions that the two of you were becoming something more, to any and all who asked.
As he approaches the fire he scans to look for you. You aren't at your normal log. You aren't settled where your friends are. Aren't nibbling on something near the edge of the forest.
Where were you?
Maybe you were late. He had heard that you were going to wash at one of the hot springs after training today, maybe you just hadn't made it back yet. That would make sense.
He takes up position with Teylun, Li’ral, and the rest of their friends. He tries not to get too comfortable, to be ready to jump up and head over to you as soon as you breach the forest.
Neteyam didn't want to seem like a prude by not partaking in the activities while he waited. So he drinks some wine and assumes a casual, loose position. He converses with his friends, shares his opinions on their prospects, answered when they question his stance with you.
The conversation almost leads him to miss your arrival. But his ears flick towards the sound of your voice instinctually. He allows his head to swerve with them, to watch as you greet your friends. You seemed happy, smiling as you caught up with them, he wondered what you were talking about.
It seemed wrong to interrupt. When the conversation died down he'd slowly meander over, politely ask your friends to excuse you, and drag you away from prying eyes. Then he could present you with the armband and implore you to give this courtship a chance.
As he ponders how the situation would go, Neteyam can see a figure approaching. When his eyes refocus he notices its Korvyn. He's approached you while you talk, urging you away as Neteyam was just daydreaming he would.
No.
No, no, no. Neteyam only has one thought coursing through his mind as he approaches – Korvyn would not ruin this for him.
“Korvyn! Can I speak to you for a moment?” Neteyam places a firm hand on his shoulder, squeezing slightly.
Korvyn nods, “Of course.”
Neteyam drags him away; away from prying eyes, away from their friends, away from you.
“I heard you are going to give a courting gift tonight.”
“I am.”
Neteyam lets his tongue lave over his bottom lip, pulling it between his teeth as he picks his words carefully. “I do not think it wise to do that.”
“Why is that?” Korvyn’s brow furrows, nose scrunching before he schools his expression back to neutral.
“I wish to court the same person. And-” Eywa is he really doing this? Yes, he was and there was no turning back now, “and it would be embarrassing for her to deny you in front of everyone.”
“She has said that she would deny me?”
Neteyam lets his lips press tightly together, “I have not asked. But it would be wise to think of all possibilities.”
With another pat to Korvyn's shoulder Neteyam turns to leave. He makes his way back to the fire, back to the music, back to you.
But you aren't there again. So he rushes to your friends, questions your absence like he should have done earlier. They tell him you were tired, that you had outdid yourself earlier and the hot spring loosening your muscles only made you more tired.
That is fine. Perfectly fine. He could see you in the morning, before training went underway. Drag you away to a more secluded area and confess his feelings then while he presents you with the armband he carefully crafted.
So he goes back to his kelku. Laid down on his sleeping mat and pulled a pelt over his body before drifting off to sleep. When he wakes up he's excited, happy to see where this day takes him. Ever the optimist.
But when he gets to the training grounds you are not there either. It is fine, you were probably late again – you said you were tired the night before, maybe you just slept in today.
Neteyam tries to keep his optimistic mood, to be the open and kind person that he should be. However it falters as the day goes on and he still does not see you.
You didn't make an appearance for the midday meal. Fine.
Didn't show up to the weavers circle to gossip with your mother and the other older women of the clan. Fine.
Weren’t up high on the ikran rookery tending to your ikran as if they were your child. Fine.
Maybe your father had sent you out to duties he was unaware of. Things that drew you away from the village. But then you weren’t at the fire later on. Not the cookfire or the celebration fire either.
And to be honest, it was still fine.
Neteyam was able to emotionally regulate himself to not fall into a spiral. To not consider that something bad had happened, or that someone else was able to steal you away in courtship before he could. You were probably resting, and if you were not resting maybe you had fallen ill.
So he lays his head down to rest another night, preparing to get up as the sun rises. He'd go to your kelku and ask for you before you had a chance to leave – not that you would be leaving, since you were sick, of course.
Upon arriving your mother greets him.
“Oh Neteyam! So good to see you – quite early though.. How is your mother? And your siblings, are they treating you well?”
A polite smile graces his face. He’d always been fond of your mother, and it’s important to answer all her questions diligently if he wanted to ensure she also liked him.
“I apologize for the intrusion. She is well, I believe she's preparing for a hunt right now. My siblings are also well – troublemakers, but they are well under my watchful eye.”
Your mother nods along as he speaks, showing her interest, “That is good. I am very happy to hear the Olo’eyktan’s family is doing well.” She wipes her knife with a cloth, sheathing it before her face lights up, “Ah - I apologize, you must be here for something important if you came so early.”
Neteyam smiles, your name leaves his lips and he smiles politely. When your mothers expression falls into something morphed from confusion Neteyam realizes his mistake and continues.
“I was hoping to speak to her.”
“She is gone for the day already, another busy schedule.”
“Do you know where I might be able to find her?”
Neteyam feels as if he can see the gears turning in your mothers head. It’s as if he’s watching her weigh the pros and cons of revealing your location. He hopes that the pros outweigh everything else and that she’ll guide him in the right direction but he’s not foolish – he knows family should stick together. It’s his fathers favorite saying anyway.
“I do not. She has taken on many responsibilities recently.”
Neteyam can feel his face fall before he can school his expression. Disappointment settles in his bones, weighing his shoulders down. But before he can fully allow himself to count today's pursuit as a loss, your mother speaks again.
“She may be with the gathers. Fishing while they gather fibers for weaving. However, I am not certain.”
A smile graces his face at that. It wasn’t a definite answer of your whereabouts, but it's good enough. There were many spots to gather fibers down the river, and the walk would give him ample time to perfectly craft his confession.
As he walks through the forest Neteyam allows himself to kneel and pick a few flowers. If all went well maybe you'd allow him to braid them into your hair. He could picture it now. The two of you sitting in an alcove of a fallen tree, the ambiance of the local fauna surrounding you, talking about any and everything that came to mind as Neteyam weaved your braided hair into other patterns to incorporate the flowers as well.
Sounds of rushing water and muffled voices force him out of his daydream. Arriving to the river means he has to attune himself to everything – he’d hate to miss you because you were on the other side of the river, or if the group you were with ended up being more inland.
When he passes groups Neteyam puts on a proper face. He smiles, greets the clan members – sometimes he helps them with picking the fibers, or hauling a catch. When he comes upon the third group, he spots you nocking an arrow a few paces away.
After you release the arrow, he calls out to you. He watches as your yellow eyes snap to his figure. You allow your head to fall into a slight nod of acknowledgement before wading out to retrieve your catch.
Neteyam steps slowly, as if he is trying to not startle an animal. His hands reach out in front of him, trying to show that he means no hard as you yank the arrow from the octofins body. When you toss the fish into a basket filled with the rest of your kills, he finally approaches.
“Can I steal you from fishing for a few moments?”
He can see the way your tongue rolls over your top teeth beneath your lips. The way your eyes narrow just slightly, before you motion towards the forest.
Good. The denser flora would better muffle your conversation from prying ears. He wanted this to be a more intimate moment, and he’s glad to see that you share the sentiment.
Neteyam feels like a child with how he brambles behind you. His feet snap twigs, his hands take ages to move the vines from his vision, and his heart is pounding in his chest. Any sense of preparation flees when you reach a clearing that you deem good enough.
“Speak.”
Not the joyous greeting he had hoped for, but it was fine, he could work with it. Perhaps you were just stressed about bringing back enough fish.
“How have you been? I missed you at the festivities the past few nights.”
You scoff, “I am fine. I have been busy – I am currently busy as you just saw. What did you come all this way for?”
“I wish to give this to you, so you can carry a piece of me with you always.” Before Neteyam can begin to dig into the satchel that rests tied to his tewng on his hip, a snarl from you halts his movement.
“Do not humiliate me. I will not allow it, not again.”
“I would never. These past few weeks have been very special to me. I feel as if I have gained ma txeylan back, as if we had never grown apart.”
Your lips tightly purse together, and you nod. This is not how Neteyam thought it would go. He believed that you would share his sentiment, that you would elaborate on how it felt from your perspective. Did someone else get to you first?
“Do you not feel the same.. Did–did you agree to pursue someone else already?”
“Oh you are just so full of yourself! Can’t you see that?” You bellow, “You toss me aside for some new shiny friends, just to act like it’s my fault that we aren’t friends anymore. And now you bring up Korvyn? After you’ve forced your rank so that he does not court me?”
Neteyam allows his brow to crease. “What do you mean?”
“The other night! He had approached me to speak before you dragged him away, and yesterday morning I hear that he's been asked to stay away by the future Olo’eyktan.”
“No. No, not that.” He waves his hand dismissively, before looking back at you, “I did not toss you aside.”
“After your iknimaya. When Teylun first approached he called me a child. Then you brushed me off until your dream hunt, and then you only laughed at me and called me a child yourself!”
Realization dawned on his face. Much had happened in the past years, so much that he had buried that memory in his head, refused to allow it to see the light of day.
“I… I am so sorry.” You huff a laugh, disbelieving smile adorning your features before Neteyam continues, “I was taken with the praise that was being bestowed upon me, blinded by their perceptions of who I was that I didn’t consider how rude and childish my actions were.”
“Even if that were true, you only started taking an interest in me when you saw others approach – not because you truly wanted to reconnect.”
“It started like that, but I have always enjoyed our time together.” Neteyam hopes you can hear the earnestness in his tone.
He tries to assess the non vocal signs you give him. The way your ears are slightly tilted back in annoyance, the way your tail is lashing angrily, how your fingers dig into your elbows where you hold your arms together. And despite your standoffish stance, you don't snap at him again.
“Actions must be paired with your words. Do not embarass me.”
A smile graces his lips, overjoyed that you're giving him a real opportunity, “You wont regr–”
“If you try to humilate me again the beating you recieve will be worse than the last.”
“Of course.” The smile falls a bit, but he cannot shake it from his face entirely. “May I help you bring back the fish you have caught?”
The thought dances around your mind before you shake your head, “No. You may begin with whatever you're trying to achieve tomorrow. Let me fish in peace.”
Not wanting to ruin his chances, Neteyam listens. Withdrawing from the area bidding the lingering clan members a goodbye before he begins his trek back through the forest. It hadn't gone as he planned, but you hadn't taken away his opportunity. Hadn't sealed and locked your heart away like one of the pressurized doors at the human outpost.
He hoped that his luck would play out. That he would be able to charm you into feeling the same way for him. But time would only tell.
Everyday Neteyam worked on something. Something to impress you. Something to show he cared. That he considered you as more than a prize to win.
At first they were simple things.
A nice feather to tag your arrows with.
Materials to help you craft a stronger grip for your knife.
Polished rocks that could be carved down into something to adorn your body or be used as decoration.
But Neteyam knew those things would only mean so much. Deep down he knew that anyone could retrieve those items for you – he had to distinguish himself somehow, to show how much better he was for you then any of the other candidates.
So the gifts progressively got more elaborate.
When you carved yourself a new bow, he weaved fibers together to make you a string to match its fury.
When the two of you somehow ended up in the same hunting party, he placed you in prime positions. No longer watching for unseen stampedes, but now being the one to arrive at hometree with the delight of knowing the clan would feast on your kill tonight.
He spent time making new meal combinations. Picking the ripest fruit to pair with savory mushrooms. He’d scour for ferns to crush into spices for meats. Swim out to rocks in the middle of lakes and rivers to catch the bigger fish that resided there.
Neteyam wished to make you clothes, jewelry, shawls, anything that could adorn your body. He wanted others to look at the craftsmanship and question where you found the time to make something so intricate when you were so busy. He wished for a deep purple tint to find your cheeks when you admitted that Neteyam made them for you, that he somehow found time in his even busier schedule to make you such detailed gifts. But he knew he had to wait – that he should wait, at least until you accept his courting.
So until then he continues with other acts.
He makes mental notes of beautiful hidden alcoves that he sees on patrol. Which he later begs you to accompany him to. Some are in the forest, hidden behind vines and trees but bright with glowing flowers and moss. Others are in the floating mountains, lush green spots that contain shallow bodies of water for the two of you to lounge in after a long day.
Most importantly, well most important in Neteyam's mind, he makes more of an effort to listen and also show you that he heard you.
When he asks about your day, he makes sure to delve into the little details about what fibers you're using for your weavings. Then the next morning more miraculously arrive outside your kelku.
When you state that a meal didn't come out as good as you hoped because the fruit you used wasn't of the rarest quality because you didn't want to scale the mountain for it, Neteyam makes sure that not only the fruit, but the meat and the nectar you were using show up with him the next day. You tried to take it from him with a polite apology, but he insisted that the two of you cooked together. He couldn't stop himself from getting caught up on the fact that you let him feed you when taste testing the meal.
When you complained others speaking about you, Neteyam set them straight.
To’lei said that the future Olo’eyktan couldn't have a carbon copy of himself as a mate, that he needed someone with a slightly different personality. So he politely reminded her that his mother not only matched, but exceeded in some senses, his fathers personality and their leadership has been strong and prosperous.
Ulkan mentioned how the two of you had always butted heads, that this complete change did not make sense. Neteyam informed him that people can change and mature, but also that mistakes and misunderstandings happen and those are mendable wounds.
And before Teylun and Li'ral could even think of making a comment Neteyam took the initiative to speak to them. He tried to not dwell on the past, to blame them for his past mistakes, but he did make it clear that they would have to respect you from now on, along with more of the clan's women. Specifically for you however he made it clear that it is not to be because of his interest in you, but because they can acknowledge your skills and prowess in what you do.
After weeks of changing his ways, of proving himself to you Neteyam began to think that it would not work. That you wouldn’t ever take him seriously and all of this was for naught. Sure, you had softened – allowed him to be around you more, laughed freely, and teased him as you once did. But that didn't mean you'd give him a real chance at proving how good of a mate he'd be.
But one morning as he's making his way to the training grounds he sees you already there. You’re teaching some of the children how to properly hold their bows – what stance their feet should be in, how to twist their hips, and how to line their shots. That isn't unusual, the children loved to learn from you and you didn't view it as a hindrance as long as they listened.
What was unusual was the bright orange and red feathers that adorned your bicep, upon trailing his eyes up a bit more Neteyam could see that they were attached to a very familiar pattern.
He couldn't stop the smile from gracing his face. The boyish grin bringing a sparkle to his eyes as he approached calling your name.
“You accept?”
You startle. Wave the children off dismissively, and huffing a bit when they don't disperse easily because of their nosey habits. But then you turn to him fully and nod.
“I am willing to try. It is as if you brought back the aspects of the boy I grew up with and paired them with the actions of a man.”
“That was my goal.” His hands reach towards your hips but they hover instead of landing, “May I touch you?”
When you nod again he allows his hands to fall. His thumbs begin soothing over the skin they rest on, “How about a kiss too? I promise I will not disappoint you.”
Instead of answering you allow your lips to press to his. It's brief, nothing to cheer or shout over, but it's everything to Neteyam. It's proof that all his months of trying have now progressed into something palpable, and it means that his feelings are reciprocated. When he moves to kiss you again, you press a hand to his chest halting his movements.
“There are children around.”
“It is nothing they have not seen from their parents.”
“Do not be hasty. How about we go flying tonight, and we can… continue then?”
Neteyam nods eagerly, dislodges himself from you and begins to make his way across the training grounds. If he were to stay nearby with this recent revelation hanging in the air he wouldn't be able to contain himself.
So he strides away, takes to sharpening a spear with an even wider grin than before adorning his features. He cannot wait for the future that he is so sure will happen – mating before Eywa, the ceremony with the clan, the births of your children, and eventually falling into the roles of leaders.
He should make a stop by the spirit tree to thank Eywa later. Neteyam is sure that she has had a role in this. That she had opened your heart and mind to the idea of him, and that without her he would have never been able to atone for his past mistakes, and never had won you back.
He would have never become important in your eyes again if not for her.
Maybe he would even take you - to prove that she had blessed this communion. Or maybe not, he should save that for when you consummate the union anyways.
Translation:
Eveng - child
Ma txeylan- my best friend
Rumaut - cannonball fruit
Ma’ite - my daughter
Kelku - home
Kaltxì - hello
Tewng - loincloth
Skxawng - idiot/moron
Kalintu - sweet person
a/n: lowk didn't love the ending of this but i wanted to write it instead of figuring out my ten minute presentation thats due in a few days or studying for my super important exam on monday soooo it is what it is
Dividers by @cafekitsune
tag: @skepticalvoidhedgehog
pls like/comment/reblog/come into my inbox and tell me what u think of the fic <3
Tags: [mlw][mdni][loss of virginity][missionary][cervix kissing][female orgasm][mention of fingering and oral (f!rec.)][neck kissing]
"I've watched enough porn to know how to do it, dumbass."
"Yeah? And I don't trust you near my coochie. You crushed a Pepsi can with your finger today."
"Don't say 'coochie'."
"What then? Pussy?" You scoff.
"Vagina."
And you lower the Cosmopolitan magazine, your expression bored and upper lip curled in distaste as you watch Mark, reclined on his bed as he absentmindedly tosses a paper ball into the air, catching it with ease, only to throw it back up.
The motion is repetitive, boring to watch but you can't deny the appeal of watching that little muscle in his forearm twitch beneath his skin.
"I'll call my genitalia whatever I want, thank you very much. And you shouldn't mimic porn." You state. "A lot of that stuff isn't real and pardon me, but I want an actual orgasm when I lose my virginity."
Mark let's out a snort of laughter, perching up and resting his weight in his elbows, the edge of his sweater raising the tiniest bit and you catch a peek of a neat, dark little happy trail that disappears beneath the fabric of his clothing.
"I can guarantee an orgasm." Mark boasts. "I'll bet anything."
"If I don't cum, I want you to grow a full bush and then, wear cycling shorts for a week."
Your wager has Mark's lips pursing, chocolate pools moving towards the ceiling as he weighs his options. "Oddly specific but okay." Mark shrugs. "And if you cum, anytime I learn a sex trick, I get to try it on you. Unless you get into a relationship but," he snorts, "let's be realistic."
The insult has you flinging the magazine across the bedroom, hitting Mark in the face with the spine and he winces, although, you know it's more out of habit than from actual feeling.
"It's so weird." He mumbles. "I don't feel your abuse anymore."
Mark's grin is cocky.
"Oh, Marky," you coo, lifting yourself from his desk chair and you cradle his face in your hands, an action that's so familiarly condescending but Mark can't help but lean into your warm palms, "you're only unaffected by the physical abuse. I can still hurt you self-esteem."
Mark's eyes narrow at you. "Try it." There's a challenge in his voice that you just can't ignore. Especially when he's looking at you like that. Brown eyes trained intensely on you, black strands tousled ever so slightly from the long day he's had.
"You have feminine hands." And you swear, the way his expression falls is an aphrodisiac in of itself before you straighten up.
"It's easy to hurt your ego, Marky." You hum. "Heroes get a lot of hate if they do something wrong. But lucky for you, you have years of experience."
"Yeah," Mark hums, "no one's a bigger dick than you."
𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨💛💙୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒
"It's so weird that you're losing your virginity on your parents' anniversary." You hum quietly, carefully traveling along the sides of Mark's bedroom, attaching the LED light strips along the cornish.
"Don't make it weird." Mark grumbles, stepping out of the bathroom, wrapped in a fuzzy robe as he towel dries his hair, messy strands poking in every direction and he watches you with amusement. "Their anniversary is like, the only time when they travel far enough that I can't hear them. So.... It's the only night I can do it."
"They probably don't want you to hear them fucking." You hum, almost absentmindedly and when Mark gags, you let out a laugh and your foot slips from the backrest of his desk chair, and you slip.
But instead of meeting the carpeted floor in an unceremonious crash, you instead crash into Mark's chest, his arms wrapped around your midsection and your knees tucked up. And he dips his head low, head tilted.
"You okay?"
And if your pussy didn't have a heartbeat before, it does now. The way he looks down at you, his expression so soft, brows creased in concern and his lips. So soft and inviting, the scent of mint lingering in the air and you nod your head.
"Mhm," you mutter quietly, "I'm okay."
Mark sets you on your feet, before examining where you had stuck the lights and he nods his head, a grin cocking at his lips.
"Yeah, this is a mood setter."
"Can I open my eyes now?" Mark grumbles, arms folded over his chest but his eyes are closed, lashes fluttering against his cheekbones and you let out a hum.
"Go ahead." You mumble and he allows his eyes to open and drink in the sight of you.
Freshly showered, steam still rising from your skin and in his T-shirt. The faded Batman shirt ends just below your crotch, your ankle socks aren't even matching and your hair's tied into a bun that looks so half-assed.
You look nervous. Eyes lowered to the carpet and Mark reaches forward, large hands bracketing your hips and his thumbs brush over the trimming of your panties. And he pulls you to stand between his thighs, his head tips back and his chin comes up to rest on your sternum as he stares up at you.
"We don't have—" "I want to." You interrupt him, your hands raising to rest on either side of his neck, thumbs brushing along his jawline. "I want to." You repeat quietly, looking down at Mark.
The plan is to lose your virginities before the gap year is over. Because you'd both much rather make a mistake with each other than with strangers.
"Move your hand."
Mark lets out a snicker of laughter, your thighs tossed over his and his tip notched at your entrance, and he can barely think.
Not when he knows how tightly you felt around his fingers, sucking him in with such a neediness, not when he saw the way your brows knitted into the prettiest little pinched expression when his tongue lapped against your clit just right.
"I looked at the logistics of it and it's not gonna fit."
You state, and those pretty brown eyes roll at your words, before Mark slaps your hand away, his hand wrapped around the base of his cock and he taps it against your clit. Just to watch the way your stomach caves in with an unsteady breath.
"It'll fit." Mark reassures. "Trust me, I'm a doctor."
And you let out a laugh, your body slumped against the mattress and you snort.
"No you're n—nahh..."
Mark watches the way your head tips back when he pushes his tip past the ring of muscle, and he watches the way your eyes shut, brows knitting into a pinch.
"You little... Fuck.."
You breathe out, your expression a little pouty frown and Mark moves a strand of hair out of your face, leaning forward and as he presses a kiss to your forehead, he pushes another inch inside.
And as you gasp, his lips press against yours, and Mark swallows each moan and groan of pain, his forearm supporting his weight while his other hand grips your hip, thumb brushing over the protruding bone of your hip and he tilts his head to deepen the kiss.
"You're so warm..." Mark murmurs into the kiss, but he keeps his hips still, slotted between your thighs and he feels your gummy walls pulsing around him, trying to get used to the intrusion. And Mark lifts his head, kissing the apples of your cheeks.
"So I'm big, huh?"
He teases and watching as your pained expression gives way to an annoyed expression, eyes bored and brows furrowed.
"Just fuck me already."
You grumble.
And Mark pulls out, until just the rosy tip of his cock is poked into your sopping cunt, before he slowly pushes back into you.
The stretch burns, and you can feel the way your nails dig into your palms and you take a deep breath. His hips are pressed against yours, and you can feel that painful pinch behind your navel.
"Are you inside yet?" You question, peeking up at Mark through your lashes, enough to watch the way that dorkish grin spread across his face as he readjusts his position, leaning forward and shifting himself to rest more comfortably.
"Ha-ha, very funny." He rolls his eyes, his voice just a tad breathy and his hands move, thumbs moving your pussy lips out of the way, spreading them so he can see the pinkish flesh that swallows him whole.
"Mark!" You hiss, swatting away his hands, and covering your folds from his view. "What are you doing?"
"They do it in porn!" He defends, moving his hands to rest on your hips instead as his hips slowly begin to roll against you, the soft strands of his happy trail tickles your neglected and swollen clit, and you take a shaky breath.
"Those people are ass naked." You deadpan. "You've never even seen my feet."
With one hand, Mark shifts the covers and lets out a bark of laughter at the sight of your socks, still on your feet. And he reaches back for your ankle, lifting your leg and he places a soft kiss on the inside of your foot, causing your walls to flutter around him.
His kiss is warm through the cotton, a lingering show of affection as his hips thrust, cock nudging your insides to his shape. And he lowers your foot.
"Put your foot on my chest. I wanna try something." Mark hums quietly, resting your sock covered foot on his chest. And you let out a snort.
"My pussy isn't a skate park. You can't try things you've never done." You huff, but you comply, keeping your foot against his brawny chest, even as Mark shifts you into position, straddling your one thigh and resting your foot on his chest.
And when he moves, your foot slides off his chest, instead, resting beside him. And a snicker slips past your lips at the frustrated expression on his face.
"Please participate." Mark grumbles, moving your foot, and resting your leg over his shoulder, ignoring the way a laugh ruptures from your lips.
Kiss-swollen and pouty lips curling into a wicked grin.
"Bro said 'please par—'... Shit..."
Your eyes roll back in your head when the divot of Mark's tip presses against your cervix, pressing a sloppy, slick kiss against the plug as he grinds into you, leaning forward and pressing his lips against the curve of your jaw.
Mark isn't even fucking you anymore.
He's slowly rutting into you, pressing adorning kisses to the side of your face, sucking marks into the supple skin of your neck while he slowly fucks an orgasm out of you.
Kissing you deeply, his hand grasping the fat of your hip while the other massages the plumpness of your thigh, pressing a warm kiss against your calf before going back to swallowing your honeyed moans.
"... shit, you're gonna make me come..." You breathe out, your nails dragging lines down the expanse of his muscular and slightly damp back, the pain and pleasure mixing into a delicious concoction that has Mark burying his face into your neck.
Inhaling the scent of you.
"Mhm.... 's okay, baby, come for me..."
His voice is husky, a low timbre that makes your stomach knot and you whine when you feel that wave of ecstasy crash over you, waves breaking on the jagged rocks of your being and you're lashes flutter, tears brimming on your lower lashline because you're just so... Full.
Mark perches up, wiping the teardrops from your cheeks and he looks down at your hazy and flushed expression. His gaze lingering on your lips, wet and rosy, and before he even registers, your hand is on his face.
"Stop making such heavy eye contact." You whine. "You're gonna make me catch feelings."
And a laugh tumbles from his lips.
"You know, I have your entire future in my hands right now." Mark states quietly and when you hum, quietly mumbling a 'how do you mean', he simply presses a kiss against your pulse.
"I could fuck a baby into you right now." Mark breathes out.
❝Raising their children alone can't be that bad...❞
Monkey D. Luffy, Roronoa Zoro, Trafalgar Law ╱ fem!reader
Tags: fluff!!! angst, humor, reader's death, teenage pregnancy, minor spoilers from Dressrosa, spoilers about Law's past, sexual harassment, pedophilia, rape
Words count: 20k
MONKEY D. LUFFY
Sudden appearances and fated intrusions. The first time you spoke to him about these concepts, he just smiled as he listened, without fully understanding.
For a boy like him, envied by those who swore they were free under established rules, ignored by those who did not know what loneliness was, and adored by those who loved happiness, your existence was a miracle.
He was twelve years old the afternoon he met you on his way to Partys Bar.
The evening sun was warm, summer was just beginning. He took steps that almost seemed like jumps as he hummed and stroked the overgrown grass. Surely someone would come by in a few days and cut it, because there was always a good neighbour who cared about this area. Especially grandma Yukiko.
That old woman, with grey strands so long they touched her knees and a white dress down to her ankles, had frightened Luffy more than once. She looked like a ghost if you saw her at night. Ace teased him for crying the first time, when he was eight years old and saw her returning from visiting Makino.
His older brother knew her. Despite being a serious boy, he often saw him shopping for the lady. And soon he joined him.
Passing by her cottage meant praying that she was well. She lived alone, amid leaks that reappeared every rainy day, yellowed, peeling windows with broken shutters, and creaky wooden steps at the entrance. The neighbours' proposal to find her a new place had been declined multiple times. Lady Yukiko did not want to move from her beloved home where she had grown up, nor did she want the brothers Dadan was raising to waste their energy on an old person like her.
Luffy understood her loneliness.
And he couldn't accept it.
Over the years, he became friends with that woman, sometimes having breakfast with her, other times singing and dancing to the rhythm of her guitar, played with the same passion of her youth despite the arthritis that bothered her.
He adjusted his hat, smiling as he heard her playing the guitar, opening the small unlocked door as if it were his home. He was about to shout at the top of his lungs so that the woman would hear him, but he stopped in his tracks, looking up at the ceiling.
Raising her head and wiping her sweat with her forearm, there was a girl. She held a hammer in her hand and a clove in her mouth, frowning in concentration.
Luffy tilted his head to one side curiously. She seemed to be his age. Or maybe a year older or younger? He opened his mouth to call out to her, but was interrupted by Yukiko.
"Luffy? You're back again? Kid, I told you to stop doing that. You should be enjoying your youth, not hanging around with this old woman."
You looked down at the garden, glimpsing only a straw hat with a red ribbon around it. You couldn't hear the conversation very well, and you weren't interested anyway. You had to replace some old wooden beams in the roof and fix the leaks. It was the least you could do while staying with your grandmother.
By the time Luffy finished entertaining Yukiko with his stories about training with his brother, the beasts he defeated in the forest, and his new attacks with his devil fruit, he looked for you again, but couldn't find you anywhere.
In the long run, you became a mystery he wanted to solve. No one could stop Luffy's curiosity. Especially when he had a fixed goal. And that goal was you.
Every afternoon he returned to visit the old woman, and day after day he found you doing something new. Removing the shutters, sanding the old wood and painting it a soft green. Sweeping the whole place. Mowing the lawn. Replacing the wooden steps. Painting the door the same colour as the windows. Cleaning all the glasses. Planting flowers all over the garden.
For two months, Luffy just sat next to Yukiko for tea, watching you do everything, without speaking to you yet. The little he had gathered about you only told him your name, that you were his age, and that you were the granddaughter of the owner of this cottage. Unlike him, you seemed like a more serious girl, which filled him with curiosity. He liked to play. You should like to play too.
That was his biggest undertaking that year. Especially when summer came to an end and you opened a flower shop there. Suddenly, this place seemed to come back to life, and Yukiko looked happier than she had since you came into her life. Not a single day went by without the cottage looking resplendent, the scent of flowers filling the air and delighting everyone who came to shop.
Your bouquets became famous in Foosha. Luffy saw the effort behind them every day. The care you took with your garden and the instructions your grandmother gave you so that everything would be perfect. Another difference he had noticed. You were good at taking advice, you didn't always do what you wanted. You knew when to stop and listen to your elders.
When he mentioned it to Ace, he just replied that he was a wild child of the forest. And you were a little princess who lived among flowers.
It was Makino's birthday that sparked your story.
Luffy was desperate. He didn't know what to give the woman. He wasn't as good as Ace at robbing nobles, and his brother didn't do it anymore. In fact, he had done a few odd jobs to buy her a nice, inexpensive necklace. He was the only one without a gift. Even the mountain bandits had pooled their money to buy her a ring! Oh, Luffy was bad with birthdays. Would Makino get angry if he gave her meat wrapped in paper?
The little rubber boy sighed, twirling his hat between his hands, leaning against the wooden floor of Yukiko's cottage. The cool air hit his face, relaxing him as it carried the scent of flowers for him to enjoy.
"Are you here again? Don't you have any other friends?"
He placed his hat on his chest and looked up at you. You had your hands on your hips and your brow furrowed. The apron you were wearing was covered in dirt and old mud stains.
"I only have Ace."
"Well, go to him."
"I can't! He's at the bar showing Makino his gift, and I'm the only one who doesn't have anything for her."
The pout he made brought a mocking smile to your face.
"Why don't you say it's a gift from both of you?"
"Ace will hit me."
You nodded slowly. You had no reason to help him, but your grandmother adored him. You had grown accustomed to his presence and to hearing him laugh over the past two months. Seeing him now, defeated and pouting, was not pleasant. You turned on your heels and entered the cottage. What used to be the living room was now the flower shop. There you prepared bouquets under your grandmother's instructions.
"Then give her some flowers. Is she allergic to pollen?"
"What's that?"
You rolled your eyes.
"She's the woman from Partys Bar, right?"
"Yes! Makino," he said, poking his nose. You grimaced.
"Does she usually have flowers in her bar?"
"Under the window and on the counter."
You nodded again, looking for a pot. Luffy followed you closely, standing next to you at the counter. The tiny spade caught his attention and he picked it up. There was a huge bag of soil nearby and other strange things. Everything you did, your explanation of how you did it or why you had chosen purple flowers, went in one ear and out the other. Had you said something about health and prosperity? Or love and talent? Or were those other flowers? At some point he got lost, but he appreciated the red bow around the pot and the little note that said what flower it was, its meaning, and how to care for it. Makino would surely like it.
From that day on, the rubber boy stuck to you. He drew words from your mouth effortlessly, making you laugh, tease him, and follow his jokes. Luffy was captivated by your smile. Little by little, you loosened up around him, and your grandmother liked that too. A twelve-year-old girl should be just that, a girl, and not someone who was forced to grow up too quickly.
As the months went by, Luffy learned your story. The death of your parents and the long search you undertook until you found your maternal grandmother moved him. The fact that he was your first friend somehow made him happy. It was no longer just Ace and him in his life. Now it included you too.
The day you met Ace, you were already thirteen years old. Something stirred inside Luffy when he saw you blush in front of his brother. He didn't understand what it was, why his heart tightened and made him frown. He didn't understand why that expression came out with the freckled one, and he only got a pinch of the nose from you. But he never asked.
That feeling vanished as quickly as his brother showed him the big bear he had hunted. Inviting you to Dadan's house with the bandits had been quite an experience. They had behaved so politely when they saw lady Yukiko's granddaughter, who was carrying a basket full of plants. Lots of colourful flowers to plant in their cabin, you had said. They were surprised to see someone so sweet with Luffy. The contrast between your white dress with tiny red flowers printed on it and the scruffy appearance of the rubber boy (who was forced to bathe) made more than one person sigh.
And when you finally met Makino, you never imagined you would receive so much love from someone. She was so warm, like a mother caring for her children. She welcomed you with open arms, praising your work and showing you how well she had cared for the plant that Luffy had given her on her last birthday. Now it looked bigger. She had learned how to propagate it with grandma Yukiko. The food you tasted at her bar was unmatched, and fighting with Luffy so he wouldn't eat your portions was daring.
Before you knew it, you were both fourteen. You loved running through the forest playing hide and seek. Chasing each other around like fools until you ended up exhausted. The laughter that escaped from within you filled the place, bringing huge smiles to Luffy's face.
It hadn't been long since he had nervously visited Makino, thinking he was ill. He told her how his heart beat fast when he saw you. You could do something as simple as make a bouquet for a local man who wanted to confess his love to his girlfriend, and he would be stunned. You could run alongside him, your hair floating and bouncing in the air with every movement, and he would be mesmerised. You could talk to Ace, giggling foolishly, and he would sulk. As if something that was his had been taken away.
The woman listened patiently, smiling tenderly. She did not explain what he was feeling, merely confirming that he was not ill. If Luffy found out, he would do so on his own. No one should rush his heart. Everyone in Foosha had bet that sooner or later something would happen between the two of you. But no one knew who would be the first to make a move.
The famous confession came months after Ace set sail, beginning his life as a pirate.
He had invited you to the tree house he had built with Ace and his other brother, Sabo, whom you had only just learned existed. You understood why he had never taken you there or why he had never mentioned him, despite how long you had been friends. For Luffy, it was an important occasion. You were both fifteen years old and seventeen was closer than ever.
"My dream is to be the king of pirates," he repeated, lying down, wrapped in an old blanket.
"It's a good dream. You'll make it," you murmured sleepily the answer you always gave him when he said that to you.
"I want you to be part of my crew."
It took a great effort to half-open your eyes and stare at him dazedly. It had been a hard day and sleep was overcoming you.
"What use would a florist be to the crew? Don't be silly, Luffy. You need strong people who will protect you and who you can protect. People who will fight."
"You can always learn to use a gun or a katana," he said, turning sideways to look at you. "You can even fight with your fists like me. Or with kicks."
You rested your head on one arm, stretching out the other to pinch his nose. You liked it when it stretched. And it didn't seem to hurt him.
"I don't like to fight."
"I just want you to come with me."
"Luffy..."
"I'll protect you! You can continue being a florist. I don't need my mates to be strong, I just need us all to have a great adventure," he insisted.
The sigh you let out made him shudder.
"Why me?"
"Because I like you," he murmured, frowning.
"I like you too, Luffy. You're my best friend, you know that. But I don't think..."
He interrupted you, sitting up abruptly and looking down at your body lying there, wrapped in an old blanket. Maybe Ace's. Maybe Sabo's. Or even his own. It didn't matter.
"You don't understand. I like you in that way, and you're coming with me."
They say you never forget your first love.
Luffy certainly wouldn't. By your side, his curiosity ran wild, doing everything that came to mind. Did he see a man in Foosha kissing his girlfriend? He would ask for one too. He liked the warm, soft feeling of your lips on his. Your arms around his neck and your fingers stroking his hair, all so that you could pull away slightly and whisper that he should cut it because it was too long. He wanted to tell Ace that he had had his first kiss, and that you were his girlfriend. As if the older one hadn't been one of the many who had bet on their relationship years ago.
Holding hands, continuing to play in the forest, watching him train, watching you make bouquets of flowers, being teased by Dadan and the bandits for having a girlfriend, receiving advice from the mayor that he never listened to. His fifteen years had been crazy. Beautifully crazy.
And maybe he should have listened to the mayor, that grumpy old man who always insisted that he shouldn't become a pirate because it would be a disgrace to Foosha. Protection? Luffy didn't like to use it. He was young and careless. He did everything his own way and you just let him, because you enjoyed it as much as he did.
The consequences came a month before you turned sixteen, when you got pregnant.
It was the biggest event in the village. The cheerful little boy everyone adored was going to be a father. A teenage father.
More than one adult scolded the two of you. Dadan went crazy after hearing the news, being held back by the bandits when she tried to hit Luffy, and everyone agreed not to tell Ace yet. There was no way to contact him either. Makino just looked at them. Her heart ached. Seeing Luffy about to have a child interfered with the image she had of him as a little boy, crying on the dock, clutching his straw hat to his chest because Shanks was leaving. The mayor shouted as he entered the bar, hitting Luffy on the head with his cane for not listening to him, doing the opposite of what he told him to do.
And your grandmother, that old woman who had lived so much in her life... The sigh that escaped her lips made you sob. She didn't have the strength to shout at you. She hadn't had any strength lately. Getting out of bed was impossible for her, so she relied on you to bathe and feed her. She didn't know if she would be there on the day you gave birth.
It certainly wasn't the life she wanted for you. Discovering that she had a granddaughter and that her daughter had died consumed her. She did her best for you, giving you what little she had. Now all she could do was support you in this new stage of your life.
Because having a child as a teenager would bring many difficulties into your life. Difficulties for which you were not prepared. But you would not be the first or the last woman to go through this experience.
Luffy was twelve when he met you.
And he was sixteen when he lost you.
He didn't know what had gone wrong.
He didn't understand.
He didn't want to understand.
He wanted to cry out loud, but the tears stopped as soon as he heard soft babbling. Dadan tried to explain. You had suffered a haemorrhage after giving birth. The baby was in perfect condition. She was a healthy girl. The information didn't register in his brain, he could only hold her in his arms with tears running down his cheeks.
He didn't want to lose anyone else.
He had to be strong.
No one else was going to take care of that girl. She was his girl. Yours.
The first month was torture. He didn't understand what to do. He didn't understand how to change a nappy or how he was supposed to bathe her if he couldn't put her in the water. And the baby wouldn't eat meat either. How could she not eat meat? If it weren't for Dadan and Makino, everything would have been a disaster. The women raised the girl in her first months, feeding her, bathing her, changing her nappies and dressing her up cute. They were delighted. She was a sweet girl, with Luffy's huge eyes and smile.
And when the long-awaited day arrived, everyone was anxious.
Luffy was already seventeen years old. He would set sail to fulfil his dream in a tiny boat, with only a barrel of provisions and a baby in his arms.
He had learned everything he needed to know from the women around him. Dadan and the other bandits watched them from behind a building, not wanting to alarm the inhabitants of Foosha, who hated them but had come to say goodbye to their beloved Luffy. Her heart beat with longing as she looked at the baby. At her babies. First Ace had left. Now Luffy and his little one. Tears stung her eyes. She couldn't stop the passage of time, she couldn't deprive these kids of their dreams or of living up to their expectations.
They watched him set sail, barely knowing how to change her nappy or feed her properly. Had it been a mistake? Should they have told him that they would raise her until he returned home? That the girl would grow up safe and sound in Foosha, in her mother's old cottage, witnessing her great-grandmother's final moments? Even if they had suggested that, lady Yukiko had begged the rubber boy to take the girl with him. No one knew how she had whispered that she didn't have much time left, that the baby would have no one there and would constantly ask for her parents or why they had abandoned her. No one but Luffy, who took her hand and promised to take care of her on his journey.
Now Luffy was leaving, and everyone prayed that he would find a good crew that would know how to help him.
He found them little by little.
First came Zoro. The events leading up to him joining the crew as the first member had not been seen by the baby, so he choked when Koby handed a little girl to Luffy, bidding them farewell so they could continue their adventure.
Zoro went crazy, not knowing what to do. He was more alert than ever, his hand on his katanas at the slightest sign of danger. He shook Luffy more than once, upset. His captain had a daughter. A baby girl just a few months old who babbled and squeezed the swordsman's finger with her tiny hand, laughing when she looked at him intently with eyes as big as those of the boy in front of him. He had to learn how to change nappies and prepare bottles. But they didn't understand how to bathe her.
The addition of Usopp and Nami to the crew was a blessing. The short haired woman knew how to navigate, and the long nosed man had secured a good ship for everyone. Their reactions to the baby were not the best.
Usopp was terrified, consumed by uncertainty. How would she survive the Grand Line? How would he survive? The fear haunting his soul faded with each passing day as he watched her crawl across the deck, giggling foolishly into the air every time the sun caressed her face. She often approached him, taking the things Usopp bought in her hands, preventing him from continuing to work because he had to watch her so she wouldn't swallow anything or hurt herself, but his heart warmed when he saw her. She was a cheerful and curious child. It seemed that when she grew up, she would like to build or fix things.
Nami had to sit down and listen to the whole story, apologising to Luffy for doubting him and Zoro, her harsh words about them kidnapping the girl dying on her lips.
The short haired woman unwittingly took on the role of aunt, following the baby everywhere. Her weakness for children was palpable from the moment they met her, and they could only watch as she took over the tasks they had been doing. The strange coloured baby purees that Zoro prepared were replaced by tastier and more edible ones. The bottles that Luffy gave her were almost replaced.
"Nami, feed her!"
"Huh? I already gave her porridge a few hours ago," she said, drawing a map.
"But she's hungry, she keeps babbling."
The woman looked up. Luffy was standing in front of her, arms outstretched, showing her daughter who was sucking on her fist.
"Luffy, go play."
"Feed her."
Her eye twitched.
"She's not hungry."
"You have boobs, feed her."
Nami took the baby from his arms. The blow Luffy received sent him flying out of the kitchen and onto the deck floor.
Sanji joining in was all Nami needed. Now she had more help. The blond had adored his captain's daughter from the moment he saw her at the Baratie.
"What's the princess's name?" he asked, leaning on the deck railing.
He tried to smoke away from her, watching the girl playing with Zoro's katanas, who was asleep on the floor. The pretty dress with a mandarin print indicated that Nami had taken good care of her. He didn't want to imagine what her first days at sea had been like, with only the swordsman and the rubber boy.
Luffy looked up, swallowing his meat.
"Nika."
"Nika?" Sanji murmured. "That's a strange name."
"Makino wouldn't let me name her Niku."
"Of course not!" Nami shouted, hitting him on the head.
"How could you call her meat, Luffy?" Usopp shook his head.
The journey was full of adventures. When Chopper joined them, the little one examined the baby to see if she had any pain or illness. It was a miracle that she was healthy so far. That whatever Nami had contracted had not affected her.
It was at night that the navigator watched her captain most closely.
Luffy used to spend every night on the Grand Line with his daughter by his side. He would sit on the deck with her between his legs, stretching his rubber fingers and making his little girl do the same. After a few hours, in the stillness of the sea and under the stars, they would both fall asleep. The captain would wrap his arms protectively around her, as if afraid she would slip through his fingers. If a tear or two escaped in his sleep, Nami said nothing.
Nika's mother was never mentioned. If Luffy was suffering, he would always pretend to be fine. Everything was hidden behind huge smiles.
The arrival in Alabasta had everyone on edge. The heat was so intense that it could almost rival the fires of hell. Chopper and Nami took care of Nika, keeping her hydrated and in the shade to prevent heatstroke. They would have preferred to stay on the Going Merry, but circumstances required them to remain alert.
That's why Luffy's brother's visit was ideal.
"Oi, Luffy, didn't Y/N come with you? I thought you'd still be obsessed with bringing her along," said the freckled man, drinking his beer.
The rubber boy tensed up and then smiled, biting his lip. A cry echoed through the ship, causing Ace to frown.
"Did you guys kidnap a baby?"
"No!" They all shouted.
Chopper left the room, moving his short legs carefully, trying to calm Nika down. Long arms picked her up, and the last thing Chopper saw was the baby flying through the air.
"Luffy! Don't do that!" the doctor screamed.
"Shishishi, it's okay," he placed the baby in front of Ace. "Look!"
The commander of Whitebeard's second division tensed up. A baby. There was a baby in front of him. She didn't look like anyone else there. And those big, bright eyes.
"Luffy..."
"Doesn't she look just like Y/N? Makino said she looked like me, but I think she smiles like Y/N."
"Luffy."
"Dadan told me not to bring her because it was dangerous. Even the mayor tried to convince me."
"Luffy!"
The boy looked at him with tears in his eyes, but without losing his smile.
"I'm all she has."
It didn't take long for the eldest brother to understand the situation.
The answer to your absence was right in front of him.
That girl who ran through the forest, playing freely after working at her flower shop for a plate of food, that girl who took time to watch her little brother's training sessions and congratulate him when he won, that girl who burst into Dadan's cabin holding Luffy's hand to eat with them, making a place for herself among the bandits, that girl he had nicknamed little princess. That girl was no longer among them.
She had taken his brother's love with her and, in gratitude, had left the baby he held in his arms. Only memories would take care of Luffy on this journey.
Ace did not scold him, not when he himself was a mess.
For a while, he stayed on the Going Merry, looking after his niece while the crew completed their mission. Nika's clothes were stored in a drawer in Nami's wardrobe. The number of patterns and colours he saw left him in no doubt. The navigator loved the little girl and treated her like her own doll. The commander of Whitebeard's second division had fun with her, watching her crawl around the deck, smear her face with ice cream made by Sanji, and play in the water in the tiny pool Usopp had built for her.
The following adventures were crazy for everyone. The addition of Robin, Franky, and Brook to the crew had brought more joy to their lives.
Luffy enjoyed watching the archaeologist tend to her plants. The sweet smile on his face gave the woman an idea of what he might be thinking.
"Y/N had a flower shop," he said casually. "It seems Nika likes flowers too."
The little girl played with the dirt and occasionally touched Robin's flowers. Luffy stroked her hair. She would soon be one year old. If it weren't for his friends, he wasn't sure he would have been able to raise her. He needed them. He needed the help of others and would never say otherwise. Sanji fed her. Nami bought her cute clothes that a little girl would wear. Usopp made her laugh. Zoro protected her. Chopper took care of her health. Robin let her play in her garden and had offered to be her teacher when she was old enough. Franky made toys for her. Brook played songs and made her clap her hands.
Would Y/N be happy to see them? Would she be proud of him? Would she smile when she saw how grown up Nika was? Would she like her name or would she think it was silly? Would she have liked to accompany him on this adventure or would she have told him she would wait for his return in Foosha?
His lower lip trembled.
"You're doing an amazing job, Luffy."
The affection in Robin's voice made the rubber boy hold back a sob.
"Not everyone would do what you did. You brought hope to the lives of everyone in the crew, and you gave us a great gift," the archaeologist smiled kindly at him. "It's difficult to raise a baby in her early years, but we'll all help you. Just like you helped us."
No one but the two of them and little Nika knew about that conversation. For some reason, Robin seemed to understand him very well. Always with good advice to give. Always trusting him.
The passage of time made Dadan anxious. Every year in Foosha, they prepared a party for Nika. Her first year of life, her second year, her third year, her fourth year. All were celebrated by the bandits, Makino, and the mayor.
And like them, the Straw Hats also celebrated.
"Come back here, Nika!" Usopp shouted, running across the Sunny.
The five year old girl burst out laughing as she jumped from the second floor onto the deck. Nami held her breath. Zoro didn't have time to react. And Luffy caught her in his arms, laughing.
Her brown curls bounced from side to side with every step she took. She was a girl with a lot of energy. The older she got, the more grey hairs she gave some people. Jinbe used to say that she would be worse when she turned ten. And at twenty, she would be a force of nature. Robin laughed, covering her mouth, thinking that maybe her name had something to do with it.
Her name, which had caused problems with the world government more than once. It took them two years to discover its meaning and why, when it became public knowledge that the Straw Hat Yonko had a daughter, some adored her and others sought to kill her. The only one who managed to lay a hand on Nika, squeezing her arm until it bruised, suffered a painful death at the hands of Luffy. He was not a violent man, at least not without a purpose. He did not kill. But he would do anything for his little girl.
"Sanji-san, can I have some more ice cream, please?" she asked when she saw him coming out of the kitchen.
They still remembered the night they asked the girl who her favourite member of the crew was. They thought she would say Luffy, after all, he was her father. But her answer was Sanji, because he cooked her everything she asked for. Then they fought for second place without receiving any comment from Nika confirming or denying who had it.
The bright eyed girl ran towards him after letting go of her father, hugging his leg and looking at him sweetly. Sanji smiled tenderly, ruffling her hair.
"Today you'll have all the food you want."
"You spoil her too much, shitty cook."
Zoro growled as he walked towards him. Although he wouldn't admit it, the fact that Nika didn't choose him as her favourite hurt his pride. He was the first one in the crew to change her nappy. He even had to cook for her.
"You're one to talk, stupid marimo. I saw you lending her your wado ichimonji the other day."
The two began to fight, distancing themselves from the girl.
Luffy climbed into his special seat on the lion's head, watching his crew interact with his daughter with a smile from ear to ear.
"Beautiful Nika, your favourite song," exclaim Brook, taking the little girl’s hand and spinning her around.
His violin played a tune familiar to all, followed by their voices.
"Yohohoho, yohohoho!"
"Sudden appearances and fated intrusions? I still don't understand."
You looked at him amused. It was the third time you had explained it to him.
"It's when..."
A person suddenly appears in your life, unaware of how timely their presence is. Using a force that is not force, they make a space for themselves in your daily life. You forget what your life was like before them, because every second by their side feels as if destiny had planned it all.
Luffy stretched out his rubber arm, slipping between his friends, until he managed to gently place his straw hat on his daughter's head.
He had been that person in your life. It had taken him several years to understand it. Only now, seeing the smile of his little girl, who was growing more like you every day, did he understand.
"Dad, come play with me!"
"I always beat you! I'll only do it for a prize."
Nami smiled happily, listening to them shouting at each other across the distance between them, something that had become normal since Nika started talking.
"Fine! If I win, I'll have all your meat for a day," shouted the girl, adjusting the straw hat on her head as she looked up at the man who loved her most.
Robin, Jinbe, Franky, and Brook laughed.
"Okay, but if I win..."
Usopp and Zoro agreed among themselves that he would ask for the same thing, all of his daughter's meat. Sanji, Nami, and Chopper agreed. He never asked her for much. He even let her win just to see her laugh.
Luffy let out a soft "shishishi" as he closed his eyes.
"I want a bouquet of flowers."
RORONOA ZORO
He never regretted his actions.
Every step he took, every decision he made, and every word he used had made him the man he was. His confidence did not waver in encounters that could push him to the brink of life and death. His confidence did not waver when someone stronger than him stood in his way, demanding a fight. His confidence did not waver when he had to protect those he loved. And it certainly did not waver when he had to be tough to control a situation.
That's why his imbalance upon meeting you baffled him.
It didn't make sense. Not to him.
Dressrosa was a lively kingdom. Its people danced to the rhythm of guitars under clear skies. Children played with various toys as they roamed the streets. Restaurants were packed with tourists. Zoro had only one mission: to find Luffy.
The sudden excited shouts caught his attention as he approached the city centre. Outside the Coliseum, a huge screen was broadcasting an event, and the inhabitants were watching the spectacle. He didn't know the reasons for the competition, but anything that involved a good fight appealed to him. However, he was forced to be just another spectator. Registration had closed.
And his search had not been a failure. He shook his head, adjusting his fake moustache, watching his captain compete against a whole block of experienced fighters. He couldn't say he had gotten himself into a mess. He wasn't breaking any of Trafalgar Law's rules. His straw hat was covered, and he was wearing a helmet, a beard, and a cape. He had even changed his name. He could relax, they wouldn't find him out.
Watching Luffy win entertained him. He was the most reliable person he knew. Whatever he was trying to achieve, he would succeed.
Or so he believed until he saw you appear.
A swordswoman. Two katanas.
There were few swordswomen he had ever met. His interest grew uncontrollably.
Your movements were graceful. Your turns were controlled, precise. The way you dodged your opponents made him grip his wado ichimonji tightly. There was something about your katanas that drew him to look at them closely. They were cursed. Could they be better than his? Could you withstand an impact with all his strength? What was your goal? Why were you a swordswoman? Your next attack made him smirk. In front of you were ten men ready to defeat you with their own weapons and fists, but you remained impassive. Your extreme concentration and the constant twirling of both katanas caused a tornado. He unconsciously read your lips. It was just an inaudible whisper to everyone else, but Zoro could understand you. Pandora's Delirium.
That single attack started your story.
Dressrosa became a nightmare. The Coliseum had collapsed due to an attack by Lucy, who had been crowned the winner of the event. By the time you managed to crawl out from under the rubble, pressing your palm to your bleeding forehead, the sunlight greeted you. You felt frustrated. You wanted the prize, you wanted to see if a swordswoman was stronger with a Devil Fruit, but once again you had to stick to your superior katanas. You trusted them and yourself in using them, but it felt distant. Your skill was no match for him. You were not close to defeating him yet.
You walked through those streets that had welcomed you with such joy. Their inhabitants were now crying and shouting. You didn't understand what was happening, but it didn't take you long to find out. The complaints and pleas were clear. What they were asking for was clear. The removal of their king.
A beeping sound deafened your ears. Doflamingo's voice echoed throughout the place. His face was seen on different screens. You looked at the blood on your hand, growling under your breath as you slid down a yellow-painted wall until you sat on the floor. As you looked up at the screen, a photo appeared. They were offering a reward for him.
Roronoa Zoro.
Your eyes sparkled as a contemptuous smile appeared on your face. So he was here. That swordsman from the Straw Hat Pirates. The one you had been watching for two years, following his progress in the newspapers as his bounty grew and he gradually became a promise of legend. His fighting style with three katanas caught your attention. Even if you tried, you couldn't control the third one in your mouth. But that was fine. He had his style. You had yours.
Knowing that he was in the same place as you, that somehow life had brought you together, excited you. You wanted to see him in action. With any luck, challenge him to a fight. And if you had time, ask him his motivation.
The blow to your forehead had left you disoriented. So much, that you thought you had hallucinated a speck of green hair flying in front of you, towards a huge stone person. How bad had the blow been?
As the minutes passed, the truth revealed itself. A city inhabitant was bandaging your head, asking you questions that you answered disinterestedly, your attention focused on the conversation a couple further ahead were having. Monkey D. Luffy had defeated Doflamingo, and Dressrosa once again had its former ruler. Everyone seemed to be living more peacefully, not caring if they became poor in the future. As long as they were happy and with their families and loved ones, that was enough.
You stood up and thanked the person who healed you. He tried to insist that you stay seated longer, saying something about shock, but you just refused as you took confident steps. You wanted to get to the hill. To the cabin where they said the straw hats were.
Zoro kept his eyes closed, but his rest was not continuous. He woke up at the slightest sound. The marine was still in the city and was not yet looking for them. He did not understand the reason, his main concern was that Luffy would heal so they could escape. Especially after Sabo's words.
He opened his eyes at the sound of jingling. Bells? Who could be announcing their presence so loudly? They must be confident enough not to hide. He took his wado ichimonji and opened the door, closing it behind him. He would only intervene if someone tried to attack his friends.
His steps stopped short when he looked ahead. In that field of flowers, completely surrounded by them and smiling broadly, was she. Two katanas. Incredible strength radiated from her.
Now that he could see them up close, he could notice the small details. You looked like a girl who left her mark on every object. A symbol of your existence. Silver bells hung from the handles of your katanas, jingling as they moved and collided with each other.
"You..."
"Roronoa Zoro, I want a duel."
"That sounds fun!" Someone shouted from the doorway.
You tilted your head to one side. It was the captain. His hair was sticking out in all directions; he looked like he had just woken up.
"Luffy, this isn't the time. We have to run away, the marine wants to capture us."
Nico Robin's melodious voice reached your ears. The woman spoke with an almost maternal gentleness and sweetness as she peeked through the door to see what was happening. Zoro watched you closely.
"It'll be quick. I'll defeat you," you insisted.
"Zoro is the strongest," said the boy in the straw hat, putting his hands behind his head.
"Why are you a swordswoman?" That deep voice rang in your ears, your attention focused on him in seconds.
It was impossible not to look at him. You were finally face to face with him.
"I want to defeat the red haired yonko, Shanks."
Absolute silence. Whether Luffy started a commotion upon hearing the name of the man who inspired him to become a pirate, whether Robin giggled, or whether Franky, who had just woken up, got excited about the idea, none of that mattered. Not when you had Zoro in front of you, smiling sideways, as if he saw something in you that no one else noticed.
"I've made up my mind! You're joining my crew."
Moments like that, where you lose all ability to make your own decisions, where your life undergoes drastic changes without you asking for them, happen. They had convinced you. You had heard the story from your now captain about the original owner of his hat, and you just burst out laughing, explaining that you didn't want to kill Shanks. You had faced him three years ago, when you were still a self-centred young woman who believed she could defeat anyone. The reality check he gave you when he defeated you while laughing at you, amused by the situation, was the catalyst for a new objective. A new goal.
What's more, you could train with Roronoa Zoro. Measure your strength against his. Find out what motivated him to improve. And one day have that duel that was left unfinished in Dressrosa.
Since then, every day of your life has been filled with chaos. Nami's shouts scolding Luffy and Usopp, Sanji's constant flirting and his delicious dishes, Robin's weird comments that made you laugh and her sudden compliments that made you blush, watching Franky build something new with incredible utility, listening to Brook play his instruments and invite you to sing with him (only to later ask you about your underwear), the dedicated training sessions with Zoro that left you panting on the deck, and Chopper's concern as he tended to you and grew larger to carry you to the infirmary.
You had fun. They were all unique, with different personalities, and they all got along and loved each other just as they were, without asking anyone to change.
You liked having sleepovers with Nami and Robin, using the face masks that the navigator prepared or having the archaeologist paint your nails. You liked playing with Chopper, pretending to have some illness so he would treat you. You liked joking around with Luffy and running around with him all over the Sunny Go. You liked trying Sanji's desserts and being the judge who gave him the highest scores.
The comfort that embraced you after a few weeks was, without you knowing it, what you had needed your whole life. The warmth they brought to your life made your journey no longer so lonely. Now you had friends.
Zoro could only watch.
When you thought he was asleep and didn't dare speak to him, he waited for you to turn away before opening his eye and observing you. When you thought he would deliver the final blow in training, he simply reached out his hand to help you to your feet. When you thought you would go alone to visit an island, he accompanied you. No wonder you ended up lost, because he was a stubborn man.
"Zoro, it's that way," you groan, pointing to a path that led to a village.
"No, woman. I'm telling you it's that way."
There was no way you could get to the shop to buy map paper if you went into the forest.
Your time together became constant. You used to fall asleep next to him after training, being found by Chopper who hid behind whatever he could find so you wouldn't notice him. He didn't want to wake you when you looked so peaceful, his mission to heal you interrupted. He couldn't do it when you had your head on his shoulder and he had his resting against yours, as if you'd done that a thousand times before.
Soon it became normal for Zoro to clumsily treat your wounds.
"Not so tight!" you shouted when his bandage on your thigh made it hurt more.
All you achieved was him tightening it even more. And then he loosened it as you requested.
"You complain a lot."
"You're a brute."
"Ah?!"
You used to stay on the Sunny Go to keep watch with him while everyone else visited a new island. You could catch glimpses of his smiles out of the corner of your eye, and when you least expected it, he started laughing beside you. It felt so natural to hear him laugh that you didn't notice Nami and Robin's questioning looks. Or Usopp's jokes.
At banquets, you moved from place to place, enjoying yourself and laughing with everyone. One second you were shoulder to shoulder with Franky dancing, and the next you were stealing Zoro's alcohol while he looked at you with a soft smile.
"I think that's enough for you today."
"I can!" The green-haired man raised an eyebrow when he heard you. "I can keep drinking... I swear."
"Don't lie to me."
"I swear, Zoro."
"I'll take you to bed," he murmured just for you.
Amidst the music and fun, Zoro walked with you on his shoulder. Everyone was oblivious to the situation unfolding between you. To the feelings that were beginning to blossom.
That night was the first time Zoro felt nervous around you. Nervous about his feelings. Nervous about an experience he had never had before. It wasn't like fighting someone powerful and feeling like he was losing. It was like fighting his heart and feeling like he was losing a battle he hadn't asked for. It was like fighting his urge to kiss you even though he didn't really know how to do it, as he watched you lying on your bed, covered with a pink blanket, looking at him with bright, curious eyes.
"Zoro?"
Why did his name feel good on your lips? Why did your lips seem to shine brighter after you licked them? Why did everything seem easier when he was drunk?
"Sleep."
"Zoro... Stay. I sleep better with you by my side."
Those were the words of alcohol. You couldn't really feel that. He didn't want to believe it.
"I won't move and I won't snore. I'll try."
Your insistence would drive him completely mad.
"If that witch Nami finds out..."
"I'll say it was my idea."
He didn't care about listening to you and giving in to your request. He didn't care about Nami's screams the next day, telling him never to enter the women's room again and that he owed her an exorbitant amount of berries for invading her privacy and corrupting her beautiful friend. He didn't care to tell her she would go to hell. How could he care when he woke up with you in his arms, your head resting on his chest and your hair tickling his nose? And that smile you gave him when you opened your eyes, resting your chin on his chest and whispering "good morning".
He no longer knew what to do with his heart.
He had to do something about it soon, before he exploded with pent-up jealousy when he saw you interacting with the cook. Or before he suddenly blushed when you beat him in training and smiled triumphantly, teasing him with your words.
It took him two months to do it. Zoro was not a man capable of confessing his feelings unless he was backed into a corner. That's why, at times like this, alcohol became his true best friend.
It all started with a foolish move.
The atmosphere was charged with joy, and you didn't know why you were still surprised by what your captain could do. He had liberated Wano. He had made an entire country want to live again, given them hope, given them food. You drank while sitting on a hill, not too far from the celebration, but not too close either. You smiled, tapping your foot lightly to the rhythm of the music, watching the people laugh gratefully. From above, you could see most of the place and where most of the crew was. But you couldn't find Zoro.
He had awakened from his injuries, and you hadn't had time to see him, running back and forth with Otama, who wanted to show you the beautiful kimonos for the women in Wano.
You jumped when something heavy fell beside you. You looked up, stopping drinking, to find Zoro in a beautiful green yukata sitting next to you. His knee was gently caressing yours. He decided not to look at you as he poured sake into a cup.
"How are your wounds?" You both asked at the same time.
You looked at each other for a second before you laughed softly and he smiled, looking away.
The passing of the hours and the constant drinking, while he listened to everything you had to say, how you had improved your katana attacks, how you had gotten a scar across your stomach, and everything you had heard about Zoro fighting King, came to an abrupt end when you gave in.
Your head rested on his shoulder and you looked at him enchanted.
The way you looked at him left him speechless, breathless, and he could only look away countless times so you wouldn't see him blush.
No one knew how it happened, but that night, slipping through the crowd, walking holding hands between paper lanterns and all kinds of scents of freshly prepared food, you ended up in a secluded cabin. The touch of his rough hands against your skin, the feeling of his fingers tracing every inch of your chest as he slowly moved down without taking his eyes off you was something you could never forget.
Your first time didn't end there. It wasn't an experience Zoro was willing to let go of. He wasn't willing to let you go.
So he blamed it on the alcohol every night you made love, every time he kissed you softly or buried his face in your neck, panting so softly that no one but you could hear. Something deep in your heart told you that this wasn't normal. That if you tried, confessing could work out.
But you weren't ready to confess something of such magnitude. You were afraid when you received the news from Chopper. The youngest member of the crew was bad at keeping secrets, you had to bribe him with sweets and lots of cotton candy so he wouldn't reveal why he called you to his office every monday. You didn't count on the doctor not being able to hide anything from Robin.
The archaeologist was the first to find out, telling Nami without hesitation, thinking you would need all the help you could get. It was a secret that included all three of you, but you weren't aware of it.
Zoro didn't understand your strange behaviour. Your denials when alcohol went to his head, your refusal of his invitations to drink, your constant escapes to Chopper's office, or how lately you told Sanji that you didn't like his food. You always flattered him and told him he was the best. A score of ten. If he didn't understand, Luffy understood even less.
The girls cornered you on a monday, both of them being in the doctor's office before you. You got nervous. You stuttered and tears welled up in your eyes, but Nami calmed you down. They both held your hands while you confessed. Your nighttime adventures with Zoro, how and when it started, your growing feelings, your failure to confess, and your refusal to talk about the pregnancy.
Chopper spun in his chair.
"But Y/N, Zoro will soon notice. Human females give off a different scent when they are pregnant."
Robin chuckled, stroking the fur on his head. Nami sat down next to you on the examination table, smiling.
"He won't notice until someone tells him. Zoro is an idiot," said the navigator.
"You should confess. He doesn't seem like the type of man who can't handle his actions." Robin's voice made you relax your shoulders.
"Oh, and you should tell him soon. If you keep telling Sanji that you don't like his food, he won't stop crying."
"Today I saw him banging his head against the counter when you rejected his breakfast!" Chopper shouted.
"See?" Nami let out a soft laugh, placing her hand on your belly.
"Zoro is going to be a dad," whispered Chopper, pausing to think for a second. The idea of the swordsman who protected him so much becoming a father was sweet in his mind. "Do you think it will be a girl or a boy?"
"I hope it's a girl. The four of us can go shopping together." The navigator was excited, caressing your belly affectionately.
"Something tells me that won't be the case," Robin refuted, crossing her legs.
"By the way, Y/N, how long has it been since you've eaten something without feeling nauseous?" Chopper inquired.
"Since we found out, I think. I don't like the smell of fish. Three weeks?"
"I'll tell Sanji to prepare a diet until you can talk to Zoro. I won't confess anything, this is Chopper's mission, the best uncle ever."
The confidence with which he got out of his chair and stuck to the wall, taking short steps towards the kitchen as if he were a spy, made the girls smile fondly.
Contrary to the advice you had received from your two friends, you believed you could keep it hidden for another week. You wanted to prepare yourself mentally before giving Zoro such big news. News that would change his entire path. His whole life.
And yours. What would you do in the future, when you had the baby in your arms? You couldn't carry a newborn and two katanas at the same time. You didn't want to give up your dream. But neither did you want to give up that little creation of love you had for the swordsman. Because it was okay if he didn't love you or if you didn't mean anything to him, at least you felt it.
"Doctor Chopper, do you smell that sweet scent in the air? It's as if someone is pregnant," Jinbe murmured when they were all on deck.
"Pregnant? I don't smell anything. Maybe your nose is wrong, Jinbe!"
You shifted nervously on the grass. You didn't know that the fishmen could know about those things too. A peculiar silence accompanied them for a few seconds.
"Pregnancy? Among us? Nami, are you pregnant?" Luffy asked.
The navigator hit him on the head.
Sanji frowned as he lit a cigarette. Recent events flooded his mind. Jinbe's comment. Chopper's nervousness and quick denial. Your sudden dislike of his cooking. The way you ignored Zoro. He paused, the cigarette suspended midway and his lips parted.
Zoro? It couldn't be.
That stupid marimo?
He looked at you again, but you were more attentive to the sea. Then he looked at Zoro. He looked at you intently and seemed frustrated that you weren't looking at him.
"It can't be Robin," Usopp said, laughing. "Is it you, Y/N?"
You frowned without looking at him.
"How could it be Y/N!? Although I did see her in Wano running away with Zoro, shishishi."
Luffy's words confirmed Sanji's suspicions. Robin and Nami said nothing about it, but others such as Usopp, Franky, and Brook congratulated Zoro, who frowned more and more. Jinbe understood that it was not a matter for others to concern themselves with, but with all the commotion, he did not know how to divert attention.
"I made a new chocolate dessert, Luffy, don't you want to try it?" Sanji asked, distracting everyone with just that one sentence.
The cook glanced at Zoro before leading everyone to the kitchen, leaving you alone with the swordsman. You would thank him later for covering for you, but now it was on everyone's minds. The next member of the Straw Hat Pirates could be in your belly. They would have a baby on board. No one said anything as they ate their desserts, pretending they didn't want to peek through the window to eavesdrop on the pending conversation between Zoro and you.
The green haired man sat down carefully beside you. His katanas rested in his lap. His expression was impossible to read. His thoughts were beyond your comprehension.
"Y/N?"
You played with the silver bells on your katanas, indecision written all over your face as the idea of confessing your feelings and the reality of confessing your pregnancy clashed with each other, almost fighting over which was more important. But you knew the answer. You knew what you had to do. You knew the reason why you should live in the future.
"I'm pregnant." Your voice came out almost as a whisper, not daring to look at him.
Zoro remained silent for a few minutes, just listening to the sound of the waves crashing against the ship and the jingle of those bells. He liked them. He liked to hear them every time they fought in training or against an enemy. With them, he could find your location on the battlefield. With them, he knew when to protect you and when not to.
They were a grounding force for you. He didn't know the meaning behind them, but he always saw you fiddling with them when you were indecisive or nervous.
Just like now.
"I will train him to be a good swordsman."
You blinked a couple of times until his words registered in your mind. You frowned and turned your head to look at him, your lips parted slightly.
"What?"
The green haired man shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest as he closed his eyes, ready to sleep. You noticed a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
He was calm. As if that news didn't change everything in both their lives. As if it weren't a problem. Not for him.
"Don't ever leave me again."
You raised an eyebrow.
Something in his expression changed and the tips of his ears flushed. His heart felt trapped by the weight of his words. He wanted to keep it inside a chest that you couldn't open yet, but it stumbled and cracked, becoming impossible to close. He didn't mean to sound like that. As if he missed you. As if those weeks without your attention had not been the greatest loss of his soul.
"I mean... You're pregnant now. I don't want anything to happen to the baby."
You nodded, turning your gaze back to your katanas.
Both of you were too stubborn to confess.
"Aren't you angry that I hid it from you?"
"No."
"Not even a little?"
"No."
"Really, not even a little bit?"
"Shut up and let me sleep, woman."
The confirmation of your pregnancy reached the crew the next morning. Luffy smiled broadly, patting your shoulder hard and saying he already knew before anyone else did. Nami pulled on his red shirt, scolding him for hitting you. Robin and Chopper smiled, both happy that you could finally be free. Franky shouted that he would make toys and a crib for the new crew member. Brook composed lullabies, one for a girl and one for a boy. Jinbe apologised to you for bringing up the subject in front of everyone without meaning to, grateful for your quick forgiveness. Usopp congratulated you both, arguing with Luffy over who would be the best uncle.
"Stupid marimo, a baby and a beautiful woman," Sanji whined, placing a cup of tea in front of you. "Sweet Y/N, why couldn't it be me? He doesn't bathe... Is that your type? Is that how I should be?"
"Get lost, you shitty cook."
"I hope you take good care of them," warned Sanji. Zoro's eyebrow twitched and he drew his katana.
Carrying your pregnancy with them was a blessing.
The months passed and your belly grew larger. Sanji's meals no longer made you feel sick. He had made sure you were eating a healthy diet and that all your meals were nutritious enough to give you strength. Zoro didn't say so, but he was grateful to the blond.
At some point, your usual clothes no longer fit, but you didn't have time to feel bad about it, because Nami and Robin were there to take you shopping and always find the prettiest things in the shop for you. Zoro would take a minute to just stare at you while you got ready in front of the mirror. You could hear him whisper that you were beautiful, and then he would take you for a walk around the islands, walking with one hand on his katanas and the other on your waist. Slowly, not wanting to rush you.
Brook sang you different songs every day with possible names for the baby. Jinbe entertained you with stories and adventures from his youth. Usopp and Franky showed you the toys they created, most of them for men. Luffy kept asking if he could be the favorite uncle, unaware that Zoro had already chosen him as such.
And Chopper... Chopper was worried.
Taking care of you had made him happy at first. Everything seemed to be going well. Sanji's meals kept you healthy. Then he didn't know what started to go wrong in the seventh month. He had to respect your wish to keep it a secret so as not to alarm anyone, but your constant headaches and fatigue made him stay closer to you than he should have.
Then he noticed your high blood pressure. And the grimaces you made when touching your belly. You weren't having contractions, but you whispered to him that it hurt and that surely, surely, it would pass quickly. He never knew that you were short of breath, that you felt your throat closing up and forced yourself to close your eyes and wait to stabilise.
On the day after your last check-up, you squeezed Zoro's arm tightly. He looked at you, alarmed, not knowing what was happening. He shouted for help and everyone came running. Chopper noticed your contractions and broke out in a sweat. Premature labour was not ideal. With the swordsman's help, they took you to the infirmary and the little blue nosed one tried to stop the contractions.
The serum was cold. Your gaze was lost, staring at the light on the ceiling, not fully recognising that Zoro was holding your hand. The green haired man squeezed it between his own when he felt you trembling. It was slight, but it was there. And your breathing. Your breathing was rapid. He didn't understand what was happening. He whispered that everything would be fine, that you should relax.
That Chopper would know what to do.
That you were safe.
The crew's doctor entered the infirmary again, climbing onto a bench to examine you. He frowned. Only Zoro noticed.
"Chopper?" His voice sounded strangled. He didn't like that expression.
"The baby's heart beat is slowing down." The swordsman didn't understand his words. But Robin and Nami standing in the doorway did. "Get ready for the childbirth! Y/N, everything will be fine, please... You can do this."
The speed with which things happened left deep wounds in the crew. Those listening from outside could only wait. Sanji paced back and forth smoking, Usopp bit his nails, Luffy stood in surprising silence leaning against the wall, Franky, Brook, and Jinbe silently prayed that everything would turn out all right.
Nami stroked your hair, whispering words of encouragement in your ear as you pushed. Zoro squeezed your hand anxiously. Robin helped Chopper.
When a baby's cry echoed through the ship, everyone breathed again. The girls smiled tenderly. It was a boy.
Everyone crowded around the door to see the newborn, distracting them a little from you. The only one who paid you any attention was Zoro, who kissed your hand tenderly and cried silently at the miracle. His son. And the woman he loved. He kissed your head and smiled sweetly at you.
But you were lost.
You tried to breathe, but your chest felt heavy. Zoro stood up, squeezing your hand.
"Y/N." His voice caught Robin's attention. The baby in Chopper's arms was placed in Nami's arms.
"Y/N?" Chopper said, rushing over.
"I can't..." That was the only word that escaped your lips.
You gasped for air that never reached you. You couldn't hear anything. You looked lost at Zoro. He squeezed your hand and shouted. Luffy shouted. Brook, Nami, Franky, and Usopp cried desperately. Jinbe's heart beat faster than it had in a long time.
The despair that afternoon in the infirmary tormented them from time to time.
Chopper fell to his knees on the floor, sobbing heavily.
He hadn't been able to do anything. He hadn't been able to save you. Did his promise to cure all the diseases in the world mean anything if he hadn't been able to save his friend?
The diagnosis he gave devastated everyone.
Amniotic fluid embolism and cardiorespiratory collapse.
You had passed away holding Zoro's hand, amid the pleas of all your friends and the cries of your newborn baby, disturbed by the commotion. Although Chopper did everything he could, from chest compressions to medication, your heart did not respond.
Zoro's tears of happiness soon turned to tears of sadness. The entire crew was devastated.
The little blue nosed one apologised over and over again, crying, while Robin hugged him and cried silently.
As the days passed, nothing improved. The atmosphere was heavy. Zoro barely ate. Sanji forced him to eat and sat silently beside him, smoking and staring into the distance.
The passing months made the swordsman nervous.
He had a premature son. A healthy son who had been cared for by Chopper, who even fed him for him.
It tormented him that you never got to meet him. To see how his hair was also green. But when he laughed so happily, holding his finger, it made him forget all his pain.
Everyone in the crew found it difficult to live with the fact that you were no longer there. It was Robin who cheered them up in the second month of the child's life, saying that you were still there through the little one.
Soon the women set out to teach Zoro everything.
Nami deducted nappies, talcum powder, wet wipes and everything else the baby needed from his treasure share. Zoro looked at her irritably. But it was valid. But she could be good with a single father. Robin taught him how to change nappies and bathe him. Unfortunately for him, he had to let Sanji help him.
"Stupid marimo! You can't feed him that! Do you think he's a beast like you?" shouted the blond man irritatedly.
The green haired man grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. The fight was stopped by the navigator, who hit them both. The swordsman had to accept that there was no one better to feed someone than Sanji. He made apple and banana puree, and Zoro ate it from time to time as well.
Jinbe always laughed at how similar Zoro and his son were. Usopp would shout every time he saw him crawling towards the deck railing, on the verge of falling, only to turn around and find his father sleeping peacefully under a tangerine tree. Relaxed, with his hands behind his head as if his son wasn't about to fall overboard.
The question that drove Zoro crazy was asked by Brook.
"Yohoho, I can't sing to this little one if he doesn't have a name yet, Zoro-san."
The swordsman drank his sake, squinting his eye.
"This idiot probably doesn't have anything yet. He'll reach the age of five without a name," scowled Nami.
Luffy held out a piece of meat to the green haired baby. When the little one tried to take it, Luffy quickly snatched it back and put it in his mouth.
"He should be named after me, so he'll be an incredible warrior of the sea," Usopp suggested, puffing out his chest and smiling.
"He'll be a swordsman." That was all Zoro said.
"Usopp... Usopp... Sweet Usopp..." Brook sang to the baby, who was eating his apple puree with his hands, not understanding the skeleton.
"Haku would suit him well," Robin commented.
Zoro considered it for a second. Haku. It sounded good. Would you have liked it too? He took another sip of his sake, silently agreeing.
Haku was growing quickly. And every day he looked more like Zoro. His green hair was short, just like his, and in his first year he already knew how to take a few steps before falling down. He never cried, which made the navigator and the archaeologist laugh quietly, noticing how similar father and son were.
The men pretended not to notice, closing their eyes every night, but they could hear it. At bedtime, the baby cried, unwilling to leave the warm chest of his father, who carried him all day. The only thing that relaxed him in his cot until he fell asleep was a sound.
A jingle.
The jingle of the silver bells on your katanas.
Haku giggled, making everyone smile, stretching out his tiny hands to touch the bells. Unknowingly claiming his mother's katanas as his own.
It was on his birthdays that Zoro missed you the most. Seeing him grow up, seeing him learn to talk, even if it was just silly words, seeing him play with everyone calmed his soul. But even with all that, he couldn't help but imagine you among them, carrying his son in your arms, wearing something pretty and singing happy birthday with a huge smile.
He had seen you interact with other children. He had seen you bandage their scraped knees after they fell while playing. You were sweet. You were caring. And he was sure you would have been a good mother.
All the unfulfilled dreams you had left behind hurt him. Wanting to defeat Shanks, wanting to visit thousands of places with him, wanting to raise the baby you had carried with so much love for months.
It hurt him that he had never confessed his love for you. It hurt him to hear from Nami that you did love him, but that you were just as stubborn as he was.
Life was uncertain. Destiny was uncertain.
Haku was three years old when he first picked up a wooden katana. He wielded it clumsily, it being enormous for his tiny hands.
"You're silly!" Luffy shouted from the lion's head, laughing at the sight of the child.
"Shut up!"
And Haku was rude to his father's captain. Luffy's playfulness amused everyone. Nami said it was like having two children on board.
"You have to be tall to wield one of those." The rubber boy stuck his tongue out at him.
"I'll be tall like dad!"
The green haired boy's lower lip trembled, frustrated at not being able to carry the katanas. Zoro lifted him up in his arms, placing him on his shoulder.
"Now you're taller than everyone else."
His giggle warmed the crew's hearts.
"I'll teach you how to use the katanas when you're five," he promised.
"I won't let a child carry katanas!" Nami shouted.
"He's my son!" Zoro protested.
"And Y/N's son," she replied.
"She would teach him too. And she wouldn't let him wear all those silly clothes you buy him. He should wear a haramaki like me."
"Dad looks silly in that," Haku muttered.
Sanji burst out laughing, making Zoro blush with embarrassment and anger.
Every day was like that. Jinbe taught him how to swim and many tricks with water, promising that one day he would show him the underwater world. Brook sang to him non-stop, only getting nods from the boy. Sanji made him try different desserts, wanting to find his favourite, but he could never guess. Haku was impossible with him. The cook thought that Zoro was teaching him to be that way.
Nami and Robin took him shopping, dressing him according to their tastes. They also made him bathe every day. But it seemed that in a few years he would be like his father, showering once a week.
Usopp showed him different gadgets that the boy couldn't understand how they worked, but he still thought they were great. Franky took him to his factory twice a week, letting him choose designs for new additions to the Sunny.
Chopper healed his wounds whenever he got hurt fighting his father with just a wooden katana. The boy flew into the wall more than anyone would have liked. And he and Luffy lived by fighting, as if the captain were a child.
Haku was five years old when everyone was sitting on the deck, enjoying the warm day.
A tinkling sound caught everyone's attention. A tinkling sound they hadn't heard in five years. Soft, slow with each step. A marked rhythm they only heard when...
All eyes turned to the little boy in front of them.
Your katanas hung from his hips. They were still too big for him. But they were his first real katanas. And they were yours. The girls pressed their lips together, holding back their tears. They thought they would never see them again. Zoro had kept them after your death, refusing to leave them on your grave, because he said they would find their new owner in a few years.
And those years had now passed.
Haku smiled excitedly. He looked almost mischievously at his father.
"Dad, I want a duel."
Some had déjà vu. Franky sobbed loudly, causing Haku to roll his eyes. He didn't understand what was wrong with everyone. Luffy bit into his meat, smiling broadly.
"That sounds fun!"
Robin rested her cheek on her hand, smiling tenderly.
"Haku, we're almost at a new island, that'll be impossible."
"I'll beat him! It'll be quick," insisted the boy, stamping his feet on the grass. His movement made the bells jingle.
Zoro smiled. He smiled broadly for the first time in a very long time. You were still there with them. You were still there in his son. In the end, he had been right. You were a woman who left a trace of your existence in every little thing. In every little detail.
The swordsman wielded his wado ichimonji.
"What is your motivation, kid?"
TRAFALGAR LAW
He still believed in miracles.
Being touched by them was reason enough. The loss of hope for his own future, his uselessness weighing heavily on his feelings, his inadequacy tormenting his dreams, and his resignation to an early death had marked a point in his life that had found redemption thanks to one person.
Cora-san had taught him to fight, to have faith, to trust in tomorrow no matter how difficult the present might be.
To dwell on his past or discuss it with others was not something he enjoyed. He carried it in his soul as something precious, cherishing the people who remained there as something to be treasured.
And you entered into them.
The toothless smile was something that came to mind from time to time, making him laugh in the solitude of his office.
The two of you were just kids attending school in Flevance. Restless as you were, one day you couldn't stop talking about your loose tooth. You touched it and touched it, loosening it more. You showed it to your classmates with a huge smile, saying you wanted it to fall out so you could see the new one, but that it was taking too long.
You decided to do the silliest thing in the world. Law watched everything from his seat, frowning slightly. Somehow you had managed to get some thread, and one of your friends carefully tied it to your tooth. The other end of the thread was tied to the classroom door handle.
Your scream echoed in everyone's ears when your friend pulled the door shut and your tooth was ripped out.
You were a silly girl. That's what Law thought of you as he looked inside your mouth, holding back his urge to scold you. You refused to go to the infirmary, and he knew a little about medicine thanks to his father. Treating his first patient couldn't be that complicated. Luckily, the tooth had come out clean, but the bleeding had stained your white shirt, and it was slowly stopping after he put some gauze on it.
The bad thing about the situation was that before he knew it, it had become an everyday occurrence.
You lived across the street from his house. Clinging to him after being healed by those tiny miraculous hands didn't seem strange to you, it was natural.
It was natural how you got used to knocking on his door every morning, waiting for him to go to school with him. Law suspected that you had changed your sleep schedule. He went to class early. And you arrived just in time. But now you smiled and said good morning, swaying your body from side to side as you tightened the straps of your pink backpack, eager to go together.
It was natural for you to leave your usual place in the classroom and sit next to him, just watching him study.
It was natural for you to become his friend. To enter his house, to insist on going to the fairs with his younger sister, the three of you holding hands, to catch frogs because you knew he liked to study them, to have him heal your scrapes every time you played and he would laugh quietly because you were crying.
That girl who called herself his best friend and promised to protect him from everyone disappeared one day.
There was no trace of you when tragedy struck Flevance. The screams echoing in his ears, the desperation in every cry and plea made him nervous. He had seen his parents die. He had been useless in saving his younger sister. He had witnessed the death of all his classmates. All because of that incurable disease. All because the world government did not want to help them. All because they believed it was contagious. That they were the plague.
He was devastated. He had lost everyone he loved. And he couldn't find you anywhere.
Hiding among the dead bodies until everything calmed down gave him time to look for you. Not finding you among them made him anxious.
It was a year later, as he was being carried on Cora-san's back, walking under the cherry trees after leaving another hospital, that Law told him about you. The man with the splendid make-up smiled broadly at him.
"Do you see the good in that, Law? She's alive out there. She's alive! So you must live to find her."
Law lived for many years believing those words. If Cora-san was right, and he always was, then a miracle would happen and you would come back into his life. Someone from his past, from his childhood in Flevance, was out there in the big wide world, waiting for him. He wanted to find you and hold on to the memories of his parents and little sister through you. To the memories of his friendship with you. To the happy memories.
And yet, he never found you.
His secret search caught the attention of Shachi, Penguin, and Bepo, the friends he had recently made. They believed you were his girlfriend and that he didn't want to introduce you, only to receive a threat from Law if they continued talking nonsense.
He had asked everyone he could. Normal people, farmers, and merchants didn't know you. Not even if they saw a half-burnt photo of you next to Law. A girl with that appearance never passed through the islands.
And when he began his pirate life, entering the Grand Line, he had his first encounters with the underworld. That dirty network he knew all too well since childhood now served him well. Some informant should get information about you, a clue that would show him your whereabouts.
Even if it's just a photo of how you are now.
Law was looking for a miracle that would never come.
You were a helpless child, screaming and crying amid the fire and dead bodies when a marine found you. You wiped away your tears, sobbing for help, feeling safe when you saw that uniform. The marines protected the weakest from the wicked. That's what they said at school. And that's what Law said when he talked to you about Sora.
You believed you could trust him, following him by the hand to a "safer" place.
Words that should never have been used to describe a minor. That marine held a den den mushi in his hand, watching you out of the corner of his eye as you trembled on the "rescue ship".
It took you a few days to realise that something was wrong. You couldn't be the only survivor from Flevance. There should be more ships. There should be doctors trying to heal everyone. You were lucky enough not to contract the disease. Law's father had said he should keep an eye on you for a few more months in case you developed antibodies that could save lives. You could help them. You could talk to that marine who saved you. You could talk to the doctors yourself if necessary.
But it would never work, because the place you were in didn't look anything like a marine barracks.
The high walls made you dizzy. The white marble everywhere blinded you, and that skylight didn't help, with the sun beating down on your face with its intense rays. The marine gently pushed you forward, towards a golden throne occupied by a man who must have been about fifty years old.
You squeezed your eyes shut tightly and opened them again, trying to get used to the brightly lit room.
The man in front of you had little hair, which he concealed with an enormous crown. He stroked and stretched the moustache on his face between his fingers as he scrutinised your body with his gaze. Every inch was analysed for several minutes.
"She is perfect. When she has her first period, I will make her mine." You heard the man, the king, say.
The tension in your muscles was an immediate response.
The passing of the years had not healed the wound of that memory. It had not made you forget.
You had been sold by someone in the marine as if you were nothing more than an object. As if you were nothing more than your body and a beautiful face. You had been stripped naked by that man who took you away, with the eyes of the king of that country in North Blue upon you. He ignored the trembling of your body, your pleas for him not to do it, your lower lip quivering and the tears running down your cheeks. You had seen the king's erection at the sight before him. You had felt the marine captain's hands on your undeveloped breasts as he explained to the king how you would develop.
You remembered your first attempt to escape. The blow you dealt the marine captain with your elbow, running towards the enormous doors. All resulting in your hands being handcuffed and your imminent confinement in a room adjacent to the king's.
If you could make one wish in your life...
If only you could...
No matter how much you imagined it, the door connecting the two rooms from the inside would never disappear.
The trauma that began when you were ten and lasted until you were thirteen would never go away. If you closed your eyes, you could still hear that door slowly opening. The shuffling footsteps on the wooden floor making their way towards your bed, the king's ragged breathing and his presence standing next to your face.
If you closed your eyes, you relived the sensation of his seed staining your face, leaving you a nervous, sobbing wreck in that dark room when the door closed again.
You had tried everything in your power to escape. You jumped out of your window on the second floor, stifling your screams when you landed badly and broke your ankle. You forced yourself to heal yourself through tears, a botched job on the bathroom floor. You could never perform surgery on yourself, and you would never let anyone see you like that. If you weren't perfect, they would kill you. And yet, despite everything, you wanted to live. Something told you that you had to. And that something was a white hat with black spots that came back to your mind whenever you had to treat yourself in solitude.
You limped whenever you were alone. You held back your grimaces when you were in front of the king or when you passed by the servants or guards, walking as best you could.
You dug a hole in the garden bushes, which was always covered up by the gardeners. You dissolved sleeping pills in his wine when no one else was looking, but the guards surrounded the garden and the entrances every night. The dream of escape grew more distant with each passing day.
Sometimes you lamented. You believed your fate was cursed. That not even a miracle could save you from this hell.
Your first period came when you were fourteen. You were late for breakfast, and one of the maids was sent to get you ready. Everyone was waiting expectantly. You were entering three crucial years.
And when the king saw your bloodstained sheets, he was excited.
If you talked to someone about your nightmares, you wouldn't know whether to talk about the ones that tortured you in your dreams or the ones that tortured you in all your senses.
At some point, you stopped crying.
You could only wait in your bed, staring at the ceiling with a blank expression. Always naked. You would be punished if you made him wait or if you refused. You felt his hands on your body, every inch of it. His lips in places he shouldn't touch. His fingers inside an area that should be off-limits.
You could only wait in your bed with your eyes closed throughout the encounter, praying for it to end soon.
And when he did, leaving your room muttering curses at you because you no longer satisfied him as before, because you were already too "used", you would run to the bathroom to get into the bath. An hour. Two hours. Until the water cooled down and the sensation of his release inside you faded away.
You were eighteen when the visits to use your body became less frequent. The king had found a new girl. A twelve year old who shared your fate.
You couldn't say you were grateful. You couldn't say you felt at peace now that it wasn't your turn. Not when you hugged that little girl after finding her crying every night in the garden.
But even though your body was no longer his favourite, he found another use for it.
He wanted riches.
He craved more power.
He wished to have the favour of the celestial dragons.
This way, your body became the ideal object for experimentation in your twenties.
One of the five elders requested a report once a month. Your body's responses to the injections. The reaction to the first stimuli. Any anomalies observed. All in exchange for being affiliated with the world government.
Your first symptoms never appeared. The king took it as a good sign. Whatever they were asking him to inject you with, it was making you look more beautiful than ever. It was almost as if you were once again that girl he once had in front of him, radiant and innocent. His desire for you returned and with it, the visits every night.
Three years later, between injections and occasional nightly visits (because you were too old for his taste), the first symptom appeared. But it wasn't from the disease that one of the five elders was developing in his laboratory in Mary Geoise. It was a symptom of pregnancy. Your period hadn't come that month, and the nausea from the medication was unbearable.
When the confirmation of your two-week pregnancy reached your ears, you cried inconsolably in your room.
What else could happen to you? What else did life want from you? What else did they want to take away from you? Your body, your freedom, your happiness, everything had been stolen from you.
You were not allowed to have an abortion. Surveillance was extreme. The maids accompanied you to the bathroom, counting the minutes you spent inside, forcing you to keep the door open. Your meals were served especially by the chef in front of you. Four guards followed you to the garden if you wanted a single moment of peace.
But it never crossed the king's mind that what he should control most were those injections.
The black eruptions that appeared on your skin overnight disturbed the entire personnel. Suddenly, no one wanted to touch you. No one was interested in the six-month pregnant woman.
They shouted that it was contagious. That you shouldn't come near. The king spat at you, keeping his distance, claiming that both you and the baby were sick.
San Saturn's exact words upon receiving the report were "discard her, she's no longer of use."
Sometimes you lamented. You believed your fate was cursed. That not even a miracle could save you from this hell.
But the miracle was within you. In that disease. In your womb.
The miracle was happening right before your eyes when they threw you out onto the street. At twenty three years old, with a huge belly, an incurable disease and a lame foot, you allowed yourself to take a deep breath.
You walked carefully, one hand caressing your belly and the other holding a bag with some stolen berries and a few dresses. The fresh air filled your nostrils as you admired the landscape far from the palace that had tormented you for so many years.
Seeing the villagers looking at you with uncertainty because of the marks on your skin didn't hurt you as much as you thought it would. You didn't know the name of your illness or how much longer your body could endure it. But if this was the price you had to pay for your freedom, to free yourself from all your traumas, then you would take it.
In your seventh month of pregnancy, you had arrived at a new island in the North Blue. Sailing had become your escape from your memories. You believed that the further away you got, the more peace you would find within yourself. You didn't stay long on any island, just two or three days, and then you gave yourself over to the sea, excited about tomorrow.
You fought against the thoughts that sought to undermine your morale. So close to giving birth, you couldn't help thinking that the baby you carried in your womb was the fruit of a man you hated deeply. But it wasn't the child's fault for the father it had been given. It wasn't its fault for having a sick mother, from whom it would inherit an incurable disease.
The time you had left was beyond your control. You had surrendered yourself to death. It could take you whenever it wanted.
But if you could make one wish… It would be for your baby to be born. And for you to find someone who could take care of the child before you had to abandon it.
You walked through the winter village, hiding your body under a cape. The black spots spreading across your arms and legs required attention more than once. After five days, they grew in size, creating blisters that, if they burst, bled. Tolerating the burning sensation and seeing how the strange disease made your open wounds look dead upset you.
You entered a coffee shop ready to order some tea. You sat down at a table to wait, observing the cosy interior. On one of the walls there were lots of bounty posters. The woman who appeared to be the owner of the shop came in with a newspaper in her hand. She stretched out her other hand to pin a new poster on the wall.
"Trafalgar Law? Who is this kid?" murmured a man at the table next to you. "Now everyone thinks they can be pirates."
You opened your eyes in confusion. You groaned at the pain of turning your head so quickly, but you couldn't help standing up, running towards the wall with one hand on your belly.
Your eyes stung.
"Hey, Law, stop studying already, you promised we'd play after school!"
"I study after school. You're irresponsible."
"I'm not!"
"If you deny it, it's even more true."
The man on the bounty poster was not the kid you had in your mind, in your sweet memories. His features had become refined. There were dark circles under his eyes. He had two gold earrings in each ear. A well-groomed beard. And that hat. That white hat with black spots for which he had hit you on the head more than once for taking it from him.
Law was alive.
Law was an adult.
Law was a pirate.
You left your tea behind, stole the bounty poster from the wall, and hurried to the dock.
If Law was a pirate, what were his goals? Did he want the famous One Piece? How did he end up becoming a pirate? Would he still remember you? You laughed as you looked at his photo. Your friend was alive! Despite running, with a lame foot and pregnant, you were going very slowly. You could see a woman with long, brown, curly hair loading barrels and bags onto a small ship. It looked like she would be setting sail soon, so you quickened your pace.
Her face filled with surprise when she saw a girl clutching the edge of her ship, breathing heavily.
You held your hand out in front of her, silently asking for a minute.
"Please, tell me where you're going."
"What the hell?"
"I just want to know where you're going."
The brown-haired woman clicked her tongue as she hoisted another barrel onto her ship.
"Get lost. I'm not taking anyone with me."
"Please..."
She looked at you for a second and then ignored you again.
"I want to go to Grand Line!" you shouted, drawing the attention of more than one person on the dock.
"To Grand Line? Have you lost your mind? No one survives there. And you least of all," she muttered the last part, looking down at your belly.
Your cape had opened, revealing your seven-month pregnancy. You covered yourself again, muttering under your breath.
"I want to find someone," you insisted.
"So do I. All the pirates I can find, to get the bounty on their heads," growled the woman, hoisting a fifth barrel onto her ship.
"It will only be for a while. I won't stay long. Just until the first island in Grand Line."
"I'm not taking a pregnant woman with me. What's wrong with you? Just look at yourself! If you set foot on an island there, that baby will come out of your belly with a pop! As if it had been waiting too long to come out."
You pressed your lips together, amused.
"Just to the first island, and then I'll leave you alone to continue on your way."
The woman adjusted her orange hat, letting out a huge sigh.
"Fine. But if you're willing to go to such a dangerous place to look for that baby's father, I swear..."
"He's a childhood friend. He's not the father." You quickly corrected her.
She nodded and then reached out her hand to you, helping you up.
"My name is Ikkaku, by the way."
"I am Y/N."
Sailing with Ikkaku was like a caress to your wounded soul.
She didn’t turn away when you showed her what the disease was doing to your body. Her compassionate eyes were soothed by her delicate touch as she tended to your attempts at healing. She washed each wound with warm water, disinfected it with alcohol, and sterilised a knife with fire to remove the dead skin. She caught your attention with all the ointments she kept in a box, from medicinal mud and herbal oils to antibiotics.
Her knowledge of medicine was more advanced than yours.
She listened to your story during your eighth month, crying her eyes out trying to hug you, but you kept laughing and then letting yourself be. Opening up to her, vocalising your traumas, letting go of everything you had held back for years in broken sobs, held in warm arms, was unknowingly what you needed most.
From time to time, you could see the frustration in her furrowed brow, her foot moving anxiously as she drew lines in a notebook. She would look at you for long minutes and draw you without saying anything about it. If you asked, she would only say that it was scientific research.
She couldn't prevent the spread or stop the advance. She could only control the infections, prevent you from having fever and pain, change your bandages daily, and every few hours let the wounds heal in the open air. But healing often did not occur. This disease, which she had never seen before, behaved strangely. Despite all her efforts, Ikkaku noticed a new level of depth in the wounds every day.
As if a worm were eating your skin down to the bone.
"So? Who are you looking for?" she asked one day, sitting down next to you on the deck floor.
She had forced you to rest, even though you hated staying still in one place. She took a bite of a peach and gave one to you. You accepted it with a smile.
"His name is Trafalgar Law."
Ikkaku looked at you, swallowing her peach with force.
"You're joking. That pirate from this sea who got a huge reward?" You nodded, biting into your fruit. "That's the friend you're risking your life for!?"
"He's a good guy."
"He's a pirate. No pirate is good," she hissed in frustration.
"Ikkaku, I think you noticed it too." She frowned. "I don't have much time left."
"Don't say that. I'll find a way..."
You interrupted her.
"With luck, I'll be able to live through the first few months of my baby's life. But when I'm gone, I want Law to have it."
"A pirate raising a baby in Grand Line? It's dangerous. Y/N, reconsider. I can stay on the first island and raise it myself, with you. Don't take any more risks."
You shook your head. Ikkaku had a goal. A dream. You couldn't ask her to give that up to look after a baby for you when you were dead. Asking Law was just as bad. You'd be getting in his way, imposing something that had nothing to do with him. But he was the only one you could leave it with without feeling guilty about abandoning it.
"Law will understand."
"A baby shouldn't live at sea. A sick woman shouldn't be making this journey... And you can't make him shoulder such a responsibility. It's selfish. It's..." She looked down. "I'm sorry."
You patted her shoulder.
"I understand what you're getting at, but he's the only person from Flevance who's still alive." You rested your head against the railing. "He's my best friend. If he raises this baby, I can leave this world in peace. It doesn't matter if it's at sea."
Ikkaku bit her lip, unsure.
"We have to hurry, then."
If someone had told Ikkaku in the past that her entry into the Grand Line would lose all meaning, that her life as a bounty hunter would be left behind and she would instead be helping a pregnant woman give birth just as they crossed the reverse mountain, she would surely have laughed.
But that day, she didn't laugh at all. Her hand was on the rudder as she watched you lying next to her, breathing deeply through the contractions. The continuous movement of the ship made you dizzy, and she could see how the black spots were ravaging your belly. At some point during the descent, as you were about to reach Twin Cape, Ikkaku let go of the rudder, praying that everything would turn out all right as she crouched down beside you.
She had been referring to your illness as living putrefaction for two months without you knowing. Your arms and legs were about to show bone in different areas, so she covered them with bandages so you wouldn't see. You could no longer feel anything; the nerves in those areas had died. And when the smell of rotten flesh was noticeable, Ikkaku pretended not to notice. That it was nothing bad.
You didn't notice the tears welling up in her eyes as she watched the inevitable happen.
You reached Twin Cape safely. It was as if something stronger was watching over you. Neither of you got off the boat to ask for information at the lighthouse. The man who guarded the entrance to Paradise sat frowning, looking at the ship without understanding.
No ship ever arrived alone.
Crocus jumped onto the deck of the small ship. He walked towards the door and, as he opened it, he got a surprise.
Two women were on the floor, crying, while the one who appeared to be the mother held a baby in her arms and the other sobbed happily.
For a few hours, he heard the other girl, Ikkaku, crying and repeating over and over that it was a miracle. Crocus checked the vital signs of the mother and child. A girl had been born in such a violent and unique sea. Both were fine. But the rare disease in the mother's body was now ravaging her womb.
The miracle Ikkaku was referring to was now understandable to the old man. With the bone exposed in her arms, it was a blessing that the girl had been born before the disease touched her. And she did not seem to have contracted it.
The three stayed for a few days at Twin Cape, Crocus helping to build a cradle for the girl. He gave them a log pose and invited them to eat.
"Why are you in Grand Line?" asked the old man, discreetly observing the sick woman.
"We're looking for a man," said Ikkaku, biting into her fish.
"The girl's father?"
"I wish," mumbled Ikkaku under her breath, and you kicked her foot with yours.
Whenever she could, she repeated that your childhood sweetheart must be the girl's father, not that monster. She consoled herself with the thought that, at least, he would raise her. But she wasn't sure she could abandon that baby.
In recent months, she had made an incredible friend who looked at her with sparkling eyes and admired everything she could do. Your compliments and sweet comments every time she sailed or healed you brought a thousand smiles to her face. You were a good woman. Crossed by evil beings.
"We're looking for my best friend, Trafalgar Law," you said with a smile.
"Trafalgar Law? I think I've heard that name..." Crocus put a finger to his chin thoughtfully. "Ah! The rookie with the Ope Ope no Mi. I remember now. He was here two months ago."
"He was here?" you asked excitedly.
"Ope Ope no Mi?" Ikkaku continued.
When Ikkaku heard Crocus, she was quick to get you and the baby onto the ship. The man said goodbye to the three of you, wishing you luck in finding the man quickly.
Your friend was excited. It was crazy that a Devil Fruit of that magnitude existed. If you were lucky and found it, then you could live. It could heal you. You could watch your daughter grow up.
Sailing those waters was torture. Ikkaku kept you inside the small room with the baby. Complete rest for you and protection for both of you from the high temperatures and sudden storms. The information she got on the first island about Trafalgar Law was useless. He hadn't visited it. He had taken another direction.
Ikkaku climbed onto the boat in a huff, sitting down next to you on the deck as she opened the bag of food. Buying two meals hadn't cost that many berries, and she was grateful for that. She had spent the rest on nappies, clothes for the three of you, all sorts of things the baby might need, and baby formula.
The two of you sat down to eat while the baby slept in the cradle in front of you.
"She looks just like you. A carbon copy."
You choked on your noodles.
"Do you think so?"
"She has your hair, your eyes, your nose, and she'll have your smile. It makes me happy to see her," Ikkaku stated, laughing.
You ate happily, without taking your eyes off your daughter. She looked like a healthy baby. There were no marks like yours on her tiny body. And she was cheerful. Ikkaku always made her smile, even without teeth. You didn't have to do much to make the baby smile.
"What will you call her?"
"I haven't the faintest idea."
"I bought a book of names too," said Ikkaku, opening another bag.
You giggled as you read the book beside her. There were so many, and you didn't like any of them. You looked up to observe the child and discarded names from A to C when you didn't think they suited her.
"Look at this one!" Ikkaku shouted. "Cora."
"Cora?"
"It means love, affection, and sensitivity." You were about to dismiss it, but Ikkaku put a hand in front of you. "But also rebirth, cycles of life and death, and transformations."
Your heart tightened as you watched the baby in the cradle open her eyes, closing them in annoyance at the sun.
Over the next two months, you watched her grow a little more. You fed her a bottle, bathed her, and dressed her in pretty outfits. Ikkaku had decided to take you to see the islands. She didn't want you to spend your last days, with your illness so advanced and your bones showing through your skin, locked up between four walls.
The two of you visited many places, towns, and customs in Paradise. Together, you chose clothes for Cora, who had taken on that name. There was no name more perfect for her. Rebirth and transformation. You wanted your daughter to have a free life and grow up as she pleased, without anyone taking anything away from her. You wanted her to have a life different from yours.
Finding Law was difficult. It was as if he had vanished into thin air. You asked around in every seedy bar. You saw how his bounty gradually increased, and you kept all his wanted posters.
It was in his fifth month on the Grand Line that Law received information from the underworld.
The young captain held the paper in his hand, sitting in his office. It was nothing. It just said that a woman had been looking for him for three months. And many people were looking for him to take revenge. There was no guarantee that that woman was you.
He glanced at the clock on the wall. Shachi and Penguin should have already obtained the supplies for the Polar Tang, but like Bepo, they were probably wandering around the island. They would set sail in an hour. Rushing to get ready for it irritated him.
Bepo was walking around the new island eating from a bag of crisps. What should he buy? What would his captain like? Maybe a new pen? He pretended not to, but he knew he kept glitter pens in his drawer. He never used them, but he didn't throw away his gifts either.
In his moment of distraction, he bumped into a woman.
Bepo blushed and tried to apologise quickly, but he stammered when he saw her. She had curly hair and wore a cute orange hat. Her face was covered in tears, she tried to speak, but her lip trembled violently and a sob escaped her throat. He looked down at her hands. She was carrying a basket.
He had to look twice to discover that there was a baby inside.
The woman fell to her knees, devastated, and Bepo knelt in front of her, nervous and not knowing what to do.
"Is Trafalgar Law with you?" she managed to whisper to the polar bear.
Bepo's expression shifted from surprise to confusion to uncertainty in a matter of seconds. What could a woman and a child want from their captain?
"Depends who's asking."
"Y/N."
The polar bear gasped as he looked at the woman and the baby, but she looked nothing like the girl in the photo Law had hanging in his room. The girl he had only mentioned twice. The woman standing in front of him couldn't be Law's best friend.
"She passed away," whispered Ikkaku.
Bepo carried the basket with the baby and dragged the woman, who couldn't stop sobbing, with him. On the way, he ran into Penguin and Shachi, who stopped joking around with the bear and quickly followed the three of them, worried. No one understood what was going on.
No one understood why their captain had been locked in his office with a woman and a baby for fifteen minutes. If the mink knew anything, he wasn't saying.
Ikkaku wiped away her tears and told him everything. How she met you. Why you looked for her. How you became friends. Your pregnancy. What had happened in your life. Your illness. Nothing was withheld from the golden-eyed man who listened attentively without taking his eyes off the baby.
Cora-san had told him not to lose faith.
One of his many missions as a pirate was to find you. To reconnect with his past through you, to remember how good life was when childhood innocence had not been taken away.
He waited for a miracle that would bring you before him, only to be struck by your past, as painful as his own. Only to hear how this woman, Ikkaku, had witnessed your last wish a week ago. Law couldn't hear, his ears were ringing, he had lost you.
Now, as they spoke, that ship in which you had searched for him for months was carrying your body, adrift, among flowers and a blanket that belonged to your daughter.
Law squeezed the edge of the examination table where the baby was sleeping, letting out a couple of tears.
"Did you say a disease?" he murmured.
Ikkaku handed him a notebook. When he opened it, he found several drawings. They were good, even detailed.
"I called it living putrefaction. It was the result of an experiment. The spots were like... Like a worm was eating her skin, digging and digging until there was nothing left," she whispered.
Law looked at the child.
"She was in the bones when she forced me to take the baby."
"Did she force you to leave her alone?" Law growled.
"Her daughter was important to her."
"So was she. I could have done something. My fruit... I could have..." The frustration in his voice was not lost on Ikkaku.
"Cora needs a good father," she said. "Those were her last words."
Law's heart skipped a beat. The girl's name was Cora? Cora, like...
"Cora?"
"Isn't it a pretty name? Y/N chose it." Ikkaku smiled.
Law swallowed a sob. Of all the names, you chose that one. Somehow, everyone in his past was connected. The baby babbled something, catching Law's attention. He let her take his tattooed finger in her hands and smiled painfully.
"And by the way, I'm joining your crew."
"Excuse me?"
"You may be Cora's father, but I'm her favourite aunt. I'm not leaving her side." Her authoritative tone wiped the smile off Law's face.
Life on the Polar Tang became chaotic.
Cora crawled from one corridor to another. If she wasn't in his room or his office, she was in the control room staring at the screens in amazement. The good thing about travelling in a submarine was how much it could entertain a little girl. She would often sit on the floor of the control room, surrounded by cushions with her little legs stretched out, putting things in her mouth. Her hand, her bottle, her dummy, Penguin's hat, whatever was within reach. And it was also common for Hakugan or Shachi to juggle to avoid stepping on her when they stood up from their posts distracted and didn't see her.
The addition of a baby girl to the crew was not taken badly. Bepo was delighted with the child. He said there was no safer place in the world than their submarine. Shachi and Penguin took her on trips to all the islands to find women, saying something about how women liked men who were affectionate with children. In the end, they would return disappointed, without even having received a kiss themselves, but with Cora's cheeks covered in lipstick.
They would get scolded by Law, who would wash her hands and cheeks whenever they brought her back from their walks, muttering something about germs.
Hakugan loved showing her the different fish through the screens in the control room or through the few windows there were. They would get scared if a very large one appeared. When Cora cried, Law would snatch her from his arms, taking the girl with him while he calmed her down.
No one but Law could calm her down when she cried.
Ikkaku wanted to take care of buying her clothes, especially for her first birthday, but Law wouldn't let her. He was a devoted father. And he had a soft spot for those chubby cheeks and cute animal outfits for babies. He would never admit how much he loved cute things.
"Cora-chan, happy birthday!" Penguin shouted, holding up a cake. The single candle on the cake was a sad sight.
"Couldn't you buy a candle with the number on it and some other decorations?" Law grumbled.
"Captain, you're offending me. I did everything I could," he complained, leaving the cake on the kitchen table.
"That's a lie, he spent the berries on clothes for a girl who ended up giving him nothing but a smile as thanks," Bepo said.
"Bepo!? You promised not to tell!"
The polar bear shrugged, smiling at little Cora, who was wearing a cute polar bear costume.
By the time Cora was two years old, she could already say "daddy" and a few other words. Her favourite was "boring".
Law smiled at her, showing her a frog. The girl looked at what was in front of her on the desk with disgust. Why was her father showing her something so ugly?
"So, you use the scalpel and make a clean cut in the centre," he murmured as he made the cut.
Cora leaned back in his chair, frowning.
"Frogs are an incredible subject of study. When you grow up and become a doctor like me, I'm sure you'll understand when..."
"Daddy, boring," she complains, jumping out of his chair.
The last thing Law saw was her running towards the door, asking Bepo to go and play on the deck. The polar bear happily carried her. And Law lowered his arms in defeat.
Cora was restless. She enjoyed playing all the time, which resulted in the occasional scrape. The number of times he disinfected her knees and elbows was countless. The older she got, the more he realised how much she resembled you. It wasn't just physically. Cora's personality was lively, similar to yours.
The little girl was three years old when Law decided to teach her to read.
He wanted her to have an advantage over others. There was nothing better for a child than to be educated, cultured, and remain free from illiteracy. An educated person was the key to the future. So, every Tuesday and Thursday, he would sit the girl in the kitchen while Bepo and Ikkaku prepared onigiri for her.
The tattooed man was thrilled when his daughter told him it was her favourite food. His chest swelled with pride at the thought that his daughter thought he was cool. With cool tastes.
He opened a page of the book that showed the entire alphabet. Cora bit into her onigiri without looking at the page. Law tapped his finger twice to get her attention.
When Cora didn't look at him, Shachi and Penguin covered their mouths to hide their laughter. But everyone could hear soft "pfft" sounds.
"Hey, Shachi, do you think child prodigies are born or made?"
"I don't know, Penguin, but I think someone at that table is dumb."
"My daughter isn't dumb!"
"Dad isn't dumb!"
Father and daughter stared at each other. Penguin and Shachi filled the air with their laughter, making Cora blush.
"Penguin and Shachi look dumb in their uniforms."
The two stopped laughing and turned to look at the kid, hands on their hearts. Law blushed too.
He had chosen the crew's uniforms.
"Are you calling your father dumb?" Penguin hinted.
"Calling parents dumb is disrespectful, Cora-chan," Shachi said, shaking his head.
"Dad doesn't look dumb! He has that cool hat."
That single sentence sealed Cora's fate. Or so everyone in the crew told their captain. For her fourth birthday, Law gave her a hat just like his, made to measure. They walked everywhere together wearing the same clothes. If Law wore a yellow shirt and his spotted jeans, Cora wore a yellow shirt and a spotted skirt. If Law bought a blue feather coat, Cora wanted the same one in black.
She was a mini Law with your face.
What surprised Penguin and Shachi the most was how easily the girl learned to read. Law had told them that his mother was a restless child who refused to study, but Cora had picked up all her father's habits. Ikkaku, Bepo, and Law (in denial) were dying of love when they saw the girl sitting on the deck railing every morning with a book in her hands. Her favourite subject to research was birds. There was one in particular she wanted to find in Grand Line. A phoenix.
It didn't take her long to learn from her father that there was a Phoenix Devil Fruit. And Cora wanted it. She wanted to fly, to see the world from above. She was disappointed when they explained that Marco, Whitebeard's right-hand man, already had it.
That same year, the girl ran up to him. As a father, he was concerned and thought she had scraped herself again. Ikkaku gasped when she saw the black spot on her arm. It was the same disease her mother had had.
But this time, the curly-haired woman was able to witness what could have happened to her friend.
Law worked diligently. He asked his daughter to remain calm as he extended his hand and a blue dome, as thin as a curtain, enveloped her. Within his power, Law could perform miracles. This was the greatest one he could perform. To save your daughter and allow her to live peacefully, just as you wished. He separated the little girl's body into many small pieces until he found the source of the disease, and removed it.
Ikkaku prayed that, wherever you were, you could rest in peace, without stopping laughing when Law returned the little girl to normal and she jumped into his arms, shouting that it was fun to see her limbs floating. As if that were normal.
The girl was five years old when a scream caught the attention of the entire crew. They had gone to a small restaurant to celebrate Bepo's birthday. They rarely indulged in going out to celebrate. They usually did so in the kitchen of the Polar Tang, but if they could, they appreciated food prepared by someone else.
The Heart Pirates ran after Cora's voice. Law found it suspicious that Penguin and Shachi were not at the table when the scream was heard.
When they found them, Cora's white shirt was covered in blood and she was holding her mouth.
Penguin and Shachi stood next to a closed door, the first one pulling a thread towards him. They high-fived each other while looking at the tooth.
Understanding the situation, Law's eye twitched. He stretched his hand out in front of him without taking his eyes off his friends.
no lube, no protection, all night, all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink to the shower, from the front porch to the balcony, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, exponent al, logarithmic, while i gasp for air, scream and see the light, missionary, cowgirl, reverse cow girl, doggy, backwards, forwards, sideways, upside down, on the floor, in the bed, on the couch, on a chair, being carried against the wall, outside, in a train, on a plane, in the car, on a motorcycle, the bed of a truck, on a trampoline, in a bounce house, in the pool, bent over, in the basement, against the window, have the most toe curling, back arching, leg shaking, dick thribbing, first clenching, ear rining, mouth drooling, ass clenching, nose sniffling, eye watering, eye rolling, hip thrusting, earthquaking, sheet gripping, knuckles cracking, jaw dropping, hair pulling. teeth jitterbug, mind blogging, soul snatching, overstimulating, vile, sloppy, moan inducing, heart wrenching, spine tingling, back breaking, atrocious, gushy, creamy, beastly, lip bitting, gravity defying, nail biting, sweaty, feet kicking, mind blowing, body shivering, orgasmic, bone breaking, world ending, black hole creating, universe destroying, devious, scrumptious, amazing, delightful, delectable, unbelievable, body numbing, bark worthy, cant walk, head nodding, soul evaporating, volcano erupting, sweat rolling, voice cracking, trembling, sheets soaked, hair drenched, flabbergasting, lip locking, skin peeling, eyelash removing, eye widening, pussy popping, nail stractching, back cuts, spectacular, brain cell desolving, hair ripping, show stopping, magnificent, unique, extraordinary, slendid, phenomenal, mouth foaming, heavenly, awakening, devils tangos, he could put a nuclear bomb inside me and i'd still ride.
Summary: You passed in your father's arms. and no one will forget how you looked when you died. And after months of rotting grief, why are you standing there?
NOTE: There is multi-universal travel in this fic, itsv type shit. On another Earth, Bruce dies instead of Batsis!Reader. Letting you know just for clarity's sake.
READ PART 1
The night is supposed to start like any other.
The cave is alive—screens glowing, engines humming, the familiar low thrum of readiness vibrating through bone and steel.
Everyone’s half-geared, muscle memory kicking in.
Ready for patrol.
Routine.
Something solid to hold onto.
You should be here.
Your suit remains in the cylindrical glass vault on the wall—Nightingale’s armour pristine, untouched. The matte black plating catches the cave lights in dull glints, the bat emblem symbolic on your chest, pink highlights and accents decorating your suit.
It's neat. Too neat.
Like it’s waiting.
Waiting for it's wearer to come back and put it on. Dick notices it first. His gaze snags on the suit and lingers half a second too long before he looks away Jason clocks it next. His jaw tightens, nostrils flaring, like he’s bracing for a hit he knows is coming. Damian doesn’t look at it at all.
Bruce steps forward.
“No patrol tonight.”
The words echo strangely against the stone.
Everyone freezes.
“What?” Steph says immediately, boots halfway on. “You’re joking.”
Bruce doesn’t blink. “I’m not.”
Tim swivels in his chair, confusion flashing to irritation in a heartbeat. “Bruce, we’re already running behind—Oracle flagged three hotspots—”
“I know,” Bruce says.
Jason lets out a sharp laugh. “So what, Gotham’s just on its own now?”
Bruce’s mouth tightens. “You’re benched. All of you.”
The cave feels smaller.
Tighter.
“For how long?” Dick asks carefully.
“Tonight,” Bruce replies.
Then, quieter, firmer: “Tomorrow too.”
Damian finally looks up. “That is unacceptable.”
Bruce turns to him. “You’re staying.”
"And if any of you try anything, I'll stretch that time to indefinitely."
The finality in his voice shuts everyone down.
Even Jason doesn’t push. Not when Bruce looks like that—tired in a way no sleep fixes, grief stitched into every line of his face. He looks like he's aged years in the past few weeks
“Suit down,” Bruce orders.
Reluctantly, one by one, they comply.
The walk back up to the manor is silent.
Boots echo against stone. Gloves are pulled off and shoved into pockets. Helmets are clipped uselessly at belts. No one says what they’re all thinking: that patrol would’ve helped. That punching something would’ve been easier than sitting with the ache.
They pass your suit again on the way out.
Cass’s fingers twitch like she wants to reach for it.
Damian pauses for a fraction of a second—so brief it’s almost invisible—but his shoulders tense, breath hitching before he schools himself and keeps walking.
The elevator doors close.
The cave disappears.
They reconvene an hour later in Tim’s room, still dressed half-for-battle, irritation buzzing under the grief like static.
Tim’s sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows on knees, staring at the floor. Jason’s leaning against the desk, arms crossed, foot tapping. Steph paces, restless energy with nowhere to go. Cass sits cross-legged near the window on a bean bag, watching the city lights like she might memorise them. Duke’s slouched in a chair, hoodie pulled up, jaw clenched.
Dick stands near the door, arms folded, trying—and failing—to keep the peace.
“This is bullshit,” Jason mutters finally. “Benched. On a random ass Tuesday night.”
“It’s not random,” Tim snaps, far sharper than intended.
Silence.
Steph exhales solemnly. “It's 'cuz tomorrow’s her birthday.”
No one answers. How could they refute that?
Elizabeth Taylor Wayne, your pet Cavalier, pads into the room then, tiny paws soft against the carpet of Tim's carpet, who's room she frequented after your passing. She’s wearing one of her little pink sweaters—slightly crooked, like someone rushed putting it on. She pauses in the doorway, head tilting, tail wagging uncertainly before she beelines straight for Damian. (YO I LOVE DOGS OMFG)
Of course she does.
Damian stiffens as she noses at his boots, then sighs and crouches, scooping her up with practiced care. She settles immediately, licking his chin like she’s claiming him.
“She’s anxious,” he mutters, more observation than complaint.
Jason snorts quietly. “Yeah. Wonder why.”
Dick rubs a hand over his face. “Bruce thinks keeping us here helps.”
“Helps who?” Steph asks.
Yet again, no one has an answer.
Tim finally speaks, voice low. “He couldn’t even look at her suit.”
That does it.
The room goes heavy.
Dense.
Like the air itself is grieving.
Elizabeth squirms, then wriggles out of Damian’s arms and hops onto Tim’s bed, curling up atop one of your old hoodies like it’s instinct. Like she knows.
Damian watches her with an expression he doesn’t have words for.
“She was supposed to wake me up tomorrow,” he says suddenly.
Everyone looks at him.
“She always does,” Damian continues, staring at nothing. “She said birthdays should start early. That they deserve… ceremony.”
Steph presses her lips together.
Dick swallows. “We’ll still—” He stops.
Tries again. “We’ll get through tomorrow. Together.”
Jason scoffs, but there’s no bite to it. “Yeah. Sure.”
Outside, Gotham hums on, uncaring.
Inside Tim’s room, surrounded by half-packed gear, borrowed hoodies, and the soft breathing of a dog who misses you in a way she can’t explain, your siblings sit with the weight of being benched—not just from patrol, but from the one thing they all want most.
To outrun the day that’s coming.
The house knows before anyone says it out loud.
Wayne Manor is quiet in a way that feels intentional, like it’s learned how to mourn without making noise. The kind of silence that presses against the ears, that fills every corner until it’s hard to breathe.
Damian wakes first.
He always does.
Training drilled into muscle memory. For a brief, treacherous moment, his body moves on instinct alone—feet hitting the floor, posture straightening, already turning toward your room with irritation half-formed on his tongue. He expects to see your door open, light spilling out, you already awake and doing something infuriatingly normal.
Instead, the hallway is still. Your door is closed.
The realisation hits him in stages. Not like a blade, but like pressure—slow, crushing, unavoidable. He stands there longer than he should, staring at the door like if he waits long enough, you might open it yourself and give him a kiss on the cheek.
Elizabeth Taylor trots up beside him, soft and warm, tail brushing against his calf. She presses her head into his leg, grounding him. Damian exhales shakily and kneels, burying his fingers into her fur.
Her pink velvet dog bed isn’t in your room anymore.
It migrated.
Quietly. Over several days.
It sits in Damian’s room now, tucked beside his bed, next to Titus'.
No one commented on it. No one questioned it.
She sleeps there every night, curled close to him like she’s guarding what’s left.
Everyone has been taking care of her.
They take turns bathing her, brushing her coat, changing her outfits with the kind of careful attention usually reserved for something fragile and irreplaceable.
Jason complains the loudest but never skips his turn. Steph hums softly while she buttons tiny sweaters. Alfred puts her in a pink stroller and takes her to your grave every now and then. Cass watches her like she’s memorising her existence, Dick brings Haley over more often, for Elizabeth to have a girl companion. Damian's taken up replenishing her doggy bowl and upkeeping her insanely expensive diet you sponsored.
After all, she is the last living thing that loved you without knowing what death was.
Downstairs, Alfred sets the table.
He does it the same way he always has—measured, precise, unyielding in ritual. The grand dining room feels cavernous this morning, its long table too long, the ceiling too high. Sunlight filters through the tall windows and lands across the polished surface like it doesn’t know what it’s illuminating.
Your place is set.
The chair between Duke and Damian is pulled out, napkin folded neatly, cutlery aligned just so. Alfred adjusts it twice before he’s satisfied. He doesn’t look at the chair for long. One by one, they drift in.
Dick checks his phone as he walks, then stops dead when he sees the date. He doesn’t sit right away. Just stands there, thumb hovering uselessly over the screen.
Jason takes the seat across from yours without realising it, then stiffens when his gaze flicks up and lands on the empty space opposite him. Tim arrives last. Hoodie sleeves swallowed over his hands. Eyes shadowed. He hasn’t been sleeping well. None of them have.
Bruce doesn’t come down.
Alfred pours tea.
He comments on the weather. Mentions a meeting at Wayne Enterprises that Lucius has postponed. His voice is steady, clipped, perfectly composed. He asks about training schedules that no longer exist. About patrols that aren’t happening. They answer him because it’s easier than saying anything else.
Forks scrape against porcelain. Cups clink. Damian doesn’t touch his food. Elizabeth sits at his feet, chin resting on his shoe, eyes tracking every movement like she’s afraid someone might disappear if she looks away.
The chair stays empty.
It’s Tim who finally breaks.
His voice is barely above a whisper.
“It’s her birthday.”
No one responds immediately.
The words don’t echo. They sink.
Steph’s hand freezes mid-reach. Duke swallows hard, eyes fixed on the table. Dick closes his eyes like he’s been punched. Jason’s jaw tightens, teeth grinding audibly.
Alfred stills.
Just for a breath.
“Yes,” he says softly. “I believe it is.”
No one wishes you happy birthday.
After breakfast, no one knows what to do.
They hover in that awful in-between—too restless to sit, too exhausted to move. Bruce still hasn’t come down. The manor feels wrong without him, like the absence of both father and daughter has knocked something structural loose.
That’s when they see the package.
Bruce stands near the base of the staircase, motionless, a medium-sized box clutched in his hands like it weighs more than it should.
Your name is printed on the label in clean, unmistakable letters. Ordered weeks ago. Scheduled. Planned.
For today.
No one speaks.
Bruce doesn’t look up. His grip tightens slowly, knuckles whitening. The box crinkles faintly under the pressure.
Alfred approaches quietly, like he’s walking up to something wounded.
“Master Bruce,” he says gently. “Perhaps… a game might be of use. The children could use the distraction.”
Bruce doesn’t answer.
He doesn’t move.
But he doesn’t object either.
So they play cards.
Uno, of all things. They gather in the sitting room, sunlight slanting through the windows, dust motes floating lazily in the air like nothing has changed.
Steph volunteers to deal.
She shuffles once. Twice.
Disperses the cards, makes sure everyone has the standard deck of seven.
Everyone has one. Yet there's one extra deck remaining.
One meant for you.
“Oh,” Steph breathes.
Her hands shake. She almost drops them.
No one tells her to stop.
She reshuffles, and deals again like muscle memory can carry her through what her heart can’t.
They play.
They argue about rules. Jason accuses Dick of cheating. Damian snaps at Tim for not paying attention. Alfred comments dryly from the armchair, pretending not to notice the way conversation falters every time someone laughs too hard.
Tim’s phone buzzes.
A TikTok.
It’s stupid. Genuinely stupid. A video that would’ve made you laugh. Without thinking, without pausing, he hits share.
Your name pops up automatically.
Sent.
The realisation lands a second later.
He stares at the screen, breath leaving him in a sharp, broken sound. The phone slips from his hands. He curls in on himself, shoulders shaking as Cass’ hand finds his sleeve and Dick shifts closer, anchoring him.
Later—after cards, after silence, after everyone drifts away—Bruce stands alone in the hallway.
He holds the package.
He doesn’t open it.
He stares at it like it might start breathing.
“I was supposed to give this to you,” he whispers, voice breaking completely. “I was supposed to be here.”
The manor listens.
And for the first time that day, it lets him cry.
After your funeral, it felt like there was a hole Dinah and Ollie harboured that they couldn't fill up. The penthouse is too quiet when they come back from your funeral.
It’s the kind of quiet that only exists after something enormous—after crowds, speeches, the weight of hundreds of eyes and condolences and hands on shoulders. The doors shut behind Dinah and Ollie with a soft click, and suddenly there’s nowhere for the grief to hide.
Dinah slips her heels off by the door without bending down, toes nudging them aside.
Her feet ache. Her shoulders ache. Her chest feels hollowed out, like something vital has been scooped cleanly away.
Ollie sets the keys down too hard on the counter. The sound echoes.
He winces like he’s broken something.
“Well,” he mutters, forcing air into his lungs, “home sweet—”
He stops himself.
Dinah doesn’t answer. She’s standing in the middle of the living room, still in black, still stiff, still holding herself like if she lets go she’ll collapse straight through the floor. There’s a strange exhaustion that follows events like this. Not the kind sleep fixes. The kind that makes your bones feel heavy, your thoughts slow and sludgy, your body lag a half-second behind your mind. Dinah feels it settle into her joints as she walks further inside, fingers brushing the back of the couch.
She can still hear voices.
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“She was such a beautiful soul.”
“She loved you both so much.”
Dinah sinks down onto the couch and stares at nothing. Ollie hovers for a moment, unsure, then sits beside her. He reaches for her hand, squeezes once.
Solid. Real.
“She shouldn’t be dead,” Dinah says suddenly.
Ollie’s jaw tightens. “No.”
“She was supposed to come over,” Dinah continues, voice flat, distant. “To get back her airpods, and she wanted to borrow a dress. She said she’d already planned the outfit but wanted my opinion.”
Ollie exhales through his nose. “She always wanted your opinion.”
“She never listened to it,” Dinah says.
A pause.
“But she wanted it.”
The penthouse smells faintly like flowers—sympathy arrangements that arrived before they left, before they could stop them.
Dinah hates it.
It feels invasive. Wrong.
She stands abruptly. “I need to change.”
Ollie watches her walk away, shoulders squared, movements precise like she’s holding herself together through sheer discipline. He doesn’t follow.
Dinah goes to the closet.
She’s halfway through unzipping her dress when she sees them.
The handbags.
Lined up neatly.
Exactly as you left them.
Her hands still.
For a moment, her brain refuses to connect the dots.
They’re just bags.
Leather. Fabric. Accessories.
Normal things in the closet of a woman who happens to have a billionaire for a husband.
And then the memory hits her sideways.
You, perched on the bench, swinging your legs.
“Dinah, why do you have so many black bags?”
“Because black goes with everything sweetheart, your father knows that of all things..”
“That’s boring. This one though?” You’d picked up the ridiculous beaded clutch, grinning. “This one has personality.”
Dinah’s throat tightens.
She slowly, carefully zips the dress back up and steps out of the closet.
That’s when the days start to blur.
The quiet mornings.
The untouched handbags.
The way Ollie stops cracking jokes when he realizes no one’s laughing.
And eventually—weeks to months later—it’s the department store.
Dinah hasn’t moved the handbags.
They’re still where you left them—lined up along the back of the walk-in closet in their shared penthouse, pristine and untouched.
Chanel, YSL, the ridiculous beaded clutch you insisted she needed because “Dinah, it’s cute.” Dinah passes them every morning and every night and does not touch a single one.
She tells herself it’s because she doesn’t need them.
That’s a lie.
Ollie notices first.
He notices everything lately.
Dinah feels both blessed and cursed to have such an observant husband.
The way Dinah’s fingers hover, the way she inhales like she’s bracing herself, the way her shoulders tense when she catches sight of something that still smells faintly like you—your perfume, your shampoo, your presence.
“You gonna rotate your bags or keep ‘em in museum formation?” he asks one morning, light, careful.
Dinah doesn’t look at him. “They’re fine.”
Ollie nods. Lets it go.
He’s learned when not to push. He feels your absence as well.
Queen Industries feels wrong without you. Ollie’s office used to be a revolving door whenever you were in town. You’d show up unannounced, feet kicked up on his desk, stealing his coffee, complaining about Bruce, asking if Roy was around, asking if Dinah had eaten yet.
You made the place loud. Lived-in. Human.
Now it’s just… quiet.
Too clean.
Ollie catches himself glancing at the door some afternoons, half-expecting you to barrel in with a grin and a complaint and some overpriced desserts you bought from that viral pastry place downtown.
But yet, it never happens.
The door stays closed. The silence settles.
He hates it.
That’s why he suggests the department store.
“Dinah,” he says one afternoon, keys in hand, “you haven’t bought anything frivolous in weeks. That’s not like you.”
She arches a brow. “I don’t need frivolous.”
“Okay, but want?” he counters. “Come on. Smell some expensive nonsense. Yell at me about notes and undertones.”
She hesitates. Then sighs. “Fine.”
The store is bright and glossy and painfully normal.
Dinah moves through it on autopilot—past makeup counters, past mirrors, past smiling employees who don’t know her world has ended. Ollie trails behind her, hands in his pockets, watching the way she moves slower than usual, like she’s underwater.
They reach the perfume section.
Rows and rows of glass bottles. Gold caps. Elegant labels. Too many choices.
Dinah reaches for one without thinking.
She freezes.
Her fingers close around the bottle.
She doesn’t spray it.
Doesn’t need to.
She already knows.
Ollie sees it immediately—the way her breath stutters, the way her grip tightens, the way her eyes go distant.
“Babe?” he says softly. “What’s wrong?”
Dinah swallows.
Her voice comes out quiet. Fragile.
“Y/N used to wear this.”
Ollie steps closer, his usual bravado evaporating. “Yeah?”
Dinah lifts the bottle, finally spraying it onto the tester strip. The scent blooms into the air—warm, familiar, unmistakably you.
Sweet without being childish. Sharp without being harsh. Confident.
Alive.
Dinah closes her eyes.
And suddenly you’re back.
You’re sprawled across her couch, kicking off your shoes, telling her about a gala you went to with your father and sister that bored you out of your mind. You’re hugging her hello, cheek pressed to hers, that exact scent clinging to your skin. You’re laughing, loud and bright, asking if she wants to gossip because oh my god you will not believe what Dick and Jason did.
Dinah’s chest caves in.
She makes a broken sound before she can stop herself.
Ollie’s arms are around her instantly.
“Hey,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to hers. “I’ve got you.”
“She smelled like this,” Dinah whispers, fingers trembling as she clutches the strip. “Every time she came over. Every time she hugged me. I didn’t even realize how much I associated it with her until—”
Her voice cracks.
Ollie tightens his hold. “She had good taste,” he says hoarsely. “Obviously.”
Dinah lets out a shaky laugh that dissolves into a sob. “She was our kid,” she says. “She just… showed up one day and never really left.”
“I know,” Ollie replies.
His own voice wavers now. “I miss her stealing my office chair.”
“She stole everything,” Dinah says.
“My clothes. My makeup. My time.”
Ollie exhales. “My peace.”
They stand there like that—in the middle of a luxury department store, surrounded by strangers and polished glass and music that feels inappropriate—holding each other while grief quietly wrecks them.
Dinah pulls back first, wiping her eyes. She looks at the bottle again.
She puts it back carefully, like it might shatter.
As they walk away, Ollie glances back once, then mutters, “She’d be mad we didn’t buy anything.”
Dinah huffs weakly. “She’d tell you to stop being dramatic.”
“Yeah,” Ollie says. “And then she’d hug us both and say we were doing our best.”
Dinah presses her lips together, nodding. They leave the store empty-handed.
The scent lingers anyway.
Just like the memory of you.
ON ANOTHER EARTH, IN A SEPARATE UNIVERSE.
You remember the night your father died.
23 days before your birthday
On another Earth, the night your father dies does not end when his heart stops.
It stretches.
It coils around your spine and stays there.
You remember the sound first—not the explosion, not the chaos, but the quiet after. The way Gotham goes eerily still when something sacred has been taken from it. Rain clings to your lashes. Your gloves are slick with blood that will never come off, no matter how hard you scrub later.
Batman is not dead.
But Bruce Wayne is.
You don’t scream. That comes later. Right now, you’re too busy counting breaths that aren’t happening, hands shaking as you press down, as if pressure alone could undo destiny.
“Dad,” you whisper, uselessly. “Please.”
His cowl is cracked, his face pale beneath it. His eyes are still open, unfocused but somehow still kind.
That’s what destroys you — the kindness. Even now.
Someone pulls you back. Dick’s voice cracks your name like it’s breaking glass. Damian is shouting, furious and terrified and far too young to be watching this. Tim's gotten nauseous, you can't decipher what Babs is saying over your comms.
You don’t remember leaving the alley. You don’t remember the ride back. You only remember that Gotham keeps breathing even when Bruce Wayne doesn’t.
The cover story is decided before the blood dries.
You are not in the room when they say it, but you hear it anyway — whispered through walls, through Alfred’s careful silences, through the way everyone avoids your eyes.
A drug overdose.
Suspected suicide.
The words feel obscene.
Bruce Wayne, philanthropist. Bruce Wayne, troubled billionaire. Bruce Wayne, fallen icon. Bruce Wayne, a father, who is now dead.
The media eats it alive.
They speculate. They pity. They dissect his life like it belongs to them.
You sit at the long dining table and stare at the empty chair at the head.
He died in an alley protecting his city.
And the world thinks he gave up.
Parallel lines you don’t yet have the words for twist tight in your chest.
The funeral is public.
Of course it fucking is.
Bruce Wayne deserves marble steps and black umbrellas and a sea of faces pretending they understand loss and better yet, pretending they knew who he was.
You're holding your dog, and Ace and standing beside Dick, who hasn’t slept. Damian is rigid on your other side, small hand fisted in the fabric of your coat like he might fall apart if he lets go. Tim looks hollow. Cass watches everything with eyes too sharp. Steph cries quietly. Jason doesn’t look at the coffin at all.
They speak of Bruce Wayne’s achievements. They speak of his generosity. His legacy. His struggles.
They do not speak of Batman. They do not speak of the man who taught you how to breathe through pain.
When the casket is lowered, something inside you follows it.
Later, when the cameras are gone and the world finally leaves you alone, you break.
Not loudly. Not dramatically.
You fold in on yourself in a hallway at Wayne Manor, hands pressed to your mouth to keep the sound in. Your knees hit the floor. Alfred finds you there and doesn’t say a word.
He just kneels, dignified even in grief, and holds you like you are still a child who scraped her knee.
“I am so very sorry, Miss,” he murmurs.
You nod because if you speak, you will drown.
The days after blur into responsibility.
Someone has to take over Wayne Enterprises.
That someone is you.
Board members test you at first — subtle, patronising, polite. You shut it down quickly. You wear black like armour. You speak carefully.
You do not cry in meetings. Tim's by your side more often then not.
At night, you sit in Bruce’s study with the lights off, listening to the house settle.
You don’t touch anything. It feels like trespassing.
Dick becomes Batman because Gotham doesn’t wait for grief.
You watch him leave the cave the first night, cape settling over his shoulders in a way that makes your chest ache.
He pauses at the steps.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” he says quietly.
“I know,” you reply.
But you do it anyway.
Damian stops sleeping through the night.
He ends up in your room more often than not, curled tight and furious with the world, he holds you like you'll disappear as well. You brush his hair back like Bruce used to. You never mention it.
You become the constant in all their lives.
Joining the PTA for Duke regardless of how much you hate Margie and all the other middle-aged women. Showing up to Cass' ballet recitals. Taking Damian to piano classes and his swimming lessons. Helping Jason on the occasional mission, and the occasional hangover.
And it costs you more than you let on.
You and Dick ramp up your presence at the Watchtower.
Initiating meetings, scheduling timetables, emails with the UN.
Even though the two of you are heavily respected, all your league members look at you the same.
Two kids who lost their dad.
And now they're paying the price for his absence.
Dinah and Ollie are the ones who notice first.
Because of course they are.
They show up without warning, no fanfare, just familiar noise cutting through the manor’s oppressive quiet.
Ollie complains about the driveway. Dinah hugs you hard enough that your breath stutters.
They don’t ask you to be strong. They don’t ask you to talk. They just stay.
Something you took for granted quite frankly.
You end up in Star City more often than you expect — weekends at first, then longer stretches. Dinah teaches you how to breathe again, slow and deliberate. Ollie distracts Damian with archery and loud jokes and the kind of fatherly affection that doesn’t demand anything back.
You sit on their couch one night, exhausted, head tipped back, and Dinah drapes a blanket over you without comment.
“You’re allowed to rest sweetie,” she says softly.
You don’t answer.
But you stay.
They become your anchors — not because they fix anything, but because they don’t try to.
Because they remember Bruce without making him a ghost.
Because they look at you and still see you, not just the weight you’re carrying.
When you laugh — really laugh — for the first time in weeks, it startles you.
Ollie grins like he’s won something.
“There she is,” he says
This past weekend, you've been staying with Dinah and Ollie, it was the perfect opportunity as Dick's on a solo mission with the Titans, Tim and Damian are with the Kents, Jason's with the Outlaws and Steph and Cass are preoccupied with Babs on girls night, they were gutted you couldn't come with, but they weren't gonna stop you from being with Ollie and Dinah. They knew how much you relied on them.
Star City feels wrong before you ever see it.
It’s subtle at first.
The way the air hums just a fraction too loud, like the city itself is vibrating under your skin. The sky is clear, but it feels watched.
You stand on the balcony of Ollie’s penthouse, coffee cooling untouched in your hand, and you can’t shake the sense that something is leaning toward you.
Waiting.
Dinah notices because Dinah always notices.
“You’re doing that thing,” she says, leaning against the doorframe. Her voice is gentle, but her eyes are sharp.
You glance back. “What thing?”
“The staring-into-the-middle-distance-like-the-universe-is-about-to-punch-you thing.”
You huff a weak laugh. “Didn’t know I was that obvious.”
“To me? Always.” She steps closer, her shoulder brushing yours. “You been sleeping?”
You hesitate. That’s answer enough.
Below, Star City moves like nothing is wrong.
Cars. People. Normalcy.
It makes your teeth ache.
“I don’t like this,” you say finally.
Dinah doesn’t ask what this is.
“Neither do I,” she replies.
Inside, Ollie’s on the phone, voice low, humour stripped clean. When he sees your expression, he ends the call immediately.
“What,” he asks. Not joking. Not loud.
Just what.
“There’s something in the Glades,” Dinah says before you can. “I can feel it.”
Ollie exhales through his nose. “Merlyn.”
The name lands like a bruise.
You straighten instinctively. “You’re sure?”
“No,” Ollie admits. “But I’m never wrong when it matters.”
The lights flicker.
Once.
Twice.
You all freeze.
That hum you felt earlier deepens, crawling into your bones, vibrating behind your eyes.
Somewhere far away—too far to pinpoint—metal screams.
You don’t say it.
But you’re already reaching for your gear.
The facility isn’t marked on any public map.
It sits half-buried in concrete and steel, a scar stitched into the city’s underbelly. The closer you get, the louder the sound becomes — not noise exactly, but pressure. Like reality being squeezed through a needle’s eye.
Your comm crackles.
“Energy readings are off the charts,” Dinah says, voice tight. “This isn’t just tech.”
“No,” you murmur. “It’s worse.”
The entrance yawns open, heat rolling out in waves. Inside, the air shimmers, bending light in ways your brain doesn’t like. Your head throbs. Your teeth buzz.
Ollie draws an arrow anyway.
“Guess Merlyn decided subtlety was overrated,” he mutters.
You move ahead of them without thinking, instincts honed sharp by too much loss, too much responsibility. Nightingale moves like second nature — quieter than fear, faster than doubt.
The core chamber is massive.
Circular.
Wrong.
Spanning hundreds of metres in distance.
A machine dominates the centre, towering, spiralling rings rotating at different speeds, glowing with a violent, sickly light. Energy arcs between them, snapping like lightning with no thunder.
The air smells burnt, metallic, alive.
You gaze up at the machine
You hear Dinah swear softly. “That’s a supercollider.”
"It's a particle accelerator. Merlyn failed with the last two, this one's gonna succeed." You say.
Ollie goes still. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
“I wish I was.”
At the far end of the platform, Merlyn waits.
He looks pleased.
“You’re late,” he calls out, voice echoing unnaturally. “I was beginning to think grief had dulled your reflexes.”
Your hands curl into fists.
“You’re going to shut it down,” you say coldly. “Now.”
Merlyn laughs.
“Oh, child,” he says. “This is the shutdown. Of everything.”
The machine pulses.
Harder.
Your knees buckle for half a second before you catch yourself.
Dinah grabs your arm. “You okay?”
You nod, even though your vision is fracturing at the edges.
“Split up,” Ollie says. “We disable the outer rings.”
You don’t argue.
You should.
But something in your chest is pulling you forward, toward the heart of the machine, toward the light that feels like it knows your name.
The closer you get, the worse it becomes.
Gravity wobbles.
Time hiccups.
Your footsteps echo twice, then not at all.
You swear you see movement in the light — shadows that don’t belong to anything solid.
Your comm screeches.
“Nightingale—!” Dinah’s voice cuts in and out. “Something’s—wrong—”
“I know,” you gasp.
Your head pounds. Images flash behind your eyes — Bruce’s smile. Damian asleep on your shoulder. Dick’s hand on your back. A coffin lowering into the earth. Another one. Parallel grief folding in on itself.
Merlyn steps into your path.
Up close, his eyes are fever-bright.
“Do you feel it?” he asks eagerly.
“The strain? The walls between worlds thinning?”
You raise your guard despite the vertigo. “You’re insane.”
“Yes,” he agrees cheerfully. “But I’m also right.”
He gestures, and the machine surges.
You scream.
Not from pain — from everything. From the sensation of being pulled apart at a molecular level, of existing in too many places at once. Your knees hit the platform. You claw at the metal, gloves smoking where they touch.
Dinah shouts your name.
Ollie fires an incendiary arrow that disintegrates midair.
Merlyn’s grin widens.
“You’ve been holding the universe together with grief and duct tape,” he says softly.
“You were always going to snap.”
He grabs you.
For a split second, you think of your father.
Then he throws you.
You don’t fall.
You are taken.
The world detonates into colour and sound and screaming light.
Your body is weightless, then impossibly heavy.
You can’t tell where you end and the energy begins. The supercollider howls, rings spinning faster, faster—
Your thoughts fracture.
Is this how he felt?Is this how I die?Is this how I leave them?
Your mouth opens but no sound comes out.
Space folds.
Time screams.
You're shot into a myriad of electric webs, seas of blue with sparkling rope.
You see cities that aren’t yours.
Skies wrong shades of blue.
Your atoms stretch.
Your soul lurches.
The last thing you feel before everything tears—
—is your name being ripped out of the universe like it was never meant to stay.
And then—
nothing holds you anymore.
You wake up on concrete.
Cold seeps through your suit first—through the plating, through the kevlar, through whatever adrenaline is still clinging to your bloodstream like it knows it’s about to be evicted. Your vision swims. Light fractures overhead, neon signs bleeding into each other, letters doubling, then tripling, then snapping back into place.
Star City.
You know it instinctively. The smell—salt, oil, rain. The hum of traffic a few streets over. The particular way the wind curls through alleyways like it’s learned the city’s bones by heart.
But something’s wrong.
Your ears ring, a high, thin whine, like feedback after an explosion. You push yourself up on your elbows and the world tilts violently to the left.
Your stomach lurches. You swallow hard, breathing through it.
“No,” you murmur. Your voice sounds wrong here. Too loud. Too real.
Your head throbs where it hit—when did it hit? The last thing you remember is light. Pressure. The feeling of being pulled apart and stitched back together incorrectly.
You sit up slowly.
The alley is narrow.
Brick walls on either side, damp with last night’s rain. A flickering security light buzzes overhead. There’s a dumpster to your right, graffiti you don’t recognize sprayed in angry red strokes.
You look down at yourself.
Nightingale’s suit is scorched.
Hairline fractures spiderweb across the chest plate. Your gloves are blackened at the fingertips like you tried to grab the sun and lost. Your mask is still on—thank goodness—but the edge is cracked near your temple.
Your comm is dead.
Of course it is.
You try to stand.
Your ears ring as you push yourself upright, palms scraping against the ground.
Your hands stutter.
Not shaking. Stuttering.
Your fingers leave faint echoes behind them when you move, like afterimages burned into the air. You watch, horrified, as your wrist phases a fraction of an inch out of sync with the rest of you, snapping back with a sharp, nauseating jolt.
“Oh—no,” you whisper. Your voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater. “No, no, no—”
You stagger to your feet, back slamming against the wall as another wave of distortion rolls through you. It feels like pins and needles under your skin, like your atoms are being politely but firmly told they don’t belong here.
Wrong Star City.
You squeeze your eyes shut and try to breathe through it.
In. Out. Slow. The way Bruce taught you. The way Dinah insisted on when your hands shook too badly to string an arrow.
Dinah.
Your eyes snap open.
They were just with you. Both of them. You can still hear Dinah shouting over the rising whine of the collider, still see Ollie’s hand gripping your shoulder, too tight, too scared.
You turn in a slow, unsteady circle, scanning the street beyond the alley mouth.
Pain explodes up your spine and you gasp, stumbling back against the wall. Your breath comes fast, shallow. Your heart is hammering, too loud in your ears.
“Okay,” you whisper to yourself. “Okay. That’s fine. That’s—fine.”
You squeeze your eyes shut.
Where are Ollie and Dinah?
They were just there. You can still hear Dinah’s voice in your head, tight with warning. Ollie’s hand on your shoulder, solid, grounding.
You open your eyes again and the alley is still empty.
No Green Arrow.
No Black Canary.
No humming supercollider tearing reality open behind you.
Just Star City.
But not your Star City.
You think of your family, of Dick, Damian, your siblings back home, you wonder if Dinah and Ollie notified them of you disappearance. The panic the two of them might be feeling, are probably experiencing.
But your thoughts return to your surroundings.
Of a different Star City.
You don’t realise how deeply wrong it is until you hear footsteps.
They’re halfway down the block, arms full of nothing, the shopping bags long since abandoned back at the department store counter.
Dinah is mid-sentence, voice warm with something dangerously close to nostalgia, when Ollie stops so suddenly she almost runs straight into him.
“Ollie—?”
He doesn’t answer.
He’s staring down the alley.
Dinah follows his gaze, annoyance melting into something colder, sharper, the instant she sees the movement there. A figure braced against the brick, head bowed, armor catching the flickering streetlight in jagged flashes.
The air feels wrong.
Not tense. Not hostile.
Off.
“Do you see that,” Ollie says quietly.
Dinah’s fingers curl around his wrist without her thinking about it. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “I do.”
The figure moves—and glitches.
For a split second there are two of them, offset by a fraction of space, before snapping violently back into one. Dinah’s breath catches hard in her throat.
“…That’s not funny,” she whispers. “That’s not—”
They’re already moving.
Not as Green Arrow and Black Canary. Not with masks and weapons and mission parameters.
Just as themselves.
Because whatever is happening in that alley, it feels personal in a way that makes Dinah’s chest ache.
You hear them before you see them properly. Footsteps approaching, voices cutting off mid-conversation.
You spin, adrenaline flaring sharp and hot, muscles screaming as you drop instinctively into a defensive stance. The world lurches again at the sudden movement, your balance wobbling as static skitters across your skin.
Two figures stand at the mouth of the alley.
Civilian clothes.
Dinah’s scarf. Ollie’s jacket.
The exact way Ollie stands when he’s relaxed but ready, weight shifted just so, hands loose at his sides.
Your heart slams into your ribs so hard it hurts.
“—Uncle Ollie?” The words slip out before you can stop them.
Both of them freeze.
Dinah’s eyes widen, just a fraction. Ollie’s shoulders go rigid, like someone’s just drawn a bowstring through his spine.
You take a step toward them.
The world breaks.
Your vision fractures into overlapping images, the alley stretching and folding in on itself as your body lags behind your intent. You gasp, clutching at your side as your outline shimmers violently, air cracking around you like displaced electricity.
“Hey!” Ollie snaps, all instinct now. “Don’t move.”
“Woah—woah,” you say quickly, panic rising, hands lifting placatingly even as they leave ghostly trails behind them. “It’s me, it’s me, I swear—”
You rip your mask off.
For one awful, suspended second, no one moves.
Dinah feels like the ground has dropped out from under her.
It’s you.
It’s your face.
The same person she’s scolded and laughed with , the same cheeks she's pressed kisses to when the world got too heavy. The same jawline, the same scar near your temple she remembers patching up herself.
But your eyes—
Goodness.
Your eyes look like they’ve seen too much.
Not older, exactly.
Just… exhausted in a way she’s never seen on you before.
Like sleep hasn’t touched you properly in years.
Like grief has taken up permanent residence behind them.
There are fine lines of tension around your mouth that shouldn’t be there yet.
Scars she doesn’t recognise.
A weight to the way you hold yourself that makes her chest ache.
You look at them like you’re drowning and they’re the only solid thing left in the world.
Ollie swallows hard.
“…Kid,” he says, voice low, careful, like one wrong syllable might shatter you. “That’s not possible.”
“I just saw you,” you say, breath hitching. “You were there. Both of you. The collider—Dinah, you were yelling at Merlyn, and Ollie you told me to get back and—”
Your body spasms.
A violent ripple tears through you, your form blurring and splitting before snapping back with a sound like a gunshot. You cry out, dropping to one knee, nausea flooding your throat.
Dinah moves without thinking.
Ollie catches her wrist.
“Dinah,” he says quietly. “Our kid is dead.”
The words sit there.
Heavy. Final.
You look up at him.
Something flickers across your face—pain, old and sharp—but it settles into something quieter, sadder.
“…Not on my Earth,” you whisper.
Silence.
Then Dinah steps forward anyway.
She stops just short of touching you, hands hovering inches from your shoulders, like she’s afraid you’ll glitch apart if she makes contact.
“Say that again,” she says softly. “Slowly.”
You explain.
Not cleanly. Not all at once.
Fragments spill out between breaths.
You come from a different Earth.
Different choices.
Bruce died instead of you.
Surviving things you weren’t supposed to.
Merlyn. The collider. The moment everything went wrong.
Ollie listens without interrupting.
That’s how Dinah knows—knows—he believes you.
Because with Ollie, disbelief would’ve come loud. Defensive. Angry.
Your body glitches again, smaller this time but relentless, a constant shimmer at your edges like the universe is tugging at you, trying to pull you loose.
Dinah’s eyes fill with tears she doesn’t bother to hide.
Ollie exhales slowly through his nose. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”
She reaches for you.
Stops.
Looks at Ollie.
He nods.
Dinah pulls you into her arms.
The contact grounds you instantly—and breaks something wide open inside your chest. You cling to her like she’s gravity itself, fingers digging into her coat as another wave of distortion rolls through you. Dinah buries her face in your neck, inhaling the same smell that went with you everywhere.
Ollie joins a second later, wrapping both of you up, pressing his forehead briefly to yours.
“We’ve got you,” he murmurs, fierce and unsteady. “We’ve got you.”
For the first time since the collider, the world holds.
They don’t ask where to take you.
Ollie doesn’t even consider anything public.
The penthouse doors slide shut behind you, sealing out the city, and the quiet hits you like a wave.
Without the noise to anchor you, the wrongness comes roaring back.
The penthouse is different.
The kitchen and the living room have been swapped. Dinah and Ollie's wedding portrait looks different.
Huh.
It's all a bit uncanny really.
It's the same house, same people, but there differences everywhere.
You think that's probably what they thought when they laid eyes upon you.
Your reflection in the glass windows flickers, lagging a half-second behind your movements. You sway, knees buckling as the room seems to tilt.
Dinah catches you before you hit the floor.
“Easy,” she murmurs, guiding you down onto the couch. “I’ve got you.”
Your glitching worsens under the stillness. Your outline shimmers constantly now, like a bad signal. Ollie watches it with a tight jaw, arms crossed, eyes never leaving you.
“You’re decaying,” he says.
You huff out a weak, breathless laugh. “Yeah. That happens when you’re not supposed to exist somewhere.”
Dinah shoots him a look.
“What,” he says. “That’s my way of panicking.”
She kneels in front of you, cupping your face gently, thumbs brushing beneath your eyes.
“We’re going to fix this,” she says, voice steady despite the tears shining there. “You hear me? We didn’t survive losing you once just to do it again.”
Your throat tightens.
“Still bossy across universes,” you murmur smirking.
Her smile breaks—and she pulls you into another hug, holding you like she’s afraid the universe might steal you back if she lets go.
She hugs you so tightly, it's so comforting.
You can tell she's been through a lot.
She still scratches your scalp the same way she always did, puts a hand behind your neck.
Some things never change, you guess.
The city outside keeps moving.
And for now—
You’re still here.
Ollie doesn’t pace when he dials.
He stands at the window of the penthouse, one hand braced against the glass, the other holding the phone like it might detonate. Star City glows below—alive, oblivious, cruel in its normalcy. Dinah sits behind you on the couch, her arm draped around your shoulders, thumb tracing slow, grounding circles like she’s afraid you’ll slip out of existence if she lets go.
The call connects on the third ring.
“Bruce,” Ollie says.
There’s a beat.
Then Bruce's voice, low, tired, restrained to the breaking point. “Oliver.”
Ollie exhales through his nose. “I need you to listen. And I need you to stay calm.”
That alone is enough to make Bruce’s spine go rigid on the other end of the line.
“What’s happened?” Bruce asks. “Is this about Gotham?”
“It’s about your daughter.”
Silence.
Not the empty kind.
The dangerous kind.
The kind that means Bruce has gone very, very still.
“…Which one,” Bruce says quietly. Asking even though he knows the answer.
Dinah closes her eyes.
“Y/N,” Ollie answers.
The name hangs between continents.
Bruce’s voice drops. “That’s not funny.”
“I know.”
“Oliver.”
“I’m not joking.”
Another pause.
Longer.
He can hear Bruce breathing now.
Controlled. Measured. Like he’s already bracing for impact.
“She’s dead,” Bruce says.
It isn’t an accusation.
It’s a statement. A fact carved into his bones.
“I buried her.”
Ollie swallows. “I know you did.”
“Then don’t say her name like this,” Bruce snaps. “Don’t—”
“She’s sitting on my couch,” Ollie says, cutting in. “She’s alive. She’s hurt. And she’s not from this universe.”
The words land wrong. Like broken glass in the mouth.
“You’re going to explain,” Bruce says, voice razor-thin, “right now.”
“She looks like her,” Ollie continues, slower now, choosing every word. “But older. Tired. Like grief’s been living in her bones for a long time. She knows things she shouldn’t. She called me uncle. She called Dinah aunt. She—”
“Stop,” Bruce breathes.
“No,” Ollie says. “You need to hear this. Because she thinks you are dead.”
Bruce’s hand tightens around his phone so hard it creaks.
“In her world,” Ollie says, “you died on the same mission. Same explosion. They ruled it a suicide. Covered it up. Just like—”
Bruce closes his eyes.
“…Just like we did with her,” he finishes hoarsely.
Dinah opens her eyes again, tears streaking silently down her face.
“She’s decaying,” Ollie adds. “She got into an incident with Merlyn and got shot into this universe, I think it's because this universe doesn't have Y/n in it. But it's like she doesn’t belong here. Barry might be able to help, but right now—right now she needs you.”
A long, broken breath on the other end.
“…I’m coming,” Bruce says.
“Come alone,” Ollie replies gently. “As Bruce.”
The call ends.
He doesn’t go to the cave.
He doesn’t touch the Batmobile, doesn’t pull on armour, doesn’t look at the memorial wall. He takes the stairs instead of the lift, every step echoing too loudly through the manor.
The living room is full.
They’re supposed to be gearing up.
Half-suited, half-armed, irritation crackling through the air because patrol was delayed again.
But they're not. 'Cuz they're benched.
Damian is on the floor with Elizabeth Taylor curled against his thigh, pink bed dragged in like a quiet rebellion. Dick is mid-sentence, Steph sprawled across the arm of a chair, Tim cross-legged with a tablet, Jason leaning against the wall, Cass and Duke close together.
Bruce passes through them like a ghost.
“Bruce?” Dick says, confused. “You good?”
Bruce doesn’t answer.
Jason straightens. “Hey. Where are you going?”
Bruce stops at the door.
“I need to step out,” he says.
Damian frowns immediately. “For what purpose?”
Bruce turns then.
His eyes land on each of them in turn, like he’s committing their faces to memory.
“It’s about your sister,” he says.
The room detonates.
“What?” Steph blurts.
Tim’s tablet slips from his hands and hits the floor with a sharp crack. “Bruce—?”
Dick is already moving. “Is she—did something—?”
“You benched us, then you say that?” Jason snaps. “You don’t get to just—”
“Enough,” Bruce cuts in, sharper than intended.
Silence slams down.
“I will explain,” Bruce says, forcing steadiness into his voice. “Later. Alfred will stay with you.”
Damian rises to his feet, Elizabeth’s leash still looped around his wrist. “Father. You are withholding critical information.”
Bruce meets his gaze.
It softens considerably.
He kneels to meet Damian.
“Son, I need you to trust me,” he says.
Damian’s jaw tightens.
He nods once.
Bruce leaves.
The front door closes behind him with a quiet finality that feels like another loss.
You don’t mean to open the news.
You really don’t.
But the penthouse is too quiet, and Dinah’s thumb has stilled on your shoulder, and Ollie’s gone tense in that way he gets when he’s bracing for bad timing. A tablet is in your hands before you’ve fully registered it.
Your name is trending. It's been trending for weeks.
You stare at it, blankly, like your brain refuses to translate.
You tap.
Your face fills the screen.
Y/N WAYNE, DAUGHTER OF BRUCE WAYNE, DEAD.
Another headline.
Another photo.
A gala smile.
A candid shot with Damian scowling beside you.
Death ruled a suicide.
Your throat closes.
“Oh,” you whisper.
Dinah notices instantly. “Hey—hey, sweetheart, what did you see?”
You tilt the phone toward her.
She sucks in a sharp breath.
You scroll numbly.
Edits. Tributes. Candle emojis.
She would’ve been another year older today.
People arguing in comment sections about whether you were happy.
Whether you were lonely.
Whether you were “too gentle for this world.”
Your hands start to shake.
“I’m dead,” you say, distantly. “Here, I mean.”
Dinah pulls you fully into her chest now, arms locking tight. “I know.”
Your eyes burn. “They said I killed myself.”
Ollie’s voice is rough. “They didn’t want questions.”
You nod slowly. “Same thing they did to my dad.”
The realisation settles like ash.
“This isn’t my universe,” you murmur. “I knew that. I just—I didn’t think it would hurt like this.”
Your vision blurs. The glitching starts again, a faint stutter at the edges of your hands, like static crawling up your skin.
Dinah presses her forehead to yours. “You’re okay. You’re here.”
“Am I allowed to be?” you ask quietly.
Footsteps sound behind you.
The door opens.
Bruce Wayne, your father, stands in the threshold.
He looks smaller without the suit.
Older.
His eyes find you instantly—and stop.
Time folds in on itself.
You look up.
Every breath has left your lungs.
Dinah and Ollie's gazes remain transfixed on you and Bruce staring at each other.
“Daddy?” you say, small and uncertain, like a child testing the edge of a nightmare. You stand, slowly.
Bruce crosses the room in three strides and pulls you into him, arms crushing, desperate, breath shuddering against your hair.
“Oh my goodness, baby, you’re here,” he whispers. “You’re real.”
You cling to him, fingers digging into his coat. “Daddy I missed you.”
He lets out a sound that might be a sob.
When he pulls back, his hands stay on your shoulders, grounding, trembling.
“You shouldn't be here. My daughter is dead,” he says, voice breaking. “Here.”
You nod.
“I know. I saw.”
“And in your world,” he continues, forcing the words out, “I died.”
“Yes.”
The symmetry is unbearable.
“They said you overdosed,” you add softly. “Suicide. They couldn’t tell the truth.”
Bruce closes his eyes. “We did the same to her.”
Your chest aches.
“I buried you. I took over the company. Dick became Batman. Damian—he needed someone. I stayed Nightingale. I just… hardened.”
Bruce cups your face gently. Smiling, even though the pain he's feeling is the worst he has ever felt, like stitches being ripped open again.
“You shouldn’t have had to.”
Your glitching worsens suddenly, static crawling up your arms.
Bruce notices immediately. His jaw sets.
“You’re destabilising,” he says. “Barry can help. He understands this kind of physics.”
You nod, trusting.
Exhausted.
“I don’t belong here,” you whisper.
Bruce pulls you into him again, softer this time.
“Maybe not,” he says. “But you’re not alone. I promise sweetheart.”
You wrap your arms around his waist, feeling like he'll disappear at any second, but you savour this moment.
The moment lingers longer than it should.
Bruce’s hands are still on your shoulders, like if he lets go you’ll flicker out completely. You can feel it—the strange, itchy wrongness under your skin, the way the air doesn’t quite agree with you.
Dinah watches it happen with a tight mouth. Ollie clocks it immediately.
“You’re destabilising again,” Bruce murmurs, more to himself than anyone else.
You nod faintly. “It gets worse when I think too hard.”
Bruce exhales, then straightens. The Batman slides back into place—not the armor, not the voice, but the decisiveness.
“I’ve already called Barry,” he says. “And I notified the Watchtower. Select members only.”
Ollie lifts an eyebrow. “You trust them with this kind of stuff?”
“I trust them with her,” Bruce replies without hesitation.
That lands heavier than anything else.
Dinah squeezes your hand. “Alright. Then we move.”
She stands, already reaching for the hidden panel near the hallway. “We suit up.”
You blink. “Now?”
Ollie gives you a soft, crooked smile. “Kid, if you’re gonna glitch out of existence, you’re doing it somewhere with the best minds in the universe.”
Dinah disappears briefly and returns with something folded carefully over her arm.
Your breath catches.
It’s a suit—but not yours.
Not Nightingale as you knew her.
The silhouette is familiar, but refined.
Reinforced seams. Subtle gold threading worked into the black. A faint canary insignia worked into the inside lining, near the collar.
Dinah holds it out. “Temporary. Modified to stabilise your vitals. Barry’ll do the real work, but this’ll help .”
You take it with trembling fingers. “You didn’t have to—”
“We did,” Ollie says gently.
As you change, the penthouse hums with quiet urgency. Dinah and Ollie suit up too, muscle memory guiding them. When you step back out, fully masked, Bruce stops breathing for half a second.
You’re Nightingale.
But older. Sharper. Tired in a way this world’s Nightingale never had the chance to be.
Bruce approaches you slowly, like you might spook.
“You ready?” he asks.
You hesitate—then lean forward and hug him.
He makes a small, broken sound as his arms wrap around you, pressing his forehead to yours.
“I should go home first,” he says quietly. “I need to tell them, the kids deserve to know.”
You nod. “I know.”
You pull back just long enough to press a kiss to his cheek. He does the same to your hair, lingering.
“Be careful,” he whispers.
“You too, daddy.”
He watches you go with Dinah and Ollie, something in his chest ripping open all over again.
Bruce drives home in silence.
The city lights blur past, reflections ghosting across the windows. His hands are steady on the wheel, but his thoughts are anything but.
Alive.
Not his.
Dead here.
Alive somewhere else.
The manor looms ahead like a mausoleum.
Inside, the lights are on.
Alfred opens the door, welcoming him.
He walks ahead, trying to figure out a way to break the news to his children.
Too many of them. Voices carry faintly from the living room—irritated, confused, restless.
He steps inside and all of them turn at once.
Cass's head perks up first, she nudges Duke who stops talking
“Bruce?” Dick says immediately. “What the hell is going on?”
Jason pushes off the wall. “You disappear and drop that line about Y/N like it’s nothing—”
Steph and Tim are already standing, eyes sharp, scanning Bruce’s face. “Is this about the Watchtower alert?”
Bruce turns his head because how did he have Watchtower alerts?
Damian is quiet.
Elizabeth Taylor sits at his feet, tail thumping nervously, like she knows what's up. “Father,” he says. “Explain.”
Bruce closes the door behind him.
He doesn’t take off his coat.
He walks to the couch and sits.
That alone shuts them up.
“I need you all to listen,” Bruce says. “And not interrupt.”
That earns him a few looks, but no one speaks.
He swallows.
“Y/N is alive.”
The room explodes.
“What?” Steph blurts.
Tim stumbles forward a step. “That’s not—don’t do that.”
Jason laughs once, sharp and disbelieving. “That’s sick, man.”
Damian’s breath hitches. “Father—”
Bruce raises a hand. “She is alive. But not our Y/N.”
Dead silence.
Dick’s voice is barely audible. “…What?”
Bruce exhales. “She’s from another universe. In her world, I died. Same mission. Same explosion. They covered it up as a suicide.”
Tim pales. “Like we did to her here.”
“Yes.”
Cass steps closer to Steph instinctively. Duke’s hands curl into fists.
“So she just—what—shows up?” Jason demands. “Wearing her face?”
Bruce’s voice breaks despite himself. “She called me dad.”
Damian’s composure fractures. “You saw her?”
“Yes.”
“Where is she?” Damian asks immediately.
“They're on their way to the Watchtower, her, Dinah and Ollie. They were the ones who found her.” Bruce says. “She’s unstable. Barry’s working on something to stop the dimensional decay.”
Dick runs a hand through his hair, pacing now. “You didn’t bring her here.”
“It’s not safe yet.”
“For who?” Jason snaps.
Bruce looks at all of them. “For her. And for all of you.”
No one has an answer to that.
Only Elizabeth, who whines softly.
"Can we see her?" Duke asks,
"Eventually, I promise, let them get to the Watchtower, then we'll go." Bruce replies.
The Zeta-tube opens with a sound like the universe holding its breath.
Cold hits you first.
Not wind—there’s no air moving like that—but the kind of sterile, metallic chill that seeps straight through bone and settles behind your eyes.
The Watchtower always felt distant, even when you belonged here. Now it feels… vast. Hollow. Like a cathedral built for gods who forgot how to pray.
Below the transparent curve of the station, Earth hangs in silence.
Blue. Whole. Untouched by the fact that you died on it.
You take a step forward and your boots echo too loudly. Ollie’s already scanning the corridor, hand loose near his bow. Dinah walks just ahead of you, deliberate, protective without being obvious.
“You good?” Ollie asks, glancing back.
You nod, even though the static under your skin prickles in warning.
“Yeah,” you say. “Just… colder than I remember.”
Dinah hums. “It’s always like that your first time back.”
Back.
You swallow.
The corridor stretches long and white and impossibly clean. As you walk, doors slide open. Heads turn.
John Stewart—freezes mid-conversation, eyes widening as they land on you.
Hal stares like he’s seen a ghost. Because he has.
Zatanna’s hand flies to her mouth.
Shayera stiffens, her wings twitching.
Martian Manhunter’s gaze sharpens instantly, unreadable but heavy with recognition.
You catch Victor Stone’s reflection in the glass—Cyborg’s systems visibly lag for half a second as he recalibrates what he’s seeing. Even Aquaman, regal and unshakable, pauses.
Every step forward feels like walking through your own funeral. Whispers ripple behind you.
“That’s—”
“Didn't Bruce's kid pass?”
“Wait what-.”
“Is this some kind of—”
Ollie clears his throat loudly. “Eyes forward, folks. Multiverse emergency. Nothing to see here except your own business.”
That gets a few embarrassed looks, but the staring doesn’t stop.
You don’t really blame them.
At the end of the hall, the doors to the Flash’s lab slide open.
Barry’s voice spills out first. “—telling you, the math doesn’t lie, if she destabilises again—”
He stops mid-sentence. Clark turns. Diana looks up.
For half a second, none of them move.
Clark is the first to break.
He tries. You can tell he tries.
His shoulders square. His expression smooths into something neutral, professional. Justice League Superman.
“Nightingale. Y/N,” he says carefully. “It’s… great to see you.”
"Hi Uncle Clark" You reply softly
You barely have time to smile before he fails spectacularly.
In two strides he’s in front of you, pulling you into a hug so careful it almost hurts more than if he’d crushed you.
“Oh,” he breathes, voice breaking. “Oh, kid.”
Your arms come up automatically, pressing into his chest.
He smells the same. Sun-warm and familiar and devastating.
“Jonathan really misses you,” he says softly into your hair. “He keeps asking how your doing, forgetting that your uh-.”
Your throat closes, you cut him off. “I miss him too.”
Diana steps forward next, hands gentle as she cups your face, searching you with ancient eyes.
“You are weary,” she says quietly. “More than you should be.”
You let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah. That tracks, thanks Aunt Di.”
Barry doesn’t even pretend to be calm. He darts in, hugging you quick and tight, then pulling back just as fast, hands already hovering like you might fall apart if he blinks.
“Okay,” he says, voice wobbling. “Wow. You look—wow.”
“Bad wow?” you ask.
“Tired wow,” he corrects immediately. “Like you’ve been carrying grief in a backpack with no straps.”
That hits harder than anything else.
Clark frowns. “She’s dimmer.”
You blink. “Dimmer?”
Barry nods. “Not in a bad way. Just… less light. Our Y/N was—” He gestures vaguely. “Sharper. Louder. You feel like… aftermath.”
You smile thinly. “Yeah no shit. I watched my dad die.”
That does it.
The static spikes.
It starts in your fingers—white noise crawling up your hands, your vision stuttering like a corrupted video file. The floor feels too far away, then too close.
Dinah swears. “She’s glitching.”
Your body flickers. Once. Twice.
“Hey—hey—hey,” Barry says quickly, hands on your shoulders. “Stay with me. Don’t fight it.”
You try to breathe and fail spectacularly as the world fractures.
“I need time,” Barry says sharply. “I can build something, but I need her stable now.”
“I’m trying,” you choke, and then your knees buckle.
The room dissolves into static
When sensation comes back, it’s softer.
There’s a band around your wrist—warm, humming faintly, like it’s alive. The static is still there, but muted. Padded.
Barry sits in front of you, goggles pushed up into his hair, eyes red-rimmed but bright with relief.
“Particle stabiliser,” he says proudly. “Temporary, but it’ll hold you together.”
You flex your fingers. They stay solid.
“Oh,” you whisper. “That’s… better.”
He grins, exhausted. “Yeah. Thought you’d like that.”
Dinah squeezes your shoulder. Ollie lets out a breath he’s clearly been holding for a while.
Across space, a notification lights up on Batman's display.
GLITCHING STABILISED. SUBJECT SAFE.
His hands tremble.
Wayne Manor is silent in the way only grief makes things silent. Bruce stands in the Cave, staring at the message like it might disappear if he looks away.
“She’s stable,” he says finally.
Every head snaps up.
Dick’s breath catches. Tim and Cass are already moving. Jason swears under his breath. Damian looks at Duke and Steph, his eyes shine with something dangerous and hopeful.
“We’re going,” Bruce says, voice ironed flat. “Suit up.”
And somewhere, kilometres away, your laughter rings down a Watchtower corridor—
and the silence that follows it is so loud it hurts.
A/N: Praying that this doesn't flop (it probably will ngl) , it def needs a part 3 sorry guys, i was actually gonna include a scene where AU!Batsis meets the batfam of this universe, but i couldn't be bothered i was cracked out while writing this. also does anybody want a fic of batsis with uncle ollie and aunt dinah, also ik this shit is so ass but I'm so proud of myself for conjuring up 10000 words
Hope you all enjoyed this! Likes, comments, reblogs and requests are highly appreciated! Requests are open!
Summary: The days leading up to your birthday, you move through a world that feels rather gentle. Your family however, don't know they're counting down to the last moments they'll ever have with you.
CW: ANGST, you die bro rest in pieces. death, sustained injuries, description of blood and bodily harm, mention of suicide, grieving, nausea, vomit, swearing, tears (the whole shabang) If any of these tags are triggering, please click off for your own wellbeing.
WC: 6.3k (my longest fic to date)
READ PART 2 HERE
The manor is warm in that quiet, lived-in way it only gets late at night.
Someone left a mug in the sink.
Damian’s boots are by the stairs, kicked off without care.
Tim’s PC hums faintly somewhere it shouldn’t be.
Titus is chewing on someone's bowtie, probably your fathers, instead of his toys.
Alfred has turned down most of the lights, leaving pools of gold along the hallways.
You’re in your room, standing in front of the mirror, smoothing your hands over the fabric of the dress again.
White. Soft. Elegant.
Something you don’t usually pick—but it made Dick’s eyes widen when you stepped out earlier, made Steph whistle, made Cass tilt her head and smile in approval.
Bruce had looked up from the Batcomputer when you’d come downstairs, mid-briefing, and stopped talking entirely.
“That’s what you’re wearing?” he’d asked.
“For my birthday,” you’d said, turning once. “Is it too much?”
He’d shaken his head slowly. “It’s perfect.”
You remember that now, as you leave the dress folded neatly on your bed instead of putting it away. You’d tried it on again after everyone went to bed, just to make sure. Just to feel excited.
Your birthday is coming up, precisely 23 days. There’s a party. You don’t know the details, but you know something’s being planned. You can feel it.
You hum to yourself as you change, utterly unaware of how fragile the moment is.
Bruce doesn’t know either.
The Batcave hums like a living thing.
Screens flicker to life one by one, bathing the stone walls in cold blue light. The air smells faintly of ozone and oil, familiar enough to be comforting—if not for the tension threaded through it. You’re already in suit, cowl down, standing near the Batmobile with your arms folded, weight shifted to one hip. The rest of your family wait for the instructions.
Babs’s voice cuts in before anyone else can speak.
“Alright,” she says, calm but sharp, the way she gets when the stakes are ugly. “Listen up.”
Every screen syncs to her feed. A schematic blossoms across the displays—an industrial complex sprawled beneath Gotham’s east docks, layered with red warning markers like open wounds.
“This isn’t a smash-and-grab,” she continues. “This is a pressure cooker.”
She highlights the lower levels.
Power grids. Structural supports. Something pulsing faintly at the centre.
“That core?” she says. “
Experimental energy converter. If it destabilises, we’re not talking a building-level blast. We’re talking a radius. People live three blocks out.”
Jason swears under his breath.
Tim leans closer to the screen, eyes scanning. “They’re running it hot.”
“They’re running it desperate,” Babs replies. “Someone wants it activated tonight. Whether it’s finished or not.”
Dick crosses his arms. “So we shut it down.”
“Yes,” Babs says. “But not cleanly.”
The map shifts again—automated turrets, drone patrols, reinforced bulkheads.
“Security is layered,” she explains.
“Mechanised response systems tied to motion and heat. Cass, Steph—you’re crowd control topside. Duke, you’re cutting exterior power relays. Jason, Dick—goons and internal lockdowns. Tim, you’re with me on system overrides.”
Her cursor pauses.
“Nightingale,” Babs says, and your name in her mouth feels heavier than usual. “You’re the linchpin.”
You straighten slightly.
“You’ll breach the lower level,” Barbara continues. “
Manual access only. The failsafe is old tech—analog switches buried behind the core housing. You’ll have to get close.”
“How close?” Damian asks, sharp.
She exhales. “Close enough that if the converter surges before shutdown… you won’t have time to clear the blast zone.”
Silence.
You don’t move.
Don’t flinch.
You just nod once.
“I can do it,” you say.
Not bravado.
Not arrogance.
Just certainty.
Bruce’s gaze snaps to you. “We’ll find another way.”
“There isn’t one,” Babs cuts in gently but firmly. “I checked. Thrice.”
The screens dim slightly, as if the cave itself is holding its breath.
“The window is narrow,” she continues. “If Nightingale doesn’t flip the failsafe, the blast hits residential zones. Hospitals. Schools.”
She pauses.
“This mission succeeds,” she says quietly, “or people die.”
Your fingers curl into a fist at your side.
“Then we succeed,” you say.
Bruce’s jaw tightens. “Everyone moves fast. No heroics.”
You glance at him, softening just a fraction. “Always do.”
Babs's voice lowers, more human now. “Comms will be open the entire time. I’m with you every step.”
You look up at the screens.
At the red markers.
At the stakes laid bare in light and lines.
“Let’s go,” you say.
The cave roars to life.
And somewhere deep in your chest, something tightens—quiet, unnameable—as the mission begins to move toward you.
Gotham’s industrial quarter is alive with danger—steel skeletons of half-built towers, conveyor belts still humming, floodlights cutting harsh white lines through the dark.
This isn’t a smash-and-grab.
It’s coordinated.
Compartmentalised.
Everyone has a role.
Everyone moves at once.
Dick is already airborne, flipping down a corridor, cracking jokes he doesn’t quite believe. Jason tears through goons with this brutal efficiency, rage tightly leashed. Tim’s fingers fly over a portable console, muttering something under his breath. Steph and Cass move like ghosts, silent, lethal. Duke’s light cuts through darkness as he takes out turret after turret.
You’re everywhere at once—covering Damian, flanking Bruce, moving where you’re needed most.
The stakes are high.
Hostages on-site.
You get it.
The drive is heavy in your hand when you pull it free.
Mission accomplished. The relief is sharp, fleeting.
That’s when the floor shudders.
Not from the main charges.
This is deeper.
Hidden.
A failsafe.
“Oracle—” Bruce starts.
“I didn’t see that—oh god—delayed detonation, structural—Nightingale, MOVE—”
You shove Damian hard, sending him sprawling behind cover.
The explosion tears through the building like it’s made of paper.
You don’t feel pain at first.
Just impact.
Weightlessness.
Then the ground slams into you, breath ripped from your lungs as something punches through your side.
Your suit absorbs some of it. Not enough.
You don’t scream.
You force yourself up.
The building is collapsing in sections, alarms screaming, fire licking at broken beams. You stagger away from the blast zone on pure instinct, every step slower than the last.
Your vision blurs.
Your leg drags.
Something inside you is wrong—wet, hot, spilling.
“Nightingale, respond!” Oracle’s voice cracks for the first time.
He’s there almost immediately, cowl off, dropping to his knees in front of you. His breath leaves him in a sharp, broken sound when he sees you.
“No,” he says. “No, no, no.”
He presses his hands to your wound, tries to apply pressure, tries to be Batman about it—but it’s slipping through his fingers.
There’s too much blood.
Your skin is already going cold.
“You finished the mission,” he says desperately. “You did it. Help is coming.”
You look at him, really look at him.
Your dad. The man who’s always saved everyone.
Your thoughts then return to the state of your body.
You’re so tired.
The world feels distant, almost like you’re underwater.
You think, fleetingly, about Jason—about how he died scared and alone, about whether this is how it felt.
You reach for your father, arms weak, wrapping around his neck the way you did when you were little.
Childlike. Instinctive.
He pulls you closer immediately, a hand behind your head, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.
Your breathing stutters.
Your heart flutters, then slows.
Bruce rocks you slightly, forehead pressed to yours, tears streaming unchecked.
“I’m here,” he sobs. “I’ve got you.
You manage the ghost of a smile
Fear crashes into you then, raw and haunting. “I’m scared.”
“I know,” he whispers, breaking. “Stay with me.”
“Daddy,” you breathe, the word slipping out like a prayer.
“Am I gonna die?”
The comms are silent.
Everyone hears it.
“No,” he says, lying badly.
“Promise?”
He doesn't answer
You smile faintly. “I did it though, right?”
“You saved them,” he chokes. “You saved everyone.”
“That’s good,” you whisper. Your breath rattles. “That’s… really good.”
Damian skids in, dropping beside you, hands shaking as he grabs your arm.
“Do not leave,” he says fiercely, his voice breaking, trying to remain stoic but the sight of you bleeding out makes a rare breed of horror blossom in his chest.
“I forbid it.”
You look at him.
Your little brother.
So angry.
So scared.
You gaze at his face a little while longer, he glares back.
“You’re… so strong,” you murmur. “You’re gonna be better than all of us.”
“Say it later,” he pleads, he was getting desperate. He held your gloved hand in his.
“Say it when we’re home.”
You try to breathe again.
You can’t.
Your chest tightens, a string of wheezes comes out of you. Your vision starts to go dark at the edges. You give Damian's hand one last squeeze.
“I love you,” you say—to all of them. “Hey, uh tell, tell Alfred I—”
Your heart stutters.
Once.
Twice.
Then stops.
A sigh escapes your lips, followed by your eyes closing, your grip loosening on Damian's hand.
Bruce feels it happen in his arms.
“No,” he whispers. “No—no—baby please—”
Your body goes limp.
The first thing they see is the blood.
Your blood.
It’s dark against the concrete, soaking into the cracks of the floor, smeared across Bruce’s gloves, streaked along the edge of your suit. It doesn’t look real at first—too much, too still.
Bruce is on his knees, cowl off, hunched over you like a shield, your body folded against his chest, your head tucked beneath his chin the way it used to be when you fell asleep on long flights.
For one suspended, awful second, no one moves.
Dick is the first to arrive—and the first to understand.
He skids to a stop a few feet away, boots scraping against debris, escrima sticks dropping to the ground, breath leaving him in a broken sound that doesn’t quite qualify as a word. His eyes track slowly, unwillingly, from Bruce’s face down to your limp arm hanging at an unnatural angle, fingers slack, utterly unresponsive.
“Oh,” he whispers. “No. No, no—Y/” He couldn't bring himself to speak your whole name. Babs tears are heard over the comms, not loud, but there.
Jason comes in hard behind him, ready for violence, already braced for another fight. The rage drains from his face in an instant. He freezes mid-step, dropping his gun, helmet tilting as if his brain can’t process what his eyes are telling him.
Bruce looks up.
His face is wrecked—blood, tears, something raw and unrecognisable carved into his expression.
He doesn’t say anything.
Because he doesn’t have to.
Jason’s breath punches out of him. “Bruce…?” His voice is hoarse, disbelieving, his helmets in-built voice modulator doing little to hide his heartbreak. “Why isn't—why—what happened?”
Tim arrives next and stops so abruptly he nearly trips over himself. His gaze snaps to the ground first—always the details—a crimson pattern, blast residue, the sickening scent of gunpowder, the way Bruce’s arms are locked around you too tightly, too desperately.
He turns away suddenly, hands braced on his knees, his chest heaves as his body betrays him. The sound of him getting sick, his retches, echoes too loud in the ruined space, obscene in its normalcy. The sight of your lifeless body was nauseating, that combined with the smell of iron in the air made something churn in his stomach.
Stephanie stumbles in, already breathless from running.
She sees Dick on his knees.
Jason frozen.
Tim retching.
Then she sees you.
Her hands fly to her mouth.
“Oh my god,” she gasps, the words fracturing into a sob. “Oh my god, no—no—”
Her breathing goes erratic, shallow and fast, chest hitching as panic sets in. Cass is there immediately, silent and steady, gripping Steph’s wrists to ground her, forehead pressed briefly to her temple. Cass’s own face is pale, eyes dark and glassy, fixed on the way your head lolls against Bruce’s shoulder, lifeless.
Duke arrives last, light flickering uselessly across the devastation.
He takes one look and goes very, very still.
“She was just—” he starts, then stops.
Swallows.
“She was just talking.”
Damian makes a noise from beside you.
“Father,” he says, voice cracking. “Why is she not responding?”
Asking even though he knows the answer.
After all, Damian is rather accustomed to death.
Just not when it's someone he loves.
Bruce finally moves then—just enough to adjust you in his arms, to tuck you closer like he can still protect you from the world if he holds on tight enough.
“She saved the mission,” Bruce says, hollow. “She saved everyone.”
The silence is foreboding, so suffocating, that everyone can hear a couple drops of your blood hit the pool already on the floor as Bruce stands.
Damian shakes his head sharply, denial flashing hot and violent across his face. “That is not an answer.”
No one has one.
The sirens in the distance fade.
The fire dies down.
Gotham keeps breathing.
You however, don’t.
The Batcave has never felt so big.
Every footstep echoes too loudly as Bruce carries you down the platform, your weight slack against his chest. Alfred stands at the base of the stairs, posture perfect out of sheer habit, but his hands tremble violently at his sides.
He takes one look at you and his composure shatters.
“Oh,” Alfred breathes, stepping forward despite himself.
His voice breaks completely. “My dear child…”
Bruce doesn’t stop.
He doesn’t look at anyone.
He lays you down on the central platform with a care so reverent it hurts to watch.
Your cowl is removed. Your hair spills loose. You look peaceful in a way that feels wrong—like a lie, it looks like you'll wake up at any second.
Everyone stands around you in a loose, broken circle.
Tim sinks down against a console, head in his hands, shoulders shaking. Steph paces in tight circles, muttering under her breath, eyes wild, trying not to scream. Duke leans against the Batmobile, staring at the floor like if he looks up, something inside him will fracture permanently. Cass stands closest to you, silent tears sliding down her face, fingers curled into fists at her sides.
Jason doesn’t move at all. He stands in the shadows, arms crossed tight over his chest, jaw clenched so hard it might crack.
His eyes never leave your face.
Dick finally rises, unsteady, and steps closer. He reaches out like he’s going to touch your shoulder—then stops himself. His hand falls uselessly back to his side.
“I was supposed to get there faster,” he says softly. “I should’ve—”
Bruce lets out a sound that is barely human.
Alfred places a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, gentle, devastating.
“Master Bruce,” he murmurs. “You may let her rest now.”
Bruce doesn’t respond.
He doesn’t move.
He just stares at you, eyes hollow, arms empty for the first time since he carried you out of the ruins—like if he looks away, the truth might finally sink in.
And none of them are ready for that.
Damian does not collapse when it happens.
Not in the tunnel.
Not in the Cave.
Not when Alfred’s voice breaks.
Not when Bruce doesn’t move.
He stands beside the platform where your body lies, blood cleaned away, hands clenched so tightly his gloves creak. He watches Bruce like he’s waiting for him to fix it. To undo it. To do something impossible, because Batman always does. But tonight, he's just Bruce Wayne, a father.
When no one does—when no one can—Damian simply turns and leaves.
No one stops him.
He opens the door to your room.
It still smells like you.
It’s subtle—fabric softener, shampoo, something sweet he can’t place, the inviting scent of your perfume. Damian closes the door behind him and stands very still, like the air might shatter if he moves too fast.
Your dog, Elizabeth Taylor lifts up her little head from her luxury velvet dog bed you insisted on getting her, expecting you, but looking rather dejected at the sight of Damian, regardless, she trots over to him in a sleepy state and demands to be held.
Damian holds her to his heart reverently.
Your bed is made.
Too neatly.
Alfred must have done it.
The dress is gone.
He notices that immediately.
For a split second, irrational hope flares—you’re wearing it. Then reality crashes back in, merciless.
Damian walks to your vanity, putting Elizabeth on your bed. Your things are still there: lip gloss, a hair tie, the stupid pen you stole from him and never gave back. He opens the drawer without thinking.
That’s when he sees it.
The Polaroid.
It’s crooked, half-slid under a soothing face mask.
He pulls it free with shaking fingers.
It’s the two of you, squeezed into the frame. You’re perched on the edge of the vanity, grinning like you’ve just gotten away with something. Damian is scowling, arms crossed, but his shoulder is pressed into yours. He remembers this—remember you laughing because he “looked like a pissed-off cat.”
His breath stutters.
He sits down hard on the floor, back against the vanity, Polaroid clutched to his chest like it might burn a hole through him.
“You promised,” he whispers.
His voice cracks on the second word.
The sound that comes out of him next is raw and small and nothing like Robin. It echoes in the room, swallowed by silk curtains and expensive furniture that suddenly feels obscene.
Damian Wayne cries alone on his older sister’s bedroom floor, forehead pressed to his knees, the Polaroid trembling in his hands.
Damian Wayne was accustomed to death.
But not to grief.
The world doesn’t find out right away.
For thirty-two hours at least, everything stays contained in the cave—sealed behind stone, firewalls, and the kind of silence only grief can produce.
Bruce doesn’t release a statement.
Wayne Enterprises goes dark.
The Watchtower runs on autopilot.
Dick is unreachable.
Phones ring and ring and ring until they stop.
In those thirty-two hours, the city keeps moving.
People go to work.
Kids go to school.
News cycles churn through politics and markets and weather.
Your name doesn’t exist on the ticker.
Yet.
And then, suddenly, it does.
The screen fades in from black to the familiar set of the Central City Citizen Evening News broadcast.
The television is already on when it happens.
Dinah isn’t really watching it—just background noise while she wipes down the kitchen counter, humming softly to herself. Ollie’s voice drifts in from the living room, sharp and animated as he argues with someone from Queen Industries on the phone about patrol rotations, about coverage, about things that still assume the world is intact.
The anchor changes.
Dinah glances up without thinking.
It’s Iris.
She’s dressed in black.
Something cold drops straight through Dinah’s chest before a single word is spoken.
Iris’s hands are folded on the desk, fingers interlaced too tightly, her engagement ring gleaming, knuckles pale under the studio lights. Her expression—usually warm, composed, unshakeable—is fractured.
There’s a pause.
Too long.
Long enough for dread to bloom and take root.
“It is with a heavy heart,” Iris begins, and her voice is already unsteady, “that I inform you all that one of America’s most beloved young women—”
Dinah’s hand stills on the counter.
“—daughter of Bruce Wayne, philanthropist, women's rights activist, and humanitarian, Y/N Wayne—”
The room tilts.
The cloth slips from Dinah’s fingers and hits the floor soundlessly.
“—has tragically passed away.”
Dinah stares at the screen.
The words don’t make sense.
They slide past her, wrong and unreal, like a language she doesn’t speak. Her ears ring, a high, thin sound drowning out everything else.
Iris swallows hard, eyes shining.
“According to officials,” she continues, slower now, careful, “Her death has been ruled a suicide. She was found dead in her bedroom approximately thirty-two hours ago. Authorities have stated there is no evidence of foul play at this time.”
Suicide.
The word lands like a gunshot.
Dinah’s breath leaves her all at once. “No,” she whispers, the denial automatic, instinctive. “No, that’s not—”
Iris presses on, voice trembling but determined.
“Y/N Wayne was more than a public figure,” she says. “She was… she was a light. A young woman who used her platform not for vanity, but for service. For change.”
Her voice breaks on the last word.
Dinah’s knees buckle.
She reaches for the counter and misses, sinking down onto the kitchen floor as if gravity has suddenly doubled. Her back hits the cabinet, the impact sharp but distant. Her chest aches, tight and hollow at the same time.
Iris looks down at her notes, then back up—and she’s crying now.
She doesn’t hide it.
Tears spill freely, tracking down her face as she struggles to breathe evenly.
“Those of us who knew her personally,” Iris says, choking, “knew her kindness. Her humor. Her unwavering belief in the good of people—especially heroes who never thought of themselves that way.”
“I loved her,” Iris admits, voice barely holding together. “She loved my family. And today—today the world is quieter without her.”
Iris lifts a hand to her mouth as the tears finally overwhelm her. The camera lingers—not cruelly, but honestly. A nation watching a woman grieve in real time.
The broadcast fades to footage of you.
Photos.
Videos.
You laughing at a gala.
You and Cassandra in your father's arms .
You standing between Dinah and Ollie, grinning wide, arms slung around them like you belonged there—because you did.
Dinah makes a broken sound, somewhere between a sob and a gasp.
Ollie is there suddenly, phone forgotten, kneeling in front of her. His face is white, eyes fixed on the screen behind her.
“That’s—” His voice cracks. “Dinah, that’s not real. That’s not—”
She shakes her head, tears streaming unchecked. “She was here,” Dinah whispers. “Ollie, she was here two nights ago.”
Ollie freezes.
The memory hits them both at once.
You sprawled across their couch, feet kicked up on Ollie’s lap despite his protests. Dinah braiding your hair absentmindedly while you gossiped about nothing and everything. You laughing when one of your AirPods slipped out and vanished into the cushions.
I’ll grab them after a mission, you’d said, waving it off because your father called you home to get ready for Damian's piano recital. Promise.
Dinah’s gaze snaps to the side table.
The AirPods case sits there.
Exactly where you left it.
“Oh my god,” Dinah sobs, clutching it to her chest like it might shatter. “She was coming back.”
Ollie pulls her into his arms, holding her tight, his own breath hitching as he presses his forehead to hers. His voice is raw when he speaks.
Ollie pulls her into his arms, holding her tight, his own breath hitching as he presses his forehead to hers. His voice is raw when he speaks.
“She was supposed to come back.”
The television keeps playing in the background—other anchors now, other networks, all saying your name, all using the same words: tragic, shocking, suicide, beloved.
The world keeps turning.
But in the penthouse, time stops.
The Watchtower meeting room is stalled.
Not delayed—stalled.
Bruce’s chair is empty, again.
At first it’s irritation.
Subtle, restrained, but there. Hal keeps glancing at the chrono on the wall. Guy’s already leaned back, arms crossed, foot tapping, irritation buzzing off him like static.
“We can’t keep waiting,” Guy mutters. “The agenda’s stacked, and Bats doesn’t own the clock.”
“He owns this room,” Hal replies automatically—then stops. Because even he doesn’t fully believe that right now.
Something feels wrong.
Clark has been uneasy since he arrived. He hasn’t said it out loud, because saying it would make it real, but his hands haven’t stopped clenching and unclenching at his sides. His hearing keeps drifting, involuntarily, searching for a sound that should exist.
A heartbeat.
A familiar one.
It stopped a day and a bit ago.
Abruptly.
Completely.
While he was in his sleep.
He told himself it was interference.
Space does weird things to sound.
Magic does worse.
He told himself anything except the truth clawing at the base of his throat.
J’onn feels it before the screen turns on.
The emotional temperature of the room drops—sharp, sudden, like oxygen being sucked out.
Fear, confusion, dread. A collective intake of breath that never quite releases.
The broadcast flickers to life.
Iris West.
Black dress.
Hands folded too tightly.
The shock is deafening.
Every single one of them locks in.
Barry is already on his feet. “Why is Iris—”
The name hits.
The ruling hits harder.
Suicide.
No one moves.
No one breathes.
It’s like every sound has been sucked out of the Watchtower at once.
Hal’s boots hit the floor with a sharp clang. “That’s—no. That’s not—” He drags a hand down his face. “Oh God, that’s Bruce’s kid.”
Arthur mutters a curse under his breath, ancient and furious. Diana’s eyes widen—not in disbelief, but in something far worse: recognition.
Clark staggers back half a step.
He doesn’t speak at first.
Then, quietly—devastatingly—
“I felt it.”
Every head snaps toward him.
Superman's voice shakes. “I didn’t know what it was at first. Just… silence. Like something vanished from the world.”
His hands curl into fists. “Her heart stopped. I heard it. And I couldn’t get there in time.”
Barry swallows hard. “Clark…”
Diana finally speaks, a hand on her heart, voice low and steady and cracked straight through the middle.
“This world does not spare the gentle.” She says solemnly.
No one argues.
They all look, again, at Bruce’s empty seat.
“That’s why,” Hal says hoarsely. “That’s why he hasn’t answered. That’s why Dick vanished.”
Diana closes her eyes. “He has lost a child.”
The Watchtower remains silent.
No Bats.
No Batman.
Only the echo of something irreplaceable gone.
At Titans Tower, the mood curdles into something heavy and sick when they get a glimpse of the TV.
Before that though, the Titans’ tower felt wrong.
Too quiet.
Too still.
Like the air’s gone bad.
Dick hasn’t answered in days.
That alone has everyone on edge.
Wally’s pacing, too fast even for him. Kori stands near the window, staring out into the night sky like she’s waiting for it to explain itself. Roy’s sitting on the arm of the couch, bouncing his knee. Garth hasn’t moved in ten minutes.
Donna’s phone buzzes.
Once.
She glances down without thinking.
And then she gasps—sharp, loud, visceral.
“What?” Roy asks immediately.
Donna doesn’t answer. Her face drains of colour as she stares at the screen, fingers trembling.
“Oh no…no, no, no, no” she whispers.
They’re on their feet before she even says it.
She turns the phone so they can see.
Y/N WAYNE DEAD.
GOTHAM HEIRESS COMMITTED SUICIDE
BRUCE WAYNE LOSES A DAUGHTER
Someone turns on the TV. It doesn’t matter who.
Every channel.
Every headline.
Every word is unbearable.
The understand now why Dick went off the grid.
His sister was dead.
Lois is already crying when Jon walks into the room.
The volume is low, but it doesn’t matter. He sees Iris. He sees the black. He sees your picture on the screen.
“No,” Jon says immediately. “No, that’s not—”
Lois pulls him into her arms as the words land.
His big sister.
Gone.
“She wouldn’t,” he sobs. “She wouldn’t leave. Mom that's not fair.”
Lois’s voice breaks. “I know, sweetheart.”
“They said she did it to herself,” Jon cries, devastated, angry, confused. “Why would she do that? Why didn’t she tell us?”
Lois holds him tighter, tears soaking into his hair. “Sometimes people hurt in ways they don’t know how to explain.” She couldn't tell him what all the other heroes knew, what Clark had called her to tell.
You died in combat.
Jon looks back at the screen, chest heaving. “She was my big sister,” he whispers. “She was supposed to be there.”
Lois can’t answer that.
No one can.
The day of your funeral, the city feels muted the moment people begin to arrive.
Not quiet—muted.
Like someone turned the saturation down on the world and left only grey behind. Gotham’s skyline looms in the distance, blurred beneath swollen, low-hanging clouds that threaten rain but never quite deliver.
Outside the funeral hall, black cars line the street in perfect, somber symmetry. Drivers wait with hands folded over steering wheels. Security stands still, eyes forward, expressions carefully neutral.
Inside, the air is heavy enough to press against the lungs.
Every step echoes too loudly.
Every whisper feels like an intrusion.
The hall itself is vast, elegant, suffocating in its stillness.
Black drapery cascades from the ceiling, broken only by soft white light trained on the front of the room. Your casket rests there—closed, polished, devastating. White lilies and roses surround it in excess, their scent thick and cloying, curling into throats until breathing feels like work.
A slideshow plays silently on a massive screen behind the podium.
You as a child, perched on Bruce’s shoulders, laughing.
You with Dick, missing teeth and scraped knees.
You between Steph and Cass, arms slung around their waists.
You holding Damian when he was younger, his scowl already perfected.
You sprawled on the floor of the library with Tim and Jason, surrounded by books.
You holding Elizabeth Taylor the day you got her.
You at galas.
You with your family.
You alive.
Steph sits in the front row, clutching Elizabeth Taylor to her chest. Your dog is wrapped in a warm blanket, donning small black ribbons at her ears, her body trembling slightly as she whines under her breath, confused by the absence she doesn’t understand. Steph’s jaw is clenched tight, tears streaking silently down her face as she buries her nose briefly into the soft fur.
Cass sits beside her, rigid, eyes locked on the casket like if she looks away, something worse might happen. Duke’s hand grips hers so tightly his knuckles have gone white. Tim sits just beyond them with his friends, shoulders slumped, gaze unfocused, like he’s only halfway present in his own body.
Jason stands behind Dick, close enough that his presence is felt even when neither of them speaks. Dick hasn’t stopped shaking since he walked in.
The Justice League fills row after row—Clark, Lois, and Jon seated together. Jon’s face is blotchy and red, eyes fixed on the floor, fists clenched in the fabric of his suit pants. Diana sits tall and unmoving, grief carved into the stillness of her posture, Steve mirroring that. Barry’s leg bounces uncontrollably; Iris keeps one hand wrapped around his wrist like an anchor. Hal stares straight ahead, jaw tight. Arthur’s massive hands rest on his knees, fingers flexing slowly, Mera's face hasn't changed from one of sorrow. J’onn sits quietly, his presence heavy with emotion he cannot shut out. Zatanna and John, Shayerah, Ted and Michael, all grieving in their own ways.
The Titans occupy an entire section—Donna’s expression is carved from stone, Wally’s leg jittering as he presses his palms together, Kori’s eyes glowing faintly with restrained grief, Roy’s jaw set hard, Kyle staring blankly at the slideshow as if he’s afraid to blink.
Members of the GCPD, Commissioner Gordon and Babs, WE Board members, Luke and Lucius, all present.
When Bruce enters, the room changes.
He walks slowly, deliberately, dressed in black so severe it feels ceremonial.
He holds Damian’s hand, his grip firm, grounding. Damian walks beside him, spine straight, chin lifted, his green eyes glassy but unblinking. The room rises instinctively, respect and grief pulling them to their feet.
Bruce does not look at anyone.
He looks at you.
At the casket.
At the photos.
At the life he is being asked to survive.
He and Damian take their places in the front row.
Bruce does not let go of his son’s hand.
The service begins.
Words are spoken—formal, respectful, distant.
Achievements are listed.
Foundations named.
Your kindness, your generosity, your advocacy spoken of like a legacy carved in stone.
But it’s the slideshow that breaks people.
Photo after photo of you woven between speeches, proof that you were here. That you mattered.
Dick is the first to stand.
He makes it three steps before he stops, hand braced on the podium like he needs it to stay upright. He looks out at the room, at the heroes, the family, the people who loved you. His mouth opens. Closes.
“Y/N was my sister,” he says, voice already splintering. “My baby sister.”
A photo flashes behind him—Dick at eight years old, grinning proudly with you balanced on Bruce’s arm, two years old and giggling.
“I was supposed to protect her,” Dick continues, tears spilling freely now. “That was my job. I thought— I really thought I’d always be there in time.”
His shoulders collapse inward.
“She was everything good,” he sobs. “Everything bright. And I couldn’t— I couldn’t save her.”
He can’t finish.
Wally and Roy are beside him instantly, arms around his shoulders, guiding him gently away as Dick clings to them like he’s drowning.
Tim stands next.
He hesitates before speaking, eyes flicking briefly to the casket, then away.
“In the beginning,” Tim says quietly, “me and Y/N didn’t actually get along that well.”
“I thought she was too stuck up,” he continues, voice shaking. “She thought I was trying too hard to impress Dad.”
A few sad, breathless laughs ripple through the room.
He swallows.
“I’m happy to say we don’t think like that anymore.”
His fingers grip the edge of the podium. He stumbles over his next words.
“Y/N wa—” He stops. He couldn't bring himself to say 'was'
Breath hitching.
“Is— is, Y/N is the greatest of all time.”
A photo flashes—Tim and you sprawled on the Batcave floor, surrounded by schematics and snacks.
“She isn’t just my sister,” Tim says, tears slipping down unchecked now, “she’s my friend. And I think her presence in my life is one of the greatest blessings I’ve ever had. I think I’m so privileged to have known her personally.”
His voice breaks completely.
“I think— I think losing someone you love this much,” Tim continues, “it’s like losing a tooth. At first there’s blood. Panic. Pain. But after it fades, there’s just… this empty space.”
He presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek unconsciously.
“And you feel it every time you move. Every time you breathe, every time you eat. And it hurts. A lot.”
The slideshow changes—your handwriting on a sticky note, a book left unfinished on the coffee table, a pair of Crocs abandoned by Tim’s bedroom door, your sweater draped over a chair.
“I see her everywhere,” Tim whispers. “In the pictures on the walls. In the book she didn’t finish reading. In the sweater she left on my chair. I tried to play Minecraft to get away from it… but all I could think about was the world we built together.”
He steps away, shoulders shaking.
Damian follows.
He stands stiffly, hands clasped behind his back, eyes forward.
“This morning,” Damian says, voice quiet but razor-sharp with control, “I walked into my ukhti’s room expecting her to be there.”
A photo appears—Damian sitting on your bed, scowling while you grin at the camera.
“I went there instinctually,” he continues. “I thought I would hear her say, ‘Damian, what do you want?’”
His throat tightens.
“But there was nothing.”
His eyes flick briefly to Bruce.
“Her room is next to mine,” Damian says. “Normally in the evenings, I hear her closet shuffling. Her telling Elizabeth off for… defiling couture and chewing on her shoes. Or the girls causing chaos.”
Silence stretches.
“I heard nothing.”
Bruce stands last.
The room feels like it caves inward.
“My daughter,” he begins.
The word lands like a blow.
“I buried my parents,” Bruce continues, voice steady but frayed at the edges. “And now I am burying my child.”
The room breaks.
Quiet sobs. Hands to mouths. Iris presses her face into Barry’s shoulder.
“She made this world better,” Bruce says. “And I will live every day knowing it no longer has her in it.”
The burial at Wayne Manor is quieter.
Smaller.
More devastating.
The casket is lowered beside Thomas and Martha Wayne. Damian steps forward and places something small atop it. Bruce remains standing long after everyone else steps back.
Alfred approaches him, eyes red, hands trembling.
“I am so very sorry, Master Bruce,” he says softly.
Bruce exhales, shoulders sagging.
“I wasn’t supposed to outlive her,” he whispers.
Alfred bows his head.
Damian stares at the grave, silent, shattered.
The world moves on.
But something essential has ended.
And nothing will ever recover from it.
A/N: got yo ass heheheheh nah but i feel like i did rlly well on this one, super happy with how it came out. lmk what you guys think! i have this feeling im gonna gate death threats in my inbox idk. ill get back to my 2k event trust. give me ideas for part 2 guys.
