bknwa

[bknwa]

My Heart — Part Three

summary | your family realizes how much they have missed. the problem is that you are a grown up by now, and terrible hurt by their neglect.

pairing | platonic yandere batfam x batsis!neglected!reader. future conner kent x reader.

warnings / tags | angst, hurt/little comfort, y/n is mentioned as a female, trauma, family issues, mostly trust and daddy issues. they all love each other (PLATONICALLY) they just don't know how to feel it and express it correctly. it gets darker. you are a bit of a yandere later as well.

word count | 5.3k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :) please vote <3 dick is 28. jason is 23. reader will be 22 in a few months. cass is 21. tim is 20. duke is 18. damian is 13.

conner makes his first appearance :pp

taglist | @cebrospudipudi @jjoppees @corvoqueen @nirvanaxx1942 @lilyalone @aixaingela @lettucel0ver @time-shardz @pix-stuff @galaxypurplerose @cupid73 @theproblemisthattimnotfictional @vanessa-boo @timebomb1101 @chemicalwindexbottle @chiizuluvr @ihavenomuse @mat5u0 @thismessyshe @lovebug-apple @myjumper @angwlart @esposadomd @nisarelle @mrmacwaffles @mazixxss @ememgl @naomi-xxi @bbmgirll @ash0-0ley

previous. next.

The Wayne Manor hasn’t changed.

Not really.

The city evolves. The world turns. Gotham devours itself, spits itself back out, over and over again. But this house… this house stays the same.

The marble under his shoes still holds the faint scuff of childhood racing feet. The wood panels still creak in the same spots — the third stair from the landing, the right edge of the west hallway. The heavy scent of aged paper, fireplace ash, and expensive polish lingers in the walls, impossible to scrub out no matter how often Alfred tries.

Bruce breathes it all in as he steps through the front doors, loosening his tie with one hand, briefcase heavy in the other. Even here, the work follows him. The meetings, the shareholders, the endless faces wanting his attention. None of it ever really stops. It never has.

The Enterprise board meetings bleed into the evening now. They always do. Stacked hours of power suits and shareholders, of dry numbers and brittle conversations, while Gotham simmers just outside the tower walls.

It leaves him tired in a way the cowl never could.

He heads for his study on autopilot, steps measured, jaw tight, already sorting through the files in his head.

But he pauses in the living room.

The faint, flickering glow of the television spills across the dark floor. A faint hum.

His brows furrow.

The television should be off. Alfred is meticulous about the house’s order. Damian never leaves a screen running. Tim is in the city tonight. Jason—well, Jason rarely sets foot in the Manor unless he’s forced. And Dick…

Bruce’s frown deepens when he thinks of his oldest son.

He crosses the threshold into the living room, the quiet hum of static and aged video speakers meeting his ears. The living room is dimly lit, shadows curling across the furniture. The television sits against the far wall, the soft glow of an old video playing, the grain of the footage unmistakable — aged, imperfect, preserved.

The timestamp in the corner reads Gotham Academy Auditorium – March 2019.

And you’re there.

You are not there when he finds the tape. You are far from the manor. Far from Gotham. Far from him.

But you are there on the screen.

Frozen in time.

Dancing.

White.

Ethereal.

Your teenage frame moves with the precise, aching grace of someone born for the stage, wrapped in the soft shimmer of a Swan Queen's tutu, the tulle layered and crisp against your thighs. Your hair is pulled tight into a bun, not a single strand out of place. The stage lights cast a pale glow over your skin, highlighting the sharp, elegant lines of your arms as they stretch and flutter, the ghost of a bird in flight.

Your expression is serious. Focused. But vulnerable in a way Bruce can’t tear his eyes from.

He doesn’t remember this.

The realization roots him to the spot, chest heavy, heart sinking deeper with every note of Tchaikovsky that trickles from the old speakers.

You were— what, fifteen there? Sixteen? Barely holding yourself together behind a mask of effortless poise. And he— God, what was he doing that night? A mission? The Board? Chasing criminals in an alley while his daughter performed like this… and he didn’t even remember.

He studies the video as if his eyes can retroactively imprint it into his mind, as if enough staring will make up for the absence in his memory.

Your movements are flawless. Perfect control. The edges of your face still round with youth. But Bruce knows better than anyone how much pain hides behind discipline.

It’s written all over your face — the stubborn set of your jaw, the ghost of uncertainty behind your practiced eyes, the tightness in your shoulders.

You’re magnificent.

You’re hurting.

And he wasn’t there.

The tape is old. Not from a phone. Not from some bystander’s recording. This was filmed deliberately. Carefully. Preserved as if whoever held the camera wanted to keep you forever.

Bruce takes a few steps closer, his briefcase lowering to his side, forgotten.

His eyes trace the curve of your arms, the extension of your neck, the slight quiver in your breath as you leap, as you land, as you fight to stay within the perfection of your craft.

There’s no memory in his mind that matches this. Not a single one. He’s seen you at galas, at fundraisers, at piano recitals. He’s seen you in training rooms, balancing yourself on beams, sharpening your strength.

But a tutu? Ballet shoes? A studio filled with mirrors?

Nothing.

It’s like a life you had that he never noticed. Like a whole world you lived in while he was busy watching other shadows.

His throat tightens.

You are his daughter. His first daughter. He remembers your birth, born from a weeping mother who loved him too much, who loved you so much. How the red of her face went away, pale to the bone. 

He didn't cry her death, but he cried with your first word. He remembers your first steps. Your first trophy in Chemistry. How much you loved to chat his ear off, and how much power you held always above the others. 

You move across the stage with flawless control — shoulders high, chin poised, arms unfolding with the softest grace he’s ever seen. Your expression doesn’t falter. Not once. Not even as the music swells and your body pirouettes, weightless, fragile, untouchable.

The video has no crowd noise. No clapping. No background voices.

Only the music.

Only you.

And your face — that perfect, painful blend of determination and sadness. The one he’s learned to recognize far too late.

How many hours did you spend practicing this? How many times did you look for him in the crowd?

He takes a slow step forward, his hand brushing against the back of the couch, eyes never leaving the screen.

You were so small then.

Not a child. Not anymore. But still so… unfinished. Still trying to carve yourself into the version of you that they would finally see.

Finally be proud of.

His throat tightens, a rough exhale breaking free as your final pose holds, the swell of music lingering, your chest rising with practiced, shallow breaths. There’s a flicker of nerves beneath the confidence in your face — like you’re searching for something in the crowd.

You looked… flawless.

Untouchable.

But utterly alone.

The sound of quiet footsteps behind him breaks the trance.

Alfred stands at the doorway, his hands folded neatly in front of him, his expression as composed as ever but his eyes soft, distant, as if he too is caught somewhere between then and now.

The butler clears his throat softly, eyes landing on the screen.

“My apologies, sir,” Alfred says gently. “I meant to switch it off before you returned. It was… keeping me company while I tidied up.”

Bruce doesn’t look away from the screen. “How old was she there?” His voice is low, rough around the edges.

“Sixteen,” Alfred answers, stepping to his side. “The Winter Gala performance. Her first lead role.”

Bruce’s brows furrow deeper.

“I don’t remember this.”

Alfred tilts his head, a hint of something unreadable flickering through his eyes. “No,” he agrees softly. “You wouldn’t.”

Guilt knots tighter in Bruce’s stomach.

“She danced,” Bruce murmurs, more to himself than to Alfred. “She danced. I didn’t know she—”

“She was quite fond of it,” Alfred interjects, gently. “Ballet, specifically. It was not a hobby, not a passing fancy. It was… vital to her. For quite some time.”

Bruce’s chest tightens. “Why didn’t I know?”

Alfred tilts his head, his eyes soft with something like sadness.

“She sent invitations,” Alfred says, his voice careful, not accusing. “Quite a few of them. They were never demands. Only… hopes.”

Bruce swallows hard.

“I’ve watched this more times than I care to admit,” Alfred confesses quietly. “She never saw me filming, of course. But I thought… perhaps one day she’d want the memory preserved.”

Bruce’s eyes darken with something complex — guilt, longing, helplessness.

“She shouldn’t have had to perform for a camera when her family was supposed to be in the audience.”

“Quite right,” Alfred agrees, but there’s no venom in his voice. Just quiet, well-worn sadness.

The video loops, restarting, and there you are again — poised, perfect, heartbreakingly young.

“She was good,” Bruce says, as if that’s the only thing keeping his throat from closing.

“She was remarkable,” Alfred corrects, soft pride threading through the words. “Is remarkable.”

Bruce’s eyes narrow slightly. “You’ve seen her?”

Alfred hesitates for only a moment. “I’ve… kept in touch.”

That shouldn’t surprise him. Alfred always did what the rest of them couldn’t seem to manage.

Bruce runs a hand over his mouth, his eyes heavy with the exhaustion that no amount of hours at the office can replicate. He should’ve been there. At that performance. At all of them. Instead, he’s watching it now — through a screen, through years of distance and absence that not even money or apologies can erase.

“How did I miss it?” The words are barely audible.

Alfred exhales slowly, his posture softening. “You were… occupied. As you’ve always been.”

“Occupied,” Bruce echoes, bitterness curling around the syllables.

He looks at the screen again — your form mid-spin, graceful, celestial, untouchable.

“She was always right there,” Bruce says, voice hoarse, more to himself than to the butler. “Always… there.”

Alfred’s eyes soften further. “Children often are. Until they no longer are.”

The implication twists in Bruce’s stomach like a knife.

“I didn’t… I didn’t see her.”

The butler’s expression softens, but he does not let Bruce retreat into his guilt without resistance. “You loved her, sir. You still do.”

“That doesn’t mean I saw her. I don't know her favourite colour. Don't know if she likes to paint or to draw more. I don't even know her dreams. If what she's doing is actually what she wants.”

Alfred crosses the room, his footsteps light, precise, as they’ve always been. “You were not an easy man to reach, Master Wayne.”

Bruce’s throat bobs. “No.”

“She tried.”

“I know.”

Alfred’s gaze is patient but not forgiving. “Do you?”

Bruce’s breath catches.

He remembers the box Dick threw at him.

The letters.

The tickets.

The invitations.

The recitals.

The soft, desperate handwriting.

He knows now.

He should have known then.

“She wrote to me,” Bruce murmurs, his voice thin, frayed around the edges. “More than I realized.”

Alfred’s silence is answer enough.

“She wanted me there.”

“Yes, sir,” Alfred confirms. “She did.”

“She wanted all of us there.”

“She did.”

Bruce’s hands curl into fists, a familiar tension threading through his muscles.

“I failed her.”

Alfred doesn’t argue.

He doesn’t need to.

“She won’t come home.”

“Would you?” Alfred counters, one brow arching faintly.

Bruce exhales, his eyes dragging back to the video.

“You raised her,” he says after a moment, quieter now. “More than I did.”

Alfred’s shoulders lift in a small shrug. “As I’ve done for all of you.”

“You shouldn’t have had to.”

“Perhaps not.” The older man offers a faint, sad smile. “But I’d do it again. For her. For you.”

The room falls silent again, the soft static hum of the old video filling the space.

Bruce studies your younger self — your graceful posture, the way your fingers float like feathers, the quiet tragedy tucked behind your poised, serious eyes.

You were always trying to be seen.

And he never looked.

“I didn’t even know about this performance,” Bruce admits, the guilt dripping from every word.

Alfred inclines his head, the faintest trace of sympathy in his voice. “She sent invitations. More than one.”

His stomach twists. He remembers the box now — the old letters, the unopened envelopes. The things Dick shoved into his chest like an accusation. His daughter’s quiet, desperate attempts to earn his attention.

“How many?” Bruce asks, though he already fears the answer.

Alfred’s gaze sharpens faintly. “Enough.”

Enough to break your heart.

Enough that you stopped sending them.

Enough that you left.

“She’s angry.”

Alfred sighs, correcting gently. “She’s hurt.”

“It’s the same thing,” Bruce mutters.

“Not with her.” The butler’s voice lowers, steady, knowing. “She’s hurt, sir. But she still loves you.”

“She doesn’t want to come home.”

“Would you, if you were her?” Alfred’s brow lifts again, repeating it with enough hardness that it seemed protective.

Bruce presses a hand to his mouth again, shoulders rigid, jaw tight, eyes burning in a way that surprises even him.

“You think it’s too late?”

Alfred considers that, gaze steady, voice level. “It’s never too late to see your children, sir.”

Bruce exhales slowly, turning from the television, the weight of years clawing down his spine.

But your ghost lingers.

Dancing, weightless, frozen in the grain of an old recording.

Unreachable.

But not gone.

Never gone.

“Keep it on,” Bruce says quietly, finally moving toward his study. “I… want to watch the rest.”

Alfred inclines his head, a quiet pride hidden beneath the lines of his face.

“As you wish, Master Wayne.”

Galas have always been your thing.

It’s ironic, considering how much you claim to hate them.

You’ve always liked the ridiculousness of them — the glimmer, the grand chandeliers that hang like artificial constellations, the free food (god, the free food), the freshest champagne you could possibly imagine, crisp and cold on your tongue. And most of all, you’ve always liked being seen without really being seen. People looking at you like you’re a fixture. A diamond. A Wayne. But never looking close enough to see the cracks. It was predictable.

You’ve always liked that.

You’ve never missed a Wayne Gala.

Well, except the ones over the last four years. But that doesn’t really count, does it? You always had an excuse — busy exhibitions, international commissions, gallery showings too far from Gotham to justify the trip. It’s not like anyone ever reached out to convince you otherwise. Alfred sent a few reminders. A few check-ins. A few invitations in handwriting you’d recognize even if you were blind.

But from the rest of them? Silence.

Not even a half-hearted message from Bruce. Not even a poorly typed text from Tim. Not even Jason, who used to drag you to the dessert tables when you were kids.

Four years.

Four. Years.

And now? Now Dick talks about an invitation, carefully worded, with a little kiss to the forehead, like that’s enough to close a chasm that’s been bleeding open for nearly half a decade.

It took a lot of thinking.

Too much thinking.

It took pacing around your New York studio for hours. It took pouring over the invitation like it was a goddamn riddle. It took staring at the flight options for three days straight without booking anything. It took your manager nearly bribing you with the most luxurious hotel she could find near Gotham’s Diamond District — “You deserve to spoil yourself,” she’d said, “It’s not like you’ve ever stopped enjoying the perks of being rich.”

And she was right.

Why would moving away from the Manor, from them, mean you had to stop living like a Wayne?

You pack light. Just enough. Enough to look like the Wayne daughter you’ve always been, even if you don’t live like one anymore.

You don’t tell anyone you’re coming. Not even Alfred.

Let them be surprised. Let them think you wouldn’t show. Maybe you wouldn’t have, if not for the stupid way your chest tightened when you thought of Alfred standing alone in that sea of Gotham’s glittering snakes.

You check into the hotel the day before. The best suite. Floor to ceiling windows. Egyptian cotton sheets. The kind of place that feels like you’ve stepped into someone else’s life.

And that night, when the gala arrives, you dress like you belong in the stars.

The gown clings like it was crafted on your body — a river of silver and glimmer that hugs every line, the back nonexistent, with a dangerously low neckline that might’ve made Bruce faint if he still bothered to police what you wore. You wear your wealth without apology. You wear it like armor.

And of course, the only rule for tonight — the masquerade.

You slide the pearly lace mask over your face, delicate and sharp at the edges, just enough to soften your features but not enough to truly hide you. It settles against your nose, just right. Just enough for you to choose who gets to recognize you.

It doesn’t take long to find the pulse of the party when you arrive.

The ballroom is suffocatingly familiar, but you slip through the throng like you were born to haunt these halls. They don’t know you’re here. Not yet. You watch them from the corners — all of them.

You spot Dick first, of course — tall, broad-shouldered, radiant in the way he always is, in tailored black, mask dark as his hair, laughing at something Kori says beside him.

Jason lingers near the bar on the other side, glass of scotch in hand, sharp in a dark suit with no tie, his mask sleek, simple, leather probably — watching the room like it’s a battlefield.

Cassandra drifts near the edges, quiet, observant, a shadow that blends in until you know where to look. Stephanie’s at her side, bright and careless in silver sequins and an obnoxiously large feathered mask, grinning as she talks to Barbara, who’s leaning on her chair with a beautiful green dress that compliments her.

Tim’s buried in a conversation with Lucius. Duke laughs with some younger faces you don’t recognize.

And Bruce…

Your eyes catch him like a thread pulled tight across your ribs.

There, near the grand staircase, suited in sharp, quiet black, his mask more symbolic than necessary. Gotham’s unshakable stone.

Selina prowls near him, sleek as ever, her gown a slinking cascade of onyx and emerald, her mask feline and faintly amused, scanning the room like she’s already picked her next mark.

They don’t see you.They’re all here.

They’re all here and they don’t even know you’ve arrived.

You hide at first.

Not because you’re afraid. But because it’s… amusing, in its own way. To slip around them unnoticed. To watch them, burning, oblivious to the weight still hanging between you.

You slip to the bar, sighing in relief at the familiarity of the setup. “Double martini. Two olives. Don’t go easy on me.”

His gaze lingers — not inappropriate, just… curious. Your dress, your mask, the way you carry yourself. You can practically hear the assumptions churning behind his eyes.

You don’t care.

The first sip burns beautifully down your throat, the familiar taste grounding you more than any polite conversation or shallow compliment ever could.

It’s only when someone settles on the stool beside you that you spare them a lazy side-glance, fully prepared to ignore whatever socialite or trust-fund brat is looking for conversation. But the air shifts.

A familiar hum of power. A warmth that prickles under your skin like static.

And then you see them.

Bright blue eyes. The same sharp jawline, same black curls, same Clark Kent perfection watered down with just enough edge to make your pulse stutter.

Conner Kent.

And fuck.

The years have been good to him.

You remember him being cocky when you were younger — flirting like it was his job, making the most of those ridiculous Kryptonian genetics and his boyish charm. You remember finding him obnoxious, occasionally tolerable, sometimes fun.

You also remember how much he looked like Clark back then. But now? Now it’s worse. He’s grown into that face. That jawline. Those broad shoulders. The cocky tilt of his mouth.

His mask is dark, simple, framing his eyes in a way that makes you briefly forget why you’ve spent years avoiding these kinds of nights.

“New York’s finest, huh?” His voice is smooth, playful. “Didn’t expect to see you here, princess.”

You arch a brow, twisting your glass between your fingers. “You recognized me that fast?”

Conner shrugs, his grin widening. “Please. You think a mask and a fancy dress can hide you from me?”

You hum, pretending to think. “Worked on your father just fine.”

His eyes glimmer, leaning in just slightly. “Clark doesn’t look at women the way I do.”

“Oh?” You sip again, not breaking eye contact. “And how do you look at women, Kent?”

“Like they could wreck me if they wanted to.”

You chuckle, resting your chin on your hand. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Not bad at all,” he murmurs, his voice dropping just a touch. “I think I’d enjoy it.”

You tap your nails against your glass, amused. You forgot how fun this little dance was with him — the teasing, the unspoken challenges, the heat that lingers just under the surface.

“You’ve grown up,” you comment, gaze dragging slowly down his figure before sliding back up.

“So have you,” he counters, voice light but eyes serious. “Didn’t realize you’d turn into this though. Kinda dangerous for someone like me.”

You smirk. “You’re bulletproof, Conner.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m not weak to something else.”

You laugh, genuinely now, and maybe it’s the first time all night that your chest feels a little lighter.

“Flirting, Kent?” You raise a brow, leaning in just enough to let your words curl between you. “Already?”

“Wouldn’t dream of missing the opportunity.”

His elbow nudges yours. “So what’s the plan? You hiding here all night or you gonna let your family know you’re back from the dead?”

You pause, rolling your martini between your palms.

“Not sure yet.”

He leans closer, voice dipping low. “Can I buy you a drink?”

You hold up your half-finished martini, unimpressed. “Already covered.”

His grin is shameless. “Dinner, then?”

“Bold of you to assume I’m available.”

“You just got back. You haven’t made plans yet.”

“Maybe I have.”

“Maybe you should cancel them.”

Your lips curl, a sharp glimmer in your eye. “You’re still cocky.”

“And you still love it.”

You don’t deny it.

“You filled out, too,” you allow, smirking faintly. “Congratulations. You finally look your age.”

“Technically, I’m still figuring out what my age even means.”

“You and me both.”

The banter is effortless, dangerous. The kind that makes old walls slip, familiarity weaving between syllables before you even think to stop it.

Conner leans in slightly, voice lowering conspiratorially. “You planning to reveal your identity to the masses tonight? Or just me?”

You swirl your glass, silver rings catching the light. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Whether you make it worth my while.”

His laugh is low, warm, frustratingly attractive.

“You’re playing with fire.”

You lean in just enough to whisper, “I’m the one who taught you how.”

The air between you hums with something complicated. Heavy. Unspoken.

The banter continues, an easy, familiar rhythm neither of you have to work for. Conner’s good at this — at playful deflection, at toeing the line between harmless and dangerous. You’re better. You’ve been playing this game since you were old enough to balance a champagne glass without spilling.

You barely notice how long you’ve been talking — the subtle shift of your legs crossing, the tilt of his body angling closer, the way your laughter slips out easier than you intended.

It’s comfortable.

It’s dangerous.

It’s—

“Y/N.”

The voice cuts clean through the haze of conversation, small but sharp, like a blade sheathed in velvet.

You turn.

Damian.

All stiff posture and narrowed green eyes, black mask perched perfectly across his face. He’s young — far too young to pull off the possessive, territorial glare aimed squarely at Conner — but he tries.

His arms are crossed behind his back like he’s holding himself perfectly still, but you know him — you know the coiled possessiveness thrumming under his skin, the restless edge of a boy who can’t yet control how deeply he feels everything.

You blink, the amusement slipping slightly as you meet his gaze. “Little Bat.”

His eyes flick to Conner, sharp, dissecting. “You’re late.”

“To the party?” You glance around lazily. “Or to disappointing the family?”

“You shouldn’t be speaking with him.”

Conner snorts softly. “Nice to see you too, little Wayne.”

Damian’s shoulders straighten, chin lifting, the scowl deepening. “Your presence isn’t required.”

“I’m a plus one.”

“To whom?”

Conner grins. “Jon. Of course.”

You sip your martini, hiding a smirk. Damian’s glower only intensifies. Conner’s brows lift, but you wave a hand, sighing.

“Damian.” You say his name like an exhale, soft but firm. “It’s fine.”

His eyes cut to you, expression faltering — just a little — the jealousy bleeding into something more familiar. Sadness. Longing. That quiet desperation to know you. To pull you back into the orbit of a family that doesn’t know how to hold you.

You soften, just barely, your fingers tapping against your glass.

“Go terrorize someone else,” you murmur, leaning back. “I can handle myself.”

“You shouldn’t have to.” His words are low, too old for his age, too heavy for his shoulders.

For a second, the noise of the party dims — the hum of music, the clink of glasses, the distant murmurs of the wealthy. It all fades under the weight of his voice.

You meet his eyes again, steady.

And for once… you don’t deflect.

You see him. Your brother. Your blood. Possessive. Flawed. Hurting.

But still yours.

“Go find Dick,” you tell him gently. “Tell him I’m here.”

Damian hesitates — poised between stubbornness and reluctant obedience.

Finally, he exhales sharply, turning on his heel without another word, disappearing into the crowd like a shadow.

Conner whistles low beside you. “Protective, isn’t he?”

You sip the last of your martini, gaze lingering on the space where Damian vanished.

“Seems like it,” you answer, dry. “Planning to hover all night, Kent?”

“Only if you make it worth my time.”

You sip your drink again, letting your eyes trace over him, your smirk sharp.

“Trust me,” you purr. “I always do.”

He keeps his gaze on you, even when you step away, already knowing Dick's on your way. Conner's hand trembles when you are far enough.

You've always had that power over him.

The flow of the gala presses people into motion — like waves shifting you from one current to the next — and before you can slip away, you see him.

You should’ve stayed at the bar.

The thought strikes you the second you catch sight of him weaving through the crowd — tall, broad-shouldered, the sharp lines of his tuxedo crisp against the glow of the ballroom lights, mask perched slightly crooked as if he forgot it was there entirely.

Dick Grayson.

Golden boy. Gotham’s first darling. Your older brother.

His eyes land on you like a homing missile, the weight of recognition hitting him square in the chest. You see the way his whole expression shifts — from polite party smile to something cracked open and raw — and you have precisely three seconds to brace yourself before he’s barreling through the sea of bodies.

You barely manage to set your empty martini glass down when his arms close around you.

“Birdie!” Dick smiled, achingly fond.

Your body stiffens, shoulders locking as he pulls you in tight — crushing, familiar, suffocating.

You don’t hug back.

Not entirely out of malice. More… discomfort. Half reluctance, half uncertainty. The kind of uncertainty that comes from years of space wedged between you, built brick by brick by neglect and distance and a silence none of them ever really bothered to break.

Your hands make a vague gesture against his back — a touch, not an embrace — more of an acknowledgement than a return. You don’t melt into it, you don’t lean your head on his shoulder like you used to when you were younger and still believed he would always notice you. You don’t really want to be in his arms now.

You want to breathe.

You want to escape the knot forming in your throat.

“Hi, Dick,” you manage, voice cool but not cruel, your arms hovering at your sides.

He doesn’t let go. If anything, his grip tightens, fingers curling against your back as if sheer proximity will undo the years you’ve spent away, as if your presence alone might stitch the fractures shut.

“You came,” he says, pulling back just enough to search your face — to really look at you. His eyes glint behind the mask, blue as ever, full of that frustrating, unbearable love that knots low in your chest. “You actually— Jesus, look at you.”

You resist the urge to step away, tilting your head, expression unreadable. “Looking’s all anyone’s done tonight.”

“Yeah, but they don’t know you,” he says pointedly. “Not like we do.”

You nearly laugh.

Before you can, though, the rest of them close in. Stephanie’s practically vibrating at Cass’s shoulder, bright and eager, grin wide even beneath her delicate blue mask. You catch the subtle way her hand tugs at Duke’s wrist, grounding herself as her eyes flick across you, cataloging every detail.

It starts with Jason — tall, broad, dressed in a black suit sharp enough to cut glass, his own mask sleek and minimal, jaw tense as his eyes drag over you like a silent, protective scan.

“Took you long enough, dove,” he mutters, crossing his arms. His voice is rougher than you remember, older, carrying the weight of too many second chances and not enough time. “Thought you’d ditched this city for good.”

You shrug, noncommittal. “Almost did.”

Jason’s lips twitch, the barest ghost of a smirk cracking through his walls. “Figures.” But there’s relief there too. 

Tim clears his throat, stepping forward, hands shoved in his pockets. His mask doesn’t hide the flicker of cautious joy when he steps beside Jason, shoulders loose but eyes sharp. “Hey.”

You raise a brow. “Hey.”

It’s awkward — painfully so — but you let it hang, let the silence linger just long enough to make him squirm before Stephanie bursts in, smile wide, voice bright.

“You look insane, by the way,” she gushes, eyes sparkling. “Like— like movie-star insane. I almost didn’t recognize you.”

“You always did outshine us, though,” Duke adds, his grin easy, his voice warm.

You give them both a faint smile, but your heart thrums tight, your pulse skipping at the weight of so many eyes, so many family eyes, trained on you after so long.

“Four years’ll do that,” you reply smoothly, though your grip tightens slightly on your own skin.

Cass steps forward, close enough that her presence hums at your side — quiet, steady, eyes soft. She doesn’t speak, but she doesn’t need to. Her gaze lingers on your face, your dress, your mask — and something like relief flickers there, sharp and fleeting. 

A quiet understanding passes between you, wordless, raw.

“Welcome back.” Barbara’s voice cuts gently through the haze, her smile warm but cautious. “We’ve… missed you.”

Your lips twitch faintly, too practiced to let the bitterness leak through.

Duke gives you a small nod, eyes sharp beneath his mask. “You picked a good night to crash the party.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you murmur, though the lie tastes sour.

Damian steps forward, shoulder brushing your side, posture tight. “You didn’t tell anyone you were coming.”

Your eyes slide down to him, amused. “Didn’t think I needed permission.”

He scowls. “You should’ve told me.”

You chuckle softly, unbothered. “Upset, aren’t we?”

“You’re my sister,” he snaps, quiet but fierce, green eyes dark under his mask. “I’m allowed.”

You grab a glass of champagne when one waiter passes by your side, and sip it almost immediately, the bubbles cold against your tongue, but your gaze never leaves his.

“This is so cool,” Duke says, almost a little breathless. “You’re like a legend in our circles, y’know? The Huntress, the prodigy, the one who got out. We used to trade stories like—”

“Duke.” Tim’s quiet warning is a shade too late.

But you just tilt your head, amused, not angry. You flick a glance at him, voice a little cooler now. “Got out? Is that how you talk about me now?”

Jason’s jaw flexes, guilt flickering briefly across his face, but Duke just looks caught, nervous but not apologetic.

“Didn’t mean it like that,” Duke mutters. “I just— you know, you’re like—”

“A ghost?” You offer, arching a brow. “A story the family tells?”

Duke’s grin falters. “No. More like the one that got free.”

Finally — predictably — the weight of the room shifts again.

You feel it before you see him.

Bruce.

Stoic, untouchable, tall enough to part the crowd like smoke as he steps into the loose circle your siblings have unintentionally formed around you. His mask is simple, sharp black against the silver at his temples, but his eyes — dark, unreadable, exhausted — land on you like a goddamn hammer.

The air tightens.

You square your shoulders.

For a moment, no one speaks.

Your father — the reason you learned how to hide your heartbreak behind pearls and piano keys — stands there, watching you like he’s trying to memorize every inch of your face.

Finally, you speak, cool and distant.

“Father.”

His jaw tightens. “You look well.”

You offer a sharp, humorless smile. “Money tends to have that effect.”

“You’re here,” Bruce says, quiet, low, like he doesn’t quite believe it.

You shrug again, keeping your voice level. “It’s a party.”

Dick’s arm slides back around your shoulder, fingers curling lightly, his grin more subdued now, softer.

“Birdie,” he murmurs, almost chiding. “Let us have this one.”

You shrug beneath his hand, not quite leaning in, not quite pulling away.

The others hover, circling like hawks, their excitement simmering beneath the awkwardness, their possessiveness sharper than you remember. It coils through the group like tension on a tripwire — subtle, constant, impossible to ignore.

But your gaze flickers. Not for wishing to be in another place.

Just for wishing to be in another's arms. 

[bknwa]

juliet, o juliet ✰ tim drake

pairing: tim drake x reader

summary: tim gets grounded so you take it upon yourself to get him out. the problem? he doesn't want to leave — he just wants you.

warnings: lowercase intended. fem reader. established relationship. reader is also a vigilante. making out. suggestive. tim is red robin. mention of jason's death. clingy tim.

note: i am his biggest fan. i felt so sinful writing them just MAKING OUT — must be the ace in me. fuck knows how old tim is in current canon but i imagine they're like nineteen in this. also, viet/wasian tim is so real to me — whenever people mention his blue eyes i get jumpscared.

divider by omi-resources | comments & reblogs are appreciated! <3

tim drake had always been the voice of reason.

being reckless was not in his nature. he was wired for precision and hypothesis. out of all his teammates, young justice or anywhere else, he was least likely to mess things up due to carelessness. in fact, tim drake cared too much.

it was exactly why he put himself on the frontlines this time — for the sake of the mission. for the safety of his team. if anyone needed to harmed, let it be him.

and while the mission ended in a success with red robin unscathed, bruce did not like what he came to hear. maybe it was the jason trauma kicking in, but bruce didn’t need his children playing the role of martyr.

so, for the first time in long while, tim was grounded.

no outings. no patrolling. no you.

his brothers took great pleasure in seeing the wayne child, whose image was all about being ‘orderly’, sulk in the confines of his bedroom. tim attempted to slip away many times, but living under a roof filled with security systems and other super-spies, it was harder to escape than arkham asylum in comparison. little damian had no problem reporting to their father if tim’s foot made it even a centimeter past the front door.

lucky for tim, he had a girlfriend who shared a mind of his own. breaking into the wayne manor was difficult — this was batman’s sanctuary, after all. you’d almost gotten your butt fried when hopping past a high voltage trip wire.

truthfully, you didn’t need to be doing all of this. you had access to most, if not every, part of the estate. you even had your assigned room there, whenever you decided to stay over. you were associated to the bats as closely as stephanie brown or barbara gordon. nevertheless, the idea of forcing your way into a place you could practically call your home sounded incredibly appealing for what was a dull wednesday night.

tim only noticed you perched out his windowsill when he heard a small tap on the glass, forcing him to peel his eyes away from his laptop. his personal laptop, of course — bruce knew tim’s biggest hobby was scrolling through the system files to crack any cases.

“nuh-uh.” tim begun to vigorously shake his head. “no. nope.” he pushed himself out of his chair, walking over to the window. “get out.” he hissed lowly, like he was shooing away a stray cat, fanning his hands. to be fair, you did look like one with the cheshire’s grin you held. when he realised you couldn't hear him through the glass, he unlatched it, leaving a crack wide.

tim’s reaction hadn’t faltered you in the slightest. you saw it coming, in fact. if bruce happened to catch you in his room — which was very possible — tim would be blessed to be un-grounded before thirty.

you took the open window as a chance to push your way into his room. your hop was light, feet soundless on the rich wooden floors. it’s been near a week since you’ve last seen your boyfriend. the longest separation since the time you met at the ripe age of fourteen. tim, who had all the strength to do so, doesn’t make an attempt to keep you out. despite all his protests, he was missing you a lot more than he currently let on.

you don’t pay mind to a single word he’s whisper-yelled. instead, planting your hands on his face, diving in to give him a gentle greet on the lips. he couldn’t say a damn thing once your lips landed on his.

his hands automatically found their usual position on your hips, instinctively pulling you closer as he kissed back. he was dying of withdrawal, his body reacted to you like he needed air. the kiss left you giddy, but you managed to pull yourself back before any one of you could lose the plot. staying put in tim’s hold, you asked, “sneak out with me?”

“this is a horrible idea—“ he muttered in a hushed tone. it was evident how badly he wanted to run away with you.

“oh, come on,” you begun, “he’s your dad. he’ll come around to forgive you a lot more easily than you think.” the tips of your fingers brush against tim’s pale face, pining the mere touch of him. it was a deal with the devil — for you were letting your heart get to you and not your head.

but, dammit. how did you making everything so enticing? you were a temptation that he absolutely could not resist.

with a groan, he leaned into your touch. he didn’t want to admit it out loud but he was caving. “he’s already pissed that i went against orders. this’ll just piss him off more,” he protested weakly, despite knowing that he was about to give into you anyway.

“please?” you pleaded, with a weak attempt of what people called ‘puppy eyes’. you leaned in closer to brush your lips against his. “i miss you.”

you had him wrapped around your damn finger — the second those three words left your lips, it was over. his will to resist was crumbling by the second. tim sighed, giving your lower lip a small and playful bite. “you’re the bane of my existence.”

you raised your eyebrows. “isn’t that a bridgerton quo—“ your comment is smothered by another kiss.

tim’s hands shifted to your thighs to lift you up, guiding you to wrap your legs around his waist. he pressed you against the wall of his room, returning the kiss with fervor. his fingers curled into the fabric of your clothes, clinging to you tightly. “shut up and kiss me.” he breathed against your lips.

your bodies are reacting before your brains do. clearly, the days spent apart had been driving tim up a wall as well. “wait, wait, wait.” you giggled against his lips, “we’re supposed to be sneaking out, not making out.”

tim only groaned when you interrupted the kiss, burying his face into your shoulder. he was so close to completely abandoning the idea of sneaking off to just kiss you until the sun came up. “c’mon,” he whined, “sneaking out is overrated, let’s just stay here and make out instead.”

“gods— you are such an introvert.” said the other introvert — yourself. you rested your head against the wall, absentmindedly playing with the black tufts of hair on tim’s nape. his eyes fluttered momentarily at the feeling of you playing with hair, a small, content hum rumbling in the back of his throat. “i really wanted to go for the whole romeo and juliet aesthetic. except, i’m romeo and i’m trying to get you out and have your father’s approval.”

he raised his head to roll his eyes in an overdramatic effect, though a smile pulled at the corner of his lips while listening to your rambling. “you do know they both die at the end, right?” he teased before pressing another kiss against your collarbone, trailing his lips up towards your jaw. “besides, you’d be the worst romeo,” he said with a gentle nip.

“what?” you dramatically yelped, offended. “would not. i’d totally drink poison for you, or however the play goes. juliet, oh, juliet — let down your hair.”

the sudden and rather loud outburst had tim immediately cupping a hand over your mouth, muffling your next sing-song remarks. “be. quiet,” he said with a small laugh. “you’ll get us caught, dumbass.” he couldn’t help but shake his head slightly. “see? terrible romeo, i’m doing all the work.”

but you weren’t really listening anymore, your eyes narrowing into a knowing, dirty-minded look. the smirk you were currently sporting was enough for tim to get the message. the small smile on his face betrayed the false annoyance, “pervert.” he mumbled, lowering his hand from your mouth to rest it on your hip instead.

“you like this pervert.”

“not the words that come out of that mouth.”

“i can think of other ways to use this mouth.”

“oh, yeah?”

“i can use it,” you paused for dramatic effect, and in a blink, you’re swinging off of tim’s grip, “to eat a good ol’ hotdog at our nearest bodega.” you said the line like a narrator straight out a 60’s commercial.

“you little—“ he started, his hand flailing outwards in a pathetic attempt to grab you again. you snickered at his reaction, too busy collecting your backpack that you slipped off in passing earlier. tim was still pouting like a child as he slumped back against the wall. you took a step closer and swung an arm across his shoulder, dragging him with you to his window.

“a shitty pizza slice sounds so good right now.” he couldn’t help but let out a soft snort of laughter at your excitement for shitty bodega pizza.

tim’s only response was to let out a small smile, muttering, “alright, let’s go get our shitty pizza, then—”

[bknwa]

When you thought you found a good fanfic but it’s just inc3st/p3d0phila/non-con/something weird

[bknwa]

Manager’s Hell

Saja Boys X Manager!reader

synopsis: Managers crash out

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ The chaos had reached its peak.

Another PR disaster, another near-failure. Your clipboard was crumpled from how tightly you’d been gripping it. You finally snapped, voice sharp as you turned toward the couch where the Saja boys had comfortably flopped down like they hadn’t nearly burned the press conference down.

“Oh, you think I get to choose this?!” you snapped, motioning at the mess. “You think I signed up for this because you’re all such a boy band dream team?”

The boys froze. Even Baby stopped chewing on the snack he smuggled in.

You pointed directly at Romance first, your tone sharp.

“You— you’re lazy.”

Romance scoffed, throwing an arm over the back of the couch.

Your gaze snapped to Abby next.

“You’re whiny.”

Abby pulled his hoodie over his head more.

Then you jabbed a finger at Mystery, who blinked slowly from his corner of the couch, hands shoved into his pockets.

“Butterfingers over there is downright depressing.”

Mystery let out a soft sigh, not even denying it. “You’d be depressed too if your demon visions kicked in every five minutes.”

Finally, you looked at Jinu.

Leader. Golden boy. The one with the smug smirk already forming on his face like he knew what you were going to say.

“And you…” you shook your head, at a loss. “You’re just annoying.”

Jinu leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Aw, come on, manager-nim. If I don’t keep things spicy, who will?” He winked. “Admit it. You’d miss me if I stopped talking.”

“Hyung,” Baby mumbled, mouth full of chips, “you talk too much.”

The room fell into an awkward silence—until Romance casually threw a pillow at Jinu’s head.

“She’s not wrong,” he muttered.

Jinu dodged it, laughing, while Abby groaned and Mystery sank deeper into his gloom.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, muttering under your breath.

This… this was your life now.

a/n: loved that one scene with doctor bailey lol

[bknwa]

Hi, may I request a Tim Drake x male!reader story ? The reader is androgynous, has a rock/punk style, is a Japanese exorcist who dislikes heroes, and has an impulsive, shameless, and slightly paranoid personality. A fluff piece, please. Sorry for asking a lot, take care of yourself !

Stay for dinner-breakfast

Summary: Tim’s in a situationship with someone who hates heroes, this is just great. Pairing: Tim Drake x Male!Reader Wc: 3.8k tags/warnings: Japanese reader, way too many Blue Exorcist references, small demon fight

When most people familiar enough with demons or even the Justice League mention needing an exorcist, minds immediately go to the infamous John Constantine. The guy who managed to trick God and Satan, making himself nearly immortal. The guy who, admittedly, could probably control most demons with the flick of his cigarette.

Tim’s mind, however, wanders to a guy he met during his time abroad. When he had to do some Red Robin stuff that took him to Japan. He reminisces about it as if it was decades ago, in reality, it was two years ago. Hardly even two years, if he’s being honest. But he rarely is. 

While Bruce and Dick argue about whether or not they should call up John (the last time they did, Constantine ended up summoning more demons to deal with the initial demons and then blew up a building to get rid of the extra demons) (it cost Wayne Enterprises too much to justify asking that man for help again) Tim fishes out his phone. It doesn’t take him long to find the contact; it’s been what… a week since you’ve last spoken. He’s texted exactly three people within that week; Kon, Bart, and Jason. Jason because he wanted to know if he could join a drug bust he knew Jason had coming up. 

The answer was no. 

The phone rings as he spins in the chair, waiting until he hears that it’s connecting. Seriously, it’s already been three whole rings, what’s the hold-up?

“Whaddya want, hero boy?” You ask without looking down at the phone. Probably because you’re jumping from the ledge of a roof to a lamppost and then to the top of a vending machine. 

“You busy?” He asks, looking at the mole underneath your jaw. He hadn’t known that. Your head tilts from side to side as you make a noise. 

“I’ll have to check my calendar,” Glancing down at the phone, you wink and then pocket the phone. 

“There’s a demon in Gotham, could use the help.” He says, barely able to see as you’re fighting a demon. His eyes glance up at the contact name Okumura, unassuming to most because it is someone’s last name but to Tim, it’s so much more. 

He thought it was absolutely hilarious that you were an exorcist from Japan, raised by a priest, with a twin brother, and had the same hobbies as the anime where the main character is an exorcist from Japan, raised by a priest, with a twin brother. You didn’t think it was nearly as funny. The first time he mentioned it you kicked him from a rooftop— it was three stories, he was fine. 

“Like now?” You ask, picking your sword— just like the anime character, he’d gladly remind you— and cutting the demon in half with a mumbled but strong prayer. 

“Yes,” He nods, looking at the live feed of a demon messing up the finance district of Gotham. 

“Fine,” You grumble. “You’re lucky I finished my work for the day. See you in a minute.” 

“Kay, bye!” He hangs up and removes an earbud, calling for Bruce and Dick who haven’t stopped arguing. He wonders how they’d get anything done without him. They stop and look towards him as he waves his phone. “I have someone coming in for the demons.” He announces and Dick just hopes it’s not one of his friends from his YJ time. He cannot deal with those kids after finding out they watched Santa Claus get killed by a sentient meteor and then spent the next five months delivering gifts. 

“It isn’t Constantine, right?” Bruce asks, arms crossed and a disapproving glare ready to be plastered on his face. 

“That white man has nothing on me,” You chuckle, entering the Batcave through the door, spinning a set of skeleton keys on your index finger before putting them back into your pocket. Pointedly, Tim looks off to the wall with a see, anime guy look before turning back to the task at hand. 

“Who…?” Dick slowly asks while Bruce is having second thoughts about letting Tim back into the cave ever again.

“That’s Okumura,” He responds, standing up from the chair to greet you.

You’re wearing a pair of jorts— but the good kind, not the weird-looking ones— with hand-bleach-painted crosses on the leg, chunky beige leg warmers over a pair of shiny black loafers and an extremely large sweater that falls off your shoulder as you run down the stairs overtop a black turtleneck. 

There’s a pair of red shades on the top of your head, they curve at the top in a way that makes it look as though you have horns. Tim decides to not comment on the obvious joke he could make. But you can tell he wants to make it because of the glint in his eyes.

“Hello!” You nod without looking at them, too focused on not tripping over the steps, and give the group a small two-finger wave. “Tim calls me Okumura, it is not my name, though.” The hand that was doing the wave meets his hand and you do a funky little handshake before you look over at them for the first time. You frown, looking at their suits. It’s not even a frown, it’s damn near a scowl. You look at Tim who just shrugs; he would’ve thought you knew he was with his hero family.

“I’ll head out the demon; tell them not to follow me,” You tell Tim and he nods, sending you the location of the fight. While he does that, you look around for a different exit when you see his motorcycle parked, ready to go. “I’m stealing your motorbike again!” You call as you’re rushing over to it. 

“Kay!” He replies, head still buried in his phone. The motorcycle reeves to life as you jump on it; Bruce nearly stops you but the door to the cave is opening and you’re off faster than he can move. Slowly, he turns towards Tim with his arms crossed and a lecture waiting to happen.

“You better have a good explanation for that,” Bruce says once the door closes again. 

“That’s my exorcist friend,” He explains with a shrug. 

“You have friends outside of Kon?” Jason asks, a teasing tone to his voice but Tim can tell it genuinely surprised Dick. He doesn’t know if he should be hurt by that. 

“Yeah,” He shrugs. 

“And he’s an exorcist?” Bruce asks, looking at where the motorcycle once sat. He really hopes you don’t break it.

“Yup.”

“How did he get here so fast?” Dick asks, a little worried Tim was hiding a person in the manor.

“Funny story,” Tim smiles, looking up at them before looking down again, leaving them hanging. Jason grumbles, air strangling him while Bruce just sighs and looks back to the live feed. Thankfully you’d already arrived at the scene and to Tim and your credit, you’re dealing with the demons fairly easily. It’s surprising that your face is hidden from the public’s view, he hadn’t seen a mask but he also hadn’t seen the giant sword so. Probably some magic he won’t care about but probably should learn.

“Let’s go, fifteen Joker goons spotted around the site.” In a fluid motion, Tim puts his mask on and follows Bruce into the Batmobile. 

When Tim gets out of the car, he immediately finds you. You’re on top of a demon, riding it in the air while laughing and stabbing a nearby demon. He stops for a moment, wondering how you managed to wrangle a demon enough to sit on its back as if it were a horse. He then sees the knife in its head and he understands. He’s nearly jealous of the sight. 

Tim finally joins the others in the fight, narrowly avoiding the demons spawning from someplace he hasn’t found out yet. But you have, because you kill the flying horse demon and land softly behind Tim, cutting a demon away before it can sneak up on him. He shouts a thank you, pushing two goons back with his staff.

“I said no heroes!” You shout as you’re running past, heading towards a glowing manhole. How he hadn’t noticed it before; he won’t ever know. 

“Did he say no heroes?” Dick grunts, pushing back two goons that tried to jump him. 

“Yeah, he got issues with them.” Tim laughed before he was punched in the stomach by the goon he’d been fighting. He grumbles, holding the spot for a second before he knocks the goon out. “How many more are left?” He asks.

“Four,” Bruce says as he knocks out one of them. “Three.”

He goes to reply when there’s a loud explosion from the manhole and he looks over. Blue smoke rises out from the holes and he abandons trying to help the others fight the remaining goons in favor of finding you in the chaos. He doesn’t know what the smoke is but he assumes it’s some type of Joker Gas and he knows you’re not used to that. 

Putting a respirator on his face, he moves the manhole cover and jumps down. He squints into the blue fog, listening for noises but there’s a lot. There are hundreds of insect demons scurrying around him, hissing from the pipes, and he stops to really listen. He hears a string of coughs and follows it, the smoke getting thicker but he sees the faint outline of you lying on your back. 

“You don’ need a mask,” You huff, waving your hand in an attempt to move the smoke. “It is not poison.” 

“What is it?” He asks, removing the respirator as the smoke starts to clear, escaping up to the manhole. Your figure gets clearer, he can see your shirt and your hands resting on your stomach. 

“Spell,” You respond. “A… boobtrap for the talisman.”

“Boobytrap.” He corrects, putting the small device back into his pocket.

“That is what I said.” You blink, sitting up. He doesn’t fight you on that and helps you to your feet before he stops, hand still in yours. Now that you’re up close, he can really see you and when his eyes trail down, he inhales sharply and looks away.

“You’re not gonna believe this,” He says, covering his mouth with his free hand. 

“What? Did I get ugly? Do I look like you?” You ask, genuinely concerned as you pat your face but calm down when you feel your features. 

“Worse,” He grins and reaches around to grab your newly formed tail. “You really are Okumura now!” You shout, tugging at the tail only to wince because it’s connected to you. It only makes him laugh harder and you shout again, shaking him.

“This is not funny!” You tell him and then pause. “Thhhis,” You repeat and then cover your mouth. His eyebrows raise and, to his credit, he stops laughing. At least until you remove your hand and open your mouth, showing off the newly formed sharp canines. He barks a laugh and then pushes your hair away from your ear and you watch in horror as he spins on his heel to hide his expression. 

“You two okay down there?” Dick shouts from the top of the manhole.

“Fine!” Tim replies through his laugh. 

“That was one voice!”

“Fine!” You reply, even though you’re freaking out as your fingers trace over the suddenly sharp ears on your head. 

“I'm cursed!” You cry, dropping your head onto Tim’s shoulder, your ear nearly poking him in the eye. “This is your fault.” Pushing him away, you pick up your sword from the floor and resheath it with ease. “Never trust a hero,” You grunt, rushing over to the manhole.

“My fault?” He echos, following you out of the manhole. 

“You called me into your freaky city!” Climbing to the top of the manhole, you sit and kick his face. Not too hard, though. He shouts, holding his nose with one hand and the railing with the other. Standing up, you redo your hair over your ears and try to stuff the tail into your pants but it swings wildly and then wraps around something that’s behind you. 

When you look at what it was holding, you find it’s wrapped around Tim’s hand, helping him out of the manhole. 

“I think it likes you,” You grin despite yourself. 

“So, you like the tail?” He asks, checking his nose through the reflective metal of his staff. Thankfully his nose wasn’t broken, but it was throbbing in pain. Red on the end and he’s rubbing it with his free hand. You shrug, crossing your arms. 

“If it holds you like that,” Winking, he rolls his eyes under the mask and looks over at his family. Your eyes follow and you check your phone; there are no texts from anyone but you pretend that there are. 

“Wow, glad we settled that then.” He hums, smiling at you. 

“Mhmm, well, bye!” 

“Wait—“ He grabs the tail as you’re walking away and you grunt, eyes wide as you turn to look at him. Your eyes dart to and from the tail, watching as his fingers absentmindedly play with the soft furs on the end. “Stay for dinner, you did say I owed you.” When you first met, you’d gotten a glorious dinner and he ran into you, spilling it right into a sewer drain. You still think about that day and get upset. 

“Is it…” You cringe as you can’t find the right word. “American food?” He chuckles, remembering the countless videos you’ve sent him with angry and crying emojis. Hotdogs in jello, white bread soaked in water, mashed potatoes made out of potato chips, and boiled plain, unseasoned chicken with unwashed white rice.

“It’s not the American food you sent me.” He promises. “It’s good, I like it.” Your face scrunches as that’s not much to go off of; the man drinks Monster Energy’s like it's water. You’re sure it’s melted off his taste buds at this point.

“But you also like the vending machine cakes.” 

“It was good.” He defends. “But this is really good, trust me?”

“I wasn’t invited by B,” You glance over at the scowling Batman and glare back. Tim grabs your face, turning you to look back at him. You smile at him in a way that makes his stomach flutter and he clears his throat, dropping his hand. 

“Ugh! B, can he stay for dinner?” He asks, pressing his finger against his earpiece. 

“No.”

“He said yes,” He smiles and you struggle to still say no to him.

“I have to speak to the council about this—“ You gesture to your newly formed tail and ears. “Raincheck.”

Tim sighs but relents. 

“We’ll make your favorite next time; as a thank you.” He promises and you nod, waving before jogging up to a random door. The team watches as you pull out the keys and open the door, showing the headquarters of the council you work for. You wave again, your tail waving along before the door closes. 

“Better than Constantine,” Jason says as he looks at the ash on the ground. 

—

“That skirt does not go with that shirt,” Damian stops at Tim’s door, blinking at the oak door as Tim laughs. “I regret buying you VIP and custom makeup,” Now, Damian’s no idiot. He has friends and Jon, much to his chagrin, has gotten him into Roblox. So he knows very well that Tim is talking about Dress to Impress. 

“What? It looks cute!” Another voice defends, a voice that isn’t one he’s familiar with. He’d assumed Tim was talking to Kon, maybe Bart, or even himself. “You’re the one wearing a neon green fur hat when the theme is Victorian!” Carefully, he grabs onto the brass doorknob, pressing his other hand to the door and slowly turns it. 

“It’s camp,” Tim replies. He’s sitting on his bed with his legs crossed and laptop perched between them. Regrettably, he’s in an old band t-shirt and sweats; not company attire Damian would later remark. Across from him, sitting with their back to the door, Damian stares at the dangling sword earrings and then the tattered Eastern Youth shirt overtop a pair of leather pants. But his focus is on the tail swishing back and forth. 

“It’s ugly, just like your face,” You remark. Tim smiles, still looking down at his laptop, and moves his leg to kick you. You grab his ankle before he can and extend his leg, tossing your own over it. He shifts so both his legs are out and you naturally sit with your legs intertwined. 

Damian turns his nose up and leaves the room, the door softly locking behind him. 

“Pretty sure you weren’t saying that earlier,” Tim chides after the door had closed, watching as Damian’s footsteps leave from his door. 

“I did,” You hum, showing how you’d gotten first place and he’d gotten dead last. He rolls his eyes, leaves the game, and turns off your iPad. Next time he’ll just rig the game, clearly, the lobby didn’t understand his vision. 

“You should stay for dinner,” Your face contorts at the idea and you scoot closer to him until your ankles reach his back and his knees are at your ribs. “They’re not bad, not right now, at least.” He adds, messing with your studded belt. 

“I don’t like heroes, Tim,” You remind him. He frowns, eyes meeting your own. “And Bruce definitely will not welcome me after the curse,” Right, the whole demon curse. His eyes move to your tail that’s now wrapping around his left leg, the soft hairs brushing against his calf. While you’re not wrong, Bruce would have a heart attack if Tim was caught letting a demon (it's temporary, the council assured you) inside his house. 

“Fuck what Bruce has to say; I have my place! I run the company now, too,” He shrugs. 

“So why are we at the manor?” You tilt your head and he shrugs again. 

“Alfred offered to make my favorite for dinner because I haven’t visited since the whole demon thing.” You tut, leaning forward so your head rests on his chest. He looks at your awkwardly folded pose and pushes your legs. Getting the hint, you lift yourself and fold your legs underneath you. He lays his head on top of yours, using his phone behind your back. 

The two of you sit in silence until your legs go numb and you turn around, now watching as he scrolls through his socials. He shifts so one arm holds you close and locks his legs over yours while you hold his hand. 

Now, despite how it may look, you and Tim were not in a relationship. Nearly, you’ll both admit that much. But nothing that ever surpassed longing glances and touching that lasted far too long for the two of you to simply be friends. 

And that was for one simple reason.

Tim was a hero. 

You don’t hate heroes, simply a strong dislike towards them. For a multitude of reasons, enough for a twenty-page paper. Tim would know, he had you make one when you first rejected him. You don’t really trust them, all of them except for Tim. And maybe his strange friend Kon, but that’s about it. All of the rest can leave you the hell alone. 

Your phone buzzes and you spare it a glance; a call from your superior. 

“I gotta go,” You tell him but make no move to leave. He just hums, still scrolling on his phone. “There’s probably an attack and I’m needed.”

“That’s crazy,” He mutters, showing you a video of a cat lying down in an empty fishbowl. 

“And Alfred will probably come up soon,” The time is around when dinner is usually ready.

“Probably,” He agrees. Your phone starts ringing again and you stare at it. 

“I really should be going,” 

“You really shouldn’t.” He drops his phone to hold you with both arms.

“I’ll get in trouble,” You look up at him and he just blinks. “They’ll take my keys away.” He relents and lets you stand but you don’t move. He raises an eyebrow and you smile before flicking him with your tail and getting up. 

He spluttered at the hairs, wiping his mouth as you shoved your feet into your boots. 

“See you,” You wave before opening his bedroom door to your boss's room. He sees the woman sitting on the edge of her desk, dangling her phone. She sees him and you quickly shut the door. 

Flopping onto his back, Tim runs his hands down his face and stares at the ceiling. He rolls over and looks down at your iPad, deciding he’ll just keep it until you notice it’s gone.

—

“Still have an issue with me being a hero?” Tim asks as you’re cooking in his apartment. You’re making breakfast for dinner, considering he’d come back at three in the morning and you’d skipped breakfast in favor of dealing with some demons terrorizing school.

“Yes, Tim.” You reply, setting a third pancake onto the plate. He leans against your back, staring at the side of your face while making sure to be careful of your sharp ear. Your tail pulls him closer and he snickers. “The tail has nothing to do with me,” You grumble, side-glancing at him. 

“Even if I say pretty please?” He bats his long eyelashes, making sure that they tickle your face. 

“You’re making a very convincing argument,” You laugh, pushing his face away. With a small snicker, he pulls his face and adjusts his grip on you. Tim sighs into your shoulder and then steals a piece of bacon, narrowly avoiding the slap from the spatula.

“Can I just be the one hero you like?” He hops onto the counter, watching as you continue to cook. 

“You already are,” You watch from the corner of your eye as he flicks his hair out of his face, studying you. He watches you for another minute or two, offering up forks when it’s time to plate the food. He’s clearly thinking as he pours the cups of juice, smiling while he jumps back on the counter before he eventually speaks up. 

“Can I take you on a date, then?” He asks, eyes flickering from the last pancake to your face. Pausing mid-flip, you shrug. Taking a moment to think about it, Tim watches as your tail slowly moves side to side before it settles on the back of the couch.

“It would be faster if you just kissed me, if I’m being honest.” You chuckle and his eyebrows raise. 

“You’re telling me all of this could’ve been avoided with… a kiss?” He slowly asks and you nod, turning the fire off and then moving to be in front of him. He reaches for you, his fingers curling under your jaw as you stare up at him. Opening his legs, you sit between them and mess with the hair around his face. 

“I just wanted to see some initiative,” You hum and he rolls his eyes before crashing his lips into yours.

[bknwa]

MY DEAREST, HYOMA

★ —hyoma chigiri x gn! reader drabble

notes : half assed, not beta read, gender neutral reader but male leaning in mind, takes place after second selection

warnings : slightly toxic relationship, reader is jealous of kunigami, possessive reader, some cursing, slight suggestive content

word count : 632

He truly was a princess.

You trace your fingers over his skin, feeling him shiver underneath you. It was though you had full control, total power over the delicate angel beneath you.

That idea was rather cruel on your part, especially for someone who’s been there since the beginning. You would be there, quietly observing him from his rise as your high school’s star player to his fall after his injury. Hyoma had built himself back up, stronger than ever, yet you felt like you could crush him.

He was as pretty as a mosaic, the question rooted in your mind; was if he could break like one.

Stopping your movements, you rest your palm against his hip. He lays below you, looking up at you through his crystal eyes. Having him sprawled out like this, so vulnerable, just for you— it felt like such a luxury. A small, possessive, part of you wishes that wild card was there to see this, to see something he could never attain.

When you had first joined Blue Lock, you expected to be separated from Hyoma for a small amount of time. What you hadn’t expected was to see him again with another man by his side. The two were particularly close, almost like your two teammates at the time. It made you want to crush that orange bastard, but when Hyoma would sneak out of his team meetings just to see you, your jealousy would settle down.

Even during the second selection, you grabbed him and Reo before he could approach Kunigami. That was when he had caught on to your feelings. He didn’t confront you, however he and Reo shared a glance while you weren’t looking.

You shift your attention back to the present, and eye him up and down. He was simply dressed in his pajamas, yet he looked so delectable. His breath hitches as your eyes move, so he looks away.

“You’re always staring at me..” He mumbles, almost incoherent but it still carries his usual sharpness.

You pause, then look back up at him. There was a bit of red dusting his face, and despite his comment he doesn’t stop you. He never did.

No words left you– instead you lower your head, pressing a kiss to his bare stomach. Hyoma jolts at the sensation, one hand gripping your hair while the other goes for your wrist. His legs press tighter to your sides as he lets out a shaky breath.

“You’re so beautiful, Hyo.” Another kiss, this time higher up his stomach. “So perfect..”

Your hand strays lower, going underneath his waistband and squeezing his skin. His fingers gently comb through your hair before grabbing on again, small breaths leaving him.

“I feel like you wanna protect me,” He whispers, gazing up at the ceiling. “But sometimes it’s like you want to destroy me. Break me ‘til I’m nothing.”

He didn’t sound upset— his tone simply held acknowledgement, like he understands your thoughts. Though, you weren’t sure if he fully accepted them.

There was no response. All you do is nuzzle your nose against him, allowing him to play with your hair.

Hyoma didn’t expect an answer, just proof of you listening. There was a part of him that felt like you placed him on a pedestal, that being rather true. Maybe your relationship wasn’t as unpretentious as some, but he can’t say he hated it.

He might even enjoy how complex it was. There were no labels to what you both were, and neither of you worried too much about it. He knew he was yours just like how you were his.

In the end, it was you who could evoke so many emotions in him; to cry, to yell, laugh, blush— nobody but you could do that.

MADE BY @bknwa, 06-23-25, do not repost or copy any works on any platform

[bknwa]

pink borders ౨ৎ ˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

credits to me. feel free to use and save. of course credit would be appreciated but it is not required. I’m just making these for fun <3 @bunnysp1ce @kalkachis

[bknwa]

How it’s done, done, done!

I REALLY LIKE ZOE AND HER SILLY CRUSH :(

[bknwa]

This is the plot, right?

[bknwa]

What Strength Really Means 💪

✅️ Vetted by @gazavetters {537} ✅️

Hey everyone, my name is Abdelmajed. I don’t usually talk much about myself, but today, I want to share a little piece of my story.

I was born and raised in Gaza, a place that has always been my home 🏡. I grew up surrounded by my family, my friends, and the streets that I knew like the back of my hand. Life wasn’t always easy, but we had love, laughter, and dreams. I used to think that no matter what happened, home would always be here. But life has a way of changing things in ways we never expect.

Over the past months, everything I once knew has disappeared. The streets that were once filled with children playing are now silent. The houses that held so many memories are now just rubble. And the people I loved—some of them are gone forever. 💔

✅️ Vetted by @gazavetters {537} ✅️

[bknwa]

Alexis Ness and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad NEL

Alexis Ness x male reader.

No smut just fluff but there's some suggestiveness in there

This is crossposted on AO3 (drop a kudos or a coment if you liked it/want more pls!!! it does motivate me)

It all starts with Kaiser’s garish introduction of himself. While Michael is reciting his big speech, Ness moves to pass the little translation devices to the lesser strikers.

As he approaches you to hand you the last pair of buds, you’re fiddling with your cleats, brows furrowed as you try to untangle where the shoelaces have bunched up together. You’re clearly frustrated, as it takes a moment for you to realise that he’s standing before you, arm extended for you to take the two little lumps. 

The moment you look up at him he’s already gone. Your eyes are shiny, corners gleaming with unshed tears, brows all scrunched up and lips set in a tense line. Your eyes reflect sadness and frustration, and he finds that you’re just his type. 

The thought comes and goes in that split second that it takes for you to lift your head, but it startles him so badly that he drops the earbuds to the floor, face changing from his slight smile to a sneer just as your eyes meet. 

Just what was that? He doesn’t have a type, he thinks, turning around and leaving you behind. And if he did, it should be Kaiser, not some commoner striker that doesn’t hold a candle to his Emperor. 

“Fucking asshole” You snarl at his back. 

-

Ness is a midfielder, which means that he has to look around the field a lot for him to be able to have enough information to be able to assist Kaiser. Unlike other people, Ness finds that it translates to outside of the field, too. 

For the first days, he observes all of the new additions to Bastard Munchen during the grueling training hours. He analyses playstiles, nitpicking at weaknesses and strengths to see what could become a threat to Kaiser’s rule. 

It’s getting late in the day already, and the first match of the Neo Egoist League is approaching, so to get everyone used to playing with each other, they separate into two random groups. He is in the same team as Kaiser, as it should be, but that clown Isagi Yoichi is too, which means that it is probably going to be a bloodbath. 

Ness gives himself approximately 15 minutes of the game to tail each blue locker, to learn how they play. More insights means calmer plays, because he can predict how all of you would act in a real game and take it to his advantage. 

It’s more than halfway through the game and he’s tailing you now, marking your position and evaluating how you build your plays when there’s an ugly collision between the cyborg, Kunigami Rensuke and Benedict Grim. 

Well, it is not ugly for Kunigami, he stands tall quickly, as he’s built like a wall of muscle, but Grim tumbles into the floor face down, and stays unmoving. Ness and the other Munchen regulars know that this is par for the course for Grim; he’s overdramatic in his everyday life, and much more when it comes to football, but those who are not used to him are worried. 

Both you and Ness are the closest to him, so he sees you rushing to the side of the fallen man, caring. 

“Oh man, are you ok?” You ask as Grim turns around so his back is against the turf, one of his hands resting against his forehead and another hugging his waist. There's a drop of blood slowly coming out his nose, but it doesn’t seem like he’s truly hurt. 

“Leave to my humiliation, fellow man!” He wails as you crouch to his side, sighing in relief. 

“He’s ok!” You shout out to everyone as you offer him a handkerchief you got out of your uniform's pockets.”Please clean your face?”  

“Oh thank you, light in the darkness!” Grim wails again, making you laugh heartily at Grims theatrics, and Ness’s heart does a flip. 

Fuck this retrieving information shit, he thinks as he runs to take his position on the field, trying to fight down a blush. 

-

It’s late when Ness gets to the washroom. Kaiser was frustrated today, the match against Manshine still fresh in his mind. The blue lock peasants had stolen not one, but two goals from them, so Kaiser had decided to train until the late evening, long after the rest of their teammates had stopped for the day. Ness, as his loyal dog, had stayed without a complaint. 

He’s carrying his toiletries in a little plastic tub, because even though the professional athletes have private showers in their rooms, Ness has been wanting to try the sento. He thinks the hot water pool will for sure work magic on his sore muscles. What better day than today, when it is late enough that most, if not all other players will be done with their washing routine?  

Ness enters the changing room and does his thing, stripping down and tying a towel around his hips, as it is customary. He enters the communal showers, puffs of steam and hot air hitting his body and making it relax reflexively. It’s so good already, he’s going to have an incredible bath and he’s going to practice tomorrow equally incredibly, and for sure, Kaiser will even praise him for his hard work. The thought makes him giggle out loud.  

“なんてこった！(what the hell)” Someone says, apparently startled by his laugh. He isn’t wearing his translator, who would in the washroom, so the meaning of the words escapes him. “怖い(scary)” The voice reaches him again and now that he’s aware that there’s someone else, it’s easier for him to recognise. It’s you, and as he steps more into the room, he can see you. 

You’re looking at him, submerged up to just below your chest, lean muscle taut beneath the skin. He scared you, he realises as he blushes to the tip of his ears. Still, your body relaxes when you see him, maybe you thought he was a ghost or something of the sort. “Hello” You greet him cordially in english, sinking into the warm water again. 

“Good evening” He responds in kind, setting his things down near a shower, and he decides that he’s feeling very nice today “Sorry for spooking you” 

Your brows furrow, as if you're trying to decode some alien text, but the next time you speak your voice and face have softened “Not much english” You answer after a while “But it’s…” You lift one of your hands out of the water giving him a thumbs up “Not scary. Ok” 

He gives you a thumbs up back, but his mind is a little dazed after following a droplet of water all the way from your elbow to your collarbone. 

God is testing him. Or maybe it is the devil. 

Halfway through his shower routine, you decide that apparently you’ve had enough of a soak. He can hear the water slosh as you stand up and you bend to get your towel. He has to make the herculean effort of keeping his eyes to himself, deciding to just close his eyes and run the water through his hair to evade all temptation. 

“Bye bye, 小犬 (puppy)” He hears you say, as your footsteps get closer to the exit of the room. 

“Bye -” He starts but chokes on his saliva as he catches a glimpse of you as you walk through the door. The small towel rests on your shoulder, which means that, as he reflexively goes to look down, he can see your neck, your skin flushed prettily from the warm water, your back, how it curves a bit in at the waist and finally, your toned ass and legs. It is just a second, but it makes his mouth go dry. 

The door closes behind you, and he is now alone in the room. That was normal. The taboo around nudity is just not as strong here as it is back at home. He is alright. This won’t awake anything in him, no sir. 

The next morning, Ness wakes up with sticky underwear. He hides his face in his hands and screams. He mutters reassurances to himself as he eats his breakfast, which makes Kaiser look at him like he is a weirdo. 

His life is so hard. 

-

After the brief conversation in the baths, you seem to grow comfortable enough to talk to him casually. It is simple enough, greetings and goodbyes at the start and end of practices, or if you see each other in the halls. He’s slowly gotten more acquaintanced with your eyes, your nose, the way you talk and the way you move. Ok, maybe he’s also been staring discreetly at you when in shared spaces (not discreetly enough, if you ask Kaiser).  

The point is, you have gotten close enough to call your relationship a tentative friendship. 

He’s in the cafeteria now, finishing up his dinner as Kaiser drones on about his superiority above the rest of the planet. It is fuller tonight, apparently everyone had decided to get their food the moment it was available. Or maybe it was the competition for the sweets. Ego had said that everyone in the facility had desserts tonight because of some kind of donation from a famous patisserie or whatever. Surely they just want the BLTV money, and if the cost is some cookies and cakes, who would pass up the opportunity. 

He had ignored the sweet treats the first time round when he got his food, trying to keep on with his professional athlete diet and all, but now that he sees everyone around him sink their forks into the confections, he’s not so sure. Maybe he’ll cave in and have some chocolate cake he had seen before, it looked rich and enticing. 

“I’ll be back in a second” He speaks quickly when Kaiser pauses his speech for a second “Do you want anything else, Kaiser?” He asks like the good loyal dog he is, standing from his seat. 

“Whatever” Kaiser scoffs, shooing him off with his hand “I’m done. Don’t bother me until tomorrow” Then he makes for the exit of the cafeteria, leaving his tray behind for Ness to clean up. He gets the stink eye from some people for that. 

Ness sighs deeply, but decides to take care of that after he’s gotten some sugar in his body. He walks to the table where the confections are already all plated up, joining the small crowd that’s looking around. His eyes search for the chocolate cake he saw earlier. It is not Sachertorte, but maybe it’s close enough to provide some comfort. 

There’s just one slice left, he notes in his head as he walks up to it, extending his arm to get himself the plate. Another hand picks it up before he can, though. He looks up, brows furrowed and ready to have a talk and maybe threaten someone over a slice of cake when he realises it’s you. His face relaxes a bit, but maybe he’s pouting now. 

“Oh sorry Ness” You say, offering him the plate out of the goodness of your heart. “You can have it, it’s no problem with me” You smile at him, and it’s shameful, the way his heart picks up. 

“We could share?” His mouth moves before his brain, and it leaves him wondering just what came out of it “If you want.” He hurries to say, and he wants to pluck every hair out of his head. 

“It’s alright with me” You confirm with a nod, picking up two small spoons from the table and gesturing for him to lead the way to his table “Let’s go then”

He walks by your side to his table, seeing you give your friends a small thumbs up when they look at you weird for sitting with the ‘enemy’ “I’ll see you all later in the room” You tell them and stick out your tongue, the other guys protesting at the action. 

You sit down next to each other, digging into the sweet. You both eat silently, but it is comfortable, and he gets to hear the little sounds of satisfaction you make, so it’s a win-win for Ness. 

You’re both done before you know it, cleaning the table of utensils and walking out of the cafeteria together. 

“Your room is on your way to the one where we sleep, right?” You ask as you walk down the corridor, making your way to his room. 

“Yeah, it is just over here” He gestures as he turns the corner, stopping at his door. He doesn’t know why, but he’s getting more nervous now, staring at you as he waits in front of his door. 

“Can I come in for a second?” You’re staring back, and he seems mischief and maybe a sliver of something ego-shattering in your eyes.  

He doesn’t say anything, just turns around, opens the door and walks in, as if he’s possessed by the ghost of someone braver. 

“Thank you” You say with a giggle, closing the door behind you as you take a deep breath “You know what, you’re actually really nice, Alexis. Wanna make out?” Nothing could’ve prepared him from the words that have just come out of your mouth. 

Ness cycles through emotions quickly. That was too much, even for the ghost. He’s dumbfounded, confused, surprised, amazed, bewildered, flabbergasted, floored and taken aback all in the same second. Maybe it is too much for his poor heart, the feeling of being wanted, because he fucking passes out from the shock. 

[bknwa]

Still in the Picture

A/N: This is based on a request, but I accidentally deleted it :'(. Luckily, I had written down some basic notes for the story beforehand, though I wasn’t able to check back with the request to make sure I was still fully on track. I hope the Anon who requested it still sees this and that it’s what you were hoping for. I’m really sorry again!

synopsis: You're trying to juggle life between raising your brother and working for the ADA. But when he gets kidnapped during what should've been a routine day, you stop at nothing to bring him home—with the entire ADA standing beside you, ready to fight for what matters most.

content/warning: Ranpo x fem!reader, angst, gunshot wounds and death, hurt with slight comfort, -12.370 words

It was an unspoken rule within the Armed Detective Agency: when you spoke, people listened.

Not because you were loud—quite the opposite. You were calm, serious, sharp as glass and twice as unyielding. When a mission was assigned, you executed it without complaint. When someone was injured, you offered solutions before concern. Your eyes were focused, tone measured, and presence as steadying as Kunikida's idealism or Yosano's scalpel.

People respected you.

Ranpo had once said, through a mouthful of Pocky, "You're the kind of person who probably doesn't even cry when they stub their toe."

You hadn't responded. Not because it wasn't worth it, but because you had stubbed your toe that morning. And you hadn't cried.

So it always came as a shock, when you arrived with your little brother in tow.

"Nee-chan!" he shouted, running down the hallway of the ADA office, holding a crookedly drawn picture in his hand like it was gold. You were behind him, holding his little backpack and your own briefcase.

The child barreled toward your desk. You caught up with him mid-run, lifting him with ease, face softening into a smile that none of your colleagues had ever coaxed out of you, not even after a successful mission.

"Hey, hey, careful," you murmured, brushing his hair out of his eyes as he giggled. "What did I say about running in the hallways?"

"Only do it if it's a race!" he grinned up at you, completely ignoring the rule.

Ranpo, sitting nearby with his legs kicked up on the desk, looked at you. "I don't get it. Are we sure that's even the same person? Someone check if it's a shapeshifter."

Dazai, already halfway through his third cup of coffee, leaned over toward Kunikida. "Ah, the power of familial love. Truly, the only thing that can make our resident human-knife soften into a mother hen."

You ignored them all, smoothing down your brother's shirt with practiced, tender hands. You didn't laugh at the jokes, didn't deny them either. You simply knelt to zip his jacket and check the watch on his wrist.

"I'll be in the records room with Kunikida. Stay near my desk, alright? You can color there. Don't touch Dazai's coffee, or the man himself."

"Why not?"

"Because I said so. And because I love you," you said without missing a beat, placing a kiss on his forehead.

Gasps echoed in the room. Not because of the affection—but because you said it out loud.

Kunikida dropped his pen. Yosano actually smiled. Even Atsushi, ever polite, looked stunned.

Ranpo, ever observant, chewed thoughtfully on a sweet. "So that's what it looks like when steel bends."

And in that moment, with your brother's small fingers curled around yours and the barest trace of warmth in your expression, no one could deny it: You would move the world for that boy.

And break yourself doing it.

Balancing life between the Armed Detective Agency and raising a child was like walking a tightrope with knives beneath you—and no safety net. But you did it every single day.

Your mornings started before the sun rose.

You made breakfast with quiet hands, careful not to wake your little brother too early. He needed his sleep. Then came the routine: getting him dressed, brushing his hair, packing his bag, double-checking his lunch. You always walked him to school yourself, even if it meant waking up two hours earlier to get to work on time. If it rained, you carried the umbrella; if it snowed, you tied his scarf twice.

You didn't mind.

At the ADA, you were all business again. Serious, attentive, impossible to distract. Whether it was chasing down smugglers in the back alleys of Yokohama or analyzing crime scenes with Ranpo, your focus never wavered. You didn't waste words or hesitate when action was needed.

But the moment your phone buzzed with a message from your brother's school—your fingers would twitch toward it faster than you'd draw your weapon.

You finished missions with precision because your schedule had to be reliable. If you were late to pick him up, he'd wait—trusting you'd show, even if the clock ticked long past dismissal.

You were never late.

When the day's work ended, you'd be at the school gates. Your brother would run toward you, arms wide and grin bigger than the sun. And you'd kneel to greet him, to listen to his stories about math or recess or the imaginary game he and his friends invented.

You brought him back to the ADA on slow afternoons. Paperwork could always wait until he was settled—feet dangling from the chair beside yours, his backpack dumped unceremoniously under the desk, colored pencils already rolling across your files. He'd hum to himself, occasionally tapping your arm to show off a sketch of a cat that looked suspiciously like Kunikida or a wobbly drawing of the entire Agency with everyone's hair the wrong color. You'd smile, remind him to keep his math worksheet out of your coffee mug, and then return to sorting case files—half-focused, but always calm with him near.

The Agency... adjusted. Quietly, naturally. Your brother didn't just become a regular guest; he became family.

Yosano kept a separate drawer just for him—stocked with antiseptic wipes, cartoon-printed bandages, and the occasional sweet for when he looked nervous or tired. She teased him gently, always with a soft edge you didn't see often from her, and somehow, he trusted her deeply despite the fact that you flinched every time she reached for a scalpel.

Atsushi brought small things—packets of melon bread, a juice box, a toy from a capsule machine on the way to work. He never made a show of it, just casually slid them onto the edge of the desk with a smile. Sometimes, he'd crouch beside your brother's chair, ask him about the comics he liked.

Kunikida, bless him, once created a laminated list of "ADA-approved educational activities" after overhearing your brother say he was bored. The list included timed logic puzzles, geography trivia, and a math-focused scavenger hunt. Your brother glanced at it once, then went right back to drawing a manga scene where you and Atsushi fought a giant squid. Kunikida was... disappointed, but undeterred. He tried to quiz him on prefectures every time he visited.

Kenji was his favorite. On slow days, Kenji would plop down on the floor with a board game or deck of cards, playing round after round while telling stories about life back on the farm. Your brother listened with wide eyes, occasionally bursting into laughter so loud it disrupted meetings.

No one minded.

Even Dazai—unexpected, unpredictable Dazai—surprised you. One day, you were called away to chase a lead on short notice, something that would take the whole day. No one else was free. Dazai glanced up from his desk, sighed dramatically, and said, "Fine. I'll babysit. But only because children are slightly less insufferable than adults."

You returned a couple hours later to find the two of them playing Shogi, a plate of half-eaten cookies between them, your brother explaining the rules while Dazai nodded with the exaggerated seriousness of someone plotting a war. When you asked how it went, Dazai just shrugged and said, "He's alright. A bit too smart, though. Dangerous."

You knew what he meant. Your brother wasn't just clever—he had this way of getting under people's skin, of disarming even the most guarded of hearts. He didn't try to—he just was. A child who had lost too much too early, clinging to what little joy he had left.

The ADA saw that. And they embraced it.

Sometimes, your brother would get absorbed in one big project—usually on a quiet afternoon when the office buzzed with the rustle of papers and distant footsteps, the kind of steady calm that made him feel safe enough to let his creativity bloom. That day, he sat for nearly an hour, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth, colored pencils spread around him like a halo.

When he finally stood, his drawing clutched in both hands like a priceless artifact, he didn't come to you first. He stood up straighter, marched to the center of the office, and cleared his throat in the quietest voice possible. "Um... I drew something."

Atsushi looked up first, then Kenji, and within seconds everyone had turned to look. He unfolded the page and turned it around. There it was—the entire ADA office, from the stacked shelves and cluttered desks to the big window with its warm afternoon light. Every person had been drawn, labeled with slightly crooked name tags. Even you—mid-paperwork, coffee mug in hand, a little heart hovering above your head.

He was there too, front and center, grinning proudly with his usual hoodie and untied shoelaces. He had drawn himself right into the Agency's heart.

Everyone gathered around to look, voices warm with praise. Kenji clapped him on the shoulder so hard he nearly stumbled. Yosano ruffled his hair. Even Kunikida smiled and said, "You managed to capture everyone's likeness... surprisingly well."

Then the door to Fukuzawa's office opened, and your brother froze a little. He straightened again, this time in that particular way kids do when they're trying to be very polite and very brave at the same time. With quiet steps, he walked up to the president, holding the drawing with both hands.

Fukuzawa looked down at him, then at the picture. For a second, he didn't say anything, just observed it with that calm, careful gaze of his. Then he nodded.

"It's better than any photograph," he said.

Your brother blinked up at him, wide-eyed.

Fukuzawa knelt just slightly, placing a steady hand on his shoulder. "Would you allow me to hang it here in the office?"

Your brother practically beamed. "Yes, sir!"

And so, with great ceremony, the drawing was pinned up beside the whiteboard, above the file cabinets. Your brother stood beneath it, chest puffed out, glowing with pride while the rest of the ADA gave him a round of soft applause.

It stayed there from that day forward—sun-faded in the corners, but vibrant with something no case file or mission report could capture. A reminder of how deeply he had become part of the Agency, not just through you, but all on his own.

Whenever you had to come in on weekends and he wanted to stay in the dorm, you even left him home alone. Never for long. Never after dark. If you had to step out briefly and school was closed, you left him at your dorm, where it was safe, where you could call every fifteen minutes to check in. And even then, you'd leave him only with the sun high in the sky.

Every decision you made was filtered through a single, ironclad rule: He comes first. Always.

You made sure he ate. You reminded him to drink water. You kept spare gloves in your coat pocket in case he forgot his. You worked with bullet wounds, with cracked ribs, with bruised arms—but no one ever knew. You smiled when he needed you to. You reassured him on bad days.

You gave him everything.

Because long ago, you made a promise.

And you never break your promises.

The office was unusually quiet for a weekday. Kunikida was buried under mission planning, Yosano had locked herself in the infirmary (again), and Dazai—mercifully—was nowhere to be seen. The only noise came from the soft scratch of your pen as you worked through a stack of case reports, and the steady tick-tick-tick of the office clock.

And, of course, Ranpo's sighs.

Loud, exaggerated, and spaced every fifteen seconds with clockwork precision.

You didn't need super deduction to know he was bored.

"Ranpo," you said without looking up, voice even, "if you sigh any louder, I'm filing a noise complaint."

"I'm suffering, you know." Ranpo leaned dramatically over your desk, his chin nearly knocking over your coffee. "There's nothing to do. No murder. No mystery. Just you, being boring and responsible."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"It is. At least give me something to read. Or a cookie. Or attention."

You didn't roll your eyes—but only barely. "I'll give you a file to proofread."

He made a noise like a dying cat and slumped farther down, now half-hanging off the desk. "Unfair. You know I don't do paperwork. You're cruel."

Despite his antics, you didn't mind. Ranpo's presence, as loud as it could be, had become oddly comforting in these rare quiet hours. He never meant harm. Just attention. And beneath his self-proclaimed brilliance, you'd grown to recognize his rare moments of curiosity—ones he didn't share lightly.

After a long pause, Ranpo suddenly spoke, eyes half-lidded but focused on your face now.

"Hey… why are you taking care of your brother, anyway? What happened to your parents?"

The pen in your hand stopped.

The shift was small—but it was enough. Ranpo noticed. So did Kunikida, who froze mid-note-taking at his desk across the room. Atsushi, walking in with tea, nearly dropped the tray. No one said anything, but their stillness said enough.

You, however, didn't react outwardly.

Ranpo wasn't known for his tact. He asked questions most people tiptoed around, not out of cruelty but because boundaries often bored him. To him, information was just information.

Still, it was a heavy one to drop in the middle of paperwork hour.

You set your pen down neatly and leaned back in your chair, eyes distant, but voice calm.

"There was an accident. Our parents didn't make it. My brother was four at the time."

Ranpo blinked, straightening slightly. You didn't need to look at him to feel his attention sharpen—not with his ability, but with his human awareness.

"And you took him in?" he asked. Not in disbelief. In calculation. Trying to line up the timeline, your age, your responsibilities. 

You nodded. "There wasn't anyone else who could. He was scared. I promised he'd be okay. That I'd be there for him, always."

A small silence followed. Not heavy, but thoughtful. Ranpo tapped a finger against the desk.

"Sounds like a lot," he said, unusually subdued for him. "I couldn't do that. Raising a kid. Waking up early. Caring that much." He scrunched his nose slightly, in that honest Ranpo way. "You're pretty cool, actually."

You blinked. That… might've been the most sincere compliment he'd ever given anyone without being sarcastic.

"Thanks," you said simply.

Ranpo leaned back in your chair now, resting his head on his arms. "Still boring, though."

You let out a small breath—not a laugh exactly, but close enough that he glanced up to check.

Outside, the sun was starting to dip. You checked the clock—time to pick up your brother.

"Don't mess with my desk while I'm gone," you said, grabbing your coat.

"No promises," Ranpo called after you with a grin, though something softer lingered in his expression.

As the door shut behind you, he murmured to himself: "Still cool, though..."

It was a Saturday. The sky was pale and overcast, the kind of day that made everything feel still—even the city.

You had just finished drying the breakfast dishes when your phone buzzed.

Kunikida: Emergency meeting at the office. Sorry, I know it's your day off. Fifteen minutes?

You stared at the message for a moment, jaw tightening, then looked over your shoulder toward the living room.

Your little brother was curled up on the couch, still in his pyjamas, a bowl of cereal precariously perched on his knees and the TV flickering with some colorful weekend cartoon. He looked content, warm, safe.

You hesitated, phone still in hand.

"Hey," you called gently, walking into the living room. He turned with a sleepy smile. "The office needs me for a quick meeting. You want to come?"

He shook his head immediately, mouth full of cereal. "Mm-mm. Wanna finish my show."

You crouched down in front of him, brushing a crumb from his cheek. "I won't be long. Probably just paperwork or a case briefing."

"I'll be fine," he said, looking up at you with that same unwavering trust that always, always struck somewhere deep in your chest.

You nodded, swallowing the flicker of unease. You'd done this before. Just for short periods. Never in the dark. Never at night. Never long.

Still, the checklist rolled off your tongue like always.

"Don't answer the door," you said.

"I won't."

"Don't touch the stove."

"Promise."

"Call me if anything feels weird. And answer when I call you, okay?"

"Okay, okay! I know!" He grinned and leaned forward to bump his forehead against yours in a playful headbutt. "You worry too much."

You smiled, though it didn't quite reach your eyes.

"Only because I love you," you murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of his head before standing.

He gave you a little wave as you grabbed your coat and keys.

"Be safe!" he called out.

"I should be saying that to you," you replied, a half-laugh in your voice. "Lock the door behind me."

And with that, you were gone.

The ADA office was too quiet when you arrived.

Rain had begun to fall, a faint pattering against the tall windows as Kunikida briefed you and a few others—nothing major, just an unusual pattern in some case reports. Might be a coincidence. Might be a prelude. Ranpo sat sideways in his chair, uninterested, chewing on a lollipop.

You answered questions sharply. Focused. Efficient. Still, your eyes flicked to your phone between notes.

You called once.

No answer.

You tried again.

Still nothing.

Not unusual, not yet. He probably left it on silent. Or was in the bathroom. Or fell asleep with the cartoon still playing.

But you felt it. A pulse of something cold crawling up your spine. Your heart didn't beat faster—but your thoughts did.

You stood without waiting for the meeting to end.

"Where are you going?" Kunikida asked.

"My brother isn't picking up."

Ranpo, who had been half-asleep with boredom, sat up straighter—eyes narrowing in that unsettlingly clear way of his. He didn't say anything, but you felt the weight of his gaze follow you as you turned and left the room.

Outside, the rain picked up.

You walked fast. Then you ran.

You fumbled with the keys. Rain slicked your fingers, cold and clinging, making it harder than it should've been. You unlocked the door in three practiced movements and pushed it open—

—and your breath caught.

The living room was too quiet. Too still.

You stepped inside slowly, almost unwilling to believe what your instincts already screamed at you. The cartoon on the TV had long since ended, the screen now dim and quiet. The cereal bowl sat on the table, half-eaten, milk gone warm. His slippers were by the couch.

But he was gone.

"Hey," you called, voice taut as a wire, trying not to tremble. "I'm home."

Silence.

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

You moved faster now, stepping into every room, calling his name again—once, then louder. The bathroom: empty. Your bedroom: untouched. His room: bed still messy from earlier, his favorite stuffed animal on the floor.

And then you saw it.

The window.

The latch had been forced from the outside.

And your world stopped.

You stared, heart thundering against your ribs, breath caught somewhere between a scream and a sob that couldn't make it out. You were frozen—just for a second—before the panic hit like a truck.

You were already dialing Ranpo's number.

The call didn't even go through before you turned and slammed open the door, practically running straight outside. The rain came harder now, soaking through your jacket, your hair, your skin—but you didn't feel it.

You barely made it out onto the street before someone called your name.

"Y/N!"

You spun around. Ranpo stood at the corner, an umbrella half-cocked in his hand, Atsushi beside him already looking worried.

They'd never seen you like this.

Not like this.

Your expression—normally so composed, so sharp—was wide-eyed, pale, frantic.

Ranpo's brows drew together. "Where is he?"

You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out. You shook your head instead, barely able to form the word: "Gone."

Atsushi stepped forward immediately. "What do you mean, gone?!"

"The window," you said, voice too low. "Someone broke in. He didn't answer. I called—he always answers—I told him not to open the door, he wouldn't open the door—"

You swallowed hard, trying to stop the spiral. Your hands were trembling.

Ranpo's gaze sharpened. His eyes flicked toward your building, then to your face, then the phone still in your hand. All at once, his usual laziness vanished.

"This wasn't random," he said flatly. "They waited for you to leave."

"How do you—" Atsushi began, but Ranpo was already walking toward the door, his umbrella forgotten. "Stay here," he said over his shoulder, "I need to see inside."

You didn't stop him. You couldn't. You just stared down the empty street, every shadow now a threat, every passing car a missed clue.

Atsushi hesitated at your side. "We'll find him. We will. I promise."

You didn't answer.

Because promises only matter if you can keep them.

And this time, you weren't sure you could.

Ranpo came down the steps ten minutes later, his expression unreadable—too calm for someone who'd just been in your apartment, sifting through the aftermath of your worst nightmare.

You didn't say anything.

Neither did he.

But when he reached you, he pulled the soaked glasses from his face, cleaned them on his sleeve, and said, "They came in through the window. The latch was popped with a flat tool—something thin. Professional. They didn't take anything else. Not your wallet. Not your laptop. Not even your emergency money stash."

He glanced at you then, eyes narrowed. "They came for him."

You already knew it. But hearing it aloud hit like a blade across your chest.

Ranpo turned to Atsushi. "Call Kunikida. Tell him to prep the board room and alert everyone. I want the last four cases of missing children that match this pattern. We've got maybe a six-hour window if we're lucky."

"Right," Atsushi said, voice sharp with urgency as he pulled out his phone. His eyes flicked to you briefly. "We're gonna get him back."

You just nodded, mute.

Ranpo didn't ask if you were okay.

He knew you weren't.

Instead, he simply motioned for you to walk with him, falling into step at your side.

By the time you returned to the Agency, the rain had slowed—but inside, the air was thick with tension. The elevator doors opened with a chime and revealed the familiar faces of your team, already waiting.

Kunikida stood at the head of the table, arms crossed and brow furrowed. Dazai lounged in his chair but his usual smug smile was absent, replaced by a grim sort of alertness. Fukuzawa stood near the window, expression calm but eyes sharp. Kenji looked confused and concerned, and Kyoka—silent as always—hovered near the board with a map already half-pinned with notes. Tanizaki was at the computer terminal, pulling records.

The moment they saw you, something shifted in the room.

They knew.

Kunikida stepped forward. "We'll find him."

You opened your mouth to say something—thank you, maybe—but your throat closed up. So instead, you just nodded.

Kunikida motioned toward the map. "We've compiled the police reports from similar cases. All children. All taken between noon and six in the evening. No forced entries at the front—always windows or fire escapes. Ranpo's theory is correct, this was planned. Someone's targeting kids."

Tanizaki's voice chimed in from the computer. "There've been five abductions like this in the past two months. None solved. The police kept it under wraps to avoid panic. But there's a pattern."

"They're stalling," Ranpo added, walking straight to the whiteboard. "Holding the kids somewhere. Probably central, somewhere abandoned but secure. Warehouse, maybe. Old school. It's not just kidnapping. It's something else."

"Ransom?" Atsushi offered.

"Worse," Ranpo said, eyes flicking briefly to you. "They wanted someone connected to us. It's not random anymore. It's personal."

Everyone in the room tensed.

Fukuzawa spoke for the first time. "You have full resources. Whatever you need. Every one of us is on this."

You looked around.

These were your coworkers. Your comrades. Your family.

And they weren't just helping because a child was missing.

They were helping because he was your little brother. Because you were theirs.

Dazai, of all people, gave you a faint grin and said, "Don't worry. We're professionals. We've dealt with worse." His smile faded just enough to reveal the steel behind it. "They'll regret ever touching him."

You lowered your head briefly, steadying yourself against the wave of emotion that threatened to rise again.

"I just want him safe," you said, voice quiet.

"And he will be," Kunikida assured you. "We'll bring him back."

The office was a storm of quiet urgency.

Kunikida barked updates from the whiteboard while Ranpo scrawled deductions across the surface like a man possessed. Kenji and Kyoka darted between rooms, collecting case files and camera logs, while Atsushi coordinated with the police under Fukuzawa's direction.

You stood near the back at first, still, watching. Your hands shook faintly. Your heart still beat too loud, too fast.

But then something clicked.

You breathed in—shaky—and then out, slow and deep. And you shut it down.

The fear. The grief. The panic.

It didn't vanish, but you locked it behind the same steel wall you'd used in the field more times than you could count. The same calm you wore through wounds, through firefights, through pain that would have brought others to their knees.

Your brother needed you.

You couldn't afford to fall apart again.

You stepped forward.

"What do we have on location radius?" you asked, voice suddenly sharp again, focused. "If they moved during daylight, they'd need a route with minimal surveillance."

Kunikida glanced at you, gauging you briefly. He nodded.

"Ranpo's narrowed it down to a five-block radius around your apartment," he said, pointing at the board. "These three areas are black zones—little to no working cameras."

"They wouldn't use the subway," Ranpo added, chewing thoughtfully on a fresh lollipop. "Too risky with a child. They're likely traveling by car or van. Stolen plates. We've already put in a request for traffic cam scrubs."

"I'll cross-reference known abandoned buildings in those sectors," you said, already pulling open a laptop. "Kenji, can you get me the municipal records?"

"On it!" Kenji chirped, already hurrying over.

Ranpo tilted his head, eyes flicking to you.

"You're calm again," he observed, not with judgment but… curiosity.

You didn't look up. "I have to be."

Meanwhile —

Yosano was already halfway back from her last job when the message hit her phone.

URGENT:Y/N's brother missing. Abduction. Targeted. Current ADA mobilized. ETA for your return?

Her reply came almost instantly.

Tell Y/N I'm coming. She is not going through this alone. I'll be there in two hours. Three, tops.

The tires of her rented vehicle screamed as she pressed harder on the gas.

Back at the ADA office, the board filled fast. Photos. Building layouts. Police files.

Every agent worked in sync. You fell into the rhythm like muscle memory, pushing aside the ache in your chest with every clue you traced, every detail you lined up.

Dazai slouched beside your desk at one point, watching you with something unreadable in his gaze. "You're kind of scary when you're like this," he mused aloud.

You didn't answer. You barely heard him.

Every second mattered. Every second he was gone was one more you might regret for the rest of your life.

"I've got a match," Tanizaki said suddenly. "Old textile factory. Closed five years ago. Three floors. One basement. In a black zone."

Ranpo was already walking toward the coat rack. "That's it."

"How do you know?" Atsushi asked, grabbing his jacket.

"Because I'm always right," Ranpo replied, already heading for the door.

And for the first time in hours, you felt your pulse steady just a little.

Because now you were moving.

Now you had a lead.

Now you had a chance.

The van rolled to a stop two blocks from the building—an abandoned textile factory, quiet and rotting on the edges of the city like a carcass forgotten by time. Windows were boarded up, metal doors rusted shut, the whole structure barely a whisper in the urban sprawl. The kind of place you'd never look twice at.

Perfect place to hide something precious. Or to bury it.

You stepped out first, moving like your bones were made of stone, face unreadable. The only thing betraying your fear was the white-knuckled grip you had on your weapon.

Ranpo was beside you, uncharacteristically quiet. His usual smugness replaced by something deeper—something steadier. "We go in together. You stay near me," he said, not bothering to ask whether you'd follow. He knew you would. Knew you'd do anything.

Kunikida held up the plan, crisp and tactical. "Two floors cleared by Atsushi and Kyoka. Kenji and Tanizaki take the basement. Dazai and I sweep the outer perimeter and meet you at the center. Y/N, Ranpo—you're leading this."

You nodded once.

And then you went.

The inside of the factory stank of mildew and rot. Faint bootprints in the dust told you someone had been here recently—several someones.

You moved like a blade: precise, silent, deadly.

Ranpo followed close, reading the walls, the dust, the scattered items. "Three guards total, maybe four. One upstairs, pacing. The rest are near the back—makeshift holding room. They're sloppy, not professionals. Guns, though. Be careful."

Your breath hitched at that word.

Guns.

Not just kidnapping. Hostile intent.

Your brother was somewhere behind these walls, maybe gagged, maybe scared, maybe hurt—

You pushed the thought down like poison. Now was not the time.

Atsushi crashed through the upper level seconds later, feral and silent, leaving a broken-nosed thug unconscious in his wake. Kyoka was right behind him, blade dripping.

"Clear," she called.

Kenji's shout rose from the basement. "We found restraints! But no kids!"

Tanizaki's voice followed, grim. "It was temporary. They were moving them."

And then—Ranpo stopped.

Right outside a sealed double door at the end of the central hallway. Dust undisturbed, except for a single fresh footprint.

"He's in there," he said. "Your brother's in there."

Your heart stopped.

You didn't wait for permission.

You kicked the door in.

The room exploded in sound and motion.

A man jerked backward, surprised. Another cursed, reaching for his gun—but Kunikida shot it clean from his hand a second later.

And there—huddled in the far corner, tears streaking his dirt-smudged cheeks—was your brother.

"Y/N!"

You ran to him instantly, the world narrowing to a pinhole of sound. You dropped to your knees, pulling him into your arms. He sobbed against your chest, clinging to your jacket like he might disappear if he let go.

"I told you I'd come," you whispered, voice hoarse. "I told you I'd always come."

"I was scared," he cried.

"I know," you said, holding him tighter. "I'm here now."

But even as the tension cracked with relief—

Ranpo's voice cut in, quiet and cold. "Wait."

You looked up.

Too late.

A gunshot rang out.

Your brother screamed.

Pain hit you like lightning—radiating white-hot through your shoulder as blood sprayed the floor.

Then the second shot fired.

And this time, it didn't hit you.

You turned just in time to see your little brother's small body jerk in your arms, blood blooming like a dark flower across his side.

"No—!"

You screamed, truly screamed—for the first time in your life.

And the only reason you didn't murder the man who fired was because Kunikida was faster—slamming him into the wall, disarming and handcuffing him with surgical fury.

"Yosa-!" Dazai began, already calling for Yosano, before remembering she was still on the road.

You were sobbing.

Your hands pressed against your brother's wound.

He was crying, eyes wide and dazed. "Nee-chan…"

"Stay awake, okay? Stay awake, baby, please—"

But the light in his eyes began to fade.

And you began to break as you were barely aware of anything anymore. The sounds around you were muffled, like you'd been plunged underwater. The chaos—the yelling, the rush of footsteps, the crackle of radios—all faded to static.

There was only him.

Your little brother trembled in your arms, breath hitching shallow and fast. Blood pooled beneath you, far too much of it. Your hands were stained red, pressing against the wound, uselessly, desperately.

"I've got you," you whispered, voice breaking. "You're going to be okay. Help is coming. Dr. Yosano will be here soon."

He gave you a wobbly smile, barely there, barely conscious. His little fingers curled into your bloodstained sleeve.

"…Nee-chan…"

You leaned in, brushing his hair back from his damp forehead.

"I'm here, sweetheart. Just stay with me, okay?"

He blinked slowly. His lips moved. The words barely came out—just a whisper. A breath.

"I love you…"

And then—

Stillness.

His chest fell.

And didn't rise again.

His eyes drifted shut, soft and gentle.

And he was gone.

You froze.

Completely.

You didn't scream. You didn't cry. You didn't move. You just held him tighter, almost as if you could trap his soul inside, keep it from leaving.

But the warmth in his body was already fading.

Across the room, the rest of the Armed Detective Agency stood still—silent witnesses to the moment the strongest person they knew finally shattered.

Tanizaki was the first to react, barely holding himself together. He turned away quickly, a hand to his mouth, shoulders trembling.

Kenji stood motionless beside him, fists balled tightly at his sides. His eyes weren't full of confusion or childish misunderstanding—not this time. He understood. More than anyone expected. He stared at your unmoving form, still cradling your brother, his face fallen in a grief too mature for someone so young.

"He was… really kind," Kenji whispered softly. "He brought me a rice cracker once. Said it tasted like home…"

No one had the heart to answer him.

Atsushi's shoulders were shaking. He'd crouched down by the wall, eyes wet, fists clenched, guilt etched into every line of his face.

Kyoka stared at the floor. Her hand gripped her katana so tightly her knuckles were white.

Even Dazai, usually flippant, had removed his hands from his pockets. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were grim.

Kunikida had his head bowed, glasses pushed up to wipe his eyes. He didn't say a word. He just stood there.

Because this loss… wasn't just yours.

Your brother had been part of them, too. A little light in their strange family.

He'd drawn with Naomi on Junichiro's tablet. He'd tried to braid Kyoka's hair once and gotten it all tangled. He once fell asleep on Dazai's shoulder during a meeting, and even Dazai had smiled. He'd called Ranpo "Detective Candy," and Ranpo hadn't even corrected him.

They all loved him.

But you… he was your world.

And now he was gone.

You didn't move for a long time.

Not when Ranpo sat down beside you, resting his hand on your back in silent support. Not when Kunikida knelt beside you and quietly offered to carry him. Not when Atsushi gently said your name.

You just stayed there.

Holding him.

As if you could still keep your promise if you never let go.

After another few minutes, thhe door burst open.

"Where is he?!"

Yosano's voice rang through the space, breathless and sharp, heels clicking rapidly on the cold floor. Her coat fluttered behind her as she moved with practiced urgency. But the moment she saw you—kneeling in a pool of blood, your arms wrapped protectively around your little brother's lifeless body—she stopped in her tracks.

Silence met her.

She didn't need to ask. Her eyes swept over the room, taking in the blood, the Agency's expressions, your hollow stillness.

"No…" she breathed.

She approached slowly, kneeling beside you.

"I came as fast as I could," she whispered, eyes trained on the boy in your arms. She reached out, fingers trembling for just a second as they hovered over his wrist—searching for a pulse, even when she already knew. Her jaw tightened. "But he's gone."

You didn't react.

Your eyes stared at nothing.

Yosano looked down, anger simmering beneath her grief. "If I'd been here… five minutes earlier—"

"There's nothing you could've done," Kunikida said quietly from behind. "The shot was deliberate. Close range. They wanted us to lose him."

She closed her eyes, pulling in a deep, steadying breath. Then she looked to you.

"…You're bleeding," she said. "You've been bleeding this whole time."

Still, you didn't move.

You didn't care.

The pain in your shoulder was nothing. Background noise to the silence that rang louder than any scream could've.

It took another long stretch of quiet before Kunikida and Dazai finally stepped forward again. They exchanged a glance—Dazai grim, Kunikida gentle.

"I'm sorry," Kunikida said softly. "But we can't leave him here like this."

Dazai knelt beside you, quieter than usual. "We'll take care of him," he said. "He deserves peace."

They reached for you together.

And at first, your grip didn't loosen.

But eventually—slowly, painfully—your fingers released.

Kunikida leaned forward, arms steady as he lifted your brother with care, holding him as though he were still alive. As though the weight of his small body wasn't heavier than the world.

Dazai stayed with you, steadying you as Kunikida turned and carried him out.

You stayed behind. Still on your knees.

The blood had soaked through your clothes.

Your hands were shaking, knuckles white.

"Hey," Ranpo said gently, crouching in front of you. He had taken off his hat, looking at you. His eyes were clear and sharp—but soft. "You're still bleeding. If you keep sitting there, you'll pass out."

You blinked. Slowly. Uncomprehending.

Ranpo gave you a moment. Then he offered his hand.

"It's not a bad wound," he said. "But if you don't let Yosano treat it, it will be. Come on."

At first, your hand didn't move.

But then—

Slowly, mechanically—you placed your palm into his.

His grip was warm and grounding, far more careful than you'd ever seen from him.

He helped you to your feet.

And though your legs trembled, and your clothes were soaked with blood that wasn't yours—

You followed.

You didn't say anything. You didn't look at anyone. But you moved.

And that, for now, was enough.

The ADA's infirmary was quieter than you'd ever known it to be.

No jokes from Dazai. No arguments from Kunikida. Not even the usual complaints about paperwork.

Just silence—and the faint metallic scent of antiseptic.

You sat on the padded table, your shoulder still bleeding where the bullet had hit you. Not fatal. Nothing compared to what you'd already lost.

Your eyes were fixed on nothing. Hollow. Blank. Like everything in you had been drained and left in that warehouse.

Yosano stood over you with her gloves already on, her expression unreadable. She didn't speak at first, just knelt beside you to inspect the wound. She was always methodical with her work—but today… she was gentle.

For once, her touch was soft.

No teasing. No cruel smirk about how she'd "make it hurt to teach you a lesson."

No pain.

Just swift, quiet treatment.

She pulled out a knife, and the next thing you knew, you were waking up again — the wound in your shoulder, and the one she gave you to bring you near death, were healed completely.

Yosano helped you up, watching your face for any sign of reaction.

There was none.

Only your silence. Still. Absolute.

She took a breath, steadied herself, and spoke—quiet, but firm.

"This isn't your fault."

You didn't answer.

She placed her hand gently over the now-healed wound. Her ability had done its work. Physically, you were fine.

But your eyes said otherwise.

She hesitated. For once, uncertain of what to say.

And you, finally, spoke—but only inside your mind.

I wish it wouldn't work.

You wished her ability had failed. That she had brought you just close enough to death that she could drag you back—but that, just this one time, it wouldn't work. That your body would remain still, unmoving, and your heart would follow your brother's to wherever he'd gone.

Because the only thing you wanted in the world was to be by his side again.

But you didn't say that.

You said nothing.

The weight of it all stayed trapped inside you, heavier than any injury, deeper than any wound.

And Yosano—perhaps sensing more than she let on—simply said nothing more.

She stepped back, her gloves red, her eyes unreadable.

You sat there, alone again, in a body that had been healed…

…but without a heart.

It was a small funeral.

You had made that clear. No friends. No classmates. No teachers. No condolences from people who would go home to full tables and warm hugs and laughter.

You couldn't bear it.

Not the pity. Not the hollow comfort of people who didn't understand what it meant to lose everything—not in stages, but in layers, stripped away one by one. Your parents first. And now him. The last piece of light you had left.

He was placed in a white coffin. Small. Too small. It looked unnatural, cruel even, for something like that to exist. Coffins weren't meant for children. They weren't meant to be this size.

The service was held privately, in a secluded section of the cemetery.

Only the Agency was there.

Even now, they respected your silence.

They wore black.

Atsushi stood near the head of the coffin, eyes red and swollen, jaw clenched as though holding back tears was the only thing keeping him from falling apart. His hands shook as he held a single white lily, knuckles pale. When it was time, he laid it down gently, whispering something too soft for anyone else to hear.

Kenji didn't understand at first. Not really. He had been crying since they arrived, quiet sniffles and furrowed brows. But when he saw the way you stood—still, unmoving—his expression crumpled. He looked to Junichiro for guidance, confused by the heavy grief he didn't know how to carry. Junichiro placed a hand on his back and gave him a small nod before stepping forward.

Junichiro didn't speak either. But when he knelt beside the coffin, his fingers grazed the edge gently—reverently—and stayed there a second longer than the others. A quiet goodbye.

Kunikida stood tall, solemn. Hands folded in front of him. He'd brought a single origami crane—yellow, delicate, carefully made. He laid it down with the quiet precision of a man who had memorized funeral rites, who believed in small traditions even when they no longer made sense. His grief was contained, precise—but deep. Like it was folded into him, neat and permanent.

Dazai didn't say a word. He didn't make jokes or offer obtuse philosophies. He simply stared at the coffin for a long, long time. Then he sighed. A real sigh, heavy and dry. His gaze lingered on your brother's name etched into the plaque. When he finally stepped away, he looked older than usual—like he'd seen this too many times.

Yosano arrived in silence. No heels. No crisp lab coat. Just black gloves and a quiet bouquet of white chrysanthemums. Her eyes lingered on you briefly, as though checking for signs of life. She left the flowers, paused by your side for a moment, then stepped back.

Kyoka stood alone beneath a cherry tree just outside the clearing. She hadn't approached the coffin directly. Instead, she held a small, handmade crane in her hands—paper crinkled slightly from how tightly she'd clutched it. Your brother had always been kind to her. Asked her if she wanted to play. Treated her like she wasn't a weapon. Now, she looked at the small coffin like it was something too big to understand.

Naomi had cried earlier. Unashamedly. Her makeup was ruined, and she didn't care. She'd helped your brother with his homework whenever he had a question. He had insisted she was better at it than you. She had laughed.

Fukuzawa had remained quiet from the moment the service began. Not out of coldness, but deep respect. He was a man who believed in silence when words could not reach.

As he approached he coffin, he didn't lay anything down. No flowers. No gifts.

Just a quiet bow—low, formal, respectful.

Then he straightened and turned to you.

"You protected him as long as you could," he said softly. "And he was loved."

Still, you said nothing.

But for the first time since the service began, you blinked. Just once.

Fukuzawa placed a steady hand on your shoulder.

His voice was gentle—but final.

"You do not have to carry this alone."

And then, without waiting for a response, he stepped back, letting the weight of his presence—and his words—rest gently over you, like a blanket meant to warm, not smother.

And Ranpo… Ranpo didn't hide the way he stared at you.

You hadn't moved since the start of the service. You stood near the head of the coffin, gaze fixed ahead, expression unreadable. Not a single tear. Not even the tremble of a breath.

Ranpo watched you like he was solving a puzzle he didn't want to finish.

When it was his turn, he placed a small bag of candies at the foot of the coffin. Strawberry-flavored. The kind your brother liked. It looked out of place among the pale flowers—but somehow… right.

He didn't say anything. Just rested a hand briefly on the lid of the casket.

Then he turned, stepped back beside you.

"You're not crying," he said quietly, not expecting a reply.

You weren't.

You were existing.

Just existing.

No pain, no fury, no breakdown. You stood like a statue—like something inside you had been scooped out and nothing had taken its place.

The service ended in silence.

Each member of the ADA stayed nearby, lingering as long as they dared. Not ready to leave. Not ready to let go.

But eventually, one by one, they drifted back to the black cars waiting near the edge of the cemetery.

Only Ranpo stayed.

And you.

Still unmoving. Still silent.

Even as the sun began to dip lower in the sky.

Even as the cold crept in.

Still, you didn't cry.

You had nothing left to cry with.

Life at the Armed Detective Agency never truly stopped. Not even after something like this.

Cases still came in. People still needed saving. The city still asked the impossible of them.

And slowly—painfully—the ADA began to move again.

But something was missing.

Not just the light, fleeting presence of a child's laughter echoing down the halls… Not just the impromptu visits to your office where small hands would leave behind crayon sketches on old case files or climb into your lap while you worked.

It was you.

You, who had always been the first to arrive and the last to leave. You, who met every mission with a calm mind, every injury with a steady hand. You, who had become the quiet anchor in the Agency—reliable, serious, unwavering.

But now…

Your desk remained untouched.

Your phone remained unanswered.

After the funeral, they gave you space at first. Thought maybe it was what you needed. That with time, you'd come back. That your silence was a form of healing.

But a week passed.

No messages. No signs. No you.

They started trying.

Kunikida was the first to knock on your door. Then Naomi. Then Junichiro. One after another, they stood outside your dorm, calling your name, hoping you'd speak.

But you never did.

The only thing you gave them was a single text each day, sent like clockwork, always to Kunikida.

I'm still here.

That was it.

Not I'm okay, not I'll be back soon, not thank you.

Just proof of life.

And that was only because they had feared the worst. Ranpo, especially, had started pacing whenever the texts didn't come in by noon. Yosano had tried to force the door open once, only stopped because Dazai reminded her you needed some kind of control, however fragile.

It wasn't enough.

Not for them. Not for the empty spaces you'd left behind.

Kenji still looked at your empty desk every morning when he came in, half-expecting you to be there already, a mug of tea in hand, reading reports. He once left a rice ball wrapped in cloth on your desk before heading out to a mission. He never said anything about it, but everyone saw.

Kyoka stopped wearing her hair the way she used to. You had once complimented the ribbon your brother gave her. Now, it stayed in a drawer.

Naomi left a note at your door once. Just a small folded paper: "You don't have to talk. Just let me know if you want someone to sit beside you."

She never got a reply.

And Ranpo…

Ranpo was the only one who never looked away when your name came up. He watched everyone carefully—like he was waiting for a clue to crack, a thread to tug. But even the greatest detective in the world couldn't solve what had broken inside you.

Not yet.

So they waited.

They tried to go on. Filing papers. Solving cases. Saving people.

But everything was a little slower.

A little heavier.

Because there was still a desk that stayed empty. And a child they would never hear laughing again. And a member of their family who had vanished, even though they were still breathing.

The ADA was still standing.

But it wasn't whole.

Ranpo stood at your door with his hands buried deep in the pockets of his coat. The air was still—thick with early morning quiet. The kind of silence the city rarely allowed. Even the birds seemed hesitant to sing.

He stared at the door.

Then, without fanfare, pulled out a small, silver key from inside his coat.

You had given it to Kunikida a long time ago. "In case something ever happens to me," you'd said.

Back then, "something" meant getting injured in a mission. A delay. Maybe forgetting to pick your brother up from school. Not… this.

Kunikida had hesitated when Ranpo asked for it. His mouth had been tight. His hand reluctant. But he'd passed it over anyway. Said nothing.

Ranpo pressed the key into the lock. It clicked softly.

He stepped inside.

The apartment was quiet, dark despite the daylight spilling faintly through the closed curtains. Dust hung suspended in the air like it didn't dare settle too fast. The air smelled faintly of old tea and something sadder—like rooms left untouched for too long.

Ranpo didn't say anything at first.

He just walked in.

The living room was as you'd left it: tidy, minimal, practical. The only splash of color came from a half-finished drawing stuck to the fridge—your brother's.

Ranpo's eyes lingered on it.

Then he turned toward your bedroom.

The door was cracked open slightly.

He knocked once, gently. "It's me," he said.

No answer.

He opened the door anyway.

There you were, curled under a blanket, back facing the door. You didn't move. Didn't react.

He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching the rise and fall of your breathing.

"You gave us space," he said quietly, walking into the room. "We gave it back. Thought maybe you'd pull yourself out eventually."

He sat at the foot of your bed without asking. "But you didn't. And I'm not letting you disappear."

Still, you didn't move.

Ranpo leaned forward, voice softer now.

"Everyone misses you, you know. Kenji left you food. Naomi cried so much she ran out of tissues. Even Dazai's been oddly decent."

No reply.

"…And I miss you," he added, almost too fast.

That finally made something shift.

You turned your head, slowly, eyes empty. Not cold—just… lost.

"You should go," you whispered.

"No," Ranpo said simply. "I'm not here for a case. I'm here for you. And if I leave now, you're going to fade, aren't you?"

You didn't answer.

"You haven't eaten properly in days. You only text Kunikida once a day like a ghost on a schedule. You're not living."

You finally spoke, barely a whisper: "I don't deserve to."

Ranpo didn't flinch.

Instead, he leaned closer, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Your brother wouldn't want this," he said quietly. "You promised to keep him safe. But you also promised to be there for him. That doesn't end just because he's gone."

You closed your eyes.

Ranpo's voice dropped to something gentler than anyone thought he was capable of.

"He loved you. He died loving you. And now all that love's just… sitting here, going nowhere."

A pause.

"You have to do something with it."

He waited a moment longer, then slowly reached out, gently taking your hand in his. You didn't pull away.

"I'm not leaving," he said simply. "Not until you eat. Not until you move. Not until you come back."

You said nothing.

But for the first time in days, your hand tightened ever so slightly around his.

Ranpo smiled, small and sad.

Progress.

The miso soup steamed gently between you, the scent light and familiar. You sat at the kitchen table, hunched slightly forward, fingers wrapped around the warm ceramic bowl Ranpo had placed in front of you.

You hadn't spoken since he led you out of bed—gently, with no pressure, just quiet insistence. He didn't try to coax a smile or distract you with some performance. Just handed you a pair of house slippers, helped you to your feet, and guided you wordlessly to the table.

He'd even brought the soup himself, packed neatly in a thermos, carried from a little corner shop near the agency. Said it was good for upset stomachs. Said nothing more.

You took a slow sip.

The silence wasn't awkward. Not with Ranpo. It sat between you like a folded blanket—soft, and strangely comforting.

After a while, he leaned back in his chair, watching you without expectation. Then, after a long pause, he asked gently:

"Have you thought about your next step?"

Your spoon froze mid-air. You didn't look up.

"I don't know," you answered honestly, voice rough from disuse.

He nodded. "Do you want to stay here?"

The question lingered in the room. It felt… heavy. Not because of the words themselves, but because of what they carried.

This place was yours. Yours and your brother's.

His drawings still hung on the fridge. His favorite book still lay on the coffee table. His shoes still by the door.

Every corner breathed with his absence. Every silent second echoed with what used to be.

You stared into the soup for a long time.

"If I stay," you said quietly, "I'll see him everywhere."

Ranpo nodded. "And if you leave?"

"…Then it's like he was never here."

He didn't answer at first. Just let your words hang, then softened his voice.

"There's no right answer. People do both. Some keep everything. Some throw it all away. Some… do a bit of both."

You finally looked at him. He wasn't smiling. Not his usual smug grin, not even a comforting curl of the lips. Just watching you with quiet sincerity.

"I can't decide that for you," he said. "But whatever you choose… I'll be there."

You blinked.

"If you stay," he continued, "I'll stay too. Move in. Temporarily. Or longer. Doesn't matter. I'll be in the next room. You won't be alone."

Your chest tightened.

"And if you want to leave, I'll help find a new place. Something small. Quiet. Maybe near the river. We can bring whatever you want with us. Or nothing at all."

He tilted his head slightly.

"You don't have to figure it out right now. But just… know I'll follow. Wherever you go."

Your fingers tightened around the bowl.

You didn't answer, not yet. The question was too big. Too soon.

But something inside you eased—just a little.

The soup was still warm. Ranpo was still here.

And maybe, that was enough. For now.

Ranpo didn't move in all at once.

He simply started… being there.

At first, he kept his word exactly: not too close, not too far. He slept on your couch the first few nights—not that you'd asked him to, but when you wandered out of your room for water at 2 AM and saw him there under a throw blanket, you didn't wake him. You didn't ask questions.

You were grateful.

You didn't say that either.

He made coffee in the morning, always the way you liked it. Didn't ask if you wanted some—just handed you the mug, already knowing.

He restocked the fridge without asking. Your favorite tea, the kind of soup you could stomach, the brand of rice crackers your brother had loved and you now found impossible to throw out. He fixed the loose window latch in your bedroom when it got cold. He did the laundry when the hamper was overflowing. Folded it neatly and left it in the hallway.

When you forgot to take your phone charger to the living room—he brought it. When your head ached, he left a glass of water and painkillers beside you before you could say a word.

Ranpo was... a constant.

Never demanding. Never in the way. Never pushing for words you didn't have.

And yet always there.

He never tried to "cheer you up." He never told you it would get better. He never told you to move on or to let go. He understood—without needing to say it—that some things weren't meant to be healed, only carried.

And so he carried part of it with you.

He filled the silence with presence. Not noise.

On nights you couldn't sleep, you'd find him sitting on the floor, back against the sofa, flipping through one of your brother's old manga volumes. He never said he missed him too—but he didn't need to. You knew. The way he touched the page edges gently, like something sacred. The way he didn't speak when you sat beside him on the floor, close enough to feel his warmth.

You'd forgotten what it was like to feel safe. To feel that someone could be relied on, fully, without condition.

But Ranpo—Ranpo didn't falter. Not once.

He was everything you needed. Even when you didn't know what that was.

And though you never said thank you—he never expected you to.

Still, you caught him watching you sometimes. Quietly. Carefully. Not analyzing. Just… watching.

As if trying to solve a mystery he didn't want to rush.

As if learning you all over again, one breath at a time.

You'd been sitting on the edge of your bed for twenty minutes, hair half-brushed, dressed in a clean hoodie for the first time in days, trying to talk yourself into walking outside.

The thought of returning to the ADA felt like standing at the edge of a high place. Not because you didn't want to go back. But because you weren't sure how to take that first step without falling apart in front of everyone.

You could already imagine it—how their eyes would follow you the moment you walked in. Full of sympathy. Of sadness. Of quiet apologies no one would dare speak aloud. You didn't want that. Couldn't take that. Not yet.

Ranpo, of course, knew.

He didn't say anything about it. Didn't ask if you were okay, or if you were going to go in on Monday. He simply waited until Saturday morning, then made you tea like always. The moment you settled down at the table, he glanced at the clock.

"Any minute now," he said.

You looked at him, puzzled. "What?"

And then, as if on cue, there was a knock at the door.

Before you could move, Ranpo was already on his feet, unlocking it.

"Good morning!!" came a voice brighter than the sun.

Kenji.

He practically bounded into the apartment, a paper bag in each arm, beaming with joy so big it nearly cracked your chest open.

"Ranpo-san said I could come if I brought enough food," he announced proudly, as he set down a mountain of bakery bags onto the table. "So I bought everything!"

There were croissants, melon bread, jam rolls, curry buns, cream puffs, matcha cookies, apple turnovers—you weren't sure the bakery had anything left.

Kenji turned to you, still smiling but softer now, his voice lowering just a little. "I missed you... a lot."

For a moment, you couldn't speak. Couldn't even look away from his face—so open, so unguarded, not heavy with pity but full of genuine happiness just to see you again.

"…I missed you too," you said. Your voice cracked just slightly. You hoped no one noticed.

Kenji did, but he said nothing. Just plopped down across from you, already pulling out pastries and arranging them neatly in the center of the table.

"I didn't know what you'd want," he said, handing you a paper napkin and a little cinnamon roll. "So I got all the best ones. You can eat whatever you want—or none of it! That's fine too."

You took the cinnamon roll.

You didn't eat all of it, but you took a few bites. That was enough for Kenji to light up like someone had turned the sun on in your tiny kitchen.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you didn't feel entirely empty.

Ranpo didn't say much either—he just sat nearby, sipping his tea, watching over both of you with a faint, knowing smile.

Because he understood.

Sometimes, healing didn't start with the big things. Sometimes, it began with warm bread, a full table, and someone who missed you so much, they raided a bakery just to see you smile again.

The next evening Ranpo mentioned, rather casually over a shared cup of tea, that he'd be out for a few hours.

"Case," he said, sliding on his coat. "Kunikida begged me." (You knew that meant Ranpo offered, and Kunikida had just been too tired to refuse.)

You only nodded. You'd grown used to his comings and goings. He always came back, anyway.

What he didn't mention—deliberately—was that he'd also invited a few people over. People you hadn't seen in weeks.

There was a knock at the door twenty minutes after he left.

You blinked. Then stood up slowly and opened it.

"Surprise!" came Naomi's cheery voice, arms full of snacks and DVDs.

Yosano stood just behind her, elegant and cool as ever, holding a small bottle of plum wine and a tired smile. "Ranpo called. Hope you don't mind a girls' night," she said. "We brought provisions."

Kyoka was the last to enter, quiet and composed, her eyes softer than usual. She didn't carry anything but herself, which somehow felt like enough.

You stepped aside, uncertain but not protesting, and they entered your apartment like they'd done it a dozen times before. No fanfare. No awkward tension.

Naomi flopped down on your couch and kicked off her shoes, already pulling out a DVD box. "We're watching Sailor Moon. And you're not allowed to say no."

Yosano was in the kitchen, helping herself to your tea set. "I'm making honey citrus tea, and yes, you're having some," she called. "Plum wine's only if you want it."

Kyoka sat beside you gently, not close enough to overwhelm, but near enough to say: I'm here. If you need me.

You let them.

You let Naomi chatter away about the animation quality and her favorite senshi. You let Yosano pour you a warm drink and sit down like she belonged there. You let Kyoka quietly hand you a blanket when the evening air grew colder.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, the silence didn't press down like a weight. It simply existed.

Warm. Present. Accepting.

You even smiled once. Just barely. But Naomi saw it and beamed like she'd won something. "See?" she whispered to Kyoka, grinning. "Told you."

You didn't cry. Didn't break down. But you felt something loosen inside your chest—a thread of comfort you hadn't known you were missing.

And later that night, after they all left with promises to come again, you sat at the table by yourself for a moment. Letting it all settle.

The thought of returning to the ADA… didn't feel quite as impossible anymore.

Because little by little, piece by piece, the people who made up your second family were coming to you—not asking you to be okay, not demanding you return—

Just reminding you that you weren't alone.

Monday morning came like a slow exhale. The streets of Yokohama bustled with life, and the world kept turning, indifferent to the holes grief carved out of you.

You stood outside the ADA office doors for a long minute. Not frozen, not trembling—just… still.

Ranpo stood beside you without a word. His hat was pulled low, and he had his hands stuffed into his coat pockets. He didn't say anything to hurry you. Didn't joke or smile.

He just waited.

The building looked the same. Same glass windows. Same hum of old electric lights. Same crooked sign above the door. But to you, it was different.

You hadn't walked through those doors since the day your world ended.

You let out a quiet breath. And then another. Ranpo didn't move, but you felt him with you. Steady. Solid.

Then, finally, you stepped forward and opened the door.

The sound of it creaking open seemed deafening in the stillness of the morning.

The office was warm inside. Sunlight filtered through the blinds. The smell of coffee lingered in the air. Paper rustled. Someone coughed. It was—normal.

Until everyone looked up.

It was subtle at first. A pen paused mid-stroke. A keyboard stopped clacking. Even Dazai, lounging on a couch, lifted his head with surprising gentleness.

The entire agency fell silent.

You stood in the doorway, shoulders square but eyes unreadable. Ranpo followed a step behind, his presence calm, anchoring.

"Good morning," you said. Your voice was quiet. Not hesitant—just… even.

Kunikida was the first to stand. "Welcome back," he said, his voice low, careful. But steady.

Then came Kenji, already bounding across the room with a grin, but slowing to a walk at the last second, respecting the quiet weight in the air. "I'm so glad you're here," he said simply, as if it were the most important thing in the world.

Naomi waved from her desk, beaming through misty eyes.

Atsushi looked like he didn't know whether to cry or smile. So he did both.

Kyoka nodded, her expression unreadable, but her eyes warm. She didn't need to say anything.

Even Dazai straightened up, looking at you with something like respect. No jokes. No teasing.

Just understanding.

You gave a small nod in return and slowly made your way to your desk—your old desk, still exactly as you'd left it. A few papers had been tidied. A small note from Kenji sat on top, scribbled in crayon. "Your chair missed you! (Me too.)"

You sat down.

Ranpo pulled out the chair beside yours and dropped into it with a sigh, tossing a wrapped candy onto your desk. "Welcome home," he said, simple as anything.

Your fingers brushed the smooth edge of the desk—your desk—and for a moment, it felt both painfully familiar and impossibly distant. The office was quiet, gentle in its rhythm. No one stared. No one spoke louder than they had to. Life had moved forward, but not without leaving space for what had been lost.

Then your eyes drifted upward—past the shelves, past the softly humming lights—to the corner of the room where a sun-faded drawing still hung.

It was a little crinkled around the edges, the tape slightly peeling, but it was still there.

Your brother's picture.

All of them—Atsushi, Kenji, Junichiro, Naomi, Kyoka, Yosano, Dazai, Kunikida, Ranpo, even Fukuzawa—drawn in crooked, smiling lines, labeled in wobbly handwriting. And you, at your desk, coffee in hand, a little heart hovering above your head. In the center, as always, was him. Bright eyes. Big grin. Like he belonged here. Because he had.

You didn't cry. You didn't collapse.

But something cracked open gently inside you. Not in pain—but in warmth.

For the first time since the funeral, your chest didn't feel quite so hollow.

He was still here with you. Still in the picture. With all of you.

Ranpo leaned his shoulder against yours, quiet in a way only he knew how to be. He didn't say anything else, didn't need to.

You let yourself breathe again.

You were home.

The new flat smelled faintly of fresh paint and the faintest trace of lemon cleaner. The windows were wide, sunlight pouring in from every angle, touching each wall with warmth you hadn't quite grown used to yet. Cardboard boxes still sat in corners, half-unpacked, a sign that life was still in motion—even now, even after everything.

It had taken nearly a year to get to this point. A year since everything had changed. Since you'd lost him. Since your world had quietly, devastatingly cracked in half.

A year in which you had learned how to live again.

The fridge was already covered with drawings. Crayon lines forming stars and stick figures and messy attempts at animals. You had carefully placed each one there, smoothing the edges with care. He had drawn them all in moments of joy, of boredom, of childhood—simple, beautiful snapshots of the boy you'd loved more than anything.

You stood there for a moment, hand brushing over one of the pages. Your chest ached. The kind of ache that had settled in and made a home beside your heartbeat, quiet but constant. It didn't flare so violently anymore. It didn't crush your lungs like it had.

But it never left. Not fully. And you didn't expect it to.

On the walls of the living room were framed photos—one of you and your brother with ridiculous hats on at a festival. One of him asleep on your shoulder during a slow afternoon at the ADA office. One of your team all crowded into the frame at a year-end party, laughing like nothing bad could ever happen to any of you.

Each picture was a weight. But it was a weight you had to carry.

And through it all, you kept moving.

Not because you didn't feel like breaking. Some days, you did. But because, somehow, you learned how to breathe through it. How to get out of bed even on the days you didn't want to. How to ask for help when the silence felt too loud. How to let the people who cared about you stay.

Ranpo had helped more than you could ever put into words. He didn't push. He didn't prod. He just… stayed. With gentle persistence, in his own curious, compassionate way, he had given you space without ever leaving your side.

Now, he sat beside you on the couch in the new living room, your first night truly living there together. The lights were dim. The boxes were forgotten for now.

Your legs were curled beneath you, your body tucked into his side like it had always belonged there—because by now, it did. There was no hesitation in the way you leaned into him, no line between comfort and closeness anymore. His arm wrapped securely around your shoulders, holding you not like a friend would, but like someone who had chosen you—again and again, every day since.

His fingers traced soft, slow circles into the fabric of your sleeve, grounding you with each small movement. The television was off, the lights dimmed, and the city outside murmured through the windows—faint, distant, almost unreal.

"You okay?" he asked, voice quiet, brushing gently against the stillness that had settled over the room.

You hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah," you said. It wasn't entirely a lie. Just... not the whole truth. "It still hurts."

"I know," he said, no push, no pressure—just him.

You tilted your head, resting it against his shoulder, and felt his cheek come to rest on your hair like he'd done it a hundred times before. "I think it always will."

He kissed the crown of your head—light, familiar, and steady. "Yeah," he murmured, "but you're not alone. You'll never be."

And somehow, that was enough. Not to erase the pain, but to make the weight bearable. You closed your eyes, the silence stretching comfortably between you—filled only with the sound of your breathing and his, two rhythms moving together in quiet defiance of the ache.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt like you were going to be okay.

Not today. Not tomorrow. But someday.

Because the promise you made—to always protect your brother, to keep going for him—wasn't broken.

It had simply changed.

And with Ranpo by your side, with your family at the ADA, with your memories framed on the wall—you'd carry it forward.

Always.

Masterlist

[bknwa]

YOUR RANPO FICS MAKES MY DAY AHH!! I havr another idea it'd like to say :3c SO um I'm sorry if it's too long but I'm thinkingggg gn! Reader x Ranpo fluff where the two were hanging out with Atsushi qnd Kyouka, you adored Kyouka+Atsushi and sees them as little kiddos, you took extra care for them and after knowing what happened to them, you swore to protect the both of them <3!! And Ranpo, your close friend, he'd sometimes catch you hanging out with Kyouka and Atsushi, whether it's just eating something together or you braiding Kyouka's hair and brushing Atsushi's messy hair, Ranpo would always join in, he didn't need an excuse, he'd just shove himself in and pretend he was already in thr conversation, which no one minded, you loved Ranpo's presence anyways (or maybe him too (;) So the routine continued normally until one day Yosano walked up to Kyouka, who was eating a big crepe and asked where she got that from, Kyouka said "I'm not sure... but you can ask Y/N and Ranpo, they were the one buying it. They're great parents, as always." Kyouka said calmly, which left you, Ranpo,Atsushi and Yosano in the room frozen and speechless. Atsushi hurrief to Kyouka and asked what she meany by that, to which Kyouka replied "Oh, I'm sorry. It's just that they take care of us so much I see them as one, don't you too, Atsushi?" Atsushi then pondered before confessing "Actually...yes. They're a great pair, almost like thr parents I've never had." Yosano just "aww"ef sweetly at that while you and Rsnpo looked at eachother, before immediately looking away with a bright blush on eachother's faces. One part of you wanted to cry that Kyouka and Atsushi loved you like that parent, but the other part made you completely embarrassed that they ALSO see Ranpo as the parent, meaning they must see the both of you as MARRIED???? You two were close, yes, but never crossed the line to romance. That was when the office emptied, just the two of you, Ranpo didn't look at you, but he mumbled "...You know, I wouldn't mind playing Family, if it's you being the other parent, the..um..my- co-parent..? Just- lets go further" Ranpo said, you can clearly see a visible blush reach from his cheeks to even his ears with a pout on his face, youvr NEVER seen Ranpo this embarrassed, and its endearing. After you two had an awkward confession, behind thr Agency door, little did you know, Atsushi and Kyouka were litsening to the both of you finally agreeing to take this step further, Kyouka and Atsushi high fived eachother for their successful Cupid plan. But when you and Ranpo leaned in to kiss, Atsushi covered Kyouka's face with an embarrassed blush <3333 AGHHH I HOPE IM NOT BEING TO SPECIFIC!! -🍮 anonie >v•

Playing Family

synopsis: After quietly caring for Atsushi and Kyouka like family, you and Ranpo find yourselves unexpectedly seen as parental figures—leading to an awkward but heartfelt confession and the beginning of a new, unconventional family bound by love, laughter, and a little chaos.

content/warnings: Ranpo Edogawa x reader, fluff, -3.000 words

The Armed Detective Agency wasn't the kind of place most would associate with warmth and comfort. Between dangerous missions, strange ability-users, and the occasional flying desk courtesy of Dazai or Kunikida, it could feel more like a battlefield than a home.

But over time, you carved out a small corner of peace within the chaos.

It started subtly. You never announced your intentions. No grand gestures, no declarations. Just… brushing Atsushi's messy, uncooperative hair when he came into the office looking like he'd fought a windstorm. He'd freeze every time the brush passed through, a little overwhelmed by the quiet act of care.

"You don't have to," he'd murmur, ears red.

"I know," you'd reply simply. "But I want to."

You noticed Kyouka next. Her hair was always tied back in a simple ribbon, neat but plain. One day, you asked if you could braid it. She blinked at you, surprised, before giving a quiet nod.

That first braid turned into a daily habit. French braids. Twin tails. Once, you even did a looped bun and added a butterfly clip. You swore you saw her smile for the first time that week.

Dinners followed. You didn't mean to start cooking for them—it just happened. Atsushi skipped meals too often, and Kyouka had a worrying fondness for instant noodles. You began bringing homemade bento boxes, sliding them over with a casual, "Eat this before Dazai steals it."

Then came the lessons. Teaching them how to fry eggs without burning the pan. How to tell if vegetables were fresh. Kyouka liked precise instructions and followed every step like a mission. Atsushi burned rice the first three times, but beamed with pride when he finally got it right.

They were strong. Unbelievably so. But strength didn't teach you how to live. How to shop for clothes that fit or how to fold laundry without it turning into origami. How to smile without guilt.

So you stepped in.

But you weren't alone.

"Seriously, this again?" Ranpo drawled from the couch, halfway through a bag of sugar candies. "You're turning them into house pets."

You looked up from where you were adjusting Kyouka's new obi. "It's called caring, Ranpo."

He rolled his eyes, popping another candy into his mouth. "Tch. You know they're fully capable of taking care of themselves, right?"

Kyouka spoke without looking up. "I like when she does it."

Atsushi nodded beside her, still trying to figure out how to tie his new shoes. "It makes things feel… normal."

Ranpo grumbled something under his breath about sentimentality and collapsed further into the couch.

But you noticed—he stayed.

He always did.

When you took them shopping, he tagged along. Complained about the walking, about the crowds, about how much money you were spending—yet he carried the bags without being asked.

When you showed them how to cook, he complained about not enough sugar being added to the food, but still set the table and gave them tricks on how to flip pancakes easier.

The four of you fell into a rhythm: odd, unspoken, a kind of family with no name. You never acknowledged it aloud. 

Just like today. 

The summer air buzzed with music, the scent of grilled food, and the colorful whirl of yukatas fluttering like flower petals in motion. Lanterns glowed overhead, casting a warm, golden light across the shrine grounds. It was crowded, loud, and chaotic—but somehow, it felt like magic.

Kyouka stood beside you, eyes wide as she took in the rows of festival stalls. She wore a lavender yukata with delicate sakura prints you'd picked out together earlier that week. The obi had been a little too loose, so you had knelt beside her just minutes ago, adjusting and re-tying it carefully.

"Hold still," you murmured, fingers gently tucking the excess fabric and smoothing the knot.

She didn't speak, but you caught the way her hand quietly brushed yours when you finished. A silent thank-you.

Atsushi trailed behind, adjusting the sleeve of his summer haori. He looked around like he wasn't quite sure if he belonged in the fun, as if joy were something you had to earn.

You weren't having that.

"Here," you said, handing them each a small envelope with a few bills inside. "For games and snacks. Spend it however you like."

Atsushi blinked. "You don't have to—"

"I know," you said, echoing the same words he often used. "But I want to."

Kyouka immediately marched over to a takoyaki stall with quiet determination, and you followed behind at a comfortable distance, ready to step in if needed—but not hovering.

Ranpo, naturally, made his entrance with a loud yawn and a sigh like he'd just been dragged through a battlefield.

"This place is loud. And the food's overpriced," he grumbled, plucking a stick of dango from a tray as he walked past a vendor.

"You didn't pay for that," you deadpanned.

"Detective privilege," he replied, already chewing. "Besides, I'm only here because you insisted on bringing the orphans."

"They're not orphans," you said, handing a water bottle to Atsushi, who'd just returned from a shooting gallery stall, empty-handed but smiling faintly. "They're part of the Agency."

"Tch. Whatever you say," Ranpo hummed under his breath.

Later, you wandered by a ring toss booth. Kyouka was munching on her skewered mochi, watching others play without joining in. You stepped up, took the rings, and with a bit of beginner's luck—and determination—you won a small, white rabbit plush with floppy ears.

You turned around and offered it to her without a word. She stared at it for a moment, then reached out with both hands, holding it like it was something fragile and precious.

"…Thank you," she said softly.

Before you could answer, Ranpo's voice rang out from across the festival.

"HAH! Who's the best? I am!" he shouted, holding up a small bag of water with a triumphant goldfish wriggling inside. "I am the goldfish king!"

He strutted over with a smug grin on his face—only to pause mid-step as he caught sight of Atsushi standing a few feet away, clutching a few torn scoops and looking sheepishly at an empty bucket.

Ranpo rolled his eyes. "Seriously? That's just sad."

He held out the goldfish without fanfare. "Here. I'm not taking care of this thing."

Atsushi's eyes widened. "What? But—"

"It's your problem now." Ranpo tossed the bag gently into Atsushi's hands before turning back to the food stalls. "I'm getting more dango. If anyone asks, I'm a generous hero."

You saw Atsushi cradle the bag with the tiniest, stunned smile on his face.

Later, when Kyouka tugged on her sleeve and frowned—her yukata having slipped slightly from her shoulder—Ranpo silently pulled a small safety pin from his pocket and handed it to you without being asked.

You raised an eyebrow. "You carry pins?"

"Obviously," he replied, popping another piece of dango into his mouth. "I plan for everything."

And when the crowd got thicker, louder, and Atsushi began to visibly shrink under the weight of it all, Ranpo dropped back beside him without a word. He chewed his snack leisurely and muttered under his breath:

"Guy in the yellow shirt? Definitely a pickpocket. Woman with the red scarf? Carrying a love charm, no luck yet. Those two kids over there? One's about to cry because he lost his yo-yo…"

He went on like that, a steady stream of nonsensical (yet oddly calming) commentary, and you watched Atsushi's shoulders gradually relax.

You didn't say it aloud, but you knew.

Ranpo never called it "helping." But he never left your side, either.

And neither did they.

The days following the festival returned to normal in the Agency—if you could ever call anything that happened here "normal."

Kunikida was shouting about something Dazai did (again), Yosano was off on a house call, and most of the others were out on missions. The office felt unusually calm with just you, Ranpo, Kyouka, and Atsushi lingering behind.

Kyouka was sitting on the couch, her legs tucked beneath her as she slowly nibbled on a strawberry crepe. The same one you bought her earlier that morning, after catching her staring longingly into a café display window.

You'd said nothing—just walked in, bought two, and handed one to her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Now she ate it with careful, deliberate bites, like it was too sweet to rush.

Ranpo lounged in his usual seat, feet kicked up on the table, his hat tilted slightly forward to block out the afternoon light streaming in through the windows. He looked half-asleep, but you could tell by the subtle shifts in his fingers—tapping against his knee to some private rhythm—that he was listening.

You were at your desk, sorting paperwork, trying not to hum under your breath.

The calm was broken when Yosano pushed open the door, looking mildly surprised to see the four of you still there.

"Oh? Still hanging around?" she asked, walking in with her usual mix of elegance and hidden danger.

Her gaze caught on the crepe in Kyouka's hand.

"Where'd you get that, sweetheart?"

Kyouka blinked, licking some of the cream off her thumb.

"I'm not sure…" she said slowly. "But you can ask Y/N and Ranpo. They were the ones who bought it. They're great parents, as always."

You froze mid-stamp. Ranpo's eyes snapped open. Atsushi choked on his tea. Yosano stared.

Then smiled.

There was a full beat of stunned silence.

You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but nothing came out. Ranpo had straightened in his chair, now very much awake, though his face was unreadable behind the wide brim of his hat. You could see the tips of his ears turning red.

Atsushi was the first to speak, voice a bit high-pitched.

"W-Wait, Kyouka—parents?!"

Kyouka tilted her head. "Is that wrong?"

He looked flustered. "I mean, they're not... we're not really a family—right?"

Kyouka blinked at him, calm as ever. "I'm sorry. It's just… they take care of us so much. I see them as one. Don't you, too, Atsushi?"

Atsushi opened his mouth, then closed it. He frowned in thought.

And then—softly, almost sheepishly—he nodded.

"Actually… yeah. I guess I do. They're like the parents I never really had."

You couldn't breathe for a moment.

There it was—unspoken and raw. The kind of love neither of them had known growing up. Not the kind you earn, or survive for—but the kind that simply is. That shows up with extra gloves when it's cold, that teaches you to cut carrots safely, that buys you a crepe when you didn't even ask.

Yosano let out an actual, audible coo.

"Awwww~ That's so sweet."

You glanced at Ranpo, whose face now wore the exact same stunned expression you were sure was mirrored on your own. He turned to look at you—and that was a mistake, because the second your eyes met, both your faces exploded in bright red blushes.

You looked away so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash.

Kyouka thinks we're her parents. Ranpo and I.

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest. Part of you wanted to laugh, part of you wanted to cry. You were glad, of course. Overjoyed that they saw you that way. But also—Ranpo?! As your partner?!

Okay, maybe not that unbelievable. He had been at your side this whole time, hadn't he?

But still.

Ranpo looked like he was trying to disappear into his coat, one hand adjusting his hat to cover more of his face.

You cleared your throat. "W-Well, I think that's enough heartwarming honesty for one day."

Kyouka calmly went back to eating her crepe.

Atsushi quietly smiled.

Yosano looked like she was about to start knitting you all matching sweaters.

And Ranpo… Ranpo didn't say a word. But he didn't leave your side, either.

Not then.

Not later.

Not ever.

Evening settled gently over the Agency, casting long shadows through the windows as the golden light softened to dusky hues. One by one, the others had filed out—Yosano off to meet friends, Atsushi muttering something about errands, and Kyouka quietly following after, her new rabbit plush tucked under one arm.

She'd paused briefly in the doorway, glancing back with her usual calm gaze. "Goodnight… Mom. Dad."

Then she closed the door before either of you could react.

The silence that followed was deafening.

You stood near your desk, eyes still on the door like it might open again and offer a chance to pretend none of this ever happened. But it didn't.

You slowly turned, only to find Ranpo still sitting in his chair, half-sunk into the cushion with his hat tilted just far enough to hide his eyes. He hadn't moved for a full minute.

"…They're serious about this, huh," he muttered finally, voice lower than usual. "That's not something you just say on a whim."

You nodded slowly. "Yeah. I think they meant it."

Ranpo didn't respond at first, just reached up and pulled off his hat, holding it loosely in his hands. That alone was telling—he never willingly gave up the hat.

"…You know," he said, tone so quiet it barely felt like him, "I wouldn't mind playing family."

You blinked. Your heart stopped mid-beat.

He kept his eyes on the hat in his lap, cheeks tinged pink. "If it's with you," he added, then hesitated. "As my… co-parent?"

You stared. Not because you were unsure—but because of how earnestly he'd said it. This wasn't the cocky, dramatic Ranpo you were used to. This was someone trying really, really hard to say something terrifying without screwing it up.

Something inside you melted.

A quiet smile tugged at your lips. "Co-parent, huh?"

You stepped closer, voice soft but warm. "That sounds like a promotion."

Ranpo let out a weak laugh, fingers tightening slightly around the rim of his hat. His eyes finally met yours, green and vulnerable.

"Let's just…" he cleared his throat, then looked away again, ears flaming. "Let's just go further."

Your smile widened—shy and fond and a little shaky, like your heart couldn't decide whether to burst or float.

"…Okay," you said quietly. "Let's."

Behind the Agency door, just around the corner, two familiar pairs of shoes shuffled quickly.

"See? I told you they'd do it," Kyouka whispered, deadpan.

Atsushi gave her a high five with the biggest, softest grin. "Operation Found Family: Success."

But when they peeked in to see your faces leaning closer, Ranpo's voice barely a whisper and your hand brushing his—

Atsushi yelped and immediately slapped a hand over Kyouka's eyes.

"Nope, nope—too early for that!"

She blinked behind his hand. "You didn't cover your own eyes."

"…Shut up."

It had been exactly seven days since the incident—as Ranpo had dubbed it with a dramatic flail of his arms and a blush so fierce it rivaled the sun.

Since then, life had resumed its usual, semi-chaotic rhythm in the Agency. Missions, paperwork, and Dazai's constant, life-threatening antics never ceased. But something had shifted.

Ranpo now hovered just a bit more. He still teased you, still acted like he had zero interest in "emotional nonsense," but he also now held your hand when he thought no one was looking. (Spoiler: everyone was always looking.)

And today?

Today was suspiciously quiet.

Which, in this place, was never good.

"Where are Atsushi and Kyouka?" you asked, looking up from your desk.

Ranpo, across from you, was sipping soda with the most theatrical yawn known to man. "Dunno. But the moment something explodes, I'm blaming them."

Before you could respond, the door burst open.

Atsushi stood there, breathless and awkwardly holding something behind his back. Kyouka followed, her face as neutral as always—except for the tiniest twitch of anticipation around her mouth.

"Um… surprise?" Atsushi said.

Ranpo's eyes narrowed. "No explosions, right?"

"None!" Atsushi promised quickly, stepping aside so Kyouka could step forward with her arms full.

She approached you first and wordlessly handed you a small box wrapped in newspaper (you recognized it—Ranpo's half-finished crossword was on one side). Inside was a simple charm bracelet: mismatched, a little clumsy, but carefully strung with tiny beads shaped like rabbits, pancakes, and—for some reason—a mushroom.

"Sorry we're late," Kyouka said, quietly. "Mother's Day passed… but we didn't want to skip it."

You nearly choked on your own breath.

"Aww—Kyouka," you said, heart swelling as you held the little bracelet like it was made of gold. "This is—thank you. It's perfect."

She nodded once and turned away just as her ears turned pink.

Atsushi turned to Ranpo, who blinked in surprise as the boy shoved something into his hands.

It was… a homemade mug. The paint was smeared in places, and the words "World's #1 Smartass Dad" were etched across the front in shaky lettering.

Ranpo stared.

Atsushi cleared his throat. "It was that or 'Best Parent Who Eats Too Many Sweets.' We voted."

Kyouka nodded solemnly. "I chose the smartass one."

Ranpo was frozen, staring at the mug like it had personally insulted his intelligence. But then, very slowly, a grin broke across his face.

"Well," he said, setting it carefully on the desk like it was fragile treasure, "at least it's not wrong."

You gave him a look. "So you admit you're a smartass."

He turned to you with a wink. "Only the world's number one."

Atsushi and Kyouka exchanged a subtle high five behind your back.

Ranpo caught it out of the corner of his eye—and this time, didn't say a word.

Instead, he reached over and took your hand beneath the desk, giving it a soft squeeze.

And as you looked around at the mismatched little group of people you called home, you realized there was nowhere else you'd rather be, and no family you'd rather have.

Masterlist

[bknwa]

May I request another Ranpo fic hehe :3,,, May I ask pre-relationship Gn! Reader x Ranpo where they're having a sleepover at Ranpo's house, just talking about random things until late at night and they when they sleep (Ranpo has his own Futon but he kept an extra one for reader and placed next to him), what he didn't know is that reader is a cuddle bug, and unfortunately he doesn't have any body pillows for them to hug. So what did they do instead? They slept like a bear and unconsciously scooted to Ranpo's Futon and cuddled him instead, poor Ranpo, his brain stopped working and he was bright red T^T!!!! It didn't help that in the morning, you didn't know what you did as you both wake up on different sides and when you two finished dressing up, reader noticed Ranpo can NOT tie his tie correctly for the life of him, so you came to him and did it instead, leaving Ranpo froze at the proximity. Reader was do oblivious that after they left, Ranpo literally was weak on the knees and flushing red <33 -from da 🍮anonie!!!

Case of the Cuddly Culprit

synopsis: When a casual sleepover with Ranpo turns into an accidental cuddle-fest, the world’s greatest detective finds himself completely undone by your unconscious affection—and worse, realizes he might actually like it. Now hopelessly touch-starved and flustered, Ranpo’s only solution is to march to your door in the middle of the night for more… research.

content/warnings: Ranpo Edogawa x reader, fluff, -4.951 words

The soft hum of a movie played in the background, the dialogue nearly drowned out by the loud rustling of snack wrappers. Ranpo's living room was exactly what you expected: cluttered, chaotic, very Ranpo. Manga stacked unevenly on the floor, detective novels poking out from under the kotatsu, half a dozen empty candy wrappers scattered like fallen leaves. And in the middle of it all—Ranpo, sitting crisscross on the floor, happily munching on a bag of caramel popcorn like it was oxygen itself.

You sat next to him, leaned against the slightly lumpy couch, legs tucked under yourself, balancing an open bag of gummies on your knee.

"Okay," you said, pointing dramatically at the TV, "plot hole number fifteen—why would anyone go into a creepy abandoned house at night just to get a stupid necklace? Who does that?"

Ranpo didn't even glance at the screen. "Idiots," he answered through a mouthful of popcorn, crumbs on the corner of his mouth. "Besides, I would've solved the whole thing in five minutes. Tops."

"You say that like you wouldn't just nap in the corner until someone brought you snacks."

"Wrong." He stuck a finger up smugly, "I'd nap after solving the mystery. With snacks on me. Obviously."

You snorted, flopping dramatically sideways across the couch, head hanging over the edge. "Of course. How silly of me to forget your advanced detective strategy: solve crime, nap, eat sweets."

"See? You are learning."

A gummi bear bounced off his forehead before plopping into his lap.

Ranpo blinked down at it, then slowly looked at you with the flattest expression imaginable. "Assault. With sugar. How dare you."

You burst into laughter as he picked up the candy and immediately ate it with an exaggerated crunch.

It was comfortable like this—half talking nonsense, half watching the movie, mostly ignoring the plot in favor of making fun of the characters. Every so often, you'd toss a snack his way, and Ranpo, being Ranpo, caught most of them with almost offensively perfect reflexes.

Eventually, the movie became just background noise, replaced by random conversations about childhood games, favorite candies, weird dreams, and how Ranpo swore up and down that he once solved a case in his sleep. (You're still not sure if he was serious.)

By the time midnight rolled around, Ranpo finally stretched his arms over his head, letting out a dramatic sigh. "Alright. Detective genius needs his beauty sleep."

"You have beauty?" you teased, grinning at him over your shoulder.

"Excuse you, I am an icon of intellectual and physical beauty. Just ask anyone. Even Dazai's jealous."

"Dazai's not jealous—Dazai's unhinged."

"Exactly."

He stood up and disappeared for a moment into the back room, returning with two futons under his arms. He dropped them on the floor next to the couch, one right next to the other, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Got an extra. Obviously. Detective planning skills," he said with a wink.

"You knew I'd crash here?" you asked, raising a brow.

"Of course. I deduced it." He tapped the side of his head. "Genius, remember?"

"Right, right…" you grinned. "Thanks, Ranpo."

The casual thanks was enough to make his confident smirk falter just for a second, a faint pink creeping onto his cheeks, though he quickly masked it with a yawn.

"Whatever. Just don't snore."

"Don't drool."

"Never."

The playful banter dwindled as the futons were unrolled, pillows plopped into place, lights turned low. The last thing you remembered before your eyelids got too heavy was Ranpo settling down in his futon beside you, munching on one last piece of chocolate.

"G'night, Y/N," he mumbled softly, voice drifting lazily into the quiet.

"Night, Ranpo…"

Neither of you knew yet that Ranpo's night of peaceful sleep was about to be completely obliterated.

The apartment was quiet now, save for the occasional crinkle of a snack wrapper shifting when the night breeze from the open window drifted by.

Ranpo was already dozing, one arm lazily flopped across his pillow, his breathing soft and steady. For once, his sharp mind wasn't racing to solve mysteries or clever schemes—it was just still. Peaceful.

Or at least, it was peaceful.

At first, it was subtle. The faint rustle of fabric. A soft sigh. Barely noticeable.

Then—shuffle. A soft weight brushing against his side.

Ranpo blinked awake groggily, brain still fogged with sleep. Huh? He glanced sideways.

You were closer now. Still completely out, your breathing even, face relaxed in the soft glow of the streetlamp in front of the window. Your futon had become…more of a suggestion than a boundary. Somehow, without even noticing, you had gradually migrated toward him in your sleep like a heat-seeking missile. Your hand was now brushing against his arm.

He froze.

"…………….."

Another soft shift, another rustle of blankets—and then it happened. Your arms wrapped around his torso, face pressing gently against his shoulder like he was the world's warmest, softest pillow.

Like a koala latching onto a tree.

Ranpo didn't move. Couldn't move. 

Brain: error.

His eyes were wide open now, pupils dilated like someone had just whispered the answer to a world-class riddle in his ear.

Wha—what—? Why?? Are they—?? What's happening???

His genius-level deduction skills? Gone. Vanished. Useless.

Mystery: unsolvable.

His thoughts were racing, but his brain was simultaneously short-circuiting: okay okay okay THINK, Ranpo. What's the protocol for this?? What chapter of the detective handbook covers accidental midnight cuddling? Wait. WHY don't I have a handbook for this???

Your breath was warm against the fabric of his shirt. He could feel the steady, gentle rise and fall of your chest against his side. You mumbled something incoherent in your sleep, brow twitching slightly, nose brushing against the crook of his neck like you were getting comfortable.

That was it.

Critical hit.

Ranpo.exe has stopped responding.

His face flushed such a violent shade of red that it was honestly impressive. Bright scarlet, ears burning, lips slightly parted in stunned silence.

And he stayed like that. Stiff as a statue. Arms hovering awkwardly midair, unsure if he should move, return the hug, or just ascend to another plane of existence entirely.

Normally, he'd be smug. Teasing. He'd call you clingy or make some ridiculous flirty comment.

But now?

Ranpo, self-proclaimed greatest detective, reduced to one malfunctioning idiot by unconscious cuddling.

Seconds ticked by.

Minutes.

Your grip only seemed to tighten slightly, a small, happy sigh leaving your lips like this was exactly where you belonged.

And Ranpo?

He remained frozen, staring at the ceiling, red-faced, suffering in silence, wondering if he would ever recover from this. Probably not.

"…I'm gonna die here," he whispered, too quietly for you to hear.

And maybe…maybe that wasn't the worst way to go.

The first soft glow of dawn was beginning to creep in through the half-closed curtains, painting Ranpo's cluttered living room in muted hues of pale orange and soft gray. Dust motes floated lazily in the early morning light, dancing above stacks of books and unopened snack bags.

Ranpo stirred, his eyelashes fluttering slightly before his eyes cracked open.

For a moment, he didn't remember why his back felt weirdly tense or why his heart felt like it had been running a marathon in his chest all night. Then the events of a few hours ago crashed back into him like a stack of unopened case files.

The cuddling.

Right.

His breath caught.

But when he glanced to the side—

You were gone. Well, not gone—just back on your own futon, on the opposite end like a respectable, polite, definitely-not-cuddling person. You lay curled up under your blanket, your face soft with sleep, completely unaware of the war Ranpo had been waging inside his head for hours.

And him?

Flat on his back, hair messy, pillow half off the futon, one sock missing (when did that happen?), and a blanket half kicked off.

A normal person would have been relieved.

Ranpo let out a quiet breath, closing his eyes again for a second. Good. Great. Perfect. This is what I wanted. That was unbearable anyway, all that heat. No sane person could sleep like that, glued to someone else. Right?

Right?

Then why…

Why was his chest feeling kind of…empty now?

Why did the cool air around him feel wrong?

And why—WHY—did he miss the press of your body against his, the steady warmth, that absent-minded way you'd sighed into his shoulder like you were safe with him?

Ranpo furrowed his brows, annoyed—not at you, but at himself. What the hell's wrong with me? he thought bitterly. Since when do I care about things like—

He stopped.

Had he ever…cuddled someone before? Like that? Properly? Warm, tangled limbs, soft breathing, innocent closeness—not just casual shoulder-bumps on the couch or lazy sprawls at the Agency?

…No. No, he hadn't.

He'd always teased people, always been the one poking fun, leaning over desks with that smug, catlike grin. But real closeness? Comfort? That wasn't something Ranpo Edogawa knew how to handle. And now, one accidental cuddle, and suddenly his brain was flipping through imaginary manuals trying to find a chapter on what-the-hell-to-do-when-you-want-to-be-cuddled-again.

Pathetic.

A faint flush crept over his cheeks again, and he buried his face halfway in his blanket to try and hide it from no one in particular.

And then—

"Mm… morning…"

Your sleepy voice broke the silence, soft and thick with drowsiness as you sat up, stretching your arms above your head with a little groan. Hair messy, eyes squinted, you looked over at him and gave a lazy smile. "Did you sleep okay?"

Ranpo flinched slightly, snapping his gaze away and shoving his face harder into his blanket like a turtle retreating into its shell.

"Y-yeah. Fine. Obviously. Why wouldn't I?"

"Okay," you said with a yawn, completely buying it, completely missing the way his ears were bright pink. "Cool. Do you have tea or something? I think I'm crashing from all the sugar."

"Yeah—kitchen. Whatever."

You dragged yourself up with another groan, trudging toward the kitchen like a zombie, leaving Ranpo still curled up in emotional confusion on his futon.

His heart was still racing.

This is stupid. I'm stupid. They're stupid. Why do they smell so good in the morning—NOPE, abort, brain, shut up—

He peeked over the edge of his blanket again, watching you shuffle around his messy kitchen in his oversized slippers, completely unaware of the storm you'd accidentally unleashed in the mind of the greatest detective in Yokohama.

And for the first time in a very, very long time… Ranpo didn't want to solve this mystery.

He just wanted to feel it again.

By the time both of you had finished with tea, the apartment looked slightly less like a snack crime scene. Slightly. You had pulled your spare clothes from your overnight bag—a clean, crisp outfit.

You were standing near his full-length mirror now, adjusting the knot of your own tie with practiced ease, focused, sharp, the picture of casual confidence.

Meanwhile…

Ranpo sat on the floor behind you, legs crossed, fumbling awkwardly with his own tie, brow furrowed, mouth pulled into a tense line.

Normally, tying it was annoying but manageable. But today?

Nope. No good. Total garbage. His fingers weren't cooperating. The tie twisted the wrong way, then slipped through the knot completely wrong, ending in a sad, floppy mess against his shirt. Again.

It definitely had nothing to do with the fact that his brain was still doing barrel rolls from earlier. Definitely.

You glanced over your shoulder just in time to catch him glaring at the offending piece of fabric like it had personally committed treason.

A grin tugged at your lips. "What's wrong, Detective? Crashed from the sugar high already?"

His eye twitched. "No."

You snickered. "Sure. Looks like your hands are shaking."

"They're not shaking," Ranpo muttered defensively, tugging at the tie again, somehow only making it worse. "It's defective. I'm being sabotaged."

You let out a soft laugh, stepping away from the mirror and brushing imaginary dust off your shirt. "I knew it. The Great Edogawa Ranpo, brought down by breakfast pastries."

His retort was halfway out of his mouth when you did something he wasn't prepared for at all—

You knelt down right in front of him. Close. Closer than before. Practically between his knees. The warmth of your body hit him first, then the faint scent of your shampoo, then the light brush of your fingers against his shirt collar as you lifted the tie gently from his hands.

"I got it. Hold still."

Ranpo stopped breathing.

He physically stopped. His entire body stiffened like you'd hit him with a tranquilizer dart. The heat of you kneeling there, hands moving smoothly to fix his ridiculous tie mess like it was nothing—it was too much.

His brain short-circuited all over again.

They're close—they're REALLY close—why are they this close?? Hands. Touching me. I should be making some dumb joke right now. Why can't I think?? ERROR. ERROR. ERROR—

Meanwhile, you were utterly oblivious to his meltdown, focused entirely on making the knot symmetrical, neat, sharp.

"There," you murmured softly, brushing the fabric flat against his chest. "Perfect."

Perfect.

Great. Wonderful. Now Ranpo was ninety percent tie, ten percent sentient embarrassment.

You looked up, finally meeting his eyes—those bright green eyes now wide, almost glassy, with an unreadable expression on his face. His mouth was slightly parted like he wanted to say something but forgot how speaking worked.

"…What?" you asked with a laugh. "It's just a tie."

Just a tie.

Right.

"R-right," he croaked, voice cracking like a teenager. "Tie. Sure."

You stood, patting him on the shoulder lightly as you moved back toward your bag to finish getting ready. "You're acting weird. Must be the sugar crash."

Ranpo sat there, still kneeling, staring blankly at your retreating form, utterly betrayed by his own nervous system.

He tugged absently at the knot you'd just tied. Perfect. Of course it was.

And the worst part?

He could still feel the ghost of your fingers on his collar, soft and careful and way too nice.

He was doomed.

The Agency was unusually lively that morning. Yosano humming softly while sharpening scalpels she definitely didn't need right now. Kunikida furiously scribbling in his notebook about order and structure, none of which anyone was following. Atsushi avoiding eye contact with helpless Junichiro, who was currently being latched onto by his sister, her arms around him in a dramatic display of (weird) sibling affection that left everyone—including the orange-haired man himself—deeply uncomfortable.

And Dazai?

Dazai was watching.

More specifically—Dazai was watching Ranpo.

To the untrained eye, Ranpo looked as he always did: slouched in his chair, lollipop tucked lazily between his lips, wearing that usual cocky half-lidded expression like he owned the place.

But to Dazai's eyes? Oh, this was gold. There was a subtle stiffness in Ranpo's posture, the rare flush still barely present on his cheeks that had nothing to do with heat or embarrassment over snacks. His tie, for once, was actually tied properly, but Ranpo kept fidgeting with it, tugging at the fabric like it had personally offended him.

And then there was you—sitting at your desk, rolling a pen between your fingers, utterly unaware of the way Ranpo's eyes kept accidentally sliding your way before snapping back like he'd been caught stealing candy.

Dazai's lips curved into a slow, wicked grin.

Oh yeah. Something happened.

And, being the absolute menace he was, Dazai wasn't about to let that go unchecked.

He leaned back in his chair with a dramatic sigh, tearing a scrap piece of paper from the corner of Kunikida's notebook ("Dazai, don't you dare—" rip), scrunched it into a tight little ball, and took aim like a sniper.

Fwip—thunk.

Direct hit. Right on Ranpo's hat.

"Oi—!" Ranpo shook his head, twisting around. His expression was more irritated than confused, but Dazai just gave him an innocent smile.

"Must've been the wind," he mused, resting his chin on his palm.

Ranpo narrowed his eyes, about two seconds away from launching an office supply at him when—

"Hey, hold still a sec."

You were already moving, standing and stepping over toward Ranpo, brushing crumbs from your lap as you approached.

And then—

You leaned down.

The scrap of paper stuck gently in Ranpo's brown hat, tangled with a few loose threads. Your hand came up, brushing over it softly to retrieve it. Absentminded. Casual. No big deal.

Except it was a big deal. To Ranpo, it was catastrophic.

Critical hit. Weakness: affection.

His whole body locked up as your fingertips ghosted along his hat before plucking the paper away. Your face was right there, close enough that he could smell your shampoo again, see the faint warmth in your eyes.

You were completely, blissfully unaware of how close you were.

Ranpo, on the other hand, was experiencing internal combustion.

His ears burned scarlet. His hands gripped the armrests of his chair like his life depended on it. His brain screamed in three different languages, none of them coherent.

Steam. Actual steam, if the laws of anime physics applied here, might've been curling out of his ears by now.

"Got it," you said cheerfully, holding up the offending paper ball, totally oblivious. "Looks like someone's making a mess again."

Ranpo could barely make a noise beyond a strangled "Mm—" sound in response.

Dazai watched the whole thing like a spectator at a fireworks show, chin in hand, delight practically radiating off him. He twirled another piece of paper between his fingers, wondering just how much further he could push this.

Oh wait, he didn't have to wonder. He would push it.

And then he moved.

Before you could walk back to your desk, Dazai appeared beside you, draping himself over your shoulder like a bored cat, his chin resting dramatically near your neck, breath exaggeratedly close.

"I'm so bored," he drawled, eyes half-lidded with faux sadness. "Won't you entertain me, Y/N? Surely you won't let me die of boredom here, will you?"

Your eye twitched. "Dazai…"

You knew this game.

Ranpo knew this game too.

The glare Ranpo shot Dazai could have ignited pure flame. It wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic. It was murderous. If looks could kill, Dazai would've been ashes on the carpet by now.

But of course, Dazai only smiled more sweetly.

Interesting.

Now this was getting fun.

And poor Ranpo? Sitting there, fists clenched in his lap, trying desperately not to combust in the middle of the office. He wanted to shout, Get off! That's MY personal space they're supposed to be invading!

But no words came. Just a dark, dangerous glint in his green eyes.

Dazai winked at Ranpo behind your back.

Evening came, bringing with it the soft orange glow of sunset spilling through the office windows. One by one, the Agency members filtered out, stretching tired limbs, gathering coats and bags, ready to call it a day.

You were one of the first to leave, waving cheerfully at everyone as you slung your bag over your shoulder. "See you tomorrow!"

Ranpo didn't even look at you as you left. Not because he didn't want to—but because if he did, he was sure the heat in his cheeks would've given him away immediately. Instead, he stayed slouched dramatically in his chair, spinning idly in slow, sulking rotations.

And of course, because the universe hates him, Dazai stayed behind too.

It didn't take long before they were the only two left.

Silence.

Ranpo sat with his arms crossed, still fiddling with the tie you had fixed for him earlier, scowling like a kicked cat.

Dazai, leaning back lazily on one of the desks, finally broke the silence. "Soooooo…"

Ranpo glared at him suspiciously out of the corner of his eye. "What?"

Dazai's grin was slow, shark-like. "Something you wanna tell me about Y/N?"

Ranpo's jaw clenched. "Tch."

"Oho~ That's a yes, isn't it?" Dazai chuckled. "Come on, Ranpo—what's this all about? You've been acting strange ever since you two walked in this morning. Blushing. Fidgeting. Practically malfunctioning when they leaned in close."

Ranpo kicked at the floor with the heel of his shoe, spinning his chair half a rotation away, arms crossed even tighter now. "Wasn't even a thing."

Dazai's brow rose. "Really? Because it looked like a thing."

Ranpo grumbled something under his breath. Too soft to hear.

"What was that?"

"—Only cuddling…" Ranpo finally muttered, cheeks burning pink again, scowl deepening. "That's all. They were just cuddling me."

Dazai blinked. "…Cuddling?"

"In their sleep, okay?! They didn't even know. It's not like—I didn't ask for it—they were just—" He gave up on explaining with a helpless gesture, slumping lower into his chair like gravity itself was bullying him. "Forget it."

Dazai blinked again, then smiled slowly. "Awww. So that's why you've been pouting all day."

"I'm not pouting."

"You're absolutely pouting."

Ranpo shot him a sharp glare, the flush creeping back into his ears. His next words came out in a stubborn whine:

"They're only allowed to cuddle me."

That silenced Dazai for a beat.

Ranpo wasn't even sure why he said it. It just came out—like a petulant child hoarding their favorite toy, except the "toy" was you and the possessiveness was a little too raw, a little too real.

"They're mine. Not yours."

Dazai blinked, then leaned back with a soft, surprised laugh—not mocking, not teasing this time, but genuinely amused.

"Well, well… interesting."

Ranpo didn't respond. He just sat there, sulking, sulking harder, cheeks hot, ears red, glaring furiously at his knees like they'd betrayed him too.

Possessive. Touch-starved. Completely lost and hating how vulnerable he felt.

But one thing was clear: the idea of you being close to someone else? Especially someone like Dazai?

Unacceptable.

Only him.

Ranpo should have been asleep by now.

Normally, he was the type to pass out the moment his head hit the pillow—or futon, in this case—with a stomach full of sweets and a mind smugly satisfied from solving unsolvable cases.

But not tonight.

He was awake. Wide awake.

Laying flat on his back, arms sprawled out, eyes boring holes into the ceiling. His cape was thrown haphazardly across the room, his beloved hat tossed nearby. He was practically kicking his legs like a restless cat, sheets rumpled in frustration.

And the worst part?

It wasn't because he wasn't tired. He was. He wanted to sleep.

But something was missing.

Something infuriatingly warm and soft that clung to him like a damn koala.

You.

Ranpo rolled onto his side, huffing loudly, cheeks flushed in frustration—not embarrassment, no, definitely not embarrassment.

"This is stupid," he muttered into his pillow. "I don't need that. I don't need them here."

And yet—he shifted again, curling around nothing, arms awkwardly hugging a pillow that was too flat and too cold and smelled wrong.

His scowl deepened.

He'd always liked sleeping alone. Space. Freedom. Comfort.

But now? After one night of you unconsciously pressing up against him like it was your life source?

Now he felt cold.

"This is your fault," he grumbled under his breath, voice tight and petulant, cheeks growing warmer. "All your fault…"

How dare you, waltzing into his life with your random kindness and warmth and stupid sleepy clinging. What gave you the right to just rewire his entire sleep pattern with one unconscious cuddle?

He sat up sharply.

No. Nope. Not happening. This was unacceptable.

Five more minutes of glaring at the wall, and then—

The cape was thrown over his shoulders with a dramatic flourish. The hat was jammed onto his messy hair.

He stomped toward the door, socks thumping against the floor.

What was he going to do when he got to your place? He didn't know.

Was he going to yell at you for breaking him? Maybe.

Was he going to make you fix it? Definitely.

Thudding through the dim streets, his mood only worsened by every step. The cool night air did nothing to soothe his simmering frustration.

Before he could fully think it through, Ranpo was already standing in front of your door, fist raised, banging against it with unreasonable force for someone showing up uninvited past midnight.

"Y/N!" he hissed sharply through clenched teeth, cheeks flushed with a dangerous combination of anger and mortification. "Wake up!"

Another few loud knocks. He didn't care if he looked crazy. You had done this to him, and now you were going to deal with it.

"Open up! I can't sleep without—!"

He cut himself off, lips snapping shut, teeth clenched. No way was he going to say it.

But the damage was done. His heart was racing, his cheeks practically glowing, and he was glaring at your door like it personally owed him an apology.

What was he supposed to do now?

A beat later, the door creaked open, and there you were—hair a mess, blanket slipping off one shoulder, eyes sleepy and confused, like a cat someone woke up from a nap too soon.

Ranpo froze for a second. You looked… soft like that. Warm. Sleepy. Way too inviting for his sanity.

"…Ranpo?" you mumbled, rubbing your eyes. "Am I dreaming…?"

"Tch." His scowl deepened immediately, defensive. "No. You're awake. I'm awake. All because of you."

You stared at him, eyes bleary, expression not matching the chaos in his chest at all.

"…What?"

"This is your fault," he snapped, as if you had dragged him here against his will. "I can't sleep."

You blinked slowly. "…Okay?"

Ranpo huffed, eyes darting to the side in frustration, refusing to meet your gaze. "I can't sleep. Because of your stupid cuddling. You're a menace. You ruined everything. You did something to me. My whole system's broken now. I hope you're happy."

Saying it out loud made his ears burn. He hated it. Hated that he sounded like some whiny kid complaining about their toy being taken. Hated that the moment you stopped pressing against him, his whole body felt wrong in a way he didn't know how to describe.

You just… yawned. Like you'd heard this complaint a thousand times before. "So… you can't sleep because I cuddled you…?"

"Obviously!" he barked, frustrated, cheeks pink. Why weren't you taking this seriously?

Another shrug. Another yawn. "Then come to bed."

Ranpo blinked. "What?"

"Come to bed. Cuddle me if you want."

And just like that, you turned around—like it was nothing—and wandered back to your bed, crawling under the blanket, leaving the door wide open behind you.

Ranpo stood there in the doorway, utterly, completely fried.

His brain—brilliant detective that it was—did not know what to do with this. He had cracked murders. Solved crimes no one else could even begin to understand. But this?

Your sleepy voice, your messy hair, the soft sound of blankets rustling as you burrowed back into warmth… offering him a place there too—

No. Nope. Unfair. Illegal, even.

"This is all your fault," he muttered one last time, voice quieter now, almost sulky, as if repeating it would somehow fix whatever catastrophic emotional failure was happening in his chest.

And yet—

His feet betrayed him.

He stepped inside, shutting the door softly behind him, and padded after you like a grumpy, overgrown cat.

What had you done to him?

He stood next to your bed like a criminal caught red-handed, cape still around his shoulders, hat slightly askew. You were already curled up on one side, blanket pulled messily over yourself, clearly waiting for him like it was the most normal thing in the world to invite someone over for emergency cuddling.

Ranpo clenched his jaw, fighting the burning in his ears. Fine. Whatever. He was here now.

With all the grace of a man facing execution, he lowered himself onto the bed beside you. Stiff. Straight as a board. Not touching you. Not breathing. Muscles locked, like a plank of human frustration.

This was fine. He could do this. Totally normal. This was normal.

Then you sighed.

"…You're so tense it's making me stressed," you muttered, half into your pillow, voice raspy with sleep. "C'mere."

Before he could argue, you moved—scooting closer like a sleepy, determined animal on a mission, reaching out—

And latched onto him.

Just like last night.

One arm flopped lazily over his chest. A leg hooked lightly around his. Your face pressed warm into the crook of his neck, the tickle of your breath making his pulse spike like he'd just been pushed off a building.

His entire body locked up, eyes wide, mouth dry, thoughts scattering like marbles across a tile floor.

You sighed again. But this time it was soft, content. Like being pressed up against him was exactly where you wanted to be.

Ranpo wanted to die.

He also wanted to never move again.

His hands twitched, unsure of what to do with themselves. He should probably move. Probably make some smug comment. Probably breathe—

And yet… warmth started creeping up through his limbs, fatigue creeping in behind it, dragging him down like slow-moving syrup.

Maybe he could sleep like this. Maybe this wasn't completely terrible. Actually, his eyes were already drooping—

It was fine.

Everything was fine.

Just before he drifted off, your sleepy voice murmured, amused, barely audible against his throat:

"…Did you really just walk all this way in your socks just to demand cuddles?"

Ranpo's eye twitched.

"Shut up."

Masterlist

[bknwa]

making a collection

[bknwa]

[bknwa]

that's so buns