#isekai!reader

Four

“Ow,” Four winced, touching the side of his head.

“You ok?” you turn as you walk, shifting the bag on your back as you do.

“Fine,” he mumbles. “Just a headache.”

“Ok, give me a sec,” you take your arms out of the straps of your bag, swing it around to the front of your body, then put the backpack back on backwards so you can dig through it.

“I don’t need a potion,” Four says quickly. “Honestly, it wouldn’t even help. It’s just a headache.”

“Four, if you’re complaining about a headache, it’s serious,” you continue digging through your bag, remembering the various injuries he’d taken without so much as a wince. You guess black smiths were just built different. “I’ve got some Tylenol. One pill and some water and you should feel right as rain.”

“A potion wouldn’t help,” Four says again. “It’s not an injury.”

“Good thing this isn’t a potion, then,” you take out the small white bottle, then proceed to struggle with the child-proof cap. 

“I’ve seen you give that to some of the others,” he points at the bottle. “They eat it and then they feel better. Potion. Maybe not liquid, but still.”

“It doesn’t actually heal anything,” you explain, grunting as you try to open the cap. “The thing causing the headache will still be there. It just blocks the pain.”

“How would there be no pain if the injury is still there?” Four raises an eyebrow.

“It’s like… how do I explain this,” you muse. “So, your nerves send signals to the brain. Think of them like little mail men, taking messages from where the pain is to you. This blocks those signals. The mailmen are still there with their letters, but now the letters can’t get to where they’re going, so no pain.”

“So I’m full of tiny little mailmen,” Four smirks.

“Sure,” you laugh, then finally pop the cap off the bottle and shake a single pill out of the container. You hold it out to Four. He takes it, looks it over, then pops it into his mouth.

“Wha–!?” you sputter, your hand still reaching for your water bottle. “Did you just dry swallow it?”

“Yes?” Four winces at the after taste. “Why? Was that wrong?”

“I mean, no, it’s fine,” you close your bag, still bewildered. “It’s demented, but you won’t, like, die.”

“Who are you calling demented?” He grins.

“You just took a pill without water!” you cry. “Who does that!?”

Time

Time was old. Mentally, yes, he was probably like 60 or something as far as you or anyone else could figure, but physically as well. Most of the other heroes were in their twenties or younger. Time was in his thirties, and with the added stress of hero work he might as well have been forty.

He had old injuries that still ached, and the past strain on his body had definitely sped up how quickly he developed arthritis. You noticed the way he would massage his hands occasionally. Or wince when he woke up. It was your job to notice these things after all. 

Unfortunately, heroes were stubborn and selfless. Most attempts to help them were met with “I’ve had worse” or “so-and-so needs it more.” And from what you could tell, Time had never been “mothered” in the traditional sense, making it all the more unlikely he would accept anything you had to offer. He thought your help was necessary for the others, not him. It was noble. And incredibly stupid.

You had to find alternative ways to help him.

“Tea?” you hold up a mug to him as he passes where you’re sitting, your own cup held loosely in your other hand.

“That’s not suspicious at all,” Time frowns at the mug.

“What’s suspicious about tea?” you take a sip from your mug.

“Yeah, old man, when has tea ever gone wrong?” Wild, currently also enjoying a cup of tea next to you, smiles. 

“Tea isn’t suspicious,” Legend nods, clutching his own mug close to his chest.

“Not at all,” you agree, nodding in a totally not suspicious way.

“Then why are the two people you’re always after about pain management the only ones drinking it?” Time points at Wild, who often got whole-body aches that he liked to try to ignore, then at Legend, who, like Time, had arthritis in his hands, but was more willing to take medicine for it.

“Maybe they’re the only two who happened to walk past,” you take another long sip from your cup.

“What’s in the tea?” Time sighs.

“Uhhh, it’s green tea, so Camellia leaves,” your arm is starting to get tired from holding the extra mug out to him. “And some honey.”

Time raises an eyebrow. He didn’t remember having honey in the camp supplies.

“We just got it. Wild shield-surfed face-first into a hive,” you explain. The Link in question gives you a thumbs up when you glare at him.

“So this tea is just to use up the honey?” Time takes the mug carefully.

“Can’t really store it all. Our jars are for fairies or potions,” Legend shrugs.

“I kept one jar,” Wild smiles.

“Fine,” Time takes a drink. Success!

“Oh! And I added some turmeric and ginger,” you admit, looking away from him as you do. You glance at your surroundings in a nonchalant manner. “They have anti-inflammatory properties. Figured you could use it.”

“I knew it,” Time narrows his eyes (eye), but takes another drink of tea. “You were trying to medicate me.”

“Is it helping?” you ask. He flexes his hand, thinking.

“...Yes,” he finally admits, shoulders slouching in defeat.

Sky

“That’s not what happened!” Sky scowls. He had been recounting his attempt to catch the apparently portal-using mail man when a few of the others had begun teasing him about his inability to run.

“That’s totally what happened,” Legend smirks.

“Sounds like asthma,” you shrug, turning away from the conversation to inspect Twilight’s side. Apparently there was some evil magic that you couldn’t see infecting the wound, and while you were no mage, you were a medic, and infection of any kind, magic or otherwise, was unacceptable.

“Asthma…?” Nine heads tilt inquisitively sideways, various looks of confusion on their faces.

“Do you guys not know what asthma is?” Now it’s your turn to be confused.

The blank looks you get back speak for themselves.

“Okay,” you pinch the bridge of your nose, trying to think. “Athma is like… your throat gets tight and it gets really hard to breathe. Sometimes it feels like someone is sitting on your chest, making it really hard to get air in.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s pretty accurate,” Sky smiles.

“How do you not know what asthma is? If you have asthma you should have an inhaler.” You stand up, forgetting Twilight’s magic wound for a moment, and start rummaging through your bag. There wasn’t really a way to treat inflammation like that with the herbs you had available, but you had to have something.

“I thought it was just because I grew up in Skyloft,” Sky shrugs. “The air down here is just different.”

“That’s not how altitude changes work. The air up there is thinner, meaning Skyloftians should have an easier time breathing near the surface,” you say exasperatedly.

“Oh,” Sky blushes.

“So it’s an illness?” Warriors glances at Sky and takes a not-so-subtle step away.

“No, it’s genetic. You can’t ‘catch’ it, if that’s what you’re afraid of,” you roll your eyes. A few of the boys snicker at Wars’ look of relief.

“But is there a cure?” Sky sounds hopeful. “You said something about me needing to have something.”

“An inhaler. Not a cure, just a way to treat the symptoms,” you give up digging through your bag. “It’s medicine that you breathe in. And I have no way of making it here. If we ever go to my era I’m breaking into a pharmacy and getting you one.”

“Surely there must be something you can do without traveling to your era,” Time says.

“Not really,” you grimace. “We can limit triggers. If you didn’t have issues on Skyloft your asthma might be triggered by humidity? Or pollen? But it sounds like it’s triggered by exercise, which… well, you might have chosen the wrong profession.”

“You could say that again,” Legend snorts.

“Well, not much to be done,” Sky hums. “I’ve been alright up until now. I should be fine.”

“I’m still swiping you an inhaler if we wind up in my era,” you mutter, adding it to your growing list of things to either buy or steal from a modern pharmacy (some of the meds these boys needed were prescription, which you wouldn’t really be able to get otherwise).

Y/N set her fork down, offering a small, tentative smile. “It’s a trial, actually. Two nights. The manager is letting me prove I can charm deep-pocketed patrons into ordering top-shelf liquor and leaving tips thick enough to wallpaper this place.” She shrugged, a gesture meant to convey nonchalance but her nerves were fraying with anxiety. “I’m not his usual hire and I know that. I should probably be glad he’s even giving a woman my age a chance to audition.”

Natalie let out a short, sharp laugh that turned a few heads at a nearby table. “What do you mean, ‘your age’? Please, you’re like what? Twenty-five at best. What, do they exclusively hire teenagers fresh out of the cradle over there?”

Y/N pursed her lips, biting back a genuine, amused smile. The misconception was a testament to her most valuable and hard-won asset. In her world—the world she’d been torn from—Y/N had commanded a salary that allowed for significant investment in herself. With no family to support, her disposable income had been funneled into a rigorous, almost religious maintenance routine: thousand-dollar korean facials, subtle Botox to maintain a smooth brow, keratin treatments for glossy hair, regular manicures, individual lash extensions and a carefully curated wardrobe. God bless moroccan skincare and reformative pilates.

She was acutely aware of the patriarchal underpinnings of it all—the unfair expectation for women in the corporate sphere to adhere to a specific, polished and often youth-leaning aesthetic to be taken seriously. She had raged against it in private, frustrated that her intellect often had to be packaged so perfectly. She’d had enough of colleagues, both male and female, making snap judgments based on a hemline or a shade of lipstick, of not taking women seriously because they dared to be both smart and attractive.

Yet, she had also made a conscious, pragmatic peace with the system. After all, she liked the ritual of it. The act of investing so thoroughly in her own presentation was a form of self-care that genuinely made her happy— it was her shield and her art. And she couldn’t deny, it had made navigating the shark tank of corporate sales somewhat easier. That same meticulously crafted veneer was now her greatest weapon here allowing her to pass for a woman several years younger and infinitely more carefree than she truly was.

“Sure,” Y/N said, the single word noncommittal and light. She hoped it would end the line of questioning, but Natalie’s expression only grew more intent. Her dark eyebrows knitted together, creating a small furrow of genuine curiosity on her forehead.

“No, seriously,” Natalie pressed, her voice dropping to a more intimate volume. “How old are you, really?”

The air between them shifted. Y/N considered crafting a harmless lie but as she met Natalie’s direct gaze, she saw no judgment, only a sharp, perceptive interest. In this place of shared desperation, this small truth felt like a currency she could afford to spend. “Thirty-one,” she stated plainly, her tone devoid of either pride or shame. It was simply a fact.

Natalie’s jaw went slack for a second before she recovered, letting out a soft, incredulous puff of air. “Get out.”

“I’m serious. Contrary to popular media, women don’t just shrivel up and turn into dust when they hit thirty, you know.”

“I know, it’s just... wow. But like you... you’ve really maintained yourself. The way—” Natalie’s words stumbled to a halt, her eyes flickering around the sparse, utilitarian lunchroom, a silent gesture at their surroundings. The way rich people do, was the unspoken end of that sentence, a truth that felt too harsh to voice in a homeless shelter.

A wry, understanding smile touched Y/N’s lips. She took a slow, deliberate sip from her glass of water. “You can say it. I don’t mind, you know,” she encouraged softly, giving Natalie permission to voice the observation hanging in the air.

“It’s not just the looks, though. It’s... the way you carry yourself. You’re smart. Like, properly educated, ‘went-to-college-and-top-of-her-class’ smart. You look like you belong in a cushy corporate job in a high-rise, ordering hot young assistants around. So why are you here?” The question was blunt, but not unkind. It was the fundamental mystery of Y/N’s presence. Before Y/N could even begin to formulate a response—a half-truth, a deflection—Natalie’s innate street-smart empathy kicked in. She held up a hand, as a gesture of peace. “But you don’t have to answer that. I get it. Everyone here has their own circumstances. Their own ghosts.”

That simple act of grace, of not demanding the one story Y/N could not tell, created a bond more solid than any forced confession. It was an acknowledgment that in this world, your past was your own and your survival was a collaborative, yet deeply personal, endeavour.

“Thanks Nat.”

The two trial shifts passed in a blur of neon-lit motion and calculated smiles. By the standards of a strip club, they had gone seamlessly—no spilled drinks, no physical altercations she couldn’t defuse with a well-timed quip and a step back and no complaints filed with the management. Y/N had deliberately shelved her broader “research” mission for the moment, understanding that the most critical intelligence she could gather right now was proving her own value. Her entire focus was narrowed to the immediate task at hand.

The clientele here was a world apart from the tired regulars and families at the diner. This was a ecosystem fueled by fantasy, loneliness and disposable income and it demanded a different set of tactics. The boisterous groups required a playful, almost teasing energy to coax them into bottle service. The solitary, brooding men in the corners needed a performance of empathetic listening, a feigned understanding that encouraged them to keep ordering.

She couldn’t decide if this was tougher or easier than the diner. The physical vulnerability was more acute— her club uniform, a few strategic scraps of black lace and satin, left little to the imagination and the men, emboldened by alcohol and the venue’s implicit permissions, were quicker to let their hands and their expectations wander. It was a constant, draining dance of deflection and appeasement.

Y/N had worked her magic, employing the same psychological principles she’d used in corporate negotiations, just in a vastly different font. She identified the desire for status, for companionship, for escape and she sold it to them one overpriced cocktail at a time. Yet, in the quiet moments between tables, she didn’t feel her performance had been particularly spectacular. It felt like what was necessary, a competent holding pattern in a hostile environment.

Now, standing outside the manager’s office at the end of her second shift, the adrenaline had faded, leaving only a hollow, nervous anxiety. The bass from the main room was a dull throb through the walls. She fidgeted with her fingers, her mind racing through every potential misstep. Had she been too aloof? Not engaging enough? Had she accidentally offended a high-roller she hadn’t recognized?

The door suddenly opened and one of the mountainous bouncers, a man whose neck was as wide as her thigh, stepped out. He looked down at her with an expression as impassive as stone. “Boss said you’re hired,” he grunted, his voice like gravel. “You can go now.”

The words were so abrupt, so devoid of ceremony, that Y/N froze mid-fidget. A part of her wanted to push past him, to hear the confirmation from the manager himself. She wanted to ask about the schedule, the pay structure, anything to transform this terse message into a real transaction. But she caught herself. In a place like this, this was the ceremony. No applause, no handshake. Just a grunted pass through the gates. She gave a tight, single nod to the bouncer.

“Right. Thanks,” she managed, her voice surprisingly steady. She turned and walked away, the click of her heels echoing the final, decisive click of a lock turning. She was in. It was for the best. At least so she thought.

The next two weeks settled into a new, challenging rhythm. Y/N moved through her shifts with a singular, covert purpose. While other waitresses navigated the dim, pulsating world of the club with practiced detachment or weary resignation, Y/N had a very specific goal in mind. Her eyes, sharp and analytical, constantly scanned the room, seeking out a specific breed of patron: men whose posture screamed business, whose watches cost more than what people here made in a year and whose conversations, even when slurred by expensive scotch, were peppered with the jargon of high finance. She would approach them not with the vacant, sultry smile expected of her but with a spark of intelligent curiosity, asking seemingly naive questions about market trends that cleverly coaxed them into boasting about their latest deals.

At the end of each shift, while the other women chatted with each other, counted their tips and complained about sore feet, Y/N would retreat to her locker. There, tucked between her street clothes, was a small, unassuming notebook. In it, she would meticulously transcribe everything she had gleaned: names of shell companies, companies’ profitable investments, stocks and shares, whispers of impending mergers, high society gossip—any piece of information that sounded like a potential vulnerability or an unregulated flow of capital. It was raw, unverified intelligence but it was a start.

She had drawn a few disapproving looks from the other waitresses. Their sidelong glances and whispered comments as she spent too long at a table “just chatting” were impossible to miss. In their world, time was money and her method seemed inefficient, even suspicious. But Y/N paid them no mind. Their gossip was a trivial background noise against the critical mission of her research. Their goal was to survive the night; hers was to rebuild a life.

The fragile equilibrium of her new routine was shattered at the end of a particularly long Thursday shift. As Y/N was wiping down her last table— Valerie, the red-haired waitress who worked the exclusive VIP section, a woman renowned as both the most beautiful and most aloof server in the club—glided over. She stood with a hand on her jutted hip with an expression of annoyance on her face.

“Boss wanted to see you,” she said, her tone implying she was merely a messenger for a command that could not be ignored.

Panic shot through Y/N, freezing her in place. Her mind became a frantic pinwheel of possibilities. Was she in trouble? Had her questioning of the patrons been too obvious, crossing some unspoken line? Had one of the other girls, annoyed by her tactics, reported her for not “playing her part”? Or was it a matter of club hierarchy, where the dancers and VIP servers reigned supreme and she, a mere floor waitress, had drawn too much attention from the high-value customers?

Every paranoid thought she had suppressed over the past two weeks came rushing back, each one a potential end to her carefully laid, desperate plans. Swallowing hard, she simply nodded at Valerie and turned toward the manager’s office, her heart hammering a frantic beat against her ribs. Y/N steadied her breath, a conscious effort to quell her anxiety. From the other side, a gruff “Come in” granted her entry into the lion’s den.

She stepped inside, the door clicking shut with a note of finality. Instinctively, she fell into a posture of poised defense—spine straight, shoulders squared, hands clasped demurely in front of her to hide their faint tremor. The manager, a man whose face was scarred with Gotham’s wear and tear, didn’t speak. He simply watched her, his eyes, usually pools of cynical boredom and indifference, now alight with a slow-burning, predatory interest. The silence stretched, thick and heavy with unspoken accusation. He finally broke it by picking up a half-smoked cigar from the ashtray, taking a long, deliberate pull that made the ember glow like a malevolent eye.

Then, with a movement that was almost ceremonial in its slowness, he opened his suit jacket and pulled out a familiar notebook. He slid it across the polished surface of the desk until it came to a stop directly in front of her. The sight of her private thoughts and observations in his coarse hands sent pure icy fear running through her veins.

“I’ve been watching you, girl,” he rumbled, his voice rough from smoke and the city’s grit. He exhaled a plume of gray haze that drifted toward her, carrying the scent of tobacco and threat. “And what I’ve found is... interesting.”

Y/N’s jaw tightened. Every instinct screamed to explain, to justify, to weave a story. But she knew, with a survivor’s clarity, that rambling explanations were the language of the guilty. They would only tighten the noose. She remained silent, her gaze fixed on him, forcing her expression into a mask of calm inquiry, granting him the floor.

He leaned forward, the leather of the sofa groaning in protest. “You know, in a city like Gotham, you don’t survive on paperwork. You survive on your gut. About situations. About people.” He tapped a thick finger on the notebook. “When you showed up, you had no ID, no history, nothing but a sharp look in your eye and a story that didn’t add up. I gave you the shift because my gut said you had a potential none of these other girls have. A different kind of steel.” His eyes narrowed. “So now you’re going to tell me what it is you’re really doing scribbling in this thing. And you’re going to tell me if whatever game you’re playing is going to land me and my establishment in hot water.” He paused, letting the weight of his next words hang in the air. “Lie to me and you’ll be sleeping with the fishes in the Gotham Harbour before sunrise.”

Y/N took a slow, deliberate breath, drawing the smoky air deep into her lungs. This was the moment of truth—not the sanitized version but the raw, unvarnished one that a man like this would respect. The silence stretched, and she knew her next words would either be her ticket deeper into the underworld or her death sentence.

“I was a senior procurement manager for a multinational firm overseas,” she began, her voice low and steady, devoid of its usual performative warmth. She was speaking his language now: the language of illicit commerce. “My specialty was creative accounting. I set up a shell company, a ‘consulting firm’. It had all the right paperwork, a professional website, a virtual office—it looked more legitimate than most real businesses. A true masterpiece of bureaucratic camouflage”

She met his gaze, her own eyes hardening with the cold pride of a craftsman discussing her trade. “The method was simple but elegant. I would approve invoices from my shell company for services rendered but the amounts were inflated as high as a hundred and fifty percent. A security audit that should have cost twenty thousand would be billed at sixty. A market analysis, another eighty. The beauty of it was the sheer, boring volume. My company processed thousands of invoices a month. Mine looked identical, the descriptions were just vague enough to be plausible and they were all kept just under the threshold that would trigger a secondary review. The money would flow seamlessly out of the corporate accounts and into mine. Just like that,” she said, snapping her fingers softly in the quiet room, “corporate funds were sanitized, becoming my perfectly clean, reported revenue.”

She paused, letting him absorb the mechanics of the scheme. Then, her tone shifted, the pride leaching away to be replaced by a grim, resigned honesty. “But as they say— all good things come to an end. It wasn’t the external auditors who caught me. It was someone internal. She noticed the inflation, a decimal point in the wrong place, a pattern that didn’t fit. She trusted her gut, just like you said, and began a quiet, off-the-books internal investigation.” Y/N’s lips twisted into a wry, bitter smile. “She started cross-referencing dates. She found the overlaps—the weeks my department’s ‘consulting fees’ would inexplicably spike always coincided with my personal financial activity: a down payment on a new car, a luxury vacation. In the end, they subpoenaed the bank records. The moment I got wind that the circuit court had been approached, I knew the game was up. I grabbed my bug-out bag and I ran. I’ve been running ever since.”

The manager didn’t respond with anger or threats. Instead, he threw his head back and barked a loud, startling laugh that echoed off the office walls. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated delight. He wiped a tear from his eye, looking at Y/N with something akin to awe.

“Oh, that’s beautiful,” he chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. “A real piece of work. The person who caught you? She must’ve been one clever bitch.” 

“She was,” Y/N confirmed, her voice laced with a quiet, almost proprietary pride. It was a dangerous flourish but a calculated one. A man like him would appreciate competence, even in a rival. The truth, of course, was that the brilliant “someone” was her own reflection. The tale she spun was a funhouse mirror version of her past—she had been the one to uncover a mid-level director’s embezzlement scheme, a meticulous bit of corporate detective work that had earned her a promotion and a deep, personal understanding of how such crimes could be perfected. But he didn’t need to know that. For his purposes, she needed to be the fox, not the hound. 

Y/N’s gaze intensifying to sell the next, crucial lie. “But you can rest assured, that person is a ghost now. I burned every digital and paper trail that could connect that identity to this one. I salted the earth behind me.” She gestured vaguely, indicating the city beyond the walls. “And frankly, I doubt the corporate watchdogs from my old life would ever think to look for their missing embezzler in the one place known for swallowing people whole. They prefer their criminals in pinstripes, not shadows.”

A slow, appreciative grin spread across the manager’s face, revealing stained teeth. “A thief hiding in the heart of the den of thieves far worse,” he mused, the cliché sounding like a profound compliment in his raspy voice. “Smart. After all, no one searches for a single drop of water in the ocean.”

“Precisely,” Y/N said, seizing the fragile momentum she had fought to build. She leaned forward, the dim light glinting in her eyes, transforming her from a nervous employee into a potential asset. “And as for what I’m doing in your club... let’s just call it market research.” The club was a gateway. The money here wasn’t just spent, it’s whispered about, bragged about after the third drink, hinted at in deals made over a glass of overpriced whiskey. To climb back up, to rebuild in this city, she didn’t just need capital. She needed information.

She paused, ensuring he was tracking her every word. “I need to know who’s truly moving the money now. I need to identify who’s over-leveraged and vulnerable, who’s expanding into new, perhaps less savory, territories. I’m not here to steal your patrons or cause trouble. I’m merely an auditor of opportunity, listening for the cracks in the city’s financial foundation that a person with my... particular skill set... can exploit.”

The manager fell silent, his gaze dissecting her. The initial suspicion in his eyes was now warring with a dawning, greedy curiosity. He stared at her as if she were a complex ledger, mentally calculating the risks and returns. Y/N held her breath, her confidence slowly building stronger. She knew that if this man valued cunning and skill over blind obedience, he wouldn’t let an asset like her simply walk away.

After a silence that felt like an eternity, he gave a slow, decisive nod. The calculation was complete. “Well,” he grunted, the sound like gravel shifting. “In that case, consider your probation over. You will now serve exclusively in the VIP sections. The clients there are... more substantial. Their conversations are richer.” He fixed her with a pointed look. “And at the end of each week, you will give me a private recap of everything you’ve learned. Consider it a new job requirement.”

Then, in a gesture that was both a reward and a test, he opened his suit jacket once more. This time, he pulled out a thick fold of cash, secured with a silver money clip. Without counting it, he tossed it onto the desk between them. It landed with a soft, substantial thud.

“Consider that your signing bonus,” he said, his voice low. “Work well, make yourself indispensable in that VIP room and you will earn your keep. Cross me and the bonus will be the last money you ever touch.”

Y/N didn’t reach for it immediately. She met his gaze, her expression one of cool professionalism. “Understood,” she said, her voice steady. “Yes, boss.”

The word “boss” felt different now—not a term for a mere employer, but an acknowledgment of a new, more dangerous arrangement. She reached for the money, her movements deliberate and unhurried, showing neither greed nor reluctance. She slipped the folded bills into her own pocket, the weight of it feeling like both a promise and a collar around her neck.

“Good,” he said, the cigar finding its way back to his lips. “Valerie will show you the ropes in VIP. The rules are different up there. You see nothing, you hear everything and you forget most of it by morning. Apart from what is useful for me of course.  Understood?”

“Perfectly.”

“One more thing,” he added as she turned to leave. “This arrangement stays between us. The other girls don’t need to know why you got the promotion. As far as they’re concerned, you caught my eye. It’s cleaner that way.”

Y/N nodded. It was more than clean, it was the perfect cover. Let them think she’d slept her way to the VIP section; that kind of jealousy was far safer than them suspecting the truth.

Stepping out of the office, the thudding bass of the club felt like a heartbeat of her new life. She found Valerie by the main bar, inspecting her flawless red lipstick in a compact mirror. “VIP, huh?” she said without looking up in a bored drawl. “Try not to faint. The sharks in there eat pretty little fish like you for breakfast.”

Y/N offered a thin, knowing smile. “Don’t worry. I’m not fish.”

The moment she stepped through the reinforced door into the VIP section, the very texture of the world shifted. It was an immediate, sensory demarcation from the chaotic energy of the main floor. The air was noticeably cooler, meticulously climate-controlled and carried a complex bouquet of expensive cologne, fine leather and the rich, oaky scent of aged whiskey. The frantic, pounding bass from the club below was reduced to a muted, rhythmic thrum, a distant heartbeat that only served to emphasize the sanctuary-like quiet of the room above.

Valerie approached with a gaze as cool as the champagne she served. And without a word, she pressed a small, heavy silver tray into Y/N’s hands. It was chilled and impeccably polished. “Word of advice,” Valerie murmured, her voice barely a whisper, yet laced with a sort of amusement. “Don’t drop it. In here, a loud noise is a bigger sin than an empty glass.”

For the rest of the night, Y/N moved through this new ecosystem like a ghost, her presence designed to be felt only when a drink needed replenishing. She served vintage cognac and single-malt scotch and while her smile a professional fixture, her mind was a live wire and her ears finely tuned to dissect the pleasantries and grasp the substance lurking beneath.

She caught the sharp, clean scent of a man’s cigar as he leaned forward, whispering to another about a “pending city council vote on the waterfront development... a little persuasion in the right pockets, and the zoning changes.” In a shadowy corner, another man, his knuckles white around his glass, muttered a complaint to a statuesque blonde about “the Bat”—his shipment of “high-value electronics” had been intercepted, costing him a fortune.

 And most tellingly, a group of young, sharp-suited financiers shared a dark chuckle, one joking that a rival’s company was now “shortable to hell” after last week’s unfortunate “surprise”—a term delivered with such casual malice that it could only mean corporate sabotage or a manufactured scandal. Each snippet was a piece of the puzzle, a thread in the dark tapestry of Gotham's true power structure and the night was only beginning to unravel.

a/n: Also disclamer it might get a lil dark in the next few chapters. But issokay cuz we can have the nice sweet family fluff after that (eventually)

╰┈➤ Masterlist

Tags: @pasta-warlord @23s0fia @justannie18 @iloveescara @yuurisfavblog @onigiri-miyas @winterswift @dreaming-of-lilacs @x-vadon @alwaysholymilkshake @lavenderrkills @goth-rine @shumidehiro @starr60 @joekitsu @in-can-des-cent @hana-no-seiiki @springdolly00

You’d been reborn as an orphan child, and by all accounts now lived “all your life” here, and were one of these island people. You’re an unremarkable person, perhaps the most vulnerable thing you can be in this world, and the only notable thing about you is the company you keep.

For, much to your shock—and at first awe—you were reborn on an island that was also the home of the Pirate King himself. 

Well, he wasn’t the pirate king when you met him. He was a young boy with a head of ruffled hair and a missing front tooth, who grabbed your hand and took you off on adventure after adventure until you eventually relented and became his friend. 

Now the both of you were grown, and you’re not quite sure what you were. You tried not to be anything at all, far too afraid of what it would mean. Though your bodies were both about twenty, your mind contained that of two lifetimes, which made you feel strangely about befriending (or dating) anyone.

Not to mention you knew what he would become—and you didn’t want to interfere in that. Roger wasn’t just your childhood friend, he would be a martyr, a modern legend. 

Yet, he was a stubborn fool, and he refused to let you detangle yourself from his life. Much to your chagrin, you are very much entangled.

As friends? Something more?

The one thing that you and he can agree on, is that you’d rather not give a title to whatever this was. Though that doesn’t stop the old ladies in town from gossiping about the pair of you, and how close you are. 

That is why your ears sharpen as you wake and notice that there should be a few more sounds flittering around the tree house you live in, at the edge of the jungle. Namely, the heavy (often snoring) breathing patterns of a figure who will one day be of notorious reputation (but for now remains a local hooligan). The quiet is actually so alarming that you’re quickly blinking awake and sitting up. 

“Roger?” You ask out into the darkness. 

Nothing responds to you. Not even a stilted scuffle, like he normally makes when he’s trying to hide that he’s gotten up too early, or that he’s been out late causing trouble. Those nights he’ll filch and fuss as you try to treat his bruises and cuts, and tell you a grandiose story about his nightly adventure that you only half believe. 

Gol D. Roger is not the kind of young man you expected him to be. He was very bookish when the two of you were very young, but still more prone to starting fights than seemed rationally possible. But the rational and normal seemed to melt away from Roger’s life, you watched it happen with your own eyes, and so learned to accept it.

He’s been acting antsy lately and you know why. He’s been researching things he shouldn’t be, and you may have slipped out a few pieces of lore you should have no way of knowing, accidently pushing him down the path he was already destined for. He wants answers to questions he doesn’t even know to ask yet, and the tides call him.  

That and tomorrow is his birthday, or if that blue color outside is not from the moon but the first signs of dawn, and it’s actually his birthday today. 

You stumble out of bed, grabbing a robe and throwing it on over your nightgown. Basically half-blind, you wander out into the land around this place you now call a home with him, though it hurts too much to ever call it that. Then there you see him, his silhouette against the slightly aglow blue of the water and he’s walking out towards the docks.

“Roger!” 

It’s a miracle he stops at all, not when he’s got the sense of adventure about his step. 

But for you, he turns back smiling like he hasn’t got a care in the world, but he’s got dreams in his eyes so big they couldn’t be contained by the ocean. You can see them so clearly, even though you’re both awake. 

This day is coming so much sooner than you thought it would—though you always knew that he would be leaving. He was too young, too green, too precious, too everything to go out on that water and leave you behind. It hurt too much to watch him walk away, even if you knew there was no way to ever keep him from going.

You’re locked up in these feelings. 

Stuck between an almost motherly need to protect him from the hardness of the world he’ll help to shape, and the sinking dread of never seeing him again, like a wife waving off her husband before he goes to war. It all comes crashing down on you at once, and much too late, that you’re desperately, devastatingly in love with him. 

He stops with a swagger and looks your way, “Hey there, sugar.” 

Damn him, he’s insufferably charming, even now that you know what he’s up to. Still, you’re almost desperate to convince him to stay. This feeling seized you, literally chasing you up from bed and out here, like you just knew he would be here, looking longingly out at the sea just before dawn. Those immortal words he’ll say to Rayleigh and start his adventure already brewing on his tongue. You don’t know how you know, but you just do.  

“If you leave, it’ll be the death of you, you know that right?” You practically whisper, and his smile falls. Not to a frown, just to a thoughtful little tilt of his head. 

“Are you on about this again? Everybody goes one day.” He shrugs, oh so flippant about his life.  Like he always is. “Staying on land’s not going to stop that. And, you know, you’ve never told me what big bad thing is going to get me out there. I love a good legend.” 

People. You think bitterly. People and greed. 

But that would be too mundane for him to take seriously, so you just shake your head. “The biggest monster of all of them. I promise you that.” 

He puffs out his chest, “Well, I hope it’s a great big beast then. Even if it kills me, someone in my crew will surely live to tell the tale—wouldn’t that be something! Do you think people will tell stories about me, like they do the old greats?”

Tears nearly spring up to your eyes, because they will. They will tell stories of him. But you can’t tell him that. It’ll make his head too big, make him reckless, and he’s already cocky enough.  

“Being great has a price.” Is all you manage, choking on the words. 

Of course, he doesn’t take you seriously. He hardly ever does. You pout when he just laughs at you. 

“You worry too much, you always do. How about this…. Before that happens, I’ll come back here for you. Just to prove you wrong.” He teases, like he knows you’ll never take to the seas like he's about to. 

“Or right.” You mutter back and he laughs. 

He steps towards you, sounding so sincere, as he always does. And though you know he’s not one to make promises like that lightly, you can’t believe him. You don’t even think it’s in his will to keep that promise, because you know how his story ends. You know how all their stories end, and it’s not with him returning to you.

There’s no fight in you when he steps across the careful physical boundaries you’ve spent years mapping out. Like he only ever minded them to please you, and any moment he could have made you cast them all away (and you probably would have thanked him for relieving you of the burden.)

You’re so wrapped up in your thoughts, you miss how he leans in. How he mistakes your parted lips and the wetness in your eyes as a confession to feelings you’d never dare speak aloud (it’s not a mistake, he’s right, you’re a coward with words but you also have the fiercest heart he’s ever known.)

This is not just a friend leaning in to give a supportive hug, it’s his lips hovering over yours for a baited breath before they meet. 

Chaste at first, just the soft yet rough texture of his lips on yours, his beard tickling your skin. Then you grab him, with the ferocity of years of yearning, holding him to you as his hands grab around your waist. Something is jealous about the way his fingers finally grip your sides and pull your hips to his. The friction is painfully inadequate, you want him so much you could cry and beg for him.

But you don’t—he wouldn’t listen to the pleas anyway.

He pulls back, leaving you gasping for air. He doesn’t go far, just far enough that his lips brush against yours when he speaks, sparking feelings you never wanted to acknowledge let alone admit to anyone (including yourself). 

“I’ll come back.” He promises one last time. 

And it breaks your heart, because as much as you want to believe him, you can’t. Maybe he sees that in your eyes, and the fire you see reflecting back at you is his determination to prove you wrong. You just smile, albeit weakly, and wish him good luck on his way. He walks away, while you stand there watching his figure disappear, trying to memorize the shape of his shoulders and the curl of his hair. 

The sun eventually rises where he was, blinding you until almost noon before the stupor wears off. You never go back to the tree house, and Roger was gone before midday. 

Even though he leaves, his presence haunts you. 

Time passes—decades even—and with them you try not to linger too much on that last, fateful parting. A treacherous, traitorous part of your heart holds onto the words he whispered against your lips. A part of you hopes that it’s true, and that he’ll remember his little old childhood friend after all those years he’s spending making history on the Grand Line. 

The hope keeps you alone your whole life—the love of one Gol D. Roger cannot be replaced, and you think he must have loved you on some level and no matter how low a level that love was you can’t betray it. You even tried, it’s not like men aren't interested in you, but you can never say yes to them. This makes for a lonely, so very lonely, life, but you do live.

You love your island, and your community. You do your labor and are loved by your friends, but your bed is cold. 

Despite how you behave, deep in your heart you know you’re not the one he returns to. He finds Portgas D. Rouge, a woman beyond all others. A living sacrifice to the bloodline of D, who could do the impossible and hide her precious son from the world. He loves her, and she gives him Ace. 

You were not that woman and her fate wasn’t yours. The truth of it leaves a burning despair in you, an unfillable hole that is the home of your longing.

Yet, you watched for him in the way you could, all the way out in the East Blue. Every scrap of news was treated with such care, clips of papers hidden in scrap books full of his accomplishments. You compared his journey to what you already knew he would do, keeping track of the passing years by comparing the two. 

Though you tried to appear like you don’t care about his coming and goings to the other islanders (they always thought you were strange, after the first few years of trying to get used to living in this world when you were a child, so they let you keep to yourself). Thirty-five years pass, faster than you thought they would, and you know it’s the end when the news goes quiet. 

There are rumors that his fleet has disbanded. People talk about Roger like he’s a criminal or a thug, but you know the truth. Sooner than later, he’ll turn himself in, and the last piece of news that will finish your books will be the one that starts One Piece, the moment that hooked you into the show and will now break your heart into pieces that will never come back together. 

Once you realized that it was really coming to pass, no matter how unfair it seemed to you, you spend more time drinking than you have ever before. The bar has become something of a second home, alcohol doing the bare minimum at keeping you from drowning in a sorrow that’s yet to overtake.

You haven’t been in there long when you hear the swinging door to the salon sway and squeak. You don’t even look to see who comes in, you don’t care if it’s locals or some crew from a ship fresh in. You don’t care, in a despondent, depressive way.

You spent years and years hiding behind helpfulness and a smile. The disappointment you feel in yourself for being unable to save Roger (a goal you tried so long to hide you had) just breaks your soul too much to hide.

Since the news went quiet, it’s been like counting down the seconds before a bomb drops, just hopeless waiting for the moment your world ends. It doesn’t matter how long it’s been since you’ve seen him, the wounds still feel fresh, and his death will either kill you too or finally let you move on from him. 

Like that’ll ever happen. You sigh to yourself and take a swig of your drink.

There’s a shift in the air, though you think it must just be from the sea.  

“Hey there, sugar.” 

That voice. It makes the hair on the back of your neck rise up. Slowly, like you’re underwater, you turn to face him. 

There he is, Gol D. Roger, in all his glory. 

He looks older, of course he does, but he still does his mustache like you remember (and helped him keep up before he got good at grooming himself). He’s gotten big and burly, with lines of age under his eyes that only make him more handsome. The sun has left his skin leathery and tan, some gray has flecked into his hair, and he radiates a sense of power and steadiness that hits you like a wave. It uplifts you instantly and yet you stay totally frozen.

You know he’s ill, can see the tiredness on him, and yet he’s everything you remember and more. 

“You know,” he appraises you too with a flicker of his eyes, “you look even better than I remember.”  

This isn’t right, you think, he can’t be here. He should be with that unknowable someone, falling in love and sparking the first flame of life into the coming generation of pirates—the pirates that will save the world. 

And maybe he has. 

Maybe he’s done all of that, and this is his last stand before he heads off to turn himself in to the marines. Or maybe you’ve taken the place of that poor woman, and you’ll have to do the impossible, just like she did. Or maybe just by being, you’ve changed things so much that nothing you know will ever come to pass at all. 

But when you stand up, toppling the bar chair over and throwing yourself into his arms, it turns out you don’t really care if the story stays the same or not. You love Roger, and it turns out, he loves you too, and no one keeps a pirate from their treasure—not even a fate that’s meant to be written in stone. 

“Told ya I’d come back.” He whispers next to your neck. “Want to go on one last trip with me? You know, like we used to do when we were kids?” 

You might not make a sound, but your cheeks are wet with huge glossy tears that will stain the shoulder of his giant coat (not that he cares). He’s never forgotten you, how could he? He’d fallen for your strange brand of strength the moment he met you, stubbornness and all. (And he knew you would always be waiting for him, just like you did). 

And in the end, you were right even if he didn’t want you to be about this particular topic. (He should have known better than to think he’d ever prove you wrong. Even as kids you were always right, though despite your best attempts he just couldn’t be kept out of trouble.)

Greatness has a price, and he’s paying it in the last days of his life. But he wouldn’t want to spend those days with anyone else.

Finally, there’s a crack in your voice, and you hold him just a little tighter before giving your answer. 

“Of course.”

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No smut today my cute toads! Just a sweet story about love. This one is for @elliay who asked for it under my Katakuri x Reader during the great month of October. I really enjoyed writing such tragic sweetness~ Also happy endings are so satisfying!

Anyway, have a great day my self indulgent friends. ~With love, Bede

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