#together in death and in the next life and beyond | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hoseoksluna · 4 months ago

Text

SCHEME | jjk

pairing: yandere!jungkook x strategy!oc

genre: smut; angst

rating: 18+

summary: due to his reasons, jungkook finds it hard to give you what you desire, but when he finally does, he discovers that your scheme is greater than he anticipated.

word count: 9.5k

pin: strategy

warnings: dark content not to be romanticized — stalking, manipulation, gaslighting, smoking, parental abuse and neglect, daddy issues, mommy issues, spanking, usage of belt, scars, dissociation, guilt, ptsd, raw sexual intercourse, oral sex (f. receiving), male masturbation, fingering, squirting, obsession, restraint, slow burn, praise kink, pet names, cum eating.

FORMAL WARNING: jeon jungkook written in this work is a figment of my imagination and does not reflect the living person and his family.

luna’s note: here’s a LONG chapter two of strategy. i worked hard on this, actually i was absolutely obsessed with this and i couldn’t stop writing. reblogs, comments and asks are very appreciated. i hope you enjoy this, my babies. posting a day early just for you bc i can’t wait for you to read this. i love you. MWAH.

𓂃 ౨ৎ

taglist | join here: @jjk7k, @tkslovechild, @euphoricmyth, @cinmmongirl, @ririkookiemonster,

@perfectiondazesworld, @https-mei, @bangtansonyeondanue, @jungkoock, @cinmmongirl,

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@psychicjellyfishalpaca @Kooloveys

The rain perseveres and the rain emboldens, assisting with its severity by murmuring to his ear the subtleties of the next move. The move that is his own, second in line, despite being incited by your sinful, sinful forcefulness. But now, now as he has you in this position and the torrent of the rain stands by to watch, Jungkook slowly begins to perceive that you did good.

Your selfish strategy backfired.

Not only because the discipline that awaits you will help you. Help alleviate you of your poor little bothersome horniness and carve you into the little innocent girl he met at the library, fixated on the world of her books and not forcefully pushing her way in into the realm of his passion.

All in all, and most importantly, it shall project his love for you by diffusing your bubble butt with its rough, stingy and rosy kisses, leaving behind the imprint of his lips in the form of welts—the little puffed up slits of skin he longs to cum on as he ponders it, like the slits of the garters you’re always wearing, but somehow you’re not wearing right now.

That has to change, and he will. He will be the pillar in obtaining everything he desires and no force will stop him. The two halves of his persona have amalgamated in completeness, creating a man that simply no longer cares about anything. The morals and the reasons that used to hold him back lost their powerful presence to such an extent that there hasn’t even been left a trace in its wake. No memory, no keepsake to bring up their reminiscence. All has dispersed into nothingness, just like his cigarette in front of your apartment building.

It reminds him that he’s kept his headlights on under the duress of your scheme, but it’s no problem. He won’t be long; he’ll be finished with you just as quickly as he was finished with his sweet instrument of death. You’ll be wet, wilting, burning away to your origin just like it. And Jungkook can’t wait. He can’t wait to turn your scheme into his. Time beats against him and it leads his hands to fist your wrists together behind your back, propping them on your tailbone, and he doesn’t hold back. Not anymore. Not ever again.

For the first time in his fucked up life, he feels as though the time, the cosmos and someone up beyond them, who has the ultimate power, are not against him but for him, warranting this moment, deeming it good. There’s mercifulness in it all that he senses and as much as it supports him, it softens him and mollifies him to a degree that draws out his tears.

Maybe he is a good person, worthy of love and worthy of the fleeting feeling of goodness and peace.

Jungkook’s vision blurs as he watches your squished face on the plush of the couch. He skims the leather of the belt down the supple bareness of your butt and doesn’t blink. Interest and perhaps curiosity cast a certain pinkish light that twinkles across your features like the stars that are too hasty to wait until the evening goes to sleep and the night enters, and it moves his heart, prods it with endearment and a question. Have you never gotten spanked before? He retraces his movement, beginning all over again, and the prodding gains intensity when your mouth parts with a soft breath of comfort.

You have no idea what awaits you. Jungkook wonders if you’ll like it just as much.

Without a moment to spare, he flings down the belt on the flesh he teased. And he finds that the pinkish tones root from your heart. They surge, with a violent verve, to your mien that wrinkles and tenses at the reverberating sting, deepening their hue ever so wonderfully. The prodding cuts deep and even deeper when the eyes that stared at nothing in particular flick up to his as if needing some kind of compassion and empathy, and he would give it to you, of course he would, had this been a game of playful love between you and him, and had it not been a scheme, stemming from the core of your selfishness and stubbornness.

Instead, Jungkook spanks you again. Harder this time.

The breath you let out is louder, accompanied by the tiniest mewl that he dislikes. He wants your sweet mewls to echo across these walls and not be so soundless, but the night is young and he’s secure in the confidence that rushes in his veins. As a matter of fact, he dwells on the feeling that brews in him—and it’s nothing like the pomegranate tea you so wrongfully drank out of his niceness, carefulness and suppression. The feeling is the richest, the floweriest and the silkiest drink of rum he ever swallowed, the kind he imagined his father downed before he struck him across his face because he had looked at him wrong. Wrong place, wrong time; wrong child, wrong soul. Jungkook can almost hear the way the elder man cursed his soul, deeming it stained, unsalvageable and sinful, and he would get lost in the potent resoundings of his memories, had you not wrapped your little fingers across the crook between his thumb and his forefinger. It weakens him, faintly, nearly worsens him, but the small touch of your neediness and delicate keenness makes him think that if he couldn’t save himself as a child, he can save you.

He’s going to make you better because he can. Because he’s there. Because he loves you. No one ever did that for him; no one had the time, no one had the eyes to see to begin with.

He spanks you again, but suddenly it’s him who feels the pain. As if the string that bound him to you tightened enough that it coiled him unfathomably deeper into you. Perhaps there’s no beginning and end to him alone—perhaps the end is somewhere in the garden within you, and the bunny of his love sniffles its nose, overcome with it all. Numbness pours over him like the rain perfumed him just a moment ago, and he needs to snap out of it, he needs to wake up, he needs to be present—

His hands, controlled by the time and the cosmos, fondle the ache that must be swirling around your flesh with the lip of the leather, following its expanding, round motions. You didn’t make a sound, or at least he missed it. He deems it a regretful shame, and that’s why when he strikes again, he pours a little more roughness into it just to coax it out, just to focus better. He needs to hear it, needs it to envelop around his cock, and this time, you cry out. Your spine twitches like a seesaw, reacting to the pain that continues coursing across your butt, and when he turns his head to the flesh, he sees that it’s scarlet, bumpy and vibrating with the echoes of the pain.

Of the abuse.

How many times did he spank you? Was he not present at all? Was he not aware? Was he not—

The belt falls to the carpet and Jungkook, too, falls.

The time, the cosmos, the someone. They all stood by to watch him lose himself in the principle of having the right kind of power, the one that matters the most. There was no control, no stable wall. The rum that runs down his throat is no longer silky but bitter, pangs of guilt constricting it until he can’t inhale a single morsel of air. And for that very reason, he allows himself to be carried away by the softness he never let out before.

His hand lands on your abused butt that quivers under his touch until your knees give away and the bottom half of your body plops down onto the couch. The same hand lifts you back up and keeps you in place, keeps your frailness in their hold.

His mind spins in a tornado of self-deprecating thoughts and shards of a broken mirror that reflect the face of his father.

His eyes exude tears that he can only forbid you from seeing, and not forbid from flowing.

His mouth draws close to the place between your legs, where his apology can take effect, but not before they form the words he’s never spoken out before.

“I’m sorry.”

The letters sound as strange to his ears as they do to yours. He wanted this, he wanted to discipline you, but his fatherliness disappeared under the layer of his own father: under the layer of his trauma. He didn’t see this coming. Nothing went according to his feverish calculations and he feels so bad that the guilt itself is a disaster.

Disaster collapsing over this world; the rain halts, silence closing over the streets of Seoul.

Your red skin is hot to the touch and Jungkook fades away into the little boy version of him, who placed his hand on the hot, red cheek of his own weeping mother. The little boy who discovered, for the first time, the feeling of a skin not his own, marred by something that he also had experienced. It connected him to his mother, the bond growing roots that expand over those any other mothers and sons have, but his mother, despite the greatness of her love, never had the strength to reciprocate anymore.

Jungkook needs to know if you've become her in the same way he’s become his father.

The warm wetness of his tears spurting down his cheeks feels right as he draws near and smears them between the private skin between your sensitive flesh. He lets out a hard breath, the sensation of his tears perhaps washing away the sin he committed consuming him whole, and as he wraps his lips around your little clit, there’s purity in it that he never expected to come across.

Your noises flow out. The more he takes your bud into his mouth, the more those tiny mewls he loves so much transform into full moans, those of angels. You grip him harder, pushing your butt into his face, mimicking the dance of waves he always longed to see. Perceiving that you’re liking the motions of his mouth, he allows himself to enjoy it, seizing your little clit with more enthusiasm and power, his tongue joining in and inciting your dance to quicken.

And then, his name descends into the stream of your noises, and he’s done for.

His attention topples to his straining cock, your enjoyment making the sin and the evil dissolve under its vivacity until there’s nothing but it sailing through the atmosphere. His tears are forgotten, replaced by the essence of your pleasure as he licks you all over, unable to swallow it whole due to its overwhelming amount. His wrongdoing dissipates and instead his rightdoing dominates, fixing everything he caused. Your delight and your saccharine taste makes him a better man, or at least he thinks so, and he desires for your orgasm to transform him into someone who won’t make the same mistake.

He no longer wants to be the amalgamation of the yin and yang, the grayness that magnetically pulled his hand to his belt, that stringed the thoughts and the will to discipline you.

He yearns to be a man, devoid of any resemblance to his father. A well, brimming with love.

He hasn’t felt the touch of the sun and the rainwater in years, having been dried up with nothing to give. But now as he drinks you, he hopes that changes. He hopes your essence fills him up to the brim so that this never happens again.

And because of that, Jungkook puts a little more pressure into the flicking motion of his tongue upon your clit, which has become more swollen the more he sucked it. And ultimately, he dips into the obsession of this determination.

He turns you around, not hearing the way you hushedly cry out in pain as your sensitive butt collides harshly with the plush of your couch. His hatred for his life and his tendencies deafens his ears, the effervescence of its silence piercing through his eardrum. He kneels at the couch and, leaning over your small body, he does the first right act of his entire life.

He connects his lips to yours. And the well inside him begins to grow with vines of flowers that mirror the same rosiness that spreads across your face. The petals must have the same softness as your lips, too, and Jungkook deepens the kiss, whimpering into it because he feels the breath of life as you inhale against him. Perhaps you’re overwhelmed just the same, confused and bewildered by the twist of events, by the scarring of his hands, and he regrets it.

He regrets the person he is.

You prove him right, casting a light upon him that is too kind, too humane. Not something he deserves after the way he hurt you.

“Why did you spank me?” you ask between the short interlude of heads turning and lips smacking, closing over each other all over again as if they fit together with utmost perfection—a place of home within that interlock.

Jungkook loses all oxygen in his lungs and all words in his mouth. They come, however, by some miracle, through his features. His brows and mouth curl downwards and he lets you feel it, lets you attach the vocabulary to them by laying his face against you—just for a moment before your eyes see. Your dark, dark eyes that have so much gentleness in them.

He’s not sure he’s deserving of it. Not after what he’s done to you.

“Let me make you come,” he whispers, placing one final chaste kiss against your puffy lips, the chastest he’s capable of. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? And it’s what you deserve.”

It’s surreal, the sudden words that streamed out. And how right they feel, how pure, how precious. A ball of energy vibrates in the middle of his chest, all rabid and ardent. He curves into a little boy who wants to please his parent as he reaches down to your lap, but you stop him by grabbing his shoulder.

“What I want for you to tell me is the reason why you spanked me,” you demand, raking your fingers through the hair at the back of his head, your thumb tracing circles on the place upon his cheek right beside his ear, and time stops.

That is precisely the way his mother would touch him.

The cosmos lean down and stack themselves upon his shoulders. If he were Atlas, he’d be strong enough to carry it. Perhaps even stand and show off his grand ability to withstand it all. But he’s not Atlas. As much as he’s condemned by life, by some other power that doesn’t like him, he’s not a Titan. He’s not a man by any chance either.

He’s a lost boy. A wandering boy who very often fails at everything he does— and who now needs to explain his foolish failure.

His eyes wet. His arms on either side of you quiver under all that pressure, but he holds those tears back. The little strength he has left consoles him in a way, helps him formulate the words of the language he thinks is so foreign to him.

Truth.

“You made me give you something I wasn’t ready to give you yet,” he mutters, the fervor of his tears heightening, threatening to escape. It courses through his veins, stabilizes his arms and the back of his neck and Jungkook uses its strength to gaze at you. To gaze at your reaction. To drink from it and use it to refresh the empty well in him.

But the question wrung across your face merely tightens his heart, and he remains depleted. Through and through. vacant.

Though something unknown in him, possibly summoned up by the agile bunny in him, stretches out his arm and makes it so he touches your puzzlement. His thumb brushes across your cheek, still so prettily reddened by his creation. Travels all the way to your mouth that he kissed so hungrily, and pines to do it all over again. Hell, spend the entire night bruising it—no, not bruising it, making love to it until it’s all he knows, until it’s all he consists of. Your mouth, your words, your intellect. And as you speak into his hand, all he can think about is how he’s nothing without you, and, curiously, his cock strains harder in his pants. Sweat sticks to his skin like a second layer.

“Give me what?” you demand further. A spark of fire winks at him in your eyes, inviting him in, inviting him to fold himself in all entirety inside you. And he wants to, he yearns to, there’s nothing left for him to do than to be completely devoted to you, to curl in your lap like a son in a mother’s lap and be shepherded, be made right, be disciplined.

And because of that yearning, he offers the rest of the truth in all its dimmed glory.

“Me,” he reveals, letting out a humorless chuckle. All of his nerves swarm in a tight bundle somewhere in him, and he feels the need to smoke. So much so that he doesn’t ask if he can and does it anyway because he fears that if he doesn’t, his nerves will swallow him whole. Straightening up and rummaging in his pocket, he pulls the slender death instrument and pops it into his mouth, lighting it up. And as his mouth is shrouded in the warm light and he inhales the nicotine, your bare foot lifts and drifts down his lower abdomen, halting at his groin. He exhales the smoke, dipping his head to study your actions, and he discovers that you’ve pressed your foot right against his imprint.

And it’s half the size of his cock.

“Give me some of it.”

At first, he guesses you’re talking about his dick, but when he sees the two of your fingers hovering in the air in the shape of ‘V’, it’s clear to him that you want to take a puff of his cigarette. He blushes at that, realizing that he’s never shared a cigarette with someone he loved before, and the nerves that swarmed his chest descend to his stomach. Some would call them butterflies, but the inside of his body is too dark for them. Moths… moths are the winged creatures you awakened from their eternal slumber.

And they attack his stomach when he sinks the cigarette between your lips, brazenly and purposefully ignoring your suspended hand because he wants to feed you something of his own. And the fact it isn’t something so positive and sugary feels rewarding for some reason.

It adds to the overall mollification. He’d also feel at peace if he didn’t love you so much.

You envelop your lips around the yellow butt of the cigarette and begin to suck. A lungful of death—what a good girl. He doesn’t want to admit that the spanking worked because the thought alone causes a prickling ache in his heart. But as you exhale out the smoke just like him, he comprehends that he sobered up from absolutely everything.

This is him, bare and raw. And he doesn’t know what he’s capable of. The smoke closes around his face and he breathes in, as if for the first time in his life. He wonders who he’ll become once he stuffs your drooling pussy with his cock, but he’s sure that person will be one of goodness.

Some sort of goodness he’d never achieve to become on his own.

The notion brings up the taste of your essence in his mind and he hungers for you again. Saliva gathers in his mouth, nearly overspills, and he wipes at his mouth briefly before he takes the last puff and exhales the smoke into your mouth. A short, devastatingly short kiss that you moan into, and moan again when he asks you an erotic question.

“Do you think you can finish it without coughing as I eat you out?”

He doesn’t know if you’re a regular smoker or if it’s your first time. Right now, the details don't matter. The night is long enough for that conversation. Jungkook lets the cigarette hang from your mouth as he straightens, his sin and cigarette smoke coated hands drifting down your parted thighs. He knows just the thing that will cleanse them without a doubt.

“You don’t know me at all,” you say, jutting out your chin to the side to suck on the cigarette you’re holding with your fingers. It provokes him and, internally, he fights the possibility of you being right. He knows where you live, he knows your routine. Your mornings, afternoons and nights. Your favorite food, the fact you like to read, how truly smart you are. He knows enough. And it baffles him that he’s never seen you smoke. Not even when you were out with your friends. “Try to make me come before I finish this.”

You part your legs. Switch the cigarette to your other hand and flick the ash into the nearby half-empty glass of water. His cock twitches at the challenge, but an anger, unlike the one he experienced prior the moment he sobered up, flares in his chest. Like a small star up in the heavens, it burns lightly.

He doesn’t waste time.

Jungkook lifts your hips, pulling a surprised breath out of your throat. The white vapor gyrates around your face and Jungkook can’t take his eyes off of it as he sticks out his tongue and circles your clit with its tip. A sense of achievement and pride clutches him when you roll your eyes back, and your mouth begins to open wider, only to close in a fight, resembling his, when he sucks hard. In spite of it, you give your moans freedom and essentially, you do the same for him.

He dips to your hole because he can’t stall any longer. Whimpers at your dulcet taste, fluttering his eyes shut, though never entirely. He can’t lose sight of you. Lapping at the source, he makes sure to stimulate your clit by rubbing his nose in it. The smacking of his lips and tongue against your dripping flesh, his desperate noises, they all overlap with your own now high-pitched moans and squeaky breaths. You begin to buck your hips and Jungkook listens to your body, immersing his tongue into your heat, encouraging you to keep going and fuck yourself on him like that with little hums of agreement. And the validation—it leads you to lose yourself in the rapid current of the pleasure and forget about the challenge.

But Jungkook didn’t forget. If there’s one thing about him that’s stable and safe against other influences, it’s his ability to never forget.

“Smoke,” he orders, narrowing his eyes. He spits on your pussy before he sinks his tongue back inside, his mind spinning. He uses one of his hands to replace his nose on your clit, and he strums it with all the strength and speed he’s possessed with. Obsessed, utterly obsessed with the idea of not winning, but winning you over. Impressing you.

It’s important to him. And through that, he realizes the origin of his anger. The kaleidoscope of it all tells him that he was more bothered by your lack of belief in him than the principle of the challenge itself.

No one believes in him. Not his parents, not Taehyung… and not you.

Jungkook reaches his hand down to your breast and through the wrinkly, soft fabric he pinches your nipple before he begins to fondle it with side to side motion, bringing out your orgasm as if it were an animal he was calling out.

And your body listens.

Convulsing in his hold, it submits to him through the waves of the pleasure he’s giving you. Jungkook doesn’t stop his actions, continuing them relentlessly as you ride it out. Your eyes are shut tight, your mouth letting out the most saccharine mewls, secret and private. And he lets it be that way. He could pull his mouth away and ruin your orgasm by ordering you to keep your eyes on him, but he doesn’t. The beauty of your orgasm is held in a higher regard for him, and so is the fact that once you come out of that rising wave, you’ll recognize that you shouldn’t have underestimated him.

The ash on your cigarette is a high tower, unsmoked.

Seeing that your pleasure has died out and overstimulation has taken place, he withdraws his tongue and grabs your waist with both of his hands. Waits until you open your eyes in order to kiss your clit in the form of a settlement. Slowly, he lays your body down, careful not to hurt your butt, and he leans over and takes his cigarette back—only to expertly flick off the ash without making a mess and sink it back to your mouth for the final puff. He holds it for you, a sign of his dominance over you, and he no longer can perceive whether its foundation is of his fatherliness or just masculine instincts. And he doesn’t want to know anymore. He doesn’t want to see, to think. A great blanket of sadness swathes him feignedly snugly, emotional exhaustion seeping into his every nerve ending.

He wants to be alone at this moment. Sleep it off. Wake up next week.

“Come here.”

He’s flinging the cigarette into the glass of water when your fingers sneak upon your favorite place of his body—his ribs. They fist his shirt, tempt him back into your alluring presence, and he’s so tender at this very moment that he lets you. He lets you push him against you and he lets you kiss him in the way that you’re skilled at, plunging your tongue into his mouth, setting him on fire. The well in him has never seen the rain and the sunlight, but the fire? It wants nothing but your fire, the heat and the sting of the burn. And he fears the bunny of his love will wander off into its deep darkness and never be found again.

He pulls away, but you don’t let him, gripping his hair.

“I want you,” you whisper, digging your eyes into his, entrancing him and entrapping him because by those words you change everything.

The strategy is erased. The bow of the scheme lowers its arrow down. It no longer matters to whom it backfires because it ceases to exist in this minute. All because of your honesty, portrayed by your innocent words.

What would have happened if you used them at the beginning of this night? Would you have ended up with red welts or hickeys across your butt?

Jungkook’s heart hammers. Lightness falls upon his shoulders and he rolls them back, relaxing the muscles at last. He detects a sliver of kindness in this all, one that has the power to change this trajectory, and it propels him to nod his head, brush your hair back, and kiss your cheek.

Tenderness. Innocence. No sign of mischief.

“You want me?” he flirts subduedly, skimming his lips upon the corner of your mouth up across your cheek to your nose, which he kisses, too. “You want this cock to stretch you out? Make you feel good like my tongue, hm?”

He’s stunned by the ease to his words, how natural this feels. As if he hadn’t hurt you at all, as if you hadn’t seduced him and made a wreck out of him. As if his trauma hadn’t resurfaced, the one he had buried so deep within the well that it withered into crumbs. What power you have, to erase and to change.

To soften.

He kisses your wet chin, smeared by your essence that dripped from his own. Dips down to your neck, waiting for your response, for your consent. Imagines you’re too dumbfounded by getting what you wanted for so long at last, and right now at this very second, he’s happy for you.

Happy to be the giver, the provider.

Happy to tease you.

“I’m not fucking you until you use your words,” he whispers against the column of your neck, his tongue slipping out and grazing across the sensitive skin as he kisses you there. The smacking sound he makes arouses him to a point of madness almost, but he holds it back just for a little while. “And until you say please, baby girl.”

You gasp at the pet name and it pleases him so much that he lopsidedly smiles and drags that expression of positivity against your skin until he ends up facing you. The tendril of joy that curls around the moths in his stomach fuels his smile to transform into a full grin and he finds himself having withdrawals of the feeling of your skin. Jungkook grabs your face and he watches the mischief die out from your eyes—like a candlelight melting into darkness. And there truthfulness and the raw reality come up for air.

“Did you spank me because I didn’t use my words?” you probe, and he’s thankful for the question, for the face of this moment as he deems it valuable and significant. The calmness he receives from it settles over the bunny, preventing him from observing the fire fading out. Instead, he focuses on stargazing at you.

“Yes,” he agrees, fulfillment clenching his heart. “You showed me your tits through the window when anyone passing or driving by could see, instead of telling me like the good girl I know you are.”

You curl your lips behind your teeth, contemplating his words. Your eyes follow your hands as they glide across his arms up to his shoulders, and Jungkook shivers. Hopes you don’t notice. Would be too embarrassing, considering the unnamed role he’s stepped into.

“I tried to tell you,” you say, concentrating on the speck of fluff somewhere on his shirt. “You know that I did, but you kept your distance. You stopped talking to me, too, you know.”

Your sentence makes the reason behind your flashing click in his brain, and he pushes away the previous deception of your sinfulness. Jungkook swims through the myriad of his thoughts, filtering out the lies of the mischief and gathering the truth that glistens and glimmers in his hands.

“You shouldn’t flash private parts of your body just to get a guy to talk to you,” he scolds gently, squeezing your face for a millisecond to prove the gravity of his discipline—and there it is, the right kind of discipline he sought. It wasn’t supposed to be the spanking, it was supposed to be this. “You’re a beautiful, smart girl. You don’t need to do that. You don’t need to do shit.”

The light in your eyes that appears blinds him and lingers, despite your following words.

“But you just said I should’ve used my words.”

“Yes,” he breathes out immediately, dripping with desperation, his brows knitting. “You should’ve used them or you could’ve waited like I told you to because I was gonna come back to you. I was gonna come back to you and give you this cock, give you what you wanted.”

Your hands slide down to his forearms, hanging onto them, and your eyes gain a glossy film. Your brows twist, and Jungkook can vividly see you understand his point and comprehend his reprimand.

“So you’re saying that if I came down and asked you to fuck me, you would’ve done it?”

He doesn’t have to ponder your question for long because the answer tumbles down onto him like a feather of wisdom. He was roaming in a bad place of idleness and apathy, but it was you who got him up from his table, led him with invisible hands into the shower and then into his car. It was you, and if you had asked him that question, the fight would surely be present, but if you insisted, if you said please—he knows he wouldn’t be able to say no to you.

Even if he didn’t enjoy it as much.

“If you said please, I would’ve thrown you over my shoulder and fucked you until all you knew was me,” Jungkook says, and he means it. The same hand that gripped your face sneaks down between your legs in one swift, hurried motion and his middle finger slips into your heat with utmost ease due to how wet you are. But there, on purpose, all of his rapidness stops. His digit slides to the first knuckle and remains there. Your walls swallow him and Jungkook gulps with a certain kind of difficulty, feeling faint. If you squeeze around his shaft like this, he’s not too sure if he’ll survive. “Your pussy would know only me and no one else, you got that?”

You tighten even more around his finger, fluttering—and the rest of you flutters, too, underneath him. Your body writhes, willing him to give you more, but he won’t. Not until you learn to use your words.

“You’re not getting the rest of my fingers until you talk to me,” he settles, propping his elbow above your head, maneuvering his weight onto one side, his painful hard-on resting against your hip bone. “It’s all up to you, baby.”

You whimper, stalling your fidgeting, and Jungkook senses your strong will to relax taking effect. And for that, he kisses your forehead. You fist his shirt at his stomach and he wonders if you can feel the kicks of his moths against your hand. Your pelvis tilts, but he knows it’s just your natural instinct, and he lets it pass.

He trusts you, even when you ask him another challenging question.

“Will you spank me if I don’t?”

His heart pounds, scaring the moths, but he takes a deep breath, rubbing his nose in your hair before he pierces his gaze into your eyes, making sure you know he means his words when he says: “No, I won’t. That was a mistake.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

And like you tilted your pelvis, you tilt your chin and seize his bottom lip, kissing him with such tenderness that he moans and nearly gives you the entirety of his finger. It takes all of his willpower not to do so, concentrating instead on the sealing of the promise as he allows you to kiss him on your own terms. Soft pecks handled by the turning of heads with interludes in between, tasting each other while the time and the cosmos hold their breaths. How beautiful this is and how delicate, the act of not ripping each other’s clothes off but taking your shared time, standing in the way of the laws of this life.

“Okay,” you whisper against his lips, and Jungkook grasps that you’ve been gathering courage all this time for a reason he longs to know. “Fuck me, please.”

He hums in pleasure, pressing a rewarding kiss against your lips that lasts for only a second—interrupted by the force of his pleased grin. The fulfillment he feels grows, merging into a high-leveled gratification that buzzes throughout his whole body. He tries to kiss you again but fails, awkwardness seeping through that makes you daintily giggle. And once he hears his own, an oasis of serenity and sentimentality, perfumed by the sweetest tea of pomegranate leaves, transpires in his chest.

“Good girl,” he praises, adding another finger, his vocal cords strained by his emotions. “Where do you want me? Tell me where.”

Your breath hardens, wafting across his features, but you’re not shy, you’re not timid to tell him where you need him: “In my pussy, please.”

His cheeks ache from his smile, but he can’t stop. He’s fucked, he loves you, and it completely massacres him. “That’s it. You learn so well.”

Jungkook pulls out his fingers to his first knuckles, dropping his gaze to them just to see how much you coated them. Your essence glistens in the dimmed light and drips down his palm. Wanting you to see as well, he pulls them out entirely and shows you. The droplets plummet to your chest and you bite your lip, blushing, your eyes running all across his hand. Over and over again.

“You’re so prettily wet,” he rasps, closing his lips over your cheek, and he doesn’t need you to respond to his comment before he plunges them back in and begins to fuck you with such a speed that you scream out, grabbing his forearm and sinking your nails into it.

That doesn’t stop him either. The need to make you come for being such a good girl after that winter of emotional pain ferally takes control of him and he douses himself in its tide.

He pistons his fingers into you, curling them at the front wall. Thumbing your clit, you roll your eyes back, your chest heaving and gasping for air. Your little nipples perk up for him against the fabric of your night dress, and the sight is so dazzling that he doesn’t blink as he watches you. He can’t wait to have you all bare for him—to see you in your full glory, your flesh bouncing and under his command. His cock leaks at that thought and his animalistic instincts take a hold of him, fucking you faster with his fingers until your whole body shakes—just like he wanted, and until your whole body comes for him.

The fountain of your pleasure soaks you first before it soaks him, and Jungkook thinks it’s exactly what you deserved. You yelp, but the sound of horror soon turns into a sound of elation as you begin to sputter into a fit of giggles. One he consumes by kissing you nastily, all tongues and spit, while he massages your clit, taking you to the finish line until you can’t anymore.

“Oh, Jungkook,” you moan into his mouth, barely able to kiss him back as the daze and dizziness of your orgasm seizes you, and Jungkook hums in response, knowing—knowing all about how you feel.

He grabs your waist and throws you onto your bed a few feet away. Your studio is a small place, fitting all necessities into one room, and by some sixth sense he knows where you store your collection of knee socks and lingerie. He turns around, rummaging in your dresser, and the ones he likes the most just fall into his hand, as if asking for him. A fine black cotton with no endearment, beautiful in all its simplicity. He places it on the bed, his hands quick to grapple the hem of your nightdress and haul it over your head, making your breasts bounce from the impact. His cock cries at the sight and lowly he growls, immediately busying his hands with the fabric of your knee socks in order not to delve deep into your bosom. He untangles it from its rolled-up stacking, bunches it up in his hands and one by one, he drags them up your legs, kissing your wet thigh each time he finishes, smoothing down the band.

And then he undresses. Pops open the button of his jeans, slides down his zipper, giving you a full show of his manhood through his boxers, drenched because of you. You ogle him with a parted mouth, drool building in the corners of your mouth, and Jungkook finds it so endearing that he shoots you a grin before he sneaks his hand inside his boxers and shows his raging, reddened cock to you.

“Is this what you wanted?” he asks, gently, slowly sweeping his hand up and down on the shaft, letting out little staccatos of ragged breaths as he finally senses some kind of pleasure in the longest hour of his life. His precum freely drips down, making it uncomplicated, and you look as though you are utterly transfixed.

Your eyes nearly go cross, gaping at his length.

“Fuck, the veins,” you comment, swallowing thickly and jutting out your tongue to wet your dry, ruined lips. “Yes, please. I want it so bad.”

And then you begin to scurry to your knees, but Jungkook doesn’t allow that to happen. You’re not sucking his dick—you’re getting fucked, and he tells you that, shifting you back down onto the mattress, using the same hand placement that he did at the start of this evening. Except the feeling of your bare, supple and soft tits drives him off his head, and he has to stop stroking his cock because if he continued, he would’ve pumped ropes and ropes of his cum to hang off those pretty, pretty nipples.

He groans, internally, considering this a torment and nothing else, but it’s better than the mental anguish he experienced. He’s present in the reality and he cherishes it so much that he wants to give back to you by fucking you into oblivion.

What a twist of events.

“I’m fucking you raw, you hear me?” he announces, taking his position and yanking you down until his ball sack collides most wonderfully with your sopping pussy. He sucks in a breath, his entire manhood so sensitive and on the brink of such a profound climax that he’s not sure how he’ll last once he’s inside you. He exchanges a look with you and discovers that you’ve been touched by it just the same. Your eyes, star-filled, widen and soon lower at the impact. “I can’t have anything separating you from me. I want to feel you. Through and through. You understand?”

You can only nod your head, your muscles so tense that it seems as though you’re not breathing at all, and that worries him. He’s aware that being on the cusp of receiving what you wanted for so long is more than thrilling, but he needs you to be relaxed. He needs this to be normal for you because nothing will ever be the same after he discovers the waters of your femininity. There won’t be a day your pussy won’t get stuffed full.

Jungkook caresses your cheek with his knuckles, frowning. “Breathe. I’m gonna go slow, I promise. Do you trust me?”

A nebula of tears clouds your eyes within the speed of light, your chin quivering. Your words come just as quickly, butchering his heart.

“Jungkook, this is my first time.”

The night spring air moves gently through the room. A swallow sings to the effulgent orbs strewn across the darkened heavens, interrupting the silence. His phone, inside the pocket of his jeans somewhere on your floor, vibrates unendingly.

The sly, intentional touches in his car. The confessions of what you were doing under your blanket after the date ended. Your wet panties after he expressed the past version of his fatherliness towards you. The pressed-up tits against your window after a too-long of a pause. Was this the thing you were trying to tell him? That you were a virgin, yearning to be touched for the first time?

That you chose him to be the first one?

Is that why you never relented? Has he become your obsession as much as you have become his?

Jungkook begins to chuckle, and the sound is magnified into a full laughter that heartily pulsates in his chest. You are a little vixen, and a cute one. Older than a cub, younger than the full-grown animal. Just learning how to hunt, attuned to her urges and instincts. And you learn so well.

He’d been caught, but now he’s been physically strapped. To you, and to your little perversions.

Jungkook makes it so you feel his delight from it by kissing you deeply. And he makes it so you feel his shaft by gliding it back and forth across your feminine flesh, stimulating your clit and stealing your attention from the cold side of your emotions. Stealing it in every respect by moving his mouth to your eyelids while they’re still closed and lost in the dream of the kiss and by kissing the tears that gathered underneath them.

“I’m gonna take care of you,” he whispers against your eyelashes and you mewl, ever so beautifully, calmness catching up to you. “Have I never tried to tell you that before, hm?”

You mewl again in response, too vulnerable to speak, and Jungkook wishes to bite you for that. You grab his neck and pull him flush against you, needing him, needing to find comfort in him, and he doesn’t hesitate to give you just that.

He contemplates this moment. You… a virgin, a small animal, pure just for him, purer than he thought. Overbrimming with your horniness enough to do anything to get rid of it in a way that works. He sighs against your ear, sensing another gush of arousal coursing through him, vivifying his body in otherworldly measures.

“You’re a little pet, aren’t you?” he purrs rhetorically, peppering kisses all over your ear and the spot on your neck beneath it that causes you to pant against him. “Was I the first one to ever eat your pussy? Hm?”

He feels you answering him long before you use your words—you shake your head, clinging to him tighter. “No. I’ve had my pussy eaten before.”

His arousal burns. “By who?”

You turn over the leaf, and Jungkook takes a note of that.

“I think I’m ready. You can put it inside me.”

His arousal burns brighter, shifting his hand to grab himself and line himself at your entrance. “Put what?”

You groan in frustration, coaxing a chuckle out of him, but he doesn’t let up. He repeats the question, teasing the fuck out of you for his own personal pleasure while focusing his tip on your clit, and you writhe your hips and within the worst of your vexation, you give him your answer.

“Your dick.”

He laughs, but the sound is cut off as soon as your flowery walls constrict around his mushroom head. You and him simultaneously whimper in such a desperate manner that the moths inside his abdomen quiver. You swallow the most sensitive part of him as if he didn’t stretch you out with his fingers at all, making it hard for him to breathe. His brain malfunctions, the blasting of the pleasure throughout the pathways of his veins too much to handle. He pulls out, flicks his eyes up to you in order to study your reaction, and all your face muscles are strained, flexing in a scowl that he doesn’t like.

He can’t have this.

He can’t be swimming in the grandest pleasure he ever got a taste of while you’re drowning in discomfort. And at the same time, he can’t have your expectations ruined. It’s not fair. You wanted this, you looked forward to this, and he wants you to experience how good this is, live out your fantasies that cost him everything. You just have to be patient, and he tells you that.

“This is going to take a few tries,” he says, cradling your cheek. “You have to be patient. You’re not used to me yet. It’s gonna feel good just like you imagined, but you have to push through. I’m here with you.”

You cry out, your liquid emotions rushing through again, but never escaping. “You’re really big. I don’t think I can do it.”

He smiles at that and doesn’t pry away the selfish satisfaction he gets from that. Jungkook stashes it in the well, a line of perspiration forming on his forehead.

“This dick—” He grins, knowing this word now belongs to you. “Was made for you to take, so it doesn’t matter what you think. You’re gonna take it. I believe in you.”

You hide in the crook of his neck, but Jungkook decides there’s not gonna be any hiding anymore. He sits up, dominates the time by fisting your wrists and preventing you from hiding your face. His cock drools on your pelvic bone and he still doesn’t believe how he could’ve gone so long like this at this point. He presses your wrists down right on the mess he made and reaches his thumb to the side, circling your clit. And as he relaxes your muscles by that, he spits on his fingers, lubricates his tip and sheathes himself inside you, earning a gasp from you that adds to his satisfaction.

“Jungkook,” you call out, a hint of panic in your voice, but Jungkook shakes his head. Pushes even deeper. Puts a little more pressure into the circles on your clit for a second before he lifts his thumb, spits on the pearl, and continues. “Oh–oh my—”

“Let me handle it, let me handle you. I know what to do. Trust me, yeah?” Jungkook growls, letting out hard, little breaths through his gritted teeth as he tries with great difficulty not to move. “Relax your muscles for me. Look at me.”

You flick your doe eyes at him. So big, so round, so terrified. His little pet, listening so well, experiencing something so huge for the first time. He lets you in on his thoughts, translating them word for word, helping you relax your muscles to accommodate for him. The term of endearment does something to you, and he sings it to you, switching his hand and rubbing your clit, lifting the one holding your wrists and kissing your flaccid fingers.

“How does that feel, huh? Me rubbing your little clit and stretching you out, hm?”

He pushes a little more in, feeling you open more for him, and it signals him to take this to another level. Jungkook begins to make little moves forwards and backwards, delirious from the fact that he’s so close to breaking your hymen and owning your virginity.

And the movements help. Your eyes flutter, your pleasure finally taking shape. “Oh, my god. This is it?”

He chuckles and he speeds up, daring to fuck you deeper and your eyes widen at that, your chest quickening, unable to handle it all. But you will.

“Yes, baby. This is it. You did it,” he murmurs, pinning your hands above your head and leaning down again, stealing a wet kiss. “It’s finally here. What you’ve been wanting all this time is yours now. You better enjoy it.”

And with that, he buries himself all the way to the hilt with one hard thrust and begins to fuck you like you deserve. The meeting of your mound and his makes him growl out loud and he watches the glistening in and out motion as if it were the last thing he ever got to see. And he longs to focus better.

“Keep your hands up and don’t move them,” Jungkook commands and lets go of your wrists, grazing his palms down your chest, groping your full tits at last and he lingers there for a second. You squeeze around him when he pinches your nipples with his thumbs and the knuckles of his forefingers, a river of small moans pouring from your mouth. He draws his cock out halfway and rubs your nipples as he draws back inside with a certain gentleness like he promised, light-headed and drunk on it all. And then he allows them to rub against his flat fingers on their own once he quickens his pace and your tits bounce in a freed flux—and this is where your features scrunch up in the same manner that his do.

One soul. He amalgamates into you, and he doesn’t know whether that’s a good thing or worse than the grayness he was a victim of earlier.

He doesn’t have time to think, your pussy renders him of any logic and of any coherent thought. And the same thing must be happening in your headspace as well because you can’t keep your eyes open. You swim away from him, and he doesn’t like that.

“Look at me while I’m fucking you.”

You choke out some version of an agreement, popping your eyes open and boring them into his. He continues on with his travel, sliding his hands down to your waist that he grabs and uses as a leverage to ultimately give you his best.

He fucks you mercilessly, with a few gaps of gentleness in between because he’s a man of his word. Your pussy squelches around him, driving his heart out of his chest right into yours, and he can’t help but to bend down and take your nipple into his mouth, warming up the spot for that dark flesh. But he doesn’t expect you to come as he does so, and he’s so proud of you that he could die at this moment.

“Yes, that’s it, baby. Just like that. Come for me.”

You convulse, your hands losing control as they need to grab onto something and they grab onto his hair, pulling at the strands. Your moans, wrapped around his name, echo around the walls of the room, sailing out into the spring air outside through the open window, and he stalls his own orgasm, induced by the almost irresistible fluttering of your walls. He swirls his tongue around your nipple, sucking it into his mouth, taking you to that finish like that he’s proved he’s able to always take you to. And when your convulsing settles, he pulls out, straddles you and strokes his cock in your face. It takes merely a second for him to come and the ropes of his manly essence land on your lips, your neck, your clavicles and your tits. The orgasm is an adrenaline rush that launches him out of his body and into the dark matter of time and the cosmos. He shows them who’s the man in the house of his own body, and the chapter of his emotional anguish is finished.

Nothing will ever torment him again because he’s evaporated into you.

Coming down, he pants while looking down at you. Your starry eyes are lidded and absolutely exhausted, but the spark is still there, a fix that will never be broken. He can see that he’s impressed you, and when he checks his cock, he realizes he’s still hard and throbbing, glistening and bloodied. How could he not after all that restraint and all that hinderance. His balls are still heavy, asking to let out more, and it all depends on you if that’s happening.

He wonders how you’re feeling right now, and he brushes the cum drop off your lips and feeds it to you. You latch onto his hand, eager to taste it, and he grins. Will never tire of your appetite for the new. Your tongue rounds across his finger inside your mouth, making his cock twitch and he touches it more to calm it down than to satisfy it.

“How was that?” he asks, genuinely curious, despite the fact your mouth is busy. Something about it impassions him all over again and he’d better stop. He withdraws his finger, all wet from your adorable saliva, and waits for your answer. Quirks a brow, even.

“The orgasm feels the same as when I make myself come,” you say, and he’s disappointed to hear that, that it’s the first thing you say after all he’d been through. His brows lower down and he places his fists on either side of you, his face at level with yours.

“Is that all you have to say?”

You blink slowly at him, and Jungkook thinks that perhaps you’re too tired and floored to be having this conversation with him. But your response causes that certain anger to brood in his gut.

“Your cum tastes good.”

He scoffs, caught off guard. Dismayed. He expected you to be more vocal about what he’s done for you, especially after what had been the cost of it all, but it seems as though that you just used him to silence your curiosity.

Do you not love him? Did you not want him to be the one to take your virginity?

Swinging his leg over, he gets off of you and stares at you. You’re looking down at your body, searching for the drops of his cum he left behind just to eat them. Your soft, supple flesh. The knee socks. The marks he left behind—on your nipple from all the sucking, the harsh ghosts of the kisses on your neck and on your lips, the welts and redness on your butt. He might have taken your virginity and envisioned owning it, but when he looks down at his hands, he finds them empty.

Your virginity is still yours and his phone, somewhere, rings.

BACK to masterlist

#divider by d-oie #bangtanwhq #jungkook x oc #jungkook x you #jungkook smut #bts smut #bts imagine #jungkook imagine #jeon jungkook #bts scenarios #jungkook scenarios #kpop smut #jungkook fic #jungkook series #jungkook x reader #jungkook x yn #jungkook angst

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solelifauna · 2 months ago

Text

Neglectful Batfam & Reader Fic (Commission)

This was a wonderful 23k-word commission for @galaxypillar! Thank you for your patience and your support! I hope you all like this.

BTW, the reader is trans and uses she/he pronouns. I am not trans, and I could never understand the struggles and experiences of trans people. This was my first time writing a trans reader or a reader with any other pronouns other than she/her. i want to do this properly in the future so please, let me know any tips, tricks, things I did wrong, or need to consider!

That's all!

For the first seven years of your life, the world was small but enough. You had your mother, whose warmth seemed to fill every corner of your little apartment, and though money was always tight, she never let you feel like anything was missing. Your life was simple but safe, filled with laughter and bedtime stories. Your mother worked hard, her love more than enough to make up for anything you lacked, and you never thought to question why your father wasn’t in your life. You didn't care, you had your mother, and that was enough.

But everything changed the day you lost her.

The day itself was blurred in your memory, pieced together only from fragments and what you overheard from police officers and neighbors. Your mother had been at work, like any other day. But this time, a villain struck, an attack so sudden and senseless. The next thing you know she was just–gone, and there was nothing left for you. No goodbye, no explanations, just an emptiness that felt like it swallowed you whole.

Suddenly, you were alone in a world that had once been filled with warmth and safety. And with that came a new fear, one you hadn’t known before: the fear of being put into Gotham’s foster care system. You’d heard stories from other kids at school, stories about children who went in and never came out, about how it was worse than anything else Gotham could throw at you. You lay awake at night, terrified that your life was about to become something even darker than the nightmare you were living.

And then, out of nowhere, a twist of fate arrived. Gotham’s social services had identified a paternal match, and it wasn’t just any match – it was Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s most famous billionaire. The knowledge left you in shock. Bruce Wayne, the man known for adopting so many children, the one with a heart big enough to open his home to anyone in need—was your father? A flicker of hope bloomed inside you. Perhaps, despite the loss, you might find a family again. Perhaps, this new family could fill the emptiness left by your mother’s death.

The day you arrived at Wayne Manor felt surreal. The mansion loomed large and imposing, its vast halls stretching endlessly. Everything about it seemed to emphasize just how small you were, how out of place you felt. Bruce was there to meet you, his face a mask of neutrality. He welcomed you politely, but his eyes never softened, never gave away anything beyond a sense of obligation. You told yourself it was nerves, that maybe he needed time to adjust to this new arrangement, just like you did.

But the days passed, and your attempts to connect with your newfound family were met with cold indifference.

Dick, the oldest, was the most polite of all, but he kept a certain distance, always on his way somewhere, always too busy to spend time with you. Jason barely acknowledged you at all, his expression always guarded, as if you were nothing more than a nuisance. Tim, on the other hand, would give you short, distracted answers when you tried to talk, his eyes flickering back to whatever he was working on, never bothering to really listen. Cass was quiet, and while she wasn’t mean, she simply seemed to act like you weren’t there. And Damian… Damian made it clear that he didn’t think you belonged there. He’d look at you with narrowed eyes, muttering under his breath about you being an “intruder.”

And then there was Bruce. Any hope you had of bonding with him faded as the days went on. He barely looked at you, his interactions brief and distant. If he was in the room, he seemed to glance right past you, treating you like an afterthought, a mere shadow in his world. The warmth you’d seen in his interactions with the others, that spark of fatherly affection, was nowhere to be found when it came to you.

The only person who showed you any real kindness was Alfred, the family butler. He’d sit with you in the evenings, gently coaxing you into conversation, his comforting presence a balm to your aching heart. Sometimes, after a particularly difficult day, you’d curl up in his arms, seeking the solace you could no longer find anywhere else. He’d hold you, whispering kind words, doing his best to fill the void your mother had left.

Still, the loneliness gnawed at you, an ever-present ache you couldn’t shake. You’d watch your father and your siblings from afar, their laughter and camaraderie feeling like a cruel reminder of everything you couldn’t have. You tried to join them, to share in their jokes, their stories, but your attempts were always brushed off or ignored.

You began spending more and more time in solitude, wandering the halls of the manor, searching for something to anchor you, something to make you feel like you belonged. But each room only reminded you of how out of place you were, how you were nothing more than a stranger in a house that should have been your home.

At night, you’d lie awake, tears staining your pillow as memories of your mother washed over you. You longed for her voice, her touch, the gentle words that made you feel safe and loved. In those moments, the weight of grief felt unbearable, a crushing loneliness that made you want to scream, to break the silence that filled every corner of the manor.

But even as you tried to mourn, anger began to simmer beneath the surface. You couldn’t understand why your mother had to die, why a villain had chosen to destroy the one person who mattered most to you. And as your family continued to ignore you, that anger grew. It wasn’t just about the villain who’d taken her life – it was about the family that was supposed to be there for you, that was supposed to care for you, but instead treated you like a ghost.

The desire for justice – or maybe even revenge – took root. You didn’t want anyone else to suffer the way you had, to feel the loss and isolation that had become your daily reality.

Your resolve hardened each day from the depths of your grief and frustration. Becoming a hero, a vigilante, wasn’t about glory or titles for you. You didn’t care about the flashy costumes or names. This wasn’t some childish fantasy of becoming famous or being lauded as Gotham’s next savior. No, it was something far more personal, something that simmered like a quiet, steady fire in your chest. You wanted every villain locked away, every criminal in Gotham put behind bars so no one else would ever suffer like you did. You were determined to rid Gotham of the cruelty that had stolen your mother from you, to make the streets safer so that no one else would face the emptiness that plagued your nights.

The problem was, you were only eleven. You didn’t have the strength, the skill, or the training. Every attempt to gain it from the family was met with that same dismissive coldness. They saw you as nothing more than a child, someone who didn’t understand the dangers of their world. But they didn’t know how much you understood, how vividly you remembered the night your world shattered.

As you tried to find a way, small clues began to piece themselves together in your mind, painting a picture you hadn’t seen before. Bruce’s frequent late-night “business trips,” often announced at the last minute, struck you as odd. You’d see him leave in his sharp suits, only to catch glimpses of him returning late at night, disheveled and, occasionally, sporting bruises that didn’t match the polished billionaire image he so carefully maintained.

Your siblings were no less mysterious. Dick would often leave for days at a time, returning with injuries he tried to laugh off, though his tired eyes said otherwise. Once, you’d overheard Tim muttering to himself about patrol routes, something you hadn’t thought much of at the time, but now wondered about. Cass and Damian were quieter, yet you’d noticed that Damian had more than a few martial arts books hidden in his room, alongside weaponry you knew a kid his age shouldn’t have access to.

They were always so secretive, shutting conversations down the moment you asked a question that poked too close to the truth. But the final piece came one evening when you couldn’t sleep and found yourself wandering the mansion late at night.

The night you stumbled upon the entrance to the Batcave was like something out of a dream—or a nightmare, depending on how you looked at it. You had been wandering the manor’s halls, sleepless and restless, drawn by some inexplicable pull toward the lower levels of the house. Your fingers trailed along the walls as you walked, taking in every shadowed corner, every faint noise. It was late, the mansion utterly silent, and you half-expected to bump into one of your siblings or even Bruce himself on patrol somewhere in the city. But no one came, and you continued alone, your curiosity getting the better of you.

And that’s when you noticed the clock.

It was an old, broken grandfather clock, set in a dusty alcove and seemingly forgotten. You’d walked by it a hundred times before, but tonight, it felt different. Something about it was… wrong. The hands of the clock were stuck, frozen at a peculiar time—10:48. Strange, you thought, but you shook it off, chalking it up to another quirk of the manor’s decor. Still, something about it wouldn’t let go of your attention, a nagging feeling in the back of your mind that urged you closer.

On a whim, you reached out, pressing your fingers against the clock’s worn, wooden frame. To your surprise, the clock shifted slightly under your touch, revealing a hidden mechanism. Your heart skipped a beat as you gently pushed the clock face inward, and with a faint click, the entire structure swung forward, revealing a dark, narrow passageway leading downward.

A chill ran down your spine as you peered into the darkness. You knew this wasn’t something you were supposed to find, something that was meant to stay hidden from you. But that only made it more tempting. Your heart pounded with a mixture of fear and excitement as you stepped inside, closing the clock behind you as you began to descend.

The air grew colder as you went deeper, the silence almost oppressive, save for the faint hum of machinery somewhere below. Your footsteps echoed softly, and with each step, the realization of where you were headed became clearer. You’d heard rumors, pieced together bits of conversations you weren’t supposed to hear, but nothing had prepared you for the sight that awaited you.

At the bottom of the passage, the narrow staircase opened up into a vast, dimly lit cavern. Monitors and computer screens lined the walls, casting an eerie blue glow across the space. Gadgets, weapons, and vehicles were neatly arranged in various alcoves, a testament to the precision and orderliness that Bruce Wayne demanded. And in the center of it all was the Batmobile, sleek and imposing, a silent reminder of everything your family did in the shadows.

The truth hit you like a tidal wave. This was the Batcave, hidden beneath Wayne Manor, and everything you’d suspected was now laid bare before you. Your father wasn’t just a billionaire philanthropist—he was Batman. And everyone else you’d come to know as family, the ones who’d brushed you off and ignored you, were his protégés, vigilantes who fought the very criminals you despised.

Your father was Batman. And that meant everyone else – Dick, Jason, Tim, Cass, and even Damian – were a part of it too.

After discovering that Bruce Wayne—your father—was Batman, the hero and symbol of Gotham’s strength, a world of possibilities opened up before you. The realization that your entire family had alter egos, each of them fighting for justice in their own way, filled you with a sense of urgency and purpose. They didn’t know how serious you were about this, how much you wanted to join their mission, to rid Gotham of the very villains who'd stolen your mother’s life. Maybe, you thought, if you could be a part of this, if you could stand beside them, then Bruce would finally see you as more than just his “unwanted daughter.” Maybe he’d finally acknowledge you, maybe he’d finally see your worth.

For days, you plotted, considering every possible way to bring up the topic, to show him that you were serious. This wasn’t some fleeting desire; this was a calling. If he could just see how determined you were, he might understand. After all, hadn’t he trained your siblings when they were young? Hadn’t he believed in them, trusted them enough to let them fight beside him?

The opportunity finally came one night, when you caught Bruce heading toward the hidden grandfather clock after a long night out. You’d waited in the shadows for hours, holding your breath, every nerve in your body on edge. When he entered the secret passage, you slipped in behind him, taking each step with cautious determination until you reached the cave. The low hum of the Batcomputer filled the space, casting a faint, eerie glow over the room. Bruce hadn’t noticed you yet, his back turned as he began to remove his cowl, the familiar figure of Batman transforming back into your distant, unreadable father.

Summoning every ounce of courage, you stepped forward, your voice trembling but steady as you called out, “Train me.”

Bruce turned slowly, his eyes narrowing as they fixed on you, surprise flickering across his face before it hardened back into that impenetrable mask. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, his tone cold and unwelcoming, but you didn’t flinch.

“I know who you are,” you said, voice steadying. “I know who all of you are. And I want to be part of this. I want to help put these villains away for good.”

Bruce’s expression darkened, a shadow passing over his features as he regarded you in silence. After a long pause, he let out a slow exhale, as if disappointed. “No,” he said, his tone final, his gaze unwavering. “This isn’t a game, and you’re not ready for this.”

Your heart sank, but you didn’t let it show. “I’m not a child, Bruce. I understand the risks,” you argued, stepping closer, desperately trying to convey your resolve. “I need to do this. If you’d just give me a chance, I can—”

“No.” His voice was firm, steely, leaving no room for argument. He turned away, as though dismissing the conversation altogether, as though you were no more than a passing annoyance. The coldness in his eyes, the sheer indifference, made your chest tighten, a sharp pang of rejection piercing through you. He didn’t even give you an explanation, just that single, hard “no” as if that was all you deserved.

But you weren’t ready to give up that easily. This was too important. For the next few days, you tried to approach the others, each sibling one by one. Maybe they’d understand better than Bruce; maybe they’d recognize that this wasn’t some childish whim.

You started with Dick. He was the oldest, after all, and you’d always seen a certain kindness in him, a willingness to give people a chance. He had a way of making everyone feel included, like they belonged. But when you finally caught him in the hall and explained your desire to train, his expression softened with pity, the same way you’d look at a child asking for something impossible.

“(Y/N), you’re… really brave for wanting to do this,” he said, his voice gentle. “But this life… it’s not easy, and you’re still young. You don’t want to rush into something like this.” His tone was warm, almost brotherly, but he was missing the point. You weren’t asking for easy. You were ready for whatever it took.

“Please, Dick,” you pressed. “I know what I’m getting into. Just give me a chance to prove it.”

But he only shook his head, his gaze kind but unyielding. “I’m sorry, (Y/N). But the answer is no.”

Disheartened but undeterred, you moved on to Jason. Maybe he’d understand; he was rough around the edges, not one for formalities. If anyone would appreciate your determination, it would be him. But when you brought it up, he only laughed—a sharp, bitter laugh that made you flinch.

“What, you think this is some kind of club?” he scoffed. “This isn’t for people who want to play hero. Trust me, kid, you don’t want this life.” The dismissiveness in his voice stung, a harsh reminder that he didn’t see you as a peer, or even as family, but as some naïve child poking her nose where it didn’t belong.

You tried Tim next, cornering him in the library while he worked on his laptop. He barely looked up when you spoke, his fingers never pausing on the keyboard. “(Y/N), this isn’t something you can just jump into,” he said in a monotone voice. “It’s dangerous, and it’s… well, complicated. You’re not ready for something like this.” He glanced at you briefly before returning his attention to the screen, and that was it—the conversation was over before it had even begun.

Cass was the least harsh, offering you a quiet, understanding look when you brought it up to her. But even she refused, shaking her head softly, her silence saying more than words ever could. She, too, thought you were too young, too unprepared.

Damian, predictably, was the most dismissive. When you managed to ask him during a rare quiet moment, he simply scoffed, his lips curling into a smirk. “You? A vigilante?” He didn’t even bother hiding his disdain. “You wouldn’t last a night.”

Each rejection was like a punch to the gut, but the worst was the frustration—the sense that they were all talking down to you, looking at you as if you were some clueless child who didn’t understand the world. They couldn’t see the fire inside you, the sheer drive pushing you forward. They didn’t understand the grief, the emptiness that fueled your desire, the need to make a difference, to bring justice to a city that had taken everything from you.

Days turned into weeks, and your persistence began to turn into frustration. Every attempt, every argument, every plea was met with the same dismissive responses, the same “no” repeated like a mantra, as if they were trying to beat the will out of you through sheer denial. But with every rejection, your resolve only grew stronger. You’d do it on your own if you had to, but you’d make them see—one way or another.

They thought they could protect you by keeping you away, that their refusal would dissuade you. But they didn’t know you well enough to understand that their rejection was only making you more determined, that each “no” was pushing you closer to a path they couldn’t control. If they wouldn’t train you, if they wouldn’t see you as someone capable, then you’d prove them wrong, no matter the cost.

The opportunity to make a difference, to protect Gotham, was slipping through your fingers, but you were prepared to seize it by any means necessary.

As the days turned into weeks, frustration gnawed at you, a relentless, unyielding ache. The Batfamily’s constant refusal to let you in, to train you, to even consider your desire for justice was suffocating. Each rejection from them felt like a door slamming shut, and yet your resolve burned brighter with every dismissive glance, every cold “no” they threw your way. They thought they could keep you safe by denying you the skills to fight, by holding you back. But they didn’t realize that every “no” was pushing you further away, closer to a path they couldn’t control.

So, if they wouldn’t train you, you’d find someone who would. You’d learn from someone who didn’t see you as just a child or as an outsider. You didn’t care who it was—you just needed someone willing to show you how to fight, how to protect yourself, and how to finally be a force of justice in Gotham. Gotham was a city teeming with darkness, and somewhere in that darkness, you knew there was someone who’d see your potential.

And that someone came one night, when you were out alone, frustration and anger churning within you. You’d snuck out of Wayne Manor under the cover of darkness, slipping past the staff and making your way into the city’s underbelly. It was reckless, maybe even dangerous, but you didn’t care. The streets were quieter than usual, the night air heavy and thick with the familiar weight of Gotham’s crime-riddled tension. You walked through back alleys and shadowed streets, trying to think, trying to calm the storm inside you, but the darkness only seemed to deepen the ache.

Then, you heard it—the unmistakable sound of fists colliding with flesh, low grunts of pain, and the shuffling of bodies struggling in a fight.

You crept forward, curiosity tugging at you as you moved quietly toward the sound. There, in a dimly lit alley, was a figure you recognized immediately. Azrael. He was a towering presence, draped in his dark, imposing armor, his movements swift and precise as he took down his opponent with brutal efficiency. The man before him—a thug, someone you recognized from the news as a low-level criminal—was nearly unconscious, his face bruised and bloody, barely able to stand. Azrael struck again, his fist slamming into the man’s stomach with a force that made you wince.

You knew Azrael by reputation. Gotham’s citizens called him the Angel of Vengeance, a ruthless, unpredictable anti-hero who walked a fine line between justice and violence. He was both feared and revered, his methods harsh enough to unsettle even the most hardened of Gotham’s criminals. The Batfamily had worked with him before, reluctantly, but there had also been times when they clashed, when he took things too far. You knew he wasn’t someone they trusted fully, but that didn’t matter to you. Azrael was strong, he was relentless, and he knew how to fight. If anyone could teach you, it was him.

Fear coursed through your veins as you took a step closer, your heart pounding. You weren’t sure if he’d help you or simply turn you away like the others, but you were willing to take that risk. You’d come too far to turn back now.

Azrael’s movements stilled as he became aware of your presence, his gaze flickering to where you stood, half-hidden in the shadows. His eyes, fierce and intense, locked onto yours, and you felt a shiver run down your spine. There was something dangerous about his gaze, something that made you want to look away, to shrink back into the darkness. But you forced yourself to stand your ground, holding his stare, even as fear twisted in your stomach.

For a moment, he simply watched you, the alley silent save for the faint, labored breathing of the man at his feet. Then, with a low, almost amused tone, he spoke.

“And what,” he drawled, his voice cold and laced with curiosity, “does a child want with someone like me?”

His words cut, sharper than any blade, but you didn’t falter. You met his gaze with defiance, the frustration and anger boiling within you lending you strength. “I’m not a child,” you replied, your voice steady. “I know who you are, Azrael. I know what you do.” You swallowed, forcing yourself to keep your voice calm. “I want you to teach me. I want you to show me how to fight, how to stop people like… like him.” You pointed to the criminal, crumpled and defeated, his blood staining the ground.

Azrael raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable beneath his mask. “You have no idea what you’re asking,” he replied, his tone dismissive. “This isn’t a game, and you aren’t ready for the path I walk.”

His words echoed Bruce’s rejection, a harsh reminder of how everyone around you seemed to think you were weak, incapable, just a child reaching for something you couldn’t grasp. But you weren’t about to back down. Not now. You lifted your chin, squaring your shoulders as you met his gaze head-on.

“I don’t care,” you said, your voice filled with a conviction you hadn’t known you possessed. “I know what I want, and I know what I’m willing to do to get it. The Batfamily… they won’t help me. They think I’m too young, that I don’t understand the risks. But I do.” Your voice wavered slightly, but you forced yourself to continue. “I’ve already lost someone I loved because of Gotham’s criminals. I won’t stand by and let it happen again.”

For a long, agonizing moment, Azrael said nothing, simply watching you with that same piercing gaze. You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, each beat echoing in the silence of the alley. Just when you thought he was going to turn you away, he took a step closer, his presence almost overwhelming.

“So, the Bat has denied you,” he mused, his tone soft but laced with dark amusement. “And now you come to me, desperate for someone willing to break his rules.” He tilted his head, studying you intently.

You gaped at him, stunned. How the hell did he know who you were? How did he know about your connection to the Bats? You’d been so careful to keep your intentions hidden, sneaking around the manor, watching from the shadows, careful to cover your tracks. But here Azrael was, staring down at you with a knowing, almost amused glint in his eyes.

He continued to regard you with that intense gaze, the smallest smirk pulling at the edges of his mouth. “You’re not as invisible as you think,” he said, his voice dark and almost mocking. “I’ve been watching the Bat and his brood for a long time. I know each of them, their strengths and their weaknesses. And you…” He let his words hang in the air, the weight of them pressing down on you like a lead blanket.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to stand firm despite the fear flickering through you. “So you know who I am,” you replied, trying to keep your voice steady. “Then you know I’m serious. I’m not here to play games, and I’m not here because I want their approval.”

Azrael chuckled softly, a low, dangerous sound that sent a chill down your spine. “I know exactly who you are, child. The daughter of the Bat, denied by her own blood, seeking the power they’ve withheld from her.” His eyes gleamed with a twisted amusement as he continued, “You think you’re ready for this life? For the darkness that comes with it?”

You nodded, refusing to let him see the doubt creeping into your heart. “I don’t care about the darkness,” you said firmly. “I just want to stop them—the villains who prey on this city. The ones who took my mother, the ones who keep hurting people. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Azrael’s smirk faded, his expression turning serious. “Very well,” he said after a long pause. “But understand this: I am not like the Bat. I won’t coddle you, and I won’t save you if you fall. The path I offer is ruthless, unforgiving. If you’re truly ready to abandon everything you know, to fight without mercy, then I’ll train you. But if you’re seeking their love, their approval…” He leaned in close, his voice a low, threatening whisper. “You won’t find it here.”

You took a shaky breath, feeling the weight of his words settle over you. But as the fear stirred within you, so did something else—a spark of defiance, a fierce determination that refused to let you back down. You didn’t care if they loved you, if they approved. You were done seeking acceptance from those who refused to see your worth. This wasn’t about them anymore; it was about you, about fulfilling the purpose you felt burning inside you.

“I don’t need anyone’s approval,” you said, your voice hard and unwavering. “I just need the power to make a difference. If that means learning from you, then so be it.”

For a moment, Azrael said nothing, his gaze boring into you as if trying to measure the truth of your words. Finally, he straightened, giving a single, approving nod.

“Then let us begin.”

Training with Azrael was a grueling, relentless journey that stretched over the years, carrying you through the entirety of your adolescence. The first few months were a brutal awakening. Azrael didn’t go easy on you simply because you were young, or because you’d never fought like this before. He was cold, unmoved by the bruises and cuts that covered your skin by the end of each night, indifferent to the fact that you were only eleven. If you struggled to keep up, he didn’t slow down. If you were injured, he didn’t offer you a hand. Every slip, every failure, was your own to bear, and Azrael’s sharp words reminded you that this was the reality of the path you’d chosen.

But you didn’t care. This was the life you’d decided to live, and no amount of pain or exhaustion was going to change that. Gotham was unforgiving, and if you wanted to make any difference, you had to be just as ruthless, just as relentless. Every bruise, every cut, every aching muscle became a badge of honor, proof that you were getting stronger. And through it all, that burning desire for justice kept you going, the memory of your mother’s face propelling you forward.

What hurt more than the bruises or broken bones, though, was returning to Wayne Manor each night, bruised and battered, only to be met with indifference. No one noticed the way you winced when you sat down or the way you limped through the halls. They didn’t see the black eyes, the swollen knuckles, or the way your arm hung awkwardly from a poorly healed fracture. In a family full of vigilantes, it should have been impossible for these things to go unnoticed. But they didn’t care enough to see it.

You’d sit at the dinner table, exhaustion tugging at your eyelids, every muscle aching from the punishment Azrael had put you through, and they would barely spare you a glance. They’d talk among themselves, laugh, share stories of the night’s patrols, while you sat there, a shadow in your own family, barely noticed. There were nights when you were so worn out, you’d nearly fall asleep at the table, your head nodding forward before you caught yourself, but not a single one of them asked if you were okay.

The only person who seemed to notice was Alfred. His eyes, sharp and observant, had picked up on the bruises and the cuts early on, though he’d kept his silence, watching you carefully. It wasn’t until a particularly rough night—one that left you limping, your left arm in a makeshift sling—that he finally confronted you. You’d just slipped in through the back entrance, hoping to make it to your room before anyone noticed, but Alfred was waiting.

He didn’t say a word at first, just looked at you, his gaze filled with a sadness you couldn’t quite understand. Then, gently, he asked, “Miss (Y/N), what are you doing to yourself?”

You wanted to brush him off, to tell him that it was none of his business, that you were fine. But something in his voice, in the kindness and concern that radiated from him, made you pause. For the first time, someone was looking at you, really looking at you, and it made the walls you’d built around yourself crumble, if only a little.

So you told him the truth. You explained everything—your training with Azrael, your desire to make a difference, to protect Gotham from the very villains who’d taken your mother from you. You expected him to lecture you, to try and talk you out of it, just like Bruce and the others had done. But he didn’t. He only looked at you with a deep, understanding sadness, a quiet resignation that spoke volumes.

Alfred nodded, his expression softening. “I understand,” he said quietly, his voice steady and calm. “I’ve seen this path before. Every one of them—Master Bruce, Master Dick, Master Jason… they all chose this life in their own way. I know better than to try and dissuade you.” He paused, then added, almost hesitantly, “But allow me the privilege of tending to your injuries. If you’re determined to do this, the least I can do is make sure you don’t face it alone.”

You hadn’t expected that. But the relief that washed over you at his offer, the warmth of having someone in your corner, was overwhelming. You agreed, and from that night on, whenever you returned home bruised and battered, you’d find Alfred waiting, his medical supplies ready. He’d patch you up, his hands gentle, his words calm and reassuring. He didn’t ask for details, didn’t pry into your training or push you to stop. He simply cared, in the quiet, steady way only Alfred could.

Years passed, each one filled with Azrael’s brutal training. By the time you reached fifteen, you’d transformed. The once-awkward stances and clumsy punches had become fluid, precise. Your body was stronger, leaner, every movement a testament to the grueling hours you’d put in. Azrael’s methods hadn’t softened; if anything, they’d become more intense, pushing you to your limits and then beyond. But now, you could keep up. You could take the hits, dish them out just as fiercely, and stand your ground.

And soon, it wasn’t just training anymore. At fifteen, Azrael took you out into the streets, into the very world you’d been preparing for. The first time you suited up, adrenaline thrummed through your veins, your heart pounding as you followed him into the city’s underbelly. Gotham’s streets were dark, filled with whispers of danger lurking around every corner, but you weren’t afraid. Not anymore.

Azrael’s presence beside you was both a comfort and a reminder of the hard-won strength you’d gained. You moved through alleys, sticking to the shadows, your senses heightened, every instinct honed to a razor’s edge. When the first thug stumbled into your path, you didn’t hesitate. Every lesson, every bruise, every night of training came flooding back as you fought, your movements precise, controlled. Azrael watched, silent and approving, as you took down your opponent with a ruthless efficiency that surprised even you.

The fight left you breathless, exhilarated, and for the first time, you felt like you were truly making a difference. This was what you’d been waiting for—real justice, real action. You didn’t need the Batfamily’s approval; you didn’t need their validation. You had Azrael’s respect, and more importantly, you had your own.

Night after night, you went out with Azrael, each outing sharpening your skills, solidifying your resolve. You became a fixture in Gotham’s shadows, a presence that went unseen, unnoticed by the family that still sat, oblivious, in their mansion. And in those moments, you realized that you didn’t need them to see you. You didn’t need them to care.

You had found your purpose, and that was enough.

Fighting alongside Azrael changed things—not just for you, but for him as well. From the very first patrol, your presence seemed to stir something in him, though neither of you acknowledged it. Azrael was still as unyielding as ever, your training growing even harsher, more relentless, his standards higher now that he knew you could hold your own. Every mistake was met with a fierce rebuke, every slip punished with more drills, more hours of sparring that left you aching and bruised. But there were new moments, subtle ones, that spoke of something shifting between you.

At first, he barely reacted to the injuries you sustained in battle, the bruises and cuts you wore as badges of pride. He would give a passing glance, a critical look, and sometimes a disapproving shake of his head if he thought you’d taken a hit you could have avoided. But over time, Azrael’s indifference softened. When you returned from a fight with a gash on your arm or blood trickling down your temple, he’d sometimes reach out, his fingers brushing over the wound with a gentleness that surprised you. He never said anything, but his eyes held a flicker of concern, a reminder that there was more to him than the cold, ruthless mask he wore.

After a particularly brutal night, when you returned with a deep cut on your shoulder, he wordlessly guided you to sit on an old crate in a forgotten alleyway, his gloved hands working quickly to bandage the wound. His touch was rough but careful, and he barely spoke as he tended to you, his focus solely on ensuring the wound was clean and secure. When he finished, he simply looked at you, his gaze softer than you’d ever seen, before giving a brief nod and turning away, resuming his stoic stance. Yet, something unspoken lingered in the air between you, a sense of understanding that transcended words.

Azrael even began to secretly watch as you made your way back to Wayne Manor after patrols, his eyes tracking your form as you slipped through the shadows. He’d stand in the distance, silent and unseen, until he was sure you’d reached the manor safely. He knew the mansion was filled with people who should have been looking out for you, people who should have noticed the injuries you returned with each night. But they never did, and so he kept watch instead, never letting himself rest until he saw you slip through the manor’s back entrance.

On patrols, he found himself glancing over his shoulder, a habit he couldn’t shake, his gaze searching for the familiar flash of your shadowed figure keeping pace beside him. When you were close, he’d relax, his shoulders easing slightly, the familiar rhythm of your footsteps a comfort in the silence. He grew accustomed to the sound of your voice, the sharp wit and sarcasm that you’d wield even in the middle of a fight. Your quips became a constant, a reminder that you were still there, that he wasn’t fighting alone in the darkness. He’d never admit it, but in some way, you’d become his partner.

One night, as the two of you worked your way through a group of thugs, he caught himself hesitating, his focus momentarily breaking as he looked over to make sure you were holding your own. It was a split-second distraction, but it was enough to remind him of something he hadn’t felt in a long time—worry. Real, genuine worry that something might happen to you, that he might lose you. And he hated it, hated the vulnerability that your presence stirred within him. But he couldn’t deny that it was there.

As the months passed, his concern for you grew harder to ignore. You’d laugh off your injuries, shrugging them away as if they didn’t matter, but Azrael’s eyes would linger on the bruises that marred your skin, on the cuts you’d acquired in your pursuit of justice. He’d bite back comments, his instincts screaming to tell you to be more careful, but he knew that would be hypocritical, coming from someone who’d taught you to be relentless.

He couldn’t help it—there was something about the way you fought, the way you stood your ground, that reminded him of the fire that had once driven him. He couldn’t deny that he was proud, in his own way, of how far you’d come, of the strength you wielded despite everything you’d faced.

But pride was dangerous. Attachment was dangerous. Azrael reminded himself of this every night, yet the habit of watching your back, of ensuring your safety, had rooted itself too deeply. The idea of you getting hurt, of you disappearing from his side, was something he couldn’t bear to dwell on. You were his partner now, in ways he hadn’t intended, hadn’t planned, but there was no turning back.

And so, in the silent shadows of Gotham, the two of you continued your patrols, bound by a shared purpose, an unspoken understanding. You became a fixture in his life, just as he had in yours, two warriors fighting a relentless war in the darkness. Though Azrael would never say it aloud, the sound of your voice, your sarcastic quips, and the mere presence of you by his side had become something he relied on, something he couldn’t imagine patrolling without.

In the end, it wasn’t just you who had changed. Slowly, unknowingly, Azrael had changed too. And as he watched you move through the shadows, his silent protector’s gaze trailing after you each night, he knew he would do whatever it took to keep you safe, to make sure you kept coming back.

Over the years, your presence as Azrael’s partner had grown harder to conceal. The Bats were a perceptive and deeply paranoid bunch, always attuned to the slightest shift in Gotham’s underworld. Whispers of Azrael’s “new recruit” had started circulating, and although you and Azrael kept a low profile, rumors had a way of reaching them. You knew it was only a matter of time before they began digging, their suspicions honing in on the identity of the young vigilante shadowing Gotham’s Angel of Vengeance.

Azrael had done his part to safeguard your anonymity, constructing layers of secrecy around your identity, and ensuring you wore gear that obscured your features, masking your voice and movements just enough. He’d drilled you in maintaining a calm, controlled demeanor, never allowing your expressions to slip. But even with all his precautions, you knew a confrontation with the Bats was inevitable. The city was only so big, and sooner or later, you’d cross paths with them.

And it happened one night, after you and Azrael had finished taking down the last of Falcone’s goons in a deserted warehouse on the city’s outskirts. The fight had been brutal, but you’d emerged victorious, the thugs left groaning and beaten on the cold cement floor. You were catching your breath, wiping a smear of blood from your cheek, when you heard it—the unmistakable thud of boots hitting the ground a few yards away, the familiar sound of vigilantes landing with precision and purpose.

You rolled your eyes, exchanging a glance with Azrael. Of course. It was only a matter of time before they showed up. You turned to face them, your stance casual but ready, every muscle tensed for the inevitable tension that would fill the air. A faint smirk tugged at your lips as you took in the sight of them: Batman, flanked by Nightwing and Red Hood, their dark figures cast in the shadows.

The silence was thick, each side sizing the other up, assessing, waiting. You felt the weight of their scrutiny, their eyes flicking between you and Azrael, clearly suspicious. They knew he’d been working with someone young, but you wondered if they suspected anything deeper—if they’d looked past the armor and caught some glimpse of you, some trace of familiarity. You kept your expression hidden, face covered by your gear, thankful for every layer of secrecy Azrael had drilled into you. They couldn’t know. They couldn’t.

After a tense silence, Batman stepped forward, his voice low and edged with warning. “This stops now. Gotham has enough vigilantes without adding… whatever this is,” he said, casting a dark look toward Azrael. “Both of you need to leave the city, or you’ll be escorted to Arkham.”

Azrael scoffed, unperturbed. “Your threats are as hollow as ever, Batman. My partner and I don’t need your permission to be here.”

You resisted the urge to laugh, watching as Jason—Red Hood—crossed his arms, his eyes narrowing. “So, what’s your deal, then?” he demanded, voice dripping with suspicion. “Why are you two lurking around our city, doing what we do but not half as clean?”

You knew he was baiting you, trying to get a reaction, trying to piece together the puzzle of who you were. But you only shrugged, meeting his gaze without a flicker of fear. “Our motives aren’t your business. We’re just here to get the job done, the way it needs to be done,” you replied, your voice cool, almost bored.

They didn’t know who you were; that much was clear from the way they spoke, the way they circled you both like hunters stalking prey. All they saw was a masked figure, young and apparently reckless, partnered with Gotham’s most unpredictable anti-hero. They couldn’t see the truth hidden beneath the armor, the person they’d dismissed and overlooked, now standing toe-to-toe with them.

Nightwing stepped forward, his gaze fixed on you, his expression a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. “You know this path only leads one way,” he said, his voice softer, almost as if he were trying to reach out. “You’re young—you don’t have to do this. You could leave this all behind.”

You met his gaze, your jaw set. “I know exactly where this path leads,” you replied evenly. “And I’m here because no one else is willing to do what needs to be done.”

Your words drew a glare from Batman, and you could feel the tension rising, the unspoken judgment heavy in the air. They thought they had the moral high ground, thought they were the only ones who understood what Gotham needed. But they hadn’t been there when your mother was killed, hadn’t felt the weight of that loss, the anger that still simmered in your heart. They didn’t know the lengths you’d go to for justice.

You’d killed before, after all. You remembered the first time clearly, the weight of that choice pressing on you as you looked down at the blood on your hands. It had been a serial rapist, a monster hiding behind a thin veneer of humanity, one who’d escaped justice too many times. You hadn’t wanted to kill, not at first. Azrael had left that choice in your hands, knowing that everyone’s morals were their own, knowing that it was a line you had to decide to cross on your own. He’d taught you the techniques, but the decision was yours.

When the moment had come, when the man lay before you, you’d felt something cold and sure settle over you, a calm unlike anything you’d ever experienced. You didn’t feel guilty as you wiped the blood off your hands afterward. Shaken, yes, but not guilty. This man had preyed on innocent lives, and you’d simply done what needed to be done, an act of final justice that the system would never have delivered. And after that, it had become easier. You didn’t kill indiscriminately, only those who truly deserved it, the monsters who would only keep hurting others if left alive.

But Batman didn’t know that. Nightwing didn’t know that. They saw you as just another vigilante, perhaps a misguided kid in over her head. And if you were lucky, that’s all they’d ever see.

Batman’s voice cut through your thoughts, hard and unyielding. “The people of Gotham don’t need killers,” he said, his gaze piercing. “We’ve had enough of that. If you continue down this path, you’ll end up like every other criminal in this city.”

Azrael stepped forward, his presence a silent but powerful force beside you. “You don’t decide what Gotham needs, Batman. My partner and I are here because you refuse to see the truth. Your methods allow these monsters to keep coming back, to hurt more people. We’re just doing what you’re too blinded by your own morals to do.”

For a moment, the silence was so thick it was almost suffocating, the weight of Azrael’s words hanging in the air like a challenge. You glanced between them, wondering if the Batfamily would push further, if they’d try to unmask you, to pry deeper into who you were. But they didn’t. They only stared, a mixture of frustration and disgust flickering in their eyes.

Batman’s jaw clenched, and he nodded once, a silent gesture to his sons. “Leave Gotham,” he said, his voice low, final. “Or next time, we’ll bring you both in.”

You met his gaze, unflinching. “Try if you can.”

With that, you and Azrael turned, melting back into the shadows, leaving the Bats behind. You felt the tension bleed out of your body as you stepped away from their scrutiny, your heart still pounding from the encounter. But even as the adrenaline faded, you knew this wouldn’t be the last time. The Bats would be watching, their eyes always on Gotham’s shadows, waiting for you to slip, waiting for the opportunity to end what they couldn’t control.

But that didn’t matter. You were no longer bound by their rules, their narrow view of justice. You had a purpose, a strength that they’d refused to see, and with Azrael by your side, you’d do what they never could.

Let them watch. Let them try. You had no intention of stopping.

But of course, everything goes to shit.

It was supposed to be a routine night, a normal autumn evening with the air cool and crisp, leaves falling in lazy spirals around Wayne Manor. You’d prepared to head out on patrol, excitement and anticipation humming under your skin, but Azrael had cut those plans short, his tone sharp and unyielding as he demanded you stay home. He’d called it a “training break,” telling you to catch up on schoolwork, to prioritize rest. You’d huffed in annoyance, itching for a night in the city’s shadows, but Azrael had rarely given commands so firmly. Reluctantly, you agreed, figuring it was only one night. Besides, he wouldn’t be in Gotham either; he had his own business to attend to outside the city, matters you weren’t privy to and knew better than to ask about.

It didn’t concern you. After all, the Bats had everything under control. You knew they’d be out that night, chasing down some mysterious new villain. Rumors had spread across the city about a figure who’d been making people vanish, one by one, disappearing without a trace. A “doomsday device” was the word on everyone’s lips, whispered through the underworld with the kind of fear Gotham’s criminals didn’t often feel. But as dangerous as it sounded, the Batfamily had dealt with these threats before, conquered worse odds. You’d seen it yourself. They’d be fine. They always were.

But then, they weren’t.

One day passed, and the manor’s emptiness began to gnaw at you. The Bats should have returned by now, or at the very least, Bruce would have checked in, his usual commands and admonishments filling the quiet halls of Wayne Manor. But there was nothing—no word, no message, no updates on the villain’s capture. The entire city fell eerily silent about their whereabouts. At first, you brushed it off as paranoia, telling yourself they’d just gone dark to gain the upper hand, that this was some intricate plan of Bruce’s. They’d be back any moment, probably annoyed that you’d even worried.

But then another day passed, and that silence turned into dread.

You scoured every news source, every back alley contact, searching for any sign of them, any whisper of their location. But the villain was nowhere to be found, and neither were they. No bodies, no traces, just an agonizing, suffocating absence. You told yourself you didn’t care, that they’d ignored you for years, that their lives weren’t your responsibility. But the lie cracked, shattered under the weight of the fear pressing down on your chest.

You cared. You cared more than you wanted to admit, and the idea that they might be gone, that they might never return… it was a pain you hadn’t prepared for. You knew the Batfamily was all you had left, even if they didn’t see you that way.

Desperation clawed at you, and you pushed yourself to the limit, combing the city for any sign of them, using every resource at your disposal. When Azrael returned, his own worry palpable despite his usual stoicism, the two of you worked tirelessly, searching every inch of Gotham for clues. Night after night, you combed the streets, delving into places you’d never dared to enter, but it was like chasing shadows, like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands. They were gone, swallowed by the darkness, and it felt like the city was mocking you with its silence.

Finally, in a last act of desperation, you did something you’d never thought you’d do—you reached out to Oracle. You found your way to her, revealing your identity, setting aside the secrecy you’d worked so hard to maintain. Barbara Gordon was Gotham’s hidden eyes and ears, the information broker for every hero in the city, and if anyone could help, it would be her.

When you stepped into her darkened hideout, her eyes widened as she saw you, recognition dawning on her face as you removed your mask. There was a flicker of shock, of disbelief, but it quickly melted into a deep, quiet understanding. She didn’t ask questions, didn’t demand answers. She simply listened as you poured out everything—the Batfamily’s disappearance, the villain with the “doomsday device,” the empty mansion that had once felt like a cage but now felt like a grave.

Barbara tried everything, exhausting every contact, every source of information. You watched as she worked, her fingers moving over her keyboard with a determined urgency, her eyes flickering across her screens as she searched every corner of Gotham and beyond. But even Oracle, with all her resources and her brilliance, could find nothing. The Batfamily had vanished as if they’d never existed, and all that remained was a haunting silence.

And now, on top of that crushing failure, you were left with the impossible task of explaining their absence to the world. Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s most infamous billionaire, and all his children had vanished without a trace. You spent countless hours fabricating a story, weaving together excuses and alibis to cover their tracks, to keep the world from asking too many questions. A sudden family vacation? A business trip gone wrong? Every explanation felt thin, feeble against the reality of what had happened. You knew it wouldn’t hold forever, but it was all you could do to keep the curious at bay.

The manor felt like a mausoleum, empty and cold, every echo reminding you of the lives that had once filled its halls. The days turned into weeks, each one stretching out longer than the last, and the hope of seeing them again grew fainter with each passing moment. It was a slow, suffocating realization that they might truly be gone, and you were left to fill the void they’d left behind.

Through it all, Azrael stayed by your side, his presence a steady anchor in the whirlwind of grief and desperation. He didn’t offer empty reassurances, didn’t pretend to know what had happened to them. But he was there, silently supporting you as you navigated the nightmare unfolding around you. He helped you cover their tracks, keeping the questions at bay as best he could, his loyalty to you unwavering even as the weight of the city’s suspicion grew heavier.

When you made the choice to step into the Batfamily’s absence, it was less a decision and more a necessity, a duty that fell to you when they vanished. Gotham needed its protectors, and with Bruce, Dick, Jason, Tim, Cass, and Damian all gone, the city had spiraled into chaos faster than you could have anticipated. You were freshly graduated, barely eighteen, but the weight of Gotham’s safety had landed squarely on your shoulders, and there was no time to hesitate.

The nights were long, grueling. Crime rates surged as the city’s criminals sensed weakness, smelling blood in the absence of their most feared vigilantes. You and Azrael fought tirelessly, your bodies and minds stretched to their limits as you did your best to make up for the void left by the Batfamily. You learned quickly that Gotham was unforgiving in its demands, that the city would take everything from you if you let it. But with Azrael, Barbara as Oracle, and Alfred’s quiet support, you managed to scrape by, each of you covering as many corners of Gotham as you could.

Oracle worked around the clock, feeding you intel and watching over you, her presence a comforting reminder that you weren’t alone. Alfred tended to your wounds night after night, patching you up with a care that never faltered, despite his aging hands and weary heart. Azrael remained your rock, his quiet intensity and relentless determination pushing you forward even on the nights when exhaustion made your vision blur.

But despite the combined efforts of the four of you, it was a losing game. No single person could replace the Batfamily’s six. You moved from one crisis to the next, barely holding the line, and every night left you drained, physically and mentally. The weight of the city’s survival lay heavy on your shoulders, and as the months turned into years, that weight only grew, the toll on your body and mind deepening with every sleepless night.

Then, almost four years after their disappearance, something changed. Allies began to emerge, people you never would have expected stepping forward to help. The first to join you was a fire manipulator named Farley. He was a gruff, unassuming man with a hardened exterior and a chip on his shoulder, but his fierce loyalty and willingness to throw himself into the flames, quite literally, made him an invaluable addition. He was a street fighter through and through, rough around the edges, but his fire manipulation skills gave you the edge you desperately needed. Farley became the first comrade you allowed into your small circle, and though you were hesitant to trust at first, his commitment to the fight was unwavering.

Not long after, another figure stepped out of the shadows—a woman named Prudence Wood. She was a former League of Assassins member, a defector who had once fought beside Tim and who knew the intricacies of the League’s training and techniques. Prudence’s arrival felt like a gift. Her quiet strength, her knowledge of deadly techniques, and her shared connection with the Batfamily made her feel like a piece of their legacy had returned, albeit in a different form. She became a steady presence in the team, her skills complementing your own, and she brought a calm, almost meditative energy that helped ground you during the toughest nights.

The last to join your team was perhaps the most unusual. He was a half-demon, half-human being from the depths of Hell itself, seeking redemption for sins you could barely fathom. His name was Belial, and his origins were shrouded in mystery and shadow. His powers were as unsettling as they were useful, his connection to dark magic giving you access to abilities that no Batfamily member had ever wielded. At first, you’d been wary of him, his otherworldly nature a stark contrast to the grounded reality of your mission. But as time passed, Belial’s commitment to his redemption and his fierce loyalty to the team won you over. He was a powerful ally, and you knew that with him at your side, Gotham’s worst threats had met their match.

Together, you forged a new team, an unconventional collection of souls united by purpose and resilience. Farley’s fire manipulation, Prudence’s lethal training, and Belial’s dark magic brought a new strength to your nightly battles, a power that made Gotham’s criminals think twice. Each of them brought something unique to the table, skills and perspectives that enriched your own and made the team stronger as a whole. And despite the grim circumstances that had brought you together, you found yourself growing close to each of them, a bond forming that you hadn’t felt since the Batfamily’s disappearance.

Over the next three years, you and your new allies became a force to be reckoned with. You shared countless nights under Gotham’s starless sky, your lives intertwined by shared battles and quiet conversations in hidden corners of the city. Farley’s gruff humor, Prudence’s quiet wisdom, and Belial’s strange, dark insights became a source of comfort in the constant chaos. They were more than comrades—they were family, in a way you hadn’t expected. And though the Batfamily was still missing, their legacy lived on through you and your team.

Over time, as the years passed and the hope of their return grew dimmer with each empty night, you began to make peace with the idea that the Batfamily was gone. There was a hollow ache in accepting that they were likely never coming back, that whatever had claimed them had done so completely, without leaving even a whisper of their presence behind. The search, the desperate late nights combing through every corner of Gotham for any sign of them, had faded into memory, the sharp edges of grief dulled by time.

It was a slow, agonizing process, coming to terms with their deaths. You’d spent years hoping for their return, clinging to the possibility that one day, Bruce would walk back into Wayne Manor, that Dick would flash that easy smile, that Jason would saunter in with his familiar swagger, or that Tim, Cass, and Damian would each look at you with something other than cold dismissal. For so long, you’d carried a sliver of hope that maybe, if they returned, things would be different. Maybe they’d finally see you, finally accept you as one of them, as family.

But that dream was gone, buried under the weight of the years that had passed. You made peace with the knowledge that they would never return, that the family you’d once hoped would love you was gone forever. They had died without ever truly knowing you, without ever sharing the bond you’d yearned for. It was a grief of its own—a quiet mourning not just for their lives, but for the connection you’d never had, the family that could have been but never was.

You didn’t resent them anymore. That, too, had faded, the anger you’d once felt dissolving into a bittersweet acceptance. In the end, they’d all chosen their paths, and you had chosen yours. You couldn’t change the past, couldn’t rewrite the years you’d spent as an outsider looking in. Instead, you carried their memory with you, honoring them not as the family you’d longed for, but as Gotham’s protectors, as the legacy they’d left behind.

And in their absence, you had found a new family. Azrael, Alfred, Barbra, Farley, Prudence, and Belial—each of them had become a part of you, filling the empty spaces that the Batfamily had left behind. You hadn’t expected it, hadn’t thought you’d ever find people who understood you, who stood beside you with the same fierce loyalty you’d once hoped for from Bruce and the others. But somehow, in the darkness of Gotham, you had built a new bond, one forged through battles and shared purpose, one that went deeper than blood.

With each passing year, the memories of the Batfamily became less a source of pain and more a quiet strength. You’d come to terms with their deaths, with the family that never was, and you let that peace settle over you like a quiet, comforting weight. You fought for them, for the city they’d left behind, and for the family you had found in their absence.

And each night, as you and your new allies stepped into the shadows to protect Gotham, you carried the memory of the Batfamily with you—not as ghosts haunting your past, but as part of the legacy you had chosen to uphold, a legacy you honored in your own way, with a new family by your side.

Life had finally found a rhythm. You had a home in Gotham’s shadows, a family forged from loyalty and trust, and a love you hadn’t dared to dream of. At twenty-five, you were a seasoned fighter, a sharp mind, and an equal among your allies. The Batfamily was gone, and in the seven years since their disappearance, you’d built something meaningful in their absence. Gotham had remained under watch, protected by you, Azrael, Farley, Prudence, and, of course, Belial. Belial, with his piercing gaze, blond hair, and that quietly intense smile, had woven himself into your life, your heart. Though his half-demon nature had initially caused Azrael to bristle, his love and loyalty had proven themselves time and again. You and Belial had been inseparable, partners on and off the field, weathering Gotham’s dark nights together. Five years with him had taught you a love you’d never known, one deepened by battle and softened by quiet moments stolen between missions.

And on this particular day, life was as settled as it could be. You and Belial were nestled in the Batcave, sifting through case files with the comfortable ease that came from years of partnership. He sat beside you, close enough that his warmth seeped into your side, his hand occasionally brushing yours as he reached for a file or leaned over to read your notes. The hum of the Batcave’s machinery was a familiar backdrop, a steady reminder of the legacy you carried on with your team.

But that quiet moment was shattered in an instant.

Without warning, a portal tore open in the middle of the Batcave, swirling with shades of blue and purple, casting eerie shadows across the walls. The air rippled with an unnatural energy, a hum that sent every nerve in your body on edge. You and Belial exchanged a glance, both of you immediately rising, instincts kicking in as you moved into a defensive stance. You reached for a weapon, your fingers wrapping around its familiar grip, as your heart pounded with a mixture of fear and readiness.

Belial’s hand brushed yours, his gaze intense as he murmured, “Stay close. We don’t know what’s coming through.”

Nodding, you pressed a button on the console to alert your allies, sending a silent distress signal that would bring everyone to your location. The portal twisted and writhed, growing brighter, until the air itself seemed to crackle with tension. You braced yourself, every muscle taut, ready to face whatever threat was emerging from the other side.

But nothing could have prepared you for what stepped out.

The first figure to appear was unmistakable. Tall, dark, clad in the iconic silhouette of Gotham’s legendary vigilante. Your father. Bruce Wayne. Batman. His face was as you remembered it, hardened and intense, his eyes sharp as they swept over the Batcave. For a brief, breathless moment, his gaze locked onto yours, a flicker of surprise and something unreadable flashing across his face.

Your mind spun, reeling from the impossible reality before you. Bruce Wayne was here, in the flesh, standing in the very cave you’d assumed he’d never return to. And then, one by one, the others stepped through. Dick, with his familiar, confident stance. Jason, tense and wary. Tim, his eyes calculating, scanning every detail of the scene. Cass, silent as a shadow, and Damian, gaze fierce as ever.

They all fell into defensive stances, mirroring Bruce’s position as they took in the sight of you and Belial, their expressions a mixture of suspicion, confusion, and—though they tried to mask it—discomfort.

“What—” Bruce started, his voice a low rumble filled with authority and barely veiled surprise. “Who are you?”

His words struck a nerve, a surge of anger and disbelief surging through you. After all these years, after everything you’d done to protect Gotham in their absence, he didn’t even recognize you.

“Who am I?” you echoed, your voice steady but edged with the weight of seven years’ worth of pain, frustration, and resilience. “I’m the one who’s been keeping this city safe since you disappeared. I’m the one who stepped up when you all left.”

Their expressions shifted, flickers of recognition and confusion mingling as they processed your words. You could see the realization beginning to dawn in their eyes, a faint glimmer of understanding that perhaps they’d missed something important in your life all those years ago.

Bruce’s gaze settled on you, his brow furrowing as he took in your stance, your confidence, the strength that had been hard-won over countless nights spent protecting Gotham. There was a pause, a beat of silence, before he spoke again, his tone low, measured.

“(Y/N)?” he asked, almost as though he couldn’t believe it. The name sounded foreign on his lips, a reminder of the years he’d spent without you, the years he’d spent not knowing the person you’d become.

“Yes, Bruce,” you replied, using his name deliberately, the formality almost a barrier between you. “It’s me.”

His face flickered with something unreadable—guilt, perhaps, or regret—but it was buried beneath his stoic mask. The others looked between you and him, expressions ranging from shock to disbelief. Damian, the youngest, had a look of barely masked surprise, while Tim seemed to be calculating, piecing together the years that had passed in their absence. Jason’s gaze was darker, wary as he glanced at Belial, his hand instinctively shifting closer to his weapon.

Belial, by your side, shifted slightly, his fingers tightening around the handle of his own weapon, his eyes trained on the Batfamily with the same intensity they regarded him. You felt his presence like a steady anchor, his loyalty a silent reassurance that no matter what happened next, you wouldn’t face it alone.

“So,” you said, your tone sharper than you intended, as you looked each of them in the eye. “Seven years gone without a word, without any trace. And now you all just… come back, through a portal, like nothing happened?”

Bruce straightened, his jaw tightening as he replied, “It wasn’t our choice. We didn’t want to leave.” He glanced at the portal behind him, as if the memories of wherever they’d been still haunted him. “We were pulled into another dimension—a place we couldn’t escape from until now.”

His words settled in, a quiet revelation that explained the years of silence, the absence that had left a scar you’d learned to live with. But even so, the years hadn’t erased the bitterness, the feeling of abandonment that had lingered in the shadowed corners of your heart.

“And in your absence, we took care of Gotham,” you replied, gesturing to the Batcave around you, to the files and tech you’d been using to keep the city safe. “We kept the legacy going. We fought for this city every night. You were gone, but Gotham didn’t fall apart, because we didn’t let it.”

Nightwing looked at you, his expression softening as he took in the person you’d become, someone who had clearly filled the role they’d left behind. “You… you really stepped up, didn’t you?”

You gave a tight nod. “We didn’t have a choice.”

As the silence settled between you all, Bruce’s gaze drifted to Belial, his expression guarded. “And who is he?”

Belial held his ground, meeting Bruce’s gaze with calm defiance. “I’m her partner. Belial.” His voice was steady, and there was a subtle edge to it, a challenge in the way he looked at Bruce, at all of them. He shifted slightly closer to you, a protective instinct that hadn’t dulled in all the years you’d been together.

Bruce’s eyes narrowed, and you could see the silent tension brewing between him and Belial, an unspoken judgment lingering in his gaze. Azrael had never fully accepted your relationship with Belial, and you knew Bruce would likely follow suit. But that didn’t matter to you—not anymore. Belial was your partner, your equal, someone who’d stood by you through the darkest of nights when your own family had been nowhere to be found.

After a beat of silence, you spoke up, your voice steady and unyielding. “You might be back, but things have changed. I have a team now. We’ve been holding Gotham together while you were gone, and we’ll continue to protect it with or without you.”

The Batfamily exchanged glances, each of them processing the reality of your words, the truth of the world they’d returned to. You saw the mixture of shock, guilt, and maybe even a glimmer of respect in their eyes as they looked at you, at the life you’d built in their absence.

They might have been your blood, the family you’d once longed to belong to, but now you knew where you stood. You had a family of your own, one you’d built through trust, loyalty, and love. And if the Batfamily wanted to return to Gotham, they would have to understand that they were stepping into your world now.

It struck you as you looked each of them over—they hadn’t aged. Bruce’s face was still as you remembered it, only a few years older than the day he’d disappeared. Dick’s familiar grin was there, though now softened with an edge of experience. Jason looked as he always had, the same fierce determination in his eyes, and Tim’s face was only slightly sharper, not worn by the years you had endured. Even Damian, who had been so young when he left, had only grown by a few inches, looking no older than sixteen. They looked as if only a few years had passed, as if they’d merely been gone on an extended mission.

Meanwhile, you stood before them as an adult, a full-grown woman of twenty-five, your face etched with the hard-won experience of seven relentless years. The weight of Gotham’s burden had left its marks—your gaze was steadier, sharper, and your stance carried the strength and weariness of someone who had spent nearly a decade fighting to keep the city from falling apart. You had grown into yourself, each year stretching the distance between you and the family you’d once longed for.

The contrast was jarring, and as their eyes took in the person you’d become. They hadn’t been there to watch you grow, hadn’t seen the countless battles, the nights spent in Gotham’s brutal streets. They’d vanished when you were barely eighteen, fresh out of high school, and now you stood before them as a seasoned vigilante, a protector of Gotham with years of hard experience under your belt.

Bruce’s gaze lingered on you the longest, a hint of regret buried deep in his expression, though his stoic mask remained in place. Perhaps he was realizing the years he’d missed, the memories he’d forfeited, the child he’d left behind now standing before him as a stranger.

You squared your shoulders, lifting your chin as you met his gaze without a hint of the insecurity that had once plagued you. “You don’t get to come back and expect everything to be the same,” you said, your voice steady. “Seven years have passed for us. We’ve lived through each of those days, we’ve fought through them. While you were gone, the city was in chaos. I fixed that. We fixed that.”

Dick’s eyes softened as he took you in, his expression tinged with something you couldn’t quite place—pride, maybe, mixed with sadness. “I… I didn’t realize,” he murmured, glancing at the others as if only now fully understanding the weight of what they’d missed.

Jason looked you over, a slight frown creasing his brow. “Seven years… and you took over?” he asked, a faint hint of skepticism in his voice, but it wasn’t derisive, merely… unsure, as if he couldn’t fully grasp the idea of the little girl he’d ignored now standing in the role he’d once held.

You nodded, unflinching. “Yes. We took over.” You glanced at Belial, who stood beside you, his protective gaze fixed on the Batfamily, his presence a reminder that the life you’d built was real, solid, no longer tied to their approval or acceptance.

Tim looked at you, his eyes calculating, piecing together the years they’d lost and the family you’d built in their place. “You… really became a vigilante?”

“Not alone,” you admitted, gesturing toward Belial. “I had help. People who chose to stay, who chose to fight for Gotham even when everything seemed lost.” You spoke with pride, with conviction, knowing that every ally who had joined your side had done so not because of blood or obligation but because they believed in the mission you’d carried on in the Batfamily’s absence.

Bruce’s expression darkened, his gaze flickering to Belial. “And he’s part of that?” he asked, his tone laced with a judgment that grated against you, a reminder of the family’s former refusal to see you, to accept your choices.

“Yes,” you replied firmly, your voice hardening as you met his gaze. “Belial is part of this. He’s been by my side, helping me protect Gotham while you were gone,” you added, reaching for Belial’s hand and lacing your fingers with his, a small but defiant gesture. “A demon.” Bruce says skeptically. “He’s my partner. My choice.” You glower.

The reaction was immediate. Bruce’s jaw clenched, his expression stony as he took in the sight of you and Belial standing together, side by side, as equals. Jason’s eyes narrowed, glancing between you and Belial with a wary intensity, while Damian’s brows drew together, the faintest trace of confusion and surprise in his gaze. But you didn’t care what they thought anymore. Belial was yours, your partner in every sense, and if they couldn’t accept that, it was their problem, not yours.

After a long silence, Bruce finally spoke, his voice quieter but no less firm. “We didn’t choose to leave you behind, (Y/N). The years that passed… they weren’t ours to live.”

You felt a pang in your chest, the faintest echo of the pain that had once torn through you, but you buried it, letting the resolve you’d built over the years take hold. “Maybe not,” you said, voice steady. “But those years are gone. I lived them. I grew up without you. And now…” You glanced around the Batcave, the familiar surroundings now a testament to everything you had overcome, everything you had protected. “Now, Gotham is my responsibility. Ours. If you’re back, you’ll have to accept that.”

The Batfamily exchanged glances, a silent conversation passing between them. You could see the struggle in their eyes, the difficulty of reconciling the image of the child they’d left behind with the adult standing before them now, someone they didn’t know, someone they’d never had the chance to understand.

Dick stepped forward, his gaze filled with something close to admiration, tinged with regret. “You really stepped up,” he said quietly, a faint, bittersweet smile on his lips. “We couldn’t have asked for anyone better.”

You managed a nod, the praise unexpected but appreciated, a sign that at least one of them saw what you had become, what you had done in their place. Bruce held your gaze, the faintest flicker of emotion in his eyes—a silent acknowledgment of the person you’d become, of the strength he hadn’t seen in you all those years ago. “Then we’ll have to find a way to work together,” he said, the words measured but tinged with the unspoken weight of the years you’d both lived separately.

You didn’t respond right away, instead glancing at Belial, his hand still wrapped in yours, his steady presence a reminder of the family you’d built without them. You’d make room for them if they proved themselves, if they understood that Gotham no longer belonged to them alone. But you would do so on your terms, not theirs.

“Maybe,” you said after a long pause, your voice calm, steady. “But things won’t go back to the way they were. Gotham’s changed. I’ve changed. And if you want to be a part of this city again, you’ll have to accept that.”

As they stood before you, silent and contemplative, you knew they felt the shift, understood that the years hadn’t just changed you—they’d transformed Gotham itself, and now, if they wanted to protect it, they’d have to learn to do so in a city you had saved, in a world that was yours to command.

The tension in the Batcave was already thick, a charged silence stretching between you and the newly returned vigilanties. But that silence was shattered as the secret entrance swung open, and your team flooded in, responding to the emergency signal you’d sent out when the portal first appeared.

Azrael entered first, his intense gaze scanning the room, his hand already reaching for his weapon as he took in the unfamiliar figures. Prudence followed, her stance guarded but fluid, her eyes narrowing as they locked onto the intruders, her body ready to strike. Farley was last, his fists igniting with flickers of flame as he took up a position beside Azrael, a fierce, almost feral look in his eyes. Each of them was prepared for a fight, but they paused when they heard you shout.

“Hold!” you called, your voice echoing through the cavern as you raised a hand, stepping between your team and the Batfamily. “It’s… not what it looks like.” You looked at each of them in turn, silently urging them to trust you, to stand down.

Prudence’s eyes shifted to Tim, recognition flickering in her gaze as she took him in, and you saw the surprise reflected in Tim’s face as he looked back at her. Their eyes met for a long, lingering moment, a silent acknowledgment of their shared history, and a faint, bittersweet smile tugged at the corner of Prudence’s mouth. But as Tim’s gaze slid from Prudence to Azrael, you felt the weight of everyone’s attention shift.

The room went quiet again as they all stared at Azrael, suspicion and unease flickering across the Batfamily’s faces. Azrael met their gazes head-on, his expression a defiant mask, his posture unyielding. He hadn’t wavered in his commitment to you, to Gotham, but you could sense the animosity radiating from the Batfamily, a history that hadn’t faded despite the years that had passed.

Bruce’s voice broke the silence, his tone hard, edged with years of mistrust. “What is he doing here?”

You felt the weight of his question settle over you, a reminder of the complex, uneasy relationship between Azrael and the Batfamily. You knew they saw him as a loose cannon, someone who operated outside their carefully crafted code, someone who had once clashed with them over his ruthless approach to justice. But to you, Azrael was something else entirely. He was the one who had trained you, who had stood by you when no one else would, who had become your mentor and your closest ally in a world that had left you to fend for yourself.

Steeling yourself, you met Bruce’s gaze, your voice firm and unwavering. “He’s with me,” you said, leaving no room for argument. “Azrael has been here for me from the beginning. He trained me when you all were gone, he fought by my side when Gotham was falling apart. He’s helped me in more ways than I can even begin to explain.”

The Batfamily exchanged glances, their wariness only growing as they processed your words. Jason’s gaze darkened, his eyes narrowing as he looked Azrael over. “So, while we were gone, you decided to bring him into the family?” he asked, his tone sharp, as if the very idea was an insult.

You held your ground, squaring your shoulders. “Yes, Jason. I did. Because when you all disappeared, I had no one else. Azrael believed in me when no one else did. He trained me, supported me. He’s part of this team—my team.”

Azrael remained silent, but you felt his steady presence beside you, a quiet but powerful reminder of the bond you’d forged over the years. He didn’t need to defend himself to them; he’d proven his loyalty to you a hundred times over, in ways they would never understand. And though his expression remained stoic, you could see a faint flicker of something in his eyes—pride, perhaps, or maybe a quiet satisfaction that you’d chosen to defend him, to stand by him despite the Batfamily’s obvious disapproval.

Tim shifted uncomfortably, glancing between you and Azrael, his brows furrowing as he tried to reconcile the person he remembered with the person you’d become. “You… really went to him for help?” he asked, his tone softer, almost hesitant, as if he couldn’t quite believe it.

You nodded, your gaze steady. “I didn’t have a choice, Tim. When you all vanished, Gotham didn’t wait. Crime surged, people were dying, and I had to step up. Azrael was the only one who was there for me. He taught me what I needed to know, helped me become strong enough to protect the city.” You glanced at Azrael, a faint, grateful smile tugging at your lips. “He’s family.”

Bruce’s expression hardened, a mixture of disbelief and frustration flickering in his eyes. “Azrael’s methods have always been… extreme,” he said, his tone laced with the judgment that had kept you at arm’s length for so many years. “He’s not—”

“He’s not you,” you interrupted, meeting his gaze with a defiance you hadn’t shown him before. “And maybe that’s what Gotham needed. Maybe that’s what I needed. I had to grow up fast, Bruce. I didn’t have time to sit around and wait for you all to come back. Azrael gave me the strength to protect this city, to carry on when everything felt like it was falling apart.”

The Batfamily fell silent, their eyes flicking between you and Azrael, the unspoken tension hanging thick in the air. Prudence stepped closer to you, her hand brushing your shoulder in a silent show of support, while Farley stood beside Azrael, a hint of defiance in his stance as he faced the Batfamily.

It was clear that they didn’t understand, that they couldn’t grasp the loyalty, the bond, that had grown between you and Azrael over the years. They saw him as a weapon, a force they couldn’t control, but to you, he was family—a mentor, a partner in every way that mattered. He’d filled the role they’d left empty, and he’d done so without question, without expecting anything in return.

Bruce’s gaze shifted to Azrael, his expression unreadable as he took in the man who had stepped into his place, who had shaped the person you’d become. “So, you trained her,” he said, his voice a low murmur that held both accusation and reluctant acknowledgment.

Azrael met his gaze, his own eyes steady, unyielding. “I did,” he replied simply, his tone calm but resolute. “Because she needed someone who was willing to believe in her potential, someone who didn’t see her as a child.” He glanced at you, his expression softening in a way that was rare for him. “She’s proven herself, time and again. She’s more than capable, and I would trust her with my life.”

The weight of Azrael’s words hung in the air, a testament to the bond you’d forged, to the trust that had carried you through the darkest years. For a moment, the Batfamily seemed to falter, a flicker of uncertainty crossing their faces as they absorbed the reality of the person you’d become, the family you’d built in their absence.

Nightwing broke the silence, his tone softer, filled with a hesitant respect. “It sounds like you did good,” he said quietly, his gaze steady as he looked at you. “Even if we don’t fully understand it… you kept Gotham safe. You stepped up.”

You nodded, your voice steady as you replied, “I did what had to be done. And I’m not the person I was when you left. Azrael is part of my family now, and if you want to be a part of my life, you’ll have to accept that.”

The Batfamily exchanged glances, a silent conversation passing between them. You could see the struggle in their eyes, the tension of reconciling their memories of you with the person you’d become, the life you’d built without them. But for the first time, they seemed to understand that they weren’t stepping back into the family they’d left behind—they were stepping into a new world, one where you held the reins, one where you defined the rules.

Bruce gave a slow nod, his gaze lingering on you before shifting to Azrael, a silent acknowledgment that carried the weight of years of history and judgment. “Then we’ll have to find a way to work together,” he said, his voice quieter, less certain, but laced with an acceptance he hadn’t shown before.

You took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment settle over you, the recognition of a new beginning, a tentative bridge between the family you’d once lost and the family you’d found in their absence. It wouldn’t be easy, you knew. The past wouldn’t vanish overnight, and the tension between the Batfamily and Azrael was still palpable. But for the first time, there was a glimmer of hope, a possibility of blending the old with the new.

As the Batfamily stood before you, taking in the person you’d become and the team that surrounded you, something unspoken simmered beneath the surface, a puzzle they were only beginning to piece together. You could see it in their eyes, the glances they exchanged, the faint looks of suspicion they cast your way. Something about you, your stance, the quiet confidence you exuded, was triggering old memories. Memories of nights spent chasing shadows, hunting down an enigmatic young partner who had fought by Azrael’s side years ago—a partner whose identity they had never been able to uncover.

In those days, you had operated under their radar, your true identity carefully concealed as you trained under Azrael’s brutal mentorship. You’d learned to mask your movements, to cover your tracks so meticulously that even the Batfamily, with all their resources, hadn’t managed to pin you down. They’d called you many things over the years—a ghost, an enigma, the young shadow who had stood by Azrael’s side with a fierce loyalty that they couldn’t understand. To them, you had been a mystery, someone they couldn’t fully control or predict, and they’d spent countless nights trying to bring you in, to discover who you were and what drove you.

But now, as they took you in, realization began to dawn in their eyes, piece by agonizing piece. Tim was the first to falter, his eyes narrowing as he looked you over, his sharp mind already piecing together details that others might have missed. The stance, the controlled posture, the barely visible scars tracing your arms—familiar but unplaceable until now. You saw the flash of recognition in his gaze, the widening of his eyes as he finally made the connection.

“Wait… you were…” Tim’s voice trailed off, disbelief flickering across his face as he glanced between you and Azrael. “You were his partner?”

You held his gaze, neither confirming nor denying, letting the weight of your silence speak for itself. The truth hung heavy in the air, the realization settling over them like a slow-building storm. The enigma they’d spent years hunting, the partner who had been a constant thorn in their side, had been you all along. The person they had tried so hard to track down, to bring to justice or at least understand, had been right under their noses, living in the same house, watching them as they went about their missions, unknowing of the life you were leading in secret.

Jason’s expression shifted, a mixture of shock and irritation twisting his features as he looked at you, then at Azrael. “Are you kidding me?” he muttered, his tone sharp, almost incredulous. “All those years, we were chasing you? We were trying to figure out who this ‘mystery vigilante’ was, and it was you?”

You shrugged, allowing a faint, almost amused smile to cross your lips. “You never really gave me much of a choice. I had to work in the shadows, away from you all. Azrael… he was the only one who believed in me enough to let me fight.”

Bruce’s face tightened, a flash of something that looked like betrayal flickering across his features. He had dedicated nights, weeks, perhaps months, to tracking you and Azrael, believing the two of you to be rogue elements disrupting the carefully maintained order he’d established in Gotham. He’d sent teams after you, had pulled strings to uncover your identity, always coming up empty-handed. And now, standing in front of him, was the very enigma he had hunted, the daughter he had left behind.

“You,” he said slowly, his voice tinged with a mix of anger and disbelief. “You were the one working with Azrael. You were the one we were hunting down.”

Your heart clenched at the hint of hurt in his tone, but you pushed it aside, refusing to let his reaction shake you. “Yes, I was,” you replied, meeting his gaze with unwavering resolve. “Because while you were gone, I didn’t have anyone else. I didn’t have the luxury of waiting around, hoping you’d come back. Gotham was falling apart, and someone had to step up. Azrael gave me that chance.”

Nightwing, usually the peacekeeper, ran a hand through his hair, looking at you with a strange blend of admiration and disbelief. “All this time,” he murmured, a faint, rueful smile tugging at his lips. “We thought you were some kind of vigilante ghost… and it was you, hiding right under our noses.”

Damian, who had once viewed you as an outsider in the family, stared at you with a newfound respect mingling with suspicion. “You really fought with Azrael all these years?” he asked, his tone quieter, almost reluctant to admit that he was impressed.

You nodded, a faint smile playing at your lips as you glanced at Azrael, who stood tall and unwavering beside you. “Every night. We kept Gotham safe, fought the battles you weren’t there to fight. And yes, we made decisions you might not agree with. But we did what we had to.”

The Batfamily exchanged glances, their expressions a mixture of confusion, disbelief, and a slow, reluctant respect. The person they’d dismissed as a child, the person they’d ignored and brushed aside, had been the very vigilante they’d spent years hunting. And now, they had no choice but to acknowledge the reality of who you’d become, of the life you’d led without them.

Bruce’s gaze shifted to Azrael, the tension between them palpable, a reminder of the long-standing animosity that had simmered beneath the surface for years. “And you encouraged this?” he asked, his tone hard, accusatory. “You brought my daughter into a life of violence and danger, knowing what it would cost her?”

Azrael met Bruce’s gaze unflinchingly, his voice calm, unyielding. “I didn’t ‘bring’ her into anything,” he replied. “(Y/N) made her own choice, and I respected it. I trained her, yes. I taught her to survive, to protect herself. Because she had the strength, the determination, and the will that none of you ever saw. I simply gave her the tools to become who she already was.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with the truth that the Batfamily hadn’t wanted to see. You had been left alone, a child in need of guidance, and when they hadn’t been there, Azrael had stepped in, offering you the mentorship and support they had denied. He hadn’t forced you into this life; he’d simply recognized the fire within you, the desire to make a difference, and had given you the chance to prove yourself.

Jason’s face softened, a reluctant acknowledgment flickering in his eyes as he looked at you. “Guess you did good, then,” he said, a hint of grudging respect in his tone. “You kept Gotham safe. You kept… us safe, even when you didn’t have to.”

Tim nodded, his gaze shifting between you and Azrael, a mixture of regret and admiration in his eyes. “We underestimated you,” he admitted, his voice quiet. “I… I underestimated you. I thought you were just a kid, someone who didn’t understand what this life takes. But you’ve proven us all wrong.”

You felt a flicker of satisfaction at their words, a sense of closure that had been a long time coming. You had spent years in the shadows, fighting alongside Azrael, working tirelessly to protect the city they had left behind. And now, standing before them, you knew that they finally saw you for who you were—a fighter, a protector, someone who had risen from the ashes of abandonment to become a force in her own right.

Bruce’s gaze softened, the faintest glimmer of remorse in his eyes as he looked at you, truly seeing you for the first time. “You kept Gotham safe,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent. “And you kept… my legacy alive. I should have seen it sooner.”

You met his gaze, a mixture of emotions swirling within you—bitterness, pride, and a quiet acceptance. “Maybe you should have,” you replied, your voice steady, but softened by the years of distance and pain that had settled into something like peace. “But that doesn’t matter now. I did what I had to do, and I don’t regret any of it.”

The Batfamily looked at you, no longer with the wary suspicion they’d once held, but with something deeper—a reluctant admiration, an acknowledgment of the strength you’d earned through blood, sweat, and unrelenting resilience. They finally understood that you were no longer the child they’d left behind but a warrior in your own right, someone who had carved her own path in the shadowed streets of Gotham.

And as you stood there, flanked by Azrael, Belial, and your team, you knew that you had proven yourself, not only to them but to yourself. You were no longer the enigma they had hunted, the partner they’d misunderstood. You were a force of your own, a protector of Gotham, and the family you’d chosen stood beside you, ready to defend the city they’d fought to keep safe.

“So,” Dick broke the silence, rubbing the back of his neck as he glanced between the Batcomputer and the war table, his tone uncertain. “What exactly are we supposed to do now?”

You exhaled hard, dragging a hand down your face. It felt like you’d aged another seven years in the last ten minutes. Your brain was already churning with logistics and impossibilities: Gotham’s legal system, Bruce’s estate, the sudden reappearance of not just one billionaire but six high-profile individuals—most of whom had been declared legally dead. Not to mention the return of Batman and his entire team of vigilantes after nearly a decade of silence.

This was a mess.

A mess you were now responsible for.

Your gaze drifted to Dick, who now looked almost exactly your age—maybe younger by a few months. That alone made your head spin. You were once a teenager desperate for his attention, for any sibling-like bond he might throw your way. Now you were his peer, even more seasoned in some areas. Older. Harder. And definitely more tired.

You pinched the bridge of your nose and muttered, “I’ll— I’ll get Alfred down here. He’ll help figure this mess out. He’s better at this.”

Before you could move toward the comms, Bruce raised a hand. “Hold up.”

You turned to face him, but your patience was already razor-thin. “No. I’m going to stop you right here,” you said, voice flat and sharp. “You’ve been gone for seven years, Bruce. Seven. Gotham is not the same place you left. The streets are different. The alliances are different. Hell, even the laws are different.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt, letting you speak.

“You can’t just pop back in and pick up where you left off. None of you can. You’ll need help—and time—integrating back into this world.” You folded your arms, leveling your gaze across the room. “You’ve missed everything.”

“I assume that means we won’t be able to patrol,” Tim said quietly, though it was clearly more statement than question.

You nodded. “No, not yet. Not for a while. We need to get your civilian identities sorted first. Bruce Wayne’s reappearance alone is going to break the internet. The public thinks you're dead. Your assets are frozen, your accounts legally inactive. You’re going to need new paperwork, a proper reentry strategy. And even then, we’ll have to be careful.”

Bruce nodded, stoic as ever, but at least receptive. You could see him already calculating, that old strategist brain whirring behind his eyes.

Damian, however, made a sharp noise of denial, stepping forward with narrowed eyes. “That’s ridiculous. I’m ready. I’ve always been ready. I’m not going to sit on the sidelines like some weak civilian while Gotham bleeds.”

“Damian,” you said, tone calm but firm, “you don’t know this Gotham anymore. None of you do. You were gone long enough for people to move on. For new threats to rise. New dynamics. You can’t just walk back in and expect the city to fall back in line. It’s not going to work like that.”

Jason scoffed under his breath. “She’s not wrong.”

“I know I’m not wrong,” you shot back. “And trust me, I’d love nothing more than to hand the reins back to someone else and get a vacation for once. But we don’t have that luxury. The world kept spinning without you. Gotham changed. I changed.”

You looked at Bruce, gaze softening just a little—not out of pity, but out of truth. “I want you back in the field. I do. But we have to do it right. Or it’ll fall apart faster than it did the first time.”

Bruce studied you, his eyes sharp but no longer combative. “Then we’ll do it your way,” he said finally.

That caught even you off guard. You blinked, feeling the weight of the moment settle in your chest.

“Alfred’s coming down,” you said after a pause, your voice quieter. “He’ll help. He always does.”

And in your heart, you hoped that maybe—just maybe—Alfred could help you make sense of the fact that the past had just walked through a portal into your present… and now you were the one holding the city’s future.

Alfred arrived faster than you’d ever seen him move, a rare urgency in his normally composed steps. The usual quiet dignity he carried was frayed around the edges, replaced by something rawer, deeper. You didn’t need to ask why—Alfred had never truly recovered from losing Bruce and the others. He had held the manor together after their disappearance, held you together in your early days with Azrael, but you’d seen the cracks in his composure over the years. The empty places at the dinner table. The faint pause every time he passed by their old rooms. He hadn’t just lost the family he served—he’d lost the children he raised. His boys. His girl.

And now they stood before him, alive and flesh and real.

The moment Alfred stepped into the Batcave and laid eyes on Bruce, his posture broke. The tray of supplies he carried was lowered carefully to the floor, forgotten entirely as his expression trembled.

“Oh… oh, my boy…” Alfred whispered, voice catching, cracking under the weight of a thousand unsaid things.

“Alfred,” Bruce said softly, and it was the most human you’d heard him sound in… maybe ever.

They crossed the space like the ground itself didn’t matter. The hug was tight, not stoic, not brief. Bruce clung to Alfred like a son who had finally come home, and Alfred’s eyes closed as he held him, silent tears running down his face.

You watched it for only a moment before your throat tightened.

You turned away.

They needed that moment. They belonged in it. You didn’t. You were part of this place, but not that part. That was their story, their bond. The reunion of a family shattered and stitched back together by time and fate. You were just the one who'd kept the lights on while they were gone.

You walked back to where Prudence and Farley stood off to the side. Their expressions were mixed—surprise, discomfort, maybe a little awe.

You gave them a small, tired smile. “You guys can leave if you want. I get it. This… isn’t really your moment.”

Farley didn’t even hesitate. “Thank God,” he muttered, already making his way toward the exit with the hurried gait of someone who desperately wanted to escape the emotional gravity in the room. “You know I don’t do the whole ‘group hug and cry’ thing. This is all you.”

You snorted despite the ache in your chest.

You turned to Prudence, who hadn't moved. She stood still, arms crossed, her gaze trained on the Batfamily with an unreadable expression. When you met her eyes, she only raised an eyebrow.

“You staying?”

Her eyes flicked briefly to Tim, who was quietly speaking with Cass on the other side of the room. “We’ve got history,” she said simply, and you could see it—her curiosity, her caution, and maybe… hope. She wasn't a sentimental person, not really, but you knew Tim had meant something to her once.

“Alright,” you murmured. “Just… don’t stab anyone unless they stab first.”

“No promises,” she said dryly.

You chuckled and turned to Azrael, who stood in his usual silent place behind you like a wall of conviction. He hadn’t moved an inch since the moment the Bats returned, but you felt his gaze on you, watchful as always.

“You could leave too,” you offered gently, though you already knew the answer.

Azrael didn’t speak, just gave you a look—a long, unwavering stare that said more than any words. I’m not leaving you.

You gave him a tired nod, your shoulders relaxing just slightly. “Didn’t think so.”

And then there was Belial. Of course, you and he lived in the manor now. You slept in what was once one of the guest wings, made it your home. The idea of suddenly having to explain that—to a freshly returned Bruce Wayne—was… daunting, to say the least.

“I suppose,” you muttered under your breath, glancing between the tender reunions and the mess they were about to leave in your lap, “we’ll have to tell them about us at some point.”

Belial, who had appeared silently at your side like a devilish shadow, raised a brow. “You mean the part where we live together?”

You blinked at him.

“…Yes.”

He smirked, leaning closer until only you could hear. “Let’s save the second part for dinner, shall we?”

You couldn’t help but laugh, quiet and bitter-sweet. This was a mess. The storm of emotion had finally started to settle. The reunions were complete—or at least, the most intense parts of them. Alfred was still lingering near Bruce, fussing over him in the way only he could: equal parts doting and chastising, hands on Bruce’s shoulders like he couldn’t quite believe he was real. Cass had tucked herself under Alfred’s arm like a child too afraid to admit she missed home. Dick had hugged everyone twice, Jason had begrudgingly allowed it once, and even Damian had accepted a tight, silent embrace from Alfred that left him looking a little shell-shocked.

You waited at the edge of it all, hands in your pockets, awkward and unsure. This wasn’t your moment, but you were the one who had to take charge again. The emotional wave had crested, and now everyone was looking around, uncertain, raw, and… hungry.

You cleared your throat softly and stepped forward, your voice a bit too loud in the quiet that followed. “Your rooms are, um—they’re still yours. We didn’t touch them.”

Everyone looked at you. You felt their eyes, and suddenly you were a teenager again, small and trying too hard, your words clumsy on your tongue.

You pressed on.

“Right. So, um… dinner. We’re all quite starving, right?”

“Yeah,” Dick said, rubbing his stomach with a sheepish grin. “Yeah, definitely. Jet lag across dimensions, who knew.”

You nodded too fast, grateful for the humor. “Right. It’s a bit late, I know—I can order takeout. If that’s okay?”

Bruce nodded. “That’s fine.”

“Yeah—sure,” Jason added, arms crossed, but not in his usual defensive way. Just tired. Worn.

“Any preferences?” you asked, pulling out your phone, thumb hovering over your delivery apps.

Tim perked up. “Uhhh… is that Mexican place near Fifth Street still open? The one with the hole in the wall?”

You blinked. “Yeah—yeah, it’s still there. We can get that.”

“Cool,” he murmured, relaxing for the first time since stepping through the portal.

“Cool…” You echoed, feeling the silence stretch again as you placed the order.

Then Dick, who had never been good with silence, chuckled softly, looking you over as if seeing you for the first time all over again. “So… you’ve grown.”

You froze.

Oh god. So you were doing this. Small talk about how much older you looked. Fantastic.

“Well, yes,” you said dryly, giving him a deadpan look as your fingers tapped out the order on your phone. “Time does that.”

Jason smirked. “You’ve got his sarcasm now, too,” he muttered, nodding toward Bruce.

“I’ve had a lot of time to practice.”

Belial chuckled under his breath beside you, and you elbowed him lightly in the ribs before glancing back up at them. They were all watching you again—but this time it felt different. Not like they were seeing a stranger. Like they were trying to piece together who you were now, instead of remembering who you were then.

“Food’ll be here in twenty-five,” you said quietly. “We can eat in the dining room, if that’s okay. Or the cave. Whichever.”

Bruce nodded again. “Dining room’s fine.”

Alfred smiled at you warmly, placing a hand on your shoulder as he passed, heading up to set the table like no time had passed at all. And maybe, for a few precious moments, that would be true.

You exhaled slowly, trying to brace yourself for the second wave—the real conversations. The hard ones. The identity talk, the Gotham logistics, the life you’d lived without them.

But for now? Dinner was enough. A quiet meal in a house that was both haunted and alive again.

And maybe—just maybe—it wasn’t such a bad place to start.

One by one, they all began to file out of the Batcave. Quietly, thoughtfully, some casting glances back over their shoulders as if still trying to convince themselves that they were truly home. Bruce lingered a moment longer with Alfred, speaking in hushed tones, while Dick and Cass headed up the stairs together. Jason muttered something about needing a real shower and maybe a bottle of something strong. Tim and Prudence exchanged a brief look before he followed the others, and even Damian trailed off eventually, his steps slower, less confident than you’d ever seen them.

You let them go.

They needed time—time to clean up, to settle in, to wander the rooms of a manor that had become something entirely new while they were gone. You didn’t begrudge them that. They had lost years too, years in another world, in another time. Years they couldn’t get back. You could give them the space to breathe. After all, you’d had seven years of figuring this out on your own. They were only just now waking up.

With a soft exhale, you turned and headed upstairs with Belial, your pace slowing once you reached the living room. It was dimly lit, warm in a way the cave wasn’t, and after the night you’d had, it felt like the only place in the world you could melt into.

You collapsed onto the couch, limbs heavy, your body finally giving in to the emotional exhaustion.

Belial followed, sitting beside you as he watched you closely. His hand found yours, fingers gently threading through yours with practiced ease.

“You okay, darling?” he asked softly, his voice the grounding warmth you’d come to rely on.

You stared ahead for a moment, eyes fixed on nothing, before admitting quietly, “...I—I don’t know.”

“That’s okay,” he said, rubbing his thumb across your knuckles. “This… this is a lot.”

You turned your head to look at him, a tired smile barely tugging at your lips. “Well, at least this means we finally get to have that vacation.” You leaned your head against his shoulder with a tired sigh. “Give or take a couple of months.”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm as he brushed a kiss against the top of your head. “We should probably focus on patrol tonight first.”

“Yeah… probably,” you murmured, eyes already drooping. “But I am gonna start planning the itinerary. It’s only fair.”

“Oh, absolutely,” he grinned. “Bali or Cancun?”

“Bali, for sure,” you said instantly. “Cancun’s nice, but I want waterfalls. Peace. Quiet.”

He smirked. “So you want the opposite of Gotham.”

“Exactly.”

You both sat there in comfortable silence, the only sound the soft ticking of the manor’s antique grandfather clock. For a fleeting moment, everything felt stable again—chaos held at bay, ghosts tucked into bedrooms, and the future wide open.

Maybe, just maybe… you’d finally get to live in it.

Dinner was… awkward, to say the least.

Everyone sat around the grand dining table, most of them in freshly changed clothes, hair damp from hot showers, the weight of years—missing years—still hanging around their shoulders like lead. You sat at one end of the table with Belial beside you, his hand resting on your thigh under the table in quiet reassurance. Azrael, of course, sat silently a few chairs away, more imposing than ever despite being out of his armor. Prudence lounged with one arm slung over her chair, watching everything with the silent poise of a bored cat.

You’d expected the dinner talk to revolve around them—where they’d been, what they remembered, how the hell they got back. But once the food had been passed around, and the chewing had dulled the immediate tension, the questions… started falling on you.

“So,” Dick said around a bite of rice and grilled chicken, “did you ever go to college?”

You blinked, caught mid-sip of water. “Uh… no, I didn’t.”

He paused. “Oh. Right, I guess… with everything going on, that would’ve been hard.”

You gave a small shrug. “Yeah, Gotham kinda took precedence.”

Jason snorted. “No kidding.”

Tim leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “What about your civilian life? What… what did you do for work? I mean—before everyone knew about you as a vigilante.”

“I didn’t really have a civilian life,” you admitted. “It wasn’t safe at first. Once I started working with Azrael… things got busy.”

You felt the room shift slightly. The moment you said his name, their expressions changed—especially Bruce. You glanced his way, catching the subtle twitch in his jaw. He was grinding his teeth.

Weird.

Dick gave a short laugh, trying to ease the tension. “So wait—you really started training with him? Azrael? When?”

You glanced toward Azrael, who was calmly cutting his food like the questions didn’t involve him at all.

“I was eleven,” you answered.

The silence that followed was palpable.

“Eleven,” Bruce repeated, voice quiet and sharp. His eyes flicked to Azrael for a half-second before looking back to you. “You were eleven when he started training you?”

“He didn’t start me,” you corrected, gently but firmly. “I asked him to. I begged him to.”

Bruce’s jaw was tight again. You could tell he didn’t like it. That he was angry. At Azrael. At you. At himself. You didn’t know.

“So,” Tim cut in, trying to reroute the tension, “your team. Who’s on it?”

Ah. Right. The team.

Belial arched a brow beside you like he knew exactly where this was about to go. You shifted slightly in your seat.

“Well, there’s Prudence,” you gestured to her, who gave a small salute with her fork, “Farley—he’s a fire manipulator. Azrael, of course. And Belial.”

You could feel Bruce tense before he spoke.

“You have metas. In Gotham?”

Here it comes.

“I do,” you said, voice steady.

Bruce sat up straighter, his fork resting on his plate. “We had a rule—”

“And I repealed it,” you interrupted, not unkindly, but firmly. “That rule was outdated. I get why you made it. But Gotham changed. We changed. I only work with metas who prove themselves trustworthy. Farley’s been with me for years. He’s never crossed a line.”

“Metas complicate things,” Bruce said coolly.

“So do traumatized orphans in capes,” Belial muttered under his breath, earning a sudden cough from Dick and a choked laugh from Jason.

You tried very hard not to smile. “Belial.”

“What?” he said, totally unapologetic.

Damian scowled across the table. “So what is he, then?” He gestured at Belial with his fork. “Some kind of meta?”

Belial grinned, far too pleased with the attention. “Half-demon, technically.”

Cass’s eyes widened slightly. Tim looked like he wanted to say something, but no words formed. Jason just raised a brow.

Bruce? Bruce looked like he was going to fall through the floor. Or combust.

You cleared your throat. “He’s also a better medic than most ER doctors and speaks six languages. I think that earns him some points.”

“Seven,” Belial corrected.

“Right. Seven.”

Bruce leaned back slightly, and while he said nothing, you could see the storm brewing behind his eyes. He was trying to parse it all. You. Azrael. A half-demon.

They were perceptive. You knew that much before they ever came back—hyper-observant, trained to spot patterns, shifts, tells, tension. You had no doubt that by now, after only a few hours, every single one of them had already clocked your relationship with Belial.

You hadn’t exactly been subtle. The quiet conversations, the protective glances, the way his hand had barely left yours since the moment the portal opened. Even now, during dinner, his thigh rested against yours beneath the table, his arm draped comfortably along the back of your chair. Not possessive—present. Familiar. The kind of closeness that only came from years of love and war alike.

Bruce hadn’t said anything, but you didn’t need him to. You could feel it in the way he glanced at Belial when he thought you weren’t looking, the slight bristle to his shoulders every time Belial so much as spoke. He hadn’t figured out why it got under his skin yet—whether it was the demon blood, the sarcasm, or just the simple fact that someone like him had managed to find a place at your side—but whatever it was, it made his jaw clench like clockwork.

Dick… well, Dick’s smile hadn’t reached his eyes since you’d confirmed the relationship. He was trying, you’d give him that. But there was something tight in his expression, something protective and disapproving in the older-brother-you-never-had kind of way. He didn’t like it, not one bit. But he knew he had no say in it.

Jason had already given Belial the once-over three separate times, and would probably make it four before dessert. Tim was even worse—he hadn’t said anything directly, but he was watching everything, every exchange, every word. Calculating. Cataloguing. Making some damn file in that brain of his.

And Damian… Damian just didn’t like people. He hadn’t said a single thing about Belial that wasn’t laced with vague disdain. That was probably the most normal reaction of the bunch, to be honest.

“So… you live here?” Dick finally asked, fork half-suspended in the air as he looked across the table at Belial, trying for casual. Failing.

Ah. They’d either overheard earlier, or Alfred had gotten to them.

You cleared your throat, stiffening just slightly. “Er—yes, he does.”

A beat of silence.

“You two are…?” Jason asked, tone dry, a brow raised.

You exhaled slowly through your nose. “I’m twenty-five, not sixteen. Yes, we’re together.”

“Right, right,” Tim said quickly, offering a smile that was more awkward than reassuring. “That’s… nice.”

You resisted the urge to rest your head on the table.

“So how did you two meet?” Dick asked, too casually again, his grin a little too tight. “Was it on one of those rogue mission arcs? Some dramatic rooftop rescue?”

You opened your mouth, unprepared for how to explain that particular chapter—but thankfully, Belial beat you to it.

“We met on a mission actually,” he said smoothly, setting his glass down. “About six years ago. A smuggling ring that turned out to be running ancient cursed artifacts. She got there first and punched a guy through a wall. I was… impressed.”

Jason blinked. “That tracks.”

Belial smiled, unbothered by the scrutiny. “We ended up working together more after that. One thing led to another.”

You leaned back in your chair, letting his voice take over, letting him answer their questions with the ease only he could manage. His voice was calm, steady, almost charming in the way he navigated their probing without ever giving too much, but always enough.

You needed the break.

The day had been long—too long. Your emotions had whiplashed in every direction, and you were starting to feel it in your bones. The walls of your childhood home didn’t feel like yours tonight. The chairs at the table were full of people you’d mourned and outgrown, now suddenly back and sitting across from you like no time had passed.

So you let Belial take the wheel. You reached for your drink and let his steady voice wrap around you like a buffer, talking about a mission in Prague, a rooftop stakeout in the Narrows, how you made fun of him the first time you saw him trying to disguise his horns under a beanie. You could hear them asking questions, laughing lightly, filling in gaps they hadn’t known existed.

You didn’t answer. You just sat there quietly, Belial’s arm brushing your back every so often, and thought about how strange it was—being surrounded by the people you once begged to see you… while the only one who truly had was the one they didn’t understand.

Dinner ended with the clink of silverware and the quiet scrape of chairs being pushed back. No one said much. Everyone exchanged small, stiff goodnights and retreated into the house, the air heavy with something unspoken—something you could feel gathering behind every look.

You knew that air. It was the kind that came before something—a confession, a conversation, a plea.

Prudence was the first to leave, giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze before murmuring, “Call me if you need an excuse to escape.” You gave her a ghost of a smile.

Azrael left not long after, giving you a simple nod, nothing more. You didn’t need words between you and him. There never really had been.

You lingered behind with Belial near the hallway, the soft lighting of the manor casting long shadows across the marble.

“I’ll meet you in our room,” you said, quietly, your voice low enough not to carry. You didn’t look at him because you didn’t want to see the worry in his eyes.

He didn’t argue. He rarely did when it mattered. “Call me if you need me,” he murmured, voice brushing soft and certain against your ear. His hand lingered at the small of your back for a beat too long. And then he was gone.

You stood there alone for a breath. Then two.

And then came the footsteps.

You didn’t have to turn to know it was them.

“(Y/N),” Dick said first, his voice tentative. Almost gentle.

“Dick,” you replied, keeping your tone neutral. You turned slowly, facing him—and the rest. They’d stayed behind, just as you expected. Bruce stood in the corner, silent as ever. Tim shifted awkwardly near the mantle. Jason leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Damian stood further back, face hard to read. Cass was the only one who didn’t look away when you met her eyes.

“You—We—We’re so sorry,” Dick began again, the words spilling out awkwardly, his hands gesturing helplessly like he didn’t know how to hold them.

You blinked, thrown. “Dick… it wasn’t your fault you guys disappeared—”

“No,” he said quickly, cutting you off with a shake of his head. “No, not that. We’re—we’re sorry about everything else.”

You stiffened.

“We didn’t realize,” he continued, his voice cracking just slightly. “Not until we were gone. Not until we came back and—and saw all of it. We missed everything. We didn’t just disappear from Gotham. We disappeared from you.”

You looked down, throat tight.

“Dick—”

“He’s right,” Tim said quietly, stepping forward. “We didn’t treat you well. Before the portal. Before any of this. We didn’t make space for you. We didn’t try. And you… you didn’t deserve that.”

Your chest tightened, the words twisting like something sharp. It wasn’t anything you hadn’t already told yourself. You’d grieved it years ago. Accepted it. Let it harden and then soften again, buried somewhere deep. But hearing them say it—finally—was something else entirely.

“No,” you said softly, meeting their eyes. “No, I didn’t.”

There was a long silence.

Then Jason, voice lower than usual, said, “We want to be part of your life. We know we haven’t earned it. We know we don’t deserve it. But if you’ll let us… we’d like to try.”

Your breath caught in your throat. You weren’t sure what to say.

You’d already made peace with your place in this family. You weren’t angry anymore—not really. The bitter, adolescent version of yourself that had once screamed at locked doors and cold shoulders was long gone. You had outgrown her. You had survived without them. Found people who stayed. Built something real, even if it looked nothing like the blood family you once hoped for.

This was all making your head spin.

“We know it’s not fair to ask,” Tim added quickly.

“It’s not,” you said, a little sharper than you meant to. But no one flinched.

“But we’re asking anyway,” Dick murmured. “Not as penance. Not to ease our guilt. But because… you’re ours. You always were. And we didn’t see it until it was too late. Please—let us be in your life. In whatever way you’re willing to have us.”

You looked at each of them then. Really looked. At the older versions of the people who once walked past you in hallways like you didn’t exist. At the ones who had dismissed you, forgotten you, avoided you. They were standing here now, not asking for forgiveness, but for a chance.

“You all feel this way?” you asked, quietly.

“Yes,” came Bruce’s voice at last. Low. Steady. And unlike anything you’d ever heard from him.

You sighed, long and slow. You felt older than your years. Worn thin by the weight of too many nights spent waiting for words like this. Words that had never come. Words that didn’t change the past—but maybe, just maybe, could rewrite a little of the future.

Maybe a younger you would have said no. Would have lashed out. Thrown every memory back in their faces.

But you were 25 now.

There was no anger left in you.

Just the cautious ember of something new, something healing.

“…Okay,” you said at last, your voice small but firm. “But you don’t get to walk back in and pretend nothing happened.”

“We won’t,” Dick promised.

“Good.” You paused, then gave the smallest of smiles. “I’ll let you know when you’ve earned movie night.”

Jason huffed a breath of a laugh. Tim smiled. Damian muttered something in Arabic that sounded vaguely annoyed, but not unkind. Bruce… Bruce looked like a man who had been holding his breath for seven years and had finally exhaled.

And in that moment, you realized—this wasn’t you giving them your trust again.

This was them earning it.

It was awkward at first. Beyond awkward, honestly.

You were 25 now—older than Tim, older than Damian, just barely older than Dick—and it showed. Not in the way you carried yourself necessarily, but in your eyes, your routine, the way you moved through life with a rhythm they hadn't learned yet. They had disappeared while you were still a teenager, trying to earn a place in a home that never quite made space for you. Now they were back, dropped into a timeline that had long since moved on, into your version of Gotham.

The initial weeks were stiff, tentative. You didn’t know what to do with them. They didn’t know what to do with you. You were the head of the house now, the leader in the field, the one who made the patrol schedules and signed off on tactical decisions. They deferred to you in the cave—and you could tell it made them feel weird. Out of place. Lesser, almost. But there was no way around it.

You had a routine. A life. And adding them to the mix, no matter how well-meaning, disrupted the balance you and your team had built.

At first, most of your conversations were case-based. Tactical. Logistics. You’d speak in mission briefings, work together at the Batcomputer in the cave, assign roles for com duty while you and your team took to the streets. They weren’t allowed to patrol yet, not until Bruce and Alfred were sure they were cleared physically, mentally, legally—and that left most of them with energy they didn’t know where to place. So they helped. Cass took com duty often, seemingly content to listen in on your team’s chatter. Tim and Jason got invested in casework. Dick bounced between trying to be helpful and trying not to step on your toes.

It was tense. Tolerable, but off.

But slowly, painfully slowly, that began to shift.

The first dinners were quiet. Then not as quiet. The silences filled with someone asking for the mashed potatoes, a joke from Jason that made Damian roll his eyes. You trained with Dick and Jason more frequently—Jason in the early mornings, often unspoken but companionable, and Dick in the late afternoons, his laughter easing the awkward air between you.

You still flinched, sometimes, when he called you “kid,” and he always looked guilty afterward. But he stopped saying it. You both adjusted.

Then came Damian. He'd barely spoken to you the first few days—grunts, narrowed eyes, suspicion. That was his love language, you supposed. But when Alfred mentioned Titus in passing, you caught the way Damian’s posture shifted. How his hands stilled. You didn’t say anything at first. You waited until later, pulling him aside.

“I thought you might want to visit him,” you’d said quietly, offering him a ride to the small grave on the edge of the property. You didn’t expect him to say yes. But he had.

It was a quiet visit. Damian didn’t cry. He stood still, hands in fists at his sides, jaw clenched until it trembled. You didn’t speak—just knelt beside the headstone and let him exist. It was oddly civil. Oddly peaceful.

After that, he didn't avoid you anymore.

Then came the hard part—reintroducing them to the public.

You and Alfred worked tirelessly to sort out the legal mess that came with the sudden return of Bruce Wayne and his entire family from the dead. Media outlets swarmed. Conspiracies cropped up overnight. You held a press conference, coordinated cover stories, danced around timelines. It was exhausting. But somehow, you and Alfred pulled it off.

And after the smoke cleared, something finally started to settle.

You started doing coffee dates with Cass and Tim. Cass was quiet, as always, but being with her was easy. She didn’t expect you to fill silence, just shared it with you like it was sacred. Tim came too, even though he hated coffee. He drank hot chocolate and stared at your black espresso like it personally offended him.

You helped him apply to Gotham U. Something he’d wanted to do before the portal took him away. You sat next to him through forms, essays, mock interviews—helped him find something normal to hold onto. He never said thank you, not directly. But he’d started texting you cat memes, so… that was something.

Bruce remained the strangest presence in your life.

Not cold. Not harsh. Just… odd. He hovered, like a satellite—on the edge of rooms, the edge of moments. There were soft gestures: a cup of tea left by your notes in the cave. A hand briefly on your shoulder after a long patrol. A glance that lingered just a second too long before he looked away.

It was like he wanted to say something. Reach for something.

But didn’t know how.

And maybe you didn’t either.

But you were trying. You all were.

The walls hadn’t fully come down. There were still boundaries. Wounds that hadn’t yet scabbed. But the awkwardness was softening. The edges were dulling. And for the first time since the portal opened, it didn’t feel like they were ghosts in your house.

It felt like family.

A new version of it.

One slowly finding its rhythm again.

It started slowly—too slowly, like everything else since their return.

At first, no one said anything. But you saw the looks exchanged between them when Prudence casually called you “he” during a debrief, or when Belial switched between “she” and “he” depending on how you carried yourself that day. It wasn’t said with confusion or disdain—just quiet observation. Question without words. Uneasy curiosity. They were a perceptive group, and you’d known this conversation was coming. You’d just hoped it could come later. Maybe not at all.

But the thing about avoiding things in the Batfamily was… they always caught up to you.

The longer it went unspoken, the heavier it felt. You could feel it in the space between moments—when Tim’s brows knit together during a mission recap, when Damian’s eyes narrowed, thoughtful and unreadable, or when Jason paused like he was about to say something, then didn’t. Even Bruce had taken to glancing at you sideways, like he wanted to ask but didn’t know how.

You knew that look. You used to wear it on your face every morning in the mirror.

So, finally, one night after patrol—after everyone was tired and a little too full from dinner, lingering in the living room like people who didn’t quite want to say goodnight—you cleared your throat and stood in front of the fireplace.

“I, uh…” You swallowed. Your hands flexed uselessly at your sides. Belial, who had been reading on the couch nearby, gently set his book down and looked up. That was all the cue you needed.

“I need to talk to you guys about something. Something… that I guess you’ve been wondering about.”

The room shifted. Subtle. Quiet. But attentive.

Tim tilted his head. Dick straightened slightly. Bruce didn’t move, but you felt his focus lock in like a spotlight. Even Cass turned to face you fully, her eyes soft.

You took a slow breath.

“Over the past seven years, I’ve… grown a lot. Learned a lot about myself. And—one of the things I had to confront was my identity. My gender.”

The room didn’t react, but you could feel the tension build behind every quiet breath.

You pushed forward. “It was something I struggled with since I was a kid. Something I didn’t have the words for, not really. After you all disappeared, it got worse. I didn’t feel right in myself. I didn’t feel like ‘girl’ or ‘woman’ fit me all the time. But I didn’t feel like a guy either. It was confusing. Exhausting. Like I was walking around in skin that didn’t always belong to me.”

Your hands were trembling. You clenched them to stop it.

“It wasn’t until Belial sat me down one night—just made me talk through it—that I realized… I’m trans. Not just one thing or the other. Some days I feel more feminine. Other days I feel more masculine. Sometimes neither. It took me so long to even say that out loud, but when I did…”

You smiled faintly. “My team—Belial, Prudence, Farley, Azrael—they accepted me. They just… accepted me.”

That part still warmed something deep in your chest. You’d been so afraid of Azrael’s reaction the most, knowing his faith, his rigid sense of right and wrong. But he hadn’t flinched. Had simply placed a hand on your shoulder and said, "Your soul is the same. That’s all that matters."

So when your family started hearing your team refer to you with both “he” and “she,” sometimes fluidly within the same sentence, you knew it had made them look at each other. Wondering. Confused. Cautious.

Now they had their answer.

You cleared your throat, arms folding across your chest—not defensive, just bracing. “I’m telling you now not because I need anything from you. I’ve lived this way for years. I’m okay. But… I know you’re noticing. I figured you deserved the truth.”

Silence.

Then:

“So… do you prefer ‘he’ or ‘she’?” Tim asked gently, his voice hesitant but not unkind.

“Depends,” you said with a small smile. “Some days one. Some days the other. I’m okay with both.”

Dick blinked. “How do we know which one to use?”

“I’ll let you know. Or you’ll probably just… pick it up. It’s not that hard.”

Jason grunted. “Right. Makes sense.” He looked at you for a beat longer, then added, “You’re still you. So whatever.”

Cass offered you a quiet nod, eyes kind. “Still proud of you.”

And then Damian—who had been quiet the whole time, arms crossed, expression unreadable—spoke.

“I assumed.”

You raised a brow. “You did?”

He shrugged. “Tt. The way you move shifts depending on the day. Clothing choices. The team uses different pronouns around you, yet you never correct them. Only meant one thing.” He paused. “It changes nothing.”

You blinked. “Thanks, Damian.”

He scowled. “I didn’t say I like you. I said it changes nothing.”

You smiled.

Then finally, Bruce looked up. He hadn’t spoken once through the whole thing. His gaze met yours, quiet, steady, unreadable as always.

But then he nodded—just once—and said, “Thank you for trusting us with that.”

It wasn’t emotional. It wasn’t flowery.

But it was enough.

And maybe—just maybe—that was all you needed.

And after that conversation—after you’d finally spoken your truth aloud and they'd listened—things only got better.

It didn’t happen all at once. The change was gradual, like the slow thaw of winter into spring. But it did happen. And that was more than you’d dared to hope for when they first returned through that swirling portal.

The tension that once hovered in the manor halls like fog began to lift. It wasn’t just them treating you differently anymore—they were trying with your people too. And that meant more than you could say.

They tried with Belial. Really tried.

It started slow—little conversations in the cave, shared mission planning, tech banter. But surprisingly, it was Tim who connected with him first. Maybe it was their shared love of overly complex magical theory and obscure historical tomes. Maybe it was the way Belial once beat him at chess and then insisted on a rematch every other week. Or maybe it was that Tim, of all of them, saw how Belial looked at you, like you hung stars in his sky.

Whatever it was, Tim came around fast. And once he did, the others started to ease up too.

Jason would never admit it, but he appreciated how Belial knew when to shut up and when to throw down. Dick started including him in team recaps and even let him pick the music once or twice on movie nights. And Bruce… well. Bruce was still Bruce. But there were fewer stares and more quiet nods. More acceptance in the silence.

And Damian?

You expected that to take the longest. But then Belial showed up one day with a gift.

A puppy.

Well. A hellhound puppy.

Tiny, slightly see-through, glowing faintly red around the paws, with smoke curling off its nose when it sneezed. Belial placed it calmly in Damian’s arms and said, “He’s yours. I made him bite-proof.”

You had never seen Damian look that soft. Or that confused.

Bruce and Alfred were not thrilled at first—Bruce stared down the hound like it might set the curtains ablaze, and Alfred spent the first week side-eying it like it might try to eat the furniture. But the little beast was… undeniably cute. It followed Damian everywhere, napped beside him during study breaks, and barked at people who stood too close to his tea.

And—most importantly—it made Damian smile.

So that was that. The dog stayed.

You didn’t say anything when you found Alfred sneaking it treats. Or when Bruce started calling it “the creature” instead of “the abomination.”

Progress.

And life?

Life started to look up for you.

The manor no longer felt like a house full of ghosts. It felt like home. There were movie nights every Friday, where Belial always brought the best snacks, and Dick refused to let anyone pick horror because “we already live in Gotham, thanks.”

There were patrol nights again too—at first with your team, with the Batfamily on coms, guiding, learning the new rhythm of the city. But soon, they were back in the field with you. Bruce at your side once more. Jason covering your flank. Cass gliding silently above. It felt like the city was whole again.

You even had family outings now. Picnics in the garden. Trips to the local fair. A disastrous attempt at an escape room where Damian nearly broke the door, and Prudence solved the puzzle in ten minutes just to end the suffering. Belial got banned from two amusement parks in one weekend for “unintentionally summoning low-tier demons.”

It became normal. Your normal.

Two families, one patchwork tapestry. Yours. Entirely yours.

And as the year carried on, through laughter, late nights, and soft, strange moments of peace—you started to believe something you hadn’t in a long, long time.

That you were allowed to be happy.

That this—chaotic, complicated, healing—this was family.

And you belonged here.

Exactly as you are.

409 notes · View notes

noctude · 1 year ago

Text

this idea has been in my brain for over 2 months and I finally had time to make it. is this too earnestly cringe to upload? i am beyond the capacity to care. enjoy

now on youtube!

[link to drive folder w/ downloads including instrumental]

Everything was chill back in Hermitcraft 6 (lying)

Then Grian got up to his usual tricks

The name of the game is kill or be killed

No swords no bows no PVP skills

First Rendog found his inner fish

But he couldn’t stick the landing and his bones went squish

Stress flew through the dares with talent and grace

But she didn’t catch the totem and she fell on her face

Then Ren came back with a sinister vice

Tricked X with a race and blew him up twice

Looks like steel beams can’t be melted by slime

‘Cause Jevin didn’t see Mumbo’s tower in time

Stress set a trap at the shopping district

And dropped Scar right into a pufferfish pit

Cub’s stunt got stuck and X felt robbed

So he got a skeleton to finish the job

This is the Hermitcraft showdown of Hermitcraft destiny

Players, mobs, and explosions as far as the eye can see

And only one will survive, I wonder who it will be

This is the Hermitcraft showdown of Hermitcraft destiny

Tango and Impulse were shopping at the mall

But the store detonated and it killed them all

Grian had a no-good-very-bad-day

And when he made it back home he got blown away

Then False broke a block and before she could speak

A giant underground explosion sent her into next week

Cleo signed up for a warehouse tour

But she didn’t read the waiver and she fell through the floor

And TinFoilChef went laughing to the grave

Then without another word went back into his caves

Tango’s game was a race against the clock

And Keralis threw an egg at the most explosive block

Now revenge is a dish that’s best served cold

But Bdubs got it boiling as Cleo foretold

And when Joe got the rug pulled from under his feet

He tried to play it cool but he couldn’t take the heat

This is the Hermitcraft showdown of Hermitcraft destiny

It’s 90% explosions as far as the eye can see

And only one will survive, I wonder who it will be

This is the Hermitcraft showdown….

In another dimension

With danger abound

Mumbo threw his ender-pearl

But missed solid ground

And Doc had played smart

But Grian played mean

He was dead on arrival,

The trap unforeseen

Then one player remained,

One Dragon Head left-

For the ride of his life,

Iskall auctioned his death

He beat Joe Hills And ZombieCle-o

And every other member of the Dragon Bros:

FalseSymmetry and BDoubleO

And Grian and Mumbo Jumbolio

Also Rendog, Jevin, TangoTek and Cubfan,

Stress, Scar, and X just couldn’t beat the Iskallman

TinFoilChef or ImpulseSV

Doc can rock with blocks but can’t flee

So Grian and Impulse forged a team

And together they built a death machine

With a narrative arc from beginning to end

And a wild surprise around every bend

When the show and the ride were finally done

Our champion knew that his course had run

All that remains from the end of this fight

Is a piece of bloodstained diorite

This is the hermitcraft showdown of hermitcraft destiny

Just way too many explosions - where do they get all that TNT???

And only one will survive, I wonder who it will be

This is the Hermitcraft showdown

(this is the Hermitcraft showdown)

This is the Hermitcraft showdown

(this is the Hermitcraft showdown)

This is the Hermitcraft showdown

(this is the Hermitcraft showdown)

Of Hermitcraft destiny

#my music #hermitcraft #hc s6 #hermitcraft demise #mcyt

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takaraphoenix · 6 months ago

Text

I saw someone refer to Steter as a comedy relief duo earlier and it just completely sent me, because that's just... so far from what Steter is, in canon?

As I'm currently rewatching the show, it has shot up into being my favorite ship on the show because of the gravitas it has.

It's a ship that highlights Stiles' fearlessness in such intriguing ways, in canon. From the boy who yelled at a feral Alpha in the school, to their first face to face meeting at the hospital, when Peter recognizes him, knows him, acknowledges him ("You must be Stiles", as though Stiles' reputation as the one who figures things out proceeds him, as he is the first one to put together that Peter is the Alpha).

There's nothing comedic about the scene on the lacrosse field, when Stiles is kneelng beside Lydia's unconscious form and Peter... for reasons beyond comprehension... decides to curl his claws beneath Stiles' chin and guide him up. Not grab him by the arm and haul him up, not command him, not demand.

This is... sensual, filled with tension, and I don't even necessarily mean the sexual tension (even though the imagery of Stiles kneeling before Peter and Peter grasping his chin is something that I find hard to not see a sexual read on).

Peter kidnaps Stiles into the parking garage to force the boy to track down Derek and, sure, the "His username is Allison? His password is also Allison?" - "Still want him in your pack?" is absolutely iconic and is comedic... how do you boil that entire exchange down to "comedy relief"?

The way Peter offers Stiles the bite - Peter, who so far, only took whatever he wanted, never asked or offered - and doesn't force when Stiles says "No". Even the way Peter catches Stiles on the lie is a moment of tension and revelation on Stiles' part. The way Peter acknowledges Stiles as the clever one.

The season 1 finale? When Stiles sets the survivor of a horrific house fire on fire? Absolute riot, huh. It's vicious, it's cruel - it's everything.

And when Peter is resurrected? Sure, Stiles sarcastically asks if someone can kill him again and sure, Peter snarks about living in a cave system. But even in that episode, these brief comedic moments are absolutely overshadowed by the way Peter and Stiles work together, figure out what the vault is made of, then call Scott to warn him and Derek, by finishing each other's sentences. Two brilliant minds working together, on the same wavelength.

The next time they interact is when Peter tells Stiles about Paige, explains what the blue eyes mean. It's one of the more heavy and serious moments in the season, aside from all the death scenes. It's a big lore drop and character background on both Peter and Derek. And it's Stiles this information is shared with. It's a serious moment and even as Peter tells it all, Stiles doesn't trust, sees past the silver tongue and that too is part of the appeal.

When Peter and Stiles work together to save Cora's life in the hospital, while the Alpha Pack is hunting them down? Blind trust. Stiles asks Peter to help him and Peter doesn't even ask, much less quip, he just follows Stiles' lead and they work together.

Now, I'll admit, I haven't seen seasons 3B through 6 in six years and hey, maybe they'll be a real Abbott and Costello in season 4 and I'm just not remembering it, but damn it all to hell if the first half of the show doesn't present them as two clever minds challenging each other, with a growth from terror and pain to respect and teamwork.

I understand and respect not liking a ship, but I am genuinely baffled when people deliberately misinterpret a canon to suit their needs. Always makes me wonder what alternate reality's version of the show they were watching, surely not the same as me.

#Steter #Teen Wolf #Peter Hale #Stiles Stilinski #Phoe's Steter Meta

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queen-of-nightmare-16 · 6 months ago

Text

OUR LOVE | Alt Vander X Reader

CONTENT WARNINGS - Fluff • Brief mention on near death • Season 2 Spoilers! •

PAIRING: Alt Universe Vander X Fem Reader

SUMMARY: ever since a certain day in your lives, life in Zaun has never been better. And although your adopted children might’ve grown and flown the nest, there’s still laughter at the bar

WORD COUNT: 1.2K

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Dawn had finally started to spill into Zaun, the sun glimmering off a soft morning dew of mist. Ever since Piltover and Zaun came together, life had become euphoric for all. Everyone united, the sons and daughters of Zaun no longer cut off from opportunities and fortune. Sure there was the odd spat between the two but nothing seemed to sever the bond between cities.

All seemingly possible because your kids stupidly nearly got themselves killed in Piltover. After receiving a tip from Ekko, your and Vander’s kids decided to sneak into a lavish Piltover apartment and attempt to burgle it for riches. Until for some unknown reason, an explosion nearly took the life of your oldest daughter Vi. It all but broke you and Vander to see her broken body. She had been so close to death that finally the Council decided their obliviousness to the Undercity’s problems had to come to an end.

And so it did. As Vi healed, so did Zaun. The air was cleaned. Health care provided. Chem-barons operations dismantled. Until finally the Zaun you grew up in became a thing of the past and the dream of a free Zaun became a reality.

Eventually the kids grew into adults, like baby birds leaving the nest and writing their own stories. Choosing their own fates. Powder and Ekko had been accepted into the academy furthering their brilliance for gadgets. Claggor turned his eye to further clearing the air in the fissures, using plants natural ability to produce oxygen. Mylo was still Mylo, happily jumping from one opportunity to the next but always there to help his brother with his projects. And Vi had followed in Vander’s footsteps, becoming a professional boxer. Along with starting a relationship with a councillors daughter. The bar that was once full of laughter became quiet. Though you and your husband were content. Just you and him. To do as you pleased.

At least for a year it was.

The two of you were sleeping together in bed; your bodies lying on your sides and intertwined with each other. Vander’s arms held you tightly to his body, one of his hands buried in your hair. Your own wrapped around his waist whilst you buried your face into his bare chest, feeling his soft snores tussle your hair at each exhale. Nothing could interrupt the peaceful bliss of sleep between you two. Until the door to your bedroom suddenly swung open.

“Dad! Come on, dad! You gotta get up!” A voice suddenly called, the two of you huffing out quietly when you felt the bed dip behind Vander. “Dad? Dad!”.

A slight snicker escaped your lips when you felt you husband shoulder being shoved by a tiny force, the child repeatedly calling for his fathers attention. “I think your son is awake,” you whispered into his chest. Vander’s arms tightened around your waist, burying his head further into the crown of your head.

“Before sunrise he’s your son,” he grumbled, voice still ripe with sleep.

“Dad! DAD!” The young lad yelped. Vander suddenly grunted out in shock and a small mixture of pain when your son hopped up and landed on his thigh, causing him to crack an eye open. “Come on, dad! You promised we’d decorate the bar!”. The boys brows furrowed in a very familia glare. One he had no doubted inherited from his father.

“Alright, alright. I’m up ya lil tike,” Vander groaned, yawning tiredly as the boy leaped off the bed and ran out the room in excitement. Of course, it was suddenly coming back to him. The academy that Ekko and Powder were studying at was hosting an inventions fair. Both teens excited beyond belief so you and Vander promised to host a party at the Last Drop. Win or lose, you were more than proud of the two teens. But at the same time, Vander also promised your now 7 year old son that he could help decorate the bar in the morning. Seems he took it a little too literally.

Your husband huffed out in exhaustion and rolled onto his back, running a hand down his face. “So much for sleeping in till 9”.

“Ha! Good luck with that,” you grinned, rolling with him to rest your chin on his chest. “He has the same amount of energy you had when you were that age”.

“Gods help us,” he huffed with a sleepy chuckle as his knuckles trailed down between your shoulder blades. “Why did I get you pregnant when all the kids had finally moved out?”.

“You were a little too excited that we finally had the house to ourselves … and because you couldn’t resist me in that dress,” you smirked cheekily, your finger drawing shapes over his peck; Vander going on to grunt out in annoyance at you reminder. “Now, come on! What was it you said that night? ‘Gods, love, you look gorgeous in that dress’ even though I was sweaty from running round like a headless chicken for Sevika’s birthday”.

He cocked a brow up at your impression, his hand gliding down to your waist to tug your closer. “Well, you did look gorgeous,” he replied.

“And we got a beautiful boy from it,” you sighed, eyes fluttering shut in content as you rested your cheek back on his chest. “Just think, 11 more years until he hits 18 and then maybe moves out and we’ll have the bar back to ourselves again”.

“Hoorah,” Vander sarcastically cheered, finally raising himself to a sitting position and letting you slide off of him. After attempting to rub the sleep from his eyes he glanced back over to you to see you had snuggled back down into your pillow. “You’re not getting up?” He asked.

“He only asked for you, Papa bear,” you playfully said, a honeyed smile gracing your lips as your eyes remained shut and tugged the quilt back over your shoulder. “I’m not working till later”.

Vander rolled his eyes. “You’re lucky I love you,” he impishly teased, leaning over you.

Your eye creeped open, gazing at him lovingly. “You better,” you hushed. Vander smiled, placing a gentle kiss to your lips which you happily accepted, your hand creeping out from under the covers to caress his cheek.

“Dad! Come on!” You suddenly heard your son call from the front room, causing the two of your to pull away with a sigh.

Vander huffed to himself and climbed out of bed. “11 more years,” he prayed for jokingly, feeling his joints click as he walked over to the wardrobe.

“And counting,” you giggled back.

Vander swiftly dressed himself for the day and left you with a kiss on the head. You could feel the pull of sleep lulling you back as you heard your sons joyous laughter along with your husbands. Their footsteps fading away when they walked up the stairs into the bar.

Things were certainly different now. Your children had futures brighter than you could’ve hoped for. Your husband and Silco’s relationship healed. And now the two of your were raising a new life together all over again. Seemed like a dream. One you certainly wouldn’t change for the world.

——————————————————————————

I wrote again. How bizarre. Eh, I can’t get this man out my head so I might as well do something productive with it. This was originally gonna be more angsty at the end but I’m not allergic to happiness unlike the Arcane writers so I decided to keep it fluffy instead. Hope y’all enjoyed.

#vander x reader #arcane league of legends #arcane vander #giving him the future he deserved!#netflix arcane #arcane silco #arcane vi #arcane powder #arcane alternate timeline #vander imagine #vander #arcane ekko #arcane caitlyn #arcane x reader #arcane mylo #arcane x you

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lovscb97 · 6 months ago

Text

— nerd!chan drabble #1

part 1 / part 2 / headcannons

synopsis: the aftermath of what happens between you and nerd!chan following the events that take place in part 2

tags: nerd!chan x cheerleader!fem!reader, established relationship, lots of fluff, lots of kissing, nerd!chan being a cutie, oral sex (f. recieving), unprotected sex (plz do not), basic lovemaking, aftercare, etc

wc: 1.70k

add. notes: idk why i wrote this n how tf it got so long. those pictures (i cannot upload them rn idfk why. if they r uploaded by the time u r reading this then good for us if not then i'll kms) seriously did a number on me i think tho bcs holy fucking shit man he looks so good. like i adore this man to death n beyond GRRR!!! anyways enjoy :3

. . .

saw chan's latest post and now i can't stop thinking about how the pictures are extremely nerd!chan universe's bangchan coded.. specifically, they're the type of photos chan would post the day you guys finally get together, on the first day he gets to call himself your boyfriend at last.

he's long dropped you off at home and is still reeling from the excitement of everything that's happened after the game, not to mention that he was so giddy to the point he ended up texting all his friends about everything that happened, making sure to repeat how he finally, finally!!! got the girl of his dreams at last. his joy is to the extent that when he gets home, he can't stop thinking about you, thinking about how you sounded and felt, thinking about the way you'd straddled his lap in his beat up car, thinking about how you'd kissed him breathless, just thinking about you.

when he's in the safety of his room behind locked doors, he positively melts against the wall, crumbling to his feet with a lovestruck grin on his face as he repeats everything that went down an hour prior and quite literally changed the trajectory of his entire life if he's being honest. when his phone pings with a message, he's immediately shooting to swipe for his texts, giggling at the sweet messages you've sent him to remind him once more that you love him and can't wait to see him tomorrow. he'd reply back with a goofy smile and kick his feet, of course, before impulsively making the executive decision to once again, stalk your instagram.

when he pulls up your account, his heart clenches against his chest, because there you are, plastered all over the feed with your beautiful features that he's fallen for over the last few months. the way your hair cascades over your shoulders, how your face is lit up and beaming in every post he looks through, your uniform or even casual clothes clinging to your body perfectly in specific uploads— everything about the way you are makes him feel dizzy in the head. he genuinely can't fathom the fact that you're all his starting today and onwards.

the next day when he sees you, he thinks he might ascend onto a different dimension. he's all dazed and in awe when he approaches you, softening at the way your eyes brighten after falling on his figure, watching with honey dripping as you parade up to and crash into him with your arms wrapping around his waist on instinct, no less in public. when he hugs you back, he can smell the familiar scent of your perfume and shampoo mixed together, burying his face in an effort to cling onto you like he's often dreamed of. though he's a bit pouty when you eventually pull away, he thinks you you make up for it by leaning up to press a gentle kiss to his cheek and grabbing his hand to drag him away for a late lunch date.

the hours pass with you and him spending as much time as you can together to make up for however much you'd lost avoiding each other and sneaking around in private previously. chan does his best to pay attention to what you're rambling on too, something about your professor marking you down for a test when you'd answered correctly, but he truly can't seem to focus with the way he's so down bad for you. everything you do, everything you say, everything you are in general makes him want to swoop in and kiss you silly.

so, he does.

it catches you off guard when he leans over the table you're both sat at and connects your lips together, but you're no stranger to his affection (okay, maybe you are a little), so of course, you kiss him back, giggling against his mouth with him. he thinks your laughter might be his favourite sound in the world.

as the sky turns to orange with the sun dipping down, chan allows you to tug him around campus, going with you to the library to pick up a book you needed for your class and accompanying you to the university cafe where he insists on paying for your drink. you both eventually end up back in your dorm, with you letting it slip mid-conversation that karina would be at her parent's house today. the seemingly little tidbit makes him freeze in his place, but he brushes off the lewd thoughts entering his mind in favour of continuing the impromptu and innocent study session you decide to hold in the middle of your side of the room. he tries, he really does, to concentrate on the material he should ideally be preparing for his next exam, but you look so cute focused on the text you're busy highlighting that he can't resist reaching over to graze his thumb over your palm softly. you look up at the sensation of his touch, cheeks tinting pink at the way your boyfriend is staring back at you.

and so, it doesn't take very long for the two of you to get back into locking lips once more, chan hovering over your sprawled out body as his mouth ghosts the skin of your jaw, neck, collarbone, shoulder, everywhere. you swear he's gotten more bold ever since you started dating, but one glance at the burning red of his ears is enough to make you chuckle. when he asks you what's so funny, you simply shake your head, wrapping your arms around his neck to yank him in for another kiss that leaves both of you practically levitating.

chan makes quick work to have you cumming on his face after that, languid swipes of his tongue flicking against your clit and swirling at your entrance as you let out the cutest whimpers he's possibly ever heard. when his wet muscles wraps around your sensitive nub and sucks, you see stars, clenching around nothing with your juices gushing down his chin as you spray everywhere. when your boyfriend rises to meet your gaze, glasses fogged up and stained with your release, looking like he'd descended from heaven itself, you can't stop the meek "need you inside, please" that leaves you from escaping. it makes his eyes widen, but he's stripping off his clothes in record time at your plea, causing you to laugh quietly in the darkness of the room, save for whatever light is streaming through the curtains.

when chan finally does enter you, despite having done so multiple times, you gasp. you still get butterflies from the feeling of his cock stretching you out, and he still can't shake off how his stomach swirls in delight at the way your warm walls basically suck him in. he moves slowly but surely, deep thrusts hitting every right spot that has you keening and shaking under his hold. his words are barely above whispers, filled with nothing but loving remarks and reminders of how much he adores you and can't believe you're his. he babbles about how lucky he is to be yours, and how he's never going to let you go, to which you breathlessly huff out something about how you'd never want to go anywhere anyways. that sentence coupled with the way your doe eyes blink up at him is enough to send him hurdling to his climax, triggering your own. you both lay there in the comfort of each other's arms for a while after that, snuggling into one another's skin and exchanging short kisses.

it's only after a few moments pass that chan gets up to clean you off, tugging his clothes back on along with the glasses he'd tossed on your bedside table before wiping you down with a wet cloth. the way you look at him as he tends to your needs makes him flush bright under your gaze, which only has you tittering and sitting up to kiss him once more.

by the time everything's done and he has to go home, chan lights up with an idea, lacing your fingers in his and rushing you outside the doors of the student accomodation. he flashes you a grin that makes you weak in the knees, ruffling his hair to slide his hat on before passing you his phone and posing for the camera. you're confused what this has to do with anything, but you click the pictures for him anyways, heart fluttering at the way he beams at the lens, or rather at the fact that you're the one behind it. when you're done, he thanks you with a smooch to your forehead, shrugging off his jacket to wrap it around your frame despite it being one too many sizes big for you. he buttons you up to the end, throwing his head back at the way you look so tiny compared to the clothing you've got on, which only makes you roll your eyes regardless of the smile that creeps up on your face at his joy.

it's only when you've said your goodbye's and shared a last few kisses of the day that you find yourself back in bed, wrapped up under chan's clothes and inhaling the scent of his cologne that brings back memories of today. when you open your phone, you're hit with his notification in an instant, eyebrows furrowing in confusion when you read him asking you to check his instagram but doing so anyways. you think your heart stops when you see what he's referring to.

chan had tagged you in the photos you'd taken a few minutes prior to seeing him off, but not just that, he'd captioned it too—

@.gnabnahc: thank you for being mine, pretty girl.

hot infatuation floods your system at the words he'd used, and for some reason, it dawns on you now of all times that chan is yours. he's yours. all yours. you can't stop the smile that graces your features at that realisation, replying back to him with something cheesy. safe to say, you drift to sleep that night with thoughts filled of your precious boyfriend.

in conclusion, chan may be smitten, but you're just as bad as him, it seems.

. . .

comments and reblogs are always appreciated! <3

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knight-hiccup · 1 month ago

Text

𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐌 | Hiccup x Fem!Reader ₁₂

- 𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝟏 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥

This is Chapter 12 Final to book 1 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Pairing: Hiccup x fem!reader Genre: romance, fantasy, suspense, drama, angst, dark, vioIence, friends to lovers, dark themes, heavy Viking lore, Norse mythology, canon divergence, slow burn Word count: 18k Warnings: This will have the lore of the films + shows but with much darker themes. Gore/blood, mentions of death, Norse mythology, some realistic dragon themes, more realistic scenarios, and mature themes starting at the point httyd 2 ark comes in, so, ofc NSFW. Any other warnings will be properly tagged upon story progression. A/N: Reader description not described besides clothing true to Viking/httyd fashion from time to time.

CHAPTER 12 - FINAL OF BOOK 1

A/N: Content Advisory: This chapter is intended exclusively for a mature audience. It may contain explicit and graphic depictions of severe injuries sustained in a realistic war setting, including detailed gore, nudity, and the death of characters. Strong, offensive language is also present. Reader discretion is strongly advised. You’re responsible for what you read.

The sky had shed its shroud of terror and ash, revealing a bruised, twilight expanse where stars flickered like the eyes of Valhalla's fallen, watching the scarred earth below. The dragons' nest lay in ruin, a wasteland of powdered soot that coated every surface—black sand, shattered longships, the Red Death's colossal corpse and its foul smell—like a mournful snow, inescapable and heavy with the weight of loss.

The air carried the acrid bite of charred bone and sulfur, mingled with the iron tang of blood that refused to leave, a relentless reminder of the slaughter that had carved its mark into the shore. Corpses littered the ground, Viking warriors broken beyond repair—Lifeless eyes reflecting the ghostly-hour's dim light. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the faint groans of the wounded and the crunch of boots on ash, a requiem for the war now etched into Berk's heart.

In the hour of ghosts, when the ash had settled into a fragile stillness, Stoick's strength returned, the chieftain's fire rekindled as he stood over the wreckage, Hiccup cradled in his arms, alive against all odds. His voice thundered, a war drum rallying the survivors, barking orders with the authority of Odin's chosen.

"Gather the lost!" he commanded, his bloodied beard trembling with resolve. "Lay them down together, far from the shore—tend to them later. The wounded come first!"

Vikings with faces gaunt, obeyed, dragging the dead to a clearing—limbs and all. Their bodies lay together like offerings to Freya, while others scoured the debris for those still clinging to life. Stoick and Gobber had stanched the bleeding from Hiccup's severed left leg, the wound a deep ruin where Toothless had grabbed to save him, now bound tightly with leather straps to halt the crimson from flowing.

They laid him on a clean plank, its surface smoothed by Viking hands, and entrusted him to your care. You sat beside him, his hand clasped close to your heart, its faint warmth a lifeline amidst the cold of the nest's aftermath. Toothless lay nearby, his obsidian scales dulled and covered by ash, too exhausted to move, his slow breaths a quiet hymn to survival.

Camp took shape around you, a fragile haven carved from heavy quick work—fires crackling all around in every direction, their smoke curling into the dark, casting flickering shadows on Toothless' weary form. Stoick and Gobber stood apart, their voices low as they conferred with the warrior-healers, grizzled bonesetters whose hands bore the scars of countless battles. Their words drifted to you, heavy with the weight of Hiccup's fate.

"The leg's gone below the knee," Gobber muttered, his axe hand gesturing toward the wound, his face etched with worry. "We've stopped the bleeding, but the flesh is torn—needs cauterizing, heavy stitching, if it don't rot."

The bonesetter, a weathered woman with ginger braids down to her knees—streaked with gray, nodded grimly. "We'll burn the wound clean, pack it with yarrow and honey if we've any left. He'll have a peg leg for the rest of his life, if he lives through the fever."

Her voice was matter-of-fact, devoid of ease on comforts, rooted in the brutal pragmatism of Viking healing—fire, herbs, and hope, the only tools against death's grasp. You listened, your gaze fixed on Hiccup, his gentle breaths a fragile thread tying him to life, your fingers tracing soft, repetitive strokes through his auburn hair, now cleansed of ash and blood.

You had tended him with care, your hands trembling as you wiped the soot from his face, arms, and legs, ensuring the bonesetters could work on clean flesh. The dirt had clung stubbornly, a grim tattoo of the battle, but you'd washed it away with water scavenged from a warrior's flask, your touch soft and reverent, as if each stroke could will him back to you.

His breathing had steadied, no longer shallow, but his pallor lingered, his skin pale as the white that dusted around you, a ghost of the vibrant boy who'd tamed dragons and stolen your heart. You admired him in the firelight, the sharp lines of his face softened in sleep, the freckles faint beneath the pallor, and your chest ached with a love that had endured so much.

"Stay with me. . ." His words echoed in your mind.

His hand, clasped in yours, was like a silent promise that you'd stay with him like he asked, as he had fought for Berk. The clamor of the camp—the anguished groans of the wounded, the rhythmic clank of axes carving through debris, the hushed deliberations of bonesetters—dissolved into a distant hum—faded. Your world contracted to the cadence of Hiccup's breathing, the fragile rise and fall of his chest, and the tenuous hope that he would stir to greet the dawn, praying he would beat the fever's cruel grasp.

Beyond the camp, the nest bore the scars of war's aftermath. Vikings worked grimly, piling the dead in a clearing, their bodies wrapped in tattered cloaks, faces covered to spare the living their vacant stares. One warrior's corpse, dragged from the shore, bore a gutted torso, entrails spilling like a grim tapestry, his armor shredded to reveal the cost of his final stand.

The wounded lay scattered, tended by healers with bloodied hands, their cries piercing the twilight as bones were set and wounds packed with moss and herbs. A young warrior screamed as a bonesetter cauterized his gashed arm, the sizzle of flesh mingling with the stench of burning skin, his curses, "Fucking dragon!" echoing until he passed out.

Only the work of stitches existed here, with fire, knives, and the crude wisdom of survival, a testament to Viking resilience in the face of death's shadow. Stoick's voice rose occasionally, directing the salvage of weapons and supplies, his chieftain's duty a shield against his fear for Hiccup, while Gobber's gruff encouragement steadied the weary.

You remained at Hiccup's side, your fingers never stilling in his hair, the rhythmic motion a prayer to Freya for his strength. The plank beneath him was stained with his blood, the leather straps around his stump taut, a crude barrier against the wound's wrath. Toothless stirred faintly, his eyes half-open, watching you with a loyalty that mirrored your own, his tail twitching in the ash.

Menace lay nestled beneath Toothless' wing, her small form rising and falling in peaceful slumber—a rare tranquility that Toothless, for once, did not begrudge but seemed to cherish, her presence a quiet comfort in the aftermath of pain.

Before the perilous descent upon the Red Death, you had entrusted the tiny dragon to Astrid, tucked away in her leather carrier sling with care. When you reunited, long after the battle's end, Menace had leapt from Astrid's arms into yours, her trembling frame burrowing against you, fear etching her delicate features.

Gobber's voice boomed with astonishment. "Oi! Ain't that the wee Menace that slipped the—You!" His weathered finger jabbed toward you, his eyes wide with mock accusation. Laughter rippled through the group, a fleeting balm amidst the scars of the day. Something you could all use more.

Now, the firelight danced across Hiccup's face, casting shadows that deepened the hollows of his cheeks, and you whispered to him, words too soft for others to hear, that you were by him through fever, pain, or anything come what may. Stoick's gaze met your hunched over form across the camp, a silent acknowledgment of your shared vigil, and he smiled knowing very well his son was in good care.

The camp's fires crackled in the dark, their smoke curling like wraiths, and the groans of the wounded wove a mournful hymn through the twilight when a few warrior-healers approached, their hands now washed clean of blood, their faces etched with the grim resolve of those who'd wrestled death countless times.

They carried crude tools—iron knives, a cauterizing brand, pouches of yarrow and moss—their methods rooted in Viking pragmatism, far from the clean precision in Berk. You tightened your grip on Hiccup's hand, your heart lurching as they knelt beside his severed leg, the stump bound in leather, its jagged flesh a testament to the bite. You wanted to stay, to shield him through the pain to come, but Gobber's hand found your shoulder, firm yet gentle, pulling you to your feet.

"No, lass," he said, his voice low, his eyes trailing over your dried, soot-tear-streaked face.

You protested, your voice cracking, "I can't leave him, Gobber—not now."

He held you steady, his grip a father's hold, and looked into your dry, ash-streaked face with tender care. "Hiccup'll be fine, you hear me? Trust in him, trust in the healers. I lost me own leg—and an arm! To a beast not half as fierce, and look at me—expert at hobblin' now, ain't I?"

His gruff jest coaxed a faint smile, but his tone grew solemn. "The survivors need you, lass. Help gather the lost—whatever's left. Scavenge supplies. We don't leave a soul behind, not in this hell."

His words carried weight, a call to duty that stirred your resolve. You sighed, the sound heavy with exhaustion, and nodded, your eyes lingering on Hiccup's sleeping form. Before you could turn, Gobber pulled you back, his hand steady on your arm.

"One more thing," he said, his voice thick with pride, his eye glinting in the firelight. "I've never been prouder of you than I am right now, lass—I saw you up there on that mighty beast—We all did. You fought like Thor himself, and you held Hiccup's heart through it all."

The words struck deep, a balm to your battered soul, and a real smile broke through your grief, warm and unguarded. You threw your arms around him, and he hugged you back with a chuckle, his embrace fierce—the axe at his side grazing your cloak that Stoick had placed on you—as he held you like kin—like his daughter. The moment lingered, a spark of light in this messy darkness, before you pulled away—it made your heart steady by his faith—and made your way through the camp, the crunching of rock beneath your boots creating a somber rhythm.

The camp was a tableau of survival and loss—Vikings hauling bodies to a clearing, their faces frozen in death's grip; healers cauterizing wounds, more sizzling of flesh mingling with screams and curses; axes chopping driftwood for fires, their strikes echoing like war drums.

You wove through it, your cloak—stained dry with ichor—flapping like a tattered banner, until you spotted Tuffnut perched alone on a smooth boulder, his usual mischievous-self gone, his face pale beneath a mask of ash. You sat beside him, the stone cold against your thighs, and shared a look that spoke a thousand sagas—grief, exhaustion, the weight of a war that had stripped you both bare. For the first time, Tuffnut was quiet, his silence a wound deeper than any blade.

"I've never seen so much blood," he said at last, his voice low, stripped of its usual jest, the words trembling as he stared at the horizon. "Not in a fun way either! You know? This. . .this battle, it drained me dry. Took everything."

His admission, so out of character, hit you like a gale, and you placed a hand on his shoulder, your touch steady, grounding. He offered a faint smile, his eyes meeting yours, a flicker of the old Tuffnut buried beneath the weight. Before you could respond, a Viking's voice cut through, firm but kind.

"Up, you two—no time to lose. The dead need gathering, supplies need finding."

You nodded, rising with Tuffnut, the task a grim tether to purpose. You joined Ruffnut and Snotlout at the water's edge, where they waded through the shallows, salvaging weapons and gear from the wreckage. Ruffnut's braid was singed, her hands bloodied from hauling a dented shield, while Snotlout curses rang out, "Wretched sea, hiding everything!"

They masked a weariness that mirrored your own. Astrid and Fishlegs arrived soon after, their faces gaunt, Astrid's axe notched at her back, Fishlegs clutching a salvaged rope, his eyes haunted by the battle's toll.

You all worked in silence as you held your torches tightly, the aftermath pressing down like a stone on your chests. The water lapped at your bare feet, cold and heavy with blood, carrying fragments of longships and the occasional limb—a hand, a foot, bobbing in the crimson tide.

A Viking's corpse floated nearby—a warrior's throat torn open, another's legs charred to bone, their nudity a stark reminder of death's indifference. The camp's fires flickered in the distance, where healers labored, one packing a wound with moss as the warrior screamed, another cauterizing a gash, the stench of burning flesh sharp in the air as many lost their limbs.

You scavenged in quiet unity, the gang's usual banter silenced, each of you carrying the weight of the lost, the wounded, and the boy who'd changed everything, lying pale on a plank, his fate in the hands of healers and gods. The twilight had long deepened into a black canvas, and what sky there was the stars shined in patches—promising anew change, and you pressed on, your heart tethered to Hiccup, praying his fire would burn through the night.

The sky hung low as the third night began to descend on the volcanic island and it was currently high tide with the winds brewing. You all had been on that cursed rock for three days now and you were quickly running out of supplies. It was a cause of concern, definitely for Stoick, the injured were priority, but all mouths needed to be fed. And with only jerky, pickled herring and moldy bread to go by, things were turning upside down quickly.

Firewood had grown scarce, every splinter now requisitioned to patch the three remaining longboats—fragile vessels that could never bear the weight of three hundred Vikings across the unforgiving sea. Yet Gobber, ever resourceful, devised a solution: the camp would huddle near the smoldering crater left by the Red Death, its latent heat rendering further wood unnecessary, a grim gift from the beast's ruin.

The heavens, so often shrouded in relentless cloud, parted briefly that night, a rare benediction. Stars glimmered faintly through a haze tinged with sulfur and sea salt that made one dizzy, but it was a stark improvement over the acrid pall that had choked the air in the battle's wake. The camp thrummed with a weary resolve—fires hissed and snapped, their embers painting fleeting portraits of light across the weathered faces of Vikings, their wounds swathed in moss and leather, their gazes heavy with the toll of endurance.

A warrior limped past, his arm wrapped in bloodied cloth, a cauterized gash seeping beneath, while another sat by a fire, her leg splinted with driftwood, her face taut as she gritted her teeth against the pain. The air hummed with the low moans of the injured, the clink of axes shaping salvaged timbers to repair.

A chorus of distant dragon cries pierced the night, snapping every head toward the darkened horizon. The dragons, once scattered from their ravaged nest, were returning—a sight that kindled dread among the weary Vikings, their strength too depleted for another clash. The unexpected resurgence set nerves alight, a spark threatening to ignite the camp's fragile calm.

Above, a vast host of Gronckles, Nadders, Monstrous Nightmares, and Zipplebacks wheeled through the sky, their scales catching the faint moonlight as they converged on the volcano's cavern, driven by an primal urge to reclaim their hatchlings and eggs. The sight of Vikings bristling, hands gripping weapons in defiance, stirred unease within you. Determined to quell the rising tension, you and your companions stepped before Stoick, your voices resolute yet tempered, urging the wary to see the dragons' intent.

"They've come for their young," you declared, exhaustion heavy in your bones but resolve unwavering. "Let them pass, and they'll leave us in peace."

Convincing the clan was no swift task. Though Stoick and Gobber lent their trust to your words, the others clung to fear, their instincts honed by bloodshed. Hours of steadfast assurances passed before your truth took root. The dragons, as you foretold, paid the camp no heed, their focus fixed on the volcano's depths. Some lingered at the crater's edge, nudging the broken forms of fallen kin, their low, mournful keens weaving an elegy that mirrored the quiet grief in your own heart.

As even more days pressed on, the camp apportioned its waning strength with grim resolve. The wounded were gathered in a makeshift shelter, where warrior-healers worked with quiet tenacity, dressing gashes with yarrow and honey, their hands unwavering despite the anguished cries that filled the air.

At the shore, another cadre toiled, salvaging the longships—their hulls scarred yet salvageable. Vikings wielded axes with practiced rhythm, hewing fresh planks from the scant remnants of wood, their grunts blending with the ceaseless churn of the sea.

In time, Stoick delivered his somber reckoning. . .of Berk's three-hundred and eighty-eight warriors, fifty-seven had fallen to the Red Death—with one-hundred and thirty injured. Their bodies, save one claimed by the beast's merciless jaws, lay in a clearing, shrouded in tattered wool. The loss cut deep, a wound that seared the clan's collective heart.

It was not Berk's heaviest loss, but the weight of each name—carved into memory, soon to be etched on runestones—pressed down, a silent tale of sacrifice. Hiccup had survived the healers' brutal work, his fever breaking days after they cauterized his severed leg, the stump bound tightly, showing no signs of rot.

Yet he remained locked in a deep sleep, a Viking's term for the slumber that held him beyond reach, his chest rising steadily but his eyes unopened, as if Odin himself cradled his soul in a liminal realm. You sat beside him on the clean plank, your body aching, your heart tethered to his faint warmth, taking a break from the camp's endless demands.

Marta had sent you to Hiccup's side, her voice soft but firm as she stirred a pot of stew, the meager rations of fish and roots simmering over a fire.

"You've done enough, lass," she said, her eyes softened by kindness despite the weariness etched into her face. "You've hauled wood, tended wounds, scavenged till your hands bled. Go to the boy—he needs you, and you need him. Rest, if only for a moment."

Her words, a mother's gentle command, had stirred a gratitude that warmed your chest, and you'd nodded, too tired to argue, your steps heavy as you returned to the plank. Sinking beside Hiccup, your hand sought his, its calloused warmth a soothing salve to your frayed spirit.

Toothless settled nearby, his massive form curled protectively, Menace slumbering atop his back. His great head rested in your lap, scales cool beneath your gentle pats, emerald eyes half-lidded in unspoken trust. Your other hand traced Hiccup's auburn hair, the soft strands slipping through your fingers as you gazed at the boy who held your heart.

They were yours—Hiccup, Toothless, and little Menace—your family. And in a hushed prayer, you whispered thanks to Freya, your voice barely stirring the air, gratitude swelling for their lives spared through the crucible of war, their presence a fragile miracle amid the nest's enduring scars.

Exhaustion gnawed at you, your body heavy from scant sleep—three hours snatched in fitful catnaps, stolen between tasks and haunted by nightmares. Each time your eyes closed, the war roared back—screams of the fallen, the Red Death's bellows, Hiccup's lifeless form in a dozen cruel scenarios, each dream waking you in a cold sweat, your heart racing as you pinched your arm to prove he still breathed.

Dark circles shadowed your eyes, a map of sleepless nights, your face gaunt in the firelight, but Hiccup's forehead, warm beneath your palm, was a lifeline. You pinched yourself again, the sting sharp, confirming he was no dream, his breath steady, his dragon curled close.

The camp stirred around you—Vikings hammering ship timbers, their blows ringing like Thor's anvil; healers murmuring as they changed a warrior's bloodied bandage, his groan sharp; dragons keening softly outside the volcano, their wings rustling as they mourned.

The stew's faint aroma drifted, mingling with the sea's briny tang, but you stayed rooted, your fingers tracing Hiccup's hair, Toothless' head heavy in your lap. Astrid's voice called faintly, organizing supplies, while Snotlout's grumble and Tuffnut's half-hearted jest echoed, signs of the gang's survival, though their wounds—physical and unseen—lingered.

You leaned closer to Hiccup, your whisper barely audible, a vow to him and Toothless. "You're still here," you said, your voice trembling with love and fear, "and I'll wait as long as it takes."

The plank beneath him was worn, its edges smoothed by Viking hands, a crude bed for the boy who'd reshaped Berk's fate and saved them all.

After a while—Your eyes, robbed of sleep, fluttered closed, surrendering briefly to a fragile slumber. Yet even in repose, the war's anguished screams and visions of Hiccup's false imagined demise haunted you, weaving a restless thoughts of dread.

The heavy tread of Stoick's footsteps jolted you from sleep, shattering the nightmare's grip. His broad shadow fell across the pallet as he drew near, his voice a low growl of frustration.

"Blasted supplies—half the ropes are frayed, and we've scarce enough timber to mend the ships!"

His words pierced the fog of your exhaustion, and you blinked, raising your gaze to meet his. The chieftain's bearded visage softened, his fiery exasperation yielding to a father's quiet dread as his eyes shifted from you to Hiccup.

"Any sign of him stirring?" he asked, his tone hushed, threaded with a fragile hope that wavered beneath his stoic facade. "Has he moved at all?"

You shook your head, throat constricting, your fingers stilling in Hiccup's auburn hair. "Nothing yet," you whispered, voice brittle yet resolute. "His breath is steady, but... he's still so far from us."

Stoick nodded, his jaw tightening, and knelt beside his son, his massive hand hovering over Hiccup's left leg. The stump, wrapped in coarse fabrics dotted with faint blood, bore the marks of the healers' brutal work—dead flesh cut away, the wound cauterized with fire to seal it, the bleeding now a mere seep, a testament to their skill and Hiccup's resilience. Stoick's fingers traced the air above the bandage, careful not to touch, his eyes shadowed with a father's anguish.

"We need to get him and the others back to Berk soon," Stoick said, sinking onto a nearby rock with a heavy sigh, his hands rubbing his face, smearing ash across his weathered skin. "The injured won't last in this weather—cold nights, damp air. Their wounds'll fester if we linger."

His voice carried the weight of command, but beneath it lay a tremor of fear for his son, for the clan teetering on the edge of survival. You bit your lip, your gaze dropping to Hiccup, his soft snores a quiet defiance against the nest's harsh reality.

Toothless stirred, his head nudging your thigh, his emerald eye glinting with a curious spark as he met your stare. You held his gaze, the dragon's silent question stirring something within you, a flicker of clarity piercing the fog of exhaustion.

"The dragons. . ." you whispered, the words barely audible, a seed of a plan taking root.

Stoick hummed, leaning forward, his brow furrowing. "What was that, lass?" he asked, his voice sharp with curiosity, missing your murmured revelation.

You turned to him, your eyes widening with sudden conviction, the idea blazing like a beacon in the dark. "The dragons!" you said, your voice rising, firm and clear. "We can ride the dragons home."

Stoick's eyes narrowed, then widened, the weight of your words sinking in, a spark of hope kindling in his gaze. You both look up to dragons gliding above, their wings rustling as they guarded the volcano's heart.

Your focus remained on Stoick, on the plan that could save Hiccup and the wounded. Toothless rumbled softly, his tail twitching in the soot, as if sensing the shift, his loyalty to Hiccup a mirror to your own.

Even if exhaustion etched deep in the shadowed hollows beneath your eyes, the ache receded as a daring plan blazed to life within you, kindled by the dragons' soaring silhouettes and Toothless' gentle nudge. Stoick sat opposite, his earlier vexation over frayed ropes and scant timber fading as he inspected Hiccup's wound, a silent prayer to Odin for his son's awakening lingering in his furrowed brow.

"It can work," you declared, your voice cutting through the camp's muted drone, steady and resolute as you held Stoick's gaze.

His weathered face shifted—skepticism warring with curiosity, then yielding to a glimmer of hope—as he tracked the dragons' flight, their wings carving the sky like tempered steel.

"Hiccup taught us," you pressed on, rising to your feet, your words gaining strength. "Me, Astrid, Fishlegs, Snotlout, Ruff and Tuff—we learned to ride, to bond. We can teach the others. The three longboats can't carry all, but the dragons can bear those the ships cannot hold."

You gestured to the sky, where a Nadder banked gracefully, its spines catching the firelight. "The injured, the frail—they'll take the boats. Anyone strong enough can pair with a dragon. There are enough for every Viking here—then some."

Your plan, bold as a war cry, hung in the air, a spark of defiance against the nest's despair. Stoick leaned forward, his beard grazed by calloused fingers, elbow braced on his knee as he stared at the soot-dusted rocks, his thoughts churning like the restless sea. Gobber's peg leg crunched the sand as he approached, his axe glinting in the firelight, gruff voice breaking the silence after overhearing your words.

"That's a wild idea, lass, grand as any plan," he said, his eyes narrowing with skepticism. "But these Vikings? Gettin' friendly with these beasts? I don't see it, not like you and your lot."

His words carried the weight of experience, a warrior's caution tempered by the memory of his own lost limb. Stoick sighed, sitting upright, his massive frame casting a shadow across the plank, his gaze flickering between you and the dragons above. Doubt lingered in his eyes, but so did a spark of possibility, kindled by your conviction.

You stepped forward, more awake than you'd been in days, your exhaustion burned away by the fire of your plan. Toothless rose beside you, his tail lashing with excitement, his low rumble a chorus to your resolve, while Menace, the Terrible Terror perched nearby, leapt into your arms, her tiny claws gripping your cloak as she chirped in sync with your fervor.

"We have to try!" you urged, your voice rising. "What choice do we have? Three longboats, ferrying back and forth to Berk—it'll take weeks, months even, to get everyone home—and that's with no food for a time. The injured won't survive that long, not in this cold, not with wounds festering."

You pointed to a warrior nearby, his bandaged leg trembling as he leaned on a comrade.

"We flew here in less than four days on those dragons, with only short stops to rest. They're faster, stronger than any ship. We can do this."

Your words carried Hiccup's spirit, his vision of harmony between Vikings and dragons—It reminded him so much of Valka. . .And that struck Stoick like Mjölnir. He rose, his eyes narrowing, then softening as he looked at his son, still locked in deep sleep, then back to you.

"You're right," he said at last, his voice low but resolute, a chieftain's decree. "It's a mad plan, yes, but it's Hiccup's madness through you. If he were awake, he'd be the first to climb a dragon's back." A faint smile tugged at his lips, tinged with pride and pain. "We'll try it. For him." For her.

Gobber chuckled, shaking his head, his axe gesturing to the sky. "Well, Thor's beard, we're really doing this."

His jest broke the tension, drawing a reluctant grin from Stoick, who clapped a hand on your shoulder, his grip firm with trust. "You and your friends—start with the willing," he said. "Show 'em how it's done. I'll rally the clan—I'll convince them with you lot."

His voice carried the weight of command, but his eyes held gratitude, a father's thanks for the hope you'd kindled. Toothless nudged your side, his gummy smile flashing, and Menace chirped in your arms, their excitement mirroring your own.

The volcanic island glowed faintly under the smoldering orange of its own heat, the sun obscured by a shroud of ashen clouds that cast a muted gray pall over the landscape. Soot-streaked sands, trampled by the relentless tread of Viking boots, glistened wet and black, reverting to their primal hue.

The air hung heavy with the briny tang of the sea, mingled with the acrid stench of decaying dragon flesh and the distant, mournful keens of dragons, their wings carving the brightening horizon as they circled the volcano's rim, vigilant guardians of their hatchlings. One by one, the clan gathered, their eyes fixed on their chief, awaiting his words on the path to survival.

Stoick ascended a fire-scorched boulder, its smooth surface a stark pedestal beneath the gray-orange sky. His towering figure stood as a bastion of authority, unwavering before the gathered Hairy Hooligans. His voice roared forth, a resonant war drum that quelled the camp's murmurs, drawing every gaze under the sun's relentless stare.

"Hear me, Berk!" he began, his blood-streaked beard trembling with conviction. "We stand on a razed earth, our ships broken, our kin wounded, our survival hanging by a thread. Three longboats remain—four, if we mend the last—but they cannot carry us all. This island, a volcano's heart, offers no sustenance, no shelter. We've scoured its depths these past days and found naught but ash and stone. To ferry our people home on ships alone would take months, back and forth, with half our fleet gone."

He took a moment to look at them, "The wounded—my son among them—will not survive the cold, the hunger, the rot. We face a choice: cling to old ways and perish, or forge a new path, one Hiccup carved with his courage."

He gestured to the dragons above, their scales flashing like polished steel in the daylight. "We ride the dragons home. They'll carry those the ships cannot, swift as the winds of Njord, to Berk in days, not months nor weeks. This is the only way."

A ripple of unease swept the clan, voices rising in protest, their Viking pride clashing with the audacity of your plan under the harsh scrutiny. A burly warrior, his arm bound in bloodied cloth, stepped forward, squinting against the glare.

"Ride dragons?" he barked, his voice thick with scorn. "They burned our kin, Stoick! You'd have us trust beasts that brought us to this hell?"

A woman, her face scarred from a cauterized gash, joined him, her tone sharp. "I'd sooner swim to Berk than climb a fire-breather's back! What if they turn on us?"

Another Viking, leaning on a crutch, muttered, "It's madness—Hiccup's folly, not ours."

The murmurs grew, a storm of doubt threatening to drown Stoick's words, their fear rooted in generations of dragon-slaying, a legacy harder to shift than the volcano itself. Yet Stoick pressed on, his voice unwavering, echoing your argument with a chieftain's gravitas.

"Three ships, four at best, leave half our clan behind. Starvation, fever, death—that's what awaits if we stay. Hiccup flew here in days on a dragon's wings, with his lot who followed. They're our salvation, if we dare to trust them."

His words quelled some, their heads bowing under the weight of truth, but others stood defiant, their fists clenched. "I'll take my chances with the sea," growled a grizzled warrior, his bandaged hand gripping a sword hilt.

"Dragons ain't our kin."

The clan teetered, divided between fear and necessity, their stubbornness a wall your plan struggled to breach. You felt the moment slipping, the hope you'd kindled for Hiccup's sake flickering in the face of their doubt. Toothless nudged you, his warm snout pressing against your side, a joyful croon rumbling from his throat, as if urging you to act.

Your heart surged, Hiccup's courage a fire in your veins, and you stepped forward, the crowd parting like a tide, their eyes widening as you took the center pushing past, your cloak trailing behind. The veiled sunlight bathed your face, your exhaustion carved into dark circles, but your voice rose, clear and commanding, a valkyrie's call that stilled the clan.

"Listen to me!" you declared, your words cutting through the murmurs like a seax through fog. "You stand here, doubting, fearing, while Hiccup lies there in a deep sleep, fighting to live because he had more courage than any of you!"

You pointed to the plank behind you, where Hiccup slept, his pale face a testament to his sacrifice, softened by the sun's glow. "A boy you scorned, mocked, called weak your whole lives—he climbed atop a Night Fury and faced the Red Death, a dragon greater than any our ancestors ever knew. A beast that dwarfed mountains, with fire to burn the heavens, and Hiccup brought it down!"

Your voice trembled with pride, with love, but held firm, each word a hammer forging their guilt. "He didn't do it alone. Toothless, this dragon—," you knelt, petting his head, his scales warm as he leaned into you, crooning happily, "fought beside him, saved him, saved us all. Toothless is why you can trust dragons."

"Those dragons." You rose, pointing to Astrid's Nadder, its spines glinting as it perched nearby, then to the twins' Zippleback, its twin heads alert, to Fishlegs's Gronckle, stout and steadfast, and Snotlout's Monstrous Nightmare, its flames dim but proud.

"These dragons flew into battle, not just for their own, but for us. They were afraid, just like you, and they lost kin, just like us." Your words struck deep, the clan's gazes dropping, guilt shadowing their faces as they glanced at the dragons, their defiance softening.

"Hiccup, a boy you doubted, changed everything," you continued, your voice rising, a clarion call to their pride. "He saw what you couldn't—a future where Vikings and dragons stand as one. If he could face death on a dragon's wings, why can't you? Why can't you honor him by trusting what he fought for? The future of this clan—Chiefs' son."

The crowd stirred, a loud mumble rippling through, voices clashing—some defiant, others swayed, their whispers a tide of shifting hearts. Toothless pressed closer, his croon a warm echo of your resolve, and you stood tall, your eyes sweeping the clan, daring them to rise to Hiccup's legacy.

The grizzled warrior from before, his bandaged hand flexing, stepped forward slowly, his scowl fading to a weary resolve. He met your gaze, his voice gruff but steady.

"Alright, lass," he said, the words heavy with surrender. "Show us how to train a dragon."

A murmur of agreement spread, tentative but growing, the clan's doubt yielding to the spark you'd ignited. Stoick's eyes gleamed with pride, his nod a chieftain's blessing, while Gobber chuckled, his axe raised in salute—a gleam of pride casting upon his own expression.

"Thor's beard. . ." he said, his grin wide.

Your heart hammered as you nodded toward that Viking, with more coming up to you. The camp stirred—Vikings adjusting bandages; axes pausing as warriors turned to watch; dragons gliding closer, their eyes curious.

Your words crashed like a war hammer forged in their hearts, shattering the clan's brittle doubts and coaxing a fierce hope from the smoldering embers of despair. The Hairy Hooligans, once tethered by dread's icy chains, now gazed upon Stoick as a chieftain sculpted from Thor's own thunderous resolve, daring to blaze a trail no ancestor's foot had dared to tread.

Your ode to Hiccup—his valor, his selfless sacrifice—ignited like a bolt of lightning, its white-hot arc searing every soul, leaving hearts scorched and spirits alight again. The gang felt the blaze most fiercely, their resolve rekindled like a hearth stoked to roaring life, their eyes gleaming with the untamed fire that had driven them into the crucible of battle.

Astrid strode forward, her braid, scorched and frayed like a battle-worn banner, swinging with defiance, her gaze a piercing blue of purpose. Fishlegs, gripping a weathered rope coiled like a serpent in his scholar's hands, stood with a heart now clad in iron resolve. Snotlout, his bravado reborn, burned with a flare that rivaled the sun's fierce glow.

Ruffnut and Tuffnut, their usual whirlwind of chaos tempered from exhaust had returned. And they stood shoulder to shoulder, their faces etched with a grin, steely reverence and mischief anew, like twin oaks unbowed by the gale.

Even Stoick, a colossus against the molten horizon, bore the weight of your words, his pride in his son a silent, sacred oath, etched deep as runes in stone, to honor the boy who had reshaped their world's very marrow. The clan stirred, a restless tide of motion—hands calloused and scarred reaching for purpose, voices low but thrumming with resolve, like the distant rumble of an approaching herd.

They were ready, at last, to weave bonds with the dragons they had once sworn to slay, as strange as it was for them. Their silhouettes stark against the volcano's fiery glow, while wings sliced the dusk like blades of obsidian.

You led the way, the gang at your side, their presence a shield as you taught the clan to bridge the chasm between warrior and dragon. The Vikings clung to their weapons, their hands tight on swords etched with Tiwaz runes, their pride a fortress against trust.

"Set them down," you said, your voice a blade, standing before a red Gronckle, its stout form snuffling the ash. "These are not foes, but allies, bound by Hiccup's vision."

The gang echoed your call, their voices a chorus of conviction—Astrid kneeling beside her Nadder, its spines softened as she murmured to a wary Viking; Fishlegs guiding another to his Gronckle, his words steady as stone; Snotlout, with newfound patience, showing a warrior the Monstrous Nightmare's proud gaze; the twins, their jests silenced, helping a Viking face a Zippleback's twin heads.

The clan resisted, their warrior hearts battling fear, but the grizzled warrior who'd first protested stepped forward, his bandaged hand trembling, his scowl a mask for doubt. You moved with Hiccup's grace, recalling his lessons in the arena, and guided the warrior's hand to the Gronckle's snout, your voice soft as a saga's whisper.

"Feel his breathing, the fire beneath his scales, his beating heart like war drums—his trust," you said, your hand steadying his.

The dragon's eyes closed, its rumble a warm vow, and the warrior's breath caught, his defiance melting into reverence as the bond took root—and he gleamed at the dragon with a new look of excitement.

One by one, the clan followed, their weapons sinking into the sand, a surrender to hope. You and the gang moved among them, guiding hands, soothing fears, your voices weaving a new thread in Berk's tapestry. Astrid paired a scarred woman with a Nadder, its quick steps matched by her resolve; Fishlegs taught a young warrior to meet a Gronckle's gaze, his facts easing terror; Snotlout and the twins worked in tandem, their dragons' loyalty a mirror to your own.

Dragons descended, drawn by the shift in the air—Gronckles, Nadders, Nightmares, their eyes bright with curiosity, some choosing Vikings unbidden. A Nadder nudged a limping warrior until he smiled, his crutch forgotten; a Nightmares tail curled around a woman's leg, its chirp drawing a smile.

By day's end, one-hundred and twelve Vikings had bonded with dragons, their voices mingling with croons, a chorus of trust rising over the nest. Eighty-nine remained unpaired, including eighten healers and bonesetters bound for the longboats to tend the injured, among them Hiccup, who would sail with you, Stoick, Gobber, Menace and Toothless—the three of you also unpaired.

The camp thrummed with a fragile hope—The stew's warmth wove through the sea's chill, and a rare sunbeam broke the clouds, gilding Toothless' scales as he pressed against you, his joyful croon a spark in the gray light.

The clan's progress was a miracle forged in Hiccup's name. Thirty-five more Vikings had bonded with dragons by morning, their voices mingling with rumbles and chirps, leaving only thirty-three unpaired, the healers and bonesetters among them bound for the longboats.

The Vikings, once hardened dragon-slayers, now moved with a cautious reverence, their hands learning the language of trust—stroking scales, offering murmurs, mirroring the lessons you'd taught. Their fates were clear in their resolve—Astrid led with quiet strength, her commands sharp; Fishlegs offered wisdom, easing fears; Snotlout, showed off but worked tirelessly; the twins, with their chaos, guided with surprising care.

Together, you'd worked to make everyone feel at ease—including the dragons, kindling a future Hiccup had dreamed, and the clan followed, their steps steadier under Stoick's strong gaze.

You rested your head beside Hiccup's arm, his hand cradled against your cheek, the faint rhythm of his snores a lullaby that tethered you to hope. Your thoughts drifted, heavy with longing, wishing he could witness the clan's transformation—the Vikings laughing with Gronckles, the dragons soaring with new riders, the nest alive with a harmony he'd built.

Your exhaustion, etched into the dark circles beneath your eyes, pressed down, but his warmth kept you anchored, a silent vow to see his dream through. Behind you, Stoick and Gobber sat by a fire, their voices low as they ate stew, the clink of their spoons a soft counterpoint to the camp's hum. Stoick's tone carried a chieftain's weight, discussing ship repairs, while Gobber's gruff jests lightened the air.

You didn't notice their gazes turn to you, their smiles soft and knowing, mistaking your bowed head for sleep, a tender moment they chose not to disturb. Stoick rose, his heavy steps crunching the sand as he moved to check on the clan, his silhouette a titan against the veiled sun. Gobber remained, his peg leg propped on a rock, his hand picking at his beard as he hummed an old tune.

You stirred, lifting your head to shift, and Gobber's sharp eye caught you. "Oi, lass," he said, his voice warm but laced with mischief, "thought you'd drifted to Niflheim on us."

You blinked, a faint smile tugging at your lips, the weight of sleepless nights heavy in your voice. "I was, near enough," you murmured, your gaze drifting to Hiccup. "Best rest I've had in days, truth be told."

Gobber chuckled, leaning forward, his eye glinting with a teasing spark. "Aye, and no wonder, with you frettin' over your boyfriend there," he said, his grin widening as he tugged at his beard, carefree as a skald spinning a tale.

"Can't sleep proper when you're moonin' over Hiccup, givin' him those love-lorn looks, battin' your lashes like a lass in love."

The words struck like a spark, heat flaring from your neck to your face, a fire that rivaled Muspelheim's flames. Your head snapped up, eyes darting to ensure no one else heard, your voice a sharp whisper. "Gobber!"

He laughed, a deep, rolling sound that shook his frame, his hand waving dismissively. "Don't you 'Gobber' me, lass! I've seen how you gaze at him, all soft and starry, like he's hung the moon and stars. I know a fancy when I see one, and you're smitten as they come."

He leaned closer, his voice dropping, conspiratorial but warm. "Mind you, he's half as bad, the way he lights up when you're near. Lad's got no sense for hidin' it."

Your face burned hotter, your heart stuttering, but you couldn't muster a denial—at least on your part—the truth too plain in your trembling hands, you weren't sure about Hiccup.

Gobber's grin softened, his tone turning earnest. "Besides, you've got my blessin', you two. Hiccup's a good lad, and you're the fire to his forge or whatever and all that yak. He'd be a fool not to see it."

You sputtered, the heat in your cheeks now a blaze, your voice rising in flustered protest. "Blessing? Gobber, we're not—we're not betrothed or some such nonsense!"

He raised a bushy brow, unperturbed. "Not yet, maybe, but I've seen enough to know where this one's headed. You mark my words, lass."

Before you could retort, a shadow loomed, and Toothless bounded into the clearing—jumping over people to get to you earning groans in the process—his energy a stark contrast to the camp's somber weight. He leaped around you, fully healed, his obsidian scales shimmering with dew, his joyful warble echoing like a song as he pranced.

Without warning, his tongue swiped from shoulder to face, a long, slow, slobbery strip that coated you in warm saliva, the scent faintly fishy. You stood, groaning, wiping your face with your cloak, your flustered heart giving way to exasperated laughter.

"Toothless!" you chided, but he was already darting away, his tail lashing as he pounced toward Menace, the Terrible Terror chirping wildly and prancing along. The two dragons tumbled in the sand, joined by others—Nadders, Gronckles, a Zippleback—their playful roars a hymn to life amidst the nest's scars. You shook your head, your smile lingering, the warmth of Gobber's words and Toothless' antics a fleeting balm to your weary soul.

You sank back beside Hiccup, your hand finding his, your heart heavy with longing for his awakening, yet buoyed by the clan's progress forgetting Gobbers tease. And Gobber watched, his grin soft, as Toothless' distant warbles carried over.

A heavy tread broke the evening's murmur between you, Stoick's towering silhouette carving through the firelit haze like a drakkar slicing fog, his broad frame a bulwark against the twilight's chill. His weathered face bore the widest grin you'd ever seen, a chieftain's pride tempered by a father's joy.

His hands were planted firmly on his hips as he turned to face you and Gobber, who lounged by the fire lazily, his peg leg propped on a rock, his free hand picking at a steaming bowl of seaweed stew. The fire's glow caught the silver in Stoick's beard, his eyes alight with a warmth that rivaled Sól's radiance, as if Thor himself had kindled a spark in his heart.

"By the gods' own forge, I've not seen Berk this alive since we crushed the allied clans at the Regatta last year, with our mighty sails blazing with Tiwaz runes and Berk banners all alike!" Stoick's voice thundered, a war drum of glee that stilled nearby Vikings, their heads turning, axes pausing mid-strike.

He jabbed a massive finger toward you, his grin widening as he strode closer, his boots crunching the soot-dusted sand with the weight of each step. "You!" Before you could brace, his hand clapped your back, a hearty blow that nearly pitched you forward, your cloak flapping as you caught your balance on the plank's edge, the force a testament to his unbridled vigor, a chieftain's gratitude unbound by the nest's grim shadow.

Gobber's laughter erupted, a deep, rolling tide that shook his frame, his axe glinting as he waved it dismissively, his stew sloshing precariously.

"Thor's hairy backside, Stoick, ye'll send the lass to Niflheim with a pat like that!" he roared, his eye glinting with mischief and laughter as he leaned forward, ignoring the warrior nearby who muttered sleepily about "Gobber's blasted noise" while napping.

Stoick's grin held firm, undeterred, his voice rich with reverence as he steadied you with a gentler hand, his gaze sweeping the camp—the Vikings laughing with Gronckles, a Nadder nudging a warrior's shield, the Zippleback's twin heads weaving playfully around the twins.

"My son is blessed by Freyr's bounty to have you at his side," he said, his tone spoken to Odin's hall, each word weighted with the gravitas of a chieftain's pride.

"I stood on the edge of despair, my heart heavy as Ymir's bones, this cursed shore threatening to break us. But you—you kindled a fire in our souls, lass, pulled this old chief through the dark with a plan bold as Thor's hammer!"

He gestured broadly, encompassing the camp's renewed vigor—the smiths hammering ship timbers, the dragons' wings rustling like war banners, the healers murmuring over wounds with yarrow-soaked hands.

"Now, we sail home at dawn, back to Berk's hearth!"

Your face lifted, eyes widening in a rush of astonishment, the words catching in your throat like a carved tree snatched by the wind.

"Tomorrow?" you asked, voice sharp with disbelief, the prospect of leaving the nest's shadow a spark that flared in your weary chest, warming your bones against the evening's chill.

Stoick nodded, his hand sweeping toward the shore where four longships bobbed in the tide, their hulls patched with salvaged oak, their prows scarred but proud.

"Aye, tomorrow!" he declared, his voice a clarion call that drew nods from nearby Vikings, their faces brightening. "The smiths such as Gobber o'course swore to me—the fourth boat's mended, sturdy enough to brave Njord's seas back to Berk. It'll hold, by the gods' grace!"

Gobber's chuckle deepened, his eye glinting as he leaned forward, stew forgotten. "By Freya's tears, Stoick, ye've the luck of a selkie in a storm!" he said, his axe jabbing the air for emphasis, nearly toppling a nearby warrior's water flask, who shot him a glare before returning to his bandage.

Stoick's laughter rumbled, a deep quake that shook his massive frame, his hand clapping Gobber's shoulder with a force that made the older Viking wince. "Luck or no, Gobber, we've a path home!"

Stoick continued, his voice steady with command, his gaze returning to you, softened with a father's gratitude. "The thirty yet to bond with dragons—those unpaired—will sail with the healers and wounded on the boats. No soul lingers here, not one. We leave at first light, home to Berk's fires."

A smile broke across your face, bright as a sunbeam piercing Jotunheim's frost, the weight of days on this cursed rock lifting like a longship's sail catching Njord's breath. The thought of Berk—its thatched roofs dusted with snow, the forge's clang echoing through the cliffs, the warmth of mead in the Great Hall—stirred a longing deep in your marrow—how you missed cooking. . .

It was a fire kindled by the promise of rest and Hiccup's awakening beneath familiar skies. You glanced at him, his soft snores a quiet defiance against the nest's scars, and your heart swelled, tethered to the hope of seeing his green eyes spark with life once more.

Stoick's hand rested briefly on your shoulder, a chieftain's thanks unspoken but heavy as Mjölnir's head, before he turned to rally the clan, his voice thundering across the camp like a storm over the sea.

"Prepare the ships! We sail at dawn!" Vikings stirred, their feet pausing as they nodded before carrying on work to load the boats, a renewed vigor in their steps, their faces lit with purpose under the light. The dragons above crooned, their silhouettes weaving through the heavens.

You sank back beside Hiccup, your hand tightening around his as Toothless rumbled softly, his tail curling closer, Menace chirping faintly in her sleep. But before you could settle into the vigil, a commotion erupted near the shore, drawing every eye.

Snotlout, his broad frame swaggering as ever, stood atop a salvaged longship prow, his Monstrous Nightmare at his side, its scales glinting like molten iron.

"Oi, you lot!" he bellowed, his voice carrying over the camp, a grin splitting his soot-streaked face. "Who's ready for a proper Viking send-off before we sail? A race—dragons against the best of us!"

The twins, Ruffnut and Tuffnut, materialized from the shadows, their Zippleback's twin heads hissing playfully as they shoved each other, their laughter a chaotic peal that cut through the evening's weight.

"You're on, Snotlout!" Ruffnut shouted, her singed braid swinging as she vaulted onto the Zippleback's gas head.

"We'll smoke you before you can say 'Loki's knickers'!" Tuffnut, not to be outdone, scrambled onto the spark head, nearly toppling over as he brandished a salvaged spear.

"Yeah, and I'm the spark that'll light your sorry hide ablaze!" he crowed, earning a groan from Fishlegs, who stood nearby, clutching a bundle of cloaks, his Gronckle snoring at his feet.

Astrid, ever the voice of reason, strode forward, her axe glinting at her hip, her Nadder preening behind her. "You idiots," she snapped, though her lips twitched with a suppressed grin, her blue eyes catching the firelight. "We're leaving at dawn, and you want to race now? You'll exhaust the dragons—or yourselves!"

Snotlout waved her off, his chest puffing out like a bellows. "Exhaust? Me? I'm forged in Freyr's fires, Astrid!? My Nightmare'll leave your Nadder choking on ash!"

The camp erupted in laughter shaking their heads, Vikings pausing their tasks to watch the spectacle, their weary faces brightening at the gang's antics. Even Stoick, standing near a fire with a bowl of stew, chuckled, his massive hand wiping broth from his beard as he shook his head.

"Let 'em have their fun, Astrid," he called, his voice warm with indulgence. "A bit of spirit'll do us good before the wind claims us!"

Gobber, still lounging by his rock, raised his hand in mock salute. "Aye, but if Snotlout falls on his arse, I'm claimin' his share of bread back in Berk!"

The jest drew another roar of laughter, the camp's tension easing. You couldn't help but smile, the warmth of the moment seeping into your chest, a fleeting balm to the exhaustion that weighed your limbs.

Toothless stirred, his emerald eyes glinting with curiosity as he watched Snotlout and the twins bicker, his tail thumping the sand, rousing Menace, who chirped indignantly before scampering toward the commotion. The little Terror darted between Snotlout's legs, nearly tripping him, her tiny jaws snapping at a stray rope as if claiming it for her hoard.

"Oi, you menace!" Snotlout yelped, stumbling back as the Nightmare snorted, its flames flaring briefly, singeing the edge of his cloak.

Vikings clutching their sides, their laughter a hymn. Menace, undeterred, pranced toward you, dropping the rope at your feet with a triumphant chirp in offering, her yellow eyes gleaming as if she'd slain a jotunn. You scooped her up, your laughter soft but genuine, her warmth a spark in your hands as you scratched her chin, her purr vibrating against your fingers.

Stoick's gaze found you, his grin softening as he watched Menace's antics, his voice carrying over the camp's din. "That little beast's got more fire than half my warriors!" he said, striding closer, his hand resting on his sword hilt.

"You've a knack for taming the wild ones, lass—dragons and Hiccup alike."

His jest was gentle, but his eyes held a knowing glint, echoing Gobber's earlier tease about your bond with his son. Your face warmed, a flush creeping up your neck, but you met his gaze, your smile steady despite the flutter in your chest.

"Someone's got to keep them in line," you replied, your voice light but firm, earning a chuckle from Stoick and a nod from Gobber, who raised his stew bowl in salute.

"Aye, and ye do it better than any skald!" Gobber said, his axewaving as he nearly spilled his meal again, drawing a groan from a nearby healer tending a warrior's gashed arm.

The camp settled back into its routine, the group's lively chatter echoing as they debated who'd win their race. Before long, night fell, and the whole camp rested for dawn.

The dawn broke over the volcanic shore with a tentative glow, as if Sól herself hesitated to cast light upon the scarred husk of the dragons' nest, its black sands glistening wet under a sky streaked with the pale fire of morning.

The air was heavy with the briny tang of the sea, laced with the lingering reek of charred bone and sulfur, a mournful shroud that clung to the ruins and the Red Death's colossal corpse, its scales cracked and oozing green ichor, a overwhelming stench you all wouldn't miss.

The camp stirred with a somber rhythm, Vikings moving like wraiths in the half-light, their faces gaunt with exhaustion but etched with a resolute hope created in Hiccup's name. Fires smoldered low or put out, their embers casting fleeting shadows across the wounded, their wounds bound in yarrow-soaked leather, and the dragons, their wings rustling like war banners as they perched along the volcano's rim—keening ready to leave.

The clan's newfound bonds with these once-feared beasts thrummed through the morning. You stood on the shore, your cloak flapping in the dawn's sharp breeze, your heart heavy with the weight of the fallen and the hope of home. The four longships bobbed in the tide, their oak hulls patched with salvaged timber, their prows scarred but proud, etched with new Algiz runes for protection.

The loading had begun at first light, a grim procession guided by Stoick's unyielding command. The injured were hoisted aboard first, their groans piercing the quiet as healers steadied them on beds of furs—tattered cloaks, their wounds packed with moss to fend off rot.

Hiccup, still locked in his deep sleep, was carried gently by Stoick and Gobber, his severed leg bound tightly and healing quickly, the leather straps taut against the stump, his pallid face serene yet distant, as if Odin still cradled him in a realm beyond Midgard's reach. The healers followed, their hands bloodied but steady, carrying only their pouches, their faces etched with the pragmatism.

The thirty Vikings yet to bond with dragons—those too wary or weary to claim a rider's mantle—boarded next, their steps heavy with the weight of survival, their eyes darting to the dragons above, a mix of fear and reluctant trust. The fallen, fifty-seven souls claimed by the Red Death, were laid in the final ship, their bodies shrouded in tattered wool, faces covered to spare the living their vacant stares, their sacrifice a silent tale to be carved into Berk's runestones.

You had boarded one of the larger longships, its deck creaking under the weight of warriors and supplies, and settled beside Toothless who protected Hiccup, who lay quietly, his obsidian scales dull with new ash but his emerald eyes calm, a steadfast guardian at your side. His massive form curled protectively, his tail twitching faintly, behaving with a dignity that belied the chaos he'd endured, as if sensing the gravity of the journey ahead.

Stoick remained on the shore, his towering silhouette a bulwark against the dawn's chill, his blood-streaked beard trembling as he barked orders, ensuring no soul was left behind. His voice rolled like thunder over the waves, directing Vikings to secure the last of the supplies—almost empty barrels of pickled herring, moldy rye loaves for last minute resource, and dwindling strips of jerky, rations stretched thin by days on this cursed rock.

He paced the sand, his boots crunching through soot, his eyes scanning the camp's remnants—scattered weapons that couldn't fit on the boats, broken shields, the faint glow of the volcano's crater—to confirm every warrior, living or dead, was accounted for one final time.

The camp lay empty now, its fires doused, its tents collapsed, the only trace of life was the dragons perched all around, their scales glinting like polished steel in the morning light. As the final Viking boarded, Stoick's gaze swept the shore one last time, his hand resting on his sword hilt, a chieftain's vigil unbroken until he was certain none remained.

Then, with a nod to the helmsman, he strode aboard the lead ship, his heavy tread shaking the deck, and a horn's deep bellow shattered the dawn's hush, its mournful note echoing off the volcano's rim like a call to Valhalla. The longships kicked off from the shore, oars dipping into the tide with a steady cadence, their prows slicing through the waves as the clan sailed away from the cursed island, leaving its scars to fade into the mist.

You stood at the ship's rail, your hands gripping the weathered oak, the sea's cold spray misting your face as the island receded, its jagged silhouette shrinking against the horizon. From this new distance, the devastation was stark—a wasteland of black sand and splintered stone, the volcano's crater glowing faintly, a wound in Midgard's flesh.

The Red Death's corpse loomed, the sole monument to the war, its massive form untouched by scavengers, its maw frozen in a silent roar, abandoned to rot in solitude. Even the warrior it had swallowed had been retrieved, his body laid among the fallen, ensuring no soul was left to the beast's claim.

The island could keep its desolation, its ash and ruin—good riddance, you thought, your heart heavy but resolute, the weight of the lost pressing like a stone in your chest. The clan sailed in silence, a collective vigil for the fifty-seven Vikings and countless dragons who had no choice but to fall, their sacrifice etched in blood and fire.

You glanced at Hiccup, lying on a fur-lined bed nearby, his breathing steady but his eyes still closed, and your fingers tightened on the rail, a silent prayer to Freya for their souls and his awakening. Toothless rumbled softly at your side, his head resting on oak, his gaze fixed on the fading island, as if bidding it farewell and good riddance too.

The veil of Helheim's Gate, that churning wall of fog that had shrouded the nest, closed over the horizon, swallowing the island whole, its gray tendrils the last you'd ever see of that cursed rock, a final curtain drawn by the Norns themselves.

The longships pressed onward, guided by Toothless' keen instincts, his low croons a beacon through the fog as he sensed the path home, his bond with Hiccup a compass for the clan. After an hour of sailing through—The veil broke at last, parting like a torn sail to reveal a vast, glistening sea, its blue expanse shimmering under the first true sun in a week and three days, a radiant gift from Sól that warmed your ash-streaked face.

Sighs of relief rippled across the four ships, Vikings shielding their eyes against the brilliance, their weary voices rising in murmurs of gratitude to the Allfather. The light cast away the nest's shadow, bathing the decks in a golden glow that gleamed off the sea's cresting waves, each ripple a promise of Berk's cliffs drawing nearer.

Some Vikings seized the moment, leaning over the rails to scoop seawater in their hands, scrubbing desperately at the volcanic ash that clung to their skin like a grim tattoo. The water ran black with soot, trailing from their faces and arms, a cleansing ritual born of necessity, their laughter—hoarse but genuine—echoing over the tide as they shook off the nest's weight.

One warrior, his beard caked with ash, dunked his entire head into a bucket, emerging with a sputter and a grin, his curse of "Freyja's mercy, that's better!" drawing chuckles from his comrades. The act was a small defiance, a reclaiming of life amidst the sea's endless hymn, and you watched, your heart lifting slightly, the clan's spirit stirring like a hearth rekindled.

You moved toward the ship's prow, where Stoick stood, his massive frame steady against the wind, his bloodied cloak flapping like a war banner etched with Eihwaz for resilience. Toothless sat nearby, his head raised, his emerald eyes scanning the horizon, his presence a quiet anchor for the chieftain.

The sea stretched boundless before you, its waves glinting like the scales of Jörmungandr, and in the distance, the dragons and their riders soared miles ahead, their silhouettes a shadow of a great flock, wings cutting the sky like blades forged in Valhalla's fires.

The sight stirred a smile, warm and unbidden, curling your lips as you imagined the shock awaiting Berk's remnant souls—those left behind, expecting longships, only to see their kin return astride fire-breathers. A soft laugh escaped you, bright against the sea's roar, the thought of their wide-eyed disbelief a spark of joy in your weary chest.

Gobber, hobbling closer on his peg leg, his axe glinting as he balanced, caught the sound, his bushy brow arching.

"What's got ye chuckling, lass?" he asked, his voice gruff but laced with curiosity, as he leaned against the rail.

You turned, your smile widening, the wind tugging at your cloak. "It's just—imagine the faces back home," you said, your tone light but warm, "their loved ones returning, not on ships, but soaring down on dragons, like a tale come to life."

Gobber's eyes twinkled, his grin splitting his beard. "Aye, they might think it's a raid!" he quipped, his hand waving for emphasis, nearly toppling into the sea.

Stoick, turning from the prow, his gaze softened by the sun's glow, joined in, his voice a deep rumble. "They will—until they see our riders atop those dragons, proud as Thor in his chariot."

His words carried a chieftain's pride, his eyes drifting to Hiccup's still form, a silent prayer to Odin lingering in his gaze.

The conversation faded, the sea's hymn reclaiming the air, its ceaseless rhythm a counterpoint to the creak of oars and the flap of sails dyed with runes of protection. You stood with Stoick and Toothless, your eyes fixed on the dragons' distant flock, their wings a promise of Berk's new dawn, your heart buoyed by the thought of home.

The longships sailed on, their course steady under Stoicks guidance, the veil of the dragons' nest a fading memory swallowed by the horizon. The journey would stretch two weeks, the ships trailing the dragons and their riders, who'd reach Berk days ahead before you, bearing tales of war and harmony to prepare the village for Stoick's return.

The sun climbed higher, its light gilding the waves, and you leaned against the rail, your hand brushing Toothless' scales, his warmth a quiet vow to see Hiccup through. The clan sailed in silence, their thoughts with the fallen, their hopes with the boy who'd reshaped their world, the sea carrying you all toward Berk's hearth, where dragons would soar free and Hiccup's dream would rise from the ashes.

The sea stretched boundless beneath a dawn sky kissed by Sól's first light, its waves glinting like the scales of Jörmungandr as the four longships carved their path through the tide, their oars dipping in a steady cadence that echoed the clan's unyielding resolve. Two weeks had bled into a relentless voyage, the memory of the dragons' nest fading into a shadowed saga, its ash and ruin swallowed by the horizon's veil.

The air carried the briny tang of the sea, mingled with the faint musk of dragon breath from the flock that had soared ahead days ago, their riders bearing tales of war and harmony to prepare Berk for your return.

A cry shattered the morning's hush, sharp as a raven's call over a battlefield. "Berk ahead!" The shout, raw with glee, came from a massive warrior at the ship's bow, his bandaged hand raised against the dawn's glare, as his voice a spark that ignited the clan.

Cheers erupted across the four ships, a thunderous roar that drowned the sea's hymn, Vikings leaping to their feet, their faces alight with a joy that rivaled Freyr's golden fields. You turned, your heart surging as Berk's silhouette rose from the horizon, its jagged cliffs crowned with snow, its thatched roofs dusted white, a comfort of home more radiant than any place could ever weave.

The sight was a balm to your weary soul, its beauty sharper than you'd dared remember—no volcanoes spewing Hel's wrath, no dragons the size of mountains blotting the sky, but a haven forged in frost, earth and fire, its hearths calling you back.

Yet, even as you'd expected the change, the vista stunned you, a jolt to the marrow that widened your eyes. From this distance, hundreds of dragons—Gronckles, Nadders, Nightmares, Zipplebacks and more—swirled through Berk's skies, their wings weaving patterns unmarred by arrows or axes.

They soared openly, unchained—unharmed, their roars a chorus of freedom that echoed off the cliffs. The clan gaped, their cheers faltering into awestruck murmurs, hands shielding eyes against the sun to witness a Berk reborn, where dragons danced with the wind, no longer foes but kin.

Stoick's voice boomed from the prow, his massive frame steady against the ship's sway, his beard trembling with laughter. "Well, then!" he bellowed, his brows rising in satisfaction. "Seems they've convinced the lot back home!"

His laughter rolled like thunder, deep and unrestrained, shaking his broad shoulders as he clapped a hand on the rail, the sound infectious. The clan joined him, their laughter a tide that swept the ships, Vikings slapping each other's backs, their weary faces brightening under the sun's glow.

Gobber, hobbling closer on his peg leg, his axe hand glinting as he held a crust of moldy rye—looked at it then back at Berk—and tossed it over the boat, chuckling hoarsely.

"Aye, Stoick, they've turned Berk into a dragon's roost!" he quipped.

You grinned, the warmth of their mirth seeping into your chest. Toothless rumbled softly, his head lifting to watch the distant flock, his tail thumping the deck, as if sensing Berk's transformation. The longships pressed onward, their sails catching Njord's breath as fast as they can, the sea's rhythm a steady pulse beneath the clan's renewed vigor, their eyes fixed on the cliffs that promised rest and rebirth.

The longships made land with a grinding crunch, their prows kissing Berk's rocky-sandy shore as the tide lapped hungrily at the hulls, the waves glinting ever so bright under the morning sun. The clan's cheers swelled anew, a war cry of relief that echoed off the cliffs, Vikings leaping from the decks before the ships fully settled, their boots splashing into the shallows with sighs of deliverance.

One fell to the sand kissing it and a dozen of the warriors plunged into the sea, their ash-caked faces breaking into grins as they shed ruined tunics and leathers, the fabric blackened with soot and blood, and dove into the waves, scrubbing desperately at the volcanic grime that clung like a grim curse.

"Free at last!" one bellowed, a burly Viking with a cauterized gash across his arm, his voice thick with glee as he stripped to his breeches and submerged, the water running black with ash as he surfaced with a sputter.

Others followed, their laughter hoarse but unbridled, diving and splashing like selkies reborn, the sea's cold embrace a cleansing ritual that washed away everything. The shore thrummed with life, Vikings hauling supplies saved—empty barrels, bundles of furs—while healers guided the wounded to solid ground, their groans softened by the promise of Berk's hearths and a warm bed.

You climbed from the longship, your boots sinking into the wet sand, your body aching but your spirit soaring as you stretched, arms wide to embrace the crisp air, the familiar scent of pine and rain a balm to your weary soul—how you missed it.

"Home at last!" Gobber groaned nearby, his peg leg wobbling as he vaulted onto the shore, his axe-hand unstrapped and tossed carelessly into the sand, the iron glinting with a thud.

"I miss my hook and brush!" he declared angrily, as he scratched his beard, earning a laugh from a nearby warrior who dodged the flying prosthetic with a curse.

Toothless, ever eager, erupted into motion, his massive form bounding from the ship with a joyful warble that shook the deck, his talons splashing through the shallows as he leapt from one Viking to another, nearly toppling a healer who yelped, "Oi, you overgrown lizard!"

The Night Fury ignored the protest, his gummy smile flashing as he pranced toward the docks, his tail lashing with unrestrained glee, darting down the beach and out of sight, his roars echoing.

You laughed, the sound bright against the clan's clamor, your smile lifting at his exuberance, a mirror to the relief flooding through you. The docks bustled with Vikings unloading the fallen, their shrouded forms carried with reverence to a clearing, while dragons swooped overhead, their wings casting fleeting shadows, their riders waving from above.

You stretched again, your cloak falling loose, with Menace close in your arms, the weight of the nest's scars easing with each breath of Berk's air, the cliffs towering like sentinels of Freya's grace.

The clan's voices rose, a chorus of homecoming—warriors embracing kin, healers calling for herbs and supplies ready, dragons crooning to their riders. You glanced at Hiccup, carried gently by Stoick to the shore, his face serene in sleep, and your smile held, in hope that he'd wake soon to this reborn Berk, where dragons soared free.

A murmur rippled through the crowd, growing into a chorus of welcomes as Berk's remnant souls—those who'd stayed behind—poured down the winding paths from the village, their furs flapping, their faces alight with joy and awe. Men and women, elders and children, wove through the docks, their arms wide to embrace kin, their voices rising in greetings that drowned the sea's whisper.

Dragons descended, their wings stirring the air, landing among the newcomers with curious chirps, their riders dismounting to join the throng, their tales of the nest's war already legends among the hearths. The clan parted reverently as Stoick carried Hiccup ashore, his massive arms gentle, his beard trembling with a father's pride and sorrow.

The Vikings fell silent, a solemn honor for the boy who'd faced the Red Death and reshaped their way, their eyes tracing his pale face, his severed leg bound in leather, a testament to his sacrifice. Carefully, they took him—placed on a fur stretcher—a group of warriors and healers moving with precision, their hands steady as they bore him up the vast wooden climb to Berk's village, their steps a quiet drumbeat against the planks.

The wounded followed, carried on other prepared stretchers or leaning on comrades, their groans softened by the promise of care. Gothi, the village elder, awaited above, her gnarled staff tapping the earth, her sharp eyes scanning the procession. She'd prepared for the injured, her hut brimming with herbs—yarrow, comfrey, honey and so much more—her apprentices ready with clean cloths and cauldrons of boiled water, ensuring every warrior would be tended, their wounds cleansed of the nest's grim taint.

A sudden blur of motion jolted you from the procession's weight, your breath catching as Toothless bounded back from the beach, his obsidian scales gleaming, his gummy smile and tongue flashing with unbridled joy. Before you could react, his massive head dipped, lifting you in a swift, fluid motion, his jaws gentle but firm as he hoisted you onto his back, his warmth seeping through you.

Laughter spilled from you, bright and unrestrained, bubbling like a spring in Vanaheim as you scratched his chin, his purr vibrating beneath your fingers, a song of reunion that lightened your heart.

"Toothless!" you chided, your voice warm with affection, but he was already moving, his talons digging into the sand as he surged forward, following Hiccup's scent up the wooden climb.

The Night Fury's speed was a whirlwind, his massive form weaving through the procession with reckless grace, climbing over Vikings who grunted and yelped, their balance faltering as his tail swiped their legs.

"Oi, watch it!" one warrior bellowed, nearly toppling into a comrade, while another groaned, "Freyja's mercy, he's worse than a storm!"

You clung to Toothless' back, Menace doing the same to your shoulders, your hands gripping his scales, your laughter a wild peal that rang through the morning, hanging on for dear life as he leapt over railings and dodged outstretched hands, his joy a mirror to your own.

The climb blurred past, the planks creaking under his weight, the village's rooftops rising as the dragon's boundless spirit went after the boy he chased. Toothless caught up to Hiccup's bearers in moments, his speed outstripping the solemn march, his warble echoing as he skidded to a halt in the village's heart, the central square alive with Berk's soul.

The clan waited, a sea of faces—warriors, smiths, children, elders—their voices rising in a thunderous cheer, chanting Hiccup's name despite his slumber, their fists pounding the air in a rhythm that shook the earth like Thor's anvil.

"Hiccup! Hiccup!" they roared, honoring the boy who'd slain a titan and forged peace with dragons.

The twins, Ruffnut and Tuffnut, stood atop a barrel, their singed braids swinging as they hurled makeshift confetti into the air—clumps of what you suspected was green dragon dung, its earthy stench drawing groans and shouts from older Vikings.

"Oi, you daft Thorstons, that's no confetti!" an elder bellowed, swatting at the falling debris, while another coughed, "On Loki's silver tongue, it's filth!"

The twins cackled, undeterred, their Zippleback hissing playfully behind them, its twin heads snapping at stray clumps, adding to the chaos. The crowd's laughter mingled with the cheers, a tapestry of joy and irreverence, Berk's spirit unbroken by war's scars. Dragons soared above, their roars a triumphant chorus.

The bearers carried Hiccup to his home, a sturdy hall of oak and stone, its roof thatched with a snow-dusted roof. You slid from Toothless' back, your boots thudding on the packed earth, and followed them inside—Toothless right behind you, the air thick with the scent of pine and hearth-smoke, a stark contrast to the nest's sulfurous pall.

The warriors laid Hiccup on his bed, its furs soft and worn, their hands gentle as they arranged his limp form, his auburn hair fanning across the pillow, his face serene under the dawn's light filtering through the shutters. You stepped forward, your voice soft but steady, a quiet hymn to their care.

"Thank you," you said, your eyes meeting theirs, gratitude swelling in your chest for their reverence, their silence a shield around the boy who'd saved them all.

Stoick entered, his massive frame filling the doorway, his cloak flapping as he nodded to the bearers, his voice a low rumble of thanks. "My thanks, all of you," he said, his tone heavy, his hand resting on the doorframe as if to anchor himself.

The warriors bowed their heads, their steps retreating as they left, granting privacy to the homes' quiet sanctuary. Outside, the clan's celebration swelled—voices chanting, axes clanging, dragons roaring. The mourning lingered, a shadow for the fallen, but the joy of homecoming burned brighter for them for they went to Valhalla, and a fire kindled by Hiccup's courage and the dragons' newfound place among Berk's hearths seemed a good thing.

You stood by Hiccup's bed, your hand brushing his, the calloused warmth a lifeline in the homes' stillness, Toothless curling nearby, his head resting on the floor, his emerald eyes half-lidded but vigilant.

The clan's voices filtered through the walls, a distant chorus of life, but your world narrowed to Hiccup's steady breaths, the faint rise of his chest, and the hope that he'd wake to this reborn Berk. Stoick lingered by the door, his gaze soft on his son, the weight of war and homecoming a mantle he bore with strength.

Hiccup's home stood as a quiet sanctuary, its oak beams etched with the weight of countless winters, their surfaces worn smooth by the hands of Berk's forebears, each knot and grain a silent saga of resilience. Dawn's light filtered through the shutters, casting golden threads across the floor, where dust motes danced like wraiths, the air thick with the scent of pine, hearth-smoke, and the faint musk of furs.

The fire pit at the room's heart crackled, its flames kindled by some unseen hand before your arrival, their warmth pushing back the morning's chill, painting the walls with flickering shadows that seemed to whisper of Hiccup's enduring might. Outside, the village pulsed with life—Berk's clan chanting Hiccup's name even now, their voices a thunderous hymn that shook the cliffs.

The celebration was vibrant, woven from joy and mourning, the clan's axes clanging, children laughing, and the twins' chaotic antics drawing groans, yet within these walls, the world shrank to a stillness, a sacred pause where only you, Hiccup, and his dragon dwelled. You stood by his bed, stiff, hand rested on his, his calloused fingers warm but limp.

Stoick loomed beside you, his massive frame a bulwark against the light, his ginger beard catching the fire's glow, his eyes softened. He gazed down at Hiccup, lying still on the fur-lined bed, his auburn hair fanned across the pillow, his face pale but serene, locked in the deep sleep that held him like a thrall to Odin's liminal realm fighting for his soul. He turned to you, his gaze steady, and placed a massive hand on your shoulder, its weight of trust, warm through your tunics' worn fibers.

"Watch over him, lass," he said, his voice low, a rumble tempered with gratitude, each word carrying the gravitas of a saga's vow. "I'll see that someone brings you food, and the healers will come to tend Hiccup soon."

His eyes held yours, a flicker of hope kindling beneath the sorrow, and you nodded, a smile breaking through your exhaustion. The promise of care, of home, was a spark of joy amidst the ache of Hiccup's stillness, and you inclined your head, your voice soft but resolute.

"I will, Stoick," you said, the words a quiet oath, binding you to Hiccup's side.

Stoick's hand lingered a moment, his grip tightening briefly, a father's thanks unspoken but heavy as Mjölnir's head, before he turned, his cloak flapping as he strode to the door, his boots thudding on the oak floor before leaving and shutting it. The hall's stillness reclaimed the space as he left, the fire's crackle a steady hymn, its light gilding Hiccup's face, softening the gaunt hollows carved by fever and war.

You sank onto the bed beside him, the furs yielding under your weight, your movements gentle to avoid stirring his rest. Your fingers brushed his hair, the soft strands slipping like silk, and you swept them from his eyes, revealing the faint freckles that dusted his cheeks, a map of the boy who'd stolen your heart. Leaning closer, you pressed a kiss just below his eye, your lips lingering on the warm skin, a tender moment woven in the quiet.

"We're home," you whispered, your voice barely stirring the air, a fragile thread laced with love and longing, as if your words could coax him from the Norns' grasp.

Toothless, curled nearby, his obsidian scales glinting in the firelight, lifted his head, his emerald eyes gleaming with a knowing spark. He warbled a soft coo, a melody of agreement that vibrated through the hall, his tail thumping the floor gently.

From the sack slung at your back, Menace stirred, her tiny form rustling as she poked her head out, her yellow eyes blinking sleepily. She chirped, a high, bright note that echoed Toothless' call, her claws gripping the leather as she scrambled to perch on your shoulder, her warmth a spark against the morning's chill.

Toothless settled closer, his head resting near the bed, his purr a low hymn, while Menace's chirps softened, her tiny form curling against your neck. The world beyond the hall thrummed with life, but here, time stretched thin, a quiet eternity where hope and love held sway, your gaze fixed on Hiccup's face, willing his eyes to open and see the dawn of a reborn Berk, where dragons and Vikings stood as one.

Five days had bled into a relentless vigil since the longships carved their path to Berk's shore, the dawn's golden light now a distant memory swallowed by the gray pall of worry that cloaked the village. The hall of Hiccup's home, its oak beams etched with the scars of winters past, stood as a solemn refuge, its fire pit crackling with a warmth that failed to pierce the chill in your heart.

In that short time, Gobber had crafted a temporary peg leg for Hiccup and a new saddle for Toothless, which would do until Hiccup, with your help, could build a better one, just like you both had made the last one together.

Toothless was so thrilled that he knocked Gobber over and licked him, much to the hook-handed man's grumbling. You and Gobber also planned to build dragon nests for perching and a large fish storage area for their meals. Berk now looked like a dragon haven.

Currently, the air was thick with the scent of pine, the hearth's glow casting trembling shadows across the walls, as if the spirits of the fallen lingered, whispering from Valhalla's halls—creeping in on Hiccup.

Outside, Berk calmed down and thrummed with a muted pulse—dragons soaring freely, their roars a hymn to Hiccup's dream, while the clan's voices rose in laughter and labor here and there, rebuilding, forging, and making bonds with their new kin. Yet within these walls, time stretched into a cruel eternity, each hour a weight heavier than Ymir's bones, as Hiccup remained locked in a deep sleep, his face pale as Niflheim's frost, his chest rising with breaths too faint to promise life.

Nearly four weeks had passed since the Red Death's fall, and the silence of his slumber gnawed at you, Stoick, and the clan, held a specter of dread that whispered of a loss too vast to bear. Your cloak, hung loose about your shoulders, and your hands, calloused from days of tending him, trembled with a fear that Odin's will might claim him yet.

The clan had honored the fallen in the days since your return, their bodies prepared with reverence on small longships draped in wool and flowers, etched with Eihwaz runes for resilience. The traditional Viking send-off had been a somber rite, the boats set ablaze as they drifted into the sea, their flames a guide for fifty-seven souls to Valhalla's gates.

The clan had stood on the shore, their voices raised in a mournful chant, axes clanging against shields, while dragons circled all around, their keens weaving a requiem that tore at your soul. You'd slipped away as the fires faded, your heart too raw to join the clan's mourning, and returned to Hiccup's side, the hall's stillness a shield against the world.

Alone, with no eyes to witness, you'd wept, tears falling like rain, each sob a plea to Freya that Hiccup would not join the fallen, that his fire would burn through the Norns' cruel thread. You'd vowed never to leave him, forsaking the duties of the Great Hall—its hearths, its feasts, its clamor—for the quiet vigil at his bed.

Stoick, his eyes heavy with a father's grief, had granted you leave, his voice soft with the respect he bore you, as if you were a daughter bound to his son by more than loyalty. The clan's tasks carried on without you, their hands tending the wounded, mending ships, and learning the dragons' ways—Marta had help from others, so, while you remained, a sentinel rooted by love, your world narrowed to the faint rhythm of Hiccup's breathing.

It was the sixth day, the morning light filtering through the hall's shutters, casting pale veins across the furs that cradled Hiccup's still form, his auburn hair fanned across the pillow, his freckles faint beneath a pallor that cut like a seax.

You sat beside him as usual, your fingers carving a small circle of wood with a blade, its edges smoothed into the shape of Toothless' curled sleek form, a black chain threaded through it, a necklace to gift him when he woke—a talisman to tether him to the dragon who'd saved him, and a quiet labor to fill the hours that stretched like Hel's shadow.

The knife trembled in your hand, your eyes heavy with sleepless nights, a map of grief and hope entwined. Toothless lay curled by the bed, his obsidian scales glinting in the firelight, his emerald eyes half-lidded but watchful, his tail twitching faintly as Menace, nestled in her sack at your side, chirped softly, her tiny claws gripping the leather.

A sigh from Hiccup jolted you, your head snapping up, the knife slipping as your heart leapt, certain he was stirring due to his movement—only to see his chest rise in a steady breath, his face unchanged, the sound a cruel echo of life without awakening. Your shoulders sagged, the ache in your chest deepening, and you reached out, brushing the hair from his eyes, the soft strands slipping like silk under your fingers.

Leaning closer, you pressed a kiss to his cheek then another to his forehead, your lips lingering on the warm skin, a silent prayer to the Allfather, and rested your own forehead against his, the contact a fragile bridge to the boy you feared might slip away. Tears brimmed, hot, spilling down your cheeks as you drew back, your voice breaking in a whisper that trembled with the weight of a heart laid bare.

"Please, Hiccup, wake up," you said, the words a raw plea, each syllable cracking like ice. "I miss you—so much it hurts, like a wound that won't close."

Your head sank to his shoulder, your tears soaking into his tunic, the fabric muffling your voice as you spoke into its folds, barely above a breath, the confession tearing free for the first time, a truth that had simmered in your soul through war and loss.

"I love you. . .Hiccup. Please, come back to me." Wherever you are, is where home is.

The words hung in the hall's stillness, heavy as a runestone's oath, their echo a wound and a vow, baring the love that had grown in stolen moments—aurora flights, cliffside laughter, the nest's crucible—now spoken aloud, a desperate offering to Freya to tether his spirit to Midgard.

You clung to him, your sobs muffled, each one a shard of glass carving deeper, the fear that he might fade like the fallen a blade twisting in your gut. The fire's crackle was your only answer, its warmth a faint comfort against the cold dread that gripped you, Toothless' soft warble a distant hymn, Menace's chirp a fragile echo, as if they, too, mourned the silence of the boy who'd bound you all.

Minutes stretched, an eternity of grief, until the door creaked open, its hinges groaning like a draugr's lament, and Stoick's broad silhouette filled the frame, his cloak dusted with snow, his beard catching the fire's glow. He paused, his eyes softening as they fell on you, your head resting on Hiccup's shoulder, tears glistening on your cheeks, but a smile curled beneath his beard, a quiet pretense that he hadn't seen the depth of your sorrow.

He strode to the fire pit, his boots thudding on the oak floor, and knelt to stoke the flames, his massive hands deft as he added a log, ensuring the hall's warmth held against the morning's chill. You lifted your head, wiping your tears with the back of your hand, uncaring if he saw the raw grief in your eyes, your face a map of love and fear laid bare. Stoick rose, his gaze flickering to Hiccup, then back to you, his voice low but steady, a command softened by care.

"Gobber's asking for you, lass—just for a moment. Something about the dragons and the forge. Won't keep you long." His tone held a gentle urging, a nudge to draw you from the weight you carried, though his eyes lingered on his son, a flicker of shared worry beneath his resolve.

You hesitated, your hand tightening on Hiccup's, the necklace half-carved in your lap, the thought of leaving him a stone in your chest. But you nodded, your voice barely a whisper.

"I'll be right back," you said, turning to Hiccup, your eyes tracing his still face.

You rose—picking up the knife and necklace, Menace chirping softly as you slung her sack over your shoulder, and walked to the door, Stoick's heavy steps following. The door shut behind you, its thud a final note in the hall's quiet, leaving Toothless and Hiccup to the fire's vigil, your heart tethered to the hope of his awakening as you stepped into Berk's clamor.

Now, you trudged through the village, your cloak trailing over the packed earth, the sea's briny tang mingling with the scent of pine and smoke. Menace chirped softly from her sack, her tiny claws gripping the leather, a small comfort as you made your way to the forge where Gobber waited, his summons pulling you reluctantly from Hiccup's side.

The forge loomed ahead, its stone walls blackened with soot, the air thick with the tang of molten iron and charred wood, its open side glowing with the hearth's restless fire. Your steps were heavy, your eyes puffy from tears shed in secret, the carved Toothless necklace tucked in your pocket, a talisman for the moment you prayed would come.

Gobber stood by the anvil, his peg leg propped on a stool, his hook-hand gesturing at a tangle of leather and iron—Toothless' new saddle. His weathered face lit up as you entered, his voice booming with its usual gruff cheer.

"There ye are, lass! I need more help with this—this saddle needs a tweak before Hiccup's up and about. The tailfin's linkage is off, and I reckon you've got the knack to—"

He stopped short, his eye narrowing as he took in your face, the swollen of your eyes betraying the grief you'd tried to hide.

"Lass. . ." he said, his tone softening, worry creasing his brow as he limped toward you, his hook-hand hovering awkwardly before he pulled you into a fierce hug. You sank into his embrace, the rough wool of his tunic scratching your cheek, and clung to him, fighting the tears that threatened to spill again.

His arms, strong despite his years, held you like a father, and his voice dropped to a gentle rumble. "You've been cryin' again, haven't ye? Don't think I can't see it."

You nodded against his shoulder, your throat too tight to speak, the weight of Hiccup's silence pressing like a stone on your chest. Gobber's hand patted your back, clumsy but warm.

"Don't ye worry that pretty head of yours, lass. Hiccup's tougher than a Monstrous Nightmare's hide. He'll be wakin' soon, mark my words."

Before you could reply, a commotion erupted outside, a swell of voices that shook the forge's walls like a storm's first gust. A shout pierced the din, sharp and jubilant.

"It's Hiccup!"

Your eyes widened, your heart thumping wildly, a frantic drumbeat that drowned the forge's hiss. You got out of Gobbers grasp and spun toward the open side, where Hiccup's home stood atop the hill, its thatched roof glinting in the morning light. A gasp tore from you, hands flying to your mouth as the truth struck—Hiccup was awake, his green eyes open at last, a miracle wrested from the Norns' grasp.

Without a word, you bolted from the forge, Gobber's heavy steps pounding way ahead of you, his peg leg thumping the earth the fastest you'd ever seen him go. The village blurred past, Vikings parting as you ran, your cloak flapping, the hill's climb a desperate scramble.

You pushed through the crowd outside Hiccup's home, elbows jabbing, your breath ragged as you broke into the clearing, where Stoick stood beside his son, now propped against the doorframe, his face pale but alive, a shy smile curling his lips.

Stoick's voice boomed, pride radiating as he gestured broadly at Hiccup, his blood-streaked beard trembling with joy.

"Turns out all we needed was a bit more of. . .this!" he said, his hand sweeping over his son, a chieftain's grin lighting his face.

Hiccup, his auburn hair mussed, his frame fragile but unbowed, ducked his head, a flush creeping up his cheeks. "You just gestured to all of me," he said, his voice soft but warm, a spark of his old humor that drew a chuckle from Stoick, who nodded, his eyes gleaming.

Gobber, shoving through the crowd with you close behind, reached them first, his hook-hand waving as he boasted, "Well, most of ye, lad! That bit's my handiwork."

He pointed to Hiccup's new peg leg, a sturdy contraption of wood and iron, its craftsmanship evident despite the rough-hewn design.

"With a touch of Hiccup flair, mind ye. Think it'll do?"

Hiccup's gaze flicked to the leg, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "I might make a few tweaks," he quipped, his voice steadier now, earning a roar of laughter from the crowd, their cheers a hymn to his return, Hiccup's own laugh mingling with theirs, a sound that warmed your aching heart.

You reached him at last, huffing from the run, your eyes locking with his, and the world seemed to still, the crowd's clamor fading to a distant hum. Your smile gleamed, bright as a sunbeam piercing a storm, and Hiccup's face lit up, his green eyes softening with a warmth that spoke of shared trials.

No words passed between you, but your faces told it all of their own—your eyes brimming with relief, love, and the ache of weeks spent fearing his loss, his gaze mirroring it with gratitude, longing, and a quiet promise that he'd returned to you and kept.

The crowd watched, their murmurs hushed, Stoick's knowing smile deepening, Gobber's eye glinting with unspoken approval, both men seeing the bond that tethered you, a love as fierce as any dragon's fire. The moment hung, fragile and radiant, when you started walking to him.

The spell shattered as Astrid stepped forward, her braid swinging, her fist connecting with Hiccup's arm in a sharp punch that made him flinch. "Ow!?" he yelped, rubbing the spot, his eyes wide with confusion.

"That's for scaring me," Astrid said, her tone sharp but her lips twitching with a grin, her blue eyes flashing with her usual fire.

Hiccup opened his mouth, stumbling over his words. "What? Is it always gonna be like this with you? 'Cause—"

Before he could finish, Astrid seized his collar, pulling him into a fierce kiss, her lips crashing against his, a bold claim that drew a loud "Ooo!" from the crowd, their cheers swelling with delight. Your smile vanished, your heart lurching as if struck by a sword, the warmth in your chest turning to ice.

Gobber's eyes widened, his hook pausing mid-air as he turned to you, but you were already gone, slipping through the crowd, your steps silent, your face a mask to hide the pain clawing at your soul. Stoick caught Gobber's eye, their shared glance heavy with confusion and worry, a silent question of where you'd fled, but neither moved to follow, unwilling to dim Hiccup's moment.

Gobber, his worry for you a nagging weight, stepped forward, gently handing Hiccup Toothless' new saddle gear you had made him, the leather and iron polished with extreme care.

"Welcome home, lad," he said, his voice warm but tinged with unease, his smile masking the concern for you. "She made that for you."

Hiccup took the gear, his fingers brushing the straps, but his gaze darted to the crowd, searching for you, a flicker of confusion crossing his face when he found you gone. Before he could speak, a shout had rang out.

"Night Fury!"

And Toothless burst from the door, his massive form leaping over Vikings, who grunted and stumbled, his talons thudding as he pounced toward Hiccup, his gummy smile flashing. The crowd laughed, their voices rising as the dragon tackled his rider, Hiccup's laughter mingling with the clan's cheers, a moment of joy that echoed through Berk's heart, even as your absence lingered like a shadow.

The village's clamor faded to a distant hum as you bit your lip, wiping the tears harshly that stung your eyes on repeat. Hiccup's awakening, a miracle you'd prayed for through weeks of dread, had unraveled into a wound sharper than any blade—Astrid's kiss, bold before you could, searing itself into your memory like a hot brand iron.

Your heart, so full of hope moments before, now throbbed with a quiet betrayal, the love you'd confessed in the hall's stillness mocked by the crowd's cheers. You pushed through Berk's winding paths, your cloak trailing over the earth, its hem snagging in its fibers as you climbed the hill toward the Great Hall.

The air was sharp with pine and the faint smoke of hearths, but you barely noticed, your steps driven by a need to flee, to outrun the ache that clawed at your chest. Past the hall you went, its towering doors a blur, the laughter and clanging within a world you couldn't care less about.

You crossed the wooden bridge to the woods, its planks creaking under your boots, the forest's shadowed embrace swallowing you whole. You kicked at the dirt, your breath hitching as you climbed hills and stumbled down slopes, the earth's uneven pulse mirroring your own.

The cove loomed ahead, its rocky cliffs jagged against the light, a place once sacred with Hiccup's laughter and Toothless' warbles. You stood at its edge, looking down with a scornful twist to face, the memories too raw, too tangled with the boy who'd slipped through your fingers. Turning away, you plunged deeper into the forest, its pines whispering secrets as the evening deepened, your heart a storm you couldn't outrun.

You'd been out there for hours uncaring. The forest turning to woods finally gave way to an unfamiliar shore, a hidden beach on some forgotten edge of Berk, where you collapsed, the late evening sky bruising into twilight.

You sat at the water's edge, knees drawn to your chin, your torn cloak splayed across the sand, its fibers knotted with twigs that matched the disarray of your hair. The beach was a vision of unearthly beauty, a majesty that seemed to mock your grief, yet held you in its spell.

The waters glowed with bioluminescent plankton, their ethereal light washing ashore in shimmering waves, each crest a cascade of sapphire and emerald that flickered like stars fallen to Midgard. The moon, newly risen, cast a silver veil over the sea, its glow weaving with the thousands of orange hues painted by the setting sun, their colors bleeding into the horizon like a tapestry.

The waves lapped gently, their touch just grazing your toes, a cool caress that stirred the sand into fleeting patterns, while fireflies blinked in the dunes, their golden pulses dancing with the rhythm of the tide.

The air was alive with the scent of salt and kelp, a crisp tang softened by the faint sweetness of blooming heather, carried on a breeze that whispered of secrets older than Berk's cliffs. You sat motionless, your face blank, the world's beauty a stark contrast to the void within, your eyes tracing the horizon where sea and sky melded into a dreamlike haze.

Your hand opened, revealing the necklace you'd carved for Hiccup, its wooden Toothless pendant gleaming faintly, the black chain coiled like a serpent in your palm. You stared at it, expressionless, the gift meant for his awakening now a relic of a hope shattered by the kiss.

Anger bubbled within, a slow boil that tightened your chest, and with a sudden motion, you stood, backing away from the water's edge. Your arm reared back, and you hurled the necklace into the sea, its arc a fleeting shadow against the glowing waves, the pendant sinking into the depths with a silent splash.

The act did nothing to quell the storm inside, your breath hitching as the anger gave way to a deeper ache, the love you'd whispered to Hiccup in the hall now adrift in the tide. A low rumble broke the silence, a vibration that stirred the sand beneath your feet, and before you could turn to find its source, the ground shifted, pitching you backward.

You landed with a gasp, your hands grasping something warm and hard, the surface scaly and alive. The sand erupted around you, a living tide that surged upward, higher and higher, as you clung desperately, your heart pounding. It was a tail, its fin broad and leathery, and as you squinted, you saw eyes—two glowing orbs on its tip, staring back with an eerie calm.

Panic seized you as you realized it was a wild dragon, its form hidden beneath the sand. You released the tail, dropping to the beach with a huff, only to land on its back, the scales rough under your hands. The dragon moved, sifting through the sand with a fluid grace, and a pair of mighty orange eyes emerged, blazing like twin suns through the cascading grains.

Sand fell like waterfalls around its massive wings as it rose, hovering above you, its form fully revealed—a creature of terrifying beauty, its body sleek and sinuous, its scales a mosaic of dun and amber that shimmered in the bioluminescent glow. Its wings, broad and veined like ancient parchment, pulsed faintly, stirring the air with a low hum, while its tail curled, the eyed fin twitching as if sizing you up.

You stared, fear and awe warring within, your breath shallow as the dragon's presence filled the beach, its majesty a mirror to the sea's radiant dance. Its eyes held you, unblinking, their orange, fiery depths flecked with gold, like embers in a dying fire, and you braced for a blast of flame as its jaws parted, the cavernous maw glowing faintly. But instead, it yawned, a cavernous gape that revealed rows of sharp teeth, and collapsed onto the sand, its head thudding beside you, eyes fluttering shut as it began to purr, a deep, resonant hum that vibrated through the beach.

You sat frozen, the glowing night wrapping around you, the fireflies' golden pulses weaving through the air, the moon's silver light mingling with the sun's fading orange hues, the plankton's shimmering waves lapping at the shore. The dragon's purr, steady and warm, filled the silence, a sound far from its native sands, yet perfectly at home in this hidden cove.

You stared at the creature, its terrifying beauty softened by sleep, and felt the anger in your chest ebb, replaced by a quiet wonder. The beach held you in its embrace, its majestic fleeting balm to the heartbreak that had driven you here, and as the dragon slept, you remained, a solitary figure in the glowing night, your story poised on the edge of a new dawn.

ART CREDIT TO THE TALENTED @alec-volturi This is Chapter 12 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Gifs/edits, dividers + template credit to #uservampyr and Kristen my co-writers + beta readers ♡

#chapter 12 of maelstrom #hiccup haddock #httyd hiccup #hiccup and toothless #hiccup how to train your dragon #hiccup x reader #hiccup fanfic #httyd fanfic #httyd x reader #toothless #httyd #how to train your dragon #hiccup haddock x reader #dragons #race to the edge #maelstrom #rtte #sand wraith

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aspenmissing · 4 months ago

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Hi! If you're up for angst, can I pls request Arcane characters (including Jayvik) with their s/o *nearly* dying from childbirth? Maybe the whole pregnancy was fine, but during the birth their s/o started bleeding out, or an embolism? (Anything complications you think will add to the emotions is fine ^^)

I feel like this would def be an unplanned pregnancy considering the characters, but it wouldn't be an unwelcome one as they love their s/o so much. Also, childbirth causing possible death yet needed to bring life into the world, is such an interesting contrast that the characters would feel so deeply. Esp as their s/o nearly dies during the ordeal.

I love your writing and the way you craft scenarios so throughly for each character ❤️✨ Thank you!!

ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴊɪɴx || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ-ɪꜱʜ/ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ || 8428 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴘʀᴇɢɴᴀɴᴄʏ, ᴄʜɪʟᴅʙɪʀᴛʜ, ɴᴇᴀʀ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ɴᴇᴀʀ ᴄʜɪʟᴅ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ʜᴇʟʟᴏ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ ᴠᴇʟᴠᴇᴛ! ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ᴠᴇʀʏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ! ɪ ᴛʀʏ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ɪᴛ ꜰɪᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ ᴀꜱ ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇ ᴀꜱ ᴘᴏꜱꜱɪʙʟᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴍᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ʙᴇ ᴀ ᴅɪᴄᴋ (ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ). ꜱᴏ ɪ ᴅᴏ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ᴛʜɪꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀɴ ᴀᴍᴀᴢɪɴɢ ᴅᴀʏ/ɴɪɢʜᴛ! <3

ᴘᴀʀᴛ 2 ᴛᴏ ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ

JAYCE

The soft glow of the moonlight filtered through the curtains as Jayce sat next to Y/N's bed, watching her sleep. Her pregnancy had been nothing short of perfect. Every doctor’s visit had been smooth, her health had been impeccable, and the baby growing inside her was a constant reminder of the life they were about to bring into the world. They hadn’t planned on having a child so soon, but as the months passed, the excitement and joy they felt grew beyond anything they could have imagined. They spent months preparing, laughing together, and even arguing over names for the baby, but the closer they got to the due date, the more Jayce found himself watching Y/N with a nervous tenderness he couldn’t shake.

He had always been a man of science, of logic, but nothing in his life had ever felt more fragile than this moment. Y/N, the woman he loved, carrying their child, and the realization that the fragile beauty of life could slip away in an instant.

The day arrived with the usual excitement. The contractions started slowly, and Y/N smiled, grabbing his hand with a calmness that only made his heart race more. Everything felt normal. Jayce held her hand through every wave, his eyes full of love and admiration, telling her how proud he was of her.

Hours passed. The hospital room was quiet except for the sound of medical staff moving around, checking Y/N, and adjusting monitors. Jayce stood beside her, his heart full of hope, his mind trying to remain calm.

But something changed. The monitors beeped, and suddenly there was urgency in the air. Y/N’s face contorted with pain, and Jayce’s eyes widened as he looked at the doctors.

“What's happening?” he asked, his voice breaking.

The doctor didn’t answer immediately, instead giving instructions to the staff. Y/N reached for his hand again, her grip tight but shaky.

“It’s going to be okay,” Jayce said softly, trying to reassure her even though he wasn’t sure if he believed it himself.

“Jayce,” Y/N whispered, her voice weak and strained. “I love you.”

He kissed her forehead gently. “I love you more.”

But the minutes stretched into hours. Complications set in, and the room was flooded with doctors and nurses. Jayce felt helpless, staring at Y/N, his mind whirling with every possible outcome. The birth of their child—the miracle of life—had suddenly turned into a battle for survival.

He didn’t know how long it had been since the crisis began. His hands were shaking as he squeezed Y/N’s, trying to steady himself. He watched as the medical staff worked frantically, but all he could see was Y/N's pale face, her breathing shallow, her energy fading.

"Come on, Y/N... stay with me," Jayce whispered, brushing a lock of her hair from her forehead. "I can't do this without you."

The world felt like it was crashing down around him, but still, he clung to the thought of their child—of the family they had dreamed of. They had made it through the first hurdle, but something was terribly wrong.

A soft cry broke through the tension. Their baby had arrived.

The doctor handed the newborn to a nurse, who rushed the baby away to be cleaned and examined. Jayce barely even noticed, his eyes fixed on Y/N, who had started to slip in and out of consciousness. He could see the blood seeping onto the sheets, and his heart stopped.

"Jayce," Y/N breathed, her voice barely audible.

"Hey, you’re going to be okay," Jayce said, his voice raw, his chest tightening. But his gaze was fixed on the staff working quickly around her.

The doctor immediately began to assess the situation. "She’s losing too much blood. We need to stabilize her now!"

His pulse quickened. He had heard the term “postpartum haemorrhage” before, but hearing it in real-time made the ground beneath him feel like it was crumbling. He could feel the heat rising in his body as panic surged through him.

The nurses began moving quickly, one applying pressure to Y/N’s abdomen while another attempted to administer fluids, but Jayce felt paralyzed, rooted to the spot, unable to move from her side.

“Y/N…My life” Jayce whispered, his voice breaking as he tried to catch her fading gaze. “Don’t leave me. Please, stay with me.”

Her hand, once so strong, slipped from his, her fingers slack. The room around them became a blur of movement. The life-saving attempts, the quiet, urgent orders being barked by the doctors—everything felt distant as he fixated on her pale face.

"Stay with me," he pleaded, his voice trembling.

His mind raced, his thoughts swirling into chaos. How could this be happening? Their baby had been born healthy, perfect. How could they be faced with losing Y/N now?

Another cry echoed through the room—the sound of their son. Jayce caught sight of the tiny infant in the nurse’s arms, but his attention was divided, his heart torn between the two most important things in his life.

And then, everything stopped.

A nurse came close to him. "We’re doing everything we can. You need to trust us."

Jayce couldn’t bring himself to speak, his voice a tight knot in his throat. All he could do was stare at Y/N, trying to will her to stay awake, to hang on. It felt like time had stretched to an unbearable length.

He reached for her hand again, desperate.

"Y/N…" he whispered, tears streaking down his face. "You have to wake up. Please. I need you."

A full day passed before she stirred. Her eyes fluttered open slowly, weak but aware. Jayce let out a shaky breath of relief, his body trembling as he held her hand tightly, his son cradled in his arms. He had spent every minute of the past twenty-four hours at her side, torn between the desperate hope that she would wake up and the overwhelming fear that he could lose her.

"Jayce," she murmured, her voice a whisper, but it was enough. "Our baby... is he okay?"

His heart soared with the sound of her voice. He kissed her forehead, his lips brushing against her skin, gentle and filled with emotion. "Yes, love. He’s perfect. You’re perfect."

Tears welled up in his eyes as he looked down at their son, sleeping peacefully in his arms, his tiny hands curled into fists. He couldn’t help but marvel at how fragile and yet how resilient this little life was. He looked at Y/N again, his heart swelling with love for both her and their child.

Y/N’s eyes shifted to the baby in his arms, and her expression softened. Her hand, still weak, reached out slowly, as if it took all her strength just to touch him. Jayce carefully placed their son into her arms, guiding her to cradle him. Her fingers trembled as she held him, but there was a profound tenderness in her touch, and Jayce could see the love already radiating between them.

The room was quiet, save for the soft rustle of the sheets, the faint sound of the baby’s breath, and the rhythmic beeping of the monitors that had kept them on edge for so long. Jayce settled beside her again, his gaze never leaving her face, his heart full of gratitude and relief.

“I was so scared,” Jayce confessed softly, his voice raw. “When you were so still... I didn’t know if I could do this without you.”

Y/N managed a weak smile, her eyes heavy with exhaustion but full of warmth. “You never had to do it without me. We’re in this together.” Her voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried all the strength he had come to love.

Jayce brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, his fingers trembling slightly. "I don’t know how I would have gotten through it without you," he said, his voice thick with emotion. “You’ve always been my rock. And now we have him...”

Y/N’s eyes glistened with tears as she looked at their son. “Our son,” she whispered, the words filled with awe. “He’s perfect. Just like you said.”

Jayce’s heart clenched at the sight of her, so fragile but so full of love. The worst had passed. The crisis had been a terrifying storm, but it was over now, and they had made it through—together. But even though Y/N was stable, the road to full recovery would still take time. Jayce wasn’t naïve enough to think everything was behind them. There would be moments of doubt, moments of struggle, but they had already proven how strong they were together.

Finally, he pulled away just enough to kiss her softly on the lips, the pressure of the kiss tender and full of meaning. “You did it,” he whispered against her lips. “You’re going to be okay, Y/N. We’re going to be okay.”

A faint smile crossed her face as her eyes softened, her gaze lingering on him. “We did it,” she whispered back, and Jayce’s world was whole again.

The cries of their son filled the room, a sound so pure and full of promise. Jayce glanced at the new-born—his son—and then back to Y/N, the love in his eyes unmistakable. He had never felt more grateful, more connected to her, more determined to protect their family.

And as he held Y/N's hand in his, feeling the warmth return to her skin, he knew, despite everything, their family had made it through the storm. They had survived. Together. And there was nothing they couldn’t face from here on out.

VIKTOR

The room was eerily silent, save for the quiet hum of the machines and the muffled sounds of the bustling hospital outside the door. Viktor sat in the chair beside the bed, his cane resting against his leg, his hands gripping the soft fabric of the baby blanket as if it were the only thing tethering him to reality.

This wasn't how it was supposed to go.

The pregnancy had been perfect. No complications, no scares—just quiet anticipation and soft whispers in the middle of the night. Viktor had spent months preparing, ensuring that Y/N had everything she needed, that their daughter would come into the world without a single worry. He had held Y/N close at night, murmuring reassurances against her hair when she fretted over the future. He had traced circles over the swell of her belly, felt the gentle kicks beneath his fingertips, and imagined the tiny life they had created together. It had been perfect.

But now Y/N was gone—wheeled away in a frantic rush, her blood staining the pristine white sheets.

His hands trembled as he stared at the blanket, the one Y/N had crocheted herself. It was small, meant to swaddle their daughter, but now it felt heavy in his grasp. The weight of everything crashed down on him as the sterile smell of the hospital seeped into his senses.

He hadn’t even gotten to hold her.

Their daughter had been pulled into the world too soon, her first cries cut short as the doctors fought to keep both mother and child alive. There had been too much blood, too many rushed voices speaking words Viktor couldn't process. He had heard the urgency in their voices, the panic, the pleas for more hands, more supplies, more time.

Y/N was dying. The baby was barely clinging on.

And he was powerless.

His grip tightened on the blanket as his chest ached with a pain he couldn't describe. He had fought against fate for so long—against his own body, against time itself—but this? This was a cruelty he hadn't been prepared for.

How could he do this without her? How could he raise a child alone, without Y/N by his side to share in the triumphs and the sleepless nights? The thought of his daughter growing up without her mother, of him being forced to tell her about the woman she would never meet, made his stomach churn with despair.

The door creaked open, and Jayce stepped inside, his usual confidence stripped away, leaving only quiet concern in his expression. He didn’t say anything at first, just took a hesitant step forward before settling in the chair beside Viktor. He looked out of place in the stark hospital room, his broad shoulders tense, his hands clasped together like he was steeling himself for the worst.

“They’re doing everything they can,” Jayce said, his voice softer than Viktor had ever heard it.

Viktor let out a breath, sharp and uneven. “And if it is not enough?”

Jayce didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The uncertainty hung between them, thick and suffocating.

Viktor pressed a shaking hand to his forehead, willing himself to keep his composure, but it was slipping. He wasn’t a praying man—never had been—but in that moment, he would have begged any force in the universe to spare them. To let Y/N come back to him, to let their daughter breathe without struggling, to let them have the future they had planned together.

Just let them live.

The silence stretched, broken only when the distant sound of hurried footsteps echoed down the hall. Viktor looked up, his breath catching in his throat as he clutched the blanket even tighter.

Then the door opened again, and a nurse stepped inside. Her scrubs were wrinkled, and there were dark circles under her eyes, but her expression was gentle when she looked at Viktor.

“She made it through surgery,” the nurse said quietly. “It was touch and go for a while, but she’s stable now. She’ll need time to recover, but she’s alive.”

Viktor felt the breath he had been holding finally escape his lungs, though his chest still ached. His heart pounded in his ears, his body flooded with exhaustion and relief all at once.

“And… the baby?” His voice was barely above a whisper, afraid that if he asked, the answer might break him.

The nurse gave him a small, reassuring smile. “She’s fighting. She’s in the neonatal unit, but she’s strong.”

Strong. Just like her mother.

A choked sound escaped Viktor as he pressed the baby blanket to his face, his fingers curling around the soft yarn. His daughter was alive. Y/N was alive.

Jayce exhaled heavily beside him, clapping a firm hand on Viktor’s shoulder. “See? They’re fighters. Just like you.”

Viktor let out a watery chuckle, shaking his head. He didn’t feel like a fighter. Right now, he felt fragile, like one wrong move would shatter him entirely. But he would push forward, just as he always had, just as Y/N and their daughter had.

His eyes burned as he whispered, “I want to see them.”

The nurse nodded. “We’ll take you to see your daughter first. Y/N will be moved to recovery soon, and you can see her after.”

Viktor gripped his cane, using it to push himself up from the chair. His legs felt weak, but he forced himself to move, to follow the nurse down the cold hospital corridors. Jayce walked beside him, offering silent support should he need it.

The neonatal unit was quiet, bathed in a soft, sterile glow. The rhythmic beeping of monitors filled the air, a constant reminder of the fragile lives housed within the incubators. Viktor's steps were slow as he approached, his breath catching when he caught sight of her—his daughter.

She was so small, impossibly so, wrapped in a cocoon of wires and tubes. Her tiny chest rose and fell with each breath, her delicate fingers curled into fists as if she were already preparing to fight against the world. The nurse beside him spoke, explaining her condition, the treatments they were giving her, but Viktor barely heard any of it.

His fingers brushed against the glass of the incubator, a lump forming in his throat. "She is beautiful," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "So small… but beautiful."

Jayce stood back, watching but not intruding. This was Viktor’s moment.

Viktor felt a tear slip down his cheek, but he didn’t wipe it away. He simply stood there, gazing at his daughter—the proof that, despite all the odds, she had survived. And for the first time in what felt like forever, he let himself believe that they would make it through this. Together.

JAYVIK

Y/N had never expected to be a mother, let alone so soon. When she had first told Viktor and Jayce about the pregnancy, she had been terrified. It wasn’t planned, but the fear had melted the moment she saw the way their eyes softened, the way Viktor’s fingers traced over her stomach with a rare, tender reverence, the way Jayce immediately pulled her into a secure, warm embrace.

“We’ll figure this out,” Jayce had promised, pressing a firm kiss to her temple. “Together.”

And together they had. The pregnancy had been as smooth as it could be. No unexpected pains, no complications—just blissful, uninterrupted anticipation as they prepared to meet their children. Jayce had taken on the role of the overprotective guardian, keeping Y/N from straining herself, ensuring she never lifted anything remotely heavy, doting on her in ways that both amused and frustrated her. Viktor, ever the analytical mind, ensured she had everything she needed, meticulously researching prenatal care, adjusting their home to be more comfortable, and making sure she followed a balanced diet.

They painted the nursery together, a soft shade of blue accented by golden stars that Viktor carefully detailed by hand. Jayce had built the crib himself, laughing when Viktor chided him about ensuring the structure was sturdy. They spent late nights together, curled up in bed, whispering about the kind of future their children would have. Would they be scientists? Inventors? Dreamers?

Then, the moment finally arrived.

The first cry of their newborn filled the room, a beautiful, piercing sound that had Jayce gasping in relief and Viktor squeezing Y/N’s hand with a soft, breathless, “Má lásko, you did it.” (My love)

A baby boy. Their son.

Tears welled in Y/N’s eyes as a nurse swiftly took the newborn, cleaning him gently and wrapping him securely in a soft blanket. Once the baby was swaddled, the nurse turned to Jayce, placing the small, warm bundle into his arms. He hesitated for just a moment, staring in awe at the tiny life he now held, before cradling his son protectively against his chest. The baby squirmed slightly, his small face scrunching up as if displeased by the sudden shift in environment. Jayce let out an unsteady laugh, brushing his fingers over their son’s tiny hand, while Viktor sat beside them, his usually composed features completely undone by awe.

But then, something was wrong.

Y/N had barely been able to hold him before a wave of exhaustion crashed over her. Her vision blurred, her body felt too heavy, too cold. The warmth of their son in her arms became distant, almost unreal.

“Something’s not right,” she murmured weakly, her fingers trembling as they clutched Viktor’s sleeve. Panic flickered across his face as he turned to the doctors.

Then, chaos.

The second baby—their second child—was struggling. The doctors moved quickly, a sudden urgency gripping the room. Y/N gasped, her breathing uneven, her fingers slipping from Viktor’s grasp as her body grew limp.

“Her pulse is dropping!” a doctor called out.

“Get her to surgery! Now!” Someone shouted, and before either Jayce or Viktor could react, she was being rushed out of the room. Viktor nearly tripped trying to follow, but a nurse stopped him, a firm hand pressing against his chest.

“Wait—no, I need to—” Viktor tried to argue, his grip tightening on his cane, but the nurse shook her head.

“She’s in critical condition. We need to move now.” And then she was gone.

The silence that followed was deafening. The warmth of the moment, the joy of their firstborn, had been ripped away in an instant, replaced by uncertainty and fear.

Jayce sat heavily onto a chair, his hands buried in his hair as he struggled to breathe past the lump in his throat. Viktor stood frozen, eyes fixed on the door she had disappeared through. The hand that still trembled around his cane was the only sign of his distress, but Jayce could see it—could feel the way the weight of helplessness bore down on both of them.

Then, a small sound. A whimper, a tiny hiccup.

The baby.

Jayce forced himself to move, to look down at the small bundle in his arms. Their son squirmed slightly, his little hands curling into fists, his nose scrunching in protest. He was warm, alive, here.

Jayce looked at Viktor, his voice thick with emotion. “She’s strong, Vik. She’s going to make it.”

Viktor swallowed hard, stepping closer to look at their child—at the life Y/N had brought into the world despite the odds. He reached out, brushing the baby’s cheek with a featherlight touch, and for the first time since Y/N was taken away, his eyes closed, his forehead resting against Jayce’s shoulder.

“What if she doesn’t?” Viktor’s voice was barely above a whisper, uncharacteristically vulnerable. “What if—”

“She will.” Jayce’s grip on the baby tightened slightly, as if grounding himself in that reality. “She has to.”

They sat there in silence, watching their son, both desperately clinging to the hope that Y/N would return to them. That their family would be whole.

And all they could do was wait.

Time crawled by, each passing moment stretching unbearably. Every time the door opened, both of them would jolt, hoping for news, only to be met with more silence. Jayce paced the room with their son nestled in his arms, rocking him gently, while Viktor sat still, his mind racing through worst-case scenarios he couldn’t afford to acknowledge.

Then, at long last, the door opened again, and a nurse stepped in.

“She’s stable,” the nurse said softly. “She’s awake, and she’s been asking for you both.”

Jayce exhaled sharply, a mix of relief and lingering anxiety washing over him. Viktor let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, gripping his cane tightly as they both moved quickly to follow the nurse.

When they entered the room, Y/N was there, pale and exhausted, but alive. She was propped up against the pillows, her expression weary yet serene as she cradled a tiny bundle in her arms—a daughter. Their daughter.

A weak, but warm smile tugged at her lips as she looked at them. “You took your time,” she murmured, her voice hoarse but teasing.

Jayce let out a shaky laugh, stepping forward and carefully settling on one side of the bed while still holding their son. Viktor took the other side, his fingers brushing gently over her arm, as if to reassure himself that she was truly there.

Jayce wrapped an arm around them all, pulling them into a protective embrace. He pressed a lingering kiss to Y/N’s temple, his voice thick with emotion. “You scared the hell out of us.”

Viktor, ever the quieter one, leaned in, pressing his forehead against hers. “Never do that again,” he murmured, his voice strained but filled with nothing but love.

Y/N chuckled softly, shifting slightly so their daughter was nestled more securely in her arms. “I’ll try,” she whispered, exhaustion tugging at her again.

For the first time since this had all begun, they were together. Whole.

And despite everything, it was perfect.

VANDER

The air in the room was heavy with fear, thick and suffocating, mingled with the distinct scent of sweat and iron. The rickety cot creaked under Y/N’s weight as she clutched at the frayed sheets, her body slick with sweat, her breathing ragged and strained. Every moment felt like an eternity as the baby pushed its way into the world—too fast, too violently. There was no time to prepare. There was no time for anything but the agonizing pain that tore through her.

Vander knelt beside her, his strong hand wrapped tightly around hers, his knuckles white from holding on with all the strength he could muster. He pressed his lips to her forehead, his brow furrowed with worry. "You’re doing so well, love," he murmured, though his voice cracked, betraying the fear gnawing at his insides. Every time she screamed, it felt like a blade to his heart. He had fought countless men in the pits, taken hits that left his body battered and bruised, but nothing could have prepared him for this. Nothing could have prepared him for watching the woman he loved suffer.

Y/N’s eyes were glazed with pain, and tears streaked down her face. She gripped his hand tightly, her nails digging into his skin as another wave of contractions hit.

“I can’t... Vander, it hurts... It hurts so much,” she cried, her voice raw and hoarse from hours of screaming.

Felicia, who had been tending to Y/N, moved with practiced hands, trying to keep everything calm as she prepared for the birth. Her face was tight with concern, but she was the only one they had who could help. Zaun had no doctors, no advanced medical tools—only a few trusted hands.

"You need to keep going, Y/N," Felicia urged, her voice firm despite the panic underlying it. "Stay with me now."

But all Vander could do was focus on Y/N. He leaned close, his voice low and steady, though it shook. "Please, love. Just a little longer. We’re almost there."

Her body shuddered beneath his touch, the pain flaring up with every contraction. She screamed again, and Vander closed his eyes for a moment, the sound nearly unbearable. It wasn’t just physical pain; it was the terror in her eyes, the helplessness. For a moment, he wondered if this would be the moment he lost her—if this moment would be their last together. His heart raced, and his hands trembled, but he never let go.

Then, finally, Felicia's voice cut through the tension like a knife. "The baby's coming, Vander!"

A shuddering cry filled the room, and Felicia quickly wrapped the baby in cloth. "It’s a girl," she said, forcing a smile, trying to keep the mood light despite the heavy atmosphere. "She’s strong. She’s breathing."

Vander blinked, the words taking a moment to register. His eyes welled with tears as he looked down at the tiny, wriggling thing in Felicia’s arms. He kissed Y/N’s forehead again, his lips trembling. "You hear that, love? We have a little girl."

But as his voice shook with hope, Y/N’s breath hitched. She didn’t respond.

Vander’s heart stopped, his eyes locked onto Y/N’s face. Her body had gone still—too still. Her breath was shallow, ragged, and the blood… there was too much of it. He felt a rush of panic that threatened to consume him.

Felicia’s face drained of colour as she assessed the situation. "She’s losing too much," she muttered, voice tense. "I need more cloth, more pressure. She’s slipping."

Vander’s hands moved to Y/N’s face, his voice breaking. "Y/N? Y/N, stay with me, love." He didn’t know what else to say. He was desperate, willing to beg, to do anything to keep her here with him.

Her eyes fluttered open, just barely, her lips moving in a whisper. "Vander… keep her safe."

He squeezed her hand tighter, trying to hold back the tears. "No," he growled, voice raw. "You tell her yourself, Y/N. You hear me?" He felt the grip of fear close around his throat. "Stay with me."

She gave him a weak smile, her body sagging under the weight of exhaustion and blood loss. Her eyes closed again, and this time, there was no response.

Silence.

For a heart-stopping moment, Vander thought the worst. He thought he had lost her. His breath stopped as a chill ran through him.

Felicia cursed under her breath as she pressed both hands firmly to Y/N’s stomach, working frantically. "She’s still alive," Felicia said, though her voice was strained. "Barely… Vander, we need to stop the bleeding, now!"

Vander’s hands were on autopilot, grabbing whatever fabric he could find, pressing it firmly against Y/N’s body, trying to apply pressure just as Felicia had instructed. His hands were shaking, but he didn’t care. He could feel the panic rising in his chest like an animal clawing at him, but he couldn’t let go. Not now. Not ever.

Minutes felt like hours. Every breath Y/N took seemed to be a battle, a fight against the dark abyss threatening to claim her. But then—finally—a breath. A weak, shuddering breath.

Vander’s eyes widened, his heart pounding with relief. His forehead pressed against Y/N’s, his shoulders shaking as he let out a broken laugh, full of disbelief. "You’re not leaving me that easy, love," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Not now. Not ever."

Felicia sat back on her heels, exhausted but relieved. She wiped her brow, her face still pale but with a faint trace of relief. "She’s not out of the woods, but… she’s here."

Vander’s tears fell freely as he held Y/N close, brushing her damp hair back from her face, his hands trembling as he placed the tiny bundle in her arms. Their daughter. The little girl who had almost cost them everything. He looked down at her, her tiny fingers curling weakly around his thumb. He traced a finger gently over the soft curve of her cheek, his throat tight.

"She’s got your nose," he murmured to Y/N, pressing another kiss to her sweat-damp hair. "She’s perfect."

And then, impossibly, Y/N’s fingers twitched—barely, but enough.

Vander’s breath caught, his heart swelling with the overwhelming rush of relief. He wrapped his arms around both of them—his love and their child. He kissed her temple once more, pressing a promise into her skin.

"I won’t ever let you go," he whispered, his voice steady now, filled with the depth of his unshakable devotion. "I’ll always protect you. Both of you."

And as the sun began to set outside their little home in Zaun, Vander held onto his family—his heart full, his love steadfast, and their future uncertain, but theirs nonetheless.

SILCO

The low, constant hum of Zaun echoed in the walls of Silco’s private quarters, the tension in the air thick enough to choke anyone within. Y/N lay propped up in the bed, sweat clinging to her skin, her breaths shallow and strained. The dim light from a single lamp flickered weakly against the haze of smoke that filtered in through the slats in the windows. She had always known the risks of childbirth in Zaun—knew that the medical care was nothing compared to Piltover's polished facilities—but nothing could prepare her for the panic that surged through her now. The pain, the fear, and the overwhelming sense of helplessness that pressed in on her from all sides made her chest tighten.

Her hand gripped the sheets beneath her, fingers trembling as another contraction hit. She let out a sharp breath, trying to steady herself, but it was no use. The pain was unbearable, coming in waves that ripped through her body with an intensity she hadn’t anticipated.

Beside her, Silco stood, his cold and calculating demeanor stripped away, leaving only a man who was, for the first time in his life, genuinely frightened. His eyes locked on her face, his hand moving to brush her damp hair away from her forehead. His gloved fingers, usually so steady and controlled, were trembling slightly, betraying his inner turmoil.

"Y/N," Silco murmured, his voice hoarse and low. "Look at me."

Y/N’s vision was blurry, her mind clouded by the pain, but she managed to meet his eyes. The intensity of his gaze steadied her, grounding her in the chaos.

"Stay with me, darling," he continued, his voice firm, but underneath the commanding tone, there was a softness that she rarely heard from him. "You’re stronger than this. You can do this."

"I’m... so scared," she whispered, her voice weak and vulnerable in a way Silco had never heard before. "What if something happens to the baby? To me?"

His heart clenched at her words, and though he longed to tell her that everything would be fine, he knew better than to offer empty promises. But his presence was all she had in this moment, and if there was one thing he was certain of, it was that he wasn’t going to let anything happen to her or their child. He would tear down the world before he let that happen.

The door to the room creaked open, and the doctor from Piltover, a middle-aged woman with stern features and sharp eyes, entered. She was dressed in a sterile white coat, and her hands moved with precision as she approached the bed. Silco barely spared her a glance, his gaze fixed on Y/N as her body trembled beneath the waves of pain.

The doctor moved to assess the situation, but Silco’s attention remained unwavering. His eyes flickered to the doctor once more, but there was a coldness there that sent a shiver down her spine.

"You better do your job, doctor," Silco’s voice was quiet, dangerous, like a serpent coiled and ready to strike. "If anything happens to her, or to my child, I will make sure you regret it."

The doctor didn’t flinch, but Silco’s words were a reminder of the gravity of the situation. He was a man who wielded power not just with wealth and influence, but with fear—and this woman had to know that failure was not an option.

Y/N gasped as another contraction hit, her nails digging into the palms of her hands. Silco’s focus snapped back to her, his gloved hand finding hers and holding it tightly.

"Just breathe," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "Breathe for me, Y/N."

The doctor examined Y/N carefully, making quick, efficient movements. Her brow furrowed as she murmured something about the baby being in a difficult position. The words made Y/N's heart race faster, panic gripping her chest.

“No,” Y/N gasped, her voice tight with fear. “Please, I can’t—”

“Y/N,” Silco interjected, his voice sharp but steady. “Focus on me. Focus on my voice. You’re going to be fine.”

But the doctor’s actions were swift and clinical, each movement calculated. Y/N squeezed Silco’s hand harder, the pain becoming unbearable as another wave of contraction hit her. Her breath was coming in short bursts, her chest heaving with the effort to stay calm. But with every moment that passed, she could feel the weight of the situation pressing down harder and harder.

"Is everything okay?" Silco’s voice was a low growl, his eyes flicking between the doctor and Y/N, demanding answers.

The doctor didn’t respond immediately, her eyes focused entirely on Y/N’s condition. She instructed a nurse to adjust the positioning of Y/N’s legs, her voice firm and professional. But Silco’s presence in the room was impossible to ignore, and the tension radiated from him like an aura. His hand clenched around Y/N’s, his breath coming faster now.

"Doctor," Silco growled, his patience thinning. "I said, is everything okay?"

The doctor looked up at him, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her face. "The baby is in a difficult position," she said, her voice calm but strained. "We need to turn her, but it’s risky."

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat, her mind spinning with terror. “What do you mean, risky? What happens if—”

"Shh," Silco whispered to her, his fingers brushing over her forehead, trying to soothe her. “We’ll be fine. You’ve been through worse. You can do this.”

The doctor moved quickly, making the necessary adjustments. Silco stood by Y/N’s side, his hand still in hers, his presence grounding her in a sea of fear. He didn’t let go, his gaze locked onto hers, trying to offer any comfort he could.

Another hour passed in agonizing silence, the doctor working swiftly to help Y/N through each wave of pain. Silco never left her side, his words soft and reassuring, though beneath the calm surface of his voice, the fear was palpable.

Finally, the moment came. With a final, desperate scream, Y/N gave birth to their baby girl. The room was filled with the sound of her first cries—loud, sharp, and full of life. Silco’s heart skipped a beat as he looked down at their daughter, a tiny, fragile thing, her small fists clenched in the air as she wailed in protest of the world she had just entered.

"She’s beautiful," Silco murmured, his voice thick with emotion as he looked at Y/N.

But just as he turned to give Y/N the smile of relief she deserved, a terrible realization struck him.

Her eyes were closed. Her chest wasn’t moving. The room seemed to go deathly silent as Silco’s eyes locked on her pale, lifeless face.

“No...” he whispered, his voice breaking.

The doctor’s face turned pale as well, her hands moving quickly to assess the situation. “She’s in shock,” the doctor said, her tone suddenly frantic. “We need to stabilize her. Get her breathing again, now.”

Y/N’s body was limp in Silco’s arms, her skin cold and lifeless. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. All he could do was hold her, his arms trembling as he pulled her closer.

“Y/N…darling?” Silco’s voice cracked, barely audible as he leaned down, pressing his forehead against hers. His heart pounded in his chest, and every second felt like an eternity. “Please. Don’t do this. Please.”

His voice was desperate now, raw with fear as he rocked her gently in his arms. His hand moved to her chest, feeling for any sign of life, but it was like the world had come to a halt.

And then, like a flicker of hope in the darkness, a faint breath shuddered through Y/N’s body. Her chest rose, just barely, and Silco’s eyes locked on hers as she gasped for air.

A sob broke from him, relief flooding his veins as Y/N’s eyes fluttered open, though they were weak and unfocused.

“I’m here, Y/N,” he whispered hoarsely, tears threatening to spill. “I’m not letting you go.”

She reached up weakly, her hand brushing against his cheek, and Silco’s heart shattered at the sight.

"I’m here, Silco," she whispered, her voice barely a breath. “I’m not leaving you.”

As he looked down at their daughter—her tiny hands grasping at the air, her cries slowly turning into soft whimpers—Silco knew this moment, this fragile, imperfect moment, would define him forever. He would protect them both with every ounce of his being, and nothing in this world would ever tear them apart.

“Welcome to the world, little one,” Silco whispered, his voice full of awe and love. His fingers gently traced Y/N’s face as he held her close, his heart finally steady, for now. "Together, we will make this world our own."

JINX/POWDER (PLATONIC)

It was an unusually warm afternoon in Piltover when Y/N sat by the window, her hand gently resting on her swollen belly, feeling the subtle movements of the child growing inside her. The sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow across the room. She smiled faintly, a small flicker of excitement still there, despite everything that had happened.

She had never planned to be in this situation. Pregnancy was supposed to be a shared experience, full of joy, a journey that a couple would embark on together. But instead, she was navigating it alone. The moment she told the father of the child, he vanished. Not a word, not even a glance back. Y/N had been left to face the whirlwind of emotions and responsibility all on her own.

The first few months had been rough. She was overwhelmed by the constant rush of thoughts about how she was going to handle it all, but then Jinx came into the picture. It was unexpected, but somehow, it felt right. Jinx had always been chaotic, unpredictable, but there was a kindness buried deep beneath her wild exterior. She showed up at Y/N’s door one day, a basket full of mismatched baby clothes and snacks in hand, grinning like she’d won some great prize.

“Surprise!” Jinx exclaimed, bouncing on her heels. “I’m here to help with your little monster.”

And help she did. Jinx became an unspoken part of Y/N’s life. She never hesitated, always the first to check on Y/N, bringing over food, running errands, and even talking to the baby as though they were already best friends. The moments they shared together were the bright spots in what could have been an incredibly lonely time.

But despite Jinx’s enthusiasm, Y/N knew the truth. She wasn’t sure if she would have survived the emotional toll of her situation without Jinx’s chaotic, but much-needed support.

As the months went by, Y/N’s belly grew, and so did her bond with Jinx. The little one, who they had started calling “Buddy” for lack of a better name, was about to enter the world. The excitement in the air was palpable.

But the birth... that’s when things took a turn.

The pain hit suddenly, and Jinx was at Y/N’s side in an instant, her usual wildness replaced with determination. She didn’t know how to handle a birth, but she didn’t let that stop her. She had always been resourceful.

Y/N gripped her hand tightly, her face contorted in pain. The room was buzzing with tension, the medical staff moving quickly around her, and yet Jinx was a rock. Her usual high-pitched voice was quiet, soothing, as she whispered words of encouragement.

“You’ve got this, Y/N. Come on, just one more push. I’m right here. Just like we said... You can do this.”

Y/N nodded, trying to stay calm despite the growing panic inside. Something didn’t feel right. Her vision blurred, and her body felt heavy, as though she was being pulled into the deep end of a storm she couldn’t control.

The complications started to escalate quickly. Y/N’s heart began to race erratically, and her breathing became shallow. The doctor’s faces shifted, from calm to concerned, then quickly to urgent. In that moment, Y/N wasn’t sure if she would make it through. The thought of her unborn child, of everything that had happened, flooded her mind.

And then, there was Jinx. Jinx who had seen so much destruction in her life, but still, in this moment, she was fighting to keep her calm for Y/N. She was holding Y/N’s hand, whispering to her, telling her she wasn’t alone.

“Hey... Y/N,” Jinx said, her voice shaky but determined. “Don’t go anywhere. You’ve got a little one to take care of, right? Buddy’s gonna need you. I’ll be here... Just hang on. You’re not gonna leave me. Okay?”

Y/N barely had the strength to nod, but Jinx’s words, despite the chaos around them, were a lifeline. She squeezed her hand once, as though telling Jinx she was going to fight to stay.

The seconds felt like hours, and the minutes stretched on, but slowly, the tension in the room started to ease. Y/N’s heart rate stabilized, the doctors’ movements slowed, and Jinx let out a shaky breath. She couldn’t believe it. Y/N was still there, still holding on, still fighting. The baby was coming. Buddy was coming.

But just as the baby was finally born, Y/N’s heart took another turn. The doctors’ voices became more frantic. Y/N’s body went limp, and the room seemed to spin. She was losing blood fast, and the doctors couldn’t stop it. One of the nurses began shouting for a stretcher.

“Get her stabilized! Now!”

Y/N was carefully wheeled away, leaving Jinx standing at the edge of the room, her mind spiraling into chaos. She hadn’t even realized she was trembling until she found herself staring down at the small bundle in her arms—Buddy. The tiny, squirming baby, who was crying softly, oblivious to the storm that was still raging in the room.

Jinx stared at Buddy, her hands trembling. Her lip quivered as she held the baby closer. Her mind was in turmoil, the weight of the situation crashing down on her.

“Why?!” Jinx suddenly snapped, her voice laced with desperation. “Why is this happening?! Why is it always the babies—why do they make everything worse?!”

Her voice cracked, the harshness of her words cutting through the stillness in the room. She stared down at the baby, her breath shaky and uneven. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. Y/N... she’s... she can’t—she can’t be gone, not like this…”

Buddy’s cries grew louder, more frantic in the tense air, and Jinx’s heart twisted painfully. She trembled, feeling smaller with each passing second. Her grip on Buddy tightened, and the frantic thoughts that swirled in her mind spilled out in a torrent of guilt and anger.

“If you were never born... if none of this had ever happened... Y/N would be fine! She wouldn’t be lying there, fighting for her life because of me. Because of you…” Her voice cracked on the last word, and she choked back a sob, blinking furiously to keep the tears at bay.

Buddy’s cries only grew more intense, a sharp contrast to Jinx’s frenzied breathing. The weight of her words hit her like a ton of bricks, and for a moment, she felt a sickening emptiness, like she was drowning in the guilt that had become too heavy to bear. She squeezed her eyes shut, as though trying to block out the overwhelming reality of the situation.

Jinx’s arms trembled as she held Buddy close, but her harsh words soon faltered. She felt the soft warmth of the tiny body in her arms and the tender, unrelenting pull of something deep inside her—a connection, fragile yet fierce.

Her hands, shaking, slowly calmed, and she held the baby against her chest, her voice breaking.

“I didn’t mean it... I’m so sorry, little one... I didn’t mean it. You didn’t ask for this... None of this is your fault.” Her voice was barely a whisper now, barely audible over the baby’s cries.

Jinx took a shuddering breath, her body wracked with sobs as she rocked Buddy gently, murmuring apologies. “I don’t know what to do... I don’t know what to do without her...”

As the baby’s cries softened into soft whimpers, Jinx pressed her cheek against Buddy’s head, feeling the weight of her own fear and guilt melt away bit by bit. Slowly, almost instinctively, she whispered promises.

“I’ll take care of you, little one. Just like I’ll take care of Y/N. I won’t leave you. I won’t leave either of you.”

The words felt like a lifeline, one Jinx was grasping with every ounce of her being. She closed her eyes, clinging to the fragile life in her arms and the hope that somehow, she would find a way to hold on to both Y/N and Buddy, no matter what it took.

Hours passed in a blur of soft cries, gentle rocking, and quiet murmurs as Jinx held Buddy close. The tiny baby had eventually calmed, his whimpers softening into quiet breaths as he nestled against Jinx’s chest. Her mind was still a storm, turbulent and chaotic, but the feel of the warm, fragile little body in her arms brought a small sense of grounding amidst it all.

She hadn’t even realized she had fallen asleep herself until she was jolted awake by the soft creak of the door opening. A nurse stood there, her gaze gentle but firm, catching Jinx's attention. Her voice was quiet, almost hesitant.

“Ms… If you’re ready, we have a room prepared for you to see Y/N.”

Jinx’s heart stopped for a moment. Y/N... alive?

Her breath caught in her throat, and her wide, shocked eyes flickered down to the baby in her arms. Buddy had fallen asleep too, his tiny hand curled in a loose fist against her chest. Slowly, cautiously, Jinx stood up, her legs stiff from the hours of sitting in the same spot. She held Buddy against her, and the nurse gently guided her down the hall, leading her to a quieter, dimly lit room.

When they entered, the first thing Jinx noticed was the steady beeping of a monitor and the soft rise and fall of Y/N’s chest. She was asleep, pale but alive, the deep lines of exhaustion and pain softened by the gentle relief of rest.

Jinx’s breath hitched in her throat, a fresh wave of emotion crashing through her. She didn’t even realize her legs were moving until she was beside the bed, her gaze fixed on Y/N’s sleeping form.

She carefully sat down beside Y/N, setting Buddy gently between them. The baby shifted in his sleep but didn’t wake, his tiny fingers twitching against the blanket. Jinx’s fingers lightly brushed through Y/N’s hair, a tender touch as she took in the reality of what had happened. Her mind was still reeling, her heart still raw with guilt, but seeing Y/N here, still breathing, still alive, it was almost too much to handle.

A sob bubbled up in Jinx’s chest, but she forced it back, not wanting to disturb the calm around them. She pulled the blanket closer to Y/N, making sure Buddy was tucked safely in between them.

“I... I thought I lost you,” Jinx whispered, her voice barely audible, her throat tight with emotion. She didn’t know if Y/N could hear her, but the words were out, and they felt like a confession she couldn’t keep in any longer.

Jinx leaned forward slowly, her head resting lightly against Y/N’s arm, her eyes closing in exhaustion. “You’re not gonna leave me, right? You promised, remember?” She whispered the words like a prayer, the echo of their shared promises still vivid in her mind.

She closed her eyes, feeling the soft weight of Buddy’s tiny body next to her and the steady rise and fall of Y/N’s chest, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Jinx allowed herself to breathe. The world was still heavy, and the future uncertain, but for now, the three of them were together.

Jinx curled into Y/N’s side, her arm draping protectively around the baby, her tears quiet and unspoken as she drifted into a light sleep, knowing that no matter what happened, she would stay with both of them, keeping her promises.

#Arcane #arcane fandom #Arcane angst #arcane fluff #reader insert #jinx x platonic!reader #jayce x reader #jayce x you #jayce talis x reader #jayce x y/n #viktor x y/n #viktor x reader #jayce x reader x viktor #viktor x you #vander x reader #silco x reader #jayvik x reader

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