#trans reader insert

[carnalcrows]

SWEET AS SIN - THE SALESMAN

pairing: the salesman x ftm reader

synopsis: A humble baker’s life takes a dark turn when a mysterious customer becomes dangerously obsessed—until one night, he wakes up bound and trapped.

content warnings: 18+, dubcon (borderline noncon), reader has a vagina, gun play, squirting, drugging, kidnapping, dead dove do not eat.

word count: 1.0k

The first time you saw him, he was just another customer.

It had been a slow morning at your bakery, the scent of freshly baked bread filling the air as you wiped down the counter. The bell above the door jingled, and in walked a man in a crisp suit, his slicked-back hair perfectly in place. There was something oddly magnetic about him—the way he carried himself, the confidence in his steps, the way his piercing eyes scanned the shelves like he was hunting for something more than just bread.

“Morning,” you greeted, forcing yourself to break the silence. “What can I get you?”

He smiled—a sharp, calculated thing. “Something simple. A loaf, maybe.”

You nodded, wrapping up a warm loaf and placing it on the counter. He paid in cash, his fingers brushing against yours as he handed over the bills. His touch was cold, yet his grip lingered a second too long.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” he mused, glancing around as if memorizing every inch of the shop.

You shrugged. “Pays the bills.”

His eyes flickered back to you, something unreadable in them. “I’ll be seeing you again.”

It wasn’t a question.

And true to his word, he kept coming back.

Days turned into weeks, and the suited man became a regular.

He never gave his name. Never asked for anything specific. But each visit followed the same routine: a loaf of bread, a polite exchange, a lingering look that made your skin prickle with unease. He never overstayed his welcome, but his presence stayed with you long after he left.

There was something off about him. Something… unsettling.

And yet, you couldn’t deny the thrill that crept up your spine whenever he walked through your door.

One night, you closed up late. The streets were empty, the moon casting long shadows over the pavement as you locked the door behind you. You barely made it a few steps before a sharp prick stung your neck.

Your vision blurred. The world tilted.

And then—darkness.

When you woke up, the scent of flour and something metallic filled your nostrils. Your head throbbed, and as you tried to move, the unmistakable bite of rope burned against your wrists.

Panic shot through you. You were tied to a chair. The dim glow of candlelight flickered around the room, casting eerie shadows on the walls.

And then you saw him.

The salesman sat across from you, legs crossed, hands folded neatly in his lap. He was watching you, like a predator savoring the moment before the kill.

“Finally awake,” he murmured, tilting his head.

Your heart pounded. “What the fuck is this?”

He sighed, standing up and pacing toward you with slow, deliberate steps. “You must know by now. I’ve been watching you for weeks, admiring you… wanting you.”

Your breath hitched. The air was thick, suffocating.

“You kidnapped me.”

He hummed. “I prefer to think of it as… securing what’s mine.”

Your pulse roared in your ears as he stepped closer, his hand reaching out to tilt your chin up. His touch was almost gentle—almost.

“You belong with me,” he murmured. “You just don’t see it yet.”

Your lips parted to curse him, to fight back, but then—click.

The cold press of metal pressed against the side of your temple.

A gun.

Your entire body went rigid.

“Shh,” he whispered, his other hand sliding to your throat, his grip firm but not tight. “No need to be scared.”

Scared? You were terrified.

But there was something worse—something worse than the fear, something you hated yourself for. The way his breath ghosted over your lips. The way his fingers pressed into your skin, possessive, demanding. The way the heat between you was suffocating, intoxicating.

And then—he kissed you.

It was slow at first, teasing, testing, his lips moving against yours with a dangerous kind of patience. The gun stayed at your temple, a silent warning, a reminder that he controlled everything. You wanted to recoil, to push him away, but your traitorous body betrayed you.

The kiss grew hungrier, his grip tightening as he deepened it. His teeth scraped against your lower lip, drawing a gasp from you.

He chuckled, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. “See? You fit so perfectly against me.”

Your breath was ragged, your mind a whirlwind of fear and something worse.

He roughly tugged down your pants and boxers, leaving your lower half exposed– making you shudder.

“Hm? What’s this?” he questions while his glance moves to your puffy cunt– leaking and gleaming with the dim light of the room. This certainly wasn’t something that he had expected.

Before you could answer– you took a sharp intake of breath. He had slid the gun from the side of your temple all the way to your pelvis– resting near the clit. Your heartbeat thundered in your ear drums, the fear and tension muddling up your brain.

He dragged the gun to your cunt at a painstakingly slow pace, before pushing the tip in. You moaned, your head falling back against the chair. God you hoped the gun wasn’t loaded.

Without waiting for you to take in a breath, the man pushed the gun almost all the way up your hole, making your thighs involuntarily cave inwards. He used his other hand to push your thighs back apart, as he watched with fascination as the dark metal worked its way in and out of your sopping wet cunt.

This was so, so, wrong– but then why did it feel so good?

The hand that was holding your thighs apart made its way to your clit– rubbing circles around the overstimulated bud. You writhed in the rope’s grasp– the pleasure being way too much

Soon– you felt your orgasm (whether you wanted it to happen or not), wash over you like a raging stream. You screamed as you practically squirted your release all over the man’s hand and his gun.

The man adjusted his posture before sliding the gun out of your cunt and pressing it back to your forehead, before bringing his other hand back to your face– pulling you in for another kiss.

“You’re mine now,” he murmured, trailing his lips down your jaw. “And I take care of what’s mine.”

The gun pressed just a little harder.

And deep down, you knew—there was no escaping him.

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

[eeboyysworld]

“ Sex in the city- “

—⋆.˚⊹ ࿔⋆.˚

Genre: Smut

Frontman X Ftm!Reader

Cautions/Warnings: Latex sex, vaginal fingering, edging, squirting, use of cunt and pussy , semi-public sex, no plot jumping straight to it.

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

The sound of desperation danced the walls of a fancy darkened limo, your knees shaking from holding up for so long, nearly giving out.

Jolts of pleasure swept through you, throwing your head back, letting yourself get lost in temporarily bliss.

Teeth scrapped your throat, dragging up and down, red thrash marks adorning the flesh.

You could hear your own wetness, two fingers covered in latex plunging in and out of your cunt, the absurd sound of squelching unmistakable.

The cold sensation hitting your spot every-time, ripping pure sobs outta you. Clenching your thighs around the man’s lap you sat in, locking him in.

“Doing so good for me, aren’t you?” He was dazed by the way your hole kept sucking in his fingers, spreading yourself on the digits, fluids flowing onto the rubber.

Frantically nodding your head , chorus of ‘yes’s fumbling out of your plucked lips. The arousal pooled your stomach, each time flowing closer and closer.

Yelping when a swift thumb circled your clit, the stimulation leaving you a babbling mess, pleading for it. “M-more!”

Adding pressure to the little bundle of nerves, feeling your warm gummy walls clench around him, letting out a groan at the tightness.

The urge to fuck into you raw, spilling his seed in you, was desirable. He couldn’t do that now, not when you were already so undone by his mere finger. It could wait.

He kept driving his middle and ring finger into you, drinking up the way you trembled in his hold. He watched the way your hips rolled, trying to create more friction.

Pulling out before you could release, leaving you to clench around nothing.

Whines escaped you, missing the feeling of him. “Pleasee..” fluttering your lashes, managing the best pity looked face you could bear.

You could feel yourself pulsing, could feel the pad of the glove just an inch away. The other man was quiet, unexpectedly calm, despite his own desire to eat you out right then and there.

Slowly, his finger slide its way back into you. Biting down your lip, agyonizily waiting.

“Go ahead,” Looking downwards , the sight of his fingers nestled in you . “ Fuck yourself with them.”

He spoke like he was ordering coffee for fuck sakes.

Frustrated was evident upon a glance at your flushed face, beads of sweat clinging to the locks of hair.

Hips stuttering as you began to grind, bringing yourself up and down. Movements shy , before the craving for release took on.

Leeching yourself to his neck, settling on nibbling the fabric that covered the flesh. “Fuck—“

Curling his finger inside you, letting you do the work before matching your pace.

The familiar feeling of pressure loosening inside your stomach, told you that you were close. Gripping down onto him, wetness slipping down the glove.

Everything became sloppy, your legs shaking from pleasure, moaning into the air. “Oh— P-please—“ hands gripping the other man’s broad shoulders.

He urged you on, “Come on baby—“ thrusting his fingers in and out ,with such a pace you knew you could see his veins if he wasn’t wearing said gloves.

Warm wetness coated him, liquid dripping down onto the pants he wore, ultimately soaking it with your mess.

He pulled out ,letting the juices flow, slapping your pussy enough to have you shaking as you rode the high.

Becoming limp in his hold, knees digging into leather, hugging him tightly. Muttering a ‘sorry’ about his pants.

His glove was long off, gently patting your head , whispering it’s alright as long as you’re relieved.

Rocking you back and forth subconsciously, the silence lasted a minute before he said a few of your favourite words.

“You hungry?” That made you jump up, throwing your pants back on, ignoring the way you wobbled up.

“—you know me so well.”

———

Frontman needs to be the back man Lowkey

Thanks for all the likes , I rlly appreciate it🙏🩷🩷🩷‼️‼️

[bunny-jpeg]

⋆⋅☆max v. with a trans masc partner☆⋅⋆

max verstappen knew what he liked. while he usually put the front as a heterosexual man, he had always been a little more fluid about his sexuality outside of the limelight. he had kissed many men in his life as with women, even those who were neither men nor women. kissing was fun, sex was fun. and he wasn't going to limit himself to one set of tools to get the job down. a cock down the throat could be as delightful as sinking into a sweet pussy.

so it was more of a surprise for you to receive max's advances than it was for him to give them.

you remembered when you grandmother told you that she was concerned about you transitioning because you may "never find love" and you told her that it didn't matter. cars were your love, you didn't need a person to fill that gap. so when you met the three time world champion as the new mechanic for the 2024 season, you honestly didn't think too much about wooing him romantically.

but, max was wooed by you. especially when he saw that your lockscreen of your phone was a picture of your two cats, and when he brought up his cats, you just lit up. max liked that you treated him like he was a person. and you simply said, "mate, i'm pretty certain they don't let robots drive these cars." then slapped him on the back, "but i will make you bleed red if you total my car." then flashed him a smile.

you remembered the first time max kissed you. the dutch grand prix had been a total success and within the quietness of the garage post-race with the trophy max had won near by. he took you by the waist and kissed you. he'd later admit that he wanted to do it right on the track.

"do you kiss all your mechanics like that, verstappen?"

"no, only the ones who allow me to win." you two had spent almost the entire season bitching about red bull. max wondered if or when he eventually jumped teams, if he could take you with him. as he held you in his arms. chest to chest.

you admitted close to his ear, a little insecure, "i hope you know. i've built myself... i was born a girl, but became something more. different." then tried to pull back, fearful of his response. you weren't trying to trick him, you'd rather have it on the table.

but he pulled you back in, his blue eyes on you, "you act like i don't know what transgender people are, mechanic." he said as he leaned you back a little, to get a fuller look at you, "you act like i've never been to bed with one."

"i don't want to be a one night stand." you said, your hands on the front of his polo shirt. his hat long hit the floor in the heat of the kiss. you swallowed, "i won't be a toy, verstappen. i have too much respect for myself."

he chuckled, "that's what i like to hear." he held you around the waist and you kissed once more. he could feel the rise in his blood pressure. while you could've easily done it in the garage, max gave you the address of where he was staying and the lie to tell security.

the mechanics team were in another hotel, but if you wore your red bull branded uniform and had your mechanic's pass then you'd get in easily. they'd never suspect that you'd be intimate with the star of the team. and you did just that. even flashing a smile at security before you headed up to the elevator. they didn't even ask questions, which made your life easier.

you found max's room and he happily brought you in. but once the door was closed behind you. his strong arms were around you. he smiled at you, happy to see you. you carefully touched his face, part of you believed this was a strange dream after too many rum and cokes. but as you felt his facial hair under your hand, this was all painfully real.

"do you want this?" he asked.

you nodded and responded with a question of your own, "do you?"

his smile grew a little more, he leaned in closer to you. you only now realized how blue his eyes were, "since the moment i saw you come to the garage. you were more impressed with the car than with me... i found it endearing." he chuckled.

you held his face with both hands and gazed at him, "yeah, because it's a piece of shit car for a champion. it's like giving the king aluminum instead of gold."

he laughed before he leaned in for a kiss. you held his face close to yourself and you felt something bloom in your gut. eventually you got your worn sneakers kicked off and the jacket of your uniform off. it left you in a white t-shirt and max started to strip as well. you eyed his form and he eyed yours.

you felt his heated gaze linger on your chest for a moment and without thinking you crossed your arms across where your top surgery scars were. it was habit at that point.

max was in just his jeans and socks. he reached for your arms. feeling your warm under his palm as he carefully moved your arms away. he wanted to admire you, all of you.

"must've felt very different after the surgery." he said as he held your wrists, his eyes gazed on the fading scars. he was in no way to judge about scarring. at least yours were for something worthwhile, to change yourself in such a fundamental way, "was it scary?"

you shook your head, "no... i wanted to do everything afterwards. my doctor basically put me on bed rest because i was trying to push myself too hard. what was a four week recovery turned in seven."

he placed his hands on your flat chest and could feel the slight raise of the scars under his palms, "you push yourself too hard."

you swallowed, feeling the heat in your cheeks, "if you want to be the best. you have to do more than your best." your gaze met his. it felt so painfully intimate. this wasn't just sex in a hotel room, this was intimacy. max wanted more than your body, he wanted to know all the nooks of your soul and what inhabited them.

he leaned in once more, "we have that in common." before he kissed you once more. his kiss was sweeter, an assurance that you and your body were nothing to be ashamed of. if anything he admired it, even though he couldn't relate to the feelings you carried. he could at least understand the guts it took to go through it.

to become more than you what was given to you. it endeared you to him as you broke the kiss and continued to get undressed. the more of your bodies exposed to one another, the hotter the room got. even with the air conditioning rattling in the room. you could feel the heat between you two.

max sighed, "i don't have condoms... i can pull out or we can do something else." he explained as he got into the bed with you. both naked. his broad hand grazed across your body.

you responded and placed his hand on your lower abdomen, right before your pussy, "hysterectomy. six months before i started. are you clean though?"

he replied, "yes. been a long time since i've been with someone anyway." he was telling the truth. since you started at the season, everything had become a blur with you and the championship being a central focus.

his pointer finger trailed across the scar for a moment before he took your face in his hands and kissed you once more. you could go on about the shape of your face, but in his hands it felt very small. you hadn't realized that max verstappen had paws instead of hands. the thought made you giggle a little into the kiss.

he pulled away and looked at you before he laid you out on your back. he asked with a small smile, "what are you laughing about?"

you looked up at him and said, "didn't realized that formula one drivers had such big hands. every seen them up close like this before." then yelped a little when max grabbed you by the hips and pushed himself up against you.

he curved his back over you and maintained eye contact, those blue eyes were swimming with lust, "well. it's good you haven't seen others this close up. i might get a little jealous."

you looked away for a moment with a stupid grin on your face, "okay, flirt. why don't we get to it before i melt into this bed." then a soft moan left your lips as he rubbed his cock up against your wet cunt.

he admired you for a moment, hoping the image of your naked body stayed with him for weeks to come. you looked masculine. he wasn't going to say "technically" it's not having sex with a man. you were a man just as much as he was if not more. you had to create your manhood and you made it to perfection.

"i want you." you said softly.

he leaned forward and kissed you gently on the lips before he eased his cock into you. he replied with an equal softness, "i want you too, mechanic." the nickname made your ears hot as he moved against you. he thrusts were gently but gained a steady momentum.

you held onto the covers under your back and let him move against you. once you got a hold of his rhythm, you were able to meet his movements as well. the kisses you two shared grew hot as max planted both hands on either side of you and moved.

you two were moving against one another, locked in a heated kiss. the bed shifted slightly under your movements. max was thankful that were was not a bed on the opposite side of the wall. and that this place had enough insulation to keep your noises muffled.

the last thing he wanted was your integrity to come into question. that you only got to where you were because of your seductive ways. the noises between you two were soft. there was no need to rush, the race was over and tomorrow you'd be on the flight to the next one.

he took your hands and held them by your head, which kept you two close but also allowed him to keep you pinned under him. when you broke the kiss, you rested your forehead against his. the noises were harder to keep under wraps the more you moved. the pleasure felt like fireworks in your brain.

you moaned a little bit before you said, "i was thinking something stupid."

max chuckled his sweaty forehead against yours, "tell me."

"i realized what your eyes remind me of." you admitted softly, "i couldn't quite pin it after we met." you were breathing heavily as you locked your fingers further with his.

"and what do they remind of you?" he asked, curiously. he had heard people refer to them like the ocean, the sky after a store, the definition of blue.

you replied, "home. the lake near where i lived. not scary like the ocean. familiar like the lakes i grew up near."

max had no words, he simply laid another kiss on you. his hands grasped your tightly as you two moved together more. the pace quickened and max knew that he wanted to be in your life for a long period of time. he wanted you to be his home.

you moaned against the kiss, feeling the heat leap in your belly as you felt closer to orgasm. you came first with your lips against his. your back arched but your hands were pinned to the bed. it felt good as pleasure rushed to your brain.

max broke the kiss and continued to move against you. he let go of your hands in favour of your hips where he bounced your further against his cock. it made crackles of pleasure appear in your brain. and he was no better, his heavy breathing and occasional moan fueled his need to finish. and when he did, he did so inside of you. max never thought too much about the surgery you had, but he was thankful for it tonight.

he stayed inside of you for a moment as he cooled down before he left a kiss on the corner of your mouth. full of such tenderness as he pulled out of you and ran his fingers through his short hair.

you laid out next to him and heavily panting, feeling so vulnerable. he stayed closer to you, eventually pulling you to him and resting his chin on top of your head. you got comfortable against him.

"if you have any questions, i can answer them... about the whole trans thing." you swallowed, even now you felt embarrassed bringing it up. you felt it was a mood killer.

he took you by the chin and made you face him. he smiled down at you. he asked one question, "are you happy? did you get the life you wanted?"

you nodded in response, "everything and more." and that was enough for max. anything else you felt the need to tell him would be told with time, after all, max expected to be in your life for many years to come. both as his mechanic and lover.

-

max would only come clean about the relationship two years later. the end of his contract with red bull and a final championship was enough for the driver to retire peacefully. and when he retired, you retired and you made a home in monaco.

the coming out post set the internet ablaze. especially given how long you two had been together. wasn't anything too special, just a small collection of photos that he had taken over your time together. like the time you wore his helmet in 2025 with a big thumbs up. and that time you thoroughly messed up a birthday cake for him, and with the camera in your face, he rubbed the icing off your cheek. the one that really captured eyes was the one that a friend took of you at a house party when max came to visit your home country, with his legs over your strong lap and his lips against your face. you were smiling like the sun. being the center of a media storm was only braved with max by your side. at one point turning your phone off and throwing it onto the couch. his kisses were still loving as always, his words soft, and his affirmations of your gender were often so sweet that you'd cover your face in embarrassment.

you were always comfortable with the idea of not meeting your 'other half', you had been given a second chance at life once you came out. and if no one could accept you then so be it. but as you laid out on the couch laid out against your boyfriend with sassy at your side and your cat between the crook of your knee, you felt loved. <3

a/n: i do write for masc readers as well, both cis and beyond. just not as often because many request femme readers. but if an idea is cooking in your head. hit me with it!

[asthronauta]

BEST FRIENDS FUCK EACH OTHER│Barty Crouch Jr × Male Reader [NSFW].

Summary: [Y/N] always wanted to fuck his best friend. And Barty wouldn't shut up. He had to do something about it.

Warnings: Sex with no plot, basically. Ftm (trans) male reader, use of words like pussy, clit, pussy lips and basically shameless talking about it. Unprotected sex, Blow job, Fingering, Pussy eating, Cum in mouth, Cum in pussy, Dirty talk, Begging to be filled, Use of the words good boy & bitch, Public kind of thing? Enjoy 😋

Also, [N/N] means nickname. It can be the shorter version of your name or wtv you want.

Btw, english is not my first language so there might be some errors in my writing. I'm still learning!

Barty was so fucking annoying.

Look, Hogwarts was beautiful and magical and huge but the exams were actually terrifying. You did not want to fail an exam. That's why [Y/N] found the most sought-after corner of the library to study. Which was, in fact, the place he always used to pick. A hidden table in the back plus the late hours of the night that occurred were the perfect combination to study without interruptions. Or, that's how it was supposed to be. But Barty fucking Crouch chased him. Which was actually shit because now his secret place wasn't secret anymore and now he'll have to find a new place where he could find some peace and some quiet.

Bartemius Crouch Junior. The most annoying person [Y/N] ever met and also his best friend. Yeah, that's how things worked. In first year Barty used to chase him everywhere and [Y/N] used to hide from him. Well, some things never change. — It was probably three in the morning and [Y/N] was actually worried about his exam, but Barty just wouldn't shut his mouth. It was nothing new but [Y/N] really needed for him to shut the fuck up.

Barty Junior created his own fame. - He knew perfectly well the image people had of him and he revelled in it. He knew the effect he had on people and it inflated his ego in a way he adored. No one escaped it; not even the teachers. Not even [Y/N]. — At first they were children; of course they had no feelings for each other, but as the years went by, the sexual tension grew. Because Barty fucking Crouch was just too hot and the worst thing was that he knew it perfectly well. It was fucking annoying. So [Y/N] really meant it when he blurted-

“If I suck your cock you'll shut the fuck up?”

It was the kind of proposal that if you didn't accept; it was just a joke, but if you did accept..

Barty was sitting in front of him and [Y/N] saw the look on his face when his brain registered what he said. There was a second of silence where Barty looked at him with genuine surprise. Searching in [Y/N] for a trace of it being a lie and when he didn't find it a smirk began to grow on his stupid face. And that was when [Y/N] realized everything went to hell because he was fucking serious and Barty too.

“Is that a bribe?”

The words slipped from his mouth with an air of amusement. [Y/N] had no idea why every word that came out of Barty's mouth made him utterly mad. I mean, they were supposed to be best friends. But every sound Barty made was a reason why [Y/N] wanted to sew his lips together, and that's been happening more often lately. Maybe because Barty was hooking up with more and more people and [Y/N] couldn't stand to have him around anymore. And maybe a 'please shut up' would have worked just right but [Y/N] already walked into the lion's den and oh, Barty wasn't going to let him go.

“Take it as you wish” There was no way [Y/N] was turning back now. Barty would tease him for life if he did. - He was already at the dance; now he had to dance.

Barty looked at him. Smirking. Smirking at [Y/N]'s face cause he knew he already won. “Do it, and I'll stay quiet.”

Yeah, fuck.

•

•

•

•

[Y/N] wasn't an angel; but he never thought he'd fuck his best friend. I mean, not that it would ever really happen. Because fuck he'd fantasized about that thousand of times. - He was always curious. Can you blame him? He was surrounded by hot people. Anyone in his place would speculate about how his classmates' dicks were like. And Barty dripped with sexual energy. And [Y/N] was just a boy.

Barty was no longer sitting but standing, leaning on the table, looking down at [Y/N] who was kneeling on the library floor. Fuck, what the hell was he doing? he was on his knees about to suck his best friend's cock and he was getting so wet already. And Barty still had all his clothes on. He was literally salivating as he undid Barty's belt - he didn't know he wanted this that much.

Barty didn't say a word. Finally what [Y/N] wanted but fuck he was so nervous he needed Barty to say something stupid. - He had no idea what was going through Bartemius' mind and his own kept going at the speed of light as he undid the zip of Barty's pants, finally catching a glimpse of his underwear. — He was avoiding Barty's eyes but he could tell he was looking at him. At his every move. And he thought he saw a slight, almost invisible blush on the other boy's cheeks.

He was nervous as fuck but Barty didn't have to know that. So when his pants were off [Y/N] was quick to pull down Barty's underwear in one go. And Jesus Christ Barty was big. And hard. So hard it was already standing in front of his face as if his cock was fucking pointing at him. — Fuck, he has a good one [Y/N] bit his lip to prevent that unforgivable phrase from leaving his mouth. - His pussy soaked, staining his underwear. He could feel the wetness between his pressed together thighs. As if his body knew that maybe that thing would enter him soon and that made him blush so damn much because fuck he wanted that thing in his pussy

He took it in his hand, first. He heard the way Barty gasped and how his body tensed and it sent a shiver down his spine. He began to stroke. Up and down. From the tip to the base. His eyes trailing over the tattoo on Barty's hip that ran down to his cock; a snake. Feeling the soft skin on his palm and the veins. Squeezing. Feeling how hard the muscle was. “Yes, just like that” Barty muttered and [Y/N] swallowed the saliva that was gathering in his mouth. He never heard that tone in Barty's voice before and it was doing things to him. — Eventually Barty began to buck his hips against [Y/N]'s hand, fucking that tight, warm grip around his length. [Y/N] was having trouble since he was mesmerized by the scene in front of him so Barty reached down, encircling [Y/N]'s wrist with his hand and keeping his grip still as he fucked it. Barty groaned. [Y/N] could feel the way the muscle tensed and the veins stood out. “Fuck... That's it.. you're good with that little hand of yours” [Y/N] almost groaned at that.

“Barty, fuck” he moaned. Almost pitifully. Because he couldn't believe his best friend was saying those nasty things to him. And he was being a slut for it. There was no words to describe it just fuck. It felt so fucking wrong but also so damn good. — Barty began to move faster. His breathing quickening. As if he wanted to cum. His grip on [Y/N]'s wrist tightened and [Y/N] didn't care to tell him to stop. Because fuck he didn't want him to stop. “Ah, yes, fuck... You're gonna make me cum soon” Barty gasped. [Y/N] sighed. Tempted to rub himself against something because his already soaked pussy was crying out for some attention. He could feel how damn sensitive his clit got.

Barty was close. That thought gave him chills because he could see it. Right in front of him. And it was him who was giving Barty that pleasure. It was him that Barty was so eager for. [Y/N] could see how Barty's swollen, red cocktip bobbed in and out of his fist. Moving tantalizingly closer and then away from his face. He had a close-up of how the tip became wetter and wetter, leaking with precum that eventually ran down to his hand and then to the floor. “Wait” he gasped. Fuck. It must be salty, he thought. He didn't give a fuck. He couldn't let Barty's cum on the floor. It was his; he was causing it. He couldn't let it on the damn floor. “I want it in my mouth”

“Atta boy” Barty growled and [Y/N] almost came. He leaned down, closing his eyes dreamily before taking the wet tip into his mouth. “Ah, fuck” Barty hissed, feeling every swirl and suck as [Y/N] lapped his precum. One of his hands held tight on the edge of the table while the other found its way to [Y/N]'s hair. Squeezing the strands between his fingers. Getting a proper grip that left the other boy's head immobile; just so Barty could move freely. - He pushed the rest of his cock into that eager mouth. Well-, half. Cause Barty didn't get to sink completely when he felt his cockhead hit the back of [Y/N]'s throat. “Oh yes fuck” Barty gasped, looking down to find [Y/N]'s eyes looking up at him. “Mhm.. this is what you wanted, right?” He hummed as he began to move slowly. Tentatively bumping against the back of [Y/N]'s throat, gradually sinking deeper. “Fuck [N/N], I can't believe I'm fucking your mouth” [Y/N] sighed on Barty's cock at that. The fact that Barty was using his nickname only made him feel guiltier and hornier.

He was trying; relaxing his throat, letting Barty dictate the pace. He didn't want to disappoint him. That morning they were having breakfast with Reg and Evan; as they had been doing for years. Who would have thought that by the end of the day Barty would be fucking his mouth. — [Y/N] closed his eyes; and Barty saw it as a sign to let go. He began to fuck his mouth properly; urging, pushing [Y/N]'s head closer as his hips moved in and out of that wet mouth. “Fuck yes, take it” he hissed, pressing his lips together. Frowning as he felt himself getting closer to cumming in his best friend's mouth. “Fuck [N/N], you're making me fucking close for you, fuck... ” he was trying to keep his voice down; although the library was empty the place echoed and maybe a fucking prefect would come to spoil his little fun here. “Yes.. you like that, don't you? Having me deep into that pretty little mouth of yours,” He looked down, only to chuckle when he saw [Y/N]'s helpless face as he choked on his cock. “Fuck, look at you... I didn't know you were such a slut for my cock, [N/N].”

He began to pound, holding [Y/N]'s head with both hands as he hit the back of his throat over and over. His balls hitting [Y/N]'s chin every time. “Fuck [N/N] I'm cumming inside your mouth-” Barty cried before he came. Moaning as he pressed [Y/N]'s head hard against his pelvis. Squeezing his locks as he began to feel the spurts coming out, hitting the back of [Y/N]'s throat as he filled his mouth up. “Oh yes oh fuck” he cried as he stayed still. Letting every drop out deep into [N/N]'s mouth.

Barty's cock slipped out [Y/N]'s soaked, swollen lips only when he made sure [Y/N] swallowed it all. [N/N] coughed, gasping for air. Drool dripping down his chin. Eyes tearing and the messiest Barty had ever seen him. Barty came in his mouth. Barty came in his mouth and he swallowed it all as the slut he was for his cock. He couldn't believe he just did that. He couldn't believe he let things go to hell like that. What the fuck did he just do? There was no turning back after this. His friendship with Barty would never be the same again.

“Fucking hell [N/N]” Barty chuckled. Triumphant smile on his face. As if he didn't give a damn about what just happened. “I didn't know you had such a dirty little mouth there, fuck.. I came so hard for you” he grabbed his spend cock shamelessly. Stroking it lazily as he stared at [Y/N]'s helpless form. Trying to catch his breath. A sticky mess between his legs. Barty's smile grew bigger. “Now what's up, [N/N]? Did the mice eat your tongue? It was me the one supposed to keep quiet”

“Shut up Barty”

“That's my boy” Barty approved as he watched [Y/N] stand back up, Barty quickly wrapping an arm around his lower back and pulling him into a hungry kiss. Saliva, tongue, teeth and the salty taste of Barty's cum in between. Muffled moans from both of them and Barty's thick snake pressing against [Y/N]. “Barty” [Y/N] moaned against his mouth. Not stopping kissing for a second. His arms wrapped helplessly around Barty's neck while his were wrapped around [Y/N] as well. “Ah- Barty-” He gasped his name like a mantra. Unable to believe what that name meant now; the name of the man he was so eager for. The man he needed so bad. No longer the name of his best friend but the name of the person he wanted to be pounded dumb by on the library table. “Barty please-”

“What do you want baby?” Barty muttered against his mouth. Tight grip on the other boy's waist. “Tell me what you want and I'll give it to you”

“Want you-” He gasped. Barty's mouth was too good to let go. “Want you in my pussy Barty please fuck me.”

[Y/N] felt the vibration against his mouth as Barty groaned deeply. As if those words awakened something wild in him. “You want that?” He tested, speaking between kisses. Catching the other's lip between his teeth. “Mhmm, I can do that for you, baby, but you have to promise me something” He pulled away to look at him. Green eyes dark, deep. He cupped [Y/N]'s face with one hand; it wasn't tender, it was rather possessive. Firm. Squeezing his cheeks. “Once I get into that tight little pussy of yours, there won't be turning back, baby” he said, shaking his head as he spoke “I won't stop 'til I cum deep inside. Nowhere else, yeah? Just deep inside your pussy. Is that alright? Are you okay with that?”

And how could he refuse such a generous offer?

He nodded. Heart eyes on Barty. “That's a good boy” he said, letting go of him “Now be a sweetheart and bent over on the table for me. I want to pound that slutty pussy from behind” [N/N] did. Because at this point he would do anything for Barty. — Barty pushed his pants down carelessly. Baring [Y/N]'s ass and needy pussy to the air. “Oh, look at that” Barty mockered, [Y/N]'s face turned red. “You're leaking wet for me [N/N]” Barty's hand shamelessly wandered down there and tested the slit, his fingertips gliding easily over the lubricated area. [Y/N]'s whole body trembled. Letting out a shaky, needy gasp. Barty didn't stop. Tracing up and down until suddenly pushing one finger inside. “Holly shit” Barty cursed over [Y/N]'s moan because he took that finger way too fucking good. Sliding in easily like a wet, slick little mouth - his cock spasmed with interest. “Fucking shit [N/N] you took that finger so fucking good baby” he praised, feeling how [N/N] throbbed and squeezed around his finger “You're a wet little bitch, aren't you?” he purred. Biting his lip as he moved his finger in and out, watching as [Y/N]'s wetness soaked his ring. Getting out of him those tiny little moans he liked. He slipped out; sucking his finger clean. “Mhm, that cherry tastes good” he hummed. So damn naughty. [Y/N]'s face was bright red and he couldn't do anything but let Barty use his body. “Need to have a taste of that before going in, don't you think?”

[Y/N] could hear the smirk on Barty's face; he didn't need to see him. He was about to turn to look as him but he didn't manage to when he felt Barty's face buried deep in his ass. Tongue lapping at his pussy juices. He moaned, a moan that echoed in the empty library and stirred the candlelight. “Barty-!” his gasp died in a shaky cry, feeling how Barty fucking Crouch caught his pussy lips between his lips. Sucking them. Gently biting them— He was in heaven, with the stars and the moon. Barty was eating him like he meant it. Tongue moving everywhere. Lapping at his sloppy hole, guitar-playing with his clit. He could fucking feel the metal of Barty's tongue piercing on his pussy and he was about to-

Barty pulled away. [Y/N] almost cried at that. He was about to protest when he suddenly felt Barty's thick, wet tip resting against his hole. “Barty-” he gasped. Okay, this was really happening. “I'm going to fuck you” Barty groaned. An statement; not a question. [Y/N] sighed almost in fear. Barty was there; just one move away from penetrating him and fucking him bareback. Of crossing a line from which they couldn’t return. — Barty was holding his heavy cock aligned with [Y/N]'s helpless pussy hole. Stroking it. His other hand teasing his balls lightly. He was fully hard again already. Leaking. [Y/N] could feel the swollen tip pressing just a tiny bit in. He fucking mewled. Barty's leaking cockhead was splitting his tender lips apart. He needed him inside.

“Barty- Barty please, you're killing–”

The words choked in his throat as Barty plunged his cock all the way in.

“Fucking take it” [Y/N] let out a pitiful moan. Almost a whimper. As Barty took a hold of his hips. Starting to roll his almost desperately from the start. “Oh you fucking tight bitch you're squeezing me like crazy” Barty groaned, pounding. His balls slapping against [Y/N]'s untouched clit. [Y/N] was speechless. Not even moaning at first as he felt the slight burn and huge presence of Barty in his pussy. His legs were weak - it was thick. So thick. He could feel it stretching him so much he couldn't help but clench around it. Barty was being so damn rough; no mercy for his tender pussy that was taking him so deep. “Yes-” [Y/N]'s little moan went unnoticed under the thuds that echoed through the place.

“You're not letting me go, are you? Fuck, you're slick as hell baby-” Barty moaned. Biting his lip as he threw his head back. Closing his eyes and enjoying the feeling of fucking that small, slippery pussy for a second. Barty knew he was big but [Y/N] was fucking tight. Squeezing his cock like he wanted to fucking suffocate him. A tiny, slippery tunnel that Barty was ravaging. “Fuck, look at us” he said, looking back down to see how [N/N]’s pussy hole was stretched open around his cock. Swallowing it all like the good boy he was. Letting Barty go balls deep with every plunge. “You’re taking me so good baby fuck you were made for me [N/N]” He licked his lips, saliva filling his mouth. His eyes locked on their union. On the way his cock moved in and out of that welcoming cunt. “Fuck, I can’t believe I’m fucking your pussy” he shivered, thrusts getting messier. “Fuck [N/N] I’m fucking fucking you- fuck-” Barty leaned down. Pressing his chest on [Y/N]'s back as he pounded deeper. One hand palm open on the table and the other holding tightly to [Y/N]'s hip. Keeping him in place. - His lips searched for [Y/N]'s lips with closed eyes and found them. Tongues dancing as Barty didn't stop his rhythm.

“So good” Barty gasped “Fuck, so good. Your pussys so good” he hummed against [Y/N]'s ear, pounding impossibly deep and hard. Getting little 'ah, ah, ah's out of [Y/N] with every thrust. “Barty-” “[N/N]” Barty moaned back as he pounded against [Y/N]'s arched back. Holding him impossibly close. “Beg for me baby, beg for my cock” he moaned helplessly, leaning down to nip and suck at [Y/N]'s neck as he relentlessly pounded into him.

“Barty please” He blurted messily. Feeling like his clit rubbed against the edge of the table. Swollen and unattended. But he wasn't going to touch it. His clit was burning with need but he wanted to cum just from Barty's cock alone. And he was close already. He could feel it. And he could also feel Barty's cock throbbing and leaking inside. He was going to come. “Please- Inside. Not pulling out, fuck, Barty. Please fill me up-”

Barty let out a low, dark chuckle from the back of his throat against the skin of [Y/N]'s neck. Pulling away. Standing again as he looked down at him. “You want every last bit of me inside that cute little hungry pussy of yours, don't you?” he asked with a low, dangerous tone. Hands gripping [Y/N]'s waist almost painfully as he began to hammer again. “You'll have it.. mhmm fuck yes I'm cumming inside you”

“Oh god fucking thank you,” [Y/N] cried. Legs shaking as he was so damn close.

“Oh yes that's a good boy, you like having your best friend's cock pounding your pussy don't you? Fuck I'm coming-” Barty gasped. He was a mess. He could feel his swollen tip hitting the bottom of [Y/N]'s insides and it was just too much. He squeezed [Y/N] tight as he began to pound fucking deep. The table shaking. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, baby, baby I'm coming- oh, oh fuck, fuck fuck fuck-” Barty moaned pitifully before burying himself all the way in. As deep as he could go. His body pressed against [Y/N]'s. “Inside-” he managed to cry as he began to unload. Thick, heavy spurts of creamy babies began to shoot out with each spasm of his cock, deep inside that pussy. “Oh shit” he whimpered as if he was in pain; body tense and stiff as his thick load was planted. Letting out a muffled moan the moment he felt [Y/N] cumming just as his cum began to fill him. Milking him.

The moment Barty finished unloading his body fell exhausted on top of [Y/N]. Breathing hard against the skin of his back. Where he planted a kiss when he finally caught his breath. “...Fuck”

“Fuck indeed” [Y/N] sighed. Finally regaining his voice after a while. Both their chests rose and fell, having exhausted all their stamina. Especially Barty who could feel himself getting flaccid inside [Y/N]'s slippery hole.

“I came... so fucking hard” Barty mumbled. Hands still on [Y/N]'s waist. Holding him firmly close. As if he wanted to cuddle. He was a big baby. [Y/N] rolled his eyes.

“Me too” he shifted a little. Feeling all the stuffing that Barty just pumped into him.

“We should do this every day, [N/N]” Barty chuckled a little. Humming after. His cock tender and soft now. Letting the liquid drip down his balls and [Y/N]'s thighs. Cheek still pressed against [Y/N]'s back. “...I think I may love you”

“Fuck... shut up, Barty.” Barty pouted.

[thelurchinghound]

ftm reader getting fucked by two monsters shoving their knots deep in his little cunt whiile hes tied up and just takes it

[Request info] - [Navigation]

Gender: FTM reader

Kinks/Warnings: Non-con/Dub-con(?), knotting, DP (double penetration), Dacryphilia, Teratophilia, Words like cunt, pussy, clit, etc used for reader. Hinted at werewolf monsters but I left it vague.

A/n: BRUH, I love this request, again I left the monsters up to the reader but I was thinking of my werewolf pack ocs. It took a little longer than I thought it would but it's fine. Kinda rushed at the end!

| OC(s) used: Monroe & Quinn | Words: 453 | Proofread by @bunnyscone | NSFW |

By hitting 'keep reading' you are accepting that you're fine with reading my content (Don't like? Don't read and scroll.)

"There you go, baby boy."

Monroe forced his cock farther into your pussy, stretching it out even more. A groan slipped from his maw, his tongue darting out to lick at your perky nipples. A small cry leaving your lips from the intrusion in your pussy.

"Can you hurry it up?" Quinn growled out, his claws digging into your plush thigh skin. Small red lines form in the trail of them. His cock throbs with need against your thigh, a knot at the base of his cock already swelling up, and he hasn't even started fucking you yet.

"No, I'll take however long I want to savior our little guest here." Monroe quips back, glowering down at Quinn. The two beasts start bickering back and forth, all while you are unhurriedly thrust into by Monroe. They sounded like two brothers arguing over a toy. Quinn was lying under you, your back to his chest, Monroe above you, tugging at one of Quinn's pointy ears.

Each thrust was slow and gentle, a surprise for how big and burly the monster was. Monroe's giant clawed hands hold onto the ropes that had you tied up, unable to move. You could do nothing against Monroe's ministrations or when Quinn slid his hand down to your pussy. His thumb started to rub your sensitive bud while the bigger man still thrust into you. Quinn's other hand holds open your trembling thighs from his place under you, chuckling slightly when your back arches off him.

"You said that last time with the last human!" 

That exclamation only got an eye-roll from Monroe, his sharp claws drilling further into the plush skin of your thighs. An annoyed grunt coming from on top of you. "God, you are insufferable. Like a yapping chihuahua that won't shut up." 

After a few minutes of the two going back and forth arguing about fucking you, Monroe ultimately relents. "Fine, fine! Whatever!" He says in a rolling growl, moving to spread open your thighs for Quinn. The smaller beast positioned his cock right at your stretched entrance, though, unlike Monroe, he doesn't push in slowly. Like an excited pup, he thrusts himself in. You were already stretched from Monroe's cock, but now with both cocks inside your dripping cunt it felt like you could've been split open. Their knots pressed together as they started to thrust. At first, it was graceless, but gradually, they got a rhythm down. 

Their thrust started getting harder, knots slipping in with every push in and out. The cave around them filled with grunts and moans of pleasure as the two beasts ravaged your tight cunt. Until they finally spilled inside you, their fat knots locking their cum inside.

[rawbin-hsr]

misc me x hsr doodles kyaaa

I never know whether to tag self-insert stuff as hsr x reader or not bro

[am-i-obsessed---maybe]

It's always wonderfully to see trans/queer readers inserts, reading this was lovely and emotional in the best way possible

On the Brave Shit

Tenth Doctor x Genderfluid!Reader

Summary: Coming out is almost never easy, but with the Doctor everything is just a little bit easier.

Requests: Open!

Warnings: Coming out. Some light anxiety. (I think it's light, anyway, feel free to correct me if I'm wrong!)

"Did you know," the Doctor started carefully, leaning back against the TARDIS console and crossing his arms over his chest, "that Time Lords and Time Ladies regenerate?"

You closed the TARDIS door behind you, tilting your head as you paced up to join him at the console. "Okay?" you said as you reached him. There was a touch of fear in your voice, but mostly you were just confused.

"See, when Time Lords are hurt... hurt badly. When they die. Instead of dying, they -- we -- well, we sort of just. Don't."

You were trying so hard to follow him. You really were. "You... don't die?"

"We... we change. The old us dies, sort of. We keep all the old memories and all that, but our faces change. We become someone new." He scratched at the back of his head, before the same hand trailed over to rest over his mouth as he looked at you. Watched you.

"... Oh. So... you're not... you're not dying, right?" you asked in muted panic.

"What? Oh, no! No. Not for a long time yet, I should hope."

The sigh of relief you released was dramatic.

"See, the thing is... all that to say. Well. One of my friends in school. The Historian, we called him. Well, he got hurt one day. Very badly hurt. He would've died. Is the thing."

You stepped closer to him, taking his hand in yours comfortingly. "Oh, Doctor, I'm so sorry."

"No, no -- none of that! That's not the point." When he saw your stricken look, he softened. "Thank you, though," he said reassuringly, though you were still utterly confused by all this. "See, when Historian changed, he... was no longer a he."

Oh.

How the fuck did he figure that out?

"I... I, erm... Oh." You weren't exactly sure how to process what he'd said. How to proceed.

"Humans are different, obviously," he said casually, though you could feel his eyes watching you, gentle and caring. "But... I think it's probably the same principle, essentially."

"How did you..."

"Know? Oh, well.. I notice things, you know. That's -- that's what I do. Notice things."

You swallowed in dread. "Like what?"

"Well, for one, you spend an awfully long time in the TARDIS wardrobe," he said with a playfully annoyed sigh. "I didn't think much of it at first, but then I saw you dressing up in, well..."

Oh. Oh, no...

"Anyway. The point is. I think you're neat. As you are. Whatever that means."

You felt a tear streak down your cheek, and the Doctor gave your hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze. "Now that that's... you know. Erm. I've been calling you the one thing all this time. Is there anything else you wanna be called?"

You blanched, somehow not expecting him to A. be so chill with all this, and B. so willing to just go straight into it.

"Erm... yeah. I guess. Yeah. She, her, he, him... please."

"Applicable to presentation or regardless of?" he asked, and you felt another tear fall.

"Er... I think regardless of."

He nodded, pulling you to his chest in an impossibly gentle embrace. His lips pressed to the top of your head in a soft kiss, and his thumb wiped away your tears. "You're wonderful. And brilliant. And incredibly brave."

On your next adventure with the Doctor, you were pleased indeed when he effortlessly switched between pronouns, never missing a single beat, never faltering, never hesitating.

[solelifauna]

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.

[mlm-writer]

Aftertaste (Eddie & Venom x GN!Reader)

Pairing:  Eddie Brock & Venom x Gender Neutral Bottom Reader Rating: Mature for discussion of sex Words: 918 POV: Second Summary: After some kinky sex (<- click for the prequel), Eddie and Venom take care of you. Oh and Eddie experiences some mild dom drop. Note: Guess who's back? Back again? Gayden's back! Tell a friend! Tags: aftercare, dom drop, hurt & comfort, cuddling, could be read as romantic, could be read as you're fwb and reader's physical appearance is not described

A trail of cum connected the corner of your mouth with the puddle of cum on the tiles below your cheek. At the start of the evening, those tiles had been cold, but underneath you they have been warmed by your spent body. With the post-orgasm bliss fading into the background, you started noticing the soreness settling in your muscles. A warm hand gentle pushed your hair to the side and out of your eyes. In the dim light, you could see warm, concerned eyes staring down at you. “Are you with me?” Eddie spoke between laboured breaths. You licked his cum off the corner of your lips and smiled at him. “Good,” he added when he understood your non-verbal signal. He seemed relieved, smiling down at you with awe and surprise. 

Seemingly out of nowhere, a towel appeared next to Eddie. However you could still spot the black tendril holding it up by a corner. Eddie took it and folded it up. He lifted your head and wiped your face with one side, before placing it under your face with the other side up. You could feel wet tendrils squeezing between your skin and all the duct tape restricting your movement. The sticky tape came off easily with Venom’s gentle wriggling, leaving no redness on your skin nor taking any hairs from your flesh. Once freed, you stretched your legs out, ending up face down on the floor. “That can’t be comfortable,” Eddie commented. 

“Let us carry you to the couch,” Venom softly mused in your ear. You hummed in reply, bracing yourself. Eddie and Venom merged into one and Eddie’s warm hands wormed their way under your body. He rolled you over and then carried you bridal style to the couch, where a blanket was already waiting for you. Venom’s tendrils wrapped the old fleece blanket around your bodies, protecting you from the chill in the apartment. “You must drink,” the symbiote commanded. He materialised another appendage to somehow make grabbing a glass of water a very perilous and loud endeavour. You thanked him when he eventually got the glass to you. You meant to sip on it, but in just a few seconds, the glass was empty. Venom put the empty glass on the coffee table for you. “Are you feeling satisfied now?” 

You chuckled at Venom’s word choice. “Very much so, Venom. Thank you.” You rested your head on Eddie’s shoulder. “What about the two of you?” Your question was met with a long pause. “Eddie?” You twisted your neck to look at his face. He was clearly thinking of something, but whatever that brain was cooking up, he was not sharing it with you at the moment. 

“Eddie, why are we feeling… guilty?” Venom’s voice was unusually small. It must be bad to affect Venom this much. You reached back, scratching gently at his scalp. Now you were paying attention, you could feel how tense Eddie’s muscles were under you. 

“Talk to me, Eddie,” you whispered as you moved underneath the blanket to straddle his lap. He avoided your eyes at first, but your hand resting at the back of his neck got him comfortable enough to really look at you. It felt like he was staring into your soul for the answers to questions he didn’t dare ask. He took a deep breath, before finally speaking up. 

“You really liked…” He waved his hand in the air as he tried to formulate words that were family-friendly enough that he could get them out of his mouth. That man fucking you within an inch of your life was nowhere to be found. “You liked us going back and forth, right? Like actually, for real?” He looked at you through his lashes. You huffed out a relieved augh and nodded eagerly. “Okay… okay good,” he huskily spoke between weighted breaths. 

You cupped his face and made him look at you. “Hey, Eddie, look at me.” You exaggerated your breathing, showing him slow, deep breaths. Eddie followed suit, following your breathing pattern. “Good boy,” you teased him once he no longer seemed like he was going to crawl out of his own skin and hide in the corner. You kissed his nose and caressed his face. “If I think too much about it, yeah the going back and forth was fucking filthy, but that kind of made it hot? And there is nothing wrong with that.” Eddie seemed to agree with you. A few deep breaths and he could nod more confidently. You leaned against his body, resting your head on his shoulder. You stayed like that for a while, until you thought too much about the wild sex you just had. “Ok, I am ready to brush my teeth now and gargle some mouthwash.” 

Eddie chuckled and helped free you from the fleece blanket. “Need any help?” He offered as he watched you stand up. There was dried cum on your body, your skin still glistening with sweat and your hair a wild mess. He wanted to burn that image in his mind. 

You looked at him over your shoulder and cocked up an eyebrow. “Why? Think I don’t know how a toothbrush works?” When you saw how your words pulled Eddie from his trance, you chuckled. He opened his mouth to probably tell you that was not what he meant, but your smile told him you knew. You shook your head in amusement and left Eddie on the couch. “See you space cowboy.” 

—————

REBLOG TO SUPPORT YOUR FANFIC WRITERS

Likes do not help exposure! A comment in tags or replies can prevent writer's block, even if the work is a decade old (not that I have works on here that are that old)!

[heartfullofleeches]

Darling dared by their group of friends to walk past a bus stop known to be haunted by the ghost of a young woman looking for her groom - following those she deems to be a suitable partner home. They'll be totally fine and safe since they aren't a guy!

"G-guys?! There's somebody sitting on the bench. She's standing up and staring right at me!"

"Haha- Nice try, Y/n-"

"I'm serious! She's coming this way! I'm not even a-"

-

Trans Male Darling, years along the line - staring at himself in the mirror: ....

Trans Male Darling: ... Can't even say I'm surprised by how things turned out anymore-

Ghost Wife Yan, resting her head on his shoulder:<3

[lone-wolf-nergiganos]

Like and reblog if you can relate to this:

[dangerousstrawberryshark]

Aaron Taylor Johnson fucks his Ftm boyfriend after a long day of working out for the next movie he is in and he breeds his boyfriend full of cum the there is a slight bulge in his stomach from the cum and the boyfriend love it

(I tried my best with this and I saw you sent another but it's the same as this one so this will be the only one posted. Not proofread.)

(If you know this will cause your dysphoria to spike, don't read it. I only used cock, essences, and entrance.)

I can see Aaron definitely being a munch.

After a long grueling workout for his next role in a movie, he's horny. His cock aching in his gym shorts as he couldn't wait to come home to you.

Whatever it is you're doing, you're not doing it anymore? Whether it be in the kitchen, living room, or any place in the house that has a flat surface, you're pushed onto it. You were disoriented before looking down to see your pants and underwear ripped off.

You felt Aaron wrapping his arms around your legs, forcing them to stay open and to pull you closer to his face. Aaron's scruffy beard rubbed against your thighs as he traced his tongue against the hood of your dick.

Aaron just devoured you. Lapping at your sex as he sucked your cock. His eyes roll back from the taste and smell of your sex. He loves the way you taste and continues to push his tongue deeper into your entrance to drink more. He was drinking everything as if he was cut off from his access to water-- he was dehydrated of you.

Your cries of pleasure and grip of his head spurred Aaron to continue his ministrations and go harder. He focused on your dick, wrapping his mouth around it. Sucking and softly biting it. You could feel the nerves surging through your body. His thick finger slowly thrusting into your entrance.

Aaron pulled back, he was completely drunk off of you. Eyes in daze, and mouth coated with your essences. He fumbled with his pants until he was abled to pull out his aching cock from its cage. He positioned it at your entrance and slowly pushed in.

He groans as he feels your gummy walls swallowing his cock whole. Your essence making it easier to push deeper, it's perfect. Everything about you is perfect. Aaron watched as his cock was completely swallowed by your hole.

After a few minutes of adjustment, kisses, and praises, Aaron didn't hold back. Fucking into you with speed as his cockhead was hitting the right spot. Aaron lasted a long time before he signaled he was going to cum. He was gonna pull out but you begged him not to.

Granting your wish, Aaron began saying his breed you till you popped. He gave a few more thrusts before going still. You could feel his hot thick cum flooding your insides. There was so much cum that, there was a little stomach bulge from the sheer amount pumped into you.

You're definitely gonna let Aaron breed you next time.

[blitzyn]

welcome home

leon s. kennedy x ftm!reader

request: Is it possible for you to do a Leon Kennedy x ftm reader where Leon's been away for months and it's just sweet sex? Maybe a hint of cockwarming(Leon falling asleep while still inside), loads of praise and just in general body worship stuff! - Anonymous

synopsis: leon comes back home after being months away for a mission and he's eager to feel you again

a/n -> this was actually my first time writing cunnilingus i was STRUGGLING but all in all this was exciting to do i had fun. anyways alhaitham next i haven't done him in a while. ALSO. IM SORRY I KEEP CHANGING THEMES AND USERS 💔

wc -> 2.4k

cw -> cunnilingus, fingering, praise, p in v sex, cockwarming, ftm reader - use of the word 'pussy' and 'cunt' for reader's genitalia, brief description of top surgery scars, soft leon (heart eyes), not beta read

It was silent when Leon finally made his way back home, the soft moonlight shone brightly, as if treading a path for him.

He was exhausted, wanting nothing more than to feel the warmth of your body in his arms as he held you tightly, to smell the scent of your hair, and to hear the sound of your laughter that sent butterflies to his stomach no matter how many times he's heard it.

His keys jangled loudly in the silent night as he unlocked the front door, swiftly entering the house to make his way upstairs. He knew you were asleep since the lights weren't on, as made evident by your figure covered in blankets. Slowly, he made his way closer before sitting on his side of the bed, creating a dip in the mattress. Gently, tenderly, he reached out and shook your shoulder, chuckling softly at the sight of you taking a moment to stare at him.

Your drowsy eyes lit up in instant recognition as you sat up eagerly to take him in your arms in a tight hug.

"It's good to see you again, [Name]," he said, burying his nose in your hair to breathe in your scent. "I missed you."

"I missed you too, Leon," you said, relief flooding through your veins, grateful to see him home. Reluctantly, you pulled away, watching the way his eyes darted all across your face to take in your features. "You've been gone for so long. I was so worried you'd..."

"I know, sweetheart," he muttered, cupping your cheeks to gently rub them with his thumbs. "And I'm sorry for that."

You nodded, holding onto his wrists. He took a second to gaze into your eyes before he pressed his lips against yours, cherishing the way they melded together with practiced ease. You sighed contentedly, leaning into him to deepen the kiss.

In need of air, you moved back, only for Leon to follow after you, refusing to take his lips off of you just yet.

"Hey—Leon!" You laughed, trying to tilt your head away from his onslaught of kisses. "I still need to breathe."

"Your lungs can wait," he jokingly said, chasing after your lips. You leaned back far enough to lie down, rendering you unable to resist his affection any longer. Not that you wanted to, anyway. Soon enough, he found himself on top of you, peppering kisses all over your face—on your forehead, nose, eyelids, cheeks, and lips before moving downward towards your neck.

At first, they were innocent, but when he tilted his head and sucked on the piece of flesh that pulled a moan from you, you knew then that neither of you would be getting much sleep tonight.

"Leon," you gasped out, reaching up to comb your fingers through his hair. "You just got back... Aren't you tired?"

"Honestly, yeah," he admitted, sliding his hands over your shirt to caress your waist. "But I'll be fine," he muttered against the column of your throat, pressing his lips to it for a chaste kiss before sitting up.

"The question is, are you tired?" He asked, scanning your expression for any lies you might've tried to hide. "I don't wanna push you."

You shook your head reassuringly despite having woken up not too long ago. "I'm good. Don't worry about me."

He let out an amused huff through his nose, the corners of his lips quirking up in a smirk. "No promises." He gently tugged on your shirt in a silent request to take it off, swiftly pulling it up and over your head as soon as you nodded.

"Christ, Leon, your hands are cold!" You let out a surprised yelp, arching your back in a futile attempt to get away. He only laughed, sliding his hands all over your stomach mercilessly to use your body heat to warm them up until you finally relaxed.

He leaned down again, gently biting on a spot over your collarbone as he ran his tongue over it soothingly. He moved again, kissing a trail down your sternum until he took one of your perky nipples in his mouth, rolling it between his teeth. You bit your lip, watching him toy with your chest, running his fingertips along your scars. A heat pooled in your stomach as he slid lower, finding himself slotted between your legs. He watched your face intently, burying his thumbs underneath the waistband of your pants to slowly pull them off upon finding no disapproval from you, his breath hitching at the sight of your cunt.

"Fuck..." He whispered, blowing a teasing puff of air onto your clit, lips quirking up when you shivered. "Missed you and this pretty pussy," he groaned, hiking your thighs up and over his shoulders. Electricity shot down your spine when he looked up at you and gave it a quick kiss before encasing his lips around it, sucking gently.

You sighed, reaching down to comb your fingers through his hair. He hummed in response, curling his arms around your thighs to keep your legs open, squeezing the swell of them with his calloused hands. He moved down to give your pussy a long lick from your hole all the way back up to your clit and down again, savoring the taste of your juices on his tongue. He looked up through his lashes to gauge your reaction, feeling his cock throb in his pants as he softly ground his hips against the mattress.

You let out a moan when he pressed his face firmly against your cunt, eagerly sucking and flicking his tongue up and down your clit. Pressing your heels against his back, you rocked your hips, tightening your hold on his hair as you tugged on the strands.

He let go of one of your thighs, pressing two of his fingers against your hole, swiping upwards to gather some of your wetness before pushing them inside, groaning against your nub when you clenched around them. He curled them, searching for that one spot inside you that'll have you cumming in no time.

A subtle grin lifted his face when he saw you jerk, legs twitching, before diving back down to your clit. He was gentle but relentless at the same time—a blend that had you reeling for more.

"Fuck, Leon," you moaned, squirming. Your belly heaved as you looked down with half-lidded eyes, meeting his.

"That's it, baby," he muttered against your skin, giving it a harsh suck. "Moan my name just like that."

He pulled away slowly, his lips and chin glistening with your juices as he raised his free arm to drape it across your hip and inner thigh. The fingers inside you stopped, pressing against your G-spot while his other hand spread your pussy lips. Leaning over your crotch, he spat on your swollen clit before rubbing it in tight circles with his thumb. You shuddered, tightening around his fingers as his saliva mixed in with your fluids.

"You taste so fucking good," he mumbled, licking his lips. He began moving his hand again as he stared up at you with heat evident in his eyes, watching you toss your head back in ecstasy. "I could stay here for hours."

He curled and crooked his fingers, listening to the sounds of your sopping pussy around him, squeezing and trying to suck him back in whenever he moved away. "You're so wet f'me... This how much you missed me?"

"Uh-huh." You groggily nodded, rocking your hips against him. Your cunt throbbed—you were sure he could feel it—with the need to cum, legs writhing just a little bit more. You bit your lip, whining and gasping as you tensed, inadvertently trying to close your thighs around his head.

"No, don't do that," he said, taking his hand off your pulsing clit to hold one thigh open while his tricep kept your other one down. His arm ran across your lower abdomen, gently bobbing up and down with every labored breath you took. "Keep your legs open... Let me watch you cum 'round my fingers."

You could only nod, utterly drawn to the rasp of his voice and the undeniable authority in his tone. You whined when he latched back onto your sensitive clit, flicking his tongue up and down, eager to make you orgasm.

"That's it, baby," he muttered, giving your nub a firm suck. "You're so close... C'mon, give it to me." He groaned, grinding harder against the mattress as he moved faster, pushed deeper, until finally, you came around him with a loud moan.

"There we go..." He nearly came in his pants as he curled his fingers into the special spot inside you, helping you ride out your orgasm. "You did so good, sweetheart. Missed watching you do that for me." Sighing, he sat back up and pulled his fingers out of you to lick them clean, staring straight into your eyes.

With a grunt, he flopped beside you, turning your body so your back was flush against his chest as he ran his hands along the side of your thigh. His painfully hard cock was pressed against your ass, grinding against you leisurely.

"You wanna go all the way?" He questioned against your ear, his hot breath fanning against the shell of it to bring shivers down your spine. Even when the throbbing between your legs hadn't subsided yet, you couldn't find the need to decline.

"Thanks, baby," he said. You could hear the faint smile in his voice as he shifted around behind you, listening to the sound of rustling fabric and the jangling of his belt buckle. He tossed his pants to the floor haphazardly before swiftly pulling his cock out of his boxers. It throbbed fervently, leaking with precum and leaving your skin slick when he dragged it along the inside of your thighs.

He grit his teeth as he rubbed the shaft of his dick against your pussy, mouthing at the back of your neck before he slowly pushed his way inside you again. The two of you let out satisfied noises, savoring the way he stretched you out so perfectly.

"You're so tight..." his voice was strained as he spoke through gritted teeth, roaming his hands along your body. "You were made to take my cock like this, huh?"

"Mhm," you signed contentedly, eyelids fluttering shut. "Couldn't touch myself without you here."

"Poor boy," Leon teased breathlessly, snaking an arm under you to toy with your nipples, ghosting the tips of his fingers along your top surgery scars every so often. His free hand moved down to rest on your belly, gently pressing down to feel himself thrusting inside you. It was far too late at night to do anything intensive, but both of you were satisfied with just soaking in each other's presence. He held you close to him, whispering those sweet words that you've been aching to hear ever since he had to leave for his mission.

He was already on the verge of cumming just by eating you out, and it was no secret to either of you with the way he twitched and throbbed. He spent countless nights fucking his fist trying to imagine it was you, but his calloused hand could never compare to your soft and warm cunt.

"Fuuuck..." Leon drawled out, fucking you a bit faster. "I'm so close..."

"Already?" You laughed quietly, hissing when he pulled about halfway only to ram himself back inside in response before resuming his relaxed pace. "Okay! Sorry, sorry."

You bit your lip and let out a pleased sound when his free hand shifted itself to pat your clit before massaging it, lifting your own arm back to run your fingers through his hair again. You turned your head, connecting your lips with his passionately. You moaned into his mouth when your sensitivity from earlier began pooling in your abdomen again, earning a beautiful groan from the man behind you when you tightened reflexively.

Breaking away, you lazily pushed against him in sync with his thrusts, eyebrows furrowing in concentration when you could feel the heat burning brighter in your stomach.

"Fuck... That's it, sweetheart," he panted, tugging you closer, fucking you just a bit harder. "Cum for me again. Please, pretty boy, I wanna feel you cum." He rubbed your clit with just the right amount of pressure, brushing up against your G-spot with every thrust. He sucked and licked and kissed the skin of your neck, littering it with hickeys and shallow bites.

"Shit, Leon, 'm gonna... gonna cum again," you gasped, your hips jerking. You could feel him nod in response, but he was in no rush to get you to orgasm. He maintained the pace until he felt you squeeze tight around him and let out a loud moan, your body tensing and convulsing for a moment. The sight and feeling of you cumming sent him right over the edge as he swiftly pulled out with a wet squelch, pressing your thighs around his slick cock to fuck the plush flesh.

With an audible groan, milky white ropes of cum spurt out of the tip of his cock, landing on your skin and the bedsheets in front of you. He pressed himself flush against your body until his cock stopped throbbing and jerking before finally relaxing with a satisfied sigh.

"That was so good, [Name]," Leon praised, nuzzling into the back of your neck. "You did amazing. Like always."

"I know," you responded swiftly, feigning arrogance. But you could hardly keep up the facade, softly laughing at yourself. "But you did amazing, too."

"I know," he parroted playfully, giving you a quick kiss to the nape of your neck when he suddenly shifted to push his softening cock back inside your hole. He caressed you reassuringly when he felt you tense, explaining that he wasn't going to move. Not too much, at least.

"Now go back to sleep," he instructed, exhaustion taking root in his voice as he pulled the covers over your spent bodies. He wrapped his strong arms around you in a comforting embrace, listening to the sound of your soft breathing. "We'll clean up tomorrow."

You rolled your eyes with an exasperated huff through your nose. "Fine." Your eyes fluttered shut, feeling your body relax. "Goodnight. I love you."

"I love you, too."

cross-posted on ao3

[kiyo-cant-write]

Diasomnia w/ a transmasculine s/o ✧･ﾟ

Summary: These headcanons are for the members of Diasomnia falling in love and dating another student at Night Raven College (can be Yuu, not written as explicitly Yuu) who they understand or assume to be a cisgender male and then finding out they are transgender when s/o tells them/comes out to them.

TW/CW: None

Notes: established relationship, transgender reader, he/him pronouns for the reader, the reader is explicitly human

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.

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✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:

After much deliberation, he finally decided to tell his boyfriend about his gender identity. It didn't seem important at first. Did it even matter to his boyfriend? But, as [Name] had come to realize from a few comments that didn't fit his identity, his boyfriend truly had no idea he was transgender. That could lead to some misunderstands, so he knew what he had to do.

Walking into Diasomnia, [Name] saw him from the entryway. He was able to pull him aside from what he was doing, telling him that he had something important to share with him.

When his boyfriend asked what it was, [Name] just... told him, as casually as possible the words flowed from his lips.

"So, I'm trans."

.

.

.

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:

Malleus Draconia

Malleus doesn't understand what his s/o means. At all.

He is much older than his s/o and the word is foreign to him.

The fae is curious, however, and asks what it means.

He also asks if "trans" is short for transfiguration.

Have you transfigured yourself into something?

Are YOU the thing you were transfigured into??

Malleus assures that if there is a magical issue, he can help.

Once he has the concept explained to him in more detail, he nods.

Malleus' expression is serious, the same as always.

Regardless, he loves his s/o and understands the barebones of his gender identity and transition.

"Oh? Is that what this means, Child of Man? How interesting."

Malleus patted his partner on the head as he spoke. He was always appreciative of what human knowledge they had to share with him. This moment, to him, was no different. He smiled slightly, his fangs visible with this expression.

"Thank you for sharing this new vernacular with me."

"Malleus..." [Name] began, trailing off into silence.

He watched the other boy's expression sour slightly and wondered if he had somehow said something offensive. While Malleus does not apologize often, he does apologize to his significant other when called for. Malleus does not like to see him upset.

"Do not fret, my love," Malleus told him, "I do understand it now."

"Are you sure?" [Name] asked the fae prince, "You thought I was transfigured houseware during this conversation."

"I assure you, my dear," Malleus reiterated, "I love you and I understand that the man you are now is who you were meant to be."

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:

Lilia Vanrouge

Lilia's eyes are fixed on his s/o as they explain.

From his travels, Lilia is familiar with different gender identities.

Despite being older than Malleus, he is more in tune with others and with the modern era that he finds himself in at NRC.

He nods along as his s/o explains his own journey with gender.

Lilia's first instinct is to pat his s/o on the head and grin at them.

He doesn't like it when his s/o looks anxious or upset.

Lilia is a caretaker personality, or he has become one over time.

He praises his s/o for pursuing what they want in life.

He is no less fond of them than he was before.

Lilia tried to hold back a laugh at a joke his partner made trying to explain their gender but it escaped him anyway. He always found [Name] to be a funny person and the jokes were quite pointed and hilarious even to the old fae who was familiar with gender and its fluidity but not with being transmasculine specifically, as [Name] worded it.

"You really are a riot, even when you're worried~"

[Name] looked at him, surprised by the comment.

"I'm happy, no, overjoyed you can share these things with an old man like me," Lilia told him, "So thank you for trusting me with this, [Name]."

[Name] smiled at him, calming down notably now that Lilia had broken the ice for them both. It was a feeling of relief that Lilia was being the same Lilia he always was even having been told something that [Name] thought would startle him, even a bit.

"I'm glad this didn't shock you too much, Lilia."

"Oho? Shock me? At my age? I've seen many a thing, you know."

"I know, Lils."

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:

Silver

Thankfully, Silver does not accidentally nod off during this talk.

He listens respectfully and nods to show he is listening.

Because of his upbringing, Silver is unfamiliar with this more human concept of gender compared to Briar Valley's beliefs.

His understanding of gender is influenced by his home.

He actually isn't sure why they think they need to tell him so seriously as he thought gender was fluid already (shout out to Lilia for raising Silver in an LGBT-friendly household).

Silver is curious about these differences.

He asks his s/o about them but otherwise is wholly unphased by the "reveal" as his s/o is still himself. That is what Silver tells his s/o matters most.

He also thanks his s/o for explaining it to him.

Silver apologizes for being a human who doesn't know human things because he thinks that this could be disrespectful to his partner.

Silver waited for his partner to finish his explanation, which was basically a speech covering everything from "I am transgender" to what the many views of human gender were by the many humans living outside of Briar Valley. The second of the two topics had begun shortly after Silver gave [Name] a bewildered expression during their initial spiel.

All in all, Silver thought it was an interesting topic. Being raised by his father, he did not leave the Valley until he was attending Night Raven College, following after his master and father.

"I see," Silver said when [Name] was done, "That makes sense."

The light-haired boy offered a gentle smile toward him before he continued to speak, thanking [Name] for the explanation.

"Thank you for telling me this. I'm sorry I didn't understand sooner. I really am not much of a human, when you think of it," he admitted with a sheepish look in [Name]'s direction.

"Eh. You were raised by fae," [Name] agreed, laughing at the almost shy expression on Silver's face, "So it would make sense if you knew more about fae culture than humanity. I mean. How many humans live in Briar Valley anyway?"

"Malleus-sama says that more humans live there than before but not so many that they outnumber the fae within our borders."

"Huh," [Name] managed to say, "I'm still not sure how many that is."

"Sorry, I don't actually know much besides what I've been told," Silver explained the reason for his somewhat vague answer.

"You don't need to apologize, Sil."

"Sorry—"

"Silver!" [Name] cut him off before bursting into laughter that Silver couldn't help but echo with his own.

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:

Sebek Zigvolt

Sebek is probably the one who has the most intense reaction.

Because of his impulsive nature, he says a few insensitive things.

His first response is to ask s/o if humans can change their sex?

He means this in the sense of biologically shifting from one sex to another and does not realize that this is a weird question to ask.

His father definitely couldn't do that but his father wasn't the only human ever to exist (Exhibit A: NRC student body).

His comments are less transphobic and more weirdly racist against humans if anything, but they aren't meant to be hateful.

This boy is genuinely asking you this question.

Sebek's boyfriend spends more of the conversation giving a human biology lesson than anything else.

Once he has had the concept explained, Sebek scoffs.

Sebek asks his s/o if he was worried Sebek would be upset.

Sebek also assures his partner that his biological sex doesn't change Sebek's feelings and apologizes for thinking his s/o could shapeshift like some fae can.

"[Name], I wouldn't leave you over something as trivial as your sex," Sebek told [Name], seeming vaguely offended at the idea of doing such a thing, "You're one of the few humans that I like outside of family."

[Name] sighed as he listened to Sebek's answer. It was comforting to them. Somehow, his vague anti-human rhetoric was comforting to them in moments like this. He smiled at the half-fae.

"Sebek, I feel like you need more human friends," [Name] told him.

"NONSENSE. You and Silver are plenty of humans."

[Name] made a face at Sebek's words.

"You said you didn't even like Silver?" [Name] questioned.

"I don't, he can be irritating. But I do like you, so whatever else doesn't impact my views of you negatively," Sebek told his partner in a way that told them from the tone alone that he would not be argued with on the matter.

It would be like trying to convince him Malleus had a negative trait.

"Thanks, Sebek."

"Of course!"

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:

Thank you for reading! Likes and reblogs are appreciated! Do NOT repost my writing/headcanons as your own >:c Check the top of my blog for the inbox status and read the rules before requesting. This is not a twst-only blog! ^^

[s3thwrit3sstuff]

hello seth! i don’t think my tumblr works with anon so i’ll just send it like this! i’m a huge fan of your writing and i absolutely adore it. whenever i am in the need for a good story and writing inspiration i go to your blog. so i was hoping if you could write a sally face fic! i haven’t seen too many on here and willing to write for m reader or ftm.

i like the thought of being with sally and just having time with him, soft domestic type stuff. then he starts asking you how you really feel about his face and you smile and take off his mask with permission and kiss him saying he’s beautiful and to not worry. you kiss him and hold him. he then sits up but keeps your lips locked and you begin to explore each other sexually but in a such intimate way you both are crying almost. if you want could be m reader but i would love a ftm reader! can we also have reader be bottom but still be guiding sally and affirming him. i know this is a big ask and you’re always working so hard so please take liberty with this ask! take what you want from it and remove what you don’t like. i just love you’re writing. take your time as well! writing can be draining sometimes and you really need to find that inspiration so i want to make sure you feel no pressure!

have a good day/night/evening!!<3

❝ I'll show you how we're supposed to feel (when we meet at Orion's belt) ❞

SalFisher x ftm!reader | fluffy, NSFW | reader has had top-surgery & bottom growth | sub. bot. reader | NOT PROOFREAD | wc: 5.4 k

warnings: mentions of facial dysphoria, self-deprecating thoughts (Sal), unprotected sex, praise (a lot of it), minor hair pulling, creampies, AFAB terminology (clit referred to as dick/cock, terms like cunt and boypussy are used)

masterlist ;

authors note: thank you so much for your kind words! hearing that you use my writing as writing inspiration made me feel so warm and fuzzy on the inside oh lord 😭 you're too kind! This request was the softest one I've ever worked on, thank you so much for gracing me with the opportunity to write this~

*song on repeat: Orion's Belt by Sabrina Claudio / Baby Girl by SMNM

"Cold, cold, cold," Sal lifts his head from the couch. The sight of you rushing down the wooden stairs in nothing but a towel makes him lift himself to sit. "Fuck! Sal, you should put carpet in here!" Grinning, he leans forward and folds himself in half to stare at you furiously lifting the towel up to wrap around your shoulders instead.

"You hate carpet. B'sides, it'll get that weird moldy smell in here. I told you to get those fuzzy slippers," Gizmo meows in agreement from his corner of the couch. "Traitor!" you exclaim and he simply meows once again, lifting a leg to lick his stomach and Sal reaches over to give his head a good scratch.

"See? Even Gizmo agrees."

"Gizmo has in-built fuzzy socks. He has no say in this," your huffing and puffing simply makes Sal roll his eye, lifting Gizmo up to place the large cat right on his stomach while he props his head onto the armrest of the couch. Gizmo stretches out onto his torso, unbothered by the change in position while he presses his nose into Sal's chest and twists until he's nearly full on his back; the action makes Sal secure the old cat on him. His olive-toned arm loosely wrapped across Gizmo's purring body.

You're still rambling but it's all background noise to Sal. The sight of your bare legs and backside calls for his attention and despite how guilty he feels, he can't help but drag his sight all the way up to your — now — bare shoulders. The towel is now limply draped over the towel rack, and your muscles and bones are moving seamlessly underneath the fabric of your skin.

Everything about you can make him feel like he's going to explode. In a good way, if you can believe it. He sure as hell didn't. Sal remembers the first time he saw you, thinking you looked cool and that it was nice your interests lined with his. Somehow you managed to become more than that.

More always scared Sal. It was greedy and selfish. He wasn't religious but there was a sense of anxiety that came from wanting and needing more than you were given. Some sort of divine guilt was planted within him through passing by churches and reading the signs of worship plastered on billboards. Needing more is frightening, especially from other people.

More time spent with you two. More hours of listening to you speaking. More days spent with you in his home, bare skin and bare soul all for him and only him.

It frightened him!

Because, as self-centered as it sounds, he'd have to give you more. Don't take this the wrong way, he wants to — God, he wants to — but...but...

What if you don't like all that he has?

The fabric of his skin is spoiled. Marred. One of his eyes is artificial, his jaw asymmetrical, bone blown to bits, nose cut off and skin grafts stitched together and spliced.

His heart hammers in his chest, and his breathing is shaky as he squeezes Gizmo. The patch-furred critter mews, twisting once again and crawling up. His weight on Sal's chest is comforting. The pressure across it squeezed down on him, reminding his body that it was real and he was safe.

"In conclusion, I propose we buy a heater! That way we can — "

You're dressed in Sal's pajama pants, hands in the middle of pulling down the oversized band shirt when you notice Sal squeezing his eyes shut.

"Sal? Baby? What's wrong?" You sit by his legs, placing a hand on his knee and pressing your hands on it to ease him back down. "You're okay, baby. You're okay." It's not often Sal gets like this. You've known him ever since he came to Nockfell County; you know he's the type of person to withdraw within himself when his anxieties get the best of him. He's certainly gotten better with time and as your friendship — and eventual relationship — got stronger, the both of you worked on ways to lean on each other when things get tough.

Sal inhales deeply, Gizmo raising with the motion, and exhales. You don't pry more, giving him room to find the words and tether back to you. Gizmo's purrs muffle the silence.

"Sorry, just, the sight of your ass gave me a heart attack, Jesus," the joke is met with a loose grin but Sal knows you better than that. Still. He's grateful you snort at his jesting. Gizmo stands — Sal grimaces as he puts all his weight on his sternum — then walks over to your lap instead. The sight makes him calm down.

The faded grey of the once-black band shirt and his pajama pants do too. It's silly but the sight of you in everything that's his comforts a part of him. You're here. You're in love with him. Your gaze holds nothing but patience and adoration and a tinge of worry.

But you're here, in his clothes, in his room, his cat in your lap, and your hands on his body.

"You feeling better, Sal?" He nods, pushing to sit. "Do you wanna talk about it, baby?" Gizmo gives your chin one more bump before he jumps on the floor and meanders his way to his food bowl. Taking the chance, you inch closer to Sal and he's grateful for it.

You're not scared of the cold prosthetic on his face. The iron bolts that secure the straps to his face and head, the glass eye that shines humourlessly in any situation.

"Do you ever want...more from this? From me?" That line of questioning made your brows furrow and mouth frown. "What do you mean?" You reach for him and Sal reciprocates by holding your hand in his lap.

"I was joking about seducing Mr Smith from the electronics store for a heater," he scoffs at your lame joke but continues. "I don't mean that, I'll get us a heater. Just..."

"You've never seen...all of me." His grip loosens but you don't let it. "So?" he looks at you, his face angled low and the shape of his prosthesis mimics his brow bone. Sal is pinching his face, confused at your indignant tone.

"So?" He whispers. You lift his hand up, inching in closer and placing his knuckles over your clavicle.

"So?"

"Doesn't it freak you out? We've been together for so long and you've never seen my face," he murmurs. Since you're so close, speaking above a whisper would ruin this moment. Sal's heart is racing again though this time the anxiety is laced with his love for yours. It's a confusing emotion but he relishes the way you press your forehead to his, nose bumping with the bump on his prosthesis.

"Do you want me to see your face?" He inhales sharply, glancing away.

"...I do. But..."

"Mm?" you spread his fingers out, guiding them to your neck and the calloused pads of Sal's fingers make gooseflesh spread. The hairs on the back of your neck standing in applause; because that's what he does to you.

He makes your pupils expand, makes your heart race, makes your brain produce dopamine; your body lights up like a goddamn firework when he so much as looks your way. You can be yourself with him without fear because you know you do the same to him.

"...I've only ever let you kiss me when it's dark. The first time we had sex, I couldn't even take off the mask...I just...I'm..."

Your frown deepens when Sal sighs, his shoulders dropping.

"Be honest. Does it bother you?"

He's glad you don't reply immediately. A part of him always worries your love for him overtakes everything else. That, if something ever happens between the two of you and it tears you apart, you'll feel regret once the love is gone. You brush his hair behind his ear, cupping his jaw as you shake your head.

"No. It doesn't. Because it's you, Sal. I love you. Even the parts you aren't ready for me to see." He exhales and his breath escapes through the slits of his mouth. You feel it on your thumb and it makes you grin.

There's a twitch in his eye and your grin falters for a moment before it reappears when he locks eyes with you.

"...Do you want me to see your face, baby?"

His jaw is set. His tongue is made of lead. So Sal simply closes his eyes and gives you a minuscule nod. If it weren't for your hand on his jaw, you probably would've mistaken it for a twitch.

"Can I take off your prosthetic?"

Another nod.

"Are you sure, baby? I won't do it if you're not — "

"I'm sure." He says in one breath. "I'm sure."

A moment of silence was shared and you leaned forward to press your lips in the molding of his. The cool material does not pulse or pump with life but it's your Sal's and you cherish it deeply; he exhales shakily and you grin as your fingers dance through the locks of blue to find the straps that hold the prosthetic in place.

It's secure, it's meant to be, and you can feel the wear and tear of the years in the material. The scratches and indents weaved into every fiber. You unbuckle the lower end first and Sal tightens his hold on you, so you pause and press another kiss to his porcelain cheek.

When he nods, you continue, cupping the mask in one hand to steady it while you undo the upper buckle.

Sal would be statue-like if it weren't for the nervous tremors in his fingers. The mask loosens and its weight drops into your hand. His breath does not come through the slits anymore and you can feel it breeze through the fine hairs on your fingers.

He says nothing and neither do you. Still, you place one more kiss on the forehead of his prosthetic and lower it from view.

Sal has his eyes cast away, but he faces you. There's a large scar across the right side of his mouth, splitting his lips and exposing his teeth. There's a dent on the right side of his lower jaw that leaves his bone structure slightly unbalanced, and the cartilage of his nose is completely missing. The skin has healed, stretching his eye and tugging on the rest. It's pinkish still, never quite settling into the rest of his olive-toned skin, and Sal understands why it's jarring.

It's like peeling back the layers of what makes humans...humans.

The skin. The sight of his face makes people unnerved. Teeth and gums and muscles and the lack of a nose. One side of his face was a plain canvas and the other was a goddamn Jackson Pollock painting of horror.

Your touch on his bare skin shocks him. The pads of your fingers drag across his cheekbones. "Does it hurt?" You ask with your eyes lidded.

"No, no, it...it doesn't." You smile and your thumb rests just under his eyes, sweeping fondly while your palm holds his face preciously within your hand. There's a flush to his skin — it's not unusual with how the prosthetic held over his face nearly 24/7.

There's a feeling of nakedness that comes without the even pressure across his visage but your hands are an amazing substitute.

"You don't have to be nice," he says. "It takes a lot to get used to — "

"I know I can't completely convince you to not think of yourself as 'something to get used to' but you're not. Not to me." Sal's eye water and he wills himself to finally look at you.

There's a pinch to your brows, it makes your eyebrows cast this shadow across your eyes and highlight the colours of your eyes. You're frowning at his self-deprecation, though beyond that he can see you mean well.

"I would gladly sit on your face, Sal."

He scoffs, groaning as he slips away from your hand to toss his head back and flop right onto the couch again. "You're fuckin' impossible, (Y/N)," he mumbled as his hands covered his face. You place the prosthetic down on the makeshift coffee table near the couch and chuckle as you swing one leg over his hips and rest your crotch over his.

"What? I'm being honest here!" Bracing your weight on your elbows, Sal finds the comfort of your body across his similar to Gizmo's. "You're fucking beautiful," he squirms at that and you huff, nuzzling your face into his neck while he peeks from over his fingers.

"You don't have to say that," you huff once again. "I'm not saying that because I have to, I'm saying it because I want to. You're fucking beautiful, me being your boyfriend is just a coincidence."

He feels you shifting and instinctively, his hands rest on your hips and there he is again. You know you shouldn't stare, so you don't, but the shy glances at his face are less than secretive. His eyes are blue, cobalt almost, and his eyebrows are a darker shade of his hair. The shape of his eyes is rounded, with a deep crease and heavy eyelids just like his father's. Lifting your head, you gaze down at him and your hands are once again gingerly ghosting on his skin. This time, they're tracing his collarbones, feeling up the protruding muscle of his neck and halting at his jaw.

"Can I kiss you, baby?" He has a quirk. A lip twitch that he does when he's excited; you've been dating him for years and you're still finding out new things about your boyfriend. It makes your heart race and it only triples in speed when he nods. Hovering, the peak of your lips ghost his. He had always envied how you kiss his prosthetic. It was an extension of himself but he hated how badly he wanted to feel you on him.

They press to his and Sal slips his eyes closed. It's nothing more than a peck. Innocent, chaste. But then he's tightening his grip and pulling you in; tilting his head like he's always seen other people do and you're grinning into it. He knows because he can feel it.

He can feel it.

How your lips spread, the hint of teeth that slide over his bottom ones, and the crinkling of your nose that's brushing over his cheek.

"You taste so good, pretty boy," your words make his ears red. "I'm sure anything is better than kissing porcelain," he replies with a breathless tone, leaning forward again as if unwilling to part from you even if just to talk.

"No, don't disrespect yourself like that. What did we say about making those jokes." "Hah, I'll stop when you do."

Giggling, you're leaning in again. Sal wonders if kissing you is the only reason he's not completely in tears. The first time he'd accidentally showed Larry his face, he'd cried because Larry didn't look away from him. You taste tears on your lips and Sal curses softly as he tucks himself under your jaw, groaning. You shush him comfortingly, threading your fingers through his hair as he takes a few deep inhales.

"I love you." Those words are followed by more tears and you squeeze him again. "I love you, Sal," he nods against your — his — shirt. He can feel the grin you have from the crown of his head.

"I love you. I love you. I love you."

Because you did. Sal was the man you wanted to be with until the Earth decided to throw in the towel; it didn't matter how buried your love for each other would be, because when your bones are dug up, or his guitar, or the treasure trove of things you've called yours; in the future, when you whisper to those archeologists: "Do you know?" they'd nod and reply, "We know you loved him."

Sal has never felt love like this. One that felt overwhelming at first, the same way entering a body would be for the first time in your life, but once he embraced the feeling? It was so...fulfilling.

How lucky was he?

Sal pulls away to cup your face and he leans in. You meet him halfway.

The feeling of your breath, your heart thudding against his own chest, the pulse beating under his thumb as he holds your neck — Sal isn't sure if he'd ever get into heaven but he doubts it ever compares to you.

His jaw moves and your lips part as you press closer. Fuck, kissing him felt like drinking in sunlight. There's a freedom that follows it, leaves you floaty and blissful.

"I love you," he replies between the friction, teeth biting down on your lower lip if only to hear if you'd gasp. You do.

"I love you so fuckin' much, (Y/N)." There's a feverish desperation in his words. But it makes your heart swell. There's no doubt in his eye, nothing but the truth and the truth is he'd worship you.

You're kissing again. Eager to show him the explosions he sets off within you. Between desperate lip locking and messy tangles of tongues, his hands move down and up your — his —shirt.

Squeezing your sides as he drags his digits across your skin. It spreads fire across your planes, has your already uneven breath shuddering as he memorizes the shape of your body again.

There's a growing hardness between his legs. You can feel it — twitching below your crotch as he tilts his head and tastes the lust that perspires from your neck.

He's greedy with his mouth. How could he not be? Sal has been wanting to taste you the second he realised how badly he wished you were his.

"Fuck, Sal." You groan, chewing on your lower lip as he experiments with this unmarked territory. His tongue is warm, his teeth brushes over pumping arteries with an air of amusement; when he finds the sweet spot? The spot where your breath hitched as he kissed it?

Sal makes your blood vessels explode. It isn't enough that the hairs on your neck stand in attention because of him, or how your blood rushes to your head when he so much as looks your way. He's determined to show you he can worship you in more ways than one.

You're gripping onto his shirt and your hips grind down. The moan he lets out makes your cunt wetter than before.

"I need you," you tell him as he sinks his teeth in. Just to test it out, to see if you'd like it. You do. His back feels cold as you lift his shirt but he grips at your wrist, panting as he moves his head away so you can see him.

"Can I...Can I keep it on?" He already felt a touch too exposed. You nod, reassuring him with a chaste peck.

"I'm gonna take of my shirt. You've made me all warm," he smiles a bit too smugly. He's handsome that way. When he gets a bit cocky — it's a sure fire way to make your head dizzy with desire.

"My shirt," he mumbles.

But when your bare torso is revealed the sass is pushed away. Sal presses kisses on your chest, teasing your perk buds with his too-warm hands and relishing in the way you toss your head back when he takes one in his mouth.

"Sal, holy fuck." He kneads at your ass, making your hips move back and forth. Rocking your clothed cunt over his boner as he leaves hickeys and bitemarks.

Here is where I plant my love, he thinks as he feels your heart pound against your ribcage, here is proof that he's mine.

Your pants are pulled below your waist and Sal moves back, making you yelp at the loss of balance. One second you're over him and the next, you're both tumbling over the couch.

His hand cradles the back of your head, curling over you as much as he could when you crash. Thankfully, none of you knocked into the coffee table but the adrenaline of the short fall makes the both of you wide-eyed.

"Holy fuck!" You laugh breathlessly. He scans you for any injury but soon follows suit. "You okay?" His hair curtains your face from view as he descends to claim your lips again.

"I'm peachy, baby." Sal grunts as you tug at the waist band of his pants. "Don't stop..." and how could he say no to you when you look up at him like that?

Your hands invade underneath his shirt and Sal moans as you press your fingers lightly into his back, kneading at the tense muscles. "M'not gonna take it off. Just wanna feel you," you assure as you reach his shoulder blades. God, the feeling of your hands on his body made him feel so Holy.

Ironic in the grand scheme of things but it's not like Sal gave a damn.

It's your turn to mark him up. He often already is. But this time your lips latch onto the obvious places. Lifting yourself to sit, Sal is suddenly at your mercy as you lovingly bruise him up with your mouth.

Sal lifts himself off your crotch a bit, panting and moaning at your ministrations, and slips his hand down your pants. Your breath stutters as your boyfriend touches your core.

"Sal," you plead. "I know, baby. I know," Sal frowns when you whine. "What? What's the matter, sweetheart?"

"You're just..." You're breathing heavily as you stare up at him, nails lightly digging into his skin as your dick twitches against his palm.

"You're so fucking beautiful, Sal."

That catches him completely off-guard. He hates how tears immediately burn at his waterline but regret doesn't come when they travel down his cheek. You're kissing him and the self-depriciation doesn't once rise. That snivelling, hissing, voice of doubt remains mute as you hold him.

"So fucking pretty," he slips his finger in as if attempting to distract you with pleasure. It makes you keen but you continue to sing praises for him as he pumps his digits in and out of you.

It's hard to move when you curl your arms over his back, hands peeking from the stretched out collar of his shirt. Forehead once again pressed to his.

"I can't — "

"You're all mine. My pretty boy is all mine." Blood should not rush so quickly to one's head. His chest is dusted in red, his shoulders, his ear, the apples of his cheek —

"You feel so good, Sal."

You allow him to push you back, splaying out onto the floor with your eyes lidded in want as he looked at you.

"...Shit, you're making my brain go all stupid," he grumbles — it sounds more like a whine. You lift your hips as he tugs your pants down and off. Sal gets between your legs and for a moment you think he's about to just slide in — which causes you a bit of concern considering how much meat he's packing between his legs — but then he lays on his stomach and your cock peeks straight up.

"I've watched a few pornos," he says with a grimace, "but — "

"I can guide you, Sal." He's looking up at you with those doe eyes and you chuckle as you brush some of his hair back. "You made me cum from grinding on your goddamn leg before. You've got this, Sex Grandmaster Sal."

"Really don't think mentioning Larry's marijuana induced rambling is setting the mood, babe," your giggle smooths out the furrowed brows he had. "Sorry, sorry."

Your cunt is making his mouth water. Sal presses his thumb on your cock and the sigh you let out eases his worries. His tongue on your dick has you inhaling deeply, slowly, back arching off the floor as he looks up at you.

He's overzealous but fuck does it make you wetter than you've ever been. Licking and sucking on your cock while he teases the opening of your cunt with his fingers. The hints of teeth makes your hips twist but he holds your hips down with muffled groans.

"Fuck, yes. You're doing so good, Sal. S'fuckin' good — holy shit, babe," the way your voice gets all pitchy makes him grin. Your slick on his tongue is making him want more, so he spreads your lips apart and sinks his tongue inside, it makes your grip onto his head, and Sal moans into you at the pinpricks of pain that follow.

Fingers accompanies his tongue and you're clamping your thighs around his head. It forces Sal's face into your cunt and the whole thing has him chuckling against you.

Pinning your thighs apart, Sal licks and swipes at the slick around his mouth and chin, catching his breath as he curses.

"Fucking Christ, does it feel that good?" You whine in retaliation. "You're the one going down on me of course I'm going fuckin' crazy. You get all whiny when I go down on you too — "

He curls a finger inside of you and you cut yourself off with a particularly loud moan. The floorboards above you creak and like a deer lifting its head as a branch snaps in the distance, another follows as whoever was in the living room heard the echoing cries of pleasure.

Sal slips another finger in and you cover your mouth, glaring at his handsome face petulantly. It falters as he stretches you out, thrusting in and out with a steady rhythm that he occasionally breaks to curl his fingers up.

You're groaning and curling your toes, eyelids fluttering and squeezing shut as he jerks you off with his other hand. Loosening his jaw, Sal uses his spit to lube you up further. He had a thing for sloppy sex. You once joked he enjoyed the slick-and-slide of it all and he didn't deny it then and probably won't ever.

"Nuh - no, don't wanna cum yet, I wanna cum with you, baby," he slows his rhythm, staring at you as you lift yourself onto your hands and taste yourself on his lips.

"Want you inside me. Please, Sal, I'm beggin'"

"You don't have to. I've got you." He nods when you hold onto the waist of his pants. Pulling it down to his knees and let his cock spring out into the air. Fuck, it's a pretty dick.

It's fat and heavy. Thicker than longer, the girth always makes your toes curl. It's a darker colour compared to the rest of his skin tone, the mushroom tip a warmer shade that burns when you tease him too much. You motion for the couch and he leans against it, whispering your name as you hover over his cock.

"Fuck, you're so hot," he says as you pump his dick with your fist while you line it up to your cunt. "You're pretty fucking hot yourself, big dick," he struggles not to laugh in your face, shaking his head in 'disapproval' that's short-lived.

You sink down on the tip of his cock and Sal moans out your name, squeezing your hips. You shiver for a moment, willing your insides not to clench so excitedly when you've still got some ways to go.

"Shit, (Y/N). You're so fuckin' tight." You could not agree more. The more you go down on him, the more you're tempted to just squeeze him like a vice. Sal brings your face down to kiss him, very quickly becoming addicted to the feeling of it. It's no wonder teenagers made out in the hallways all the damn time.

Gravity helps you the rest of the way. When he's all the way inside of you, you part your lips, the way your eyebrows slope being felt on Sal's forehead as you clench around him.

"Fuuuuck, Sal" you're whimpering his name, arms wrapped around his neck as you look at him. "You feel so fuckin' good, baby."

He swallows thickly, reaching to push your hair away from your face as he gazes up.

"I love you, so fuckin' much. I love you, Sal," you're determined to make him turn into nothing but mush. He's certain of it. His insides felt like a field of flowers, all blooming at once, even if it didn't sense at all. There's an airy moan that escapes him as you squeeze your inner thighs, your hips move forward and Sal grips you like he's afraid you're just a figment of his imagination.

"I know, baby," he whispers back. "I love you, more than you can imagine."

A dopey grin appears on your face. "You think you can show me how much you love me, handsome?" He smiles and your heart feels like it's going to stop.

"I can do more than show you, pretty boy."

He turns you over on your side, not once pulling out. You hastily grab some couch pillows for the both of you before your descent onto the floor. It's cold but that's all the more reason to hold onto each other.

Once your head is on a pillow and you're on your back again, he drapes over you.

Another kiss. Another mischievous nibble. A sly dance of tongues.

Sal is pulling out, the drag of his dick makes you whimper, and thrusts back home. The action has your nails leaving welts on his back but it just reinvigorates him.

He's splitting you open and filling you up. Every thrust makes you see stars. You're unwilling to let him go if the legs wrapped around his waist are saying anything.

But Sal is growing flustered the more praises you tell him.

"That's it, baby. Fuck this pussy, this pussy's just for you."

"Fuck, you look so good, baby. On top of me, fucking me, shit — !"

"Oh, God, your cock is — yeah, right there! — you're in so deep, Sal -Ah!"

You're so fucking filthy.

He wants to hide his face in your neck but he doesn't wanna take his eyes off you. Eyes trailing where his lips and teeth had been, eyeing the sheen of sweat on you and your messed up hair.

The shower you just took had been in vain, huh?

"Fuh - fuck, I'm close," he warns, bracing himself on his elbows as he hovers above you.

"Yeah? Me — mff! — too. Cum inside, baby. Need to feel you — fuuuuck — dripping outta' me," he chuckles breathlessly at your words.

His hips are stuttering and he can see the way your brows are furrowing, angelic moan after angelic moan being knocked out of you. He gives your cock a rub and the way your back arches off the floor makes him hold his own orgasm back just so he can see you like this as clearly as he can take it in.

"Sal, oh fuck, baby!"

"I've got you, (Y/N)."

He chokes out a groan as he feels you clamping down on him, your cunt gripping onto him like it never wants him to let go. You gasp as he snatches your breath, messily making out with him as the aftershocks of your orgasm are barrelled through thanks to Sal's deep thrusts.

"Shit, shit, shit," you smile as he begins to lose his rhythm. Ignoring how sensitive your boypussy feels as he chases his end. "C'mon, baby, fill me up. Yeah, that's it."

He cums with one final thrust. The warmth of it floods your insides, earning pleasant shivers from you as you moan out his name. He's riding his orgasm out, pushing in and out of you shallowly as he catches his breath above you.

"Jesus, fuck..." You giggle at his words, chest rising and falling in rapid motions as your heart tries to calm down.

"That was, Christ, that was — " "Fucking amazing?"

He nods, falling on top of you as carefully as he can. You embrace him, humming as he kisses your neck while you rub his back. The both of you catch your breath, satisfied expressions etched on your faces.

When Sal moves, your eyes are already closed. He pulls out and you whimper at the loss, ignoring the way he stares at his own jizz dripping out of your cunt in favor of gazing at his face.

"We gotta take a shower all over again," he says, helping you sit up and accepting the hug you give him when you're righted.

"...Wanna do it all over again in the shower?" Your question earns a throaty chuckle. "Thought it was implied in my statement."

Another beat of comfortable silence is shared. Sal sighs, nuzzling his face into your neck.

"Thank you, (Y/N)."

"I've got you, Sal."

[thatonesonicfanfictionwriter]

Shadow the Hedgehog x Trans Reader Headcanons

Requested: No.

- Immediately demands to know your preferred name and pronouns

- Is supportive of course, really supportive actually

- He finds the whole idea of being able to change gender amazing and supports you wholeheartedly

- Will threaten anyone who calls you by your deadname or misgenders you on purpose

- Probably starts to sleep on your chest more often now that you’re comfortable with it if you’re transmasc

- Probably paid for your top/bottom surgery and your hair/fur cut if you wanted one

- 100% expects you to start taking his hoodies more often than you usually do if transmasc

- If transfem he takes you out shopping to get you comfortable clothes ^^

- Most likely saw it coming from a mile away with all of your new changes and the fact that you didn’t really hide your binders or testosterone (or estrogen if you’re transfem)