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solelifauna · 3 months ago

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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.

421 notes · View notes

daddyhausen · 6 months ago

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「 COMMISSION FOR —@hobihoneydrops 」

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「 MASTERLISTS 」 | 「 MUSICIAN/BAND MASTERLIST 」 | 「 VESSEL MASTERLIST 」

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「 SUMMARY 」 — vessel falls head over heels in love with his dream apparition

「 WARNINGS 」 — smut, 18 +, [ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT ], DD:DNE !!, obsession, mentions of accidental drug overdose, mentions of death,

「 TAGS 」 — [ yearning ] [ forbidden love ] [ gentle sex ] [ vaginal sex ] [ penetrative sex ] [ unprotected sex ] [ male masturbation ] [ body worship ] [ cumshots ] [ oral sex — female receiving ] [ outdoor sex ] [ male + female orgasm ] [ multiple orgasms ] [ internal cumshots ] [ vaginal creampie ]

「 WORD COUNT 」 — 6.4k

「 PAIRING 」 — fem!reader x vessel

「 GENRE 」 — smut, angst, DD:DNE

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「 TAGLIST 」 — @thewrestlingbitch @omg-im-such-a-masochist @mjfass @sammiejane22 @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @melissahausen @writtingrose @drummergrl1310 @unoficialy-married-to-ace-austin @janetreader @bonehead-playz @legit9thlunaticwarrior @crowleysqueenofhell @romanreigns-supreme @sunshinevirus @nicoleveno14 @rubyred1980 @harmshake @igncrxntripley @ripleyswhore @embermdk @thepalaceofmelanie @seeingstarks @kennysbadkitten @darkangelchronicles @selena-tyler-564 @nev-danielgarciawife @teenagedramaqueenlisa @miss-whiddlesmort @dykekota @summertimefun1982

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you were only a dream — a figment of his imagination. the phrase repeated in vessel’s mind like a mantra. just on the cusp of reality you were. like a car in his peripheral vision, that inched closer than the rear view mirror anticipated—a deer in the headlights of your gaze, frozen in time as you stared at him with eyes of starlight, so bright and entrancing. the loneliness of his reality had plagued vessel for years, it still did — worse in fact. he has not felt the touch of another for quite some time, in a way he preferred. his mind too cursed, body too broken. the thought of burdening another precious soul with his troubles was far too much to bear. at least with you…he was able to control part of it.

even within his dream, as he stood within the evergreens, the prickle of wild, dew-slick grass between his toes, crisp spring air untangled the barbed wire wrapped around his lungs. he breathed — a deep shaky inhale — a breath that, in the waking world would have been too much of a chore. the shrouds that bind his tall, lanky body proved to be a godsent rather than a hindrance. the thin cotton fluttered against his obsidian skin, the sensitivity of his flesh heightened, buzzed with adrenaline as you came into his view.

an angel- no! a goddess you were. surrounded by and aura of golden sunlight that radiated throughout the forest, your shrouds white — pure, made of the finest silk, decorated with matching golden sun sigils, one around your waist that accentuated the wonderful curves of your full hips and thighs, the other two at your shoulders, shielded the swell of your breasts from his unintentional lustful gaze. vessel had never seen such a beholder of beauty in his pitiful existence, and even as you stared him down, with eyes full of reverence and care, he came to the realisation that not once had they touched, or even spoken for that matter. yet between them was this unannounced acknowledgement of each other, their eyes met, you would smile at him and he’d of course smile back, his heartstrings tugged and another appendage swelled just from your gaze alone. his belly ached and fluttered, his hands grew clammy with sweat, the perspiration never fully dissolved from his skin no matter how many times he’d wiped them clean on his shrouds.

and somehow each time he would near, drawn closer to you inch by inch, you’d fade out of existence, an invisible barrier blocked their paths — a wall build by his inner psyche to protect himself, even from the goddess he revered so. you’d never hurt him, he claimed that at least. for you were too kind, graceful, even to put up with his mere presence is enough to show your graciousness. the two off them connected by a string of fate never to be cut.

by this time he woke and you were no more. vessel rose from his bed in a panic, he clung desperately to the phantom images that flashed in his mind, the sensation of the wind that reminded him of what your touch would have possibly felt like. no more forest, no more greenery, no more freedom — no more you. just the desolation of his reality. the hopelessness that filled his bedroom. surrounded by piles of unwashed laundry that, if he squinted within the darkness, reminded him of the shrubbery of the forest, and the carpet — was a far cry from the soft tufts of grass.

barbed wire encircled his lungs again, he struggled to catch a breath with the sudden realisation that he’d alluded to for months—he was whole-heartedly in love with an apparition—for you could hollow out a place in his ribs and carve a home where his heart would be, nestle in the marrow of his bone and he would not object. he craved it. just one touch is all he asked, a simple meaningless touch of your hair, your shrouds, your skin. even if you faded completely from his memory after that he could at least die content.

vessel’s loins swelled with an unannounced arousal, he could envision you still so clearly, a picture painted behind his eyelids that would grace him every time he blinked. and a lovely image it was. so clearly splayed out of him, body nestled in a bed of daisies, a beautiful contrast against your delicate skin, a small shudder parted your lips as his fingers explore the warm cavernous void between your thighs, curled upward until he hit just the right spot that had you crying out his name in a fit of pleasure. your back arched each time he drove himself into your, gummy walls clenched around his length as he filled you to the brim, pulled him deeper, accepted all he had to offer. for he worshiped you and what kind of man would he be if he would allow such thoughts to remain silent?

vessel, with a shaky hand cautiously reached into his shrouds, his fingers tingled against the bare skin of his chest, so sensitive just from mere thoughts of his unnamed goddess. the fabric now felt constricting, his own skin even more so as arousal burned through him like untamed flames. he shuddered upon contact, beneath the fabric was warm, wet. his cock glistening and sticky with his own fluids. how he managed to spill over so quickly just from a dream of you was unbeknownst to him.

still, he did not stop, slender fingers grip his swollen shaft, hardly hesitant, almost primal with his actions. his tip sensitive, the bulb engorged and leaked with sweet pre-cum as he traced the calloused pad of his thumb across the slit. behind his mask grew hot, perpetration dripped down, through cracks of pearly white and ruby. his mouth dried, tongue cotton in texture, suddenly parched and in desperate need for a drink. a thirst only you could quench. his teeth somehow felt sharper, canines desperate to sink their teeth into your ethereal flesh, not to wound but to mark, just an indentation so others would know who’d staked his claim on you.

with haste, ringed fingers shoved down his shrouds, orate silver and polished garnett looks so stark in comparison to his skin — beauty amongst the darkness, akin to his mind in a way. his cock, now relieved that it has been freed from the confines of his shrouds, pulsed thickly against his toned stomach in small twitches, globs of white pre-cum stained his skin.

another shudder followed, he released it from his grasp, he let it fall heavy and hard against his body. he took another inhale — a heavy one though his nostrils, one that seared his blackened lungs. he contemplated for a moment, surely he was delusional. the woman did not exist. he created you to fill the void of loneliness that has consumed him since his adolescence. vessel was almost disgusted with himself, a pathetic attempt at self gratification would only lead to more loneliness in the end. and what woman would want him then?

vessel let his eyelids fluttered closed for a moment, a heavy pity-sodden sigh rested on his tongue, surely he’d have some self-respect for once in his life. pleasuring himself to a made up deity did not help quell his thoughts. vessel rested his head back against the headboard of his bed, a dull thud reverberated around his bedroom as his head made contact with the worn cherry oak, the frame had been damaged for a good while.

as he let his thoughts wonder, a flash of you repeated in his mind, not as coherent as the first, more so bursts of images, of you on top of him, gyrated and bounced atop his lap, breast clear and exposed in his line of vision. vessel’s throat tightened, a moan stifled in his chest. another followed, this time you’re backed up against him, his cock disappeared between your thighs, flesh rippled against his in an unholy dance, like still water disturbed by a stray pebble.

vessel’s eyes shot open, irises burned with desire. his body flushed with need, untamed and visceral. again, with no intention of holding himself back this time, his palm re-attached itself around his cock absentmindedly and he growled through clenched teeth like a starved wolf desperate for a feed.

his cock ached, and the movement of his hand began again as he stroked himself to thoughts — memories of you. memories that had no attachment to his reality, his mind too far gone to accept that, he did not allow himself to accept the reality that fate had laid before him.

“m-my goddess…” his whimpered out a plea, desperation laced in his voice with the hope that just maybe you’d heard him. responded to his cries of pleasure and save him from himself.

”just once…allow me to touch you…” his breath shuddered “…need to touch you….please”

he was desperate, called out to you as if you were there, naked before him, commanding him to submit to every wanton sexual desire of yours. to claim him as yours, to obey, to love, to fuck. if he could, vessel would peel off his skin if you ask so, he’d lay his body before a thousand ravenous wolves just prove his loyalty.

he’d let you mark him, beat him, degrade him anything of the sort and he would not falter, not once.

“fuck ahh..mmhmm..please…” he begged, the humiliation welled in his veins just at the thought of how pathetic he looked begging for an apparition to grant him what he will never receive.

he sweared he heard you sing his name with sweet praises, he felt the waterfalls of your lust rain down on him so sweetly. the voice conjured in his mind, so heavenly, an interpretation of what you might of sounded like. a voice so rich like honey that it could brought the most visceral beasts to their knees in obedience.

“my goddess…” he repeated, hot tears streamed down his sticky sweat-ridden cheeks as he tightened the grip around his shaft, a pathetic attempt to replicate just how you might stroke him, all taut and rough. the rings that adorned his slender fingers provided cool respite in between strokes, not much but enough to quiet his brain for a few milliseconds.

vessel crooned with pleasure at the tightness in his stomach, the dull throb of his cock against a rugged palm, pathetic whimpers passed through clenched teeth as he allowed himself to fully open his senses to the pleasure. as much as he desired domination, the faint whispers and pleas of you calling his name, breathless and lustful against you tongue paired with the visions of your sweet, dripping cunt accepted every inch of him. it was too much for vessel.

“you’re mine…i will have you, my goddess” he panted, aggression burrowed deep in his chest. angry at the predicament he’d found himself in, angry at the way the world was kept you barred and confined within his mind. god help when he finally was able to receive your touch, he will drink you in, get drunk on your essence, savour the feeling of your flesh on his tongue.

vessel let his mind wander further down the trenches of sin, his eyelids coated in visions of you in post coital bliss. instead of shrouds your body would normally occupy laid by the stump of a grand oak, laid an elegant, wedding dress made primarily of lace — detailed white lace with flowers, roses and lilacs hand embroidered so intricately into the fabric. marital bliss… his mind delved further, fastwarding, your womb now swollen, heavy with his unborn child, her gentle, motherly touch carresed the ever growing bump.

vessel could not help by let a tear shed from his eye — a happy one, marred with hopes and dreams of what could be.

“i’ll make it happen, my love…i promise…” even as empty as the promise was, he still wished to see it through. he hopes…

vessel’s breath laboured, the familiar twinge of his orgasm built deep in his abdomen, a thick, ever-growing pulse that thrummed from shaft to tip. he let out a small whine, almost pained as he gripped his cock tighter as he stroked the silky, wet appendage. he wanted to moan your name, it almost ripped his throat as a choked whimper passed through, yet no name he conjured up in his mind felt suitable or worthy enough for you.

his chest heaved, he panted with open-mouthed whines. the phantoms of touch against his bare chest, he hoped it would replicate the touches he’d envisioned of you. his hips rutted upward, primal in nature so desperate for release. a breath caught in his throat as he neared closer, unable to exhale until he finally released. spurts of white coated his knuckles, warm and milky as he spilt over, his body jolted and convulsed in pleasure upon release. yet he did not stop; he needed to drain himself fully, more as a form of punishment rather than gratification.

he did not feel satisfied, he felt disgusting, pathetic. pain shot through his hips, he silently asked you to punish him for his transgressions, he did not feel worthy to spill his seed for you, not under these circumstances. he wished to fill you, your womb to house the product of his one sided love.

he came again, he continued to stroke until his hand cramped, that was when he released his grip. he collapsed into the mattress, a disgusting mess of sweat and cum. his hips and stomach painted white, cock engorged and red, pulsed faintly, sensitive with lust.

he laid there in an uncomfortable silence, the wind howled in mockery, alluding to his shame and guilt. his bottom lip quivered with untamed sobs as a heavy guilt rose in his chest. the moon seemed dull on his skin despite the sheen of perspiration, no post-pleasure bliss to fall back on and soothe him to sleep having violated the sanctity of his dream deity.

”my goddess…forgive me…” he pleaded as if you could hear him. in many ways he hoped that you’d be lurking in his walls of under his bed, ready to forgive him at a moment's notice even though he knew it was impossible. he had no idea how he’d face you next, even if he’d be able to at all.

as his cock softened he stood up on weary legs, a hand positioned on the bedside table to stabilise himself. his head heavy, still whirled from the two mind-shattering orgasms. the disgust ran deep, chilled his bones as he recounted what had transpired. would you think differently of him? why would it matter when you’ve never spoken?

he shook his head of the thought, desperate to rid himself from the sticky residue that clings to his skin and quite frankly ready to boil himself alive in the shower. he took cautious step into the bathroom, as he shed the remainder of his clothing at the foot of the bathtub. he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, the slits of his eyes sunken with shame, exhaustion, skin more grey than obsidian. he looked like death, yet even death had better presentation. he stared of a few moments until the shapes of his face started to shift around him, reminded him that he needed to blink. he did not see a man when he looked back at his reflection, he saw a lonely decrepit cryptid so starved of attention within and outside of reality.

vessel let a heavy, exhausted sight fall from his lips. limp hand begrudgingly turned on the hot water — and only the hot water. maybe letting himself burn would help quell the raging silence in his mind, give him something else to focus on even if it is pain.

he stepped into the water, steam billowed around his figure as a pained hiss crept up his chest and escaped through his teeth. he almost wanted to recoil away and out of the water but forced himself to stay still, let the water seer and redden his flesh. he stood there in silence, not even a squeak, his eyes began to water with tears and he sobbed, he sobbed for hours upon hours until his throat burned and eyes dried like empty wells in a desert.

he only craved you. for what else does he have to live for? no friends, family or even a realistic lover to call his own. he spent another hour in the shower, by then the water had run cold, sent shivers fluttering through his skin, bit and nipped at his flesh like hungry ants. he sat, cowered in the corner, knees to his chest, rocked back and forth against the damp tiles.

eventually he came to his senses, he rosed and shivered with the cold sting of the water plus the chill of the midnight air. again with weary steps he exited the shower, he took another glance at himself in the mirror, fogged from the shower, small beats of water danced in a frantic race down the glass.

beast. he thought. disgusting beast, who would ever want you?

he hoped you would….

he glanced down at the sink, a bottle of sleeping pills rested unopened on the counter. the same bottle he’d bought from a side street vendor a few months prior, right around the time the dreams of you started, he’d been hesitant to touch them, never needing them as sleep would come easy to him. lately he contemplated it. maybe one or two just to help sleep pass just a bit easier, more time spent with you.

he grabbed the bottle, inspected it for a moment, the bright orange plastic seemed to radiate against the bleak darkness of his bathroom. a reminder of your aura, which called him back so desperately. he closed his eyes, he shoved the bottle into the medicine cabinet behind the mirror..

not tonight…

—

for the next week, vessel’s sleep was resetless, closing his eyes seems like a chore not matter how hard he tries. nights filled with sorrow-filled weeping and manic sobs. falling asleep naturally was simply not working. he wondered if it was due to his actions the past week, pleasuring himself to you. were you angry with him? did you banish him? were you so disgusted with him that you could not possibly bring yourself to face him? the worst fate of all was if you allowed him in and ignored his presence, no curt smile, no gentle wave, just existing as if he was not there, it would be a fate worse than death.

vessel found himself crouched by the bathroom door, rocking absentmindedly as the exhaustion began to chip away at his sanity.

she still loves me…? right…?

my goddess…please don’t forsake me…

he could not bear the thought of that. then he would be truly alone…and it frightened him more than death, more than any pain imaginable.

vessel made it to his feet, gripping the sink weakly. he stared in the mirror, a empty stare greeted him back. tired eyes tried their best to remain conscious, no matter how much he wanted sleep. he stared for a good five minutes before ripping the mirror of its hinges, the sleeping pills in full view of his gaze.

he grabbed them, taking one small white pill out of the bottle. he downs it dry, swallowed thickly as the powery capsule scraped and dissolved down his throat. one could not possibly hurt, it has been a week since he slept properly — since he saw you last.

“i’ll be with you soon, my goddess”

he sighed, returning to bed.

vessel laid in bed, tattered sheets graced his half-naked figure, his chest burned with anticipation, hoping that the medicine will take its effect sooner rather than later. he stares up at the ceiling, his jaw tightens absentmindedly, deciding to count the cracks around the base of the ceiling fan, how long and far every branch and twig of each crack is out of boredom. he examines the water damage in the far left corner of the ceiling, the drywall damp and beginning to grow a musty smell, a faint one but none less nauseating.

slowly he feels the pull of sleep drag him under, awaiting your warm embrace as blackness begins to spot his vision. he smiles, a true, heartfelt smile he had been missing for weeks up until this point. his body grows lighter, like a feather floating through a brisk breeze. and he sees it so clearly—the forest, in all its glory. so green and lush, picturesque in its beauty. he exhales sharply, overwhelmed he is finally in the place he feels most content.

his fingers brush up against the stump of a fallen evergreen, committing to memory every crack, crevice, every ridge and bump, the texture, the scent. and he smiles again. this…is home for him…

a flash of golden light blinds him for a moment. he squints, turning towards the light, trying to make out the shape of the figure engulfed in the heavenly glow. he gasps, his heart stopping at the sight of you.

the same as ever, so beautiful, so divine. just on the other side of the river. tears well in his eyes, overwhelmed that he finally gets to see you again. he love, his goddess. and you…were coming towards him, a slow and meaningful stride.

this is it… finally my goddess..

his heart is sent into overdrive. all those months of yearning, waiting, watching you from a distance has finally come into fruition. finally he will feel your embrace, finally he will have you. he will be whole again.

your figure on the cusp of reaching him, the invisible string that connected the two of you grew taut, his eyes widen, unable to reach for you any further and you remained still, staring straight through him as if he wasn’t even there.

vessel’s body is pulled backwards into darkness, back into the waking world. he shoots up, a cold sweat glimmering on his skin.

”no…” he breathes. “no no no no!!-”

this could not be happening!

he was so close, a hare’s breath away from finally having you, only for you to be ripped away. undeserving he was, like always.

he races out of bed and into the bathroom once more, the mirror laid shattered in pieces by the bathtub and vessel did not care about the glass that punctured the soles of his feet. with haste, he grabs the bottle, capsules spilling into the sink as he dumped a handful into a shaky, disoriented palm.

his mind a foggy mess, a smoke show, a memory of you as he clung onto whatever visions he had left of you with a feeble, desperate attempt. vessel did not hesitate in swallowing that handful of pills, once again letting them run dry and scrape his throat, feeling them mould together and sink low in his stomach. it had to work…just to see you again…it had to…

he stumbles back to his bed, vision blurry and disoriented as he makes contact with the mattress, the splitting headache from cracked his head open his eyes sensitive to even the dullest of light. he curls up bringing his knees to his chest, cuddling his pillow as if it were your figure, so warm and comforting. black spots begin to cloud his vision, the speckles of chipped paint on his ceiling became nothing more than grey blurs.

and he smiles, letting sleep consume him fully.

—

his throat parched and cottony, as if his mouth had been filled with sand. his head ached and throbbed, like he’d taken a hammer to the temple, pain shooting behind his eyelids as he opens them, blinded by golden streaks of sunlight bleeding through the tree line of evergreens.

did it work…?

his mind flooded with countless possibilities, was his sleep infinite, surely with the amount of pills he swallowed inadvertently. he’d be a fool not to have succumbed. vessel’s resolve was indeed weak if the only solution to his predicament was…well.. an endless sleep.

vessel sits up, immediately hit with a wave of vertigo, feeling his brain swoosh and swirl in the cavern of his skill, needing both hands to cup around his temples to ease the sensation. he takes a glance around. the forest…he was indeed back. there greenery seemed more lush, more vibrant, the roses were in full bloom, fruits beginning to flower, apples specifically, the blossoms a bright white with the faintest hint of peach and pinks through the centre, and the scent, so sweet and fragrant—faintly akin to the honeysuckles his mother would grow when he was a boy.

a young doe in the distance, all wide-eyed and nieve grazing at the dewy grass at the foot of an old evergreen, taking cautious—precious— moments to raise her head, peeling strips of bark from the stump, unbeknownst to his presence. it was serine, peaceful almost, vessel only wish he could revel in such calm, such freedom.

“vessel?” a voice calls out to him. undoubted feminine. he freezes in his position, body chilling with a cold sweat, to his knowledge he’d never revealed his name while within the dream space, let alone made contact verbally with any other life form. his gaze at the ground, greeted by the familiar ivory silk, his breath catches in his throat, an exhale parts his lips with a shudder, his eyes scanned upward. that golden aura when he first awoke, it was not the sun—it was you. his goddess.

and you were just as beautiful as ever.

“are you alright?” your voice is just as wonderous as he imagined. all those nights spent theorising the tone, the soft accented lilt, the pitch, the cadence. nothing could have prepared him for the moment you first parted your lips. his heart soars at the first word to leave your lips was his name.

“i…you…you can speak?” it was all he could bring himself to say, not caring about the possibility of any injuries he sustained.

“of course, why wouldn’t i?” you kneel before him, examining his features, suddenly his face becomes flushed behind his mask.

“before…how come-?”

”the barrier has been broken”

the barrier that kept the two of you from ever interacting finally severed — his conscious

“you’re dead, vessel”

the words were blunt but had to be said.

dead…? the pills…of course…

”how am i here? you’re in my head…you’re not real…you should have died when i…” he couldn’t bring himself to finish his sentance and you could offer him no response as to why you still glanced his presence.

he reaches out a weak, lanky hand, caressing the ends of your shrouds, a shuddering, pitiful sob wretch’s at his lungs, burns like bile in his throat.

“i’ve waited so long for this…” he confesses through tears. that hand clinging to the fabric like a lifeline. “may i touch you…please…my goddess?”

you nod, a not that was far to sudden, far too anticipating. his hand retracted from your shoruds, tracing up the bare flesh of your forearm, your skin tingled with bursts of electricity his touch, sending sparks throughout your body. vessel’s jaw quivered with a small whimper, rough rugged fingertips, grazing along the indentations of your collar bone, feeling your own breath quicken at the featherlight touches before his palm cupped your cheek, hesitant with his actions as his thumb smoothed across the petal of your bottom lip.

”you’re more beautiful each time i see you…” he croons, parting your lips with his thumb, tracing over the small ridges in the flesh. “all this time…i have loved you…please say it back…even if you don’t mean it…i just need to hear you say it…”

desperation flooded his voice, to himself his yearning seemed pathetic, just to hear you say you loved him back, even if it was a false proclamation, would heal the gaping wound in his heart, at least then he could pretend, hold onto the substance and manifest it incase you were to slip from his grasp.

the words left your lips with the same breathless desperation, four words that made his heart swell and sour with delight.

“i love you, too…”

the heat was instantantions, vessel’s lips crash against yours with such feverant lust that it knocks the air our of your lungs with a gasp. his stomach twirls and fluters upon the connection, hands roaming your waist with an impatient intensity that had been building – bigger and more aggressive with each month that passed, only for the culmination to be far sweeter that anticipated. your lips tasted of fresh cheries – recently devoured black cherries, so tart and tangy on his tongue, sheer and opaque as it mingled with his tastebuds. he savours it as if it were the final time he’d be allowed to sample it.

his chest rises and falls with bated breaths, body manually exerting strength as it was all he could focus on while your lips explored his. just incase his heart were to stop unexpectedly. your fingertips no longer phantoms on his skin, so real – so tangible. featherlight as they traces idle shapes and indentations into his chest and collarbones. Just as desperate as him.

your bodies fall into the tufts of wild grass, lips still connected in a passionate kiss. vessel’s blackened fingers tug at the sun broaches atop your shoulders, unclasping them, allowing your shrouds to fall clean from your body, a body that was far more delicate and beautiful than he could ever describe. he’d envisioned how it would look so vividly in his mind yet nothing compared to the way your body curved so naturally against his palm, your skin soft and supple, lustrous like the finest silk.

he marvels at you, the dips and curves of your figure far to maginiscent to describe, the only adjective coming to mind was…perfect. absolutely perfect.

even the little indentations of your hips, a perfect slot for his thumbs to rest. the clouded pads of his thumbs smoothing down the skin with gentle strokes, making small circular motions. his lips slow me intentional with their movements, slow, lingering kisses down your breasts, against the pillowy flesh. he gasps at how soft they are, like a cloud upon his tongue as he exhales with a shuddering gasp.

“beautiful…” he mutters, a huger undertones in his words, so primal and raw as his tongue flickers over your perked nipples, stiffened by his breath. his lips ghost around the swollen buds, teasing them with soft puffs of air. vessel watched on as your body begins to rise, your back arching as pleasure builds desperate for him to continue.

”please…?” your words leave your lips in a desperate whine. the subtle break in your voice, sent shockwaves to vessel’s cock, the appendage stiffening in his shrouds.

“yes…?” he pants. “anything you want my love, all you have to do is ask”

his lips wrap around your perky nipple, sampling the texture on his tongue, his eye fixated o. your form, an exhilarated whine ripped through your throat, pristine, manicured fingernails digging into the dirt beneath you, staining the pearly white claws a muddy brown.

“you know what i want…” your throat goes thick, swallowing down a moan as you inspect his actions, how his lips and tongue worked the pebbled bud, teeth tugging lightly at his, your cunt throbs with delight, wetness pooling between your thighs

“in time my goddess…” vessel pries away from your nipple, a slick pop sound reverberated through the forest as his lips parted with your flesh. “first…i need to taste you”

he sits up, sip lick the drool that accumulated on his bottom lip, his canines sharp and pointed, you feared he might cut his tongue as the appendage ran lightly across them. you peer down, his shrouds hang low on his hips, his body sculpted and lean, yet he maintains a slender figure. peering down further you’re amazed by just how impressive his length is, even fully clothed and semi-erect, you believe wholeheartedly that he could split you on two.

he stared down at you, your doe eyes widened and impressed glancing ever so often between his eyes and his length. he smirks and a devilish smirk it was, all those lonely night spent pleasuring himself to your image, it all culminates to this very moment.

“spread your legs for me, darling”

and you did. your pretty, perfect pussy barely visible from beneath your shrouds, catching a glimpse of it each time the wind fluttered against the fabric. vessel, on his knees, his hands shoving up the fabric until it rested comfortably at your hips. he marveled at the sight, speechless as your glistening, wet cunt shone under the sunlight, so ready and willing for his tongue.

he lowers himself, placing dainty kisses to your hip bones, feeling you shiver under his touch. he does the same to your inner thighs, swirling inconsistent shapes against the flesh, letting them linger for milliseconds more the closer he inches to your cunt. he felt you gasp, your cunt tightens—clenches around air as soft breaths whisp against your clit.

“relax for me, my love”

he takes your thighs, positioning them atop his shoulders, slender fingers holding you in place. his tongue parts his lips, licking a long purposeful stripe up your cunt, lips wrapping around your clit. your body instantly seizes with pleasure, hips bucking to meet the flicks of his tongue. as much as you wanted to relax into the pleasure, sink into the dirt as he devours you. you couldn’t, you needed to watch him, inspect just how skilled he was.

you prop yourself up into your elbows, watching the way his skill tongue worked your clit with expertise. his thumbs swirls against your hips, providing some comfort against the force of his tongue.

“mmhm vessel…”

god he loves the way you say his name, so perfect all pitched and desperate with pleasure. your stomach could and tightened, burning white hot as your orgasm built. so long you’ve been without release, so long you’ve needed this, needed him even if you did not realise it at first.

vessel moans into you cunt, a signal without words that he allows your release.

“it is alright, let it happened my love”

as if his words commanded it, you spill around him, nails clawing into the dirt, taking clumps between your plans as squeezing. an exhilarated moan rips through your throat, your body becoming sensitive to the feeling of his tongue. he pulls away, lips glossy with your essence.

“i cannot wait any longer, my goddess…” he removes his shrouds, his body bare, impressive cock standing proud against his stomach. he crawls atop of you, his cock slotting between your thighs just grazing against your overstimulated clit.

“finally…i’ll give you what you need”

your wetness drooling down his cock, feeling him prod between your thighs as he immersed himself within your void, the gummy ring of your cunt clenched around his cock, bottoming out instantly, a gasp takes both your breaths, leaving a cacophonous gap in your chest, where you should be breathing.

“does it hurt?” he remains still, not wanting to move until he was absolutely certain you were comfortable.

it takes a second for you to adjust, your perfect cunt moulding to fit the shape of him. your walls fluttering around his thick shaft, wanting to pull him in.

“i’m okay..” you whisper, still regaining your breath from the initial intrusion

“good…” he places tender kisses to your eyelids upon noticing tears beggining to well in them. “i’ll keep you safe, i promise”

he begins to move, slowly at first, the intrusion swishing in you belly, just fluttering against the opening of your cervix, not quite reaching, but enough to make his presence aware. vessel dips his head to the side, capturing your neck in a flurry of dainty kisses, muttering sweet nothings against the skin.

your legs, almost out of instinct, wrapped around his waist, ankles locks, keeping him trapped between your legs

“more…i can take it…” a moan tingles against your tastebuds, inhaling the inflicted scent of him, all manly, of earth and clay, dewy like grass and damp like stone.

with that notion, he increases his speed, a hands place firm on your abdomen gently massaging the flesh while his cock ravages you. how heavenly the sensation is. never in your life had you recieved such pleasure, each sense heightened, beaming with arousal.

even though your first orgasms has already broken through, you feel that familiar pressure in your abdomen, and not from vessels hand, it swirled and bubbled in your skin, down to your muscles and bone, tight, almost tearing. he could sense it as well, the lack of touch, the over exposure to it now sent you both reeling.

“can i cum inside you, my goddess?” he asks—no! begs for it, just the sound of his whimpers makes your toes curl in delight. you nod— a frantic, feverish nod in agreement. it was one thing to experience the sensation of his cock gutting your womb but to have it filled, oh that would surpass even the most pleasurable of orgasm

he lets out a shaky breath, one that catches in his throat, his lips travel to your, capturing them in another heated kiss, the hand once on your abdomen now drawing impatient circles against your clot, his cock bullying its way into your womb.

“cum for me, my love…”

you throw your head back, stomach coiling with release as you cum around him, the grass below drinking in your sweet essence, the scent like nectar to vessels senses, a trigger that set off his own release.

he coats your cunt in his warmth, a release so strong it sends wave after wave of pleasure coursing through you. your bodies intertwined, connected forever, laid sweat-covered and blissful in the grass, amongst the wildflowers. vessel’s head propped into the crook of your neckC his bodyweight pressing down atop of you, not painful, enough to make your breaths take some effort, other than that if was comfortable. a silence builds between the two of you, not one marred by awkwardness. the both of you content.

“i can’t wait to spend eternity with you, my goddess”

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